China's relentless persecution leading to nightmares of mortality

Intense nightmares of mortality arise amidst China's oppressive system.

Schools transform into re-education centers, neighbors turn into informants, and one's own home becomes a place of terror: in "Awaiting My Arrest at Night," Uyghur poet Tahir Hamut Izgil shares his experience of China's repression, the destruction of his home, and how he escaped from his oppressors.

Tahir Hamut Izgil awakens from a cold sweat in his Washington apartment, tormented by nightmares of interrogations, imprisonment, and even his own funeral. He knows he's now safe. But the constant dread and anxiety that come with escape still haunt him.

Izgil is Uyghur, a minority group in western China. As a poet and filmmaker, he resides in the Uyghur autonomous region of Xinjiang, leading a peaceful life with his wife and two daughters. However, the political climate in his homeland worsens. The Chinese government vastly increases surveillance and repression, particularly under President Xi Jinping since 2013.

"The Day of Judgment" becomes imminent

In "Awaiting my arrest at night," Izgil describes the harsh realities brought by this repression and its impact on people's minds. "Within merely a few days, schools, offices, and even hospitals had been transformed into 'study centers' and fitted with iron doors, bars on windows, and barbed wire," he recounts. The population trembled in fear, believing the world's end was imminent.

"Study centers" refer to the more than 1,000 re-education camps estimated by Human Rights Watch to imprison over one million Uyghurs. Gulbahar Haitiwaji, a former Uyghur prisoner who later fled to other countries, reports the rampant torture, forced sterilizations, and isolation in these camps in her 2022 document "How I Survived the Chinese Camp."

A life of relentless anxiety

Izgil had spent three years in one of these camps in the mid-1990s, accused of attempting to smuggle sensitive data abroad. Though brief, he omits the graphic details of daily life in the camp. Instead, he focuses on the bleak, ever- lingering fear that takes hold of his homeland.

China's surveillance extends beyond cameras, microphones, and law enforcement. In the mid-2000s, regular tea invitations by plainclothes officers became a standard among Uyghurs in Xinjiang. You were asked: "Have you noticed anything, perhaps in the neighborhood, among friends, in the family?". If so, speak up, or you risk becoming a suspect.

"Re-education concentration camps"

Izgil remains a target for Chinese authorities after his term in the center; as an intellectual with Western contacts, he's a nuisance to them. He's invited for "tea" multiple times and witnesses the disappearance of numerous people in these "study centers," which he calls "concentration camps."

The noose tightens around his neck, and he worries for his family's safety. "Initially, it was just a gentle breeze. But it turned into a storm, engulfing everything in its path." Thus, they decide to depart Xinjiang and seek refuge in the United States.

Their escape is a daunting obstacle course of bureaucratic bureaucracy, a thrilling race against time. Through sheer determination and resilience, the family eventually settles in Washington, constructing a new life together. Izgil initially works as an Uber driver — a position popular with many Uyghur immigrants in the US capital region. "[Uyghurs] fled from their native land, where they were threatened with imprisonment or execution," he notes. "Among the Uyghur Uber drivers in America were former doctors, professors, lawyers, engineers, and even government servants." His story of escaping oppression and rebuilding a home comes across as a profound, silent agony. Rather than railing against the injustices, Izgil pens an ode to the enduring pain and sorrow of survival.

Izgil's narrative conveys the unrelenting fear felt by those under attack, and the toll repression takes on their lives. He compels us to witness the impact of this persecution first-hand, illuminating it in its full, inescapable horror. It's a story of constant anxiety, where homes are metaphorically burning to the ground while the family strives desperately to escape the flames. His "dreams of exile" are far from serene; rather, they are soaked in sweat and anxiety.

The freedom gained comes with a tragic price - leaving their native land behind. Tahir Hamut Izgil understands that he can never go back to Xinjiang. Due to the fear of arrest, his acquaintances and relatives in China have severed ties with him. Izgil shares his experience during their initial days in America: "Our happiness and sorrow seem to alternate at an alarming pace."

Ever since his flight to America, he has frequently experienced distressing "exile dreams." These dreams incorporate these contrasting sentiments: "We're finally free, yet the ones we hold dearest are still suffering in this mistreated country." His wife, Marhaba, similarly swings between relief, longing for home, and melancholy in her dreams, summarizing: "Our physical bodies might be here, but our spirits are still in our homeland."