On the Verge of Disappearance (End of the Chinese Letters)

By Ying Chen (page 3 of 4)

Canada is Bethurne's country. Don't believe that Bethurne could represent this country. Nobody, no matter how grandiose his or her destiny, can ever represent anything. You would be surprised to know that he's almost unknown here. A modest statue in downtown Montreal and a film about him, that's all. Yet he's not only a Chinese hero. He didn't only save the lives of Chinese soldiers, those who very often found themselves under fire not for some ideal or other but simply to obtain something to eat and to wear, in exchange for their young blood. Bethurne also worked for his compatriots. He fought in concrete terms for universal health care, for one of the best systems in the world in his era, better even now despite the new problems, better than in China in any case, for which the Canadians rejoice while complaining, and which those without papers dream of while dying in the boats. But Bethurne is gone. On the other side of the ocean, a quarter of the human population knows him. From his native country, he has disappeared. There are some who believe he committed suicide, or that he was suicidal in throwing himself into the vast Orient.

As though to mark the end of my wandering, according to custom I went to sing a solemn tune in front of a magnificent maple leaf. The ceremony reminded me of my childhood, the time when, before the morning exercises, we stood in rows in the school's large yard, and, with our noses in the air, we witnessed the raising of flag with five stars, our little ears filled with the national anthem. I almost cried. I let out a sigh of relief, saying to myself: it's done, I made it, I will never again have to walk like a heroine on an arid path and under the evidently universal sky, I'll be able to huddle up against my little lamp in my little nest, in peace. I was thirty years old that year. I had the impression of suddenly entering into a family where the parents were invisible, where the unknown brothers and sisters reigned with unknown codes, where I was weakening more than ever, had more than ever the desire to please. I felt that I was only three years old, there were still so many things to learn, to discover.

And in 1992 my first book was on the shelves in bookstores. The book carries my name but so many others lent a hand, among them Professor Yvon Rivard, the writer AndrŽ Major and the editor Pierre Filion. I'm eternally grateful to them. I don't have to tell you what this event means to me. I think I resemble myself more when writing. I thank all those who accept and sometimes appreciate the real me. It wasn't a dialogue, or a message like you and many others thought. I don't have a message to deliver, any Chinese curios to display. I don't address myself to the outside world: I head for the inside. I want simply to get closer to myself, to explore as well as can be expected its evanescent and constantly renewed reality, to descend again and again into the depths of myself, into the depths of the land where boundaries aren't drawn, where even language is no longer important because you're approaching the essence of language-it happens that, when the words flow well, I no longer know in which language they're coming to me, I'm transported by the mechanical and almost unconscious gesture of typing on the keyboard. And it's in this state that I hope finally to be able to meet the Other. The publication of my first book marks such a meeting. A meeting with rare beings, of course: we can't hope that everyone will read our book, and in the same way. Above all a book, like everything else, has its limits. But this meeting took place, I'm sure of it. It's easy for us to describe our solitude, because it's fundamental and constant. But how do we describe an instant of real happiness so short and so intense? It resembles a spark, which seems to combine all our hopes inside it, our past desire as well as our present momentum, and which therefore has the power to illuminate our entire life, past as well as future. And even though quickly extinguished, the tender memory of this spark will stay with us to warm our hearts in difficult times.

And difficult times, you've guessed it, are never lacking. Shortly after the happy events, diploma and book and citizenship etc., something happened to me that made me fall from the cloud where I took refuge in complete peace.

I was invited to a conference, as a Canadian writer. I had to travel for the first time with my new passport. My Chinese passport was no longer valid. It had previously aroused a lot of attention. The circumstances were such that I could understand. But this time I thought I had nothing to fear. I had one of the best passports in the world. I had neglected the fact that my birthplace is indicated on my passport, that the sign of danger is written on my facial features. Upon my return, at the airport in Toronto, during a stopover, I was stopped, questioned and searched. That day, when arriving in Toronto, I had rightly noticed a strange atmosphere at customs. At the entrance booth, at this extremely visible post, those charged with examining pockets and bags were uniquely people of "colour". And the search area, most of the time, was also reserved for people "of colour". I didn't see, this time, one single person "without colour" on their way there. This is not entirely unknown to me, but that day it was showing itself with striking clarity. A coincidence? The politically incorrect? The politically correct? In one case as in the other, I suddenly understood that there exists a solid, well thought out policy concerning immigrants, applied by an infallible machine, supported by an immense and ancient belief. And this policy could sometimes concern me, even me. The policy is always carried out with more witty eloquence towards the apolitical or the politically weak, because it's less risky.

First I was asked what I could be doing "all alone" on this trip, which left me suddenly speechless, my stupefaction was so complete when faced with this kind of language. I became stupid under the shock, the way an animal freezes when faced with imminent danger. Then I was shown a secret door. I entered it. It was a dark room without windows. Prison could not be far away. I was shivering. A police officer was waiting for me there. A very large man, and armed. His voice, hard as steel, prevented me from collapsing. "Put it here!" he said to me. He wanted me to lift my suitcase onto a kind of shelf, at a height that allowed him to touch the suitcase without bending his masterly back too much. "Open it." And as I hesitated, he repeated: "Open it!" He didn't say please. It was therefore a use of familiar terms. Not a Quebec use of familiar terms, natural and simple. But a French use of familiar terms, one of provocation, insolence and contempt. All those who survived the Cultural Revolution would recognize this tone without fail. After having vainly put his immense hand into my intimate belongings, the policeman contented himself with saying: "The door is over there." And he moved away, his back very straight and his head high.

I had time to notice that he was almost handsome, alas. The muscles on his face seemed firm and full of conviction and assurance. I hoped to find the marks of stupidity or monstrosity on his brow, so that I could despise him. And that face without fault brought me that much more sorrow. As soon as I was liberated, I ran towards a mirror. Can you guess what I saw that day in the mirror? Stupidity and monstrosity. And I collapsed awhile on a bench, body and soul downcast. My friends here will think me hypersensitive, they will tell me that this can happen to everyone. They will even give me examples. They don't understand. What I experienced, it was an authentic situation, naked, where an authority and a subject, one armed and one disarmed, a man and a woman faced each other without witness, between the walls, in an absolute and unquestionable condition, unveiled themselves without scruples or pretence, where each word and each gesture were charged with a profound tension, almost historic, inexpressible but clear for both. A tension that affects not only our reason, it touches first our senses. It's then we're sure of the thing. Only those who have known this kind of experience understand what I mean.