Zhang Jing, the widow of Xia Junfeng, a street vendor who was put to death for killing two local officials, with members of her legal team on Thursday.
A photo of Xia Junfeng, propped up against the urn containing his ashes.
The mother of Xia Junfeng wept a day after his execution.
SHENYANG, China — Zhang Jing was sitting on her bed, describing the final wrenching moments with her husband before the executioner’s arrival, when she noticed a newly delivered funereal bouquet of white lilies.
“Sorry, but I need to bring these to my husband,” she said, making her way to the makeshift shrine that held his ashes as a knot of news photographers and videographers jostled one another to capture that perfect moment of grief.
A day after her husband, Xia Junfeng, was put to death for killing two urban management officials in a case that captivated the nation, Ms. Zhang said she welcomed the distraction provided by the crush of strangers, many of whom had traveled from the Chinese capital Beijing, 400 miles away, to this former industrial powerhouse in China’s rough-and-tumble Northeast.
“I just don’t want to be alone with my thoughts,” she said.
But after waging a highly public campaign to save her husband’s life, Ms. Zhang said she hoped the last gasp of media attention might help achieve his last wish: to clear the name of Mr. Xia, an unlicensed street vendor whose lawyers contend was acting in self-defense when he stabbed to death the men who were beating him. “As long as I am breathing, I will fight to establish his innocence,” she said.
Even if government censors in the end blocked most sympathetic media coverage of Mr. Xia’s death, they failed to dampen public sympathy for him.
SHENYANG, China — Zhang Jing was sitting on her bed, describing the final wrenching moments with her husband before the executioner’s arrival, when she noticed a newly delivered funereal bouquet of white lilies.
“Sorry, but I need to bring these to my husband,” she said, making her way to the makeshift shrine that held his ashes as a knot of news photographers and videographers jostled one another to capture that perfect moment of grief.
A day after her husband, Xia Junfeng, was put to death for killing two urban management officials in a case that captivated the nation, Ms. Zhang said she welcomed the distraction provided by the crush of strangers, many of whom had traveled from the Chinese capital Beijing, 400 miles away, to this former industrial powerhouse in China’s rough-and-tumble Northeast.
“I just don’t want to be alone with my thoughts,” she said.
But after waging a highly public campaign to save her husband’s life, Ms. Zhang said she hoped the last gasp of media attention might help achieve his last wish: to clear the name of Mr. Xia, an unlicensed street vendor whose lawyers contend was acting in self-defense when he stabbed to death the men who were beating him. “As long as I am breathing, I will fight to establish his innocence,” she said.
Even if government censors in the end blocked most sympathetic media coverage of Mr. Xia’s death, they failed to dampen public sympathy for him.
In the hours after he was administered a lethal injection, Chinese social media were swamped with emotional messages that described Mr. Xia’s execution as a miscarriage of justice.
Many postings sought to compare his unlucky fate to that of Gu Kailai, the daughter of a Communist revolutionary hero and wife of a once-powerful Chinese politician who was spared death last year despite her conviction for murdering a British businessman.
In denying Mr. Xia’s last appeal on Wednesday, China’s highest court offered no insight into its decision, although many analysts suspect it was designed to affirm the authority of China’s chengguan, the widely reviled army of low-paid code enforcement officials charged with keeping urban order.
“To many people, this was a political decision: killing a chicken to scare the monkeys,” said Zhong Guolin, one of the volunteer lawyers who worked on the case.
Hu Lifu, a documentary filmmaker who has spent the past year capturing Ms. Zhang’s quixotic battle to save her husband, said that Mr. Xia, a middle-aged laid-off factory worker who sold grilled meat kebabs to survive, had become a vessel for pent-up fury that many Chinese feel toward a government capable of arbitrary cruelty.
In denying Mr. Xia’s last appeal on Wednesday, China’s highest court offered no insight into its decision, although many analysts suspect it was designed to affirm the authority of China’s chengguan, the widely reviled army of low-paid code enforcement officials charged with keeping urban order.
