This article is from the source 'nytimes' and was first published or seen on . It last changed over 40 days ago and won't be checked again for changes.

You can find the current article at its original source at http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/07/world/asia/a-modern-day-knight-who-helped-fleeing-tiananmen-activists.html

The article has changed 3 times. There is an RSS feed of changes available.

Version 0 Version 1
A ‘Modern-Day Knight’ Who Helped Fleeing Tiananmen Activists A ‘Modern-Day Knight’ Who Helped Fleeing Tiananmen Activists
(about 14 hours later)
HONG KONG — When tens of thousands gathered in Hong Kong this week to mourn the military carnage against protesters in Beijing 25 years ago, Chan Tat Ching stood among them, holding a candle and bowing to honor the dead. HONG KONG — When tens of thousands of people gathered in Hong Kong this week to mourn the military carnage against protesters in Beijing 25 years ago, Chan Tat Ching stood among them, holding a candle and bowing to honor the dead.
A life on the fringes of the law has left him with a worn face and a left arm partly paralyzed from a gangland assault, and few in the mostly young crowd recognized him as the celebrated figure he became rescuing fugitive democracy activists after the 1989 crackdown. A life on the fringes of the law has left him with a worn face and a partly paralyzed left arm, and few in the mostly young crowd recognized him as the celebrated figure he became, rescuing fugitive democracy activists after the 1989 crackdown.
Friends, though, stopped to shake Mr. Chan’s right hand and exclaim “Brother Six,” the name under which he won fame.Friends, though, stopped to shake Mr. Chan’s right hand and exclaim “Brother Six,” the name under which he won fame.
“My era has already passed,” Mr. Chan said. “But people in the rescue operation back then remember me, and some people we saved send thanks every year.”“My era has already passed,” Mr. Chan said. “But people in the rescue operation back then remember me, and some people we saved send thanks every year.”
These days, Mr. Chan, 70, collects rent from several properties and helps friends in the trading business. But a quarter of a century ago, he helped create a secret lifeline to freedom for Chinese political fugitives fleeing mass arrests after the armed suppression of protests centered on Tiananmen Square. These days, Mr. Chan, 70, collects rent from several properties and helps friends in the trading business. But in 1989, he helped create a secret lifeline to freedom after the armed suppression of protests centered on Tiananmen Square.
Using midnight boat runs to isolated inlets in southern China, rendezvous with coded messages and copious bribes, Mr. Chan led a team of Hong Kong smugglers who spirited out more than 130 students, academics and officials on wanted lists, according to him and histories of the operation. Like Sun Wukong, the unruly magical monkey king in an ancient Chinese novel, he and his men outsmarted the “armies of heaven,” Mr. Chan said. Using midnight boat runs to isolated inlets in southern China, coded messages and copious bribes, Mr. Chan led a team of Hong Kong smugglers who spirited out more than 130 students, academics and officials wanted by the authorities, according to histories of the operation and his own account. Like Sun Wukong, the unruly magical monkey king in an ancient Chinese novel, Mr. Chan and his men outsmarted the “armies of heaven,” he said.
“One monkey doesn’t add up to much, but a group of them is terrifying,” Mr. Chan said. “We were like a group of monkeys who were able to get away with what nobody dreamed was possible, helping the biggest ‘black hands’ escape from the mainland.” (The Chinese government referred to its most heavily denounced dissidents in 1989 as black hands.) “One monkey doesn’t add up to much, but a group of them is terrifying,” Mr. Chan said. “We were like a group of monkeys who were able to get away with what nobody dreamed was possible, helping the biggest ‘black hands’ escape from the mainland,” he added, using the Beijing government’s term for the dissidents it denounced the most heavily in 1989.
China’s protests that year were broadly in demand of democracy and political accountability, but they drew support from people whose motivations defy simple descriptions, few more so than Mr. Chan. The mass protests that year were broadly demanding democracy and political accountability, but they drew support from people whose motivations defy simple descriptions, few more so than Mr. Chan.
In his cluttered office, Mr. Chan keeps a picture of an actor playing Mao Zedong, but also proudly showed pictures of him meeting the Dalai Lama, who is reviled by the Chinese government, as well as books and tributes from dozens of people he helped to escape, including one calling him a “modern-day knight.” In his cluttered office, he keeps a picture of an actor playing Mao Zedong, but he also proudly shows photos of himself meeting the Dalai Lama, who is reviled by the Chinese government, as well as books and tributes from dozens of people he helped to escape, including one who called him a “modern-day knight.”
