The Sinica Podcast interviewed Michael Manning about his time incarcerated in China. Here, we publish the diary he wrote in secret while he did time inside the Beijing №1 Detention Center. The diary ends abruptly because the author believed it would be found and confiscated, and so hid it in a false bottom he made in a book that he was allowed to keep when he was released.

Introduction
by Kaiser Kuo

Michael Manning was, in many ways, just another young American living in China. His career there followed a trajectory familiar to many Americans who’d gone to China to teach: He started off in the provinces — in his case, not in a province, but in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region — and wrote a blog about his experiences there. He moved to Beijing once he had a decent command of the language, and worked for the English channel of China Central Television.

But in Korla, the town in Xinjiang where he taught, he discovered the local hashish: not the hard, somewhat sticky dark brown hash familiar to most people who’ve smoked it, but a greenish, powdery cannabis product sometimes called kief. Discovering a market for it in Beijing, the former High Times contributor started sending it to himself a couple of kilos at a time in hollowed-out subwoofers of cheap home stereo systems. He was making great money, and making all sorts of friends. And then he got caught.

Now living in Oakland, California, where he works for a legal marijuana dispensary, Michael reached out to let us know he’d be willing to talk about his very unusual experience: his detention, arrest and incarceration in Beijing after he was caught in possession of about two kilograms of hashish.

He’d written about his experience online before, but anonymously. And this time, he was willing not only to talk about his arrest and time in jail in Beijing in 2009, but also about his arrest and incarceration in New Jersey, less than three years after his deportation from China. (He served two years of a 10-year sentence, and is now on parole.) What’s more, he agreed to talk on the record, with no voice alteration, no fake names and nothing off-limits.

In the last few years, Chinese law enforcement has been cracking down on drug use. In August 2014, police in Beijing raided Dos Kolegas, a popular bar and live house, barring the exits and forcing everyone present to produce identification and submit to on-the-spot urinalysis. It resulted in the detention and subsequent deportation of about a dozen foreigners — one of whom had arrived from Italy only hours before. Another similar raid in June of this year at bars in Beijing’s trendy Gulou area — Modernista and Mado — saw more detentions and deportations. And in the summer of 2015, three teenagers attending an international school in Beijing were busted for pot. The crackdown hasn’t been just on foreigners: A number of Chinese, including celebrities, such as Jackie Chan’s son, Jaycee, have been jailed for weed-related wrongdoing.

It wasn’t always like this. Recreational drug use was rare indeed in the decades that followed the Communist Party’s victory on the mainland. Heroin did make its way back into parts of the country bordering the Golden Triangle, and near Central Asian transshipment routes. But even after the late 1980s and early 1990s, when marijuana became quite commonplace among — cliché as it might be — various rock musicians and artists in Beijing, law enforcement officials tended to wink at its use, just as they had long tolerated it among minority nationalities, especially in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. Back then, the occasional roundups of pot and hash smokers were aimed mainly at nabbing bigger fish selling harder substances. Visitors to Beijing and environs well into the aughts may recall how cannabis grew wild even in urban Beijing. Indeed, it can still be found growing in the city’s hutong alleyways, where ordinary folk grow it in planters alongside their azaleas, harvesting its seeds, which they feed to the birds they keep.

Today, relatively few Chinese use marijuana — methamphetamine, ketamine and heroin are more prevalent — though it remains fairly common among the foreign populations of major cities and is readily available from street dealers. Increasingly, it’s grown locally, though much still comes from Xinjiang or is imported from outside of China.

You can listen to the Sinica Podcast’s conversation with Michael Manning on supchina.com. Below and on SupChina, you can read a transcription of the diary that Michael kept surreptitiously for a few weeks in April and May 2009, which he has generously shared with us and allowed us to publish. A PDF of the diary is also available here. Some of the language may be offensive to readers.

For keeping track of facts, dates, names, personalities, events, etc. while incarcerated at the Beijing City Number 1 Detention Center.

MM Wed April 8, 2009

Date: 2009–4–8

Detained in this place for more than three weeks now, I think it’s a good idea to write down the important facts before they are forgotten or lost to the blur of time. I was arrested (or detained, actually) at about 11am on March 15, 2009, in my apartment in Sun City. I had worked an overnight shift at CCTV the night before so had only slept for about 2 hours. An hour or so before the fatal moment, I received a call from someone likely posing as an EMS delivery driver asking if I was home to receive a package.

When I heard the knock on my door I pulled myself out of bed and threw on some pajama pants. I was groggy, but was immediately set on edge by the presence of two rather burly deliverymen — there had only been one when I received packages in the past. Beyond just signing my name, they asked me to print it and also to write my passport number. For some weakly realized reason, I wrote the last number as 9 rather than 4 — as if this could save me! Then as I glanced to the right to move the package inside my door, a veritable flood of security men, mostly in plain clothes, rushed through the door from the darkened hallway at great speed. I knew I’d been found out, and in any case my proximity to the door gave me not enough time to even think of fleeing… and where would I go? Among the invasion was a woman wielding a video camera, and one of my first thoughts, and one of my first thoughts was that my arrest would appear on CCTV, where I’d been working just a few hours before!

