Audio book - Non-Fiction, Memoir

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Audiobooks
109
2

Description

Story telling from the first person about a devastating time in the life a a young woman.

Vocal Characteristics

Language

English

Voice Age

Young Adult (18-35)

Accents

North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM)

Transcript

Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
The next morning, Radio Beijing reported the tenement massacre. A friend of mine told me years later that he listened to the broadcast. He pulled his curtains tight, hiding in the pitch black of his own room. Rumor had it soldiers would open fire on any sign of life. The flick of a light switch could get you killed. He had to keep his radio as low as possible. Radio Beijing was a shortwave station, its signal easily scrambled by Elektronik interferences, the hulking machines and neighboring factories, streetcars, combustion engines, even desk lamps. But that morning, the city lay in darkness and all modern conveniences stopped functioning. The sound of radio Beijing was crystal clear. This is Radio Beijing. Never forget June 3 1989 the most tragic event in the history of the nation's capital. Tears rolled down my friend's face. I missed the broadcast. Gunshots continued until two in that morning, before a silence fell heavily upon the city like a shoe coming down on a spider. Exhausted, I couldn't help but doze off in the embrace of the blackout. On any other morning, the crack of dawn would have brought with it the glowing clamor of street cleaners, breakfast stalls, newspaper vendors and the bells of bicycles. But on June 4, the street below might as well have been a long abandoned film set. No one showed up. Even if there were a few, they didn't dare to make a sound. No one wanted to draw attention to themselves by declaring to the world that they were alive. Being alive was a secret and shame affect. You'd better damn well keep to yourself. I slept till noon and awoke to see my grandmother perched on her bed, sewing away as usual, I walked over to the window and saw soldiers had taken the nearby intersection. They stood in pairs back to back. In full uniform. Sun glinted off the helmets and machine guns. Unbelievable. I drag myself down the hall to the kitchen, basin in hand. People were gathered around the long rectangular sink, arguing over the death toll. I took my time, watching my face and brushing my teeth while listening intently. There were two stories. The first version of events was that the fight lasted through the night and ended with all the students killed. Dante's Ah Ho Min's mother held fast to this story and described the core in vivid details, as if she'd seen it herself. Bodies were piled over bodies like a huge mountain. Blood rushed toward the drains like a river galloping toward the sea. She smacked her lips. The second version was that the majority of students had left the square in peace. The ubiquitous Chen back to this story, she claimed to see thousands of students marching past. Suddenly, he this morning headed west in their tattered clothes. They looked gaunt and malnourished. Heads were bowed and defeat. Last time she had seen a crowd like that was in 1976 when refugees from earthquake stricken areas evacuated toward the cities.