Journalist Qurban Mamut (left) visited his son Bahram Sintash in Washington, D.C. in 2017. Shortly after Mamut's return to China, he was arrested. Credit: Courtesy of Bahram Sintash.

By Iris Hsu
TAIPEI, Taiwan, Apr 30 2024 (IPS)

The last time Bahram Sintash saw his journalist father was in 2017. Qurban Mamut, an influential Uyghur editor had come to the United States for a visit but upon his return to Xinjiang in northwest China, he disappeared.

Sintash later learned that his father had been swept up in China’s 2017 crackdown on Uyghurs and other mostly Muslim ethnic groups. China has said its policies in Xinjiang, which involve reeducation camps, forced sterilization, and family separations, are in the name of counter-terrorism, but 51 United Nations member countries have accused the government of “crimes against humanity.”

Mamut, as a prominent intellectual who edited the state-owned Xinjiang Civilization and Tepakkur magazines, was sentenced to 15 years for “political crimes,” according to news reports. According to Sintash, his father’s decades of journalism drew the attention of the Chinese government in its efforts to quash the Uyghur cultural industry.

After initially fearing that speaking out could harm his 74-year-old father’s case, Sintash decided to go public about the detention in 2018; in 2020, he joined the U.S. Congress-funded Radio Free Asia (RFA) in Washington, D.C. to be a “voice of voice-less Uyghurs.”

The Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) spoke with Sintash about his father’s love of journalism, restrictions on the press in Xinjiang, and what he knows of Mamut’s detention.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity. The Chinese foreign ministry did not reply to CPJ’s email requesting comment on Mamut’s arrest and sentencing.

What can you tell us about your father’s detention?

I initially thought my father was detained in 2018, but later learned it was actually in late 2017. Communication with my family in Urumqi [the capital of Xinjiang] has been severed since then, with China cutting off our ability to talk in late 2017 and early 2018. My mother told me, “We can no longer talk to you,” leaving me without any information about my father.

In September of the following year, I sought to find out what had happened to him. Eventually, one of my neighbors who also lives overseas informed me that my father had been taken away from our neighborhood. This neighbor had heard the news from their family who witnessed my father being taken from his home. I was shocked by this revelation.

At the same time, I was considering what actions to take. I felt that raising my voice was the right decision, but I was extremely cautious. I was unsure of the exact steps to take or the words to use, as anything I said could potentially endanger my father further, given China’s unpredictable actions.

What was the media environment like in Xinjiang before your father’s arrest?

In 2016, a well-known writer, Yalqun Rozi, was detained and later sentenced to 15 years [for attempting to subvert the Chinese state], a fate similar to that of my father. My father visited the United States in January 2017 and stayed for a month, during which time he learned about the detention of Yalqun, a close friend. Yalqun had not been sentenced at that point but was under arrest, likely due to his publication of sensitive topics.

Yalqun had written extensively on various subjects, including Uyghur welfare, and had contributed many essays to my father’s journal, Xinjiang Civilization. Their past collaboration made my father concerned that Yalqun’s arrest might not be an isolated case.

Yalqun’s detention marked the beginning of a broader crackdown on Uyghur intellectuals. China targeted Uyghur intellectuals first in order to more successfully repress Uyghur identity. They began by arresting individuals and then expanded their investigation to a larger network of Uyghurs.

My father understood that this could happen, but we were uncertain about China’s next steps. After 2017, under [Chinese President] Xi Jinping’s leadership, the situation became increasingly dire, reflecting the tense atmosphere of that time.

Can you tell us about Xinjiang Civilization, the magazine your father edited from 1985 until 2017?

The content in the magazine mainly focuses on culture, history, current affairs, the identity of Uyghurs, examining the shortcomings of the Uyghur nation and society, and opinion pieces. This was the main content before 2017, primarily when my dad was the sole editor-in-chief.

Interestingly, all the names of the journal’s editorial board members were removed in the third issue of 2017 just half a month before the mass detentions began in 2017. The content of the journal dramatically changed in its last publication. It now became filled with red Communist propaganda.

