The Chief Witness: escape from China’s modern-day concentration camps

By Sayragul Sauytbay and Alexandra Cavelius

A shocking depiction of one of the world’s most ruthless regimes — and the story of one woman’s fight to survive.

I will never forget the camp. I cannot forget the eyes of the prisoners, expecting me to do something for them. They are innocent. I have to tell their story, to tell about the darkness they are in. It is so easy to suffocate us with the demons of powerlessness, shame, and guilt. But we aren’t the ones who should feel ashamed.

Born in China’s north-western province, Sayragul Sauytbay trained as a doctor before being appointed a senior civil servant. But her life was upended when the Chinese authorities incarcerated her. Her crime: being Kazakh, one of China’s ethnic minorities.

The north-western province borders the largest number of foreign nations and is the point in China that is the closest to Europe. In recent years it has become home to over 1,200 penal camps — modern-day gulags that are estimated to house three million members of the Kazakh and Uyghur minorities. Imprisoned solely due to their ethnicity, inmates are subjected to relentless punishment and torture, including being beaten, raped, and used as subjects for medical experiments. The camps represent the greatest systematic incarceration of an entire people since the Third Reich.

In prison, Sauytbay was put to work teaching Chinese language, culture, and politics, in the course of which she gained access to secret information that revealed Beijing’s long-term plans to undermine not only its minorities, but democracies around the world. Upon her escape to Europe she was reunited with her family, but still lives under constant the threat of reprisal. This rare testimony from the biggest surveillance state in the world reveals not only the full, frightening scope of China’s tyrannical ambitions, but also the resilience and courage of its author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scribe Publications
• Release date: May 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781925938777

Sayragul Sauytbay

Sayragul Sauytbay was awarded the 2021 Nuremberg International Human Rights Award, and the US State Department’s International Women of Courage Award in 2020. Her key witness accounts have already created a stir on the world stage, and have been reported by The New York Times, The Washington Post, and the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung.

Book preview

THE CHIEF WITNESS

Sayragul Sauytbay was awarded the International Women of Courage Award by the US State Department in 2020. Her key witness accounts have already created a stir on the world stage, and have been reported by The New York Times, The Washington Post, and the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung.

Alexandra Cavelius is a freelance author and journalist. She is published in renowned magazines, and is the author of several political nonfiction books. She was also the author of the bestseller Dragon Fighter, the autobiography of the Uighur political activist Rebiya Kadeer, who has been nominated several times for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Caroline Waight is an award-winning literary translator working from Danish and German.

Scribe Publications

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First published in German in 2020 by Europa Verlag as Die Kronzeugin

First published in English by Scribe 2021

Copyright © Europa Verlag AG, Zürich 2020

Translation copyright © Caroline Waight 2021

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

9781922310538 (Australian edition)

9781913348601 (UK edition)

9781950354528 (US edition)

9781925938777 (ebook)

Catalogue records for this book are available from the National Library of Australia and the British Library.

scribepublications.com.au

scribepublications.co.uk

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Acknowledgements

My heartfelt thanks are due to the human-rights organisations of the United Nations; the Swedish government and its citizens; the people in Kazakhstan; the government of the Federal Republic of Germany; the Kazakh organisation Atajurt; all the international print media that followed my case; television and radio broadcasters in various countries; all journalists across a diverse array of media; and the Kazakh broadcaster Free Asia Television.

Sayragul Sauytbay

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

Ghosts of the Past

CHAPTER TWO

Despite Chinese Invasion and Destruction: dreaming of a golden future and financial security

CHAPTER THREE

Mouths Taped Shut

CHAPTER FOUR

Worse Than a Mental Hospital: the world’s biggest surveillance state

CHAPTER FIVE

Total Control: interrogations and rape

CHAPTER SIX

The Camp: surviving in hell

CHAPTER SEVEN

Better to Die Escaping Than Die in the Camp

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kazakhstan: Beijing’s interference in neighbouring countries

CHAPTER NINE

Viral: warning the world

AFTERWORD

by Alexandra Cavelius

CHAPTER ONE

Ghosts of the Past

Women begging in the night

Every night, the crying girls crowd around my bed. Their dark eyes are wide, their heads shaved bald. Save us! they beg me. Please save us! Wherever despots rule, we women are always hardest hit. It’s so easy to stifle us with the demons of helplessness, shame, and guilt. Yet it’s not women who should be ashamed of the wounds men have inflicted on us. Now all I’ve got to do is internalise this truth. I try to struggle to my feet, but I’m frozen, lifeless as a corpse.

