What made it so that the Revolutions in the past have failed humanity? How was it, that when man was poised to grasp socialism and forge ahead past the tyrannies of Reaction men have failed in their quests? Of the latest to note were the Bolsheviks. How is it that the Bolshevik party of Russian communism crashed itself against the rocks when it had the power to truly seize it? Was it a flaw within their organization? An error in their judgment? It must have been one, or it must have been another. For as we go ahead now we do not seek the future sunrise without the specter of the past reaching out from the moon fall and threatening to cloud our sunlit day with overcast clouds before yet another era of night. And like so much, the currents of the present flow out of the river of the past. And if we are to seize our future we must know our past, otherwise where do we dam the river of the present era to reroute it down another branch without knowing its depths, or the speed of its waters? If we are to go about our work thinking the water is too shallow, then the ills of history will still control our present as the waters flow under or over our dam. If we build on too steep a slope, the currents of history will wash over us all and plunge our work into oblivion. We have hope: and that hope is knowing. We should know the past of revolution, as we know our enemies; so that we may overcome it. In the dire state of Revolution as it exists in China today we come to the clear perception that any hope for a government of the common working man and of the humble peasant may not soon arise within the next century if such inaction continues. The elite powers of the ignoble Kuomintang and Japanese invaders will thus abuse the sanctity of the Chinese people and economic powers for generations to come. And those areas which call themselves in open revolution against the nation, not furthering the borders and scope, they will be in time overcome by the designs of all our enemies and our liberty taken from us. They set the stage of China in a millennium of war, for it is all both sides understand. The blink of the Great War of Europe will be naught by a speck compared to the blood both shall pour into our rivers. But we need not give up our hope, the Revolution is not lost and our liberty is not at an end. Give me the moment brothers, and reviewing the past we will find the qualities of the present we wish to have to reach our final victory. Let us speak now as brothers and sisters in the same room, and talk of equal minds on the importance of the deconstruction to come. I know well this is not an easy thing to accomplish, but with my best efforts put forward it shall be done. War swept Europe in the year 1914 and all powers with something to gain or to lose threw in their metal on the field of war and for years turned their own civilization on their head. Into it, the Empire of Russia went forth with all its men, all its horses, and all its guns. The cities turned to the production of war as the Czar scoured the countryside for young peasants to do the dying of the nobility. This was, as in any time of duress a moment of sudden unity for the nation as all the czar's men did the work of the nation. But war is brutal and not in all the tastes of the men who have nothing to gain from it, and everything to lose. Secret cabals and societies met across the Russian state to conspire to exit from the conflict, and feeling even the Czar was to blame how might he be removed from office, or his powers usurped to the greater authority of wider men. These societies and movements gathered into a public campaign, and the czar obtained the wisdom of his folly and did as a wise man would; left a senseless war with the greatest grace and humility attributed to a monarch; which is not much to say the least. Appealing the peace men, he shed the dangers to his right, and to the left conceded to letting go of some of his power. And so with his political power reconsolidated his enemies withdrew in peace from his side and did little to threaten the czar. But before him stood the entire clique that opposed him to the czar's very roots and they demanded not just an exit, not just a surrendering of his power again to the Duma formed in 1905, but for the entire liquidation of his office – which had at that point been known as a cannibal entity which would devour the bodies of its enemies during the slightest political feud - and all that he had made; and rightly so for the benefit of all proletariat of Russia. And by virtue of his position he refused, and of the others they refused to recognize his refusal. And these men were the Bolsheviks, the martyrs of Revolution in Russia. The rightly people who should have inherited the state and brought it forth into the illumination of the modern era. The two embroiled themselves in bitter conflict and it was in the end the the Bolsheviks were defeated and driven under. Their leaders exiled to the far east or hanged for their treason. And we