Many of the members on the board were subsequently taken to re-education camps, including my dad. At least two of other members, Abduqadir Jalalidin and Arslan Abdulla, as well as my dad were sentenced to long prison terms.

Before the magazine’s third issue in 2017, its content mainly focused on Uyghur culture and literary works. However, after that issue, it primarily began publishing political content, which mostly revolves around studying Xi Jinping’s ideology.

The next editor even wrote an open letter titled “Protecting the security of the ideological sphere is my priority,” in which he promised not to publish anything promoting “separatism,” “terrorism,” or “two-faced” behavior. The letter followed two articles written by Uyghur officials calling the readers to “protect the unity of the nations with hearts and protect the homeland with loyalty.”

What was your father’s relationship to his journalistic work?

My father was the sole editor; there were no secondary editors. However, he had two assistants who could be considered as secondary editors, but their main role was typing and assisting with computer-related tasks. My father worked tirelessly, often putting in 16-hour days. He would work at the office, come home for a quick meal, and then continue working late into the night, spending countless hours at his desk.

Qurban Mamut (left) and Bahram Sintash (second from left) with their family in Xinjiang, China in 1989. Credit: Courtesy of Bahram Sintash

Your father was quite well known for his journalism. How was he seen in the Uyghur community?

My father was an exceptional teacher, not through writing himself, but by curating and compiling works from other writers. He focused on selecting the right topics, aiming to present the truth without imposing his own opinions on the journal.

He steered clear of politics, especially avoiding any praise of the Chinese Communist Party or spreading its propaganda, which some writers and editors did to secure better positions and ensure their safety. My father, however, sought out authentic voices who could present genuine work, which is why the journal promoted many unknown writers who eventually became famous. The platform allowed them to express the truth.

While my father didn’t publicly express his own views, he was frequently interviewed on TV talk shows due to his extensive knowledge of Uyghur culture. These appearances contributed to his fame. During the 1990s and 2000s, there was a period when Uyghurs enjoyed a degree of freedom to discuss their identity, language, and other aspects of their culture — a stark contrast to the current situation.

Did your father face retribution for his journalism before his imprisonment?

My father was called in for questioning in 2004, although he didn’t face persecution or punishment. This was related to an opinion piece published in his journal about the Uyghur language. At that time, Xinjiang authorities were starting to phase out the Uyghur language from schools and universities, replacing it with Chinese in subjects like mathematics and other majors.

The writer of the piece was arrested, and my father was questioned by the security bureau and China’s intelligence department. To avoid worrying us, my father never shared the full details of what happened.

You believe your father was arrested for his journalism. Why?

After his retirement in 2011 [from Xinjiang Civilization], my father didn’t stop working. He continued to serve on the editorial board of Xinjiang Civilization, and became the head editor of a newly established magazine called Tepakkur. The magazine, published by the state-run Xinjiang Juvenile Publishing House, or Chiso, gained popularity due to my father’s reputation. “Tepakkur” means “think.”

My father, invited to be the editor-in-chief, established this magazine to have more freedom and flexibility in selecting topics.It was not available digitally, only in print, and this was just before the mass arrests began around 2014-2015. As a result, I don’t have a copy and haven’t read the articles, but the journal was well-regarded by its readers.

Can you tell us about your work at RFA? Has your father’s imprisonment made you rethink your personal safety, especially while covering Xinjiang?

I joined RFA because my fear diminished as I became more vocal in advocating for other Uyghurs. I couldn’t remain silent; I had to speak the truth. My mindset became open, ready to face any challenge. Many Uyghurs, concerned for their safety and their families’, avoid RFA and don’t pursue journalism there. But for me, there were no limits. I saw RFA as the only true voice for Uyghurs worldwide, so I joined to work for my people.

