從為人民服務到喪家犬

按：這是作家閻連科發表在紐約時報上的一篇文章，原文名The Year of the Stray Dog，倉促譯就，未徵得作者本人同意，歡迎轉載，請勿商用。作者：閻連科    翻譯：劉少華

舊習難改。儘管離開農村老家已三十多年，我卻從未將元旦作為一年的開始。在我家鄉，一年真正的開始是大年初一。農曆的2011年，對我來說，就像一條長長的隧道，沒有一絲光亮。

黑暗的2011年始自我兒子找工作。那時他已完成在英國的學業，帶著法學碩士學位回到中國。他堅信，若想在中國有所作為，需在法律系統中謀到一份公職。然而，因為不是黨員，他幾乎沒機會參加國家公務員考試。

當他還在讀本科時，不止一次考慮過加入共產黨，每次都被我勸阻了：「難道人必須要成為黨員，才能獲得自己想要的生活」？作為一個父親，兒子的經歷使我感覺我應跪在黨的領導面前，求他們給入黨和未入黨的年輕人同等的求職機會。

黑暗的2011並未中止。我最新的作品，《四書》——一本直面中國人民在上世紀50年代末的大躍進以及隨之而來的飢荒中所受創痛的小說，被近20家出版社退稿。拒絕的理由幾乎是一致的：誰敢在中國出版我的書，誰就將被關掉。

這部小說花了我20年構思，2年時間寫作。作為一個作家，這本書對我來說非常重要，我也知道它將成為中國文壇一部重要作品。然而，中國出版業的現狀就是如此，對我來說，除了接受，別無它選。我只能長吁短嘆。

厄運連連。伴隨著書不能在大陸出版的夢魘，我在北京的房子也被強拆了，理由是附近有條公路要拓寬。強拆如颶風來臨。沒人向我和鄰居們出示任何官方文件；賠償沒有商量餘地，不管原有面積多大，蓋房子花費多少，一律只有50萬。大家還被告知，「誰願意跟政府合作，將會額外獎勵70萬。」兩項加起來共有約19萬美金，看起來數額很大，實際上在今天的北京，這些錢在好地段也就能買個廁所。

居民們與強拆隊之間劍拔弩張，大家發誓，要用生命維護財產和尊嚴。

鬥爭持續了數月之久。一天黎明，小區的牆被強拆了。一些疲於應戰的老居民不得不被送到醫院去。隨後，一系列的盜竊案出現在小區，大家心知肚明，這只是用來嚇唬居民們的策略而已。報警毫無價值，其幼稚程度與小學生報告說鉛筆被偷無異。

11月的最後一天，離強拆期限只剩一天了，我在新浪微博上貼了一份對H和W的公開信，呼籲政府不要再跟被拆遷者玩 「貓鼠遊戲」。我當然知道，這封信不會到達它該到的人手裡，但我希望它能吸引足夠的注意力，從而向當地政府施壓，在強拆期間避免流血衝突。

我的公開信被大量轉發，幾乎立刻傳遍全國。然而，它所產生的影響，如同在風中竊竊私語一般微弱。

12月2日，凌晨五點，一隊戴著頭盔的便衣男女，從窗戶闖入我鄰居家中。在向入侵者聲明他反對拆遷后，我鄰居被帶走關了起來。他家的一些大型傢具被搬出門外，隨後房子被推土機剷平。後來他回憶說，那天早晨他看到200多個戴頭盔的便衣圍在自家房子邊上。

整個12月里，有30多戶被迫同意拆遷，我黑暗的2011年也就此結束了。這次經歷使我意識到，一個公民和作家的尊嚴，尚不如一隻餓犬向主人搖尾乞食重要；一個公民可享有的權利，還不如一個人手中握住的空氣多。

我很想哭。有時我甚至會想，若能在北京中心的天安門廣場哭一場，也是一個不小的特權吧。

在這個社會中，人們像狗一樣活著。我夢想能在我的書中大聲喊出這一切，並將我的吶喊變成優美的樂曲。這怪誕的人生和奇妙的夢境維持著我的生命，有時甚至給予我信心。然而，我也不斷的灰心、喪氣。

