[Congressional Record Volume 141, Number 158 (Thursday, October 12, 1995)]
[Senate]
[Pages S15073-S15074]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                         CHINA AND HUMAN RIGHTS

  Mr. HELMS. Mr. President, a heart-rending article about China's 
forced abortion policy was published in September's Reader's Digest. 
The article emphasized the absurdity of the U.N. Fourth Conference on 
Women having been held in Beijing, and should be required reading for 
those who insist that China's human rights record should be considered 
only in the abstract--and should not interfere with full-scale 
relations with the Communist Chinese.
  The Reader's Digest story, ``A Question of Duty,'' relates a young 
Chinese obstetrician's courageous decision to refuse to murder a baby 
born illegally under Chinese law. For refusing to kill the baby (who 
survived a chemical abortion procedure) Dr. Yin Wong was banished to a 
remote Chinese province. Dr. Wong eventually escaped to the United 
States where he hopes to be granted political asylum. But the baby Dr. 
Wong fought to save was put to death under orders from the local 
Chinese family planning office.
  Mr. President, the thought of killing a baby is abhorrent, but it is 
commonplace in Communist China. The concept that the birth of a human 
being can be illegal is grotesque, but in China, it is the law of the 
land--for mothers who already have one child.
  Mr. President, I will never understand how or why the United Nations 
chose Beijing for such a high-profile human rights meeting. It was the 
U.N. Population Program [U.N.F.P.A.] that helped design China's 
population control program 20 years ago. This cruel experiment, which 
uses forced abortions and sterilizations to limit each family to one 
child, has debased the value of human life and has forever discredited 
U.N.F.P.A.
  For fiscal year 1995, the Clinton administration handed over $50 
million to U.N.F.P.A., and Mr. Clinton proposed another $55 million for 
fiscal year 1996. If Senators will take the time to read Dr. Yin Wong's 
story, they will understand why many Americans feel so strongly, as I 
do, that further funding of the U.N. Population Program, using American 
taxpayer's money, should be prohibited.
  Mr. President, I ask unanimous consent that ``A Question of Duty'' 
from the September 1995 Reader's Digest be printed in the Record.
  There being no objection, the material was ordered to be printed in 
the Record, as follows:

               [From the Reader's Digest, September 1995]

  What Is A Doctor To Do When Faced With An Order to Commit Murder? A 
                            Question of Duty

                           (By Dr. Yin Wong)

