Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism: A Study of 'brainwashing' in China

PREFACE:TO THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA PRESS EDITION

Now, after twenty-eight years, my own sense of this book has changed. I see it as less a specific record of Maoist China and more an exploration of what might be the most dangerous direction of the twentieth-century mind—the quest for absolute or totalistic belief systems.

Indeed, that quest has produced nothing short of a worldwide epidemic of political and religious fundamentalism—of movements characterized by literalized embrace of sacred texts as containing absolute truth for all persons, and a mandate for militant, often violent, measures taken against designated enemies of that truth or mere unbelievers. The epidemic includes fundamentalist versions of existing religions and political movements as well as newly emerging groups that may combine disparate ideological elements.

These latter groups are often referred to as cults, now a somewhat pejorative designation, so that some observers prefer the term new religions. But I think we can speak of cults as groups with certain characteristics: first, a charismatic leader, who tends increasingly to become the object of worship in place of more general spiritual principles that are advocated; second, patterns of thought reform akin to those described in this volume, and especially in Chapter 22; and third, a tendency toward manipulation from above with considerable exploitation (economic, sexual, or other) of ordinary supplicants or recruits who bring their idealism from below.

Indeed, this book is largely responsible for my having been drawn into these controversies. With the profusion of the religious cults during the late 1970s and 1980s, I began to hear that Chapter 22 was being made use of for various forms of deprogramming of cult recruits, and then that the same chapter was being studied by cult leaders, ostensibly for the purpose of dissociating their groups from the patterns I described. Young people who had been involved in cults and the parents of such people began to consult me about these general patterns. I felt I had to clarify my position by preparing a new essay on cult formation and totalism in my recent collection The Future of Immortality and Other Essays for a Nuclear Age (1987), but I have been especially pleased by the extent to which this earlier volume on thought reform has remained central to literature on cults and on totalism in general.

Tendencies toward totalism in China itself have diminished over the years, as have specific thought reform programs. But that did not happen until after a fierce reassertion of totalistic behavior during the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution of the late 1960s and early 1970s. I was able to study that upheaval and saw in it an effort on the part of the aging Mao Zedong to call forth the young in a common quest to reassert the immortalizing power of the revolution itself, and hence I entitled the work Revolutionary Immortality: Mao Tse-Tung and the Chinese Revolution (1968). Chinese society is still recovering from that extreme, often violent, outbreak. The regime’s subsequent tendency, through fits and starts, has been in the direction of liberalization throughout the society, but that in no way precludes the possibility of future waves of totalistic policies or thought reform projects.

From the beginning, this book was meant to provide principles of a general kind, criteria for evaluating any environment in relationship to ideological totalism. Such patterns are all too readily embraced by a great variety of groups, large and small, as a means of manipulating human beings, always in the name of a higher purpose. And it should not be forgotten that such groups can hold great attraction for large numbers of people.

In recent research on Nazi Germany I was able to explore the most sinister of all historical examples of this phenomenon. I found that a particular kind of totalistic ideology—a biologized view of society, or what I called a biomedical vision—could, with its accompanying institutions, draw very ordinary people into murderous activities. I came to understand that, in an atmosphere of totalism and brutality, even fragments of an ideology can readily contribute to participation in killing, as I reported in my book The Nazi Doctors: Medical Killing and the Psychology of Genocide (1986). There are parallels in Nazi and Chinese Communist use of the idiom of disease and cure, as totalistic systems are apt to do; equally significant is the general contrast between Nazi cure by mass murder and Chinese Communist cure by re-education.

I have been equally concerned with a contemporary category of fundamentalism that could contribute to killing on so great a scale as to dwarf even what the Nazis did, that associated with nuclear threat. Nuclear fundamentalism can take shape around the weapons themselves: the exaggerated dependency on them and embrace of them to the point of near worship. That is what I call the ideology of nuclearism. The weapons become an ultimate truth in their ostensible capacity to grant security and safety, to keep the world going, to offer salvation.

A seemingly different but related form of nuclear fundamentalism is the end-time ideology, within which nuclear holocaust is viewed as the realization of biblical prophecy and a necessary occurrence to bring about the longed-for Second Coming of Jesus and eventual earthly paradise. In a study we have been conducting at The City University Center on Violence and Human Survival, we have been pleased to learn that even fundamentalists with strong belief in end-time ideas find it hard to espouse this formula without great ambivalence and uncertainty. They too, it seems, have taken in some of the horrible actuality of the consequences of nuclear weapons and find it hard to believe that God would bring about such horrors or permit them to occur. Nonetheless, these fundamentalist attitudes become associated with the weapons in varying ways and with varying intensity throughout much of our society, and in the process they interfere greatly with the nuanced thought and moral imagination needed to cope with nuclear threat.

While totalitarianism is a twentieth-century phenomenon requiring modern technology and communications networks, the totalistic cast of mind is not. It probably was, in fact, much more common in previous centuries. It is in any case part of the human repertoire, an ever-present potential that can readily manifest itself when historical conditions call it forth. What is new is the potential for radically increased consequences of totalism, to the point of human extinction.

The kind of wisdom that totalistic ideas now interfere with has to do with what I call species awareness and the species self, the recognition that, given the capacity of our weaponry to destroy all human life, each sense of self becomes bound up with the life of every other self on the planet. My critical evaluation of ideological totalism in this book is meant to further that species orientation.

RJL

The City University of New York

January 1989

PREFACE

This study began as a psychiatric evaluation of Chinese Communist thought reform, or brainwashing. It is still primarily this; but it has also, inevitably, become a psychological study of extremism or totalism—and even more broadly, a study of the closed versus the open approaches to human change.