Anyone who’s been arrested knows the sickening sensation that you’ve just been punched in the gut and I felt positively nauseous. My arms were grabbed and I was twisted around and made to sit on the floor. I was asked in Chinese if I knew why they’d come and felt no need to deceive them. Their presence meant they already knew too much. I noticed that instead of two straps around my parcel it was now only one… they’d already had a look inside.

I told them the box contained “duping” — drugs, two kilos of “dama.” Seeing that I could speak some Chinese, and that I was taking what they’d prob. call a “correct” attitude, the mood lightened somewhat as they began a search of my apartment. I was even helpful enough to point out where various small bits of hash were tucked away. To my surprise, I knew where every last gram was hidden — a bag in the drawer of the coffee table, some dregs in a baggie near the front door, a half-forgotten crust in the bottom of a breath mint container in my night table, another bag in the right-hand pocket of my black winter coat along with a glass pipe and lighter. They asked me my name in Chinese [note: Michael’s Chinese name is “Jin Gubang,” the name of the legendary Monkey King’s magical staff], and as always, the answer brought smiles all around… We were almost friendly. They allowed me to change into a button-down shirt and a pair of pants, and off we went. (They also collected all of the expensive items in the flat — laptop, iPod, camera, binoculars, etc. — and brought them with us to prevent accusations of theft, I suppose.)

I was taken by unmarked car by to the offices of the Dongcheng Narcotics Control Police, I believe on Hepingmen Beidajie. I was asked to pee in a sample cup with an interesting twist-and-lock mechanism, and then handcuffed to a chair for the first of what would later become many rounds of interrogation.

2009–4–9

The story of how I came to possess two kilos of half-powdery light brown Xinjiang hashish was recounted more or less faithfully to the actual facts. Of course I couldn’t help but not recall any of the names involved… It’s tragic how marijuana affects the memory! Of course I slipped up from time to time. It’s a great exercise of the intellect to spar with the law in any country, I think, much less one where you don’t know the laws, have a mediocre command of the language, and have no access to legal counsel. It takes time to realize the small twists of plot that could save you, and those that could send you screaming away to the dungeon for life. What a luxury it would have been to have a lawyer whispering in my ear, “You’d better not answer that one.”

DJ from Monrovia, Liberia, was transferred to our cell this morning, along with Arnold from Uganda. Kako the illiterate Nigerian “black money” scam artist was sent away after nearly fighting with #1 (Mr. Kong). The immediate reason was making too much noise while on duty, but tension had been building because Kako was never willing to admit a wrong or apologize… only denial. In the two hours I’ve known DJ I don’t think he’s shut his mouth for a total of more than five minutes. He’s a big guy, and seems to have taken my spot on the floor. Arnold is quiet.

The night before I got caught was the first time I ever went to Paddy O’Shea’s. The place was packed for the big Man U–Liverpool game and I ate Irish beef stew, which tasted just like American beef stew. I had ridden my bike and left it chained to a railing in the parking lot. [There are margin notes you can see in the pdf]. Someone hit the car while I was inside, and bent the front wheel out of shape. When I left to ride back home for work (I was on at midnight), the wheel squealed against the mudguard the whole time — increasing in pitch and volume the faster I pedaled. It sounded sort of like an electric motor, and I can’t help but think of that sound now as a siren, a harbinger of impending doom.

2009–4–10

The first few days of detention were the worst, followed by two weeks of undulating depression. The 12 hours I spent with the drug squad were at least filled with the terrifying freshness of a new life begun without warning, and the minor concerns of the other life cut short. Who was going to cover my last overnight shift? What was going to happen to all my stuff? Was my bitch of a landlord going to take it all?

Another strange feeling on that first day… the irrational desire to be HIV positive just for a moment. The drug squad took me up to the hospital next to the Badaling Expressway tollbooths for some medical tests (blood, EKG). With AIDS, I would have been on the next plane home. Of course I was relieved when I tested negative for a long list of STDs, but still, I would have liked to be on the next flight to Newark.

The cops who arrested me had a very difficult time finding the detention center, located somewhere south of Tongzhou off the southeast 5th Ring Road. A carload of officers had gone on ahead to start my paperwork, I assume, but it took 3 or 4 phone calls for us to find them. When we finally made it we spent about an hour sitting in a darkened parking lot in front of a deserted administration building. I had to pee terribly — I had been going all day, nervousness maybe? — but they wouldn’t let me go in the parking lot. Finally, I was led inside for the first interrogation by the Beijing City Police — I was moving up the chain. It was also the first time I met the officer in charge of my investigation, the young prick.

