The Year of the Stray Dog     
By Yan Lianke　　

Published: April 20, 2012        From: The New York Times

Old habits die hard. Despite leaving my home in the countryside more than 30 years ago, I never feel that the first of January marks the start of a new year. In my hometown, the true beginning of a new year is the first day of the Chinese Lunar New Year.　　

The year 2011 for me was as long and dark as a tunnel without light.　　

My dark 2011 started with my son’s search for a job. He had finished his studies in Britain and returned to China armed with a master’s degree in law. He believes that to make a difference in China he must start his career as a public servant within the legal system. However, because he is not a member of the Chinese Communist Party, it is almost impossible for him to sit for the national civil service exam to get the job he wants.　　

He considered joining the Communist Party more than once when he was an undergraduate. I talked him out of it every time, saying, “Do people have to be party members to get on in this life?” As a father, my son’s experience makes me feel I should kneel down in front of the party leaders and beg them to give young people who are not party members the same career opportunities it gives to those who have joined.　　

The darkness of 2011 continued. My latest work, “Four Books” — a novel that directly confronts the Chinese people’s traumatic experiences during the Great Leap Forward of the late 1950s and the subsequent famine — was rejected by almost 20 publishing houses. The reasons I was given were all along the same lines: Anyone who dares to publish my book in China is certain to be closed down.　　

The novel took me 20 years to plan and two years to write. It is important to me as a writer, and I know it will be an important contribution to Chinese literature. However, I am fully aware of the realities of publishing in China, so I have no choice but to accept the fate of my book. All I can do is sigh.　　

Compounding the nightmare of my book’s nonpublication in China was the forced demolition of my house for a road-widening project in Beijing. It came like a hurricane. No one bothered to show the evicted residents in my neighborhood any official documents relating to the project; the non-negotiable compensation was set at a flat 500,000 yuan (about $79,000) per household, regardless of the area of the land or the original construction cost. The residents were told, “Whoever cooperates with the government will be further rewarded 700,000 yuan.” That’s approximately $190,000 in total. This seemingly large sum in fact is only enough to buy a toilet in a good neighborhood in today’s Beijing.　　

The conflict between the residents and the demolition crew was intense. Residents pledged to defend their properties and dignity with their lives.　　

The battle raged for months. One day the wall surrounding the neighborhood compound was demolished at dawn. Some elderly battle-weary residents had to be rushed to the hospital. Then came news of a series of “burglaries” in the compound, which everyone knew was a tactic intended to intimidate residents. Reporting the burglaries to the police was as meaningless as an elementary school student reporting a lost pencil.　　

On Nov. 30, one day before the forced demolition deadline, I wrote a petition to the general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party, Hu Jintao, and Prime Minister Wen Jiabao and posted it on Sina Weibo, the Chinese equivalent of Twitter, urging an end to the game of cat-and-mouse played with people whose houses were about to be demolished. I knew the letter would not reach its intended recipients, but I hoped it would attract enough attention to pressure the local government to avoid bloodshed during the demolition.　　

My letter was widely reposted and spread nationwide almost instantly. Still, it had no more impact than a whisper in the wind.　　

At about 5 a.m. on Dec. 2, a group of uniformed men and women wearing helmets broke into my neighbor’s house through a window. After having told the intruders that he objected to the demolition, my neighbor was taken away and locked up. A few large pieces of furniture were moved outside and his house was bulldozed. He later recalled that when he was taken away that morning, he saw more than 200 people, all uniformed and wearing helmets, surrounding his house.　　

In December, more than 30 families were finally coerced into agreeing to the demolition. That marked the end of my dark 2011. The experience made me realize that in reality the dignity of a citizen and a writer is no more significant than a hungry dog begging its master for food; in reality, the rights a citizen can actually enjoy are no more than the air a person can hold in his hand.　　

I wanted to cry. Sometimes I imagine it would be a great privilege to be able to cry aloud in Tiananmen Square in the center of Beijing.　　

People live like dogs in this society. I dream of being able to bark out loud in my books, and of turning my barking into exquisite music. This strange life and this strange dream keep me alive, and sometimes even give me confidence. At the same time, I am constantly disheartened.　　