It is based upon research which I conducted in Hong Kong in 1954–55. It then evolved over four years of additional research and teaching in the United States. My work with Western and Chinese subjects—piecing together emotional details that were both poignant and extreme—and the psychological, moral, and historical challenge of the material have made this study an exceptionally absorbing personal and professional experience.

A book about extremism calls for a special measure of objectivity. This does not mean that its author can claim complete personal or moral detachment. The assumption of such detachment in psychological (or any other) work is at best self-deception, and at worst a source of harmful distortion. And who during this era can pretend to be uninvolved in the issues of psychological coercion, of identity, and of ideology? Certainly not one who has felt impelled to study them at such length.

Instead, I have attempted to be both reasonably dispassionate and responsibly committed: dispassionate in my efforts to stand away from the material far enough to probe the nature of the process, its effects upon people exposed to it, and some of the influences affecting its practitioners; committed to my own analyses and judgments within the limitations and the bias of my knowledge.

Much in this book is highly critical of the particular aspect of Chinese Communism which it examines, but I have made no attempt to render a definitive verdict on this far-reaching revolutionary movement. I am critical of thought reform’s psychological tactics, not because they are Communist (or Chinese Communist), but because of their specific nature. In the last section of this book, these tactics are compared with practices within our own culture, which also receive critical treatment insofar as they resemble the ideological totalism of thought reform. Instead of contrasting the good we and the bad they, rather, I have attempted to identify and understand a particular psychological phenomenon.

In the pursuit of this understanding, I have recorded all that seemed relevant, including the details of whatever psychological and physical abuse my subjects encountered. I believe that this comprehensive approach offers the best means of contributing to general knowledge, and to the clarification of an emotionally loaded subject; and I hope that this study will thereby ultimately contribute to the resolution, rather than to the intensification, of cold war passions. It is in fact one of the tragedies of the cold war that moral criticism of either side is immediately exploited by the other side in an exaggerated, one-dimensional fashion. One can never prevent this from happening; but one can at least express the spirit in which a work has been written.

Such an approach requires that I inform the reader about my bias in both psychiatric and political matters. Psychiatrically, I have been strongly influenced by both neo-Freudian and Freudian currents: the former through an association with the Washington School of Psychiatry during and immediately after the research study itself, and the latter through a subsequent candidacy in the Boston Psychoanalytic Institute. Both influences were also present in my earlier psychiatric residency training at the State University Medical Center of New York. I have found the theoretical writings of Erik Erikson, especially those relating to questions of personal identity and ideology, particularly relevant for this study. At the same time, I have constantly groped for new ways to bring psychological insights to bear upon historical forces, and do so with a humanistic focus. Thus, I have made extensive use of my subjects’ biographical material, and have attempted to include in these presentations a flesh-and-bones description of their life histories in relationship to pertinent social historical currents, as well as a rigorous psychological analysis of their responses to thought reform. This seemed to me the best way to deal with the inseparable relationship between stress and response, and (in William James’ phrase) to convey truth.

My political philosophical bias is toward a liberalism strongly critical of itself; and toward the kind of antitotalitarian (in the psychological terms of this study, antitotalistic), historically-minded questioning of the order of things expressed by Albert Camus in his brilliant philosophical essay, The Rebel. No one understood better than Camus the human issues involved in this book.

I should like to mention a few of the many people whose direct personal assistance was indispensable to the completion of this study. David McK. Rioch lent initial support when support was most needed, and always continued to enrich the work through his urbane eclecticism, his provocative criticism, and his personal kindness. Erik Erikson, during many memorable talks at Stock-bridge and Cambridge, made stimulating and enlarging suggestions, both about specific case histories and problems of presentation. During the latter stages of the work, David Riesman offered generously of his extraordinary intellectual breadth and his unique personal capacity to evoke what is most creative within one. Carl Binger has been sage and always helpful in his advice. All four made thoughtful criticisms of the manuscript, as did Kenneth Keniston and F. C. Redlich. Others in psychiatry and related fields to whom I am indebted are Leslie Farber, Erich Lindemann, Margaret Mead, and Beata Rank. In the perilous subtleties of Chinese cultural, intellectual, and political history, I was constantly counseled by Benjamin Schwartz and by John Fairbank, both of whom read parts of the manuscript; and earlier in the work by Lu Pao-tung, Ma Meng, Howard Boorman, Conrad Brandt, and A. Doak Barnett.

The literary advice and loving sustenance of my wife, Betty Jean Lifton, can hardly be documented. My father, Harold A. Lifton, also did much to encourage this study.

The Hong Kong research was sponsored for the first seven months by the Asia Foundation, and for the remaining year by the Washington School of Psychiatry. The manuscript was completed under grants from the Ford Foundation and the Foundation’s Fund for Research in Psychiatry, both administered through Harvard University.

Finally, I must acknowledge my debt to the forty research subjects, Chinese and Western, whose personal thought reform experiences are the basis for this study. The extent of their intelligent collaboration in this work is apparent in the biographical chapters. In these, I have altered certain details in order to protect the subjects’ anonymity; but none of these alterations affect the essential psychological patterns.

PART ONE

THE PROBLEM

How intoxicating to feel like God the Father and to hand out definitive testimonials of bad character and habits.

Albert Camus

Only simple and quiet words will ripen of themselves. For a whirlwind does not last for the whole morning. Nor does a thundershower last the whole day. Who is their author? The heaven and earth. Yet even they cannot make such violent things last. How much more true this must be of the rash endeavors of man.

