The author’s cover letter:
The Families of Political Dissidents” is an excerpt from the forthcoming novel “The Sixth Man” which addresses the political and social turmoil in the recent history of Taiwan. Sub-themes include the interactions or clashes between people of different backgrounds, as well as the ongoing resistance against authoritarianism.
C.J. ANDERSON-WU (吳介禎) is a Taiwanese writer who has published two collections about Taiwan’s military dictatorship (1949–1987), known as White Terror: The White Terror: Impossible to Swallow (2017) and The Surveillance (2020). She is currently working on her third book Endangered Youth—to Hong Kong. Her works have been shortlisted for a number of international literary awards, including the 2024 Flying Island Poetry Manuscript Competition. She also won the Strands Lit International Flash Fiction Competition, the Invisible City Blurred Genre Literature Competition, and the Wordweavers Literature Contest.
***
Han-Tung took her 7-year-old son Ming-Shun to visit Ching-Hua, who has been ill for more than one year.
Ching-Hua’s house stood weary and forlorn at the edge of a narrow, winding lane. Its facade had dulled to a faded, peeling canvas of chipped paint, revealing patches of weather-beaten wood beneath. The roof tiles sagged, and moss and vines claimed the walls. Inside, the air was thick with the musty scent of dampness and neglect. It was a place suspended in time, waiting for the echo of life to return, yet resigned to the slow decay of each passing month.
Ching-Hua had lost a lot of weight, her taut face showing little color, and she coughed from time to time. Nevertheless, she still needed to work, repairing clothing for people: patching the knees of boys’ trousers, expanding the waists of growing girls’ dresses, or sewing sheets and curtains. There hadn’t been much business to begin with, and after she got ill—or perhaps because of her husband’s imprisonment—less and less work came her way.
Han-Tung had thought that if Ching-Hua could manufacture some products with discarded fabrics from tailors, like handbags, hats, or pencil cases, she might be able to sell them at the morning food market.
Ching-Hua’s sewing machine was beside the window, the brightest part of the house. It was covered, and Han-Tung wondered how long it had been since Ching-Hua last used it. Ching-Hua’s son, Kang-Ren, sat by the machine, writing his homework absentmindedly.
There were several reasons why Han-Tung never brought up her idea to Ching-Hua. One major reason was that mass-produced fabric products were becoming increasingly available as the textile and garment industry grew. Consequently, handmade fabric products became too expensive and less trendy for buyers.
Another reason was people avoided them. Both Han-Tung and Yuan-Chan’s husbands were in jail. They had no visitors and were not welcome to visit others. When they attended any event, people couldn’t hide their embarrassment. As the spouses of criminals, Han-Tung and Ching-Hwa could only support one another. As Ching-Hua became listless and sick since Chan Tien-Jen’s absence, Han-Tung was determined not to be defeated. Seeing Ching-Hua still cough, Han-Tung inquired:
“Do you still have medicine?”
“No. I finished it last week.”
“Let me get more for you.” Han-Tung stood up and noticed Ching-Hua’s expression of hesitation.
“Don’t worry about the money, I happen to have some in hand “
Han-Tung’s parents mailed her some money once in a while, although her brother warned them not to interact with her too much. Han-Tung knew in terms of financial status, she was luckier than Ching-Hua, whose family was papaya and pineapple growers with very low income. Han-Tung’s parents ran a trading business that imported toys from Southeast Asia and exported sport goods to the region. Han-Tung knew if she asked for more financial support, her family would not reject her, but she hardly asked. Han-Tung did not want her parents and brother to look down on her, because she did not think her husband Jian Bin-Hsin had done anything wrong.
Han-Tung recalled the last letter she received from Bin-Hsin:
Dear Han-Tung:
I hope this letter finds you and our family in good health. Your strength and resilience continue to inspire me every day. I have a request that I hope you can help with.
As the weather grows colder, I find myself in need of a padded jacket. If possible, could you make one for me? It would be incredibly helpful if the jacket could have several inner pockets of different dimensions: 10cmX30cm on the right, 15cmX15cm on the upper left, and 10cmX15cm on the lower left. These pockets would allow me to keep my belongings organized and secure.
I understand this is not an easy task, but your skill and care in making it would mean the world to me. Please know that your efforts and support give me the strength to endure these difficult times.
With all my love and gratitude,
Bin-Hsin, Sep 8
She would find the right materials and cut them first, then bring them to Ching-Hua’s for sewing; a jacket with so many pockets must be quite wide. Han-Tung’s tailoring skills weren’t as good as Ching-Hua’s, but she was sure Ching-Hua would help her. The letter was written before the Mid-Autumn Festival, but Han-Tung didn’t receive it until November. She calculated that if all the mail was delivered so slowly, by the time she completed the jacket and mailed it to the prison, winter would have been over, although Bin-Hsin would have to spend many winters there.
Han-Tung was also curious—why would Bin-Hsin need so many inner pockets? As prisoners, they weren’t even allowed to keep many things with them.
“Kang-Ren, do you want to take a walk with us to the pharmacy? “Han-Tung invited the 9-year-old boy tenderly.
Kang-Ren lifted his head to see his mother, and Ching-Hua nodded with a smile. The three of them set off, walking a block away to a pharmacy of Chinese medicine. The air inside was thick with the earthy, slightly pungent aroma of dried herbs and medicinal roots. Shelves lined the walls, filled with glass jars and wooden drawers, each labeled with the names of various herbs and substances, from ginseng to dried mushrooms to exotic roots.
The counter was manned by an elder in a starched white cotton shirt. Behind him was a platform displaying mortars and pestles which sat ready for grinding. A set of delicate brass scales was used to weigh out precise quantities of the herbs.
Kang-Ren showed the prescription that his mother gave him, and the pharmacist laid out fourteen white square papers. He evenly distributed mulberry leaves, chrysanthemum flowers, honeysuckle flowers, aster root, scutellaria, and white mulberry bark on the fourteen papers, and he wrapped each one skillfully. As he packed the fourteen folded papers into a bag, he bent down and took out a small glass jar with golden content inside.
“Honey is good for the lungs. Free of charge.” He put the jar into the bag quickly.
“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Han-Tung bowed gratefully in receiving the honey, an expensive product even for middle-class families. After all, there were caring people about them, just they were afraid to express it openly.
At this moment, a little girl walked out from the room behind the pharmacy. Seeing two boys about her age, she approached them excitedly.
“Go back.” The pharmacist stopped her. The girl looked at her grandfather, not understanding why she was not allowed to make new friends today.
“Go inside.” The grandfather’s order was grave; she knew she should not protest on this occasion.
Han-Tung’s gratitude to the pharmacist suddenly subsided, but she also immediately understood everyone’s need to take care of their families from the stigma of political criminals.
Outside the pharmacy, Han-Tung struggled hard to hold back her tears. Now she felt more like Ching-Hua, for not only were the lives of the political dissidents’ spouses destroyed, but also the future of their children.
*****
