Chapter Eleven: Labor Reform in the Prison District

After the handover between the prison area leadership and the intake team, we followed the prison area leaders to our designated section. I was assigned to the elderly ward, which is essentially the prison hospital. Naturally, I wasn’t there as a doctor. Most of the doctors here are prison officers—some are prison physicians, some are forensic doctors—and a majority of the assistants are inmates who have medical qualifications, helping manage and care for the needs of the elderly unit. My first day was spent completing various formalities, after which I was thrust onto the front lines. On the third floor, my duty was to care for over a hundred elderly inmates, tending to their daily lives. Our third floor housed those with chronic illnesses and disabilities; the fourth floor was the inpatient ward; the fifth, administrative offices; the first and second floors were the diagnostic area, including clinics, examination rooms, and isolation wards.

Many, like myself, might wonder: Why are there so many elderly people in prison? Why is the proportion of elderly inmates so high? Our prison holds around three thousand people, with over five hundred elderly or disabled inmates. The elderly and disabled unit makes up about twenty percent, and together with other sections, the total isn’t less than seven or eight hundred. The reason is quite simple: they have nowhere else to go.

I remember my first day in the unit was mostly about becoming familiar with the routines—learning the rules, following veteran inmates around. They became my mentors of sorts, soon to be released, so we began taking over from them a month in advance. I quickly discovered there were far more complexities inside than I’d imagined.

That first day, I learned nothing; no one paid me much attention, so I just drifted along. In the evening, we gathered early to attend the prison’s grand cultural performance. The prison show is a major event—outside of holidays and special occasions, or when formally arranged, only then do we have large performances. Not only do inmates perform, but entertainers from outside are invited as well. Thousands gather on the main plaza, a crowd so vast it’s like a sea, with drums beating and a festive atmosphere; the spectacle is truly grand, exuding an aged grandeur.

When we arrived at the plaza, prison guards instructed us to stand, sit, stand, sit…

You might think it’s simple, but it’s not at all. First, we had to stand, with our small stools behind us. At ease, attention, align to the right—all without turning our heads or bending over, we had to swiftly pick up the stool and place it at our right hip, left hand at attention, head facing right, right elbow bent at ninety degrees, shuffling our feet, heads moving to match alignment front and back, left and right; every movement had to be perfectly synchronized.

When the command came—attention, place stools!—everyone had to, in one motion, without looking back and purely by feel, place the stool behind themselves. The stools were about the size of those used in kindergartens. If you placed it crookedly, you’d end up sitting on the ground with a thud, which meant trouble—everyone would have to practice standing posture and proper conduct as punishment.

Yet, even this seemingly simple action proved difficult for many newcomers, who failed to do it properly and were called out by the warden and political commissar. Every unit was ordered to train for a month, and next month a parade drill would be held. When this was announced, all the inmates were stunned, overcome by a sense of hopelessness. Marching, standing at attention, jogging, aligning to the right, performing the four-step turn, squatting—each was challenging, expected to meet military standards, like a grand parade, with hundreds in each unit forming a formation. The difficulty and pressure were immense, and those who failed would have to keep practicing.

The prison’s cultural performance was quite impressive. Once all inmates were seated, a single command rang out—stand! Everyone rose in perfect unison. The prison leaders—warden, political commissar, armed police officers, heads and commissars of each unit—entered the plaza together, seated themselves on the dais. Another command—sit!—and all inmates sat down as one. The leaders began their speeches, full of official rhetoric: policies, current circumstances, encouragement for those reforming well, warnings and penalties for those resisting, and so forth. After the performances concluded, the final, solemn event began: the warning assembly.

The warning assembly was a public denunciation. The strict management unit brought their high-risk inmates onto the stage to repent, read out written confessions, describe their offenses, and pledge to reform in the future.

While the strict management inmates were repenting, I chatted with an inmate beside me. He was from Unit One, named Sun Yulai. Sun Yulai said, “Isn’t that your elderly and disabled unit’s committee director up there?”

I asked, “Committee director?” (Each unit has a similar inmate organization—the full name is the Committee for Active Reform among Inmates—akin to neighborhood committees, disciplinary committees, women’s federations, etc.)

I asked, “Why was he placed under strict management?”

Sun Yulai replied, “He got cocky! Couldn’t handle the pressure!”

I said, “Tell me more…”

Sun Yulai explained, “He came in for illegal fundraising, loansharking, and high-interest lending, had plenty of money, and after arriving, did quite well—became your committee director!”

I asked, “Then what? How did he get cocky?”

Sun Yulai replied, “Once he had power, he abused it—trade!”

I asked, “What do you mean by trade?”

Sun Yulai said, “Some inmates in each unit want to slack off, avoid work, so they feign illness and go to him. He’d notify the inmate doctors responsible for their care, and those doctors would diagnose these ‘sick’ inmates and recommend hospitalization for rest. The medical officer would usually approve it. Those slacking or feigning illness would give the committee director plenty of benefits, and even inmates about to be released would pass on messages, doing things that violated prison rules, discipline, and policy!”

I was astonished.

I asked, “What happened then?”

Sun Yulai said, “Not long ago, an inmate genuinely fell ill but didn’t give him any benefits. He was sent away with a simple cold diagnosis. Later that night, he developed a high fever, wasn’t treated in time, and passed away!”

I asked, “Is that true?”

Sun Yulai replied, “Go ask around when you get back. It’s not over yet.”

Then I asked, “I’ve been learning to manage the elderly and disabled unit from the veteran inmates, but they won’t tell me anything. Why is that?”

Sun Yulai answered, “Don’t you get it? It’s trade.”

I asked, “What kind of trade?”

He said, “You’re clueless. You have to buy things for them, give them benefits—food, drinks, cigarettes. If you provide enough, they’ll all scramble to guide you!”

I thought to myself, Good heavens, so it’s really that pragmatic? Looks like I need to arrange a family visit soon, because I have no money, no family sending funds, and there’ll be plenty of times I’ll need it.

We talked a lot, and I gained many insights. I realized that even in this microcosm of society, interpersonal relationships matter, just as they do everywhere else. This small world truly broadened my horizons.

After the assembly ended, we returned to our respective units, and I was lost in thought…