Chapter Ten: The Admission Squad at Beishu Prison (1)

That day, over a hundred of us were gathered together on the detention center’s exercise yard. We were all ordered to crouch with our hands cuffed behind our heads, shackled at the feet, as they verified our identities and processed our transfer, one by one. Behind the police stood many armed soldiers, with real guns—probably Type 81 rifles, all black and menacing. It was the first time I’d ever seen a real firearm.

When roll call ended, we were paired up, each pair’s left and right legs locked together in a single shackle. Our handcuffs were also linked with a third cuff connecting us, all to prevent any attempt at escape. We were then herded onto a large police van, the kind used specifically for transporting death row inmates and labor camp prisoners. I had just turned eighteen, yet here I was, receiving such treatment—something I never could have imagined.

On the bus, I glimpsed the world outside through the gaps in the curtains. Sitting directly opposite us were armed police, staring at us unblinkingly. Transporting prisoners was a dangerous business—everything was kept secret: the number of prisoners, the route, the timing. To guard against anyone attempting an ambush, we took back roads so rough that some of us vomited, only to swallow it back down as there was nowhere else for it to go. It was miserable. After more than three hours of this, we finally received the command to get off. We disembarked one by one, gathering outside the towering walls of North Villa Prison. After another round of headcounts, checks, and handovers, we were led in, passing through the processing corridor to begin our new journey of reform.

As I approached the intake corridor, a true labor camp inmate crossed paths with me, barking, “What are you staring at? Squat down!” He was brusque, tossing a pile of clothes at me and snapping, “Hold these. Strip off your clothes!” I took everything off, not a stitch left on me, and he took all my clothes away. Then another labor camp inmate called out, “Come here, time to check in!” I was confused. “What, shower time?” “Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear me?” he snapped. “Yes, sir,” I replied. “Don’t just say yes—answer ‘Here!’” “Here!” I responded. Then the labor camp inmate led us into a room.

Before entering, he called out to the office, “Reporting!” The prison guard inside replied, “Enter!” “Yes, sir!” he acknowledged, then pointed at me, “You—get in!”

As I moved to enter, he shoved me aside. “Don’t you know the rules? Didn’t they teach you anything at the detention center, rookie?” “I do, I do,” I stammered, then called out at the door, “Reporting!” “Enter!” said the guard within. I walked in and stood there. The prison guard barked, “Squat!” I immediately put to use what I’d learned at the detention center: stepped one foot back, half-squatted with my weight on my front foot, rear toes on the ground, hands on my knees, palms down and arms straight, upper body rigid.

The guard surveyed me. “Not bad,” he commented, then ordered, “Stand up. Squat down again. Hands above your head, stick your butt out, hands on the wall.” He spread my cheeks, probably checking for contraband.

He began recording details. When he noticed the dozens of knife scars all over me, he asked, “How many scars do you have?” “I don’t know—a lot,” I answered. “You don’t learn, do you? Answer properly!” “Reporting, I don’t know, a lot!” “Remember that!” he snapped. He counted every scar, measuring each with a ruler, noting them all. Even my hemorrhoids were recorded, along with their size, and my genitals’ form and size—all in meticulous detail. “You’re a real handful,” he muttered, “just your knife scars filled two pages, over forty in all.” Then, he took my fingerprints, handprints, and footprints, pried open my mouth to count my teeth, and after an hour of this ordeal finally let me dress and proceed to the next gate.

Inside, I found myself in a narrow passageway. Over a dozen others ahead of me had finished their check in different offices, taking maybe ten minutes each. I must have been complicated—mine took over an hour. A labor camp inmate beside the guard reported, “Squad Leader, fifteen men ready.” The guard checked the count. “Take them back!” he said.

The labor camp inmate ordered us, “Line up, single file, forward march!” We walked ahead, the guard following behind. After about a kilometer, passing the entrances to various cell blocks—each marked with a metal sign: Block One, Block Two, Block Three, Block Four, and so on—we finally stopped in the plaza before a teaching building.

“Squat!” the guard ordered. We hurried to obey.

At this, the guard waved to a group of labor camp inmates standing sentry at the building’s entrance. Five or six of them rushed over, shouting, “Squat! Squat right! You, forward! You, back! Squat in line! What are you staring at…” Their abuse was loud and relentless—bullies drunk on petty power. But these were the old hands, and this was their turf. There was nothing we could do but listen.

Under the blazing sun, all one hundred or so of us gradually assembled. It was nearly noon. From a workshop-like building nearby, groups of inmates emerged, wearing white caps and aprons, pushing carts two or three at a time, escorted by guards, heading in various directions. They must have been delivering meals. I was curious—why not to the cell blocks? Why elsewhere? I asked a repeat offender beside me. “Are you stupid?” he scoffed. “Labor camp prisoners work in the workshops, not in the blocks. What, you think this is a vacation?” He shook his head at my ignorance.

Just then, a food cart approached us. As it arrived, the guard told the labor camp inmates pushing it, “You can go back. Leave it here.” “Yes, sir!” they replied, spinning on their heels and marching off. I was impressed—their military bearing, their marching, the crispness of their turns and salutes, all perfectly in sync.

The guard caught me staring. “No need to look. Once you’re assigned to a team, you’ll be like that too. You’ll learn. For now, eat. Take as much as you want!”

As much as we wanted? We were stunned. Many of us hadn’t had a full meal in ages, hadn’t seen meat in who knows how long. We formed a circle as the labor camp inmates dumped buns in the center. Each of us, like starved wolves, lunged for them and devoured them ravenously.

“No need to fight,” the guard said. “The prison’s got plenty of money. You won’t go hungry here. If it’s not enough, there’s more.”

We were truly amazed. Prison wasn’t as terrifying as the rumors had made it out to be—if anything, it seemed surprisingly humane. It made us wonder…

But when we bit into the buns, we were shocked again—they were filled with meat, real meat! We hadn’t seen meat since being brought in, let alone tasted any. To actually eat meat again—it was unbelievable. I’m not ashamed to admit it: I was so moved I cried as I ate. In that moment, nothing in the world could have made me happier. It was like a dead man breathing again, a wanderer in the desert finding an oasis, a beggar waking up rich—it’s hard to describe, but I was overwhelmed with happiness and suddenly felt a surge of hope and longing for my coming journey of reform.