“To many people, this was a political decision: killing a chicken to scare the monkeys,” said Zhong Guolin, one of the volunteer lawyers who worked on the case.
Hu Lifu, a documentary filmmaker who has spent the past year capturing Ms. Zhang’s quixotic battle to save her husband, said that Mr. Xia, a middle-aged laid-off factory worker who sold grilled meat kebabs to survive, had become a vessel for pent-up fury that many Chinese feel toward a government capable of arbitrary cruelty.
“Many people, myself included, have been drawn to his case out of a sense that any of us could be in his shoes,” Mr. Hu said.
“Supporting him has become a way of venting their anger.”
That public support has taken many forms, including generous financial help for Ms. Zhang and the couple’s 13-year-old son, whose emotionally fraught paintings helped cultivate even greater public sympathy.
That public support has taken many forms, including generous financial help for Ms. Zhang and the couple’s 13-year-old son, whose emotionally fraught paintings helped cultivate even greater public sympathy.
A hardcover collection of his works quickly sold out, and scores of his paintings have sold at underground exhibitions in cities across the country.
On Thursday afternoon, a stranger climbed the six flights of stairs to the family’s cramped apartment to buy a canvas that depicted a lonely fish trapped in a bowl floating in a sea full of colorful, happy fish.
“I just wanted to show my support,” the man said before leaving.
In the four years since her husband was arrested, Ms. Zhang, 39, has been transformed from a shy, self-described politically naïve peasant into an eloquent voice for the downtrodden.
On Thursday afternoon, a stranger climbed the six flights of stairs to the family’s cramped apartment to buy a canvas that depicted a lonely fish trapped in a bowl floating in a sea full of colorful, happy fish.
“I just wanted to show my support,” the man said before leaving.
In the four years since her husband was arrested, Ms. Zhang, 39, has been transformed from a shy, self-described politically naïve peasant into an eloquent voice for the downtrodden.
With nearly 100,000 followers on Sina Weibo, China’s equivalent of Twitter, she has become fluent in the details of Chinese criminal law and the well-publicized abuses wrought by loosely regulated chengguan.
She laughed when she recalled that she did not even know how to type two years ago when she was first introduced to a computer, a gift from one of the lawyers who worked on her husband’s case.
“Before, the only thing I cared about was my own family,” said Ms. Zhang, a middle-school graduate who used to work alongside her husband.
“Before, the only thing I cared about was my own family,” said Ms. Zhang, a middle-school graduate who used to work alongside her husband.
Her main job, she said, was looking out for the chengguan, who would confiscate the carts of those who didn’t run fast enough and then demand hefty fines.
Throughout the afternoon, as supporters and strangers drifted in and out and a recorded Buddhist dirge looped in the background, Ms. Zhang maintained a frail smile.
Throughout the afternoon, as supporters and strangers drifted in and out and a recorded Buddhist dirge looped in the background, Ms. Zhang maintained a frail smile.
Emotions, she was always taught, were best kept out of public view.
But then she recounted her last moments with her husband on the day of his execution, the first time she had seen him in two and a half years.
But then she recounted her last moments with her husband on the day of his execution, the first time she had seen him in two and a half years.
The tiny room was packed with a dozen guards, and Mr. Xia was shackled to a chair, unable to move his arms and feet; a chain-link barrier separated the two sides.
They were given only 30 minutes to say goodbye, Ms. Zhang said.
Mr. Xia made a plea to have his name cleared after his death, and out spilled a cascade of tender words and apologies — until a guard began a haunting countdown.
Mr. Xia made a plea to have his name cleared after his death, and out spilled a cascade of tender words and apologies — until a guard began a haunting countdown.
With just a few minutes left, she recalled, they made a final, desperate attempt at physical contact.
He strained his body forward, she reached through the gate and was able to stroke his gaunt face with one finger.
It was only then, while recalling that final moment, that she began to weep.
It was only then, while recalling that final moment, that she began to weep.
“One minute I was touching him, and then a few hours later, I was collecting his ashes in a bag,” she said, “These are the images I just can’t get out of my head. This is why I don’t want to be alone.”
0 comments:
Post a Comment