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Posted on 12/23/2001 6:34:51 AM PST by IronJack

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet, the words repeat,
Of "Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men."

In a dank cement factory in Qinghai Province, a roomful of naked workers process animal hides into leather. The slaves are kept naked because the chemicals soak their clothes and burn their skin so badly they become useless. In horrifying cold and darkness, they soften hides by day, then retire to rat-infested barracks to catch a few hours' tortured sleep before they are kicked from their pallets for another day.

The leather they make goes into the uppers of Nike tennis shoes. The workers are paid nothing. The hides come from state-owned farms whose workers are paid next to nothing. The tennis shoes sell for upwards of $100 in America, the Land of the Free.

Thousands of pairs will be bought this year. Thousands of eyes will light up as the gaily colored wrapping paper is torn off and the familiar swoosh tips the eager recipient off as to the box's contents. "Oh, Mom! My Nikes! Thanks Mom. I love you!" In Qinghai, 200 human wrecks rise before dawn to be fed a bowl of fish heads and floor sweepings, so they can start in on the post-season rush.

And in despair, I bowed my head,
"There is no peace on Earth," I said.
"For Hate is strong, and mocks the song
Of Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men."

Prisons in China serve a dual purpose. The Chinese, ever mindful of limited resources in their harsh land, have decreed that no prisoner should leech off the government when he can earn his keep. And if he draws breath, he can earn his keep. Perhaps he's given the opportunity to learn the textile trade in the Jingjian Xinsheng Dyeing and Weaving Factory. Until "most-favored nation" status opened up a market for cheap sweatsuits, the Factory was known as Jingjian Prison.

Before Communism gave its inmates a chance to redeem themselves through a joyful contribution to the good of the Republic, they were just prisoners wasting away in fetid cages, being abused and murdered by cold-blooded guards. Now their blood and sinews are the machinery that pound out bales of fleece, which will be shipped to another Glorious Factory to be made into loungewear for middle-aged fat men.

I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along th' unbroken song
Of Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men.

Cai Zhong Xian is a priest who was imprisoned 33 years ago for crimes against the state. He is addled with the strain of a lifetime's confinement. He can't remember the details of his arrest or conviction. In truth, he doesn't really know why he's still here. That doesn't matter. Neither do his jailers.

Tenzin Choedrak was once personal physician to the Dalai Lama. His connections brought him low; the Chinese don't care much for Tibetans, especially uppity ones. Choedrak would have been making rocks into gravel for the last two decades, except he was generously offered an opportunity to treat several party officials.

Liu Xinghu was arrested when he was 13 years old. His family was accused of being "class enemies." Now almost 40, Liu is a free man. One day, his jailers told him that they had determined that he'd done nothing wrong. He was released the same day. It is fortunate he hadn't been guilty, or he would have faced a harsh jail sentence.

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep,
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep.
The Wrong shall fail, the Right prevail,
With Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men."

More than 50 million people have passed through the Stygian gates of the Laogai, the Chinese archipelago. A good portion never saw daylight again. They were tortured, brutalized, and ultimately murdered. Their blood is on the hands of the communist masters whose vision would tolerate no dissent.

But as some plastic music box tinkles its merry song in Wal-Marts this season, some of that blood is on our hands too. Every time we ignore the label that says Made in China, we stripe the lash across some dissenter's back. Every ring of the register is a death knell for a Tiananmen protestor. Every plastic snow globe's tinny melody is a funeral dirge for some half-remembered soul who dared to speak his mind That second-rate landfill fodder from China possesses the same moral heritage as a mattress stuffed with human hair from Buchenwald.

Have a Merry Christmas.

Oh, and Peace on Earth, Good Will To Men.

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