so see the clear path of history laid before us. But the question is: how is it this came to pass? In 1920 the Communist Party in China was founded, as born out of the events of the winter of 1919. But they did not act as outsiders to the political sphere and they nurtured themselves within the government of the Republic for five years until their unjust exile from said government. And while the factions were many, there was a quiet solidarity between them. But it was in Russia that the Bolsheviks loyalties faltered and flirted between personalities and alliances and the power of popular revolution was not in the hands of two generally amiable factions, but in several forces at play. They could all agree to social democracy but not to what it would look like when they had it. This disunity between the soviets and disregards for its own principles was the cancer that ate at the heart of their movement. For when the Czar did acquiesce to the demands of the people and abandoned a war by which nobody had anything to win, the Communist movement in Russia had its footing torn out from under it. Those who would have stood firmly with the Party of Lenin and Trotsky lost their balance and fell to the simple action. And with so many of the youths of the party seeing their friends and brothers coming home lost spirit in action as they believed simple petition could rescue the day. So the battle I so described before was far from being one of equals. The Bolsheviks and the czarists clashed, but it was a clash where the czarists went between the lines and ate the weakest stock in the army and improved itself as disunity and disruption exploded through the ranks of its enemies. The Party of Lenin had not been prepared for this and did not have the foresight to see that when his ranks are broken they are easily pulled apart. Compare now to China, where the Party was simply cut from the main trunk of government and cast aside and left to dig its own roots. Our enemies thought that the branch they have cut off was dead. But it was simply grafted onto a new body. We have acknowledged and repaired our disunity for the most part. The Bolsheviks had done little in this way. They went ahead and did not expect to be so enveloped. We stand back in fear of this envelopment. But when the spirit of the movement is so superior to that of the enemy, its spirit dying ever so much by the day it would be folly to not advance and to bite. It would be a historical embarrassment upon us all for history to look back at both these revolutions and see the failure of the exact opposites taken. “And where,” history will ask, “Did China go?” So, we must turn to the past as we do inward to seek the strengths from the weakness of our person hoods and find our own swords. And doing so know: the Bolsheviks were a failure! A failure of judgment! A failure of strategy! A failure of action! Their hearts were set in a golden chest but this chest was looted by the indignant forces of Reaction when their backs were turned. With all men at the Vanguard none were there to watch the Train. And as the Revolution is now, too many men stand watch at the Train and the Vanguard is weakened now. The tip of the spear is blunted and bent. We fight of the offense with mud and only toy at seizing our futures. [right][i]On The Current State of Revolution and the Bolsheviks[/i][/right] [right][i]Hou Tsai Tang, 1931[/i][/right] [h1]Beijing[/h1] [h2]May 13th, 1943[/h2] The early morning air was unusually crisp for this time of year in China. A lost frosty fog hung low over the city as Yu Wei sat still in the shadow of a bomb-torn structure at the heart of the city. The wide corridor of Shili Changjie – Chang'an Avenue – stretched out into the pale milky mirk that had dropped down over Beijing. Distantly, the faint cracks of rifle and machine gun fire echoed in the still air as the distant thunder cracks of mortar and artillery fire rippled across the countryside and the hills that nearly enveloped Beijing itself. There was a sense of disquiet that lay heavily on Yu Wei's heart as he leaned against the cold moist stone of the remaining wall, his rifle cradled in his arms as he scanned the distant foggy horizon for the silhouettes of movement. Nothing moved out there. Not even with the safety knowing the fog would conceal them from snipers or hidden machine gun nests, nothing dared to prowl the long avenue lest they be noticed by some concealed enemy. There were many places one might hide in the city itself, least of all being so near to the doorstep of the Imperial Palace, the Forbidden City. Each hutong that defined the urban maze was taken and held and lost with the blood of many men and the cobble stones were still red with the gore of fallen soldiers. It had become unsettling at first to see the blood between the stones, it reminded Wei of the blood that covered the courtyard of his family home when a goat was slaughtered; but it was one goat he could stand to stomach seen killed, not the multitudes of