Lao Tze

CHAPTER 1

WHAT IS BRAINWASHING?

When confronted with the endless discussion on the general subject of brainwashing, I am sometimes reminded of the Zen Buddhist maxim: The more we talk about it, the less we understand it. The confusion begins with the word itself, so new and yet already so much a part of our everyday language. It was first used by an American journalist, Edward Hunter, as a translation of the colloquialism hsi nao (literally, wash brain) which he quoted from Chinese informants who described its use following the Communist takeover.)¹

Brainwashing soon developed a life of its own. Originally used to describe Chinese indoctrination techniques, it was quickly applied to Russian and Eastern European approaches, and then to just about anything which the Communists did anywhere (as illustrated by the statement of a prominent American lady who, upon returning from a trip to Moscow, claimed that the Russians were brainwashing prospective mothers in order to prepare them for natural childbirth). Inevitably, the word made its appearance closer to home, sometimes with the saving grace of humor (New Yorker cartoons of children brainwashing parents, and wives brainwashing husbands), but on other occasions with a more vindictive tone—as when Southern segregationists accused all who favor racial equality (including the United States Supreme Court) of having been influenced by left-wing brainwashing; or equally irresponsible usages by anti-fluoridation, anti-mental health legislation, or anti-almost anything groups leveled against their real or fancied opponents.

Then there is the lurid mythology which has grown up about it: the mysterious oriental device, or the deliberate application of Pavlov’s findings on dogs. There is also another kind of myth, the claim that there is no such thing, that it is all just the fantasy of American correspondents.

Finally, there is the more responsible—even tortured—self-examination which leads professional people to ask whether they in their own activities might not be guilty of brainwashing: educators about their teaching, psychiatrists about their training and their psychotherapy, theologians about their own reform methods. Opponents of these activities, without any such agonizing scrutiny, can more glibly claim that they are "nothing but brainwashing. Others have seen brainwashing" in American advertising, in large corporation training programs, in private preparatory schools, and in congressional investigations. These misgivings are not always without basis, and suggest that there is a continuity between our subject and many less extreme activities; but the matter is not clarified by promiscuous use of the term.

Behind this web of semantic (and more than semantic) confusion lies an image of brainwashing as an all-powerful, irresistible, unfathomable, and magical method of achieving total control over the human mind. It is of course none of these things, and this loose usage makes the word a rallying point for fear, resentment, urges toward submission, justification for failure, irresponsible accusation, and for a wide gamut of emotional extremism. One may justly conclude that the term has a far from precise and a questionable usefulness; one may even be tempted to forget about the whole subject and return to more constructive pursuits.

Yet to do so would be to overlook one of the major problems of our era—that of the psychology and the ethics of directed attempts at changing human beings. For despite the vicissitudes of brainwashing, the process which gave rise to the name is very much a reality: the official Chinese Communist program of szu-hsiang kai-tsao (variously translated as ideological remolding, ideological reform, or as we shall refer to it here, thought reform) has in fact emerged as one of the most powerful efforts at human manipulation ever undertaken. To be sure, such a program is by no means completely new: imposed dogmas, inquisitions, and mass conversion movements have existed in every country and during every historical epoch. But the Chinese Communists have brought to theirs a more organized, comprehensive, and deliberate—a more total—character, as well as a unique blend of energetic and ingenious psychological techniques.

The Western world has heard mostly about thought reform as applied in a military setting: the synthetic bacteriological warfare confessions and the collaboration obtained from United Nations personnel during the Korean War. However, these were merely export versions of a thought reform program aimed, not primarily at Westerners, but at the Chinese people themselves, and vigorously applied in universities, schools, special revolutionary colleges, prisons, business and government offices, labor and peasant organizations. Thought reform combines this impressively widespread distribution with a focused emotional power. Not only does it reach one-fourth of the people of the world, but it seeks to bring about in everyone it touches a significant personal upheaval.

Whatever its setting, thought reform consists of two basic elements: confession, the exposure and renunciation of past and present evil; and re-education, the remaking of a man in the Communist image. These elements are closely related and overlapping, since they both bring into play a series of pressures and appeals—intellectual, emotional, and physical—aimed at social control and individual change.

The American press and public have been greatly concerned about this general subject, and rightly so. But too often the information made available about it has been sensationalist in tone, distorted because of inadequate knowledge, or obscured by the strong emotions which the concept of brainwashing seems to arouse in everyone. Its aura of fear and mystery has been more conducive to polemic than to understanding.

Still the vital questions continue to be asked: Can a man be made to change his beliefs? If a change does occur, how long will it last? How do the Chinese Communists obtain these strange confessions? Do people believe their own confessions, even when false? How successful is thought reform? Do Westerners and Chinese react differently to it? Is there any defense against it? Is it related to psychotherapy? to religious conversion? Have the Chinese discovered new and obscure techniques? What has all this to do with Soviet Russia and international Communism? with Chinese culture? How is it related to other mass movements or inquisitions, religious or political? What are the implications for education? For psychiatric and psychoanalytic training and practice? For religion? How can we recognize parallels to thought reform within our own culture, and what can we do about them?

It was with these questions on my mind that I arrived in Hong Kong in late January, 1954. Just a few months before, I had taken part in the psychiatric evaluation of repatriated American prisoners of war during the exchange operations in Korea known as Big Switch; I had then accompanied a group of these men on the troopship back to the United States.² From the repatriates’ descriptions of what they had experienced, I pieced together a great deal of information about Chinese Communist confession and re-education techniques, and was convinced that this process raised some basic human issues; but the expediencies of the military situation made it difficult to study them with the necessary depth and thoroughness. I thought then that the most important questions might best be approached through work with people who had been reformed within China itself.