Ever since the camp, I sometimes can’t get out of bed. It’s because I spent so long sleeping on a cold concrete floor. My limbs and joints ache with rheumatism. Before all this I was perfectly healthy: today, at forty-three, I’m a sick woman. The minute I do drift off for a few seconds into uneasy sleep, my nightmares wake me.

None of the women, children, men, and elderly people behind those high barbed-wire fences have committed any crime, besides that of being born Kazakh, Uighur, or some other Muslim nationality in the north-west province of China. Of having Muslim names like Fatima or Hussein.

My name is Sayragul Sauytbay. I’m married, once ran five kindergartens before my internment, and I love my family above all else. We come from China’s north-west province, which is larger than Germany, France, and Spain combined, and situated roughly 3,000 kilometres as the crow flies from Beijing. Encircled by mountains up to 7,000 metres high, our province borders more foreign nations than anywhere else in China, including Mongolia, Russia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Tajikistan, as well as Afghanistan, India, and Pakistan. It’s here that China is closest to faraway Europe.

Since ancient times, the area has been home to a predominantly Uighur population, but there are also numerous other ethnicities represented, including Mongolians, Kyrgyzstanis, Tartars, and the second-largest group, the Kazakhs, to which I belong. Our province was called East Turkestan until, in 1949, China — the vast empire next door — violently annexed the whole region, a strategically advantageous area known informally as the Gateway to the West. Mao Zedong renamed it the Autonomous Region of Xinjiang (New Frontier), but to us it remains East Turkestan, our ancestral homeland. Officially, Beijing guarantees the indigenous people here autonomy, independence, and free will. Unofficially, however, the government treats us like a colony of slaves.

Since 2016, our province has been transformed into the largest surveillance state in the world. A network of more than 1,200 internment camps exists above ground, according to estimates by international experts, but there are increasing reports of subterranean camps as well. We estimate that approximately three million people are currently being detained. They have never stood trial. They have never committed a crime. This is the biggest systematic internment of a single ethnic group since the Third Reich.

Party officials forced me to stay silent about everything I witnessed as a senior public-sector worker in the nightmarish camps of East Turkestan — or else you’re dead. I literally had to sign my own death warrant. Despite all these obstacles, however, I ultimately managed to escape the largest open-air prison in the world and reach Sweden.

My situation is unusual, because I was put to work as a teacher in one of these camps. This position offered me an insight into the innermost workings of the system: and what I saw was a meticulously detailed, carefully considered piece of bureaucratic machinery that operated according to explicit instructions from Beijing. This wasn’t just about systematic torture, humiliation, and brainwashing. This was the deliberate extermination of an entire ethnic group.

As we sit here, major corporations in the West are making a killing from their business dealings in north-west China. Yet a stone’s throw away from their buildings, children, women, men, boys, and the elderly are penned in like animals and tortured in unspeakable ways.

One in ten Muslims in my home province, according to human-rights agencies, is currently interned. This figure tallies with my own experience. I was in a camp myself, alongside 2,500 other prisoners. In the regional centre of Mongolküre — called Zhaosu by the Chinese, home to 180,000 people — there are two large prisons and three camps, set up in a converted former Party school and abandoned buildings. Assuming these house the same number of prisoners, then even in a tiny area like my home county there are roughly 20,000 being detained. By now, every Muslim family has been affected by these arrests. There is no longer anyone in Xinjiang who hasn’t lost several relatives.

The evidence for these camps is overwhelming — we have satellite images, documented witness statements, and, most recently, the release of the China Cables by a Chinese whistleblower — so Beijing has finally admitted their existence, after long denying it. Yet senior Chinese politicians continue to talk euphemistically about vocational training centres; they churn out propaganda films that show students in nice make-up and pretty clothes dancing and laughing, taking classes in bright, beautifully appointed rooms, and being re-educated into better people. The official Party line is that the foreign media are spreading malicious lies, that all the students are there of their own free will, and that most have already been released anyway.

When I hear this sort of thing, I wonder where all my friends, neighbours, and acquaintances could possibly have gone, then. If they’ve been set free, why can’t anyone get them on the phone? And if these camps really are vocational training centres, as the government in Beijing so doggedly maintains, then why are small children being torn from their families and classrooms, and sent there? Why should these boarding schools take the place of parents, as the Communist Party of China (CCP) demands? What is this re-education supposed to accomplish for an eighty-four-year-old woman? Why do writers, professors, successful business people, and artists — all of whom are already highly educated — need to take continuing education courses behind barbed wire?

