Murphy didn’t speak Uyghur or Chinese, so she greeted him in Arabic.
“As-salamu alaikum.”
He eyed her warily, bent as if he might topple forward at the slightest breath or misstep.
“Wa alaikumu as-salam,” he said.
He spoke English, haltingly, but assured her that he understood it very well from his time in U.S. custody.
Murphy introduced herself as a member of an NGO that was working to reunite Uyghur refugees with their children. To her surprise, he invited her in immediately.
“Come, come,” he said, raking the air with a cupped hand. “Please. I make you tea.”
He lived alone, with no family and few hobbies, from the looks of the sparse interior of the shabby but clean apartment. His nails were long, his hair unkempt. His only friends appeared to be the neat stacks of books and magazines in Arabic script and English stacked in various spots around the living area. Murphy noted just a few of the English titles—A Raisin in the Sun, 1984, The Invisible Man, assorted Kafka… A well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird sat open and facedown next to a mug of tea on a small table beside a sagging easy chair, as if he’d been up to the business of reading it when she’d knocked on his door. Not exactly books she’d expected to see in a Uyghur refugee’s home in the suburbs of Albania, but there was definitely a theme. You could get only so much by reading a person’s file.
He brought her tea and then retrieved his own, using a strip of white paper to mark his spot before reverently closing To Kill a Mockingbird and setting it gently on the table. Sitting across from Murphy, he told her that he was sorry but he could not help because he had no children to be reunited with. Where an American or European man might bawdily joke that he had no children “that he knew of,” Urkesh Beg looked at her soberly and left it at the apologetic denial.
Murphy learned early — likely well before The Farm — that a lie was easier to swallow when buttered with some truth. She set her teacup on her knees and bent forward, trying to make herself seem as small and unthreatening as possible. “Mr. Beg,” she said. “I am here on a very delicate matter. There are members of certain… shall we say… groups that China has deemed… outside the law—”
Beg’s countenance fell dark at the mention of China.
Murphy held up her free hand. “Please understand, I am in no way connected to the Chinese government. On the contrary, I do not even represent the American government.”
“That is good,” Beg said. “Because I hate the U.S. only a little less than I hate the Chinese government.”
Murphy had read the man’s file. She felt the urge to explain that although there was no question that the Uyghur people had been severely mistreated, it was no small thing to align oneself with Taliban forces, even for training, and then fire toward U.S. troops. Urkesh Beg was, in point of fact, fortunate to be upright and still breathing. Still, criminals in the United States did less time than he had for a hell of a lot worse. It wasn’t Leigh Murphy’s job to prove to him how right the United States was or was not in detaining him for so long. She needed to find out what he knew.
She took a contemplative sip of tea, letting the silence sink in before beginning. “The people I work with represent separated children, not nations. Unfortunately, members of the groups I’m talking to you about do not contact authorities regarding the location and fate of their little ones because they are afraid the Chinese government—”
Beg scoffed. “Or the U.S.”
“Or whomever,” Murphy continued. “Parents aligned with groups operating on the edges of the law fear making contact, leaving my organization with no way to find extended family for the children in our care — many of whom are too young to communicate with us.”
“Maybe you give me names of the people you are looking for,” Beg said. “I am not part of all this you speak of, but I know people who know.”
“I have a list at my office,” she said. “Perhaps we can meet tomorrow or the next day and speak in more detail. I do remember several of the smaller children had family members in the ETIM…” Murphy listed two other known Uyghur groups before bringing it home. Yao had been vague about why he was looking for Medina Tohti, but did mention she had a daughter. Murphy flipped the script on the details but kept the issue of parent and child the same. “… at least one, a three-year-old boy, if I am correct, has a father who is part of… I’m not sure I’m saying it correctly, the Wuming group.”
Beg shook his head emphatically, lips pursed, a child refusing to eat his oatmeal. He took two slow, deep breaths before saying, “Wuming?” His hand trembled as he took a sip of tea. “Wuming means nameless. Nobody.”
“Anonymous?” Murphy offered. If this man was reading A Raisin in the Sun and George Orwell, he had a decent vocabulary.
“Yes,” Beg said. “Anonymous. Maybe other groups do things and Wuming gets the blame.”
“Or the credit,” Murphy said. “The Chinese believe they are behind several killings.” She put her hand to her chest now, over her heart. “This boy I spoke of, he believes his father is Wuming. I hope they are real. Someone needs to fight the Chinese oppression.”
Beg leaned back in his chair, eyeing her carefully. “Do you know of Baihua Qifang?”
Murphy thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t recognize it.”
“The Hundred Flowers Campaign,” Beg said. “Decades ago, Mao allowed open criticism of the Communist government. ‘Let a hundred flowers bloom and a hundred differing thoughts contend.’ A Chinese poem.” Beg turned up his nose. “Far inferior to Uyghur verse.”
He was certainly finding his vocabulary now.
“I have heard of the Hundred Flowers Campaign,” Murphy said. “It did not go well.”
“It did not,” Beg said. “Some say it started with good intentions, but I think Mao told everyone to speak the truth of how they disagreed with him so he could kill them or put them in prison later.”
“Fair assessment,” Murphy said. “But what does that have to do with us?”
“You come to my house, telling me you are happy with crimes committed against Han Chinese military and police. You think this will make me agree with you and get me in trouble.”
“I told you,” Murphy said. “I represent no specific country, but I am obviously not Chinese.”
Beg gave a derisive laugh. “You Americans believe only people who look Chinese help Beijing. China has lots of money. Americans who look like you help China, Africans help China, even some greedy Uyghur work for China against other Uyghur. I told you, I am not a part of any organization you are asking about and I have no children.” He stood. “There are Uyghur families in many free countries who I imagine would happily raise these children. I think you should go and use your time to contact them.”
“I will,” Murphy said, getting to her feet. The fire in Urkesh Beg’s eyes made her grateful for the weight of the little Glock in her waistband. “But I would still like to try and place the children with family if possible. You said you know people who might know. This little boy who says his father is Wuming is so—”
“Wuming is no one. Little children’s stories, yes, but that is all. Wuming is just story.”
Murphy bit her bottom lip, making her chin quiver. She could not only turn her wiggle off and on, but the waterworks as well. “Honestly,” she said, sniffing for effect. “Hundred Flowers Campaign be damned. Think whatever you want. Whoever is doing these things, Wuming or whatever they are called… Who could blame them? There are evil people out there, taking children from parents, husbands from wives… I worry about the children, but you’re probably right. It would be better to place them with unrelated Uyghur families. Chinese authorities are relentless. They will eventually find and imprison everyone who even thinks a separatist thought, even the Wuming.”