Yet I had not come to Hong Kong with any clear intention of carrying out this detailed research. I had planned only a brief stopover on my way from Tokyo back to the United States after having lived in the Far East for almost two years, serving as an Air Force psychiatrist in Japan and Korea. But plans can be changed; and such change is sometimes an expression of an inner plan not yet consciously understood by the planner himself. Thus as long as I was in Hong Kong, I decided to make a few inquiries into a subject that seemed so important.

As soon as I did, I discovered that a number of Western scholars and diplomats there had also been asking themselves these questions. They had been shocked by the effects of indoctrination programs applied on the Chinese mainland. They told me of Western missionaries who, after having made lurid espionage confessions in prison, arrived in Hong Kong deeply confused about what they believed; of young Chinese students violating the most sacred precepts of their culture by publicly denouncing their parents; of distinguished mainland professors renouncing their evil past, even rewriting their academic books from a Marxist standpoint. My Western acquaintances had been both troubled and fascinated by these events, and welcomed my interest in the problem. At my request, they arranged for me to meet a few people like the ones they had described.

The impact of these first encounters was not something one readily forgets: an elderly European Bishop leaning forward in his hospital bed, so deeply impressed with the power of the prison thought reform program he had just experienced that he could only denounce it as an alliance with the demons; a young Chinese girl, still shaken from the group hatred that had been turned upon her at a university in Peking, yet wondering if she had been selfish in leaving.

I realized that these two people had both been through China’s most elemental thought reform programs; and that these programs were much more powerful and comprehensive than the modifications which had been applied to United Nations’ troops in Korea. I also realized that Hong Kong offered a unique opportunity for the study of thought reform, although, surprisingly enough, no one was taking advantage of it. I sought a means of remaining there to undertake prolonged and systematic research into the process; and with the help of two research grants, my stay was extended into seventeen months of stimulating psychiatric investigation.

CHAPTER 2

RESEARCH IN HONG KONG

Hong Kong was no ordinary setting for psychiatric research. Many problems arose, some of which I could anticipate, and others which I had to deal with as I went along, but all of which required approaches departing considerably from usual psychiatric protocol. The basic task was to locate people who had been put through intensive reform experiences and communicate with them in meaningful emotional depth. For I felt that this was the best way to study the psychological features and human effects of the reform process. I was not investigating mental disease or patterns of neurosis; I was studying individual strengths, as well as vulnerabilities.

I soon found out that those who had undergone this experience fell into two broad groups: Western civilians reformed in prisons, and Chinese intellectuals who had undergone their reform in universities or in revolutionary colleges. In both groups, it immediately became clear that intensive work with relatively few people was much more valuable than superficial contacts with many. Thought reform was a complex personal experience, destructive of personal trust; it took time for a subject—especially in an environment as full of suspicion as Hong Kong—to trust me sufficiently to reveal inner feelings of which he was not necessarily proud. And with Chinese subjects this was intensified by the East Asian cultural pattern of saying (as both a form of propriety and a means of personal protection) what one thinks the listener wishes to hear. For the first few sessions, Chinese were particularly likely to offer an elaboration of anti-Communist clichés; only weeks or months later would they reveal the true conflicts stimulated by Communist reform.

The twenty-five Westerners and fifteen Chinese subjects whom I interviewed all had experiences which came under the thought reform category. But I could not ignore differences in the two groups, both differences in the type of programs to which they had been exposed, and in their cultural and historical backgrounds. These differences were important factors in my conduct of the research and in the evaluation of the material, and I have also taken them into account in the book’s organization: Part II deals only with Western subjects, Part III only with Chinese, and Part IV with a consideration of the basic problems raised by thought reform in general.

Most Chinese subjects were more or less permanent residents of Hong Kong, having left mainland China for reasons often associated with a negative response to thought reform. I was able to interview some very soon after their arrival, but the majority had come to Hong Kong a few years before (between 1948 and 1952) when the first great wave of thought reform was at its height, and it was still not too difficult for educated people to leave China. As refugee intellectuals, many supported themselves through work with press and publishing associations, while others received some form of aid from philanthropic and religious groups. I found it best to approach them, always indirectly and always by means of personal introduction, through members of these various Hong Kong organizations. Work with Chinese subjects was invariably complicated—because of problems of language and culture, and because of their difficult life situation (matters which will be discussed more in Part III)—but at the same time it was extremely rewarding. Their life stories revealed much about the history of contemporary China, and their responses taught me a great deal about Chinese character, all of which was of vital importance for understanding thought reform itself. I was able to maintain relationships with them over long periods of time, some for more than a year; I tried to see them frequently at first (two or three half-day or even full-day sessions per week) and then at weekly, bi-weekly, or monthly intervals. As I do not speak Chinese, it was necessary for me to use an interpreter with eleven of the fifteen subjects; the other four spoke fluent English because they had studied either in the West or with Western teachers in China. I was surprised at the emotional depth that could be achieved in these three-way relationships. Much depended on the intelligence and sensitivity of my two regular interpreters (one of them a Western-trained social scientist) and upon my developing with them an effective style of collaborative interviewing.

