RED DUST, GOLDEN LIGHT
As told to Sophia Bell by Professor Wang Ming
Chapter 11: Tears in a stormy night - a family's tragedy (2) | Excerpt
From the skeptical lens of a scientist to an awakening to Eastern mysteries,
this book is a journey in search of truth amidst the fragile boundaries of life, death, and steadfast faith.
(…)
Bad News After Bad News - The Parents Disappear
After that horrifying night witnessing Kang Yu's family being taken away, anxiety and unease weighed heavily on our minds and on those of the other practitioners we knew. The immediate task was to find out where Kang Yu and Chen Mai had been taken and what their situation was.
However, finding information in such circumstances was like looking for a needle in a haystack, and it was also extremely dangerous. The police stations and detention centers would never give any information to families, especially in cases considered to be related to Falun Gong. Any attempt to inquire could lead to suspicion and bring more trouble.
Uncle Liu and a few older, more experienced practitioners tried to discreetly and carefully inquire through informal channels. They asked acquaintances working in low-level government agencies or inquired with practitioners in neighboring areas to see if anyone knew anything. Each day passed in anxious waiting. We took turns looking after little Xiao Lian. She was temporarily being cared for during the day by a kind but also very frightened neighboring family. We tried to comfort and play with her, but Xiao Lian's dazed, fearful eyes and her innocent question, "Where are Mommy and Daddy?" only made our hearts ache more.
About a week after that terrible night, the first piece of bad news arrived. Uncle Liu came to us with a distraught face, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and worry. He had received news from a reliable source inside the detention center (perhaps someone with a conscience who couldn't bear the cruelty and had secretly passed the word out). Kang Yu... was gone.
"They said... they said Yu 'died suddenly' during an interrogation," Uncle Liu's voice broke, choked with emotion. "But the person who sent the news said that a few days before, he had been brutally tortured for refusing to confess, for refusing to write the 'three statements.' He had steadfastly maintained that Falun Dafa is good."
My heart felt like it had stopped. Kang Yu, the simple, healthy carpenter we had just met, could "die suddenly" after only a week in detention? It was too absurd.
But something more horrifying was yet to come. Uncle Liu lowered his voice to almost a whisper, his eyes filled with an indescribable indignation and disgust. "That person also said... before he died, Yu and a few others were taken for a very thorough 'health check,' but at a place that didn't look like a normal hospital. Then... his body was returned very quickly, the family wasn't allowed to examine it closely, but they saw strange stitches on his abdomen... They suspect..."
Uncle Liu didn't finish the sentence, but Qing Ling and I understood immediately. The horrific suspicion of live organ harvesting from healthy Falun Gong practitioners—a crime against humanity that we had heard whispers of but had never dared to believe was real—now loomed clearly and grotesquely before us. They had killed Kang Yu, not only for his faith, but possibly also for his healthy organs.
A wave of nausea and a chilling cold ran through me. The brutality of this regime had surpassed all limits of human imagination. This was no longer normal political or religious persecution; this was the destruction of humanity, the most barbaric of crimes. Qing Ling collapsed into a chair, her hands covering her face as she sobbed uncontrollably. She couldn't bear this overwhelmingly cruel truth.
The pain of losing a fellow practitioner had not yet subsided when, a few weeks later, there was news about Chen Mai. Through a lawyer with a conscience (who didn't dare to publicly take on Falun Gong cases but still secretly helped to find information), we learned that Mai had been sentenced to eight years in prison on the trumped-up charge of "using a cult to undermine law enforcement." Immediately after the perfunctory, swift trial, she was transferred to a women's prison in some remote, mountainous province. From then on, all information about her ceased. Family was not allowed to visit, and letters were blocked. It was as if she had completely vanished from this world, her fate unknown.
Bad news followed bad news. In just a short time, a happy family had been completely shattered. The husband was tortured to death, suspected of being a victim of organ harvesting. The wife was imprisoned and disappeared without a trace, with no knowing when she might return. All that was left was a small, helpless daughter, abandoned in a world full of injustice. The tragedy of Kang Yu and Chen Mai's family was like a deep, gaping wound, laying bare the evil and inhuman nature of the persecution of Falun Gong. It was no longer just stories we heard or numbers in a report, but the real, present pain, the tears and blood of people of flesh and blood whom we had known and cherished. This truth was etched into our minds, an indelible mark, and at the same time, it posed an urgent question: What were we to do for little Xiao Lian, that poor, orphaned child?
The Abandoned Child and a Decision from the Heart
After the heartbreaking news about the fate of Kang Yu and Chen Mai was confirmed, a painful question hung in the air: Who would take care of little Xiao Lian? The three-year-old child had lost both her father and mother in the most brutal of circumstances, becoming a tiny, helpless soul in the midst of a storm.