我身心俱疲，只想離開這黑暗的2011年的北京，回到自己的家鄉去。我渴望能在家鄉開始一個全新的2012年，跟我的母親和親人們待在一起，讓他們簡單的溫暖帶走一切冰冷、焦慮和恐懼，遠離那些在2011年黑暗的隧道中包圍我的東西。

我回到了位於河南西部的家鄉嵩縣，與我80歲的老母、兄長、嫂子、侄女們一起過了十天。我們一起回憶過去、說笑話、打麻將。無人提及我的作品或是經歷過的不幸，我們像過著完美的生活一般。

每日所見，皆是燦爛陽光。每日所感，都是親人關愛。那十天，我們坐在電視前，一起看肥皂劇，看春節聯歡晚會。電視節目很一般，但家裡的暖意驅走了黑暗的2011年。我感覺很安心。

除夕夜，我們按照傳統，一起吃了頓餃子。母親把她的一些餃子分給我，以示關愛。一小縷頭髮垂下來，她的臉上洋溢著幸福：「我們國家現在富強了，這多麼美妙！」她說，「我們現在能吃肉餡的餃子了，隔三差五吃，就跟以前窮的時候吃野草一樣多！」

我哥哥終其一生都是一個騎自行車到處送信的郵差，現在他退休了，開著我用版稅給他買的車子。「為什麼有人會恨政府呢？」一次他載我去看望一個住在山村裡的親戚時，在路上問我。「我們生活的很好，這還不夠嗎？」

我兩個姐姐都是農民。她們很愛看一個清宮肥皂劇，劇中的皇帝很聰明，做事遊刃有餘。姐姐們希望我也能寫一個那樣的肥皂劇本，既有錢，又有名。她們說，只要寫出一個成功的肥皂劇就會讓整個家族臉上有光。

我不知道我的家人是真相信這些東西，還是只想安慰我而已。我不知道這幾年獲得的財富，是否真的讓中國人民堅信，吃得飽、穿得暖真的比權利和尊嚴更重要？或者，在他們看來，一盤餃子，口袋裡的一點錢，比權利和尊嚴更有用？

我沒問，也不想深究，因為我知道，根本就沒有明確的答案。於我而言，我更願意保持尊嚴，即便那意味著飢餓至死。這信仰在我的血液中流淌，這也應是文化人的基本原則。然而，在今天的中國，對許多人來說，這只是一派胡言。可是，我為何要抱怨？就連文化人都將食物和錢置於尊嚴之上，我怎能以此來批評我的親人們呢？

大年初六是出門的吉日，我該走了，親人們都趕來與我道別。與以往一樣，每逢這種場合，母親都會掉眼淚。但直到最後一刻，她才開口。

「多和有權有勢的人交朋友」，她在我耳邊低訴。「別做讓那些人反感的事。」

我走之後，哥哥給我發了一條簡訊。「大過年的，我就沒說給你聽。要記住：別管是為了什麼事，都別惹政府。」

我外甥陪著我到了最近的高速入口斜坡處。「我媽讓我告訴你」，那孩子吞吞吐吐地說，「照顧好自己的身體。別寫太多了。如果一定要寫，就寫點誇政府和國家的。別越老越糊塗。」

我點了點頭。

「告訴你姥姥、舅舅和媽媽：別擔心我，我很好。我寫的東西很好，我也應付的來。除了皺紋和白頭髮越來越多，沒別的煩心事兒。」說完后，我開車離開。

一邊開車，沒來由地，眼淚倏然而至。我只是很想哭。是為我母親、兄長、親人們以及那些同樣有了吃的就忘了尊嚴的陌生人們？還是為那些像我一樣熱愛權利與尊嚴卻活得像喪家犬之人？我不知道。我只想大聲哭泣。

我停下車，任涕淚肆意橫流——落到我的臉上，流進我的心中。很久之後，眼淚乾涸了，我又發動了車。我在開回北京的路上，喘著粗氣、焦慮萬分，就像一隻迷失在黑暗隧道中的喪家之犬。

The Year of the Stray Dog

BEIJING — Old habits die hard. Despite leaving my home in the countryside more than 30 years ago, I never feel that the first of January marks the start of a new year. In my hometown, the true beginning of a new year is the first day of the Chinese Lunar New Year.