men that had dropped then and there from one well positioned machine gun in a doorway on the far side. Yet, despite the carnage of the siege the army of revolution had moved ahead steadily into the city. The imperialists and the Japanese that had entrenched themselves had no choice but to withdraw slowly through the weeks and fighting as the line gave, ammo was lost, and desperation mounted among the Palace military. When the revolutionaries had breached far in enough to see the wide courtyard of Tian'anmen there was a cheer and hope that they would soon preach the palace itself and capture the Emperor, who was said to have been trapped in Beijing. Wei knew a man who scoured the wreck of each aircraft that had been shot down trying to flee the city and he reported not once to have found the body of a royal, though he told him once he had located the body of a woman he claimed to have been a concubine to Puyi and took the corpse's finger as a trophy; he did not believe him though, the finger looked far too clean to have survived a crash from an airplane. It did show just how much everyone was hopeful. How the long struggle was coming to a close and soon what remained of hope to continue the fight would melt away and they'd soon by the victors. Wei continued to lean up against the wall. He jumped a suddenly as a hand landed on his shoulder, he spun excitedly around to meet whoever had touched him ready to smash him with the butt of his rifle. But he hesitated at the sight of the man's face who had touched him. “Comrade.” he said, lowering his rifle, “Say something next time, Chun Jiao.” Jiao shrugged indifferently. He was a dirty man who smiled wide, showing the wide gap in his teeth from where he had his front teeth knocked out by debris. He had many more injuries, his thumb was bent and broken at an odd angle, his nose was broken inwards and while already short was forced into a downward bend that gave him the look of a dirty, lightly browned pig. “You see anything?” he asked, raising a hand and scratching under the wool hat that capped his head. “It's very hard to see a thing.” Wei answered him, resuming his position. He cross his arms across his chest as he hugged his rifle. “I wish we could see Zongshan.” said Jiao, referring to the park that made up the southern doorstep to the palace. The Forbidden Palace was perhaps no more than a couple blocks from them, the park itself no more than one block. But in the hazy mist it was completely obscured. At times when it let up there might be a faint outline of a structure, or a pavilion, or some other nearby structure, but it would slip away into the veil like a ghost ship disappears into a thick ocean fog. “It's spooky.” said Wei, “It's so still.” “Incredibly still.” Jiao acknowledged fishing in his pockets and pulling out a wad of paper. Wei looked over at him with an impassive expression and watched as he unwrapped a fistful of dry pieces of salted pork. Numbly Jiao picked away at the dry strips of seasoned meat and chewed loudly at the tough strips. He offered his companion from, and he pulled free a couple spare pieces and began eating. The meat was as rough and dry as leather. Wei's mouth went sore as he chewed and chewed at the meat. Jiao would uncork his canteen of water and take a swig and then pass it to Wei who would share in the same to wash out the salt and help soften the brutally tough meat. The two men stood indifferently lunching on the ration meat as they waited and watched for movement for the next ten minutes, hardly exchanging a word as they looked out down the street. They stirred from their meal when a sound rumbled from behind them. The two men turned and peeked around the corner. In the distant fog headlight beams cut through the morning mist, following them was the sound of running engines. Wei picked up his rifle and walked out into the street, raising his hand. Jiao followed after, fist full of pork held out in front like a gift he never really intended to hand over. A large truck pulled to a stop as Wei stepped aside to avoid being run over. Walking over to the driver's window he climbed up on the running board to speak with the driver who lowered the window. “You can't go any further!” Wei warned him, “The reactionaries are hold up beyond here. The palace is just a few blocks down.” “We know!” the driver said, shouting over the low diesel hum of the running motor, “That's where we're going. We just got word: the reactionaries surrendered!” The news struck Wei and he hung limp from the window for a second as his face went limp. His chest quivered as he asked, “Are you sure?” “I'm sure.” the driver said loudly as Jiao strolled over. The driver rummaged somewhere in his wool coat and pulled up a wrinkled yellow note, “From Hou's post himself.” he handed it through the window to Wei. Gently holding the crinkled yellow paper in his hands he looked in disbelief at the paper with its few short words written in quick certain strokes. “ENEMY SURRENDERED. ADVANCE ON PALACE