In the desert there is no sign that says: thou shalt not eat stones.
       — — Sufi proverb

In an era swathed in, imbued with, to an extent defined by complete and unmitigated political and psychological suppression, outlets came in forms of perversion. When I look back on it now, none of it, from Chairman Mao’s biblical Little Red Book to the vast pool of extant political documents from that era, contained if merely a single mentioning of sex, another bourgeois cathartic instrument denied by leftist Party doctrine. Perhaps it was only a minor infringement upon human nature, in a time where much more serious offences were regrettably commonplace. My victimisation, in context, is less significant than a speck of grain lost in an ocean, but it is through this anachronistic insignificance, that I hope to convey the scope and degree of the cultural terror my generation lived through. 
I was a Sent-Down Youth in the late 60s, fresh from the throngs of the city into the sweltering humidity of the Yunnan provinces. Our task was simple, herding sheep most of the time, or harvesting rubber when the season was right. After sundown we were required to observe the “criticise and denounce” sessions, but they became less as suicides became more frequent, and it was difficult to replenish the stock of counter-revolutionists and capitalists in our humble village. Instead, we attended Party doctrine lessons with Political Instructor Pan, to whom all the Sent-Down Youths reported to.
There was only a little unpaved road for daily commute, and it unfolds before me through the vista of years in such lucidity, as if I had never left it all this while. The shacks that lined the streets, the ones that had solid walls, were painted with sprawling propaganda. Men and women, equally muscular and tan-skinned, dressed in identical formless gray uniforms, clutching a Red Treasure Book in their hands and looking up in adoration to the haloed Mao.
The women Sent-Down Youths all had chopped ear-length hair and attire that mirrored the fierce working women in the portraits enclosing us from both sides. In a well-formed queue from shortest to tallest, we trudged to and fro our living quarters and the fields daily under supervision of our Instructor.
That evening when it happened, there were new additions to the “criticised and denounced” crew, other than the usual Party enemies: three former landlords, an old man who hung a watercolour in his bedroom, two former university teachers, a man who spoke English and Japanese, there were two new faces, one of them female, head-down and in the “jet-plane style” position like the rest.
Women were uncommon, even the young Party member holding her half-shorn hair by the ends seemed to be enjoying it more than usual. I strained to see the wooden board tied to her neck, her offence was splattered in violent red paint: LOOSE WOMAN, CAI JUANFANG.
    Beside her was another newcomer. I read the other newcomer's board: ANTI-MAOIST TENDENCIES, NIU DALEI. I recognised the name, and looking up, identified the bruise-battered face of the boy-child Dalei, a fellow Sent-Down Youth. 
“What is his offence?” I asked Instructor Pan beside me.
“That capitalist spy, he disrespected Chairman Mao,” the Instructor spat, “dropped his Red Treasure Book with the Chairman’s portrait on the cover in the s*** hole when taking a dump.”
I nodded mechanically, looking at the Instructor’s lined face, appropriately indignant and accusatory, and then at the boy’s swollen and shapeless head, almost demure.
“Do you deny in participating in un-Party behaviour?” On stage, the denunciator shouted, removing the manure-stained barnyard hay from the woman’s mouth for her to answer.
“No.” The Party enemy uttered.
I welcomed the sight of the beckoning Instructor, for fear that had I stayed longer, the suppressed spasms of pity intermingled with guilt would find a pore in my shield of indifference, and a Red Guard would surely chain me and denounce me and stuff manured hay in my mouth like they did with her. “Mei, will you accompany me to the barn? I need to have a word with you,” the Instructor turned to me and said, with a speculative look.
I trailed a little behind him on the way. When we reached the barn he slammed the door behind him.
He started unbuttoning me. I was not wearing a bra: it was a capitalist thing to do.
The shock paralysed me. Then I began to struggle, only a few times, feebly. I wanted to scream, but the redness of the Party insignia: on his uniform, on his hat, on his very person, burned my retina, impelling my silent compliance.
Afterwards, he hastily redressed and exited the barn, as I lay, rigid and partially smeared in cow s***. I found myself trembling, in fear, disgust, boiling hatred; towards what I did not know.
It felt like I had lain for hours, when footsteps startled my numbed senses. My inanimate form snapped into an apprehension-fuelled, nervous energy. He had come back. I had to get away. I sat up and frantically scooped up my clothes, aching with every movement. The door creaked and opened.
I looked up, still half-naked and on the ground. The Instructor’s wife stood at the doorway, her face half hidden in the shadows.
I froze. LOOSE WOMAN in bright red splashed across my mind, mingled with the stench of manure-covered hay and cattle and sweat. She walked towards me with a startling efficiency, pulling me up, shoving my uniform into my hands, “The Instructor sent me. Get up, come with me, I have medicine and hot water.”
Years later, I learned that a multitude of the Sent-Down girls were subjected to the same fate, that I was fortunate it was merely a one-time affair. I cannot now picture his face, however, his wife whose name I don’t recall: her solemn, half-shadowed figure with pursed lips, and her austere, mute efficiency, somehow was a condensation of the horror of that night to me.