As you might find from the following narrative, I was born in China and up to today still grapple with English as a foreign language. Please give me your precious advice and insight about it, whether about grmmar, vocab, writing style or anything.
In case some of you are not familiar with the modern history of China, the Tiananmen Square Massacre was committed in 1989 as a response to public outcry and demonstration for democracy in Beijing. The Communist Youth League is something similar to the "Hitler Youth", consisting of teenagers who are considered the future leaderes of the nation. Currently the Chinese government is the only major supporter of the genocidal regime of Sudan. Thanks a lot for your help!

That fateful night, as remembered by my cousin and father, was permeated with the horror of bullets, blood and bodies scattered around. My cousin, a college student determined to stand alongside the Styrofoam Statue of Democracy, was arrested in the commotion; my father, an army officer later court-marshaled for insubordination, pulled his platoon out of the Square before the killing started. Meanwhile, I was sleeping in my cradle, completely undisturbed.

It is a mystery to me why only after nine years had elapsed since the Tiananmen Square Massacre did my father broach the subject with me. “Funny…… How Fate put your cousin and me on the opposing sides of the deadly confrontation…… fortunately both of us made the right decisions, by getting ourselves into troubles.” said my father, with some good humor. And here came the sudden realization----why government agencies refused to employ my cousin for “some special reasons”, why my father’s old-time friends, often former army officers, lamented about his “boyish stubbornness”, why a teacher in my primary school once commented that I was living under “the bad influence of a counterrevolutionary family”. At that moment, I knew, for sure, all of them were wrong.

The memory of that night, inherited from my father, has haunted me ever since. In secondary school, I did something that appalled my teachers. When I was nominated to join the Communist Youth League, I refused. “How can I pledge allegiance to the Party after it has done all these ungodly deeds to the people?!” I gritted my teeth, anticipating a heated debate with my principal, but he simply sighed, looked away, mused for a while and finally signaled to dismiss me from his office. A week later, he overruled some teachers’ suggestion to expel me and instead settled inquiry from the municipal Ministry of Education. In the following Spring Festival, I wrote him a letter to express my gratitude. To my surprise, he replied. “I know it all the time…… but I just cannot bear to think how part of my dedicated service to education is brainwashing your generation.” The bitterness, arising from misplaced trust and possibly wasted lifelong service, saturated the entire letter and virtually sent me to the verge of tears.

Four years later, engulfed by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, I was standing in the Chinese Embassy in Singapore, with my principal’s letter resurfacing in my memory. “Personally I think our government’s stand on Darfur is terribly wrong……” in the private space of him and me, the assistant ambassador allowed his conscience to speak for him for a moment. “However, the regulations forbid me to……” he continued, reassuming his expected role as a conscientious mandarin. Despite the months spent collecting signatures for a petition that pleaded the Central Government to stop bankrolling the genocide in Sudan, my effort lead to nowhere in the frustrating labyrinth of bureaucracy.

There are many more similar fragments of memory that always seem to point to the same direction: when a kid’s family from a village (where I volunteered as a relief teacher) had to turn to loan-sharks to pay the tuition, Ivy-educated technocrats were stacking billions of US dollars into the Central Bank’s coffers; when I launched harsh but legitimate complaint against the government on my blog, some hardworking Internet-policemen promptly discovered it and dutifully blocked it the next day. That the commendable Asian work ethics have turned everyone into an unwitting accomplice of oppression and injustice seems to be the inescapable conclusion.

Maybe, more “troublemakers", like my cousin and my dad, who are courageous enough to “rock the boat”, are what China needs to break its suffocating silence of political apathy?

I am now awake, and I am ready.
Hi DeMoNo,

The narrative has the potential of being a very moving story. You just need to organize this a little better and focus on the massacre and its effect on your lives.