       (The author asked that her name be changed for fear of 
     reprisals against her family.)
       The hospital in southern China was busy in early morning of 
     December 24, 1989. As a 24-year-old specialist in obstetrics 
     and gynecology, I had performed two Caesareans and a 
     difficult forceps delivery. My supervisor had put me in 
     charge of that night's shift--a new and frightening 
     responsibility. I was exhausted and hadn't eaten for about 
     eight hours. Yet when I finally got to the doctors lounge 
     at 1 a.m., I was too excited to eat or sleep.
       Instead, I lay in bed marveling at the three new lives I 
     had welcomed into the world. And I thought of my father. He 
     had chosen a profession that, in China, paid little more than 
     twice the wages of a street sweeper: he was a doctor. He 
     would often say, ``The most noble work a person can do is 
     savings lives.''
       My father was a beloved figure in our province, famous for 
     his humility. He wore a workingman's clothes and carried his 
     instruments in a cheap vinyl bag with a broken zipper. His 
     reflex hammer was an ancient model with a wooden handle. He 
     refused to throw it away. ``Tools don't make a doctor,'' he 
     told me ``Knowledge and compassion do.''
       Now at last growing drowsy, I remembered that it was 
     Christmas Eve. Like millions of Chinese, my parents were 
     Christian. I thought of the times we had celebrated this holy 
     day together: decorating a tiny tree, singing ``Silent 
     Night''--quietly, so our neighbors wouldn't report us--and 
     hearing my father whisper the story of the Christ child. I'll 
     call him on Christmas morning, I thought as I drifted off to 
     sleep.
       I was awakened by a knock at the door. It was the midwife 
     who handled routine deliveries. ``Come!'' she shouted. ``We 
     need you to take care of something!''
       As I rushed after her, I heard the crying of a newborn 
     baby. When I reached the delivery room, a bedraggled woman 
     was struggling to sit up in bed. ``Don't! Don't!'' she 
     shouted in a local dialect.
       The midwife, a girl of 20 with a ponytail and bad acne, 
     began drawing iodine from a clear glass bottle through a 
     three-inch needle into a large syringe. She told me that the 
     woman's abortion had gone awry. The mother, eight months 
     pregnant, already had one child--a second was forbidden under 
     China's strict population-control law. Arrested and forced 
     into the hospital by the local Family Planning Office, the 
     mother had been injected with rivanol, an abortifacient drug. 
     ``But the baby was born alive,'' said the midwife. The cries 
     were coming from an unheated bathroom across the hall.
       ``I asked the orderly to bury it,'' she continued. A small 
     hill nearby served as an unmarked graveyard for such 
     purposes. ``But he said it was raining too hard.''
       Then the full import of this moment became clear to me. As 
     the obstetrician in charge, I had the duty of ensuring there 
     were no abortion survivors. That meant an injection of 20 
     milliliters of iodine or alcohol into the soft spot of the 
     infant's head. It brings death within just minutes.
       The midwife held the syringe out to me. I froze. I had no 
     hesitancy about performing first-trimester abortions, but 
     this was different. In the year since joining the hospital 
     staff, I have always managed to let more senior doctors 
     perform the task.
       On the bed next to me, the child's mother looked at me with 
     pleading eyes. She knew what the needle meant. All women 
     knew. ``Have mercy!'' she cried.
       With the mother still protesting, I went across the hall to 
     the bathroom. It was so cold I could see my breath. Next to a 
     garbage pail with the words DEAD INFANTS scrawled on the lid 
     was a black plastic garbage bag. I was moving, and cries were 
     coming from inside. Kneeling, I told the midwife to open the 
     bag.
       I have imagined a premature new-born, hovering between life 
     and death. Instead, I found a perfect 4\1/2\-pound baby boy, 
     failing his tiny fists and kicking his feet. His lips were 
     purple from lack of oxygen.
       Gently, I cradled his head in one hand and placed the 
     fingertips of the other on his soft spot. The skin there felt 
     wonderfully warm, and it pulsed each time he wailed. My heart 
     leapt. This is a life, a person, I thought. He will die on 
     this cold floor.
       ``Doctor!'' the mother screamed from across the hall. 
     ``Doctor, stop!''
       The midwife pressed the glass syringe into my hand. It felt 
     strangely heavy. This is just a routine procedure, I argued 
     with myself. It isn't wrong. It's the law.
       All at once, the baby kicked. His foot caught the barrel of 
     the syringe and pushed it dangerously near his stomach. I 
     jerked it away. This is Christmas Eve! I thought. I can't 
     believe I'm doing this on Christmas Eve!
       I touched the baby's lips with my index finger. He turned 
     his head to suckle. ``Look, he's hungry,'' I said. ``He wants 
     to live.''
       I stood up, feeling faint. The syringe slipped from my 
     fingers and shattered on the floor, splattering brownish-
     yellow liquid on my shoes.
       I told the midwife to carry the baby into the delivery room 
     and get him ready to go down to Intensive Care. ``I'll ask 
     the supervisor for permission to treat him,'' I said, I felt 
     certain that the senior obstetrician, a woman in her late 50s 
     with two children, would never harm this child.

[[Page S 15074]]