The rhythms of work with Western subjects were entirely different. For them, Hong Kong was not a home but an interlude. They would arrive fresh from a grueling prison ordeal, generally remain in the colony from one to four weeks, and then embark for Europe or America. Friends, professional associates, or consular officials would greet them and take care of them; confused as they usually were, they needed assistance. They were also fearful and suspicious, which made it necessary for me to approach them through the people in whom they had greatest confidence, and again on the basis of personal introductions. In order to be able to do this, I made myself and my work known among Western diplomatic, religious, and business groups in Hong Kong. The arrival of a Westerner who had been a prisoner in China was always announced in the Hong Kong newspapers, and I was usually able to set up a first meeting almost immediately.

My arrangements with all subjects were highly flexible, varying with the circumstances of each case. When possible, I had them come to my office-apartment; but it was frequently necessary for me to visit Westerners in homes or mission houses where they were staying, or in hospitals where they were convalescing. I insisted only upon the opportunity to conduct the interview in privacy; although even on this point I had to make one exception when a priest, because of his fears, requested that a colleague remain in the room during our talks.

I tried to spend as much time as possible with each Westerner during his brief stay in Hong Kong; but this time varied greatly, and depended upon the subject’s availability, the special features of his case, and my own schedule at the time. Generally, once we had begun, the subject was as eager as I to work intensively together. I averaged a total of about fifteen to twenty hours with each; with some I spent more than forty hours over several months, and in one or two cases, we had just a single interview. A session might last anywhere from one to three hours. Thus, a typical relationship with a Western subject consisted of eight or nine two-hour interviews over a period of eighteen to twenty days.

With most of the Westerners, communication was intense and intimate. Although the majority were Europeans, there was no language problem because English was the lingua franca for Westerners in China, and all of them spoke it fluently. Most were under great inner pressure to talk about their experiences; they poured out their stories without hesitation, even if they withheld certain details until later interviews. Some of them, as we shall see, were afraid of people, suspicious of me, or reluctant to reveal what they had done in prison; but in almost all cases, the need to unburden themselves overcame inhibiting factors.

When I had introduced myself and told them a little about my research study (self-identification about profession and affiliations was extremely important in this environment), I would begin to ask them questions about their prison experience—if indeed, they had not already begun to tell me about it. I tried to cover this experience in great detail, at the same time following the general psychoanalytic principle of encouraging the subject to associate freely without interruption. What impressed me most about the material was its immediacy: just a matter of days from their reform ordeal, these men and women still carried with them its entire atmosphere. They had not yet had time to place any distance between themselves and their experiences, or to initiate the distorting reconstructions which eventually occur after any stress situation. (I was to appreciate this immediacy more fully after I encountered such reconstructions during follow-up visits—Chapters 10–12—with many of them in Europe and America three and four years later.) The freshness of the data was tremendously helpful in conveying the actual emotional currents of thought reform.

Why did these subjects originally agree to see me? What was their incentive for taking part in the study? Many, who were in a rather confused state, seemed merely to be following the suggestions of people taking care of them. Some told me that they wanted to make a contribution to the systematic study of the thought reform problem, in order to help future victims, or to combat an evil. Others said quite frankly that they welcomed the chance to talk over their experiences with a professional person who had some knowledge of this subject, thus acknowledging their need for a greater understanding of their ordeals. Whether stated openly or not, this therapeutic factor became increasingly important with almost every Western subject (and with many Chinese as well) during the course of the interviews. Mostly I listened and wrote, but I did—when they expressed interest—discuss with them such things as mechanisms of guilt and shame, and problems of identity. They needed psychological support and understanding and I required the data which they were able to supply: it was a fair exchange. Most of them told me, before they left Hong Kong, that our interviews had been beneficial to them. Since they were so emotionally involved in the work, we were able to explore their past histories and their general psychological traits, and thus develop a dimension important to the study.

The Western subject group breaks down as follows: total—twenty-five; by profession—thirteen missionaries (twelve Catholic priests, one Protestant minister), four businessmen, two journalists, two physicians, one research scholar, one university professor, one sea captain and one housewife; by nationality—seven Germans, seven Frenchmen, five Americans, one Dutchman, one Belgian, one Canadian, one Italian, one Irishman and one (White) Russian; by sex—twenty-three male and two female; by age—from twenty to seventy, most between thirty-five and fifty.

In my interviews with subjects in both groups, I kept the following questions in mind: What was the nature of the process which he has experienced? What in his emotional responses did he share with the other subjects? How did he as a specific person respond to this process? What relationship did his character and his background have to his particular mode of response? I tried to avoid making premature generalizations and to remain open to the vast array of personal, cultural, and historical data with which I was confronted.

I also made every effort to broaden my background information. In addition to the subjects themselves, I spoke to anyone I could find in Hong Kong (Chinese or Western) who had some knowledge of thought reform, whether as a scholar, diplomat, priest, former Communist, or simply from having observed people who had experienced it. And at the same time, I read everything available about the subject; translations of the Chinese Communist press prepared by the American Consulate were especially valuable, as were additional translations which my interpreters made.

As I proceeded with the work, I realized that one of the main causes for confusion about thought reform lay in the complexity of the process itself. Some people considered it a relentless means of undermining the human personality; others saw it as a profoundly moral—even religious—attempt to instill new ethics into the Chinese people. Both of these views were partly correct, and yet each, insofar as it ignored the other, was greatly misleading. For it was the combination of external force or coercion with an appeal to inner enthusiasm through evangelistic exhortation which gave thought reform its emotional scope and power. Coercion and breakdown are, of course, more prominent in the prison and military programs, while exhortation and ethical appeal are especially stressed with the rest of the Chinese population; and it becomes extremely difficult to determine just where exhortation ends and coercion begins.

