Twitter has a very poor reputation – a reputation that is
often well deserved. It can be very nasty; it can be dishonest; it can be boring.
But it can also be a powerful tool for good, if used sensibly. I use it as a
source of useful and accurate information, doing my best to filter out the
rubbish and lies, and as a weapon against local council failures. I also use it
with modest success to promote my books and my blog. In all those cases, It works well for me.
More recently, I offered to help Linda Lawless, a friend and
member of my wife’s extended family in Australia boost her campaign to get
proper recognition from the Catholic Church that she was secretly fathered by a
Catholic priest. After months of
agonising, she decided to go public about the discovery she made through a DNA
test and agreed to join others in this compelling Australian Broadcasting
Corporation documentary: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PADNmpeZEeM&t=329s
The ABC uploaded the documentary onto its YouTube
channel late last September, but it didn’t attract a great deal of interest,
even though the program rated very well when original transmitted in Australia.
Between the posting in September last year and January 7this year when I took a
special interest, there had been just 4,542 viewings. I began tweeting the link
to interested persons and groups, hoping to increase the viewings to, perhaps,
20,000. But Linda’s story obviously captured the imagination of a great many,
and as I write this, more than 200,000 have viewed it, and it is still climbing
by several thousand viewings per day.
It should be added that Linda’s campaign is not just for
herself, but for the many mothers and children around the world who have
suffered as a result of priests breaking their vow of celibacy. A great many
people have commented on this documentary, and an overwhelming number think
that the celibacy rule is at the heart of child abuse and the shame and secrecy
surrounding children of priests. But it doesn’t appear that this rule is going
to change any time soon, as a Vatican spokesman interviewed in the documentary
described priestly celibacy as a “precious gift”. Some gift!
A friend has pointed out that Lord (Roy) Hattersley, once one of the highest-profile politicians in the United Kingdom, was also the son of a Catholic priest -- born in truly scandalous circumstances. The details are HERE.
As a keen genealogist I have many family photographs that I would regard as “special”, but this is one that I wasn’t supposed to see.Nor were any other descendants of the couple who are pictured.
The couple were my great aunt,Florence “Florrie” Cox, and the Rev. Frank E. Paice, on the day they were married in Calcutta (now Kolkata) in December 1914.
Both Frank Paice and Florrie Cox were Baptist missionaries from Melbourne, Australia, stationed in the early 1900s in East Bengal, nowBangladesh.
Their marriage fell apart in scandal for two primary reasons: 1) Frank Paice had fallen for another missionary, Olga Johnston, during the two-year engagement that the church required Florrie and Frank to spend apart. 2) Florrie had a rare variation of the intersex condition, Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome. Although she looked and felt like a woman, she had male chromosomes and no internal female organs.
When Frank and Olga’s scandalous affair became known, both were forced to resign.Florrie returned to Melbourne, but was a family embarrassment with the breakdown of her marriage a relentlessly taboo subject.
The Australian press – normally addicted to such juicy stories – was prevailed upon to look the other way when the divorce went through the Supreme Court and the judge ordered that the file be “closed for all time”.
Frank and Olga married on their return to Bengal where Frank took up an engineering management job.
When they returned to Australia some years later, they reinvented themselves as pillars of society, with Frank taking on a number of high-profile civic positions in Melbourne. No mention was ever made of Frank or Olga’s time in India or their six years as missionaries. Not even their only son and close friends knew of their missionary past.
I learned of the scandal only because my mother let it slip when we came across a photographtaken just before Florrie was about to depart for her wedding in Calcutta.
It took me 18 months of email exchanges, letters and telephone calls to get a Supreme Court judgein Melbourne to lift the ban on access to the divorce file, revealing Florrie’s condition. But nowhere could I find photographs of Frank and Florrie’s wedding as they had been destroyedby the family – probably out of embarrassment and anger.
Then I got lucky.
A very distant cousin showed me a photograph of two people he could not identify. I was stunned to see that it was Frank and Florrie after their wedding at the Circular Road Baptist Chapel, Calcutta.
My hunt was over thanks to a large dollop of luck, and the fact that the distant cousin's family had never been told about the scandal and didn't realise the photo's significance.
The story of Florrie Cox and Frank Paice is told in Ian D. Richardson’s book God’s Triangle, available in paperback and ebook: http://www.godstriangle.com/ .
