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capture the festival on tape, doing on-the-spot reports, probably trying to interview students. A lot of them could speak English. There were other journalists in the square. You could pick them out pretty easily. White faces showed up and so did foreign clothes, not to mention cameras on shoulders.
    Behind the Monument to the People’s Heroes was a large contingent of students. Some were sitting, gathered around portable radios, some standing and talking, others were singing and clappingtheir hands. As I passed them I heard “Hello! Hello! Mr. Reporter, come talk to us!”
    A guy with a red baseball cap on and a loud-hailer in his hand was talking to me. Well, I thought, why not?
    “Hi,” I said.
    “What country you are from?” he asked.
    “Canada. Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. How about you? What university are you from?”
    “People’s University.”
    “I am from Bei Da,” the guy beside him chimed in. “Beijing University.”
    Already a crowd of students had gathered around us, staring at me and pointing and talking among themselves. I reminded myself that I was supposed to be a reporter.
    “What do you hope to accomplish with this demonstration?” I asked, conscious of how stuffy I sounded.
    “We have made a union of university students in Beijing,” he said, “and we have been on strike from classes. All Beijing university students are on strike. We have three demands. We want that the government agrees to talk to us like equals, not treat us like children. Second, they must apologize for violence against students last week.” He pointed toward Zhong Nan Hai, where some students had got roughed up a bit. “Third, we demand that Xin Hua news reports stop lying about us in newspapers and television.” Xin Hua is the government’s officialnews agency. “We are not against Communist Party and socialism. We want these things to stay. But we want government to listen to the people and stop the corruption by high officials.”
    The, students around us nodded and chattered away in Chinese.
    “What do those say?” I asked him, nodding towards the signs and banners behind him.
    He pointed as he translated. “Long live democracy. That one, Down with Dictatorship. Over there, Support the Correct Leadership of the Communist Party of China.”
    “Do you think the government will listen to you?”
    “Students’ Union has decided that if the officials do not listen, we will plan bigger demonstration on May Fourth.” Then he yelled something in Chinese and raised his arm, making the “V” for victory sign with his fingers. I caught the words “May Fourth” but nothing else. A deafening cheer surged from the students around us.
    “Why then?” I asked.
    “Pardon?”
    “Why did you pick that particular day?”
    “May Fourth is very important day to all Chinese students and intellectuals. Seventy years ago on May Fourth students from Beijing University began the movement that led to the Communist Revolution.”
    I was starting to get frustrated. I was interested in what the guy was saying and I wanted to ask him some more, but the crush of students around us —they were pressing against us as if we were in a crowded bus — was getting on my nerves and making me even more claustrophobic and I didn’t have a pen and paper to write down what I was seeing and hearing.
    “Listen,” I said. “Is it okay if I come back and ask you more questions later?”
    “Very okay. We are happy to talk to Western reporter.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Sorry, maybe better I don’t give my name.”
    “Okay,” I said, shaking his hand. “Maybe I’ll see you again.”
    I managed to separate myself from the mass of human flesh and move away from the monument towards the hotel.
    It was all too much for me. It was pretty warm out, and, I’ll tell you, pushing through an endless crowd, no matter how festive they seem, is a tough grind.
    I worked my way back to Chang An Avenue and finally to the hotel. I was