Anyone who tells the truth about these camps in East Turkestan is branded a foreign spy, a liar, or a terrorist. Chinese censors immediately erase all the information available online, and anyone who passes on this information within China vanishes without a trace the very next day. As soon as a Western delegation announces it is bringing journalists on a visit to East Turkestan, as happened in autumn 2019, Party officials rapidly transform a re-education camp into a normal school.

The barbed wire disappears from the fences, and the heavily armed guards are whisked away from the gates. Teachers who were previously dismissed — now street sweepers or factory workers — are press-ganged back into service for the duration of the visit. New classes full of Kazakh and Uighur students are quickly set up, and bright, colourful footage is shot for television.

A friend who had been granted a visitor’s permit to attend his mother’s funeral in the area told me that all the teachers and students had to memorise Party texts for the benefit of the Western visitors. Anyone who missed out a word or a comma was banished to the camps. The official instructions were as follows: Students, you are not allowed to say what’s really been going on over the past few years. You will tell them how good the Party is and how nice your lives here are … We’re used to the CCP’s theatrical performances and illusions by now. We’ve been living with them since we were children.

Thinking back to my past, it makes me retch. I can’t stop vomiting, as though there were parasites in my body. I have to wrap a scarf around my head, because it feels like it’s about to explode. Maybe it’s the memories; maybe it’s the after-effects of the torture. But no matter how agonising it is to talk about my experiences, I believe it is my duty to warn the world. That said, I do want to emphasise that I don’t blame the Chinese people for these appalling crimes: the responsibility lies solely and squarely at the door of the government in Beijing and the Communist Party of China.

As a chief witness, I’ve shared my knowledge of the inner workings of this fascist system. I speak not just for myself, but in the name of all the people held in these concentration camps, and for those who are in fear of their lives under this dictatorship. We cannot take freedom for granted. If we don’t act to protect it in good time, then we’ve already lost it, because in its final throes it vanishes too fast for us to keep up. The Middle Kingdom — as China calls itself — lays plans many decades in advance. It exploits the opportunities afforded by an open society to undermine democracy piece by piece. I have first-hand experience of what it means to live in an environment controlled by Beijing, in a hypermodern surveillance state the likes of which the world has never seen.

And a world without freedom leaves you running for your life in hell.

Leaving Sweden for Germany

It was a strange situation, saying goodbye to my family in Sweden and travelling with my ten-year-old son, Ulagat, to Germany to be interviewed. Journalist Alexandra Cavelius was planning to use our conversations to write a book about my experiences.

The ferry wasn’t setting off till 10.55pm, but we’d left the house four hours early, although the port was only fifteen minutes away. Uali and my fourteen-year-old daughter, Ukilay, had come with us. After a while, both of them suddenly turned very quiet and hung back a little.

My son and I were at the bus stop, waiting for the bus to take us to the boat. Why aren’t they talking to us anymore? Ulagat wanted to know, tugging at my jacket. Maybe they’re upset because we’re going without them? He ran up to his father. Do you guys want us to stay here? Uali shook his head and stroked the boy’s thick black hair. No, no, this is a wonderful opportunity! Just think — you’re only ten years old, and soon you’ll have visited four very different countries. It’s the stuff all little children dream of. You’re a man now, and you’ll take good care of your mother. When she needs a cup of tea, you’ll make one for her. When she needs her medication, you’ll give it to her.

My children know I’ve been sick since the camp. Nobody comes out of a place like that in good health. Often their relatives, too, fall ill, waiting months or years, consumed with anxiety, vainly hoping for a sign of life or of their loved one. My children had to grow up too fast.

When the bus pulled up, my daughter turned around and started crying bitterly. There was no real cause to be sad, but suddenly all those dark memories came rising up again like bubbles. The children were remembering how they’d fled to Kazakhstan with their father, while they had to leave their mother at the border. Two and a half years. No contact whatsoever.

Since then, our family hadn’t gone a single day without worrying. We were always on the run, from one place to the next. Before that evening at the port, we had never been at peace, and could never live in freedom like a normal family. Suddenly, the doors hissed shut, separating me and my son from my daughter and her father. The bus had barely gone five yards before my phone rang. How are you doing? asked my husband. Is everything alright? Take care of yourselves!

