...for what remains of her life.

August 1963:

A sense of accomplishment, invigorated by a lot of alcohol, surged through Song Wei as he slammed the small drinking glass down on the table. He was exhilarated. This was his eighth shot of Moutai that evening. The sorghum-sweet taste lingered on Wei’s tongue as his mind drifted randomly through the day’s events. Picking through his pork and rice with a pair of bamboo chopsticks, Wei lifted the ceramic bowl, shoveled food into his mouth and continued chewing. At that moment his destiny arrived at the tip of a five inch pork knife. The blade was violently thrust into his thorax between the left scapula and the fifth vertebra, about six inches below his shoulder. It first cut through the soft cotton fibers of his shirt, then easily pierced the epidermis and sliced through the rhomboid muscle. The alcohol dulled Wei’s reaction and lessened the pain. Before he could react, he spat a mash of partially chewed food. The strength behind the blade persisted and forced past the sixth rib, ripping into his left lung. With a final shove, the black handle, soft and worn with years of use came flush with his back. The deed was done and Wei’s fate sealed. Horribly aware he had been punctured, Wei became frantic and struggled violently lifting his arms up, grasping wildly at what had penetrated him. But as Wei raised his arms, his scapula forced the knife down further, tearing apart tissue and severing more vessels. Blood emptied onto the lung. His long arms flailed, desperately reaching behind to remove what had impaled him. On his last attempt, Wei’s right hand found the knife’s handle. He pulled up with a desperate intensity that drove the blade tip down, slashing what remained of the lung in two. He released his grip on the handle and collapsed onto the kitchen floor, cracking his head on the wooden chair next to him. Lying on the tile, he convulsed. Pinkish-white foam bubbled from his nose. He could no longer take a breath.

His eyes bulged. As he stared across the floor, images of his life passed before him; first flashed memories of his childhood and the brutal beatings administered by his mother. Then as an adolescent, recollections of being chided mercilessly by bullies on the playgrounds of Jiashan. These torments were met with a final sense of remorse as he thought about his marriage. Darkness closed around him. He choked and shook again. Wei was gone.

His assailant stood motionless, then calmly stepped over his corpse and sat down at the table dispassionate and expressionless. She felt nothing; her only thought was time, all that remained was empty time.

November 1963:
Magistrate Weng Lo opened his court at mid-morning in the usual fashion. First, the typical patriotic verses were repeated followed by abundant praise for the Great Leader. Then, a brief outline of the day’s agenda. Earlier that morning his brother, Weng Shi, Lo’s brother and a local baker, had sent his son to the Magistrate’s home with a dozen fresh pork pies. Lo was particularly fond of this treat as Shi, younger by four years, was a talented baker. The best in Jiashan. His nephew, Weng Shi’s son, had arrived at Lo’s home beaming. He proudly presented the pies to his uncle, the important Magistrate. Weng Lo loved his nephew, he had developed into a well built, tall young man. Lo had no children himself and had promised his brother to help his son advance. He recognized a native intelligence in the boy, he had potential far beyond a simple delivery man. In addition to being the Magistrate, Lo also had influence over the local Army division, but the vision in the boy’s left eye was damaged which likely prevented him from a military career. Lo thought he was still suitable for a court appointment. Before he began with the case load that morning, the Magistrate smiled generously at his colleagues, opened the bamboo tray and offered each the treat of a fresh pie.

On the agenda that morning was a notorious case. It was a murder. After conferring with his surrogate, Magistrate Weng Lo of the Glorious Court of People’s Justice donned his spectacles and spoke gravely.

“The criminal Wang Xiaohong shall stand and address the court. You are granted an opportunity to speak in your defense. Proceed.”

Wang Xiaohong, in leg shackles and handcuffs, rose meekly. She cleared her voice and spoke. “Your Honor, I am guilty of this crime. I have no defense except for the fact that I do not recall the episode.”

The Magistrate shot back at her impudence, “Failure of memory is not a defense under law. The court accepts your guilt in this matter. What hangs in the balance is the severity of your punishment. Be advised your life is at stake.” Magistrate Lo measured his words carefully, “The court suggests you to offer your story in this regard.” 

Bowing her head, Xiaohong breathed deeply, “I am grateful your Honor.”
She began calmly.