The year 2011 for me was as long and dark as a tunnel without light.

My dark 2011 started with my son』s search for a job. He had finished his studies in Britain and returned to China armed with a master』s degree in law. He believes that to make a difference in China he must start his career as a public servant within the legal system. However, because he is not a member of the Chinese Communist Party, it is almost impossible for him to sit for the national civil service exam to get the job he wants.

He considered joining the Communist Party more than once when he was an undergraduate. I talked him out of it every time, saying, 「Do people have to be party members to get on in this life?」 As a father, my son』s experience makes me feel I should kneel down in front of the party leaders and beg them to give young people who are not party members the same career opportunities it gives to those who have joined.

The darkness of 2011 continued. My latest work, 「Four Books」 — a novel that directly confronts the Chinese people』s traumatic experiences during the Great Leap Forward of the late 1950s and the subsequent famine — was rejected by almost 20 publishing houses. The reasons I was given were all along the same lines: Anyone who dares to publish my book in China is certain to be closed down.

The novel took me 20 years to plan and two years to write. It is important to me as a writer, and I know it will be an important contribution to Chinese literature. However, I am fully aware of the realities of publishing in China, so I have no choice but to accept the fate of my book. All I can do is sigh.

COMPOUNDING the nightmare of my book』s nonpublication in China was the forced demolition of my house for a road-widening project in Beijing. It came like a hurricane. No one bothered to show the evicted residents in my neighborhood any official documents relating to the project; the non-negotiable compensation was set at a flat 500,000 yuan (about $79,000) per household, regardless of the area of the land or the original construction cost. The residents were told, 「Whoever cooperates with the government will be further rewarded 700,000 yuan.」 That』s approximately $190,000 in total. This seemingly large sum in fact is only enough to buy a toilet in a good neighborhood in today』s Beijing.

The conflict between the residents and the demolition crew was intense. Residents pledged to defend their properties and dignity with their lives.

The battle raged for months. One day the wall surrounding the neighborhood compound was demolished at dawn. Some elderly battle-weary residents had to be rushed to the hospital. Then came news of a series of 「burglaries」 in the compound, which everyone knew was a tactic intended to intimidate residents. Reporting the burglaries to the police was as meaningless as an elementary school student reporting a lost pencil.

On Nov. 30, one day before the forced demolition deadline, I wrote a petition to the general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party, Hu Jintao, and Prime Minister Wen Jiabao and posted it on Sina Weibo, the Chinese equivalent of Twitter, urging an end to the game of cat-and-mouse played with people whose houses were about to be demolished. I knew the letter would not reach its intended recipients, but I hoped it would attract enough attention to pressure the local government to avoid bloodshed during the demolition.

My letter was widely reposted and spread nationwide almost instantly. Still, it had no more impact than a whisper in the wind.

AT ABOUT 5 a.m. on Dec. 2, a group of uniformed men and women wearing helmets broke into my neighbor』s house through a window. After having told the intruders that he objected to the demolition, my neighbor was taken away and locked up. A few large pieces of furniture were moved outside and his house was bulldozed. He later recalled that when he was taken away that morning, he saw more than 200 people, all uniformed and wearing helmets, surrounding his house.

In December, more than 30 families were finally coerced into agreeing to the demolition. That marked the end of my dark 2011. The experience made me realize that in reality the dignity of a citizen and a writer is no more significant than a hungry dog begging its master for food; in reality, the rights a citizen can actually enjoy are no more than the air a person can hold in his hand.

I wanted to cry. Sometimes I imagine it would be a great privilege to be able to cry aloud in Tiananmen Square in the center of Beijing.

