Before our midday sleep on that first day, as we were heading back to our room, Zhu Yaoping, the small boy from Shanghai, slid down the stair rail at our dormitory. It looked fun, so I copied him. We ran up the stairs and slid down the rail, chasing each other, until one of the political heads appeared from nowhere. "What do you think you're doing?" he growled.

We stood there, hearts thumping.

"You are never to do this again! Do you understand? You could break your legs if you fall. This is not allowed in Madam Mao's school!"

There was no fun in this place, I thought. Only rules.

We had other classes that day, but they were just a blur. I couldn't understand the teachers' Mandarin accents, but at least we were to have an early dinner because, we were told, we were going to see the Central Ballet of China perform.

We went by bus to the Heaven's Gate Theatre close to the centre of Beijing. The ballet was one of Madame Mao's model ballets, with the familiar title The Red Detachment of Women. Zhu Yaoping and I sat next to each other. I managed to stay awake for the first act, but during the second I could no longer fight off my sleepiness. My eyelids got heavier and heavier and I eventually fell into a deep sleep. I was woken only by the applause at the end of the act.

I was frightened when I looked around. I didn't know where I was or what I was doing. The trip to Beijing, the whole of the last twenty-four hours, all seemed like a dream. When I recovered from the initial shock, I realised that Zhu Yaoping and all my classmates had already left. Suddenly I had to go to the toilet but by the time I found it there was already a long queue, and then the bell rang and the ushers were urging people back to their seats. I hurriedly followed some people into the theatre but couldn't find my classmates. I panicked. I went back to the lobby again. "I've lost my group, I can't find my seat," I told an usher.

"May I see your ticket?"

"I don't have my ticket, our political head has all of our tickets," I replied.

By this time the lights were fading. The usher grabbed my arm. "Follow me, I'll help you find your group after the performance," and he pulled me into the theatre and found an empty seat in the back row. I was nervous being separated from my friends, but soon tiredness overcame me again and I slept through the rest of the performance. Then, just as the lights came on, the usher pulled me out of the theatre and we waited for the familiar faces of my friends. They eventually emerged two doors away. I was so happy and relieved when Zhu Yaoping rushed up and said something to me in Shanghai dialect. I didn't even care that I couldn't understand a word of it.

On the bus trip back to our university, I began to feel terribly sick. It was as though the whole world was spinning. I wanted to vomit. I told the teacher, who asked the driver to stop the bus, and I hopped off just in time. They put me in the front seat after that, just behind the driver. One of the teachers assured me that I only had motion sickness and I would feel better sitting there. But I'd never been sick when I went on the bus with my niang to visit our grandparents. I felt traumatised, embarrassed, trapped in my own emotionally torrid world.

It was midnight by the time we went to bed that night, way past my bedtime in Qingdao. I thought of my niang, my dia and my brothers, all sleeping together in their own beds, and I felt my homesickness begin to return. After the lights were turned off, I clutched onto my niang's precious quilt once again, covered my head with it, and sobbed myself to sleep.

Every morning was the same. It seemed that I had only just closed my eyes when I heard the ear-piercing scream of the five-thirty bell. I would drag myself to the washing room and pour freezing- cold water on my face to drive away my sleepiness. The jogging, the early-morning exercises and breakfast all happened while I was still half asleep. Only my cold cramped feet, the awkward ballet positions and the French names in Chen Lueng's class would wake me up.

Later that week we had our first Chinese folk dance lesson, with Teacher Chen Yuen. He was younger than the other teachers we'd had so far and wore a pair of spectacles. He seemed friendly, with a funny sense of humour, and he even told us jokes.

In Chen Yuen's class we got to dance much more freely. I particularly loved a Mongolian horse riders' dance we began to learn. But the best part of this class was the four musicians who sat at the front of the studio and played their traditional Chinese instruments. I thought they were beautiful. One played a "piba", which looked like a guitar but sounded hollow and sad. There was also an ancient-looking horn and an "erhu"-a two-string instrument which produced the most heart-wrenching sounds, and the "yanqin", a string instrument so beautiful and powerful that I thought there were twenty different instruments playing at once! I loved it. I loved the passion of their music. I had never heard anything like it. Their music made me want to dance: I could hear the clip-clop sound of the approaching horses; I could hear those Mongolian riders roaming the deserts, and I longed to be free like them.

That same day we had our first politics class too, and I was surprised to find that the campaign to denounce Lin Biao was still in full swing. The Gang of Four's theory was that shit attracts flies, and that Confucius was the shit and Lin Biao was the fly. So a "criticise Confucius" campaign was organised. We were to discuss why Lin Biao was attracted to Confucius and how dangerous this had been to Mao's political cause. Our teacher started our first lesson by telling us all about Confucius. He had already written down one of Confucius' sayings on the blackboard by the time we'd all sat down at our little wooden desks:

When the perfect order prevails, the world is like a home shared by all. Courageous, worthy and capable men are elected to public office and hold posts of gainful employment in society; peace and trust among all men are the maxims of living. All men love and respect their parents and children, as well as the parents and children of others. There is caring for the old and there are jobs for everyone. There is also nourishment and education for the children and a means of support for the widows or widowers, disabled and all that find themselves alone in the world. Everyone has an appropriate role to play in the family and society. A sense of sharing displaces the effects of selfishness and materialism, and a devotion to public duty leaves no room for idleness. Dishonesty and conniving for ill gain are unknown. Villains such as thieves and robbers do not exist. The door to everyone's home never needs to be locked or bolted, day or night. These are the characteristics of this ideal world, the world everyone shares equally.

"Now," our teacher began, "can any of you tell me the hidden evilness in this Confucius saying?"

No one spoke. I was puzzled by the teacher's question. I didn't understand all the words on the board, but there seemed nothing wrong with it to me. Confucius' society sounded beautiful, just like the ideal communist society.

Our teacher continued. "There are several key words that you must be able to detect. For example, `the perfect order`. Whose definition of the perfect order? The rulers`? The emperors`? This is a trap! Confucius wants the poor ordinary people to behave and follow the rules, which were set for them by the rulers, for the benefit of the rulers. Do you see this point?" the political leader asked.

We all nodded obediently.

"My second point: have you realised that Confucius only mentions men. Where are the women? In his mind women are not even worth mentioning! But Chairman Mao says, `Women are half of the sky!` And finally Confucius talks of villains, thieves and robbers. Who did he mean? Could he possibly mean the rulers and the emperors?"