Raj

Recently we’ve read about the shameful treatment of a Chinese student in the US, Grace Wang. The Washington post gave her the opportunity to explain her side of the story.

Over Christmas break, all the American students went home, but that’s too expensive for students from China. Since the dorms and the dining halls were closed, I was housed off-campus with four Tibetan classmates for more than three weeks…

I’d long been interested in Tibet and had a romantic vision of the Land of Snows, but I’d never been there. Now I learned that the Tibetans have a different way of seeing the world. My classmates were Buddhist and had a strong faith, which inspired me to reflect on my own views about the meaning of life. I had been a materialist, as all Chinese are taught to be, but now I could see that there’s something more, that there’s a spiritual side to life.
We talked a lot in those three weeks, and of course we spoke in Chinese. The Tibetan language isn’t the language of instruction in the better secondary schools there and is in danger of disappearing. Tibetans must be educated in Mandarin Chinese to succeed in our extremely capitalistic culture. This made me sad, and made me want to learn their language as they had learned mine.

Chinese will complain that foreigners have never been to Tibet, but they haven’t lived with ordinary Tibetans either. Maybe they’ve come across a couple of very wealthy ones who work and live in big Chinese cities, but they’re the minority – it’s like hob-nobbing with someone who lives in Chelsea, as if they can tell you what it’s like for most Londoners. In any case they don’t understand Tibetans that well either.

The Chinese protesters thought that, being Chinese, I should be on their side.

It appears that in China some people believe your race dicatates what your opinion can be.

Some people on the Chinese side started to insult me for speaking English and told me to speak Chinese only. But the Americans didn’t understand Chinese. It’s strange to me that some Chinese seem to feel as though not speaking English is expressing a kind of national pride. But language is a tool, a way of thinking and communicating.

(more…)

Alice Poon of Asia Sentinel pointed me to this most interesting post about Radio Free Asia and the neocons behind the RFA’s curtain. The post is a real shocker, and causes one to wonder if the entire Tibet issue hasn’t been manipulated to further the agenda of PNAC and the AEI. One brief sample; the writer has just documented article after article after article in which RFA casually refers to “unconfirmed reports” of Chinese killing Tibetan monks.

All of these “unconfirmed” reports originating from Radio Free Asia appear to contradict eyewitness reports from a BBC reporter on the ground during the riots and a German reporter that interviewed local Tibetans in Lhasa that I have linked to below.

Watch and listen to this from Exile Government spokesperson Dawa Tsering as he explains how they gather information for dissemination on RFA and more shockingly, his rationalization that beating Chinese and Hui people is “non-violent” and that the deaths of the 5 young girls, the 10 month old baby and others that were immolated as they hid from the rioters were “accidents” because they didn’t run away fast enough. This is the epitome of bad PR and irresponsible journalism as well as a heretical view of non-violent Buddhism.

The post is a shocker. You have no choice but to wonder how we can hope to separate news from propaganda. This is why, in two separate threads, I tried to ask readers for proof that the blue-clothed “goons” who ran alongside the torchbearers had indeed acted like “storm troopers” or “Nazis” or “thugs.” You definitely get an impression from various reports that they were thugs, but you get nothing more than an impression – no one can cite any example of behavior that parallels that of Nazi storm troopers. It was a perfect example of the media leaving an impression with nothing to back it up except vague fears over sunglass-wearing, expressionless bodyguards who were doing their job, i.e., keeping people back from the person they were protecting.

In the same Asia Sentinel post, Alice Poon also directs us to an oldie but goodie on the “myths and realities” of Tibet, written in 1998 but worth reading today.

Western concepts of Tibet embrace more myth than reality. The idea that Tibet is an oppressed nation composed of peaceful Buddhists who never did anyone any harm distorts history. In fact the belief that the Dalai Lama is the leader of world Buddhism rather than being just the leader of one sect among more than 1,700 “Living Buddhas” of this unique Tibetan form of the faith displays a parochial view of world religions.

The myth, of course, is an outgrowth of Tibet’s former inaccessibility, which has fostered illusions about this mysterious land in the midst of the Himalayan Mountains — illusions that have been skillfully promoted for political purposes by the Dalai Lama’s advocates. The myth will inevitably die, as all myths do, but until this happens, it would be wise to learn a few useful facts about this area of China.

First, Tibet has been a part of China ever since it was merged into that country in 1239, when the Mongols began creating the Yuan Dynasty (1271-1368). This was before Marco Polo reached China from Europe and more than two centuries before Columbus sailed to the New World. True, China’s hold on this area sometimes appeared somewhat loose, but neither the Chinese nor many Tibetans have ever denied that Tibet has been a part of China from the Yuan Dynasty to this very day.

This article, by the son of American missionaries who grew up in China, takes on a lot of myths about Tibet. After reading it, I can only wonder, if China has done so much good in Tibet, then why is it so dreadful in telling the story to the world? Is it simply because the “Dalai Lama clique” keeps undercutting them with better PR? Or is there truly a darker side to all the love and joy China has brought to Tibet? I’m still trying to figure it out for myself, and find it perhaps the murkiest, most misunderstood and confused topic in modern history.