FOR SURRENDER. TO NOT FIRE ON ANYONE.” Wei licked his dry salty lips. The orders demands sinking in on him as he handed over the orders to the driver. He caught Jiao in the corner of his vision, staring perplexed as his cheeks bulged from an over indulgence of salt pork. “I- I see.” Wei muttered softly, almost too quietly to hear. “I'd invite you to ride along, but the bed's full!” the driver declared, “You'll need to walk alongside or find a rear-most carriage.” Wei dropped down, “I understand.” he nodded. He was in a dreamlike state as he threw his rifle against his back and stepped aside to let the truck past. He stood in a stunned state as he worked over the sudden and unexpected change in reality. How could the enemy surrender? They never surrendered! They- “What's going on? Why are they headed towards the palace?” Jiao shouted to him over the sound of motors. The first truck had just gone and the second was just coming by. Wei turned to his companion and said, “The Palace surrendered.” somehow the words helped to confirm the reality and with a kick the dreamlike state was disbanded. “The Palace surrendered!” he cheered, a spring coming to his step and he bound off alongside the caravan. Songs of victory now were being sung by every men in the caravan. Many different songs. Songs of battles won, loves to meet again, fields to till. Songs of pain, songs of glory. Each verse, each chorus, and each lyric mixed together into a cacophony of noise amid the engines as the caravan moved on closer to the Palace with Wei and Jiao racing alongside. “What do you mean?” shouted Jiao as they raced down Chang'an. To their left the moat that kept the street and Zhongshan Park seperate from each other sat cool and dark at the bottom of its grassy banks. In the pale distance the red face of Tian'anmen Gate stood looming over the scenery. The trucks ahead were gathering and pulling aside, piling up unsystematically in front of the gate and pouring out their riders who raced ahead to the gate cheering. Seeing this, Jiao realized before Wei could find his breath to answer that this was true: the enemy had surrendered. Masses of men and women raced through the gate with their rifles and submachine guns held above their heads and they whooped and hollered. Their cheers breaking the calm of the foggy morning. On the parapets men climbed up and took to the flagpoles, tearing down the Manchurian flags that flew there, and the Japanese suns and replaced them with the blood-red banners of revolution. Jiao and Wei were forced to lock hands as they entered the building crown, least they were swept away. They two were jostled feverishly between masses of bodies as men from a million villages, a thousand counties, hundreds of towns and cities, and at least several countries ran themselves through Zongshan park in an ecstatic cheer . Armored cars were part of the throng as they tried to pull to the side to stand among the trees of the central park to guard the way with their red banners. The men made their way towards the Meridian Gate, which they found to be locked. But this did not bother them as they gathered at it and sang and cheered at the walls. Above them the as of yet untouchable flags of Japan and Muchuria hung in limp morning as the gate stood silent. No men stood atop the walls, it was as if the Earth had suddenly become vacant, and the army of revolutionaries itself had been left behind to inherit a new world. Songs in several different languages rose into the air, and Wei could not help but be carried away in the cheer, his last reservations lifted as he stood in the midst of the crowd, being naturally pushed closer to the walls of the old Imperial Palace as men jostled against on another and their cheers mixing. Thought despite the ecstasy and all the cheer, Jiao on the other hand could not help but watch the walls, afraid men might appear and open fire on the celebrating men below. The bulk of the army in central Beijing seemed to be here, and it would be easy to do away with much of it with several well placed grenades and a rain of gunfire. But nothing of that seemed to happen. If anything, the celebrations intensified as more joined in, the park was soon over taken, and then the crowd parted. The cheering and celebrations subsided as the intervening party made its approach. Guided by soldiers with rifles the celebratory army was parted as a handful of men made their way somberly to the Forbidden City. Wei looked over at them as the rifles gently pushing them back made their way passed. Walking in a loose wedge, the division commanders of the present army made their way, lead by a tall narrowly built figure in military khakis several sizes too small for him. Wei recognized him for his slender, narrow face and pointed beard. Hou Tsai Tang, walking with his head up as he gazed upwards at the peak of the Meridian gate. The great wooden doors actually opened for him, and Hou and his commanders passed inside with their guards. The gates were shut before