“Tiananmen 1989: Our Shattered Hopes” is an appropriate name for Lun Zhang’s graphic memoir, co-written by journalist Adrien Gombeaud with art by Améziane: as well as conveying how the Tiananmen Square Massacre ended a generation’s dream of a better China, it reflects how disappointingly dry this book is.
Written by Lun Zhang and Adrien Gombeaud
Translation by Edward Gauvin
Art by Améziane
Lettering by Frank CvetkovicFollow the story of China’s infamous June Fourth Incident — otherwise known as the Tiananmen Square Massacre — from the first-hand account of a young sociology teacher who witnessed it all. Over 30 years ago, on April 15th 1989, the occupation of Tiananmen Square began. As tens of thousands of students and concerned Chinese citizens took to the streets demanding political reforms, the fate of China’s communist system was unknown. When reports of soldiers marching into Beijing to suppress the protests reverberated across Western airwaves, the world didn’t know what to expect. Lun Zhang was just a young sociology teacher then, in charge of management and safety service for the protests. Now, in this powerful graphic novel, Zhang pairs with French journalist and Asia specialist Adrien Gombeaud, and artist Ameziane, to share his unvarnished memory of this crucial moment in world history for the first time.
“Our Shattered Hopes” begins promisingly, with Zhang talking about growing up during the Cultural Revolution, and the optimism in China after Mao Zedong’s death in 1976. Améziane depicts Zhang narrating from a stage, a stylish, saturated homage to Chinese opera that contrasts well with the monochromatic renderings of his past (which appear to be inspired by another Asian art form, ink wash paintings). He uses color sparingly and effectively in the main body of the book, symbolizing the growing hope the new generation carried with them, and how it became a lurid nightmare.
Améziane is truly the standout contributor to this book, with the camp framing device enabling him to deploy satirical flourishes, like puppets portraying the competing factions in the Communist Party, or a backdrop parodying Rocky IV that conveys the breakdown in Chinese-Soviet relations. He has to do these, because the book is so dominated by scenes of activists, intellectuals and politicians talking, and planning (or talking about planning), and watching TV, that without them, it would become an even more tiring read.
Historian David McCullough once said, “History is not just about dates and quotations. And it’s not just about politics, the military and social issues, though much of it of course is about that. It’s about everything. It’s about life history. It’s human. And we have to see it that way. We have to teach it that way. We have to read it that way. It’s about art, music, literature, money, science, love – the human experience.” This book is arguably his worst nightmare: it’s so dominated by Zhang’s recollection of dates and quotes that it comes across as a glorified timeline. Gombeaud and Améziane do (I’m assuming from the disclaimer in the preface) invent an affecting romantic subplot, but it has to be pushed to the side as a result.
Gombeaud is sadly content to just be Zhang’s transcriber, instead of his interviewer: it’s a talk without a Q&A. He should’ve remembered less is more, and that in this case, a graphic memoir needs less memoir: Zhang’s words cancel out any effect Améziane’s artwork has. You can tell, because there is one page where the captions grind to a halt, as Zhang remembers climbing the Monument to the People’s Heroes, and seeing how large the pro-democracy movement had become: it finally allows the reader a moment to reflect, and to emotionally connect with Zhang’s younger self, before the white noise of his lecture returns.
Zhang’s narration has to lay out all the necessary information by itself. What’s strange is that the book’s preface includes a dramatis personae (there’s that theatrical motif again), demonstrating some of what he tells us could’ve been repurposed in more inventive ways. There’s nothing wrong with graphic journalism, but in a book this long, we could’ve done with more graphical displays than Améziane’s artwork, which inevitably loses its lustre.
A big issue is (spoiler alert) Zhang wasn’t actually present during the massacre: he had to leave the square, and heard about it on the news like everyone else. After all the build-up, Améziane has to briefly imagine what it was like with the fictional characters, before Zhang concludes his story. I felt misled, and subsequently wish the book was much more about his life before and after the protests: it couldn’t have been easy, uprooting yourself and moving to another country (even if it was to keep yourself safe) like that. I also want to know if his parents knew or not; but these questions, and my last craving of any real insight, goes unaddressed.
As a child of Hong Kong who despises the Communist Party, I would have loved to have read this and declared, “this is the definitive tribute to those murdered at Tiananmen Square, and the powerful call-to-arms against the CPC that we need.” I didn’t feel anything, other than, “Boy, am I glad I can finally hear myself think again.” Perhaps a younger reader will find this the spark that lights the flame of rebellion, but for me, this was as illuminating as a Wikipedia entry. Hopefully, the victims of the Tiananmen Square Massacre will receive the graphic novel they deserve one day, and at least we can take solace in this book paving the way for that one.
