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In 2020, police in Xinjiang began sending Aksu’s message on WeChat and WhatsApp. He pressured her to join in and threatened her family. Aksu did not respond at all, so messages came from other phone numbers, with various codes, not only from China but also from Hong Kong and Turkey.
Many have felt that way they they were not at risk and did not have much freedom considering the impact of the crisis they.
In September, Aksu received a phone call from an old friend, a high school classmate who had shared a bedroom with him for four years. The friend, now a policeman, was polite. He remembered the old memories and thanked Aksu for the times he had helped him. But it was obvious that the invitations were not friendly. “He wanted me to tell him more,” Aksu says.
In the same way, Aksu was trying to get along. Although DC represented a positive change, he was still traumatized by his family and “tortured” by the death of his brother. Calling was the last straw. Aksu states: “I felt betrayed. “I was confident. I was saying, ‘How can this happen to me, and how can anyone do this?’ ”
Later that day, he died. He woke up the next morning on the floor with a friend knocking on his door. Aksu missed a meeting and was worried. Concerned, Aksu found out, and resumed work. There was also a long, awake night. A few days later, she died again. Then one day I started thinking about suicide. ”
“I was very worried,” Aksu says. “Like, ‘Oh my god, why should I think about this?'”
He told a colleague, who told their boss, Louisa Greve. Greve, director of the Uyghur Human Rights Project, took Aksu to the well-known Uyghur restaurant in the Cleveland Park area. Thanks to the spicy food, she comforted him and told him to go and get some advice.
Aksu was already there, obviously. He did not want to try the drug again, but allowed himself to be convinced. Greve introduced him to Charles Bates, a psychologist from Northern Virginia who volunteered for the Uyghur Wellness Initiative.
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