Beijing, Saturday evening, June 3rd, 1989. Under the red banner of the Beijing Autonomous Workers Federation, two Tiananmen Square commanders huddle around a map showing the army locations throughout the city. I ask my English-speaking friend, Feng, about the young man wearing a white cloth headband adorned with red and black characters.
“Yes, he’s one of square commanders,” Feng replies. “He’s from Nanjing University.”
Feng talks for several minutes with the Nanjing commander. When he turns to me, his face looks grave.
“I have information from the Chinese army; they are coming to square at one o’clock.”
The man with the headband walks over to me.
“You friend of Chinese people?”
“Yes, I’m a friend. I support the democracy movement.”
“Thank you!” says the man excitedly. “The army come to square at one,” he said. “Please, tell world we die for freedom and democracy. Please tell international news.”
“Yes, I’m on my way back to my hotel to phone my San Francisco newspaper.”
“Thank you friend!” As he says those words the man takes off his headband and hands it to me. In the middle of the headband are black characters flanked by the similar characters in red on each side.
“What does it say?” I ask Feng.
“Die for democracy, die for freedom,” he answers solemnly.
“What will you do when the army comes?” I ask the Nanjing student.
“Chinese people army. We’re not going to defy them.”
We embrace with great emotion and say good bye. As I set foot on the Avenue of Eternal Peace and head toward the Minzu Hotel, it dawns on me what the emotional meetings I witnessed minutes before under the Goddess of Democracy and Freedom were all about: The hour of decision had arrived for the Tiananmen pro-democracy demonstrators. It was time to leave the square, or face possible martyrdom and die for democracy.
It is just after 11 pm. A large mobilization is gathering in the middle of the street.
A young man in a jeep holds up a bloodied shirt next to a flag. He’s surrounded by a large group of curious people listening to him shouting passionately. Many others are on bicycles, slowing down to view the scene.
I pass the Communist Party compound, where over 1000 demonstrators are angrily confronting at least 100 armed helmeted soldiers. A crowd of people surrounds an overturned vehicle, furiously shaking it. Now I’m at the next intersection, where an army jeep is overturned, flanked by two burned-out buses. The noise and commotion is almost deafening; only the bicycle bells sound louder.
The hotel is just over a block away. I hear shots coming from the direction of the hotel, from the west. Next come shouts of desperation that sound like warnings. A low rumble is getting progressively louder from that same western direction.
Suddenly, two young men come tear-assing out of the shadows doing wheelies on their bicycles, shouting at the top of their lungs. They look like 1989 Chinese versions of Paul Revere. They’ve spotted army. A large group of people come dashing out of a back alley, yelling frantically.
I’m running alongside them, past a car which has been stripped of its radio, toward the Minzu, now less than a block away. It looks like a riot is going on directly in front of the hotel entrance. An angry mob is punching and kicking a man on the ground; some are beating him with sticks and poles.
“Somebody’s getting beaten!” someone shouts in English. “They’ve got a spy! They’ve got a spy!”
An American dashes into the crowd and stuns them by grabbing the beaten man from their clutches and dragging him into the hotel lobby. The outraged crowd starts banging on the doors, screaming for both of them. But their attention is soon diverted by the unfolding scene in the street: A contingent of riot police armed with tear gas and carrying shields was being attacked with bricks and rocks by an angry group of citizens. The mob at the hotel entrance then joins the fracas in the street, causing the police to throw down their shields and retreat into the shadows.
By now the rumbling is so loud the source must be only a few blocks away. Suddenly gunfire erupts from the direction of the advancing storm. Those of us outside the Minzu run inside the hotel lobby. For ten long minutes, gunshots and screams can be heard amidst the escalating rumbling of the tanks. During that time, a steady stream of casualties is brought into the lobby. The first few appear to be teenage soldiers, their heads bloodied and bashed in. A wave of civilian wounded follows.
The first of the tanks is right outside the Minzu. Hotel personnel are pushing us to the rear of the lobby. Minutes later, a hail of bullets shatters the lobby windows. I throw myself on the floor behind a huge painting.
Well, you knew coming here could be dangerous, I thought to myself against the backdrop of screams and bullets. Martial law had already been declared when I had accepted the freelance reporting assignment from the San Francisco Examiner two weeks earlier. And for a union activist and socialist from the United States, being in China to be a part of the Tiananmen Square pro-democracy movement was irresistible.
But now bullets are flying and blood is flowing in the streets outside. Tanks are roaring toward Tiananmen Square, and a long night of terror lies ahead.
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