Perhaps something like this:

1. Start with your father's tale.

2. Discuss how your father's tale helped you understand your family's past.

3. Talk about how this story has affected you.
DeMoNoIn case some of you are not familiar with the modern history of China, the Tiananmen Square Massacre was committed in 1989 as a response to public outcry and demonstration for democracy in Beijing. The Communist Youth League is something similar to the "Hitler Youth", consisting of teenagers who are considered the future leaderes of the nation. Currently the Chinese government is the only major supporter of the genocidal regime of Sudan. Thanks a lot for your help! (not relevant)

That fateful night, as remembered by my cousin and father, was permeated with the horror of bullets, (odd) blood and bodies scattered around. My cousin, a college student determined to stand alongside the Styrofoam Statue of Democracy, was arrested in the commotion; my father, an army officer later court-marshaled for insubordination, pulled his platoon out of the Square before the killing started. Meanwhile, I was sleeping in my cradle, completely undisturbed.

It is a mystery to me why only after nine years had elapsed since the Tiananmen Square Massacre did my father broach the subject with me. “Funny…… How Fate put your cousin and me on the opposing sides of the deadly confrontation…… fortunately both of us made the right decisions, by getting ourselves into troubles.” said my father, with some good humor. And here came the sudden realization----why government agencies refused to employ my cousin for “certain special reasons”, and why my father’s old-time friends, many being former army officers, lamented about his (who?) “boyish stubbornness”, why a teacher in my primary school once commented that I was living under “the bad influence of a counterrevolutionary family”. At that moment, I knew, for sure, all of them were wrong.

The memory of that night, inherited from my father, has haunted me ever since. In secondary school, I did something that appalled my teachers. When I was nominated to join the Communist Youth League, I refused. “How can I pledge allegiance to the Party after it has done all these ungodly deeds to the people?!” I gritted my teeth, anticipating a heated debate with my principal, but he simply sighed, looked away, mused for a while and finally signaled to dismiss me from his office. A week later, he overruled some teachers’ suggestion to expel me and instead settled inquiry from the municipal Ministry of Education. In the following Spring Festival, I wrote him a letter to express my gratitude. To my surprise, he replied. “I know it all the time…… but I just cannot bear to think how part of my dedicated service to education is brainwashing your generation.” The bitterness, arising from misplaced trust and possibly wasted lifelong service, saturated the entire letter and virtually sent me to the verge of tears.

Four years later, engulfed by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, I was standing in the Chinese Embassy in Singapore, with my principal’s letter resurfacing in my memory. “Personally I think our government’s stand on Darfur is terribly wrong……” in the private space of him and me, the assistant ambassador allowed his conscience to speak for him for a moment. “However, the regulations forbid me to……” he continued, reassuming his expected role as a conscientious mandarin. Despite the months spent collecting signatures for a petition that pleaded the Central Government to stop bankrolling the genocide in Sudan, my effort lead to nowhere in the frustrating labyrinth of bureaucracy.

There are many more similar fragments of memory that always seem to point to the same direction: when a kid’s family from a village (where I volunteered as a relief teacher) had to turn to loan-sharks to pay the tuition, Ivy-educated technocrats were stacking billions of US dollars into the Central Bank’s coffers; when I launched harsh but legitimate complaint against the government on my blog, some hardworking Internet-policemen promptly discovered it and dutifully blocked it the next day. That the commendable Asian work ethics have turned everyone into an unwitting accomplice of oppression and injustice seems to be the inescapable conclusion.

Maybe, more “troublemakers", like my cousin and my dad, who are courageous enough to “rock the boat”, are what China needs to break its suffocating silence of political apathy?

I am now awake, and I am ready.

"permeated with the horror of bullets..."
It sounds fine for my non-native ears.....
How shall i rephrase it to convey the same meaning? Please enlighten me.
Students: We have free audio pronunciation exercises.
Hi there,

Perhaps I just found the whole thing a little odd. I think they censored the press, so how did everyone in the city become this horrified? How did they know about the bodies?