It was nearing midnight and we were exhausted so we decided to book a hotel room for the night. We found a relatively cheap hotel which was priced at 400 Yuan per night. Around sunrise, we were awoken by intrusive knocking. I looked over at my partner with a look of bewilderment; morning call to prayer had already began so I assumed maybe it was custom. The knock persisted, so my partner got out of bed and opened the door revealing two police officers in all black uniform. They spoke saying “You’re [Xiaohongshu] and [partner]?”

My partner looked back at me and we were both stunned. My heart started beating faster while I tried to process what it could be about. And so my partner asked them why they wanted us and saying nothing, one of the officers proceeded to cuff my partner whilst the other asked me to put my shoes on and face my back to him. I cooperated because there was nothing we could do. I know it’s custom for some officers to reveal as little to the detainee as they themselves might not even know the reason for arrest, they are told only to make an arrest and bring them to the location to be questioned.

After a seemingly long drive, maybe shy of an hour and a half, we arrived to a large ten foot tall fenced off compound somewhere within a desert area. At this point I was very afraid and me and my partner were placed in different vehicles. I kept agonizing over why we were detained, worried about my partner's safety as well as my own. After passing the first set of fencing we arrived at a second, and after that the “prison” was in full view. I was convinced that they were taking us to a jail but instead we were being brought to what seemed to be a large detention center and the questions along with anxieties were increasing. I asked the officers where we were. They paused, saying nothing, and then resumed their conversation. After parking in an underground parking area with lots of police and military vehicles, one of the officers opened my door and let me out. I looked around to see if my partner was here as well, but they were nowhere in the area I wondered if they had already arrived or if they were back at the entrance. I was so worried for them... We're both levelheaded people but it was hard to imagine them being hurt due to saying the wrong thing. Before I knew it, tears were rolling down my face.

With a hand grasped around my arm, we made our way through the prison facility until we reached a soundproof cell with a table in the middle of it. They cuffed my hands and left. Not too long later, two uniformed guards entered the cell and sat in front of me. Saying nothing, one of them stared at me as the other browsed through their binder, flicking the pages back and forth. The one with the binder took out an image of a young man and placed it in front of me. He asked “Do you know (persons name)?” The name was familiar to me, as this person had the same surname as the woman who we visited. I spoke, saying “I visited the family last night, I didn’t meet the son however... I assume this is him?”

“That’s convenient,” said second guard. “What was the purpose of your visit?” I didn’t like the way they used convenient and the implications scared me. At this point, the visit to the family was getting to me and I felt like me and my partner had the worst luck. I would have never imagined to be in a predicament like this, no thought of any “danger” after visiting a family ever crossed my mind, but I was now detained without knowing where my partner was, or the condition they were in, and they were thinking the same thing.

I tried not to let these negative thoughts get to me. Without implicating my family, I mentioned that I had read about this family online and that I wanted to understand their point of view from a position of criticism. I told them I was in disbelief that the Uyghur population were subject to arrests like this and that I wanted to hear their story firsthand. The two officers sat in silence for a moment. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

A pit in my stomach formed when I realized that the mother and son could be in this same prison with me at this very moment. Did I bring danger to them? I tried to fight back tears but I was holding in so much and so I broke down. The officers looked at one another and one of them asked if I wanted a drink. I asked for some tea and one of them left the room, presumably to go get it. While he was gone, the other started talking to me.

“So do you like Xinjiang?”

Small talk?

“It’s nice.”

Understanding where this conversation could lead, I tried my best not to put any focus on my family or implicate them in any of this. “I’ve been here for twenty years, I like it very much. The people they’re very good, peaceful. There’s a sense of community here which I like” the officer told me with a slight smile. Maybe he was just making small talk but reading in between the lines this is just a means to force me to drop my guard along with the “nice” gesture of offering me tea and tissues. So I remained silent as they talked.

The other guard arrived with my tea and a bottle of water; I thanked him and he nodded. The tea was a well needed stress reliever in this situation. The officers then asked me to educate them on who I was and where I was from and why I had an interest in Xinjiang. I avoided mentioning my family for as long as I could, but they told me they knew I was staying with my aunt and cousins. At that point I admitted that my aunt is friends with the woman I had met and that my main goal for the trip, besides learning the culture, was to try to understand this family's story.