Posted by Richard (not Raj)

The contents of this post are subject to a public health warning – please do not read around your meal-time.

So the restaurant I went to with my friend Bill on Saturday night is known as a relatively upscale local Peking Duck house up in the far-north section of Chaoyang off the Third Ring Road. It’s got a beautiful painted sign outside and is well appointed and classy.

As soon as we sat down my eye was drawn to the table to my right. There were four well-dressed young people, three guys and a girl, sitting there enjoying their kaoya, and, judging by the number of tall empty beer bottles on the table, it was evident they were having a good time. Three were eating; it was the fourth who caught my eye because of his unusual pose: his arms were folded on the edge of the table and his forehead was sitting on his forearms. His legs were spread wide apart, and he appeared to be out cold. The three friends were totally ignoring him, as if he weren’t even there.

This isn’t really that unusual; you see people sleeping just about everywhere in China, whether it’s in an Internet bar or at their desk or on the sidewalk. This phenomenon triggered a conversation between Bill and me about how unpredictable China is compared to a country like Singapore. (Expats always talk about how unpredictable China is, in some form or another. “Only in China” is a well-worn cliche.) Well, Bill and I had no idea that the show was only just starting. We had yet to learn the meaning of “unpredictable.”

As we started eating our excellently prepared duck, I became aware of a sound like a waterfall, of liquid crashing down on a hard surface; I felt for a moment like I was at Tiger Leaping Gorge. I looked around trying to discern the source of such an out-of-place roar, when I saw the floor a few feet away: a reservoir of brown liquid was rapidly taking shape around our sleeping friend at the next table. I looked up from the floor and the whole thing took me a couple of seconds to process, because I couldn’t possibly be seeing what my brain was telling me. The young man’s head was in the exact same position and his body was totally immobile, just as before. Only now, his mouth was wide open, and a geyser of mainly liquid puke was cascading down from his mouth and splashing onto the floor between his feet.

This was no ordinary case of someone losing his dinner. This was like a barrel spigot that was open all the way, the liquid just pouring out in volume. It seemed like it would never stop. Soon he was completely surrounded by the lake of his own making, and like the scenic Halong Bay in Vietnam, the “waters” were dotted with little islands of undigested kaoya.

I said to Bill, “Oh my god, look – that guy is throwing up!” Bill turned, and we both watched in stunned fascination, wondering how one human body can possibly contain so much disposable liquid. But most amazing of all, the other three friends at the table never flinched or even looked. Two of them kept eating and chatting, looking into one another’s eyes, and the third continued a conversation on his mobile phone as if the guy wasn’t even there.

All things are finite, however, and eventually the gushing sounds ceased. The staff, as unfazed as the diners at the table (and at the other surrounding tables), walked over with a big bucket of ash from the wood-burning duck oven and methodically spread its content on the floor around the table. They then spread newspaper over the soaking-wet ash, deftly working around the still-unconscious man’s feet. Okay, I thought, that’s that. But no. A few minutes later, the scene repeated itself. The exact same thing: his mouth opened, and the remaining chunks of his meal splashed onto the newspaper, creating a multi-sense kaleidoscope of color and texture and aroma. And it just kept coming and coming, just like before. This time, the friend sitting next to him patted him a few times on the back, but never lost eye contact with the young lady sitting opposite him; both of them kept eating.

In the US, we’re used to the waitress coming up to the table to offer more butter or water. Here, the waitress came back to offer more ash, which was gratefully accepted. At this point, every time the front door opened on the breezy December night, we were treated to a whiff of the pungent mess. And yet we kept eating, and tried not to look, kind of like when you’re at the scene of a bloody accident and you try to look away, but your eyes can’t help but grab another glimpse.

We survived the ordeal, and by the time we left, the provider of the night’s entertainment was sitting upright and chatting on his phone, while the other friend opposite him had his head on the table and appeared to be asleep. We didn’t wait to see if any encores would follow.

While this was certainly one of the grossest, most nauseating moments of my life abroad – in fact, of my entire life – Bill and I agreed that it was all part of the “China experience,” part of what makes living here so, um, unique. I am trying to visualize a similar scene taking place in Singapore or Taipei or Tokyo, with the buckets of ash and the rising reservoir and no one paying any attention, and I just can’t do it. “Only in China” took on a whole new dimension on Saturday night. Most tragically, I can never again look at a Peking duck dinner without at least a brief flashback to that night’s pyrotechnics.

This will be a first: I am linking to a YouTube video I cannot watch myself (the Cybernanny is on steroids this week), simply because, based on this blogger’s endorsement, I suspect it’s funny. Let me know.

About a week ago the temperature took a dramatic plunge downward. We had a few more hot days, but the nights now are cool, and today I saw a couple of people wearing jackets, an ominous sign of things to come. Last week only the most die-hard of the hundreds of migrant workers at the construction sites around my office were walking around shirtless; the week before they were the majority.