People live like dogs in this society. I dream of being able to bark out loud in my books, and of turning my barking into exquisite music. This strange life and this strange dream keep me alive, and sometimes even give me confidence. At the same time, I am constantly disheartened.

Emotionally exhausted, I longed to leave the dark Beijing of 2011 behind me and go home. I longed for a new beginning in 2012 — a new beginning in my hometown, to be with my mother, to be with my relatives, to let their simple warmth take away the coldness, anxiety and fear that had enveloped me in the dark tunnel of 2011.

I WENT home. For 10 days I spent all my time with my 80-year-old mother, my elder brother and his wife and my nieces in our hometown of Songxian, in Western Henan province. We talked about the past, told jokes and played mahjong. Not a single word about my writing or my unhappiness was mentioned. It was as if we all lived perfect lives.

All I could see was bright sunlight. All I could feel was the love of my close relatives. For 10 days, we sat in front of the TV. We watched silly soap operas and the CCTV Spring Festival Gala. The TV programs were mediocre, but the love of my family pushed away the darkness of 2011. I felt safe.

On the eve of the Lunar New Year we ate a traditional meal of dumplings together. Mother gave me a portion of her dumplings to show her love. A few wisps of white hair fell onto a face that was beaming with happiness. 「Our country is rich now. Isn』t it wonderful!」 she said. 「We can now have meat-filled dumplings, as often as we ate wild grass when we were poor.」

My elder brother was a postman who rode a bicycle to deliver letters all his working life. He is now retired and drives a car I bought with royalties from my books. 「Why do people hate the government?」 he asked me while driving to visit a relative in a remote mountain village. 「Our lives are good. Isn』t that enough?」

My two elder sisters are farmers. They loved the soap opera about a wise Qing dynasty emperor who treated his subjects well. My sisters want me to write a soap opera script like that to garner fame and fortune. Just one successful soap opera would let the whole family bask in glory, they said.

I don』t know if my family truly believes these things, or whether they were just trying to comfort me. I don』t know if their newly acquired wealth makes the Chinese people truly believe that warm clothes and a full stomach are more important than rights and dignity. Or did they always think that a plate of dumplings and a bit of money in their pockets are more useful than rights and dignity?

I didn』t ask and didn』t really want to delve into it because I know there』s no clear-cut answer. As for myself, I』d rather uphold my dignity even if it means dying of starvation. This belief is in my blood. It is supposed to be the guiding principle for all men of letters, but for many in today』s China it is no more than gibberish. Why am I complaining? If even men of letters choose a bit of food and a little money over dignity, how can I criticize my less-educated relatives?

THE SIXTH day of the Lunar New Year is an auspicious day to travel. It was time to leave. All my relatives came out to say goodbye. Mother was in tears as always on such occasions. She was quiet until the last moment.

「Make friends with people in power,」 she whispered in my ear. 「Don』t do anything to annoy them.」

My brother sent me a text message after I left. 「I didn』t say this to you because it was a festive time. Remember: Never do anything to annoy the government, no matter what.」

My nephew accompanied me to the nearby highway entrance ramp. 「My mother asked me to tell you,」 said the boy hesitantly, 「Look after your health. Don』t write too much, and if you really must write, then write something that praises the government and the nation. Don』t become foolish with age.」

I nodded.

「Tell your grandma, uncle and your mother: Don』t worry about me. I』m fine. My writing is going well. I』m doing well. Apart from acquiring some wrinkles and white hair, nothing bad will happen to me.」 I drove away.

As I drove, tears streamed down my face for no apparent reason. I just wanted to cry. Was it for my mother, my brother, my relatives and the strangers who forget about their dignity as long as they have enough to eat? Or for people like me who worship rights and dignity but live the life of a stray dog? I don』t know. I just wanted to cry out loud.

I pulled over and let my tears flow — down my face and in my heart. After a long while, after my tears dried, I started the car again. I was on my way back to Beijing, panting and anxious, like a stray dog lost in a dark tunnel.