He denied belonging to one of the “triad” crime gangs of the Hong Kong underworld, but was familiar with their ways and said triads had helped free Chinese political fugitives after the Tiananmen crackdown. In 1996, however, triad members who, Mr. Chan said, mistook him for a crime world figure cracked his skull with cleavers, leaving his left arm permanently weaker. Mr. Chan denied belonging to one of the “triad” crime gangs of the Hong Kong underworld, but he said he was familiar with the triads’ ways and that the gangs had helped Chinese political fugitives escape after the Tiananmen crackdown. Even so, he said, some triad members mistook him in 1996 for a crime world figure and cracked his skull with cleavers, leaving his left arm permanently weakened.
Like many Hong Kong residents, Mr. Chan was shocked in 1989 when Communist Party leaders sent soldiers to shoot through Beijing and clear Tiananmen Square of student protesters. Hong Kong was a British colony at the time, and the crackdown that killed hundreds alarmed residents preparing to return to Chinese sovereignty in 1997. Like many residents of Hong Kong, which was still a British colony in 1989, Mr. Chan said he was shocked when Communist Party leaders sent soldiers to clear Tiananmen Square of student protesters and enforce martial law in the capital by shooting civilians. Mr. Chan said his anger made him ill, and he had his youngest son’s head shaved in a show of disgust. “I was doing business, so I couldn’t shave my own head,” he explained.
Mr. Chan said his anger made him ill, and he had his youngest son’s head shaved in a show of disgust. “I was doing business, so I couldn’t shave my own head,” he explained. His sympathy for the students, he said, sprang from anger with corruption and grudges from his former life in mainland China. Born in 1944 in Guangdong Province, adjacent to Hong Kong, Mr. Chan said his childhood was blighted by the political persecution of his parents, whose merchant backgrounds marked them as “class enemies.” He was the sixth son among 13 brothers and sisters — hence the nickname that has followed him — and his eldest brother largely raised the family, he said.
His sympathy for the students sprang from anger with corruption and grudges from his former life in China, he said. Born in 1944 in Guangdong Province, next to Hong Kong, Mr. Chan said his childhood was blighted by the political persecution of his parents, whose merchant backgrounds marked them as “class enemies.” He was the sixth son among 13 brothers and sisters — hence the name that has followed him — and his eldest brother largely raised the family, he said. As a teenager Mr. Chan studied electrical engineering at a vocational school and worked in a printing plant that produced Mao Zedong’s works. He fled China in 1972 by swimming to Hong Kong, after Chinese officials refused to dismiss political charges against him. After that he taught and did factory work in Hong Kong and did a stint as a technician in Nigeria.
Before swimming to Hong Kong in 1972, Mr. Chan studied electrical engineering at a vocational school and worked in a printing plant that produced Mao Zedong’s works. He fled after officials refused to overturn political charges against him, and he made a life in his new home as a teacher and factory worker. After that came a stint as a technician in Nigeria. As China began to open up in the early 1980s, he found his métier as a smuggler. He made a fortune slipping into China by sea with pocket calculators, cheap jewelry, liquor and even cars, loaded from cargo ships onto speedboats that could outrun the Hong Kong police and Chinese patrols. Generous bribes to mainland border guards helped lubricate the business. “I was very successful because I was careful,” he said.
In the early 1980s, as China began opening up, he found his métier as a smuggler. He made a fortune slipping into China by sea with pocket calculators, cheap jewelry, liquor and even cars, heaved from cargo ships onto speedboats that raced them to isolated shores. “I was very successful because I was careful,” he said. His skills and connections became very valuable to the Chinese protest movement after the crackdown of June 4, 1989, when the Communist authorities sought to arrest hundreds of people for taking part in protests or for objecting to their violent suppression.
Mr. Chan’s boats, equipped with four 250-horsepower engines, could outrun the Hong Kong police and Chinese patrols, he said, and generous bribes to the mainland border guards lubricated the business. In mid-June a group of activists in Hong Kong invited Mr. Chan to a hotel room and asked for his help. They had already talked to a triad boss, but he tried to extort them, and Mr. Chan’s grudges against the Communist party made him seem a safer choice, according to Lau Tan Man, a magazine editor involved in the rescue effort.
