Written by C. J. Anderson-Wu

Walking one hundred circles in the 13-square-meter cell after lunch. There are four of us, and in such a small room, every one of us must walk at the same time, in a file.

We put our bowls on a stool, each time we walk past the bowls, we put a crumb of the tasteless bun in one of the bowls. When all the bowls contain 25 crumbs, we are done with the walking. It takes us a little more than one hour.

“I am not in the mood to walk.” No. 639 says.

“You must. Because we are.” No.726 responds.

“I wish I would die.” No. 639 says.

“You are not. As a traitor in the eyes of the nation, you don’t control when you die.” No. 597 retorts. Based on the number, we know he is the most senior prisoner in our cell. No one of us knows how much time the others have been here, and how much longer each of us will remain.

No one of us knows why each of us is here. We don’t talk about it because we know we are being watched.

No. 639 stands up, unwillingly joining the walking file.

“It’s for your good,” I say in a low voice, “we must live longer than the dictator. We must survive his regime.”

It is one of the things we do everyday to pretend we are still hopeful. We are No.597, No. 639, No. 726 and No. 774. We are political prisoners.

Text © C. J. Anderson-Wu

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