One of my several obsessions is an objection to the growing use of euphemisms to describe the death of a person. A death is upsetting for close family and friends, but I can't understand what is at all offensive about the word "died". It is what we will all do at some time. We might wish to be immortal, but using euphemisms such as "pass" (as in when did they pass?), "passed", "passed on", "gone to be with our Lord", "gone to their reward", or even "gone to a better place" can't disguise the truth. Many of those who prefer the euphemisms are members of various religions, but the Christian King James Bible is certainly not averse to using "died". Indeed, a quick scan shows that it is used 189 times. It even states that Jesus Christ died.
There is nothing inconsistent in using "died" and believing that there is an afterlife. Death is a medical event that must come before a soul or spirit - if such a thing exists - goes on to Heaven or Hell or some other agreeable place, or rejoins previously-deceased family members.
My mother was an enthusiastic Christian who rarely missed church on a Sunday, and although she made careful plans for her funeral and thanksgiving service, she never once to my knowledge used a euphemism to describe what would happen at the end of her life.
An aunt who was an equally committed Christian was adamant that she would "die", and she would have been very upset had she known that the funeral director changed her newspaper death notices from "died" to "passed on".
But it is not just religious believers who prefer to skirt around our departure from this existence. The administrator of a Facebook group to which I belong insists on using "passed on" because it seems to him to be a kinder word than "died". I disagree. There are a great many non-believers who find this not just wrong but bordering on the offensive.
Anyway, I know that at some time - not too soon, I hope - I will die. As a happy atheist, my death will be beginning of what might be termed "eternal sleep". It would be an illogical conceit on my part to believe otherwise. If anything is passed on, it will, perhaps, be through my writing over the years and memories held by my close friends and my descendants. There is, of course, no guarantee that all of this will be flattering.
The first 30 years of my life were spent in Australia and since moving to London, I have made at least one trip every year to the land of my birth. But despite the frequency of my visits, I am increasingly finding it difficult to understand the language.
It now seems that most descriptive names in Australia are reduced to words ending in “o” or “ie”.
Over the years I have become accustomed to “arvo” (afternoon), “tinnie” (can of beer or a small tin boat) , "cossie" (swimming costume) “rellie” or “rello” (a relative) and being referred to as a “journo” (journalist), but what was I to make of a headline in the Australian papers about a man’s leg being chewed off by a “saltie”?
I found that answer only by reading well down into the story and learning that a “saltie” is a salt water crocodile. I also noted that the man with the chewed leg was in a critical condition in “hossie” (hospital).
On one recent trip, I was challenged by a large illuminated sign over a highway “Have you renewed your rego?” My immediate response was to shout: “Well, I might renew it if I knew what it was”. A friend later enlightened me. “Rego” was short for car registration, the Australian equivalent of the UK’s road tax.
Some of this word reduction and slang is amusing, and I couldn’t help smiling when I learned some time ago that “carked it” meant that someone had died (i.e. become a carcass). On a recent trip to my homeland several people used "carked" in their conversion, such as "Did you know that old Fred had 'carked' it?"
I also love the much-used “hoon”, the short form of hooligan, and “rort”, the term most frequently applied to phoney expenses and rip-offs by politicians (“pollies”).
What surprises me is how the slang has been adopted in recent years by Australia’s mainstream media.
It is common, indeed usual, for Australian newspapers to refer to “firies” (firemen), ambos (ambulance drivers), "fishos" (fisherman) and “schoolies” (drunken end-of-school-year party).
Scanning the Australian papers on the internet the other day I also came across “tradie” (tradesman, such as plumber, electrician and carpenter), “boatie” (someone with a small boat), “yachtie” (a yachtsman) and “servo” (a motor vehicle service station).
And then there are the slang words that pop up in emails and social media postings from my friends (“mates” is preferred) and relatives (sorry, rellos) in "Godzone" (Australia): There is “bowlo” (member of a lawn bowls club), “sando” (sandwich) and “trannie” (no longer a transistor radio; now a transexual). Also, a friend reported that their child had a "tantie" (tantrum).
I received an email from a friend who apologised for failing to "corro" recently. Corro? Yes, of course. That turned out to be the short form for "correspond". He told me that he had been busy with the builders brought in to do some "renos" (renovations).
I recently tore my hamstring in a fall. I received several sympathetic emails from Australian friends in which they referred to my "hammy".