I thought I sounded reasonable and straight with them and I had no reason to fabricate anything. The officer with the binder then flicked through the binder and then took a page out, placing it on the table next to the portrait of the young man. My heart sank. It was a screenshot of Hexbear. More panic kicked in because of the worrying implications that I may be some sort of threat to national security. I said nothing but looked at the paper.

“We know that you have used this website. Can you tell us more about it?”

I didn’t know what to say. My posts are specific to educating you all on China and financial studies, but I didn’t know how to communicate this, nor would it have mattered. “I have posted here before,” I said. They brought out more pages this time, with pro-Palestine posts and a post about the Uyghur encampments with a few hundred comments.

“Are you engaged in these discussions? What is your opinion on these events?” I told them that I had supported Palestine for a long time, as are a lot of Chinese citizens, I also told them that I was of the opinion that China isn’t committing genocide of the Uyghurs. I still believe this to be true, as the family I met seemed innocent enough to me, but the fact they had an image of him implied that there is more to this story that I am not aware of.

They took the pages from the table and placed them back on the folder. “We can take you to your partner now,” they said, and I felt a rush of relief. I was hopeful that this was over, that our stories matched up and that they had nothing on us. The guards left for a few minutes and then returned, unshackled my cuffs from the table and then led me down some corridors to some cells. I was unaware with what the next steps would be, but I wasn’t too hopeful that our difficulties were over just yet.

We got the cell where my partner was seated alone with their head slumped, looking up at me they stood up and looked relieved. There was a certain absence to them that I was afraid of, what had they told my partner or put them through? After unlocking the cell doors, they let me in and then closed the doors behind us. Embracing my partner, I cried a bit. I felt safe in their arms again and I felt more at peace. My partner sat down and asked how the interrogation went. We pretty much shared the same details except the portion where Hexbear was mentioned. My partner didn’t know I used the website but was concerned due to the content posted on here.

They sat back down and kind of sulked for a moment. I sat next to them, asking if they were hurt at all, and they mentioned they showed my partner the piece of paper that the son of the mother we visited with the text “黄雪” written in red ink. This definitely meant that the family was being interrogated in this same facility. My worst fears were true; we had some part in pushing this family back into the trouble they had just escaped.

“I don’t think it’s our fault,” my partner said, and wiped some tears off my cheek. I didn’t even feel the tears, as I was numb from the shock.

“They told me what 黄雪 translates to. It means Yellow Snow.”

“They told me how Yellow Snow is a folk legend in the prison.” I looked up at my partner, asking why they told them this. “I don’t know, maybe to scare me, or just to educate me on what the paper meant. 黄雪 was a man who was out doing manual labor on a cold morning and asked the guards for the toilet. The guards ignored his request and told him to get back to work. Half an hour passed, the man struggling to continue. He was shaking, not just from the cold but from bladder contractions. Eventually he stopped working and decided to urinate in front of everyone. After relieving himself, the guards took him. He was never heard from or seen again.”

I was still confused as to why they told my partner this. It still didn’t sit well with me. I laid my head on my partner's lap and tried to sleep.

Awoken by an alarm and rhythmic banging on walls, my partner stood up. “The gate, it’s open!” Was this our opportunity to leave?

As soon as the cacophony began, a silence filled the prison. There were no guards within the area. I was hesitant to leave but my partner wasn’t. They slowly crept out of the cell as I repeatedly whispered to get back in. Realizing they were leaving, I began to follow. Upon hearing a thud and a yelp, I rushed back inside, but then I heard it again. The exact same sequence of thuds and yelps. At this point I remembered the “Morse code” that the mother had told us about; the “secret language” used by the prisoners to pay respects to the dead, stomp yelping their obituaries at midnight.

The stomps and yelps were distinctly clear and using my memory from my limited knowledge of the Chinese Morse code I decoded the message.

6663 5887…

Run.

Run? Was this a sign telling us to leave?

