Chapter 129
Chapter 129
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 129
Chapter Title: For Whose God? (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
China, Beijing. Zhongnanhai.
Elder Zhang, who had changed from casual clothes into a suit, was hurrying somewhere with quick steps, unlike his usual self.
Though he held no official party or government title, the nickname "Beijing's Old Monster" had stuck to him for serving as the political mentor to the entire leadership.
"What kind of job are you doing!"
His appearance proved that the weight of that somewhat excessive title was anything but strange.
Kneeling before the bellowing Elder Zhang was none other than the Minister of Internal Affairs, who oversaw China's ethnic minority policies.
"Last year's riots in Tibet weren't enough, and now the Uyghurs! If you can't even control those minority scum properly, why are you still sitting in that seat!"
"Forgive... forgive me, Elder Zhang. I'll take measures as quickly as possible, so please withhold your anger."
The massive bloody clash in Urumqi, the capital of the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region.
Ethnic tensions between the Han Chinese, who made up the overwhelming majority of China, and the Muslim Uyghurs.
Official reports to the outside world listed only a few hundred deaths, but in reality, thousands had lost their lives.
"The Han started it by lighting the fuse first, so order the local government to offer compensation and condolences to the Uyghur side..."
"What nonsense is this! Do you have a brain in your head or not!"
"Elder...?"
The Minister of Internal Affairs looked slightly flustered by the unexpected reaction.
Slowly raising his head, all he saw before him was the face of an old man hardened with stubborn resolve.
"Kill them. Cleanly."
"You mean... just the ringleaders and their cronies?"
Bam! The old man's fist slammed down on the table. Though aged and wrinkled, the hand carried such unyielding authority that the Minister could only shrink his head into his shoulders like a turtle.
"You fool! Ringleaders, civilians—crush every last one that rears its head! Blast them with machine guns until their bodies are Swiss cheese!"
Beijing's Old Monster, ordering not just gunfire but even the deployment of tanks.
Elder Zhang fumed like that for a while. Only after some time did he calm down, fanning the heat from his head with a gold-leafed fan as he continued.
"Deploy public security and armed police for a thorough crackdown so they won't even dream of twitching again. Special forces if necessary. Do you understand?"
"...Yes, I understand, Elder."
Such cruel, excessively violent follow-up measures.
The Minister knew full well what backlash this would provoke locally among the Uyghurs, but under the pressure of the Old Monster's immense power, he couldn't utter a word of protest.
All he could do was bow his head and faithfully carry out the orders.
"Then, I'll take my leave."
The Minister tried to flee the room right after his farewell.
He had no desire to linger in this space thick with displeasure and fear, but Elder Zhang called him back once more.
"Oh, and one more thing."
"Yes?"
Beijing's Old Monster rummaged under the table and pulled something out.
Toss. He lightly threw it onto the table—a single Polaroid photo. One capturing a hellish scene that should never exist in this world.
"I came up with this just in case. Have your staff review it and draft something."
"This is...?"
In the photo, people on the verge of collapse carried coal on crude shoulder poles. Barely surviving the biting cold winds in ragged, patched cotton clothes, they hurried along.
And right before an electrified barbed-wire fence, soldiers with rifles watched them. The placard pointed to by the whip in their hands read:
-Yodok Political Prison Camp
"The North Koreans make good use of it. Why not build something similar in Xinjiang? It'd be perfect for isolating local minority reactionaries."
"Elder..."
"Tighten control, but not as brutish as the North Koreans. You get what I mean?"
The Minister's hand trembled slightly as he clutched the Polaroid photo.
The Old Monster's intentions had long since escaped his own will. But from lips that couldn't refuse, the only response possible was submission to power.
"Hoo... I shall obey your command, Elder."
* * * *
Crackle, crackle. The charcoal in the brazier had lost its red glow, leaving only white ash.
Crown Prince Bin Salman stroked his chin beard beneath his turban. After hearing about China's upcoming Belt and Road Initiative and the Kra Canal, he thought for a long while before speaking to me.
"It's not difficult. China has only one card to play."
Bin Salman, who knew every Islamic-labeled force in the world like the back of his hand.
He poked at the ashes left in the brazier with an iron skewer, jabbing the lower part that oddly resembled a map of Southeast Asia.
"They'll surely move their Malaysian intelligence operatives. They run extremist groups under them."
"Malaysian intelligence, huh."
"Chairman Han. This might tire you out a bit. Malaysia has a lot to gain from this too."