Finally, I should tell you about a recent email in which a women friend heaped praise on her “gynie”. No doubt, by now, you will have decoded this to be a reference to her gynaecologist.
And how did the Aussie accent come about? Here are some suggestions:
ago I was in Beijing to co-ordinate coverage for BBC radio of the Sino-Soviet Summit between Mikhail Gorbachev and Deng
Xiaoping, but the story turned out to be very different from what everyone had
expected. I quickly found myself in the midst of what turned out to be the biggest and most memorable story of my career - the Tiananmen Square uprising. The Gorbachev-Deng summit rapidly became a sidebar story, so much so that I can't remember how it went or if the summit ever came to any agreements.
What follows is based on extracts from the diary I wrote shortly after returning to my base in London: (click on photos to enlarge)
The BBC staff driver collected me from the airport and
took me straight to the BBC Bureau to unload my cases of broadcasting equipment. There were not many motor
vehicles but lots of bicycles. The road was wide and lined all the way into
town by trees, most of which appeared to have been planted in recent
times, perhaps for the Gorbachev visit.
About halfway along the route I witnessed what was to be one of the
oddest sights of my visit: an open-air roadside snooker game. The table had
been set up on the earthen shoulder of the road. I was told that this was a
fairly common sight around China. The tables were owned by a sort of syndicate,
with each member contributing towards the cost. The Chinese Government
apparently disapproved of these tables because of the associated gambling. I
was told that not much effort was put into getting the tables level and the
standard of play was indifferent to say the least.
The BBC bureau was in a diplomatic compound about 15-minutes by car from the city centre. [It has since moved twice.] The
compound was lightly guarded around the clock by two armed policemen. The office was on the ground floor while the BBC residence was two floors up. Our two resident radio correspondents, James Miles and Tim Luard, each had a large bedroom with an en suite bathroom. There was a spare bedroom (which I converted into a temporary studio), a dining room, a
loungeroom and a kitchen. It was spacious and comfortable. My hotel, the Zhao
Long, was across the road from the bureau. It was modern and well-run and not what
I had expected in a Communist country.
Soon after I arrived we were joined by Mark Brayne, the BBC World Service
Diplomatic Correspondent, who had been BBC Beijing Correspondent a few years
previous. Peter Burdin, a leading producer from BBC domestic radio, had also arrived and produced a most impressive number of high-class news and documentary features. Brian
Hanrahan, the BBC Television's Moscow Correspondent also flew in. So did Jeremy Harris, BBC Radio's Moscow Correspondent. My job was radio news co-ordinator and program editor based in the BBC radio bureau. A separate BBC-TV team mostly operated from an hotel a couple of kilometres away.
When I first arrived in Beijing, the demonstrations in Tiananmen Square were relatively small and expected to be suspended for the duration of the Gorbachev visit. But quite the opposite happened. Gorbachev and Glasnost were projected by the protesters as a symbol of everything that China should be aiming for politically. Consequently, the demonstrations grew apace.
After a number of visits to the Soviet Union over two decades, I arrived in Beijing thinking that it was going to be an
Asian Moscow. I was totally wrong. On the whole, the Beijing tourist hotels were
excellent. Indeed, they were better – and cheaper – than most of the hotels in
London. And the whole atmosphere of the city was different. Everyone seemed
fairly well fed, they were well dressed, and there was none of the surliness of
the Russians, nor was the constant feeling of having every movement scrutinised by the Chinese equivalent of the KGB. Although the old Beijing hands kept telling me that China was a
difficult place to live in, I was constantly struck by how much better it was
than Moscow – or at least it was, during my many trips to the USSR.
The few motor vehicles on the roads were owned by the government or by companies. It was an exception for a
car to be owned by a private citizen. All the general public could afford was a bicycle, or
perhaps a motorbike.
What astonished me after my visits to Moscow was to see that
Beijing had a functioning electronic pager network, and the student leaders were using this
as a prime means of exchanging messages between roadblocks and Tiananmen
Square. In the USSR it was not possible to own a typewriter without a licence in case it was used to produce dissident material. Late one
night we saw a neatly-formed triangle of a dozen or so motorbikes travelling
slowly past the BBC bureau, presumably passing on student messages and boosting morale at the roadblocks.
