We might never know the truth about the events of early June twenty years ago. The story might forever remain an unfocused tapestry of anecdotes, interviews, and the occasional memoir. But twenty years later, we gain new understanding in the form of a photograph of a familiar scene, taken from an unfamiliar angle, which reminds us that what is know is only a collection of points-of-view that approximates truth, but the more points-of-view we collect, even if they contradict each other, the closer we come to understanding. This week, some questioned the apathy of students, while others proved that they had not forgotten, and still others wondered: had we gotten this all wrong?

In addition to these points-of-view, I offer two anecdotes about the twentieth anniversary of June 4, 1989.

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On the night of June 3, I chatted online with a friend from the Beijing University of Technology. Aside from grammar and edits for clarity, the conversation is unchanged.

She wrote: It’s funny, our teachers just checked every dorm to make sure that everybody’s in bed… and said we aren’t allowed to leave school until tomorrow cuz it’s a sensitive period and there might be danger outside… then I suddenly remembered it’s June 4th tomorrow…
Me: You just remembered?
Her: Yea… and my dorm mates know nothing about it. I just educated them. It’s ironic that very few of college students now give a damn about politics. Thanks to the censorship there’s hardly any way for us to find information about that event. The government did a great job of making a fool of most people. My dorm mates had never even heard about June 4th until the teacher checked the dorm just now for the first time in our 3 years of college.
Me: Well, all the major Western newspapers have lots of coverage, including some great op-eds by Chinese authors.
Her: It’s such a shame that I have to rely on foreign resources to know about my own country’s issues… I feel awful. And guilty for knowing so little about the history and what is going on in this country. When I was a freshman, one day after class I asked the dean of our department about the “riot.” He was freaked out and terrified. Told me it’s really dangerous to talk about this topic and nobody would be willing to tell me what happened except people who are close to me like my parents. I checked the school library but there’s only hints in several books but the tone is of government propaganda.

It’s hard to gauge political feelings in China, partly because it’s difficult to obtain a representative sample–China is 1.3 billion people (more than half rural) spread over 33 regions–and partly because you can’t be sure people will tell you the truth, for fear of government reprisal. Perhaps it’s true that most Chinese students nowadays don’t care about politics, but there are still some out there who do. Ironically, as long as the Chinese government remembers the past, the Chinese people will be forced to as well. Because by keeping a secret, one empowers it.

The next day, the same friend sent me an e-mail:

China may be the country with the longest history of dictatorship. Maybe you have heard about “焚书坑儒” ["Burning books and burying scholars." This phrase refers to a policy in the Great Confucian Purge, initiated by Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of China, in an attempt to abolish Confucian thought and all historical records before his rule.], which happened 2,000 years ago to persecute dissidents and destroy dissent. There were periods when government was really open like during the Tang Dynasty, which is known universally to be the golden age of China. But the predominant atmosphere is always about centralization.

As a result, insecurity is one of Chinese people’s features… And the apathy of our generation originated from that, on some level.

I always think I’m sort of a coward. I was told to shut my mouth about politics even at home. My family has a “history.” I don’t know much about that specifically, because my elders wouldn’t talk about it. My mother’s grandfather was a member of the Nationalist Party and was at that time an official in the government who didn’t flee to Taiwan because he believed the Communism Party would eventually benefit the nation. He once took great risk to assist the Communists. But the poor man wound up in jail, and was tortured to death.

My grandma immigrated with the family to Xinjiang because that place is desolate and far away from the political center so they could be relatively safe. But during the Cultural Revolution they were still subject to some persecution. So our whole family is hyper-cautious, worrying that one day the political situation will become tense and the “history” will be dug out again. No one is allowed to ever take part in anything involved with politics. And most of my family members tend to migrate abroad.

This is not a single case. Fears abound. A good excuse for being a coward I guess.

I was surprised and touched by her candor.  Those of us who have not experienced China’s recent history directly cannot understand what it must feel like to carry such a burden and live under constant fear.  Why are we surprised that the majority of students today don’t care about politics?  Chinese are heavily dissuaded from taking a public stance on politics, sometimes by threat of force.  There is nothing in it for them.  Even if they make a stand, what will change?  The government isn’t scared of one person–they aren’t even scared of the hundreds who protest daily in the countryside.  Twenty years ago they weren’t afraid of a million people milling around in Beijing.  Today amassing that number of people seems unthinkable because most people are satisfied with economic growth, company Audis, and food to eat.  Is that so wrong?  Have the Chinese people not earned a reprieve from the horror of recent history?  People think about their stomach first, their mind second.  In other words, only when physical needs are sated do people consider spiritual ones.  In that sense, the government is sowing the seeds of its own destruction, because if anything is inimical to control and the status quo in China, its is precisely what the government is offering: prosperity.

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In the early afternoon of June 4, I met fellow contributor Yulin Zhuang at the Qianmen subway on our way to Tiananmen Square.  A light rain had just begun.  In all the underpasses that led to the Square that day, police had set up X-ray machines, the kind you see in the Beijing Subway.  We placed our bags on the conveyor belt.  On the other side, two policemen were searching each bag by hand.  A female officer took out my New Yorker, turned it upside down, then dusted the pages, like prison guard looking for an improvised shiv.  Luckily, I had hidden the pro-democracy banners in a side pocket.  Kidding.  We grabbed our bags and were stopped by two more officers.  They brushed us with security wands and frisked us.

“What’s this?” one asked, grabbing my front left pocket.  “Is it paper?”

“No,” I said, emptying my pocket.  “It’s money.”

She waved us through.  Above ground we walked past a legion of tour buses and visitors from out of town toward the Monument to the People’s Heroes.  Policemen were scattered around, some chatting, some holding silent vigil, while uniformed guards stood twenty feet apart from each other in a grid.  Guards in formation stomped around for no apparent reason.  We took some pictures, walked around, and two Chinese women who heard us talking in English tried to scam us into visiting some antique shop.

The rain came and went.  Some people were posing in front of motionless guards.  We made our way through another underpass and crossed Chang’an Avenue.  I looked back at the Square.  There was really nothing to see.  The umbrella people might have gone home.  But I tried to imagine twenty years ago–students instead of tourists, tents instead of metal fences, people as far as the eye could see, and, eventually, tanks instead of slow-moving cars.  It was like looking at an old picture of yourself.  Though you’re sure the past existed, it’s hard to reconcile with the present.  All the details have changed.  The only witnesses are the silent buildings, the trodden tiles, and that emotionless obelisk at the center of the Square. The past never seemed so far away as it did then.  History never felt so invisible.

Yulin and I walked to the bus stop.  A Ferrari followed by a Maserati idled in the street.  And as we were talking, the traffic director asked us kindly to line up.  We took a look around and, sure enough, people were in a neat row behind the placque for their bus number.  Talk about change.