I told my partner. They looked at me and asked how I knew, and I told them to remember the “secret language.” We sprinted down every hallway, seeing no guards throughout the entirety of the cell block. When we left the detention area, we encountered several uniformed guards in a lobby area by the door to the main yard where people in jumpsuits were idly standing. I assumed this was the yard area of the prison. We decided to make a break for it, the guards yelling after us, “Wait! Stop!”

We refused to heed their commands. On the other side of the fence was freedom. I refused to be kept prisoner in this death camp. I was not going to let myself or my partner be kept hostage, to become a shell of a person. We were not going to become martyrs like Yellow Snow. I screamed at my partner to begin climbing and took my shirt off to throw over the barbed wire so we could get around it. I began my ascent, the guards following.

“Stop right there! You forgot your wallet!”

My wallet? What did they mean?

“Stop! You don't have to do this! You're free to go!”

I looked down at them, then to my partner. We remained on the fence for a while, weighing our options. My shirt was already on the barbed wire; if we didn't believe them, our way out was right there. We stayed on the fence for a few minutes as everyone in the yard stared at us.

“Shu, let's just see what happens.”

My partner began to climb down and I followed. The guards came up to us, handing us our belongings and unlocking the innermost gate. “You should go,” they said.

Before I did, I looked back at the people in jumpsuits. Full families grouped together, wearing matching jumpsuits. I couldn't help but feel bad for them as they stared back at us with sullen eyes. I was free to go, but they had to stay. It tore me up inside. I had to give them some kind of hope. Before I left, I turned to them and peed my pants in full view of everyone. Their discomfort became my own. Their looks turned from disgust to acceptance as I did my best to stomp and yelp out the Chinese Commercial Code for “Stay strong.”

I hoped they would.

After that, we left the prison with a lot to think about. The bus ride back to my aunt's house was uncomfortable for many reasons, some of them obvious. What was true, what was a lie? Were those people prisoners? Could they leave just as easily as us? Why were we let go? Did I have another pair of pants at my aunt's house? All of these questions burned in my mind, but I could only answer one of them.

Although I changed my pants that day, I refused to get rid of the pants I peed. It was my own sign of defiance, a sign of connection with those who are suffering, a sign of mourning for those who have died. I decided to buy a shadowbox for them, mounting the pants inside. I have those pants on my wall now above my desk, a constant reminder of how easily the things we value, like freedom, like life, can be taken away from us.

If you take anything from my experience, please let it be that things are not always as they seem. I'm still not sure that there is a “genocide,” but I have seen the internment camps for myself. They exist. If you'd like to argue this point, please remember what Mao said: No investigation, no right to speak.

Hello all, I hope you have been well and I wish I could say the same for myself. I am refraining from being pessimistic in this moment but as it stands I do not feel too good. This has nothing to do with my health or the health of anyone in my family. Although we're all physically well, what happened left me shocked and unable to process everything. Due to the sensitivity of this subject I won’t object if the mods deem it safer for the community to lock this post.

If you weren’t aware already I had mentioned a few days prior that I made a visit to Xinjiang’s capital Ürümqi to meet with some family members who have been residing there for some years now. We left on Sunday and took a six hour train ride to the capital, where I met my cousins who I hadn't seen in around 5 years which was really nice.

Although my aunt and uncle don't consider themselves political, they share the usual anti-colonial sentiments against the US and have more of an understanding of geopolitics than the average American does. but this time around was somewhat different to what I am used to. There seems to be a general uneasiness surrounding the genocide in Gaza, with many people here upset about a perceived lack of response from China. My aunt and cousins believe that China should have cut relations with Israel from the start, while I understood why China had to take a more pragmatic position. It wasn’t a debate at all, just a discussion, at least until the discussion took a sharp turn and their position became harder to accept.

They claimed that there are internment camps within Xinjiang and that a family friend has a family member who spent time in one. I objected immediately and put my foot down, telling them that this friend was obviously sharing propaganda they had either gathered online. Xinjiang is no doubt a target for the CIA and I assumed that they were either a fed or parroting fed talking points. My aunt told me how two of her friend’s sons were detained by police, with one of them still incarcerated and the other suffering from PTSD. All of this apparently happened because of some social media posts they made supporting Hamas and the Houthis.