I found it very important to consider what was behind thought reform, what impelled the Chinese Communists to carry out such extreme measures on such an extensive scale. The complexities of their motivations will be discussed later on; but it is necessary for us now—before getting into the prison experiences of Westerners—to know something about the Chinese Communist philosophy or rationale for the program.

Their leading political theorists, although reticent about technical details, have written extensively on general principles. Mao Tse-tung himself, in a well-known speech originally delivered to party members in 1942, laid down the basic principles of punishment and cure which are always quoted by later writers. To overcome undesirable and unorthodox trends, he specified that

… two principles must be observed. The first is, punish the past to warn the future and the second, save men by curing their ills. Past errors must be exposed with no thought of personal feelings or face. We must use a scientific attitude to analyze and criticize what has been undesirable in the past … this is the meaning of punish the past to warn the future. But our object in exposing errors and criticizing shortcomings is like that of a doctor in curing a disease. The entire purpose is to save the person, not to cure him to death. If a man has appendicitis, a doctor performs an operation and the man is saved … we cannot adopt a brash attitude toward diseases in thought and politics, but [must have] an attitude of saving men by curing their diseases.¹

The argument continues as follows: the old society in China (or any non-Communist society anywhere) was (and is) evil and corrupt; this is true because of the domination of the exploiting classes—the landowners and the capitalists or bourgeoisie; everyone has been exposed to this type of society and therefore retains from it evil remnants or ideological poisons; only thought reform can rid him of these and make him into a new man in a new society. When this argument is applied to Chinese intellectuals, it is also pointed out that they originate from the exploiting classes or from the closely related petite bourgeoisie, since only people from these classes had the means to acquire an education. And long philosophical treatises emphasize the need to bring the ideology of all classes into harmony with objective material conditions²—or in other words, to blend personal beliefs with Communist-implemented social realities.

In prisons, Western civilians (and their Chinese cellmates) encounter a special penal version of these principles:

All crimes have definite sociological roots. The evil ideology and evil habits left behind by the old society, calling for the injuring of others for self-profit and seeking enjoyment without labor, still remain in the minds of some people to a marked degree. Thus if we are to wipe all crimes from their root, in addition to inflicting on the criminal the punishment due, we must also carry out various effective measures to transform the various evil ideological conceptions in the minds of the people so that they may be educated and reformed into new people.³

Penal institutions are referred to as re-education centers, meditation houses, or even hospitals for ideological reform. Four types of institutions are described in Communist prison codes:⁴ the Detention House, the Prison, the Labor Service for Reform Corps, and the Juvenile Delinquents Institute. Westerners spend most of their time in the first, whose function it is to assume responsibility for understanding the conditions of criminals awaiting sentence. This means that the Westerners’ one to five years of imprisonment are essentially devoted to solving their cases; and they are not tried or sentenced until just before their release. Some have been sent to the second type, the prison proper, where they engage in various kinds of work. But the large-scale policy of reform through labor—the use of prisoners in labor battalions—has been mostly reserved for the Chinese themselves.

In all of this it is most important to realize that what we see as a set of coercive maneuvers, the Chinese Communists view as a morally uplifting, harmonizing, and scientifically therapeutic experience.

After the Communist takeover in 1948–1949, there was a brief honeymoon period during which Westerners living in China were treated with great courtesy and encouraged to remain. Then the regime began to use the animosities aroused by the Korean war as well as a national policy of discrediting specific religious and educational groups (and in fact of eliminating all non-Communist Western influence), to make it plain to Western Europeans and Americans that they were not welcome. Most left of their own accord, but others—held by a sense of missionary obligation or by special opportunity for business, scholarship, or adventure—chose to remain. A small number from this group were taken into custody. Most of the arrests occurred in 1951 during the national campaign for the suppression of counterrevolutionaries, at which time tensions concerning subversion were very great. The Westerners were accused, usually on flimsy or even manufactured evidence, of dangerous espionage activities. And they were subjected, as few men have been, to a test of the durability of all that had gone into their sense of being.

PART TWO

PRISON THOUGHT REFORM OF WESTERNERS

In dealing with the criminals, there shall be regularly adopted measures of corrective study classes, individual interviews, study of assigned documents, and organized discussions, to educate them in the admission of guilt and obedience to the law, political and current events, labor production, and culture, so as to expose the nature of the crime committed, thoroughly wipe out criminal thoughts, and establish a new moral code.

Chinese Communist Prison Regulations

CHAPTER 3

RE-EDUCATION: DR. VINCENT

I first heard of Dr. Charles Vincent through a newspaper article announcing his arrival in Hong Kong by ship after three and one-half years of imprisonment and twenty previous years of medical practice in China. I was put in touch with him through another subject of mine who had known him in the past. When I telephoned him at the boarding house where he was staying, he readily agreed to talk with me; but when I began to describe to him the location of my office, he showed some hesitation and then made it clear that he wanted me to come and pick him up. I consented to this arrangement and met him in the lobby of his rooming house just five days after he crossed the border. Dr. Vincent was a short, dark-complexioned, muscular Frenchman in his early fifties. He was not emaciated, but he did look pale; and in his eyes was that characteristic combination of fear and distance which has been aptly labeled the thousand-mile stare.