The layout of Beijing was modern with wide avenues running east-west and north-south, with three ring
roads. Most avenues had six or eight lanes for motor traffic, with one wide
lane each side for the cyclists. There were traffic lights, but only on the main
intersections. Most of the cyclists moved at a very sedate speed. The bikes were old fashioned, with only one gear. The lack of gears didn’t matter much in Beijing
because it was so flat. When I mentioned that most people seemed to move at the
same steady speed, the reply was: “Well, you’d take it easy too, if you had a
two-hour ride each way to work!” Memories of my childhood in rural Australia came flooding back
seeing all the children, wives and girlfriends 'dinking' on bikes. Most of the
women in Beijing sat side-saddle on the parcel rack at the back.
Very few of the
men in Beijing were wearing the traditional Mao suits. They wore quite modern
western clothes. The women also usually wore western dress. Mini-skirts were
fairly common among teenagers and young women. Tights (or pantie hose) appeared
to be unknown. Instead it was the vogue to wear stockings rolled up just above
the knee. Style leaders among the girls wore broad-brimmed hats turned up at
the front, while the young men got about in regulation sun glasses,
short-sleeved shirts and baggy cotton trousers.
appearances, the population was exceedingly poor by our standards. We would
earn more in a day than the average Beijing worker would earn in a month. Most
people lived in very crowded two-room government flats. The flats had replaced
most of the more traditional accommodation built around communal courtyards. Residents didn’t get much more space, but they usually did get a bathroom and toilet.
One of my abiding
memories from Beijing was crossing the 10-lane avenue between the BBC office and
my hotel one day at 4.30am, just before dawn broke. There was near-enough to
total silence, with not a motor vehicle to be seen or heard in any direction.
All I could hear was the murmurings of a couple of policemen having a quiet cigarette under a nearby tree and the slow approaching rattle of a chain on a bicycle. It was
quite eerie, as though the city had been evacuated.
My visit was
marked by many oddities, one of them concerning my press pass. All journalists
covering the Gorbachev visit were expected to get proper accreditation. This
involved my requiring a journalist’s visa in my passport, filling in an
accreditation form, and providing a couple of passport-type photographs. When I
turned up to collect my pass, I was astonished to have a photograph attached to
the form, but not to the press pass. The spare photograph was handed back to
me. So, although the pass carried my name and organisation, there was no
photograph to confirm it was being worn by the correct person. Not once did
anyone check my pass, even long after Gorbachev had gone and I was no longer
supposed to be working in China as a journalist. What a change from Moscow –
Among the other
oddities was a half-hour English-language television news bulletin each evening
at 10 o’clock, read by two Chinese presenters made up like Dynasty stars and
with ghastly American accents. There was also an English-language radio station
called Easy Listening FM, run jointly
by the Chinese Government and Amalgamated Wireless
of Australasia (AWA). The disc jockeys were Australian, the music was AOR (any
old rubbish), and the news was provided by Radio
Beijing. [I have since been told by one of those involved that the Easy Listening FM output was recorded and packaged by Radio 2CH in Sydney and shipped to China to be broadcast. There were a series of music 'taste' guidelines that had to be followed, especially with songs that the Chinese might have felt were culturally suggestive or insensitive.]
The majority of
Chinese men smoked. It was not only socially acceptable, but had been recommended by the Chinese medical profession as treatment for chest
If you ignored the
widespread corruption at almost all levels of officialdom in China, there was very little crime. Thefts were a rarity. We were constantly reminded of this when
being crushed in the crowds on Tiananmen Square. In any similar situation
elsewhere in the world, our pockets would have been speedily emptied by members of the
light-fingered fraternity. Beijing was one of the few major cities in the world where
it was perfectly safe to walk along darkened streets at night. This situation was best illustrated by what happened when one of our correspondents left his car
parked in a street near Tiananmen Square. When he returned, he couldn’t
find it and reluctantly came to the conclusion that it had been stolen. He had,
as he always did in Beijing, left the doors unlocked.
Because of the
pressure of work, it was two days before he was able to get around to pursuing
the matter. He decided to send the BBC driver to check the neighbourhood in
which he’d left the car, in the hope that it might be found abandoned. In fact,
the driver found the car where our correspondent had left it; he had simply got
the streets mixed up. The car was as it had been left, complete with the bits
of equipment left on the seat.
The BBC bureau had a cook who came in Monday-to-Saturday to cook lunch.