As for my efforts to free my father, it’s been an emotionally challenging task. I’ve been in constant communication with organizations, governments, NGOs, and even the United Nations, explaining my father’s situation and speaking to the media. My work extends beyond my father to all Uyghurs and our culture, which I learned to preserve from my father.

Iris Hsu is CPJ’s China representative. Prior to joining CPJ, Hsu interned at Human Rights Watch, Center for Arms Control and Nonproliferation, and the Atlantic Council. Hsu obtained her master’s degree in international affairs from American University. She speaks Mandarin and French and lives in Taipei.

IPS UN Bureau

Follow @IPSNewsUNBureau
  

Excerpt:

World Press Freedom Day 2024

By Iris Hsu
TAIPEI, Mar 22 2019 (IPS)

Reporting on China’s harassment of journalists has never been easy. Lately it’s been getting much harder, which suggests that conditions for the press could be worsening.

At least 47 journalists were jailed in China at the time of CPJ’s 2018 prison census and I am investigating at least a dozen other cases, but the details are hard to verify.

The reason: authorities are deliberately preventing information from getting out–and they are getting really good at it.

Among the cases I’m investigating are the arrests in December of 45 contributors at Bitter Winter, a religious and human rights news website, who were detained and interrogated for exposing details about Xinjiang’s secret camps; reports from December 14 that police in Tianjin arrested a woman for exposing an outbreak of African swine fever on her WeChat account for the alleged crime of “spreading rumors”; the arrests from 2016 to 2018 by Xinjiang police of at least 30 Uighur editors working for local newspapers and television broadcasters; and the case of a woman who live-streamed police breaking into her apartment and taking her away in August, as an officer asked, “What did you say on the internet?”

Information was so scarce on the latter cases, that CPJ was unable to confirm who the journalists were and if they were still detained at the time of our prison census.By ensuring little to no information is available on these individuals, Chinese authorities are able to prevent widespread coverage and avoid being held to account for their actions.

In researching these cases and others I identified at least five methods China uses to try to prevent coverage of journalist arrests.

Sealing court records

Chinese laws require courts to make verdicts public on court websites as long as they don’t contain “state secrets.” However, I was unable to find records for any of the journalists on our prison census, or in the other cases under investigation, including for reporters convicted of “picking quarrels and provoking trouble.”

Ding Lingjie, the editor of Minsheng Guancha (Civil Rights and Livelihood Watch), is one of several journalists imprisoned on that charge, whose records should have been made public.

As testament to the opacity of Chinese judicial system, only six judgments from 2018 are posted on the website of the Beijing Shijingshan People’s Court, which is handling Ding’s case. No data is available for last year, but the Beijing court system says the court has taken on over 5,600 cases since January 1, which gives an idea of the scale of the cases it handles. In December, it sentenced Ding in a closed hearing to one year and eight months in prison, according to news reports.

Authorities also physically block lawyers from reading their clients’ court papers. On February 13, Zhang Zanning, who represents Huang Qi, founder of the human rights news website 64 Tianwang, was not allowed to see his client and was denied access to court records because “the judge was on vacation.”

A day later, when Zhang returned to the detention center, authorities blocked him again without providing a reason and told him that his law firm was no longer handling the case, according to Radio Free Asia and Zhang’s statement on Minsheng Guancha.

In another example, the state-owned newspaper People’s Daily reported on September 10 that Shaanxi authorities had made 96 arrests in a month in connection to “fabricating news reports” and “news blackmailing.”

Despite combing through public court judgments on China Judgements Online, a public access service that allows users to review verdicts, orders, mediation documents, and notices, I was unable to find any records relating to the arrests.

Censoring news coverage

Chinese authorities often issue instructions to media outlets forbidding coverage of a reporter’s arrest or trial. When the Mianyang Intermediate People’s Court held a trial for Huang, Chinese media received an order from the government to not “report, republish, or comment without prior arrangement” on Huang’s case, according to China Digital Times, a California-based media organization that reports on uncensored news in China.

In cases that don’t involve politics or human rights, authorities allow some reporting but often key details, such as the suspect’s name and alleged crime, are redacted.