He said little during the brief automobile ride, but in response to my inquiries about how he was getting on in Hong Kong, he described feeling frightened and nervous. Upon entering my study, he sat down hesitantly, and listened without comment to my few sentences of explanation about my research. When I had finished, he looked at me directly for the first time and asked a quick series of questions: How old was I? How long had I been in Hong Kong doing this work? And then, with particular emphasis, Are you standing on the ‘people’s side,’ or on the ‘imperialists’ side’? I told him I was part of the non-Communist world, but that I tried as much as possible to take no side in order to gain an understanding of the process of thought reform. He went on to explain that this was important because

From the imperialistic side we are not criminals; from the people’s side we are criminals. If we look at this from the imperialists’ side, reeducation is a kind of compulsion. But if we look at it from the people’s side, it is to die and be born again.

Having expressed both his fear and his dilemma—and indeed, the paradox of thought reform itself—he needed no more prompting to go into the details of his ordeal. I said little during this first three-hour interview, and not much more during the remaining fifteen hours (five additional meetings) which we spent together, for Dr. Vincent had a great need to talk about what he had been through, and he did so in an unusually vivid fashion.

As one of the few remaining foreign physicians in Shanghai, he had been conducting a lucrative practice which included several Communist officials—until suddenly confronted on the street one afternoon by five men with revolvers. They produced a warrant for his arrest and took him to the detention house (or re-education center) where he was to spend the next three and a half years.

Interrogation and Struggle

After a few preliminaries he was placed in a small (8′ × 12′) bare cell which already contained eight other prisoners, all of them Chinese. They were a specially selected group, each of them advanced in his personal reform, each eager to apply himself enthusiastically to the reform of others as a means of gaining merits toward his own release. Their greeting was hardly a friendly one: the cell chief identified himself, and addressing Vincent in Chinese¹ by his newly-acquired prison number, instructed him to sit in the center of the cell while the other prisoners formed a circle around him. Each in turn then shouted invectives at Vincent, denouncing him as an imperialist and a spy, demanding that he recognize his crimes and confess everything to the government. Vincent protested: He was not a spy. He was a doctor. He had worked as a doctor in China for twenty years. But this only resulted in more vehement accusations: The government has all the proof. They have arrested you and the government never makes a mistake. You have not been arrested for nothing. Then his cellmates went on to question him further about all the activities in which he engaged as a physician to cover up his spy personality. This procedure in the cell was known as a struggle, conducted for the purpose of helping a prisoner with his confession, and it was an experience which Vincent had to undergo frequently, particularly during the early phases of his imprisonment.

After several hours of this disturbing treatment, Vincent was called for his first interrogation. He was taken to a small room with three people in it: the interrogator or judge,² an interpreter, and a secretary. The judge opened the session with a vague accusation and an emphatic demand: You have committed crimes against the people, and you must now confess everything. Vincent’s protestations of innocence were countered with the angry declaration: The government never arrests an innocent man. The judge went on to ask a series of general questions concerning Vincent’s activities, professional associations, organizational contacts, friends, and acquaintances during his entire twenty years in China. He answered these as accurately as he could, but was unable to satisfy his interrogator. The judge’s demands always contained a tantalizing combination of hint, threat, and promise: The government knows all about your crimes. That is why we arrested you. It is now up to you to confess everything to us, and in this way your case can be quickly solved and you will soon be released.

After a few hours of this interrogation, questions began to focus more and more upon alleged connections with people from several groups: his own embassy, American government officials, and Catholic, Japanese, and Nationalist Chinese agencies. By 6 a.m., after ten successive hours of interrogation, he had produced much information; but he still asserted his innocence, denied that he was a spy or had any subversive relationship with these organizations, and again said that he did not understand why he had been arrested. This angered the judge, who ordered handcuffs applied to Vincent’s wrists, holding his arms behind his back. He dismissed the prisoner from the room, demanding that he think over his crimes. But when he was returned ten minutes later, Vincent still stated that he could not recognize crimes of any kind. The judge again became incensed, ordered chains placed about Vincent’s ankles, and sent him back to his cell. His return there was the occasion for continuous struggle and humiliation.

When you get back with your chains, your cellmates receive you as an enemy. They start struggling to help you. The struggle goes on all day to 8 p.m. that night. You are obliged to stand with chains on your ankles and holding your hands behind your back. They don’t assist you because you are too reactionary. . . . You eat as a dog does, with your mouth and teeth. You arrange the cup and bowl with your nose to try to absorb broth twice a day. If you have to make water they open your trousers and you make water in a little tin in the corner. . . . In the W.C. someone opens your trousers and after you are finished they clean you. You are never out of the chains. Nobody pays any attention to your hygiene. Nobody washes you. In the room they say you are in chains only because you are a reactionary. They continuously tell you that, if you confess all, you will be treated better.

Toward the end of the second day, Vincent was concerned only with finding some relief ("You start to think, how to get rid of these chains. You must get rid of the chains"³). That night, when called for interrogation, he made what he called a wild confession—a description of espionage activities which he knew to be nonexistent. As he explained it:

We see in the judge someone who wants to press something on us. And if we show we are a big criminal, maybe we will get better treatment. . . . Everyone of us tries to cheat the government this way. We know they are angry with the Americans … so we become a member of an American spy ring … I invented a whole organization.

But when he was pressed for details, he could not substantiate his story, and inconsistencies appeared. The confession was rejected, and he was once more summarily dismissed by the judge. The round of interrogation and struggle continued.

On the third night, he changed his tactics. Aware that the officials were greatly interested in his activities and contacts, he began to reconstruct and confess every detail of every conversation with friends and associates which he could remember from the whole of his twenty years in China. He did this because I thought they were trying to prove I gave intelligence to friends.