While I was there, he also cooked breakfast for us. He made the strongest
coffee I have ever been asked to drink, with four heaped spoons of Nescafé per
cup. It took me nearly a week to break him of the habit. The Chinese do not, as
a rule, drink milk, but milk was available in selected shops. It came in clear
plastic sachets containing about 250ml, and was almost orange in colour. The
sachets were difficult to open without squirting the contents about.
The cook was good, but the food had a certain monotony about it, compounded by the fact that our
commitments meant that we were able to go out for just four restaurant meals in the three weeks
I was there. By the time I got back to London, I felt I would never again be able to
face a Chinese take-away. I also got tired of the sweets, which were
usually sponge cake, home-made ice cream and tinned fruit. I ended up craving
for a good meal of fish and chips eaten out of its wrapping paper and some fresh fruit. We snatched meals when we could, which sometimes wasn’t very often. The vast
majority of evening meals were the lunch-time left-overs re-heated in a wok.
Breakfast was pretty basic: usually toast with eggs that had been cooked in the
wok and tasted of the previous day’s main course.
The atmosphere in Tiananmen Square was quite extraordinary. There was a real carnival air, and there is little doubt that the students had the support of a broad cross-section of society.
As events unfolded with
astonishing speed, it became clear that we needed more people, but by then it
was too late. I can’t recall working so hard in my life. Because the story was
so complex and because we had commitments round the clock, we operated a shift
system which often meant 22-hours on and two hours off. The bureau had a small studio and a fixed broadcasting landline to London, but we were careful what we transmitted over that as it was certain to be monitored by the Chinese authorities. Although the Chinese had allowed an unlisted fax line to be installed in the upstairs room we converted into a back-up studio, they had cunningly refused to allow the fax machine through customs. But a fax line is the same as a telephone line, and when I plugged in a spare phone I'd brought with me I discovered that not only was the line live, but I could also direct dial the BBC in London. I linked our temporary studio to this unlisted telephone line and used it to transmit material that might have seriously offended the Chinese authorities. As far as I could tell, the Chinese were never aware that much of what we broadcast was via that line. We used a small device called a Mutterbox to lock the line open -- often without a break for 10 hours at a stretch. We were spending well in excess of £1,000 a day keeping this line open.
During our busiest period, I went three days without visiting my hotel room, except to have a
shower and change clothes. Most days it was simpler to snatch some sleep, as
the opportunities arose, on a settee in the lounge, or on the bed in our
temporary studio. On one occasion, one of our correspondents went 48 hours
without sleep. Towards the end of the third week we were able to get four or
five hours in bed. We thought we were in Heaven.
When I look back
on it, I just don’t know how we survived the hours and the pressures. James Miles and Tim Luard correspondents had the worst time. They had been hard at it a couple
of weeks before the rest of us turned up, and they were still there when the
massacres took place. Fortunately, we had managed to get another correspondent, Chinese talks writer Simon Long, in as back-up, but it was a horrible time for them. Not only were they
exhausted and under terrible pressure, not knowing whether the authorities were
going to act against them, but they had to witness the most ghastly events day
after day. It was terrifying out on the streets and one of our correspondents
went six consecutive days in which he saw people murdered before his eyes. I should at this point praise the contribution of Tim Luard's wife, Alison McEwen, who played a key unpaid role as bureau "mother hen", doing a lot of the organising, and most importantly, helping to ease stress and to smooth tempers. We also had the benefit of material shared by London Times correspondent Catherine Sampson who was around a lot, as she was then James Miles's fiancée and later his wife.
The events that
unfolded were in themselves quite extraordinary, but for me, it was almost as
extraordinary to experience the huge impact the BBC World Service was having in
China. Six months previous, the BBC had only a small audience in China, but the
combination of powerful new transmitters in Hong Kong and the emergence of the
Democracy Movements changed all that, almost overnight. We were treated as
heroes wherever we went. It was quite embarrassing at times. I made the mistake
one day of agreeing to sign an autograph. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by
people who all wanted me to sign their tee-shirts.
could often be heard on Tiananmen Square and elsewhere and they were also
recorded, transcribed and distributed in pamphlet form. As soon as any of us
identified ourselves as being from the BBC, there would be cheers and we would
be waved through the barriers. All the indications were that our audience
extended right across the community and the country. The World Service
audience, not including China, was estimated at 120-million. Although it is not
possible to know how many people listened to us in China during the Tiananmen Square uprising, it was thought
probable that the figure exceeded our total for the rest of the world.
Almost as amazing
as the scenes in Tiananmen Square were those on the barricades at the
intersections when it was first thought that the army was going to move into
central Beijing. To give you an idea, imagine the intersection of Flinders and Swanston streets in Melbourne's Central Business District, or Oxford Circus in London mobbed by about 10,000 people with all the
entrances closed off by buses and coal lorries. That sort of scene was repeated
at every major intersection in Beijing. It was exceptionally well organised and
cheerful, and those manning the barricades came to regard themselves as
invulnerable. They were convinced that the People’s Army would never open fire
on the people. How tragically wrong they were!
was also a fascinating place to visit. Wall posters were everywhere, denouncing
Deng Ziaoping and Li Peng. We were taken to meet the protest leaders in the
university. They were all huddled around a phone in a poorly lit dormitory room
that had the size and atmosphere of a prison cell. The student who took us
there had a bleeper which struck us as another oddity in a Communist
dictatorship. Yet another oddity was to be able to hire a taxi with a
radiophone that allowed us to make reports direct from the scene to London.
experiences in Moscow in which the activities of journalists were closely monitored and often restricted, I was amazed at how much freedom of movement we had in Beijing. It
was, at that time anyway, a pretty open society, once you got below the top
tiers of government. When we first began getting reports of troop movements,
one of our correspondents went out and found a couple of convoys surrounded by
swarms of local people, refusing to allow them to move, A major in charge of
one of the convoys was quite happy to be interviewed in English. I also went troop hunting on a couple of occasions. The first time I got an English-speaking
taxi driver to take me to the Great Wall at Badaling, where we had heard
rumours of troop concentrations.
My driver was excited by the idea of trying to find troops and took me on a
lung-wrecking climb up to a lookout on the Great Wall. It was a beautiful clear
day, and he and I dragged a public telescope across the path to look down on the plain beyond
the Wall to scour the countryside for any sign of military movements. We
spotted what looked like a camp and drove there for a closer view. We found a
lot of evidence of a military presence, but eventually decided it might be
unsafe to go further.
The next day I
went troop hunting in another taxi with a correspondent for the Times of London. Again, the taxi driver
was enthusiastic about helping us. He took us to an area in west Beijing where
the troops were reported to be gathering, and he even got a local to hop in the
taxi and take us to the exact spots. We found one lot of troops had taken over
a military warehouse, while another was hiding (rather badly) in a vast
building supplies storage area. We later spotted soldiers going into the Army
Museum in central Beijing. It was good fun, though I imagine that if he had
tried something similar in Moscow, we’d have been lifted by the KGB before we’d
got more than a block or two. In fact, we finally came to the conclusion that
the Chinese authorities didn’t mind us discovering and reporting troop
movements because it helped them in their war of nerves with the student protesters.
Throughout my visit, the weather was mild to hot. There was a colossal downpour one day, but otherwise it was dry and sunny. Despite this, there were only a couple of days with a bright blue sky, because of the terrible pollution. Most of the pollution seems to come from coal fires. There was also a lot of dust in the air, causing everything to feel gritty. Anti pollution measures are almost unknown in China. One of our correspondents recounted how he had been taken by an official to a hill overlooking an industrial town and proudly told: “Look, every chimney is smoking."
the end of my third week in Beijing drew to a close, I was exhausted and it was decided that there was
little need for me to stay further, so I pulled out at the weekend and flew
back to London. Peter Burdin and Mark Brayne followed suit a day
later. We were not to know that within a week, the situation would soon take an
appalling turn for the worse. I must say I felt quite shattered when it
happened – partly because I knew what James Miles, Tim Luard and Simon Long would be going through,
but mostly because it is reasonable to assume that many of the people we met
and interviewed in Tiananmen Square and elsewhere are now dead or in prison. It
was most difficult to reconcile the scenes with the cheerful, spontaneous
protests that had been part of my life for three eventful weeks. The people of
China had really been asking for very little, yet it was clearly too much for
those who had no compunction in turning Tiananmen Square and surrounding streets into a slaughterhouse.
I still find it hard to believe the way the Democracy Movement was so brutally crushed. Up to the point I left Beijing everyone was in fairly high-spirits, hoping for a new age in China, despite the fact that the hard-liners appeared to be winning the power struggle. Instead, the country was plunged back into darkness.