"They've already opened fire," a classmate reported, returning to our dormitory from Chang'an Avenue.  

It was the evening of June 3, 1989.  Outside, the last traces of sunlight had faded into the night.  I was with Yefu, my close friend and classmate.  He had been documenting the democracy movement with his camera.  He had photographed the student and worker demonstrations, the hunger strikers in Tiananmen Square, and the citizens blocking the progress of military vehicles.  

We were taken aback by our classmate's news. 

"Were they using real bullets, or just rubber ones?" I asked.

He replied bitterly, "Go 'n see for yourselves!"  Then he left.

Yefu said, "If they've really started shooting we should be there."  I nodded in agreement.  We gathered up the things we would need: gauze masks in case of tear gas, bandages, rolls of film and camera batteries.  After the institution of Martial Law in Beijing the Red Cross had provided us and other students with masks and bandages, just in case.  

We carefully hid our journals and letters to our families.  Like many students, we had prepared letters and informal wills: "If I should die...."   We hoped those letters would never be needed.

Outside we grabbed our bikes and pedalled south as fast as we could toward Tiananmen Square.  Along the way the street was fairly quiet, like any summer evening, save for the distant sound of gunfire.

As soon as we neared the Beijing Zoo, about halfway to Chang'an Avenue, however, the atmosphere grew tense.  There were many people huddled together in small groups, talking together and looking toward the south.  We heard gunshots.  They sounded just like the firecrackers of Chinese New Year, continuous and deafening.  

We saw people running toward us from Chang'an in a panic.  Several flat-bed tricycles passed us.  These basic utility vehicles are usually seen hauling peddlers' goods, but this night they were carrying wounded people.  Ambulances sped by, their sirens a chorus of piercing wails that lingered long after the vehicles were out of sight.

We continued south, along Sanlihe Road.  As we passed Diaoyutai State Guesthouse, just a few blocks from Chang'an several women rushed to stop us.  They grabbed our handlebars, crying out, "They've gone crazy!  They're murdering people!  Don't go there, you're students!"

"We have to go," I said, showing them my camera.  "We want to be eyewitnesses. But thank you for being concerned."

Reluctantly they stepped aside and let us go.  As we rode away they called out, "Be careful!  If you have to escape, run fast!  Don't be foolish!"

Yefu and I did not take their warnings too seriously.  We thought that most of the gunfire must be only warning shots fired into the air.  We though the wounded we had seen were injured through accident or carelessness.

When we reached the intersection of Sanlihe and Chang'an we found thousands of people gathered in the road.  They were talking, and some were singing the "Internationale."  All were looking south toward the Chang'an Avenue. We could not see beyond them, but we assumed that Chang'an was blocked off by soldiers.

We left our bikes in an alley and joined the crowd.  Suddenly we heard someone at the front shout, "CHARGE!"

The people rushed forward into Chang'an.  Yefu and I followed, still unable to see what was happening at the front.  Then we heard gunfire.  All around us the people flung themselves down to avoid being shot.  Yefu and I also dropped flat to the ground.  The pavement beneath my hands felt wet.  I realized I was lying in a pool of blood.  My white shirt was soaked in it.

When the gunfire stopped, Yefu and I scrambled to our feet and took a photograph of the blood.  The people around us noticed the camera, and began pointing out other bloodstains.  We took a few more photographs but then stopped.

There were bloodstains every few yards, each surrounded by a halo of footprints from people who couldn't avoid walking through the blood.  Under the dim light of the street lamp the footprints glistened - a dark, dark red that as almost black.

Hundreds of people decided they had seen enough, and withdrew north along Sanlihe road.  Many others, including Yefu and me, pressed forward into Chang'an Avenue and saw the reason for the shooting. 

A long line of tanks, armored cars, trucks and jeeps were creeping slowly eastward toward Tiananmen Square.  As these vehicles were passing Sanlihe road the people there had tried to block the way.  The soldiers shot to keep the people back.  

Now the last truck had crossed the intersection and the soldiers had stopped shooting.  Under the drab olive canvas of the last truck crouched a dozen soldiers, their rifles pointed at the small crowd following several yards behind.