“April 16, 1951 was a brilliant, fresh spring day and I was the happiest girl in Jiashan. I knew I would be married to a handsome, rich, young man from a well-known family and be the envy of all the girls in the village. My best friend, Zhang Jian was elated for me. I remember of all the gifts she gave me, she was most happy presenting the small red notice which she took from the community board earlier that week. She folded it into my hand. It was the notice of a recent declaration from our Great Leader who had set a new law establishing the equality of man and woman in marriage. Yet, I didn’t care much for wealth or security or woman’s rights. I was unconcerned with possessions and wanted nothing more than to support my husband and nurture a family. My parents often told me, of all my traits, my greatest gift was in seeing past a person’s present troubles and find enduring value in his core. It may also be my greatest weakness. I didn’t believe there was any such thing as a bad person or an irredeemable character flaw. My parents made a big deal over Song Wei’s fortune, but I didn’t care. I was wholly absorbed in the love I felt for Wei and trusted his guidance explicitly.” 

Xiaohong continued parsing through her memory.

“From the instant I awoke that morning, I was breathless. For me, he was a quiet, shy person with a penchant to become excited at times. I reasoned this was his youth and ambition, nonetheless I was devoted to him. I loved the quiet man that he was; dutiful to his parents and studious in school. I understood that he was a homebody, having grown up largely in the courtyard of his family’s home with little playtime among other children. He was sheltered but I loved him blindly and accepted him gratefully with all faults: those known and unknown.”

“My parent’s spent months in long negotiation with the Song family doing everything they could to secure my union. They argued in favor of my beauty, provided examples of my industriousness and could readily prove my dedication to communist party principles of deportment. Wei’s family did not object in principle to our marriage though they drove a hard bargain. Wei once confided in me that, in secret negotiation amongst their clan, his family did admit I was a good catch for him. They felt he was quiet and reclusive and had an odd temper at times, trapped between the hot and cold powers of the earth. They calculated that I would be a good influence for their son.

The hold out in the Song family was Wei’s grandmother, the Matriarch Jiang Jie. She was a stoic and unforgiving person protective in every manner imaginable of the legacy she had helped create over the past eighty-five years. She was an old time aristocrat from the Qing Dynasty, her feet were bound. She questioned my commitment to Wei and publicly cast doubt on my fertility. All she wanted was a male heir to her legacy. Jiang Jie remained unconvinced about me despite Wei’s father’s argument that the modern era was upon them and his son would be capable of managing me. Jiang Jie knew full well the personality of grandson. In the end the Matriarch never openly consented to the marriage, she could not lose face in this matter. If nothing else Jiang Jie knew when to take a loss and move on. In this matter she merely argued less vociferously.

In the days prior to the marriage, my parents had cleaned their home completely in anticipation of welcoming Wei’s family for a visit. They bought me a new dark blue Zhongshan with a matching cap. I recollect admiring its stiff, dark blue canvas fabric, so practical in every way. I was sure it would last twenty years. My parents sacrificed everything for me. The day arrived and Wei’s parents hired a carriage to transport us through the village; the first stop was my parent’s home where we knelt at the entrance and bowed reverently. We then stood and toasted my parents who congratulated us. I was elated and Wei smiled at my parents. We had a proud future, full of promise and happiness.

During Moon Festival later that year, Wei and I had our first bad episode. Of all the holidays, I loved this time of year; it meant that my family would gather and a joyous, reflective time would ensue. Yet this year, I was apprehensive. My uneasiness stemmed from the anticipation of questions about children. The ceaseless inquiries, the prying questions, both sets of parents poking at me wondering why I wasn’t pregnant. I reasoned with them that these things take time and biology cannot be rushed. But my heart suspected otherwise and I found myself providing half-truths to everyone. Wei was oblivious to our difficulty and had over the past few months been concerned only with business. He was also drinking heavily.

On this day, I think it was October 3rd, I remember he was light hearted and began his celebration earlier than usual drinking with our neighbors. I was busy in the kitchen, chopping and carving meat for that afternoon’s meal. I could hear Wei’s deep voice toasting with my parents and his friends, laughing heartily. It pleased me that he was happy.

Later that day, Wei had the local bakery deliver fresh meat pies to our house. As I sat at the table with our guests, Wei opened the door to pay the delivery boy and stumbled. He collided with the young boy who held two bamboo platters full of pies. The force of Wei’s weight was too much for the delivery boy and both hit the ground hard. The desserts scattered over the stone entrance.