Malaysia, locked in a vicious rivalry with Thailand.
It was clear to me they'd use this chance to sink their teeth into Thailand's ankle.
A chill desert night passed, new flames rising from fresh charcoal in the clay jar as time flowed on.
Feeling weary from the endless chain of discussions, I asked Bin Salman in a somewhat strained voice.
"Then... is there no other solution in the current situation?"
"It's tough. With ordinary methods."
"Hmm..."
Such firm conviction. Followed by my deep contemplation.
Bin Salman looked at me with a hint of regret.
"Regrettably, under the banner of Islamic prosperity, there's no way to rein in those fanatics. Not unless..."
Unlike him, he trailed off.
As if assuming something that could never happen in reality, he shook his head lightly and spat out a single phrase.
"Unless the Chinese commit the madness of blaspheming Allah in front of those extremists."
"Blasphemy against Allah... wait, hold on."
And in that moment, fragments of memory struck my mind.
It was... around this time, surely. The core forces of the Chinese Communist Party, their aggressive push into the barren west about to begin.
Following last year's bloody events in Tibet, this year's in Xinjiang. They wouldn't end it peacefully or conciliatorily. Never.
"Thank you for the advice, Your Highness. Things look like they'll resolve more smoothly than I thought."
"Hm? Chairman Han, what do you mean?"
Bin Salman wore a puzzled expression. After I'd been floundering in thought for so long, my sudden confidence seemed to throw him off.
Whoosh, fierce sand-laden wind blew in from the desert.
Rising to my feet, facing the wind from Islam's heartland with my whole body, I told Bin Salman.
"We at Shanghai Capital and the Chinese Communist Party... will tie their own ankles with their own hands. Definitely."
* * * *
-Weeeooooweeeooo!
In China's Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, sirens screamed loud enough to tear eardrums—in the heart of Urumqi.
Thick, acrid smoke allowed not even a sliver of empty space, and there, red flowers of screams and wails bloomed.
"Spa... spare me! Spare me! I won't do it again, please! Argh!"
A family man's life crushed outright by a savage club swing.
"It wasn't me! I didn't do it! Soldier uncle, please forgive me just once, please!"
A girl passing nearby thrown to the ground. Filling her vision was a heavy military boot stomping down from above.
"Whew, hey! Sun's about to rise soon, so wrap it up!"
An armed policeman casually wiped Uyghur blood from his helmet.
He swung his death-stained club, barking orders to his men.
"Round up those reactionary scum rolling in the streets and lock 'em up! Pile the dead in a corner and dispose of them! Burn 'em all at once—no evidence left!"
"Yes, sir!"
"And don't forget to thoroughly check every foreigner you see. Wipe all photos and videos clean!"
Corpses littered the streets.
Even after the crackdown ended, muzzles occasionally spat fire, gunpowder scent slowly spreading.
Watching all this madness from afar, from the top of a distant hotel, was one man.
"These... crazy bastards. How many people do they plan to kill?"
The man, employed by a certain French resource development firm, hid his body behind the curtains so it wouldn't be visible.
A video camera trembled in his hands. If the public security officers pointing guns at people down there spotted this, he'd likely end up another street corpse.
Legs giving way, he hit stop on the recording and slumped to the floor by the window.
"I have to... let the whole world know about this tragedy right now."
His sense of justice burned, but his body wouldn't budge easily.
His status required long-term stay in Xinjiang for resource surveys. Uploading online risked detection by Chinese authorities, spelling big trouble.
"But... how the hell am I supposed to do that?"
He bit his lower lip hard.
Especially infuriated by the reality so different from the fabricated state media broadcasts.
Yet, as he said, there was nothing he could do.
Pulling strong liquor from the minibar, he chugged straight from the bottle, muttering to himself.
"At the very least... I have to get this footage out."
Without using the censored internet, he'd need to smuggle it physically on a USB or similar.
The problem: over three years until his scheduled departure. With no other way, he clutched his head in agony.
Until... right then, when his phone rang.
-Riiing! Riiing!
"Whew, looks like HQ's already heard. Yes, this is Pierre."
"Pierre? It's Michel, working in Korea. Remember me?"
"Michel?"
A call from an unexpected person.
A good colleague from his previous job, but they hadn't spoken in years.
The snowballing bewilderment melted away with his next words.
"You're... in Xinjiang right now, aren't you? With a clear view of the public security crackdown."