       It was almost 2 a.m. when I knocked at the supervisor's 
     office. Her voice was groggy with sleep. Opening the door, I 
     quickly explained: ``We have a baby boy who was born alive 
     after a rivanol abortion. May I send him to IC?''
       ``Absolutely not!'' she said from her bed. ``This is a 
     second birth!''
       ``But he's healthy,'' I insisted. ``Could you please come 
     take a look?''
       There was a pause, then she replied angrily, ``Why are you 
     asking me this? You know the policy!''
       Her tone frightened me. ``I'm sorry,'' I said as I shut the 
     door.
       In staff meetings, the supervisor had frequently reminded 
     us how important the birth-control policy was. Usually she 
     would disclose that someone in a neighboring hospital had 
     been jailed for allowing the birth of a child without a 
     government permit. But recently there had been a chilling 
     incident involving our orderly.
       He was a taciturn, shabby man in his 50s, whose sole job 
     was to bury infants. He was paid 30 yuan apiece. Burying four 
     infants a day, on average, the orderly earned more than twice 
     the salary of a doctor. ``Why so much?'' I once asked a 
     colleague. ``Because no one else will do what he does,'' she 
     replied.
       When I pressed for details, she told me that in cases of 
     abortion failure, the man sometimes had to bury the infants 
     alive. ``No matter what happens,'' she explained, ``the 
     birth-control policy must be obeyed.''
       Weeks after I learned this, a midwife sent the orderly an 
     aborted fetus, which he stored temporarily beneath a 
     stairwell. While the orderly was out, the baby revived and 
     began to cry. A visiting policeman discovered the child and 
     questioned my supervisor. She told him the infant was only an 
     illegal child awaiting burial. The officer apologized for 
     interfering.
       At the next staff meeting, the word went out: ``Don't send 
     the orderly any fetuses that might be alive. Give the 
     injection.''
       Now, filled with foreboding, I headed back toward the 
     delivery room. A man with the weatherbeaten face of a peasant 
     grabbed my arm. ``Doctor,'' he pleaded, ``this is the son 
     we've always wanted. Please do not kill him!''
       I continued down the hall and entered the bathroom. The 
     baby was still lying on the floor. ``Why didn't you do what I 
     instructed?'' I asked the midwife.
       ``Who is going to pick up this baby?'' she replied. She 
     meant a baby that was not allowed to live.
       As the midwife looked on in astonishment, I gathered up the 
     crying baby and hurried into the delivery room. I laid him in 
     an infant bed.
       Under an ultraviolet heat lamp, with the help of oxygen 
     tubes that I taped under his nostrils, his hands and feet 
     soon turned pink. Carefully I wrapped him in a soft blanket.
       The midwife prepared another syringe--this time with 
     alcohol--and placed it on a tray next to the newborn's bed. 
     ``Don't do this!'' the mother cried again. Grasping the bed 
     rail, she tried to haul herself over the edge. I hurried to 
     her side.
       ``Calm down,'' I said, easing her back onto the pillow. 
     Whispering, I added, ``I don't want to harm your baby--I'm 
     trying to help.''
       The woman began to cry. ``Dear lady,'' she said softly, ``I 
     will thank you for the rest of my life.''
       Just then, the midwife came over with a clipboard. ``What 
     should I put on the report?'' she asked. The last entry read, 
     ``1:30--born alive.'' The chart was supposed to be updated 
     before the midwife went home.
       ``Don't write anything,'' I answered curtly. Exasperated, 
     the midwife left.
       I looked at the baby. His cherubic face was ringed by a 
     halo of black hair. This life is a gift from God, I thought. 
     No one has the right to take it away. The thought became so 
     insistent that I had the impression it was being said by 
     someone else. I wondered: Is this how God talks to people?
       For the next two hours I stood vigil over the child. 
     Gradually he ceased whimpering and fell asleep.
       Finally, I went to see the supervisor again. ``I'm sorry,'' 
     I told her, ``but I can't do this. I feel it's murder, and I 
     don't want to be a murderer.''
       The supervisor's voice exploded: ``How can you call 
     yourself an obstetrician? Take care of the problem at once! 
     Don't bother me again!''
       With my heart beating wildly, I returned to the delivery 
     room. The baby was still asleep, but when I touched his mouth 
     he wheeled to suckle again. ``Still hungry, little one?'' I 
     whispered. My eyes filled with tears.
       Suddenly, I felt terribly alone. I thought of my father. 
     Would he support me? Despite the early hour, I went to the 
     pay phone in the lobby and dialed. Both parents listened at 
     one receiver as my words poured out. ``I keep hearing God's 
     voice,'' I told them. `` `This is a life,' it says. `You 
     cannot be part of a murder.' ''
       When I finished, there was a long silence. Finally, my 
     father spoke. ``I am proud of you,'' he said.
       ``I am, too,'' said my mother, crying softly. ``But you 
     must be careful! Don't write anything down or leave a record. 
     The Party may want to make an example of you.''
       I understood. During the Cultural Revolution, when I was 
     eight years old, my father was arrested for saving the life 
     of an official who was considered a ``counterrevolutionary.'' 