Wei was furious and shouted, ‘Clumsy Pig!’ He began to fight with the boy swinging wildly, punching the young boy in the head, near his left eye, splitting the brow open. The blow cracked the knuckle of Wei’s index finger. He shouted more curses and continued to thrash the boy with his fists. I ran from the dinner table to the door and found Wei continuing to strike him. It was horrible. The boy was bleeding profusely. I begged my husband to stop, apologizing again and again.

I had never seen a fight and the sight of my husband ruthlessly beating the boy made me vomit. At first I didn’t recognize Wei, I thought it must have been some other man. I was so confused. I grabbed Wei by the arm, then by the shoulder, his shirt, his hair. I was desperate to stop him. The violence was revolting. I did not know how this could be my husband.”

As Xiaohong spoke, Magistrate Lo’s ears shot up. He straightened in his chair and immediately recognized this story. His nephew’s left eye had been damaged in a fight while delivering pies ten years ago. The nephew refused to reveal who was responsible and the matter could not be pursued. Weng Lo checked his calendar to make sure the dates coincided and indeed, Wang Xiaohong referenced the exact date as his nephew was beaten. Lo did not believe in coincidences. Instantly the case of Wang Xiaohong was both interesting and more complex. He knew the prominent Song family well and never suspected Song Wei was responsible for beating his nephew. With this revelation, the Magistrate’s initial favor for the victim and sympathy for the Song family was now mitigated. Everything had changed.

Xiaohong raised her hands, palms up emphasizing her bewilderment, and continued.

“Finally with my mother’s help, I managed to pull Wei off the boy and drag him inside as my father attended to the boy. Father knelt down beside him, gently attending to his lacerations with the cloth from our table.

The boy was hurt badly. My father gave him some money and told him to leave and keep quiet. Wei continued to curse and demand an apology from the boy; he was drunk. Our dinner was over, ruined by Wei’s outburst. I had no explanation to offer my family. I just had to ask them to leave apologizing for my husband.”

The Magistrate watched Xiaohong attentively, attempting to complete a puzzle which confounded him for a decade. 

“Ms. Wang, what did the boy look like?” Lo rarely interrupted the accused, but he was eager to resolve his suspicion. This was an unusual question and clearly tangential to the trial’s facts.

“I hardly remember such details but I think he was a tall, thin boy. Very young.”

The Magistrate sat back in his chair with heavy movement convinced it was his nephew.

Xiaohong closed her eyes for a second collecting her thoughts.

“After this incident I attempted to discuss the situation with Wei. I wanted to understand why he exploded but he refused and didn’t want to speak with me. I reassured him I loved him no matter what but he would not hear me. This was a turning point as if something awful in him had awoken and seized control of him. I can say he never was the same afterwards.

Then, in the Spring Festival of 1954 he disappeared for two nights. First, I remember he came home from his parent’s factory drunk. He changed his shirt and left, never saying a word to me. I asked him if he wanted dinner but he ignored me. I had prepared a feast and he just left. He closed the door behind him and walked away. After the first night, Jian paid me a visit and said her friend saw Wei across town with someone. She didn’t know who but it was a woman. I discovered later it was a manager at the factory. I knew her, she was a nice woman and I figured he must be doing some work with her. When he returned home I did not discuss it. We just carried on. I wasn’t sure what to do so I tried to be as normal as possible. He had a temper and was short, lacking patience with me on everything.

After Spring Festival, our lives fell apart rapidly. Our relationship became the complete opposite from what it had been when we were first married. Two months later, in the early summer, I came home and found Wei in our bed with another woman. I was stunned and outraged at the same time…that he had not only broken his faith to me but chose to do it openly and in my bed. I was deeply insulted and hurt. I shouted at him and told him to get out and take his whore with him. He slammed the bedroom door and got dressed. I left the house and went to Jian’s home for the rest of the afternoon. But I did not tell her what happened. I was embarrassed and ashamed.”

After speaking these words, Xiaohong was out of breath. Recalling the wretched details of that moment seven years ago was painful. She scanned the courtroom, from left to right, at the men and women gathered together as she described the shame; it was obvious to all she was a woman spurned in as harsh a manner as one could imagine. But more than the shame of the violation, more hurtful than the dishonor, more than anything was the ignominy of the humiliation she endured in the days and weeks afterwards. Xiaohong didn’t need to tell her friend what was wrong. Jian knew. And as the secrets of life go, in a small country town south of Shanghai, it wasn’t long before the whispers of Xiaohong’s tribulations grew into popular village folklore.

Xiaohong pressed on.