any others could stream in. For the next hour, the army waited in silence. As the morning wore on and the sun heated the morning air the mist slowly dissipated. The city began to glow with a fresh warm orange light, free of the oppression of cold air and clouds. As the air warmed around them as the sun crescendoed closer to afternoon and the mist was replaced with a pale dew a murmur raced through the crowd as heads turned up to a figure taking his place at the top of the Meridian Gate. He was too distant to see for Wei, but the lone figure was soon joined by several others who went about removing the flags from the gate. Applause roared among the soldiers, and Wei could feel the pride lift into the air as the applause grew louder as the flags dropped lower. There was an explosion of raw joy as the red flag of China was unfurled and raised, and from the parapets the dry voice of Hou shouted out into the morning, “The enemy has surrendered! Beijing is ours!” Cheers exploded, and somewhere in the back someone began singing La Internationale in wavering Chinese. The voice was quickly met with others, and in a wave of enthusiasm the voices of many thousands joined in unison to the song. Even Wei was swept on the upward currents and sprang into loud joyous song, he let it carry his voice away into the throngs of the many and his ears rang with the thousands. [hr] [h1]Beijing[/h1] [h2]May 13th, 1960 (present day)[/h2] The hall was filled with excited chatter as men with their wives migrated between the dinner tables. Every was dressed in their finery, gray, white, gray-blue suits, red and yellow dresses, or the black finery of both men and women. The dinner hall was dressed over in red banners and orange stars and giant placards loudly and largely celebrated progress and the future. On easels at ground level around the edge of the room in regularly spaced groups stood enlarged black and white photographs of the liberation of Beijing from Imperialist forces. Around these mingled the groups of veteran soldiers who hadn't made it into political life but were none the less held in high esteem all the same. The room was normally use for congressional conferences, and was in fact in the middle of the large National Congressional complex close to the center of Beijing, built over top land destroyed during the battle of liberation. On entering the front entrance and standing in the entrance gallery a visitor may walk to the right and enter into the congressional theater itself, or the other direction and enter the offices. Straight ahead was the conference halls and the other small halls for committee or other purposes, all laid out in a vague T of perfect symmetry. Architecturally, the chamber was built in some marriage between western state-house style and Chinese character. Brightly colored pillars were set close to the walls and rose up to a vaulted and latticed ceiling some two-stories above the party goers as chandeliers illuminated the gala dinner below. Tall gallery windows opened up into the night sky outside as a light rain came down on the hall. The ambiance of gossip and of the band playing a mixture of Chinese and western instruments at the far end of the hall otherwise drowned that out though. Hou Tsai Tang stood at the center of the room, a man now in his mid sixties. His narrow faced reamed with fine lines and wrinkles, the pointed spear-tip beard on his chin having softened with time and beginning to gray with the rest of his hair on his head. But his soft brown eyes held a sharpened wisdom and they smiled along as he greeted the guests that came to him. He came to remember the names of many of them, though he also knew the greater number of guests who spoke to him because he knew them from politics. For the few that he could not remember he all the same spoke to them and acted as if they were long-time comrades. Alongside him was his wife, a short woman who stood a whole head shorter than Hou. She was close to a full seven years younger than him, and despite the lines in her face still managed to hold a figure of a lady half her age despite having had two children. Her figure was held tight in a white and rose printed silk Cheongsam, in contrast to her husband's black Zhongshan with red embroidered trim. Her face was round, with a forehead made to look stretched from the hair pulled back and wrapped into a bun behind her head. The two together seemed to move with poise about the room, migrating between the guests and trading stories above glasses of wine. From among the crowd a veteran found and approached Hou, who left himself open to be approached in this situation. “Comrade Hou!” the man exclaimed over the din of the crowd, turning the statesman's attention from his prior conversation. He turned to great the new comer with a polite smile, and as the former soldier bowed he too bowed in respect back to him. “Comrade, how are you this evening? You enjoying yourself?” he asked softly. “That I am.” the soldier said, nodding appreciatively. He