After June 4, 1989, those illicit skills and connections became valuable to supporters of the Chinese protest movement trying to help fugitives escape a dragnet of security. The party had issued wanted notices for hundreds of people for their participation in the protests, as well as intellectuals and officials who had opposed the government’s violent response. Mr. Chan said he agreed without hesitation. “If you thought too much about it, you wouldn’t have done it,” he said.
About 10 days into the crackdown, a group of pro-democracy activists in Hong Kong invited Mr. Chan to a hotel room and asked for his help. They had already talked to a triad boss who had tried to extort them, and Mr. Chan, with his festering grudges against the party, seemed a safer choice, said Lau Tan Man, a magazine editor involved in the rescue effort. Mr. Chan said he did not hesitate. Mr. Chan and his partners put together a plan, with preferred escape routes, secret signals and contact points, disguises, fake identity cards and money to bribe mainland officials and guards. They dispatched speedboats to pick up fugitives who had managed to get to Guangdong Province with the help of a network of sympathizers who hid them in homes, factories and warehouses.
“If you thought too much about it, you wouldn’t have done it,” he said. Code phrases or matching halves of a torn photograph allowed the fugitives and smugglers to recognize one another. But payoffs were essential to make sure that border patrols looked the other way and let the boats slip in and out, Mr. Chan said.
Mr. Chan and his partners put together a plan for the operation, including favored escape routes, secret signals and contact points, disguises, fake identity cards and money for bribes to ensure that mainland officials and guards would look the other way. Still, it was dangerous work. Two of Mr. Chan’s smugglers and an escaping student died in a crash at sea. Mr. Chan said he went on two runs himself, but left dozens more to his team of about 10 men, while he did the organizing and planning.
He and his team sent in speedboats to whisk away fugitives who had been taken by supporters to Guangdong Province. The fugitives reached there with the help of a secret network of sympathizers who hid them in homes, factories and warehouses. In their most audacious act, the smugglers spirited Chen Yizi, a former adviser to the ousted party leader Zhao Ziyang, out of Hainan Island on a cargo ship. A sailor guarded Mr. Chen by sitting on the hatch to his hideaway with a loaded pistol, Mr. Chan said.
The fugitives and smugglers used code phrases or two pieces of a picture torn in half to identify one another. But payoffs were essential to make sure that border patrols let the boats slip in and out, Mr. Chan said. Initially, many escapees stayed in Hong Kong for a few weeks or months before moving to France, which was generous with visas, and then often ended up in the United States, where they still form the backbone of China’s exiled democratic movement. The rescue operation, which later came to be called Operation Yellowbird in a reference to an old Chinese poetic phrase, slowed down late in 1989, when two of Mr. Chan’s men were trapped by Chinese police officers using false information about two wanted intellectuals. He went to Beijing in 1990 and struck a deal, obtaining the two men’s release in exchange for his promise not to help any more fugitives.
It was dangerous work. Two of Mr. Chan’s smugglers and an escaping student died in a crash at sea. Mr. Chan said he went out on two missions to rescue activists, but let his team of 10 or so men perform dozens more, while he planned and organized. Mr. Lau said that other smugglers and organizers kept up the work, but more slowly as security tightened.
In their most audacious act, the team spirited Chen Yizi, a hunted former adviser to the ousted party leader Zhao Ziyang, from Hainan Island on a cargo ship. A sailor guarded Mr. Chen by sitting on the hatch to his hideaway with a loaded pistol, Mr. Chan said. Some organizers have since accused Mr. Chan of selling out to the Chinese authorities or overstating his importance in the operation, accusations that he brushed aside.
“Operation Yellowbird,” as it later came to be called, in reference to an old Chinese poetic phrase, slowed in late 1989, when two of Mr. Chan’s men were trapped by Chinese police officers using false information about two wanted intellectuals.
Mr. Chan compromised. In 1990, he said, he went to Beijing and struck a deal: He would not resume rescuing fugitives if the government released his two smugglers. Other smugglers and organizers continued the rescues, although more slowly as security tightened, said Mr. Lau, the editor.
In a sour denouement, some organizers accused Mr. Chan of selling out to the Chinese authorities or of overstating his importance in the operation. He denied the accusations.
“I had to make sure my two men were freed,” he said. “If you’re not loyal to your own people, what’s the point of doing anything?”“I had to make sure my two men were freed,” he said. “If you’re not loyal to your own people, what’s the point of doing anything?”