“In the late summer of 1954, I pledged to myself to move on with my husband and forget this ugliness. I had faith I could rehabilitate our marriage, I just needed to commit myself more completely and show Wei I was dedicated to him. To demonstrate my allegiance to Wei, I made delicious dinners for him, I kept the house clean every day. Yet the more I tried to earn his approval, the more he escaped into his affair. The more I attempted to build a comfortable, forgiving space about us as husband and wife, the more he grew angry with me.

A year later, Wei began a new phase of vile behavior. I had decorated the house for Moon Festival. Wei was drunk when he came home. I asked him to join me for dinner but he wouldn’t come out of the bedroom. He was in a dark non-communicative mood; his work had not been going well and he was borrowing money from everyone to pay bills. I begged him to come to the table and eat. When he didn’t respond I went into the bedroom and confronted him. Then, Wei slapped me. I fell back against the chair and collapsed onto the floor. My arm throbbed in pain and I could not raise myself. Wei stood above me. His fists clenched and simply warned me to leave him alone.

Wei walked out of the house. After he left, I laid on the floor for hours. I began crying, in part because my arm hurt, in part because my husband had hit me. I had never been hit before. At the moment, I recognized I was failing as a wife.

Wei never again brought the woman back to our house, but his affair with her became widely known. People would speak about him and his sordid behavior behind his back, but never openly as his family controlled so much of the city’s affairs. During this time he beat me regularly. Wei would disappear for a few days, return to the house and hit me, that is, if I had healed from the last beating. If my arm was still in a splint, or my leg bandaged, he would just berate me. But I could rest assured that the next time would be equally as savage and unrestrained. He enjoyed administering pain. And nothing would stop him while he hit me. I would implore him to calm down, promise him anything if only he would cease. No entreaty mollified him, he had so much anger. While he hit me he would always blame me for his misfortunes, whether it was his business or other things.”

The Magistrate searched his memory and recalled having heard something of Song Wei’s anti-social behavior. But as a matter of course, Weng Lo did not trade in gossip. He was a judge and was tasked with measuring crimes against the law, then administering justice.

Xiaohong stared at the Magistrate as she began the end of her statement.

“Then a few years ago, I heard that the woman he was carrying on with left him. I am not sure why, I did not inquire. But it was at this point that Wei’s depravity assumed a dimension which I never thought any person was capable. One evening, in the summer of 1960, Wei was drunk as usual when he came home. I was not expecting him as he rarely came home so early and dinner was not yet prepared. This infuriated Wei and he hit me twice. I ran into the bedroom to escape him but he followed me and hit me a few more times as I laid on the bed. Between blows he shouted how useless I was. He then suddenly stopped and looked at me. His eyes burned with a mad resentment. He placed his hand on the neckline of my shirt and in one motion ripped it so that the buttons flew off. He then stripped my pants off and I knew he was going to rape me. Beating me was no longer sufficient. He needed to find another outlet for his violence. Wei forced himself on me and did what he wanted. I tried to repel him but he wrapped his large hands around my throat and threatened to kill me if I resisted. But he wasn’t done. After he was finished, he dragged me by the arm into our small courtyard, threw me onto the brick walkway where he beat that poor young boy years before. He then proceeded to urinate on me. I collapsed, closed my eyes and as he sprayed me with sour pee. I wished I were dead. Wei had become vicious, degenerate and immoral. He was now thoroughly irrational.”

On hearing this, the Magistrate looked about the courtroom and took note of the disgust on people’s faces. He then glanced at his surrogate who appeared equally revolted.

Xiaohong kept on.

“This conduct was the new normal for Wei. My husband would come home after work and two or three times a week, he would beat me, rape me and then urinate all over me. When I was sufficiently humiliated, he would return to the kitchen and this dinner.”

Xiaohong paused.

“That, Magistrate Lo, is my story,” Xiaohong ended simply. Her demeanor throughout her statement was without fidget. If nothing else, her voice rose above the court with clarity and truth. She spoke with the ring of authenticity.
The Magistrate paused for a moment, stunned by the whole of what he had heard. He wasn’t certain what to ask Xiaohong next. Lo removed his spectacles, and in rhetorical fashion queried, “Is this why you killed Song Wei?”

Xiaohong answered.