My aunt then proposed that I should meet this family, as they didn't live too far away from where we were staying. I accepted; the whole point of this trip, besides meeting my family and exploring Xinjiang, was to understand the culture. China is extremely diverse and this diversity isn’t explored in the western sphere due to the sinophobic nature and propaganda that westerners are bombarded with online. The west wants to paint us as drones, moving in rank and file, but obviously this is false. Like any other area in the world where diversity flourishes, you see that present in China, maybe moreso than other parts of the world that are celebrated for their diversity, like New York, for example.

It is also my goal as a leftist to try and understand the way people view the world and try to amend the “broken” parts as best as I can, not in a way that is intrusive or dismissive of their experience, but by maintaining respect and having a thorough discussion. Nobody is immune to propaganda, myself included. After dinner, I spoke to my partner about meeting the family. I felt bad about changing our plans abruptly but I felt like this was an important opportunity. They agreed that it was a good idea, so off we went.

During the train and bus ride, I found myself appreciating the reliable public transport as well as Xinjiang’s culture of maintaining bonds; tight-knit relationships are something the people of Xinjiang pride themselves on. This solidarity was reinvigorating to me as customs differ between Xinjiang and my home province. Again, if only people in the west understood the array of cultures that exist within China...

When we arrived at their apartment it was around eight in the evening. The woman who opened to door for us was the one my aunt spoke of. She held the door partially open which obscured half of her face in shadow. With tired eyes and a look of absence she didn’t say anything. Although she was expecting us, I had assumed maybe she forgot. I asked to come in and she absentmindedly said “One moment, forgive me, just a moment.” Although we didn’t mind waiting for however long she needed to prepare for guests, I felt like I was intruding on her peace coming here. At this point I felt like I had made the wrong choice coming here.

About a minute later she opened the door and let us in. We took our shoes off and she thanked us, offering to give us some slippers to wear. I wish my apartment looked as vibrant as hers did, elaborately designed carpets hung on the walls, the designs were spectacular and I was in a deep awe by them. I wanted to observe closer to get a better look at the carpets, but was interrupted by her invitation to wash my hands before dinner. I felt an immediate connection to her, almost like she was my own family. I understand now the ways of Xinjiang, the cultural collaboration between souls and how those bonds intertwine like the fabrics hanging on the walls, to make up a beauty that can’t be found anywhere else in the world. It was unique to this place.

Entering the kitchen to wash our hands, she walked in with us and opened the pot of rice she had been preparing. Before eating, she said “I apologize, I hope there is enough for us all.” I said she needn’t worry, letting her know that if there wasn’t enough food we would do without, but she objected sternly. “You must,” she said, as she removed the lid. She had made a rice dish named 抓饭 which translates to “grab rice” in English, as it is typically eaten with one's hands. She guided to us to a small table and placed dishes in front of me and my partner, then bringing over the pot of rice from the kitchen. Mixing the rice with a metal spoon, she scraped the bottom of the pot. While serving us, she explained: “All the flavor rests at the bottom. The crunchiness also adds texture.”

We were both starving after only eating small snacks on the train so we were running low on calories, but I had faith that the dish and ensuing conversation would not only satisfy our hunger, ease our anxieties about what we had heard regarding the alleged open-air prisons. With each bite I felt more embraced by Xinjiang and its culture. Here I was, half an hour after initially worrying about imposing on her, now sitting and eating with her like family.

After finishing our meals, she brought in a teapot and served us a fragrant tea that I wish I had remembered to ask about. I assume it was a black tea but it had a similar aromatic profile to chai which confused me. She brought the porcelain cup to her nose and breathed in with her eyes closed. She held in a breath, and then let out a deep exhale. I recognized this as a form of releasing anxiety.

Opening her eyes and then staring into mine, she eased into herself and said “Your aunt told me you were wondering what happened to my sons.” I nodded, mentioning what she said about how her sons had experienced some hardships recently. She looked away and nodded. With a slight smile she looked at me and said “She also said you had your own opinions on the genocide.”

At that point I realized my aunt had communicated my skepticism to her. “I have my own opinion but I would like to hear what you have to tell me if you don't mind.” Still staring at me, she asked, “What do you think happened to them?”