Emotionally exhausted, I longed to leave the dark Beijing of 2011 behind me and go home. I longed for a new beginning in 2012 — a new beginning in my hometown, to be with my mother, to be with my relatives, to let their simple warmth take away the coldness, anxiety and fear that had enveloped me in the dark tunnel of 2011.　　

I went home. For 10 days I spent all my time with my 80-year-old mother, my elder brother and his wife and my nieces in our hometown of Songxian, in Western Henan province. We talked about the past, told jokes and played mahjong. Not a single word about my writing or my unhappiness was mentioned. It was as if we all lived perfect lives.　　

All I could see was bright sunlight. All I could feel was the love of my close relatives. For 10 days, we sat in front of the TV. We watched silly soap operas and the CCTV Spring Festival Gala. The TV programs were mediocre, but the love of my family pushed away the darkness of 2011. I felt safe.　　

On the eve of the Lunar New Year we ate a traditional meal of dumplings together. Mother gave me a portion of her dumplings to show her love. A few wisps of white hair fell onto a face that was beaming with happiness. “Our country is rich now. Isn’t it wonderful!” she said. “We can now have meat-filled dumplings, as often as we ate wild grass when we were poor.”　　

My elder brother was a postman who rode a bicycle to deliver letters all his working life. He is now retired and drives a car I bought with royalties from my books. “Why do people hate the government?” he asked me while driving to visit a relative in a remote mountain village. “Our lives are good. Isn’t that enough?”　　

My two elder sisters are farmers. They loved the soap opera about a wise Qing dynasty emperor who treated his subjects well. My sisters want me to write a soap opera script like that to garner fame and fortune. Just one successful soap opera would let the whole family bask in glory, they said.　　

I don’t know if my family truly believes these things, or whether they were just trying to comfort me. I don’t know if their newly acquired wealth makes the Chinese people truly believe that warm clothes and a full stomach are more important than rights and dignity. Or did they always think that a plate of dumplings and a bit of money in their pockets are more useful than rights and dignity?　　

I didn’t ask and didn’t really want to delve into it because I know there’s no clear-cut answer. As for myself, I’d rather uphold my dignity even if it means dying of starvation. This belief is in my blood. It is supposed to be the guiding principle for all men of letters, but for many in today’s China it is no more than gibberish. Why am I complaining? If even men of letters choose a bit of food and a little money over dignity, how can I criticize my less-educated relatives?　　

The sixth day of the Lunar New Year is an auspicious day to travel. It was time to leave. All my relatives came out to say goodbye. Mother was in tears as always on such occasions. She was quiet until the last moment.　　

“Make friends with people in power,” she whispered in my ear. “Don’t do anything to annoy them.”　　

My brother sent me a text message after I left. “I didn’t say this to you because it was a festive time. Remember: Never do anything to annoy the government, no matter what.”　　

My nephew accompanied me to the nearby highway entrance ramp. “My mother asked me to tell you,” said the boy hesitantly, “Look after your health. Don’t write too much, and if you really must write, then write something that praises the government and the nation. Don’t become foolish with age.”　　

I nodded.　　

“Tell your grandma, uncle and your mother: Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. My writing is going well. I’m doing well. Apart from acquiring some wrinkles and white hair, nothing bad will happen to me.” I drove away.　　

As I drove, tears streamed down my face for no apparent reason. I just wanted to cry. Was it for my mother, my brother, my relatives and the strangers who forget about their dignity as long as they have enough to eat? Or for people like me who worship rights and dignity but live the life of a stray dog? I don’t know. I just wanted to cry out loud.　　

I pulled over and let my tears flow — down my face and in my heart. After a long while, after my tears dried, I started the car again. I was on my way back to Beijing, panting and anxious, like a stray dog lost in a dark tunnel.