“I do not remember the actual moment I killed him. But I did. I murdered him because I could no longer live like an animal. I loved Wei with all my heart and I did everything I could to support him and be the perfect wife. I allowed him to brutalize me. I did anything I could for him and to find a way through our hell together. In the end, I could no longer endure my own subordination. My subservience was an attempt to rectify our marriage and it was the wrong approach, it made him worse. I failed Wei and allowed him to grow into a monster. And then, when I could no longer tolerate the monster, I killed it. He was a victim of my shortcomings as a spouse.” 

Xiaohong’s statement resonated in the ears of the Magistrate. He reflected that she was in full possession of her act, however wrong and corrupt. After she spoke, Xiaohong, in only the second display of emotion that day, buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

The court fell silent. Magistrate Lo shuffled papers, turned and conferred with the surrogate. Xiaohong’s penalty was his domain exclusively but he was expected to seek advice from his assistant. In their discussion, the Magistrate told him the criminal’s confession was sufficient evidence to convict with a death sentence. But Lo, in the same breath noted that he, as a judge, was offended by the victim’s repulsive behavior and felt Song Wei was somewhat responsible for his death. The surrogate praised the Magistrate’s wisdom and concurred as usual. Weng Lo did not mention his earlier revelation; the realization that he had a connection with Song Wei though the attack on his nephew. He measured Xiaohong’s experience, the impact of her statement and the irreparable injuries suffered by his brother’s son. He could not dismiss the weight carried by the sum of these facts. They all pointed to a very bad person: Song Wei.

Magistrate Lo came to a conclusion.

“The criminal Wang Xiaohong will prepare to receive her sentence.”

Before Xiaohong could wipe away her tears Magistrate Lo began.

“Wang Xiaohong, the Glorious Court of the People’s Justice has found that you have committed the heinous crime of murder with reckless abandon, brought scandal upon your family, maligned the village’s reputation and deprived your in-laws of their legacy. You are morally corrupt and dissolute. Confess your crime to the People, now!”

On cue, Wang Xiaohong raised her swollen face and lowered her hands. Obediently, she stared ahead, “I am guilty of this crime.”

The Magistrate folded his hands on top of his desk, leaned forward then began again. “Wang Xiaohong, you are wicked and your debased crime deserves the punishment of execution. The Song Family accepted you as their daughter and you repaid them with the cold murder of their son.”

The Magistrate took a breath and continued.

“The People are offended by your degenerate morality and find you have violated the most basic laws of civilized society. However, this court also finds sufficient evidence that your crime was not wholly of your intention. It is acknowledged there were external factors to your debauchery. Therefore, the punishment of execution is suspended and the People sentence you to prison for what remains of your life. You are hereby remanded to the custody of Jeng Do Prison for Female Criminals.”

Magistrate Lo sounded the gavel with rare satisfaction. Full of self-approbation, he congratulated himself on having administered justice exceptionally well that morning: two wrongs righted and mercy shown.


April 1964:

Three months after her trial when Xiaohong was thirty-nine years old, she was admitted to Jeng Do. The Warden issued her a uniform, recorded important personal information and received those items, a gold wedding band and a jade bracelet, which she would no longer require. The process of stripping her of her former life was underway. These items would be sold to defray the costs of her incarceration. To avoid the spread of lice, her head was shaved and doused with kerosine. She removed her clothes and was given an antiseptic shower with a hose. Later that morning, after the administrative work and prisoner cleansing had been completed, Xiaohong was taken to her cell. Her home from that moment forward would be a small, three square meter cement room with a window set high in one corner whose opaque glass allowed light only. There was no view or ventilation. 

Xiaohong entered the cell and sat down on the small jute rug that would serve as her mattress. In her lap was a bowl and wooden spoon, issued to her by the Warden and a small cardboard box. It  contained a faded notice given to her before her wedding by Jian and a note written to her at the end of her trial by her mother and father. The iron gate shut and was locked by the guard. At once Xiaohong was alone, the stillness of the cool prison air and the silence of her cell had a finality that was reassuring. She thought: My nightmare is over. I will now go to sleep and wake up when I am ninety-five years old, just before I die. These years will pass in an instant and my crime will be settled by forfeit of my life.

Xiaohong never read the note from her parents as she knew it contained bitter words of disassociation. She couldn’t brook their disappointment; her own disillusionment for the way she failed Wei yielded enough regret for a lifetime. She brought them dishonor not to mention economic ruin at the hands of the vengeful Song. She did read the faded notice that Jian had given her on the wedding day. Jian told her, Mao had ensured all women a new, safe future. Xiaohong unfolded the note and read it for the second time in her life. It set forth a new legal decree by the Chairman which Xiaohong found ironic. The notice read:

Article 1: The feudal marriage system based on the arbitrary and compulsory arrangements and supreme act of man over woman, and in the disregard of the interests of children, is abolished. 
Article 2: Bigamy, concubinage, interference in re-marriage of widows, and the extraction of money or gifts in connection with marriages, are prohibited.

