In the summer of 1999, I made the familiar walk through a crowded market in the northeastern city of Changchun, China. Like most mornings, the market noise was deafening as shoppers haggled with farmers over vegetables pedaled in from the countryside before dawn. As I slipped through the crowds and into a neighboring park, the morning became unusually quiet. Gone were the hundreds of ballroom dancers with their scratchy record player, the martial artists practicing sword fighting, the retirees walking backward, and the tai chi masters training their devoted students. For the first time in almost two years, the park was alarmingly empty.

Later that day, I bumped into a student and asked if the park had closed for renovations. “No” she explained, “it's open, but empty because of Falun Gong.” A recent editorial in the People's Daily had denounced the quasi-religious group as an “evil cult” (xiejiao), and the local government was beginning to crack down on their activities. In fact, the local campaign was expected to be particularly severe because Changchun was the hometown of Falun Gong's founder, Li Hongzhi, and the park was considered a popular place to meet and recruit members.