folded his arms behind his back and smiled at both Hou and his wife, “The weather though could be better.” he added, laughing bashfully. “Well there is not much that can be done about that.” Hou said with a dismissive laugh, “It is at least a clear rainy night.” “That it is, comrade.” the soldier agreed, “I was here in the city the day it was finally liberated.” he announced, “And I remember that it was foggy.” “Yes, the worse condition to be in. But, I am glad it was that day it was surrendered to us. Were you at the palace?” he asked, leaning in hoping to confirm. “I was, I saw you enter the walls.” the veteran said with a nervous laugh, “And after all these seventeen years I often wonder: what happened in those walls?” “Terms of surrender.” and that's all Hou knew he needed to know, “The fate of the emperor, his cohorts, and the international citizens under his protection at the time. In the end, all went well; as you know.” “And I couldn't ask for better.” the veteran acknowledged. Hou nodded passively, and his wife interjected. “Mr...” she began, uncertainly. “Yu Wei, lady Hou Ju.” Wei replied. “Are you from Jiangxi?” she asked politely. “Fujian, ma'am.” Wei corrected. “You don't say? I have cousins in Fujian. Where in?” “Upriver of Fuzhou, outside of Sharendang.” “Oh, well mine live Ningde.” she answered with a sorrowful sigh, and sipped her wine, “It is beautiful country down there though. You are a fortunate man.” “I know, I wouldn't live anywhere better to raise children.” “How many do you have?” Hou asked conversationally. “I have five.” Wei nodded excitedly, “The first was born just ten months after the Revolution was over.” “How wonderful!” Hou Ju exclaimed, “Both of ours are in the Academy now. Does your eldest have any plans?” “I'm sure he wants to go into the service.” Wei nodded excitedly. There was a nervous light in his eyes that Hou picked up on. “Are you anxious?” he asked. “I know no father who wouldn't be any more worried. He'll have his exams in a year.” “If he is the son of such a honorable comrade, I am sure he would have been well raised.” The conversation may have continued, by a soft hand interrupted it and turned Hou's attention away. A stout man stood behind the Secretariat and he pointed down to a watch on his wrist. “It is nearly nine, comrade.” he said in a soft tone. Hou acknowledged by raising his hand and turned back to Wei. “It's been a pleasure.” he said with a bow, but I have to leave. It's almost time for the toast, and dinner.” “Oh, understood.” said Wei, backing away. Hou turned and walked with brisk grace towards the band stage. Turning to follow her husband Hou Ju said he farewells to Wei, “Hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.” The band stage was a half-egg shaped platform at the forefront of the room. The band that played stood and sat on a raised platform erected earlier that day and covered in carpet and sheets. As Hou came to step alongside with a security guard a microphone was position at center stage. Its presence was a signal to the musicians the music was almost at an end. Passing glances were exchanged between them and Hou and he returned each with the slightest of nods. As the music drew to a close the chatter in the hall came to a steady end. All eyes turned up to the stage as Hou Tsai Tang took his position at the microphone. Still holding the glass of wine close to his belly he stood and looked out over the packed hall. “Comrades.” he said, raising his glass. His voice echoed airily and with a dry sigh, “We gather here, seventeen years after the liberation of Beijing and the conclusion of the northern front to pay our respects and memory to our fallen brothers and sisters who sacrificed their lives in the north. Their deaths were not a sprinkling of dead branches across a barren ground, but a spreading of flowering seed to bring a bright future. While they gave themselves up for the better future we all wish to someday own, they have left us physically. But as spirits, as the spirit within all man they have not left this world, for they only have joined the greater brotherhood. “We come here tonight, as we come to this city and pay our honors to this fallen men and women to share in that same communal spirit that forms a nation, and rebirths China from the void and into the light of the modern era. We may live in it, but it was given to us in sacrifice. I need not say that many of us here have known... those who died.” his voice choked in all earnest honesty at those passing words, but he regained his composure to continue, “For... we all have. There is not a man in this room as there is not a village in China who have not lost a son and daughter to recreate China. And for that, eternal gratitude, eternal love, and eternal brotherliness. “To them, I offer to commemorate this toast.” he rose his glass and throughout the room glasses went up into the crystalline light of the chamber. “To our lost brothers, to our lost sisters.” Hou said as the room repeated.