She mused: Equality under the law is wholly different from equality under the roof. Xiaohong folded the notice and placed it back into the box thinking she would miss Jian greatly. She regretted the embarrassment she may have caused her and hoped Jian would live a happy life. 

May 2015:

Wang Xiaohong lives to this day, securely ensconced in a small cell in the recently rebuilt New Jeng Do Prison for Female Criminals. A room with a larger window. This hunched, wizened old lady of ninety-three years has been a model prisoner exemplifying corrected behavior. No one at the prison today was there when Xiaohong arrived in 1963, she has outlasted them all. Her record has been pristine: she stands as a reminder to the younger inmates that the system works and one’s crimes can be atoned with proper focus and dedication. The prison officials often boast that she has proved their model of rehabilitation is superior to other prisons in China. A re-educated women they would say. After half a century of incarceration, she is thoroughly institutionalized having had little interaction with the outside world during this time. But then, none of what occurs beyond Jeng Do’s impenetrable walls matter. All that is relevant is attention to daily routine and steadfast commitment to reform. There is no chance for a second hearing and no parole exists for convicted murders.

In 1972 the Warden passed to her a notice that her father died. In the fall of 1976, all inmates were instructed to gather in the courtyard daily and sang songs mourning the death of the Great Leader. Then, in 1980 Jian wrote her a simple message about her mother’s passing. She has placed these notes into her cardboard box, the depository for a history she has all but forgotten; evidence of a time she isn’t sure existed. In the occasional private moments of her daily life, when something triggers a distant memory she has come to regard it as pre-history, a preface to her real life in Jeng Do; a safe, predictable life where she has found purpose and meaning.

Luckily, Xiaohong has been in fair health most of her time in Jeng Do, at least no health issue has terminated her life to date and that has been an accomplishment in itself. The budget at Jeng Do for surgical procedures or other special medicines often necessary for the elderly is non-existent. There is no dentist, no ophthalmologist, no cardiologist and certainly no geriatrician. The costs for such specialists are the responsibility of inmates’ families. But Xiaohong has no more family. 

In 2008, she became aware of a lump in her abdomen which has since grown to the size of a grapefruit. It has impeded her stride and slowed her routine. With no more blood family, she must rely on the benevolence of volunteer organizations who donate items to prisoners; unfortunately surgery isn’t one of them. Those with whom she has been closest are her imprisoned friends and jailers; the latter have been as kind to her as one might expect them to act towards a non-threat. They have come to call her grandma. None of this alleviated the bloated tumor in her gut or calmed the burning acid in her stomach. These ailments go unresolved.

Xiaohong was born an altruistic woman who longed to devote herself to a husband, build a family and live as happily as possible. And despite all her tribulations she remained a selfless, noble human who naturally placed others, their feelings and needs before her own. Long ago Xiaohong accepted her fate with ineffable Taoist conviction; she is a consequence of her own design and solely responsible for her situation. The question of ‘what if’ serves no purpose and simply doesn’t occur to her.

During her time at Jeng Do, she has inspired her fellow inmates to something greater than themselves. Consequently, they have come to define one another in terms of accomplishments rather than verdicts. For three decades after she was sentenced, Xiaohong taught the other convicts important skills such as sewing and calligraphy. These days she is semi-retired though many Jeng Do women seek her advice and consul. By sheer dint of example, Xiaohong has created a culture of kindness for these women and instilled in each of them hope for the future. She is a living legend and the heroine of Jeng Do.

Xiaohong has always eschewed accolades, simply carrying on each day with her chores, quietly and obediently. Even in retirement, Xiaohong has insisted on working as Jeng Do’s wash woman cleaning her fellow inmate’s clothes dutifully. Every day, as the weeks have turned into months, the months passed to years and all these years have become a lifetime; scrubbing the spots that stain and rinsing away the accumulated odors of Jeng Do. When finished, Xiaohong wrings the foul water from her friend’s garments, hangs the clothes to dry in the cleansing sun as if she were purifying their crimes as well as rectifying her own.

So far, a fifty-two year penance and still counting, for what little remains of her life.