During my time in China, I carefully planned out all the products, especially the liquids, that I could not easily buy in China: contact solution, mouthwash, special soaps.
As my departure approached, I rationed them out so that they would last until the end of my stay—not wearing my contacts every day, only using the Dr. Bronner’s on my armpits and face, using mouthwash every other day.
Then, all of the sudden, the days became fewer and the little bit of mouthwash I had left was now too much. I had over-compensated. It mocked me, slowly lowering itself each day I took a swig of the green mint stuff.
It looked like I would have some left over despite my fear that there would not be enough.
On October 3rd, our naked bodies intertwined, our legs like octopus arms all tangled up in one another, our sobs mixed with laughter, we said goodbye.
“Maybe this is just an illusion, a dream that was constructed by the fact that our relationship has a deadline. It’s easier to love with no consequences,” she said.
I nodded.
“If we stayed together, I would get on your case about smoking,” I conceded.
“See?” she laughed.
“Are you ready?” she asked me. “We’re about to wake up from our dream.”
“I’m ready,” I said.
“Good-bye, Sarah.” She kissed me one last time, the salt from our tears mixing in our mouths. She walked out of my dorm room then, closing the door softly behind her. I felt as though I had been sucker-punched in the stomach. I wanted to vomit. I retched and dry-heaved, but nothing came out.
A few hours later, I left for the airport.
On my first layover I texted Li Tian, “I’ve arrived in Beijing.”
An automatic response came back. “This user has enabled Friend Confirmation. Send a friend request to chat.”
She had deleted me. Along with my Uyghur friends, one day they were in my life and the next they were gone.
I wondered then what a relationship without a deadline would be like.
For me, the deadline was my visa. For my Uyghur friends, the deadline was arrest and detainment.
My Uyghur friends and I had to hide protect ourselves from the hostility around us. For me, I hid in my sexuality. But my Uyghur friends could not hide their ethnicity.
Holding an American passport and maintaining an American bank account with dollars provided privilege beyond what most Uyghurs and Han I interacted with in Xinjiang could imagine.
“How was China?” people asked me when I returned to the US. The answer is: As my memories start to slip away from me, it feels like a dream. For the Uyghurs, it is a living nightmare.
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