Urumqi was the largest city in Western China and was quite famous for its claim of being the most inland major city on the planet because of its distance from any ocean. It was also located in a geographic location that was mostly desert.
For over two thousand years, a system of water harvesting and underground transmission via elaborate aqueducts provided sustainable water supplies throughout the desert regions of Western China. Known as a karez, the Uyghur word for well, it was a marvel of ancient engineering. The thirty-three hundred miles of tunnels crisscrossed the region, bringing water to communities and farms in even the most remote parts of Xinjiang.
Many scientists believed the karez was more impressive than its aboveground brother—the Great Wall of China. The aqueducts connecting the wells spanned a distance equal to that between New York City and the Pacific Ocean. It was dug by hand with primitive tools and had to be done with a precise slope so the water would flow in the direction the ancient engineers required.
Over time, China modernized its water systems in the cities, and the karezes were mostly abandoned. They were used, however, by the dissidents during the Uyghur uprising, and now by China’s citizen journalists.
Symbolically, the naming of the hidden tunnels by historians as the Underground Great Wall gave inspiration to the Uyghurs during the period of genocide, and now to the dissidents. The Great Wall of China, built to protect the Chinese dynasties from attack, spanned the entire border of the Communist nation for thirteen thousand miles.
The Underground Great Wall was a symbol of Uyghur ingenuity, and during the period of harsh crackdowns, it became a place of safety from those who’d destroy their way of life. The success of the Uyghurs in using the underground tunnels to evade capture frustrated and angered the Communist Party. They were unable to close off the aqueduct system because it was still used as a water source by parts of the community.
Instead, they attempted to marginalize it with a project of their own beneath Beijing. As part of its nuclear weapons program, Chinese military experts conceived a massive underground system built in a series of subterranean silos connected together by tunnels. The steel-reinforced structure could withstand the strikes of the most destructive weapons on Earth, including the massive ordnance penetrators possessed by Russia and the United States.
To divert attention from the Uyghurs’ use of the karez system to hide from oppression, the Beijing government prominently referred to their new missile defense project as its Underground Great Wall, co-opting the more accepted use of the phrase from Western China.
Now, the Chinese government officials were facing a larger problem—a small army of citizen journalists were shining the light of transparency on Communist tyranny, and they were hiding underground in the ancient karez aqueducts.
Chapter Six
Underground Great Wall
Urumqi, Xinjiang, China
Dr. Zeng Qi and his wife, Ying, instantly embraced when they saw one another. It was a rare show of affection between the two in a public setting, even if it was in the underground labyrinth of tunnels. Their nephew, Zeng Fangyu, turned to his fellow citizen journalists and encouraged them to turn away in order for the older couple to have a moment of privacy. Their reunification brought tears of joy to their eyes, but soon thereafter, apprehension swept over them both.
Dr. Zeng broke their embrace and motioned for his nephew to join him. He hugged the young college student as well and thanked him for all he’d done to keep his wife safe.
“Uncle, I would like you to meet my friends. Come with us, please.”
Fangyu instructed the young people who’d gathered around the newcomers to disperse, reminding them the new entrance they’d constructed through the basement floor of the apartment building could be compromised as a result of its recent activity.
He led his aunt and uncle deeper into the aqueduct system, using a small flashlight to illuminate the way. Periodically, one of his acquaintances would stop to take up a position near a cross tunnel. Fangyu indicated they were part of an elaborate system of human monitors who’d notify the rest of intruders.
They walked for nearly twenty minutes, Fangyu leading the way through the unmarked tunnels. He never hesitated as he made turn after turn, occasionally into broad aqueducts, at which time he’d pick up the pace. Following a route he appeared to know very well, he led them through cramped side tunnels that were full of water, with thick planks of wood used as walkways.
Eventually, they came into a cavernous opening that was well lit. The space was full of tables, chairs, and even a small kitchen complete with a refrigerator and a microwave. Scattered throughout the large karez were dozens of college-age citizen journalists. When Fangyu entered with Dr. Zeng and his wife, they stopped their work on laptops and computer tablets to assess the newcomers.
“Everyone, this is my uncle, Dr. Zeng.”
Spontaneous applause erupted throughout the space. Dr. Zeng was taken aback by the odd reaction to his introduction. He didn’t know these young people, nor had he done anything to warrant the ovation he’d received. At least, he didn’t think so.
“Nephew, I don’t understand. Why are they clapping?”
“You are a hero, Uncle.”
He was puzzled. “I have done nothing.”
“You took a stand and risked everything, including career and life, to warn others. Now we have a purpose—to protect our countrymen from the secrecy of the government and a new disease.”
It was a universal principle held by college-age youth. People go through a period in their lives, often following their teenage years and into their late twenties, when they view themselves as idealistic, activist agents of change. Later, they grow up and get jobs, have families, and pay the bills. In other words, they become adults and their priorities change.
In China, campus activism was not allowed to rise to the surface. It was tamped down by parents, teachers, and civic leaders. If that didn’t work, the full weight of the People’s Liberation Army was used like a twenty-pound sledgehammer against a porcelain doll.
The stories of dissidents being silenced were broadly disseminated as a deterrent against future activity. Unlike the Western world where campus activism was something to cheer, in China, it resulted in people disappearing.
As a result, following the lead of the Uyghurs before them, the young citizen journalists of Xinjiang went underground to spread the word to those above. These enterprising students were so committed to their task that many found a way to live in the karez aqueducts.
After the demonstration of applause subsided, with Dr. Zeng smiling and waving his hand to everyone in thanks, the young people returned to their workstations.
Dr. Zeng took a moment to observe his surroundings. The young people appeared haggard and disheveled, an almost unrecognizable shadow of the energetic young people he’d observed in Fangyu’s dormitory.
“Uncle, at this moment, we are directly beneath your First Affiliated Hospital.”
The old doctor looked upward and pointed to the fluorescent light fixtures and hundreds of wires strapped to the rock walls of the large karez. “Are those all electrical wires?”
“Yes, and communications lines also. Some of the wires lead to portable antennas in nearby apartment buildings, which allow us to access the internet via satellite.”