[译文。来自网络]

我如丧家犬的这一年

文：阎连科发表时间：2012年4月20日 　　

旧俗难却。尽管离开乡下老家已逾三十余年，我却从未将元月一号当作一年之始。在我老家，一年真正的开始则是大年初一这一天。　　

2011这一年，对我来说，漫长且昏暗，就像一条没有光亮的隧道。　　

我昏暗的2011年始自于我儿子找工作之时。那时他已完成在英国的学业，并带着法律硕士学位回国。他坚信，要想在国内有一番作为，就必须在法律体系内谋到一份公职。然而，因为他不是党员，几乎就不太可能参加国家公务员考试，而获取他所想要的那份工作。　　

当他还是个大学生时，就不止一次地考虑过要加入共产党。但每次我都劝他不要那么做，还说，“难道一个人就必须是个党员才能过他想要的生活吗?”作为一个父亲，儿子的经历让我由衷感到我应该跪在那些党领导面前，乞求他们能给没入党的年轻人一个与那些已入党的一样同等的求职机会。　　

昏暗的2011年还在继续。我最近的作品，《四书》——一本为直面国人在50年代末大跃进时期和接踵而至的饥荒中所受的惨痛经历而作的小说——被近20家出版社退稿。他们拒绝的理由几乎一致：谁敢在中国出版我的书，谁就必将被关张。　　

为这本小说，我花了二十年去构思，用两年去写作。作为一位作家，它对我来说非常重要，况且我也知道它将是中国文坛上的一部重要作品。然而，我更了然中国出版业的现状，所以除了接受我这本书的如此命运外，我别无选择。我所能做的仅是一声长叹。　　

厄运连连，随着我的书不能在大陆出版的噩梦而来的，则是我在北京的房子也被强拆了，原因只是附近某个项目有条道路要拓宽。它如飓风一般袭来。没谁愿意费心给我和我的邻居们——这些被驱逐的原住居民们——出示任何与该项目有关的官方文件，而赔偿也毫无商量的余地，不管原有土地面积有多大，或盖房子花费了多少，每户都被定性在一套50万元(大约7万9千美元)的价码上。大伙儿还被告知，“谁愿意与政府合作，就会额外奖励其70万元。”合计之后，那大约有19万美元。看起来，那倒是个很大的数额，事实上，在今天的北京，这点钱也只够在个好地段买间厕所。　　

原住居民们和强拆队之间的冲突异常激烈，势同水火。大家发誓，一定要用生命来捍卫财产和尊严。

斗争持续了好几个月。一天黎明，小区的墙被强制推倒了。一些上了年纪又疲于应战的老居民不得不被送去了医院。然后，与一系列所谓的“盗窃案”有关的传闻也出现在小区，但大家心知肚明，那不过是恐吓大家的一种策略而已。而报警显得毫无意义，其幼稚程度就好比小学生说他丢了铅笔一样。

十一月的最后一天，离规定的强拆期限仅剩一天，我写了一封致总书记及总理的告急信，并将它贴到新浪微博(在中国，它等同于Twitter)上，信中呼吁政府尽早结束这种与被强拆居民之间的“猫鼠游戏”。我也知道，这封信不会到达它应送达的人的手中，但我还是希望，它能引起足够重视，从而给当地政府施压，以避免在强拆期间的流血冲突。

我的信被大量转发，几乎立刻被传遍全国。然而，它并无多大影响，就如风中的窃窃私语一般微弱无比。　　

12月2日，大约凌晨5点，一群戴头盔的便衣男女，从窗户闯入我邻居家中。在对这些闯入者声明拒绝强拆后，我邻居就被带走并关了起来。他家的一些大件家具被搬到了外面，房子立即被推土机铲平了。后来他回忆说，就在他被带走的那天早晨，他看到大约200个带头盔的便衣围着他家房子。

整个12月里，最终有30多户被迫同意拆迁。我昏暗的2011年也就这样结束了。这段经历令我意识到：一位公民和作家的尊严，实质上还不如一条饿狗向它主人摇尾乞食来得重要;一位公民实际所享有的权利，也远不如一个人手中所拽的空气多。　　

我想痛哭。有时，我甚至猜想，要是能在北京市中心的天安门广场大哭一场，那会是一种多大的特权。　　

在这个社会里，人们像狗一样活着。我梦想我能在我的书中大声呼喊，并让这呐喊化成优美的乐曲。这怪异的生活和奇妙的梦使我存活，有时甚至给我以信心。不过，我又不断地灰心、泄气。　　