     My father had been exiled to the countryside while my mother 
     was sent to a labor camp. My four-year-old brother and I were 
     left with neighbors. Those years had been hard. I remembered 
     my mother's stories of torture and starvation.
       My determination wavered. Then my father spoke again. ``You 
     are a child of God, and so is this baby,'' he said simply. 
     ``Killing him would be like killing your own brother.''
       I hung up and hurried back. The maternity ward was in 
     chaos. The delivery-room door had been locked, and the baby's 
     father was pounding on it and screaming, ``Don't kill my 
     child!''
       I ran into the delivery room through a side door. There, 
     beside the baby's bed, my supervisor stood with a syringe, 
     feeling for the soft spot. The infant's blanket and oxygen 
     tubes had been stripped away. He was crying violently. 
     ``Don't give that injection!'' I shouted as I seized the 
     syringe.
       ``What are you doing?'' the supervisor yelled. ``You're 
     breaking the law!''
       Instead of fear, I felt a sense of peace. ``This child 
     committed no crime,'' I replied. ``How can you kill him?''
       The supervisor gaped at me. Lowering her voice, she said 
     ominously, ``If you continue to disobey, you will never 
     practice medicine again.''
       ``I would rather not be a doctor than commit murder,'' I 
     said. ``I would rather waive my right to have my own child 
     than kill this one.'' Then a thought occurred to me. ``Why 
     can't I just adopt him?''
       ``You have completely lost your senses!'' the supervisor 
     cried. After she left, I swaddled the baby again and replaced 
     the oxygen tubes. He quieted down and his color returned.
       At 8 a.m., the hospital administrator arrived at work and 
     was told what had happened. He summoned me to his office. 
     ``Why are you unwilling to do your duty?'' he demanded. ``Are 
     these people friends of yours? Did you take money from 
     them?''
       ``I don't even speak their dialect!'' I said angrily. ``And 
     you can search me for money if you want.''
       Minutes later, a senior bureaucrat from the local Family 
     Planning Office walked into the room and took a folder out of 
     an expensive attache case. He began to read the text of a 
     local directive on birth control: ``Those who obstruct Family 
     Planning officers from performing duties shall be subject to 
     punishment. . . .''
       When he finished, he looked at me and said sharply, ``Do 
     you realize it is illegal for this baby to live?''
       ``None of us has the right to decide that,'' I said.
       The man grew angry. ``We are talking about government 
     policy here. You have broken the law!''
       ``I don't feel I have.''
       ``Very well, he said evenly. ``Let's you and I go and give 
     the injection.''
       ``No!''
       ``You admit, then, that you are breaking the law? If so, I 
     have the right to have you arrested right now!''
       Desperately, I searched for an out. I had been on call more 
     than 24 hours and couldn't think clearly. I felt queasy. ``I 
     am off duty,'' I said weakly. ``My shift is over.''
       ``Not true,'' he said. ``You haven't finished your tasks.''
       ``Please,'' I said, Then I began to cry. My legs buckled, 
     and I fell to the floor. The last thing I remember was a 
     spreading blackness before my eyes.
       When I came to, I was lying outside the doctors lounge. It 
     was almost noon. The baby? I leapt up and ran to the delivery 
     room.
       The tiny bed was empty. ``Where . . . ?'' I asked the 
     midwife.
       ``The man from Family Planning ordered us to give the 
     injection,'' she replied, averting her eyes.
       Despite all my efforts, the little boy had been killed.
       Over the past decade, accounts of hospital-sanctioned 
     infanticides in China have shown up in numerous publications, 
     from the Washington Post to The Wall Street Journal and 
     Amnesty International. ``Such reports are so widespread and 
     explicit that their truth can hardly be doubted,'' says John 
     S. Aird, former director of the China branch of the U.S. 
     Census Bureau. And yet, like the scattered stories of the 
     Holocaust that filtered into the media during World War II, 
     these dispatches have mostly been ignored. Yin Wong's story 
     may be the most detailed published to date.
       ``This is the dark underside of China's `one child' 
     policy,'' says Steven W. Mosher, director of the Asian 
     Studies Center at The Claremont Institute in Claremont, 
     Calif. ``The PRC never actually orders infanticide. Yet its 
     harsh demands on local family-planning officials inevitably 
     lead to these unspeakable acts.''
       This month, Beijing is host to the United Nations' Fourth 
     World Conference on Women, which draws hundreds of 
     population-control experts from around the world. It is 
     bitter irony that this organization has chosen to meet in a 
     country where population-control zealotry has led to what 
     must be described as crimes against humanity.
       For interfering with China's family-planning policy, Yin 
     Wong was banished to a remote mountain area. Eventually she 
     escaped to the United States, where she has applied for 
     political asylum. Her case is pending.
       ``I am fortunate,'' she says. ``For now I live in a country 
     where I am not forced to violate my conscience. My colleagues 
     in China are not so lucky. The worst part is how it destroys 
     their souls.''

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