By the time he’d finished writing out a transcript of the interrogation — along with two junior officers who looked fresh out of high school — it was already after midnight. I was yawning constantly, having slept little over the preceding 2 days. It occurs to me now that I’d spent Saturday morning and afternoon (or was it Friday?) becoming the legal guardian of the 15-year-old son of a Melbourne cocaine kingpin. I’d befriended his older sister just two weeks before in Thailand, over talk of drug-filled youth and a joint on the beach after I broke my fast. Like the whining tire and my “luck” finding cheap hash in Korla, it’s taken on added significance after the fact. The last few mile-markers on the road to jail.

2009–4–12

Blech, another 4am shift. It was actually my choice to do this shift exclusively, in order to preserve six unbroken hours of sleep. It should add some regularity to my schedule here, but it’s still tough on nights when I toss and turn. We have off every third day with the extra man now and I’ve moved up onto the bed, or “board” from the floor next to the bathroom. Today marks 4 weeks for me, and Easter for the religious folks. DJ and Mr. Zhou are snoring away next to each other, so I have to pause after just about each sentence to shake their pillows.

I should receive another visit from the embassy in the next few days — they said they’d come every 30 days or so. As I approach the one-month point, I seem to forget from time to time why I’m exactly here. It’s become my complete existence. And only the occasional fond memory makes me think what I’d be doing on the outside. I half-expect to leave any day, and like Camp Lakota tell my mother that I don’t think I’d like to come back.

I sleep between Mr. Kong and Ken now… Mr. Kong keeps a pillow to mark the border of our bed rolls, and he told me the other night that it’s also a barrier against mistaken kisses in the middle of the night. (Safe from the threat of buggery, it’s okay to make gay jokes in this prison, at least.) So yesterday as he was getting ready to sleep in the afternoon, I leaned in close over the pillow, and when he turned toward me I kissed the air loudly with three smacks. It startled the shit out of him — he jumped and said, “Xia si wo!” — the first really good laugh I’ve had in this place.

2009–4–15

The prosecutor (or “procurator”) came for me today, which at least means I’m moving through the system after 30 days of incarceration. My official arrest should come in the next few days, along with a second visit from the embassy. It was at least a chance for me to officially register a complaint over my treatment during my interrogation on April 3rd and to say once and for all that I never received any money for hash.

I’m hopeful that mistakes made by the police investigator will have a positive effect on my case and sentencing. During my last interrogation, he produced the Leatherman multi-tool that my mother gave me for my 26th or 27th birthday. There was a thin film of hash over the knife, produced when I would scrape the crust out of the bottom of a breath mint container I used for a while.

Failing to cross over to the investigator’s side of the interrogation room, he showed me the knife and asked if I knew what was on the tip. I told him it was “dama.” He then held a lighter under the knife to heat it up, and when it started smoking, he waved it back and forth under my nose with the blade dangerously close to my face. I took this to be a threat! The officer then insinuated that the knife was proof that I was a drug dealer… obviously the tool I had used to cut up my stash.

Now perhaps I haven’t always been 100% honest during the investigation, but here at least was one bit of evidence against me that was patently false. One only need look at the powdery Xinjiang hash to know that a knife would not be a suitable tool. Do you measure brown sugar with a knife? A spoon is more like it.

Anyway, the officer then tried some line about being my only friend and how we needed to help each other out. He told me he could make the knife disappear from evidence if I would only give him the name of some people who had bought hash from me. I wasn’t buying this line of inquiry — I’m smart enough not to incriminate myself that easily — but I’ll admit I was thrown off balance by his next tactic.

Looking back I’m pretty sure he was full of shit. He said, “Alright, you say you gave hash to people for free. But if you can’t tell us the name of anyone who will corroborate your statement, we’ll have to charge you with selling.” I was already nervous, but then he added, “and for selling marijuana, the penalty is 15 years to LIFE!”

It was an effective tactic and put me in a frame of mind where I felt I had to give them something. There was only one person I could think of to back up my story, my best Chinese friend in Beijing, H.W.

2009–4–16

They’ve been showing us videos in the morning where detainees talk about the rules they’ve violated, the punishment involved, and their feelings of remorse. An old man with glasses, maybe 60 years old, hosts the show — the sole star of the BJC #1 DC TV station, and a fellow detainee. Yesterday they showed us several detainees being removed from their cells for fighting. One got the handcuffs with no space for movement, the other got “the chains” — leg shackles attached to handcuffs by a short chain that forces the wearer into a crouched position. Today the interviewee is a man who was given a death sentence with two-year reprieve, meaning it would usually be commuted to a life sentence. But while he was in jail, he fought and broke another man’s nose. So his reprieve was revoked, he was moved back here (where people with death sentences are held), and faces execution. Terrible stuff, the guy looked so terrified. The last shot of him was him walking away in leg shackles in slow motion, to the sound of jangling chains, an officer holding each shoulder at arm’s length.

— — —

Read the rest of Michael’s diary of his time in jail on SupChina.com, or listen to the Sinica Podcast interview with him.