Germany

Today, when I’m on a bus or a train and the ticket inspector comes over, I always have to remind myself that No, this official doesn’t want to lock you up … In fact, I can travel through the world like any other free citizen. One of my first destinations was the Foreign Office in Stockholm, then the European Parliament in Brussels, where I gave evidence as a chief witness about my experiences in the camps.

Maybe it’s a good thing this book was first published in German. Germany has a tragic history when it comes to fascism, but unlike China it has bravely faced up to its dark past, exploring why those things happened and learning from them. China, on the other hand, simply rewrites its history, because otherwise it could be dangerous to the Party and the government. Germany is a strong country with a highly effective political system. It’s thanks to the support of countless international politicians as well as various human-rights organisations that I and my family have found a new home in a free country.

As human beings, we all live on the same planet and in the same twenty-first century, but where I come from a large segment of the population is cut off from the rest of the world and denied basic rights. For someone who takes democracy and human rights for granted, it will be difficult to understand what we deal with every day in East Turkestan.

There’s a very popular Chinese television program called Journey to the West that illustrates our situation perfectly. The Communist Party uses the main characters to demonstrate its own superiority, since no one is cleverer or stronger than the Party. On the show, a sorcerer travels to as many Western countries as possible at the behest of a monarch, researching their customs and way of life. The West is depicted in a terrible light: backward, factious, and weak. Lost in chaos and bloodshed.

When the magician waves a circle around the people with his wand, everyone inside it falls under his spell. Nobody dares to venture beyond the edge of the circle. These prisoners are no longer free to come and go, no longer free to think; they’ve forgotten they are human beings with normal human rights. They simply accept everything, like sacrificial lambs, no matter what is done to them. They have no choice. They are trying to survive — just like the people in China’s north-west province.

I still have to get used to the feeling that I can go outside or move around my own house unobserved. For the first time in my life, I have witnessed and experienced how a person may be allowed to live with dignity. In East Turkestan, every scrap of information is controlled. Uncensored books and magazines, and social media platforms such as Facebook and WhatsApp, are forbidden. Even though I’ve been living in Sweden for months, I still feel the pressure we were living under every single day. The constant fear for my relatives, my husband, my children, and myself. Sometimes I find myself glancing over my shoulder on the street, wondering suspiciously, Who’s that Asian-looking person behind me? Is he with the Chinese secret police? Is he watching me? The Communist Party has serious reach. It can get to dissidents anywhere, even in Germany.

In East Turkestan, it feels like indigenous people are living in a madhouse where nothing makes sense anymore. But if you’re always busy not putting a foot wrong for fear of being punished, then you’ve got no time to ask questions. The fact that I’m free today and able to ask these important questions is a gift from God: why are hundreds of thousands of innocent people being tortured and murdered without any repercussions? How can anybody do such appalling things to other human beings? It can only be because they consider themselves a vastly superior and more valuable race, which is precisely what the CCP and its general secretary, Xi Jinping, are preaching with such ardent nationalism. Countries across the globe are so closely interconnected these days, so why do they allow these human-rights violations to go on unchecked? I wish nothing more than that some external, more just, power would intervene to prevent this in the future.

When people in other countries think of China, they usually picture a highly civilised, advanced, and economically highly successful nation. This is no surprise, given the enormous sums invested by one of the world’s most powerful propaganda machines into making it look from the outside like a relatively normal, shiny high-tech society. The state-run media keeps quiet about all the wickedness and uncomfortable truths behind this perception, yet the poison festers underneath like pus. The people of China are aware that their own government frequently lies to them, but do people in the West realise that, too? Or are they allowing themselves to be dazzled by the glittering façade?

My hope is that people will come away with a better understanding of the true essence and intentions of the regime. That they will protect themselves from the threat of tyranny and strengthen their democracies. My own worldview has been thoroughly overhauled since the camp. Previously, I was mainly concerned with fitting in and not breaking any rules, so I wouldn’t be punished.

The goal of China’s campaign is to achieve political control of the entire world. This is why my advice to all other countries is this: Don’t avert your gaze from East Turkestan! This is how your children and grandchildren will be living in the future if you don’t defend your freedoms! China, currently the largest trading nation on the planet, promotes neither friendly relationships nor open exchange. In the opaque political world of the CCP, nothing happens without an ulterior motive.

And wherever Beijing’s influence is on the rise, lies begin to grow like weeds, suffocating the truth.

Threats and hope

At first, my family felt very lonely in Sweden, our new home, far away from all our friends and relatives. In recent weeks, however, we’ve had no time to feel like that. Reporters from about forty countries so far have come to our apartment to speak to me about my experiences in the camp. But I have never before told my story in as much detail as I did for this book.