The kind neighboring family, though they pitied the little girl, clearly could not shelter her for long. The fear from witnessing the brutal midnight raid still haunted them. They lived in anxiety, afraid of being implicated for helping the child of those considered "Falun Gong elements." In a conversation with Uncle Liu, they expressed their difficult position and worry, hinting that they might have to send Xiao Lian to an orphanage or find some other relative—options that everyone knew were extremely slim and full of risks for the future of a child like her.
Every time Qing Ling and I visited Xiao Lian, our hearts felt as if they were being squeezed. She was no longer the lively, cheerful little girl she used to be. Now, she often sat huddled in a corner, her big, round eyes always wide with fear and confusion, staring into an empty space. She spoke little, smiled little, and would sometimes cry out "Daddy! Mommy!" in her sleep, then wake up startled, sobbing inconsolably. The image of this innocent, pure child caught in the brutal vortex of the persecution, having lost everything simply because of her parents' faith, cut a wound of indescribable pain and indignation in our hearts.
We could not turn a blind eye. The principle of Compassion (Shan) that we were trying to learn, and the most basic human empathy, would not allow us to turn our backs on Xiao Lian's tragic situation. Sending her to an orphanage, where she could be stigmatized and mistreated, was something we could not accept.
However, the decision to reach out and help came with enormous risks. We were foreigners, and suddenly adopting a Chinese child without proper documentation in such a sensitive situation was like putting ourselves directly in the authorities' line of sight. We could be suspected, monitored, even arrested or deported. Our own safety, our plans to return to the US, could all be seriously jeopardized. That fear was very real; it crept into every thought, making us hesitate and feel torn.
That evening, after leaving the neighbor's home where Xiao Lian was staying temporarily, our spirits were heavy. We walked back to our hotel in silence, each pursuing our own thoughts but all focused on this same difficult problem. Back in the room, we sat facing each other for a long time, saying nothing, with only the sound of soft sighs.
Suddenly, Qing Ling looked up, her eyes meeting mine directly. Her usual hesitation was gone, replaced by an extraordinary determination, a resolve that seemed to come from the depths of her soul.
"Ming," she said, her voice trembling but very clear and strong. "I've thought it over. I... I cannot abandon that little girl. Seeing her like this, my heart aches. We have to do something for her. No matter how dangerous it is, I cannot let Xiao Lian face this bleak future alone."
Qing Ling's words were like an electric current running through me. It wasn't a question seeking my opinion, but a firm declaration, a decision formed from deep Compassion, from the love she had perhaps felt through the Great Law and the urging of her conscience when faced with Xiao Lian's pain. The conflict within me instantly dissolved, replaced by agreement and a sense of admiration for my wife's heart.
"I understand," I replied, my voice also full of emotion, taking her hand tightly in mine. "You've made the right decision. We will do this together. We will bring Xiao Lian home, care for her, and protect her."
The final decision was made, not by calculating the pros and cons of our own safety, but by the powerful impulse of our hearts, by our compassion for others, and by our faith in the values of Truthfulness-Compassion-Forbearance that we were learning. Though we knew the road ahead was fraught with difficulties and constant danger, looking into Qing Ling's determined eyes, I felt an unusual sense of resolve.
The very next day, we informed Uncle Liu and the neighboring family of our decision. At first, they were a bit stunned and couldn't help but worry for the safety of two foreigners like us, but then they were moved and understood our intentions. With their discreet help, we prepared everything necessary to bring Xiao Lian to our hotel room.
When we arrived, Xiao Lian was still huddled in a corner, her eyes full of fear. It was Qing Ling who gently approached, crouched down to her eye level, smiled kindly, and opened her arms. "Sweet Xiao Lian, come to Auntie," Qing Ling's voice was warm and gentle.
The little girl stared at Qing Ling for a few seconds, then, as if sensing the safety and genuine love radiating from my wife, she timidly stood up, took tiny steps towards Qing Ling, and nestled into her embrace. The moment Qing Ling held Xiao Lian tightly, her hand gently stroking the child's tangled hair, patting her small, trembling back, I saw a saintly beauty on Qing Ling's face, a boundless love and an extraordinary strength.
Looking at that image, an image I would never forget, I understood that our lives had truly turned a new page. The supposedly simple three-month summer trip, scheduled to end in late August, had now stretched to nearly the end of October. Initially, we had decided to stay longer only to delve deeper into this path of cultivation, but now, with Xiao Lian's arrival, this decision would surely keep us in this turbulent land for much longer, for how long, we did not know. We were no longer just tourists. We had become reluctant parents, shouldering the sacred responsibility of sheltering and protecting a small soul who had just escaped a tragic fate. This decision from the heart, born from Qing Ling's Compassion and courage, and carried out with our mutual consent, was the most profound and genuine lesson in practicing Truthfulness-Compassion-Forbearance we could have had amidst adversity. And it officially set us on a new journey, one full of danger but also full of meaning: the journey to find a way for the three of us to survive amidst the storm of the persecution.
(…)
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