Opinion The long march out of China

Sometimes,for a writer,silence is impossible. In China,you then have no option but to walk

September 16, 2011 03:08 AM IST First published on: Sep 16, 2011 at 03:08 AM IST

Yunnan Province,in southwestern China,has long been the exit point for Chinese who yearn for a new life outside the country. There,one can sneak out of China by land,passing through pristine forests,or one can go by water,floating all the way down the Lancang River until it becomes the Mekong,which meanders into Southeast Asia. So each time I set foot there,in a land where red soil gleams in the sun,I turned restless; my imagination ran wild. After all,having been imprisoned for four years after I wrote a poem that condemned the Chinese governments brutal suppression of student protesters in 1989,I had been denied permission to leave China 16 times.

I felt very tempted. It doesnt matter if you have a passport or visa. All that counts is the amount of cash in your pocket. You toss your cellphone,cut off communications with the outside world and sneak into a village,where you can easily locate a peasant or a smuggler willing to help you. After settling on the right price,you are led out of China on a secret path that lies beyond the knowledge of humans and ghosts.

Until earlier this year,I had resisted the urge to escape. Instead,I chose to stay in China,continuing to document the lives of those occupying the bottom rung of society. Staying on the sidelines did not spare me police harassment,though. In March,my police handlers stationed themselves outside my apartment to monitor my daily activities. Publishing in the West is a violation of Chinese law, they told me. The prison memoir tarnishes the reputation of Chinas prison system and God Is Red distorts the partys policy on religion and promotes underground churches. If I refused to cancel my contract with Western publishers,they said,Id face legal consequences.

Then an invitation from Salman Rushdie arrived,asking me to attend the PEN World Voices Festival in New York. I immediately contacted the local authorities to apply for permission to leave China,and booked my ticket. However,the day before my departure,a police officer called me to have tea, informing me that my request had been denied. If I insisted on going to the airport,the officer told me,they would make me disappear,just like Ai Weiwei.

My good friend,the Nobel laureate Liu Xiaobo,has paid a hefty price for his writings and political activism. I did not want to follow his path. I had no intention of going back to prison. I was also unwilling to be treated as a symbol of freedom by people outside the tall prison walls. Only by escaping this colossal and invisible prison called China could I write and publish freely. I have the responsibility to let the world know about the real China hidden behind the illusion of an economic boom a China indifferent to ordinary peoples simmering resentment.

I kept my plan to myself. Instead,I packed some clothes,my flute,a Tibetan singing bowl and two of my prized books. Then I left home while the police were not watching,and traveled to Yunnan. Even though it was sweltering there,I felt like a rat in winter,lying still to save my energy. I spent most of my time with street people. I knew that if I dug around,I could eventually find an exit.

I shut off my cellphone after making brief contacts with my friends in the West,who had collaborated on the plan. Several days later,I reached a small border town,where I could see Vietnam across a fast-flowing river. My local helper said I could pay someone to secretly ferry me across,but I declined. I had a valid passport. I chose to leave through the border checkpoint on the bridge. At 10 am on July 2,I walked 100 yards to the border post,fully prepared for the worst,but a miracle occurred. The officer checked my papers,stared at me momentarily and then stamped my passport. Without stopping,I travelled to Hanoi and boarded a flight. As I walked out of Tegel airport in Berlin,the air was fresh and I felt free.

After I settled in,I called my family and girlfriend,who were questioned by the authorities. News about my escape spread fast. A painter friend told me that he had gone to visit Ai Weiwei,who is still closely watched. When my friend mentioned that I had mysteriously landed in Germany,Old Ais eyes widened. He howled with disbelief,Really? Really? Really?

Liao is the author of The Corpse Walker

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