Often, the journalists had barely left before our phone would ring and I’d be threatened. Just stop talking! Think of your children! Sometimes these men spoke Swedish, sometimes Kazakh, and other times Chinese. Each time, the Swedish police would reassure us afterwards: Don’t worry, this isn’t China! They keep trying to encourage us. Just try to lead a normal life. You have the same rights as any other Swede. We’re protecting you even if you can’t see a patrol car outside. It’s just that we can’t tell you what we’re doing.

Over time, I’ve become more confident about dealing with the strangers on the other end of the line. You can keep bothering us with these calls, I tell them, but you can’t do anything to us! Still, they keep trying to break our spirits. Recently, I heard about a message one of these secret-police operatives left on the Facebook wall of a Uighur woman: Stop or they’ll find your body cut up into little pieces in the black bin outside your house. This was the woman who had released the China Cables after a Chinese official leaked them to her in secret. Thanks to the courage of this Uighur woman, there is now fresh and incontrovertible evidence of the systematic oppression of Muslim minorities in these camps. Not even Beijing has disputed the authenticity of these secret documents.

Often, the threatening calls come from China. One time, the number on our display showed that the call originated from the security services in Beijing. Why are you calling me? I asked. I just want to know how you’re getting on, replied a male voice. I know exactly where you live. Have you settled in nicely? And what are your children up to? I tried to stay calm. Everything’s great here, we’re happy.

If everything’s so great, then why don’t you stop talking to journalists? Be glad you’re still alive, and stop talking about what’s in the past.

I’ll never stop, I replied, and since you’re working in Beijing, why don’t you go see your Party leader and tell him to stop torturing people in those camps once and for all. At this, his voice turned cold and hard. Stop having these conversations with journalists immediately! Think of your children! They always finish with these words. I live in constant fear for my children, who are the most important thing to me in the entire world.

Unsurprisingly, these threats often make me feel very small, and I think, What chance do we have against such an overwhelmingly powerful opponent? But I owe it not just to the prisoners in the camps but to my countless supporters in Kazakhstan to tell the truth. So many people there are desperate: their children, parents, and grandparents have vanished without a trace into camps in neighbouring China. It doesn’t matter how powerful our opponent is. We can never stop speaking out. Maybe one day we will start a movement that can put an end to China’s hideous abuses of power.

How long has it been since I last felt free? As a child, I grew up surrounded by Kazakhs. We had our own school, our own traditions, and we spoke only Kazakh, because the north-east of East Turkestan is the land of my ancestors, which the Chinese call the Kazakh Autonomous Prefecture in Xinjiang.

We never thought anyone could rob us of our homeland.

CHAPTER TWO

Despite Chinese Invasion and Destruction:

dreaming of a golden future and financial security

Lucky

The baby’s here already? My father, thirty-nine years old and with a short black beard, pushed the flap of felt covering the door of our yurt aside, and stared in astonishment as my mother cradled me in her arms on the sheep’s-wool mattress. Her long black hair framed her pale face. She was twenty-seven years old, quick to laugh, and you could hardly tell she’d just had her fourth child. That’s how easy it was to give birth to me.

On 16 September 1976, they hung the feathers of an eagle owl on my crib, which protect against dark magic and bring luck. As I opened my eyes — dark brown, like chestnuts, in a round face — smoke from the fire rose through the opening in the roof of our tent. At night, the light of the stars fell through the gap onto our sleeping, fur-swaddled bodies.

East Turkestan has everything from snow-topped peaks to the second-biggest sandy desert in the world. But I was born in the breadbasket of Ili Autonomous Prefecture, in Mongolküre County. We’re known for being a lively bunch who love to dance, sing, and tell jokes, but also for our scientists, poets, and the veterans who rebelled against the occupying Chinese forces during the revolution.

She’ll bring luck, my mother and father were convinced. Not just to us, but to our whole village. For months, they’d been living through a terrible drought, and hunger had burrowed like a monster into many people’s stomachs. Just one week before my birth, the co-founder of the CCP and the Great Helmsman, Mao Zedong, had died. Mao’s cruelty and disdain for humanity had brought the Middle Kingdom to the brink of collapse. On the day I drew my first breath, it started to rain, and the countryside turned green once more.

All my relatives shook their head in wonder. What a funny little child. The girl never makes a fuss, never screams. When my mother fastened me securely into my cot with twine, I slept soundly