I told her that my assumptions were as follows: the son posted something online that they shouldn’t have, they got detained and were let go within the same month. After taking a sip of tea, the woman looked upwards for a moment and said “I would like you to listen to my story before passing judgement.”

A frown appeared on her face and she swallowed, trying her best to hold back tears. I refilled her tea cup and she nodded, thanking me. With both hands she turned the cup clockwise and then anticlockwise. With her gaze focused on the cup, she began to speak again.

“About a year ago they took my son and imprisoned him. Three men in police uniform came to the door and asked me ‘Where is (son’s name)?’ When I couldn’t answer, they let themselves in and searched my apartment, asking repeatedly where he was. I still couldn’t answer. They went upstairs, found (son’s name), and proceeded to pull him out of his room. He was in a state of panic but from his perspective he saw me with the men and so he cursed me and accused me of bringing them here. I couldn’t deny it. I think he still blames me to this day.”

A tear fell from her eye and left a mark next to her tea cup. I could see she was reliving this story as she was telling it. I wondered how many times she's put herself through this. Was that the first time she recollected these repressed memories or was it a daily routine for her? I felt a deep pain in my chest and swallowed back tears.

“Even now I don’t think my son would acknowledge any sort of apology. He's changed. Sometimes I hope he's silent because all he has is hate in his heart for me. At least if this were the case, there would be some hope for him. That's what I want, but part of me knows...” She swallowed but the tears were flowing anyway. “My son is gone.”

I apologized for her son’s condition but I also wanted to understand what exactly had occurred here. It was my assumption that maybe he was beaten in prison by another inmate so I asked her If this was the case. She shook her head, saying “He said the other inmates are the only thing that kept him going... He deteriorated over time. He wouldn’t say much at all; the only time he mentioned anything about his stay, he said that he had seen things, heard things.”

She looked over at my partner and smiled. “He was sat there, where you are now.” Her smile faded slowly, “He told me the guards kept him imprisoned, held for months without so much as an interrogation, in an obvious attempt to break his spirit. During his time there, he was forced to learn a prisoners' code to communicate with anyone. They used Chinese Commercial Code spoken through a series of ‘yelps and stomps’. He got to know his neighbors and they formed a community through their secret language. They spoke of the happenings within the prison, why they were imprisoned, and who they were beforehand. He spoke of coded obituaries which the prisoners would do at midnight every night to remember those who had perished that day, and this is what broke him. Although it was a goodwill gesture out of respect, it was also a reminder of their mortality. There was one that stuck with him, the man referred to only as 7806 7185. He had apparently stood up to the guards, and not only a day later was taken from the facility and never heard from again.”

I have decided to cut a lot of things because a lot of it is sensitive and for the respect of the family and for my own safety, I would feel much better if I make a summary here. The reason the son was detained was because he had allegedly made comments online comparing the Uyghurs to Palestinians in Gaza. I didn’t want to believe this because it just sounds so surreal. I want to believe there’s more to this situation but these are the details that the mother had given me.

After the lengthy hours-long discussion with the mother it was approaching midnight and we didn’t want to take more of her time. The mother thanked us for coming and wanted to gift us a woven carpet that she had selected off the wall. I refused the offer but she insisted and after a back and forth of not wanting to accept the gift I felt it was rude to reject an act of goodwill so I accepted.

“I saw the way you observed this piece and I knew you would respect the craftsmanship.”

I wanted to cry but I held it in because this was one of the nicest things anyone had done for me. We spoke about gift for a while until we were interrupted by thumping coming from the son’s room. It was in a succession of three thumps with a second or two in between each thump. The mother rushed upstairs and asked her son through the door if everything was alright. There was no response, no sound of a door opening. She came down silently with a piece of folded paper in hand. With a blank look on her face she handed us the paper. Taking the piece of paper I unfolded it to reveal the characters “黄雪”. I could only hope that this was a good turn of events and it pained me to write this portion out, but I have to convince myself that writing this is necessary. There is no happy ending.

Hexbear's character limit won't let me post the end of this, so i've continued it in this thread