Now that he was talking freely, his captors began to press home their advantage. Interrogations, ever more demanding, took up the greater part of each night; these were interrupted every two or three hours for a rapid and painful promenade (in chains) which served to keep the prisoner awake, to increase his physical discomfort, and to give him a sense of movement (in order to convince you to speed up your confession). During the day, he was required to dictate to another prisoner everything he had confessed the night before, and anything additional he could think of. When he was not dictating the confessions or making new ones, he was being struggled. Every activity in the cell seemed to be centered around him and his confession. He soon realized that the cell chief was making daily reports to prison officials and receiving regular instructions on how to deal with him. Everything he did or said—every word, movement, or expression—was noted and written down by other prisoners, then conveyed to the prison authorities.

For eight days and nights, Vincent experienced this program of alternating struggle and interrogation, and was permitted no sleep at all.⁴ Moreover, he was constantly told by his cellmates that he was completely responsible for his own plight. (You want the chains! You want to be shot! . . . . Otherwise, you would be more ‘sincere’ and the chains would not be necessary.) He found himself in a Kafka-like maze of vague and yet damning accusations: he could neither understand exactly what he was guilty of (recognize his crimes) nor could he in any way establish his innocence. Overwhelmed by fatigue, confusion, and helplessness, he ceased all resistance.

You are annihilated. . . . exhausted. . . . you can’t control yourself, or remember what you said two minutes before. You feel that all is lost. . . . From that moment, the judge is the real master of you. You accept anything he says. When he asks how many ‘intelligences’ you gave to that person, you just put out a number in order to satisfy him. If he says, Only those?, you say, No, there are more. If he says, One hundred, you say, One hundred. . . . You do whatever they want. You don’t pay any more attention to your life or to your handcuffed arms. You can’t distinguish right from left. You just wonder when you will be shot—and begin to hope for the end of all this.

A confession began to emerge which was still wild—full of exaggerations, distortions, and falsehoods—but at the same time closely related to real events and people in Vincent’s life. Every night Vincent would sign a written statement of his newly confessed material with a thumbprint, as his hands were not free for writing. He was so compliant by this time that he made no attempt to check upon the accuracy of what he was signing.

After three weeks, the emphasis again shifted; now he was required to report on others, to make exhaustive lists of all of the people he had known in China, and to write out their addresses, their affiliations, and anything at all which he knew about their activities. Vincent complied, again supplying a mixture of truths, half-truths, and untruths. But after two weeks of this, under the continuing pressures of his captors, these descriptions became exposés and denunciations; friends, associates became drawn into the web. Still the clamor from the judge, officials, and cellmates was the same as it had been since the moment of imprisonment: Confess! … Confess all! … You must be frank! … You must show your faith in the government! … Come clean! … Be sincere! … Recognize your crimes! …

At this point—about two months from the date of his arrest—Vincent was considered to be ready for a beginning recognition of his crimes. This required that he learn to look at himself from the people’s standpoint—to accept the prevailing Communist definition of criminal behavior, including the principle that the people’s standpoint makes no distinction between news, information, and intelligence. He described two examples of this process:

For instance, I was the family physician and friend of an American correspondent. We talked about many things, including the political situation. . . . The judge questioned me again and again about my relationship with this man. He asked me for details about everything we had talked about. . . . I admitted that at the time of the liberation, when I saw the horsedrawn artillery of the Communist army, I told this to my American friend. . . . The judge shouted that this American was a spy who was collecting espionage material for his spy organization, and that I was guilty of supplying him with military intelligence. . . . At first I did not accept this, but soon I had to add it to my confession. . . . This is adopting the people’s standpoint. . . .

I knew a man who was friendly with an American military attaché. I told him the price of shoes and that I couldn’t buy gasoline for my car. I had already agreed that this was economic intelligence. So I wrote that I gave economic intelligence to this man. But they made it clear that I must say that I received an espionage mission from the American military attaché through the other person, to collect economic intelligence. . . . This was the people’s standpoint.

Leniency and Study

Just as Vincent was beginning to express himself from the people’s standpoint—but in a dazed, compliant, and unenthusiastic manner—he was suddenly surprised by a remarkable improvement in his status: the handcuffs and chains were removed, he was permitted to be comfortably seated when talking to the judge, and he was in turn addressed in friendly tones. He was told that the government regretted that he had been having such a difficult time, that it really wanted only to help him, and that in accordance with its lenient policy it would certainly treat him kindly and soon release him—if only he would make an absolutely complete confession, and then work hard to reform himself. And to help things along, pressures were diminished, and he was permitted more rest. This abrupt reversal in attitude had a profound effect upon Vincent: for the first time he had been treated with human consideration, the chains were gone, he could see a possible solution ahead, there was hope for the future.

Now he was offered more friendly guidance in rewriting (not once but many times) his entire confession, including descriptions and denunciations of other people; and his change of fortune gave him added incentive in applying himself to the task. But he soon found that this guidance was not to be taken lightly, and on three occasions when he expressed some measure of resistance, saying, This I didn’t do, the chains were reapplied for two or three days, accompanied by a return to the harsh treatment of previous weeks.

Once leniency had been initiated, however, Vincent was never again to experience anything as overwhelming as the assaults of his early prison period. Given the luxury of eight hours of sleep a night, of relatively calm and restrained interrogations (he was even permitted to sit on a chair), of practically no harassment in the cell, Vincent spent the next two or three weeks doing nothing but developing in even greater detail his confession material. During his sessions with the judge, he received