Take the Shaanxi arrests last year of people whom authorities called “fake journalists.” Authorities said they detained 96 people, and shut down five social media accounts, 15 local broadcasters, and 45 apps on accusations of spreading illegal political information or rumors, according to news reports.

However, only a few vague reports appeared in media outlets or on the website of the Shaanxi Provincial Administration of Radio and TV. These scant news reports failed to provide names, which made the task of beginning to verify any of the 96 arrests near to impossible.

Blocking foreign IPs and VPNs

Last year, authorities officially banned the unauthorized use of virtual private networks (VPNs), a service many in China rely on to circumvent the infamous “Great Firewall.” In October, companies providing VPN services said they had detected a higher frequency of authorities attempting to block VPNs, leading to suspicions that the government had deployed on-the-ground censors to work against them.

When I called the Cyberspace Administration of China for comment, an official said that he had no information on the matter and refused to redirect my call.

In January, I experienced connectivity lags while browsing Chinese websites, including China’s largest online search engine Baidu, public security bureau websites, and the social platform Weibo, from Taiwan, where I’m based. Access was blocked entirely and restored only when I switched to other devices and used a different IP address.

The experience suggests that authorities not only attempt to control the use of internet within China’s borders, they also try to keep its so-called “internet sovereignty” intact by denying searches from outside the country.

Cutting police station phone lines

After China’s use of “re-education camps” to detain up to a million Uighur minorities came to international attention in 2017, it became more difficult to contact public security bureaus in Xinjiang for confirmation or comment on arrests. I found that police and officials no longer answered my calls and several listed numbers were no longer connected.

Xu Xiaoli, the wife of award-winning photojournalist Lu Guang who disappeared in the region in November, experienced the same issue. She said on Twitter that when she tried to contact police in Xinjiang for information about her husband, “none of the listed numbers worked.”

On the rare occasions that I do get through to an official, they refuse to answer my questions. In September, I attempted to contact the Urumqi Public Security Bureau to ask about detained scholar and blogger Ilham Tohti and his fellow students. Several calls went unanswered before a female official answered the phone.

As soon as I identified myself, she hung up. I made another call and the same official answered. This time she yelled at me, seemingly in panic, and told me to never call this number to ask questions again.

Intimidating lawyers, family and friends

As well as declining to comment on detentions, China has threatened family, friends, and lawyers. Authorities held Pu Wenqing, the mother of jailed journalist Huang, in an undisclosed location for nearly two months, with no contact with friends or activists, according to news reports.

Even after her release on January 21, police called her and ordered her not to post anything online, according to Radio Free Asia. The officer who made the calls told Radio Free Asia that he was under state security orders to monitor internet traffic about Huang’s case. Pu is still under surveillance today, a 64 Tianwang volunteer told me.

While Pu was under detention, Guangdong’s Department of Justice disbarred Huang’s lawyer Liu Zhengqing for “using language that endangers state security and slanders others,” according to reports.

Huang’s previous lawyer Sui Muqing was disbarred for “using uncivilized, offensive wording” and other poor behavior while representing a fellow lawyer, and for bringing a cell phone to take photos of a rights activist in a detention center whom he was representing, according to news reports and Sui’s Twitter account.Both Sui and Liu had been vocal about Huang’s case. They talked to the media and posted case updates regularly on social media platforms and human rights websites.

I found in late 2018 that lawyers with whom I had previously spoken were now declining to talk about the detained journalists they represent. At least two told CPJ they could not speak for fear of retaliation from the government.

Despite attempts by China to censor and silence the press, journalists continue to report on critical social issues–even if it means they risk arrest. And CPJ continues to investigate and publicize their cases.

*Prior to joining CPJ, Hsu interned at Human Rights Watch, Center for Arms Control and Nonproliferation, and the Atlantic Council. Hsu obtained her master’s degree in international affairs from American University. She speaks Mandarin and French and lives in Taipei.

Excerpt: