Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 363

Cultural Revolution
St. Joseph's College, Wong, Sean – 14
“V
ulan. I’ll be waiting for you,” came a fatherly voice, worn and old with the passage of time. Yulan felt a tear run
down her face as the father she hadn’t seen for 17 years clasped her hand and continued, “I know you don’t want to
come, but here’s the ticket for the last ship to leave Shanghai.” Yulan swore she saw a tear in the old man’s eyes, but she
didn’t get the chance as he faded away, his footsteps growing softer as he went. That bitterness quickly turned to
resentment—resentment for father’s selfishness; resentment for father’s cowardice; resentment for resentment’s sake.
“Stand up, all victims of oppression,
For the tyrants fear your might…”
Yulan jolted awake to the deafening song blaring in her ears. Outside the window, Red Guards threw antique furniture down
from marble mansions onto the puddle-ridden, hard, stone paved Shanghai street. It was a symbol of the bourgeoisie and the
decadent past, and it would be smashed.
“Don't cling so hard to your possessions,
For you have nothing if you have no rights…”
Yulan started moving more furniture to barricade her doors. It was folly to hold the door against the tidal wave of Red Guards,
but that was all she knew to do. She could hear each word of the song as the chanting Guardsmen stormed across the street.
There was the low thump of wooden doors falling; the crisp clang of pottery being hurled across rooms; the cheers as road signs
were torn down and new revolutionary names were scribbled on.
“Let racist ignorance be ended,
For respect makes the empires fall…”
They’d broken through the front door. It didn’t take long for fists to bang on Yulan’s fortified door. But Yulan wasn’t opening
up, so down fell the axes and batons. Yulan mustered all the strength she could, but it was to no avail as the door collapsed.
“Freedom is merely privilege extended,
Unless enjoyed by one and all!”
Gone were the flowery Qipaos and the smart western suits. They were traded in for uniforms carrying a monotone brand of
green and a bright red armband. Revolutionary, every Red Guard said; dull, Yulan would reply. With unmatched spite, the
angry mob dragged her out the room, down the stairs with every single bump being registered with painful clarity, until she was
finally thrown onto the back of the brand new Liberation brand truck.
Yulan felt a searing pain as the guards forcefully made her kneel. She felt her arms being yanked backwards. All the while,
bigger raindrops fell in lieu of whacks. There was a strange wetness on her forehead. It was only when she tasted the salty
tinge of blood that she found the massive open wound. The truck started moving as the beating stopped. Yulan jerked
upwards to see what was happening only for the leader of the mob to shove her head right back down. The leader seized
something from Yulan’s pocket—her lipstick! Several hands immediately held Yulan in place despite her struggling.
“Comrades!” the leader screeched over the rumbling engine, “The old world is ending, yet there are deluded fools who cling to
it!” There was a howl of agreement and joy. “We of the Mao Zedong Thought Revolution Group are the judge, jury and
executioner of the proletariat! No mercy for the wicked!”
With that, the exquisite lipstick was snapped in half and stamped beneath the soles of the guardsman while what remained was
smothered across Yulan’s face, the original glamor and softness molding into a slimy mud that stubbornly stuck despite the