我已身心俱疲，只渴望离开我身后这昏暗的2011年的北京，然后回老家去。我想在2012年有一个崭新的开始：跟我的母亲和亲戚们待在一起，让他们简单的温暖驱走这一切的寒冷、忧虑和恐惧，好远离2011年那条包围在我周身的昏暗隧道。　　

我回到了位于河南西部的嵩县老家。和我八十岁的老母亲、哥哥、嫂嫂、侄女们一起过了十天。我们一块儿回顾往昔，讲笑话、打麻将。没一个字提及到我的作品或是我所受的苦恼。就好像我们都在过着完美的生活一般。　　

我所可见的，皆是璀璨阳光。我所感触的，皆是亲人关爱。这十天里，我们坐在电视机前，一起看糟糕的肥皂剧和央视春晚。电视节目普普通通，但家人的爱驱散了2011年里所有的昏暗。我感到无比心安。　　

农历新年除夕，我们依照老传统，聚在一块儿吃饺子。母亲给了我一盘饺子，以示她对我的爱。几缕白发垂落在她脸庞，她脸上洋溢着无比幸福的笑意。“我们的国家现在富裕了。这不是很好嘛!”，她说，“我们现在可以吃肉馅饺子，就跟我们过去穷的时候吃野草一样平常呀!”　　

我哥曾是个邮递员，骑自行车送信是他全部的工作与生活。他现在退休了，并开着一辆我用版税所买回的车子。“为什么有人会恨政府?”，当我们在去看望一个住在边远山村的亲戚的路上时，他这样问我。“我们的日子很不错，这还不够吗?”　　

我两个姐姐都是农民。她们爱看清宫肥皂剧，剧中的皇帝英明果敢且处事圆熟。两姐姐想要我也写一部那样的肥皂剧，好既得名，又来钱。她们说，只要写出一部成功的肥皂剧，整个家族都会脸上贴金的。　　

我不知道是我的家人真的信服了这些东西，还是他们只想试着来安慰我?我不知道他们这些年来所获取的财富，是否真的就让国人都坚信，穿得暖、吃得饱要远比个人的权利和尊严更为重要?或者，他们还是总认为，一盘饺子和口袋里的一点钱要远比权利和尊严更为有用的多?　　

我没问，也不想深究，因为我知道从来就不曾有清楚明确的答案。于我，我宁愿持有一份尊严，即使那意味着要饥饿致死。这信仰流溢在我的血液之中。它也被认为是文化人的基本原则，但对今天国内的许多人而言，它不过是一派胡言。为何我要抱怨?如果文化人也将一点食物和几个钱置于尊严之上，我又怎能去批评我那些读书少的亲戚们呢?　　

大年初六，一个适宜出门的黄道吉日。我又要走了。亲戚们都跑来与我道别。每逢这种场合，母亲总是噙满泪水。但直到最后一刻，她才开口说话。　　

“多和有权有势的人交朋友吧”，她在我耳边轻声说道，“千万别去做任何令他们反感的事呀!”

在我走后，我哥发了条短信给我。“大过年的，我就没想把这些说给你听。记住啊，无论是啥事，都别去做任何招惹政府的事啊。”　　

我侄子陪我走到村子附近的高速公路入口坡道处。“我妈叫我跟你说”，这孩子吞吞吐吐，“照顾好身体。别写那么多，如果你实在要写，就多写些歌颂政府和国家的吧。别越老越糊涂了!”　　

我点点头。　　

“回去跟你奶、你叔还有你妈说：别太担心我。我很好。我写的东西还不错。我也能对付。除了这些皱纹和白头发外，也没其他坏事来烦我。”说完，我就开车走了。　　

我一路开着车，莫名地，泪如泉涌。我只想痛哭。是为了我老母亲、我哥、我亲人还有那些同样有了吃就忘了尊严的陌生人吗?或是为了像我这样艳羡权利和尊严却又活得有如丧家犬一样的人吗?我不知道。我只想大声地痛哭一场。　　

我把车停到路边，任它涕泪纵横——落在我脸上，流入我心底。过了好一会儿，我的眼泪才流干，我又重新发动了车子。在回北京的路上，我喘着粗气、万分忧虑，就像奔波在昏暗隧道里的一条迷失的丧家犬一般。