I guess if there were leaves in the part of Beijing where I live they’d be changing now. Everyone agrees, “Autumn is the nicest time of the year in China,” but it’s always too short. I remember walking up Tuan Jie Hu Lu (where I used to live) back in the fall of 2002 and wondering if any other part of China could be this beautiful. Even though the 3rd Ring Road and Gongti Beilu are seconds away, the lights and the neighborhood feel of Tuan Jie Hu made it seem like it was in another city, far from the noise and the traffic. It was in the first week of October and there was this huge copper harvest moon and I wanted to hold on to that moment forever.

I always get depressed when winter comes, and now I’m getting depressed in advance, knowing that Beijing’s beautiful autumn weather is famously ephemeral. Back in 2002, in the third or fourth week of October, winter suddenly dropped down on Beijing like an executioner’s axe, ushering in a winter that set new records for sub-freezing temperatures and snowfall. Ten weeks later or so, we began to read stories for the first time about a mysterious new sickness afflicting Hong Kong travelers, and it was all downhill from there. Six months later I’d watch on CCTV as the US marched into Iraq on a mission that was going to be over in a few weeks.

I hate the winter, but I believe the four distinct seasons do have a purpose. They remind us of the passing of time, putting it into useful perspective. It is the drop in temperature, for example, that causes me to remember it’s been nearly a year since that November day that I flew up to Beijing from Taiwan, believing it would just be a final visit before I moved back in a few weeks to America. And somehow, that little visit set off a chain of events that led me to do the one thing I swore I would never do, i.e., move back to Beijing.

So yes, it’s the weather and its seasons that remind us of the passing of time. In America, I live (not surprisingly) in Phoenix, where the seasons are far less defined – it’s always summer. As blissful as this is to someone like me who thrives on warmth, it’s also insidious. You are less aware of time passing because there are no seasons to act as markers along the way. Suddenly, you realize a lot more time went by than you realized.

Not quite sure how I got onto this, but let me see if there’s a graceful way to end this somewhat meaningless if heartfelt post…. All I wanted to say was that it’s that time of the year again, where summer is replaced by an infuriatingly short autumn, followed by an endless winter. It’s that time of the year, and it saddens me because to me warmth is safety and security, while cold is, well, just the opposite.

I went on long bicycle rides the past two weekends, exploring parts of Beijing I had only seen fleetingly from taxi windows. Winter is coming and I won’t be able to do that sort of thing much longer. I guess the best I can do is take every day of Autumn as a gift and savor it as best I can. Lots of bicycle rides. Maybe even a ride over to Tuan Jie Hu Lu, for old time’s sake. I hope it’s as beautiful and as secluded now as it was five years ago.

Long-time China hand Ross Terrill writes today of China’s efforts not only to clean up Chinglish in Beijing, but also to create its own truth, Potemkin Village-style, to show you the China it wants you to see, which often has little to do with the China that actually is. This is, of course, nothing very new; it’s why CCTV-9 exists. Will the masses of tourists and foreign journalists be fooled?

Banished from Beijing for the Olympics will be not only fractured English, but disabled people, Falun Gong practitioners, dark-skinned villagers newly arrived in the city, AIDS activists and other ‘troublemakers’ who smudge the canvas of socialist harmony.

Fictions will abound for the month of August 2008. On all fronts the party-state will pull the rabbit of harmony from the hat of cacophony – ‘What do you mean by dissidents?’ Scientists have been told to produce a quota of ‘blue days’ with a clear sky, perpetuating a Chinese Communist tradition of defying natural as well as human barriers to its self-appointed destiny. Mao vowed to plant rice in the dry north of China as well as the lush south, to prove the power of socialism. ‘We shall make the sun and moon change places,’ he cried. None of this occurred.

Likewise, in 2001, arguing before the world to get the Olympic Games, the vice president of Beijing’s bid committee said, ‘By allowing Beijing to host the Games, you will help the development of human rights.’ Yet the opposite danger looms: Games preparation has spurred repression.

Every day, government censors send news organizations a list of forbidden topics and guidelines for covering acceptable ones. The price for ignoring the list: dismissal of an editor or closure of the publication. Last spring, government supervisors even instructed the TV producers of ‘Happy Boys Voice,’ a Chinese version of ‘American Idol,’ to eliminate “weirdness, vulgarity and low taste.’ No wonder Dai Qing, a journalist who was imprisoned after Tiananmen in 1989, says the only thing she believes in China’s press is the weather report.

Truth and power are both headquartered in the Communist party-state. ‘Truth’ (socialism sparkles, people adore the party) is not only enforced by the party-state but created by it. Stamp out Chinglish; ban ‘unhealthy thinking’; just keep the picture pretty – or else.

Living in China is great right now, for me, anyway. But think about how much greater it would be if it didn’t fall for its own propaganda, if it didn’t feel it needed to scrub the city of its handicapped and dark-skinned citizens, if it didn’t feel it had to cover everything with window dressing. Terrill ends his op-ed with some wisdom that should be obvious to everyone, yet somehow seems permanently to elude the CCP.

The Chinese state, for better and for worse, knows exactly what it’s doing, in Africa and at home. Still, a brilliant Olympic Games will be no more of a clue to the future of Chinese Communist rule than the spectacular 1936 Berlin Games were a sign of Nazism’s longevity. Correct language, like a gold medal, is desirable in itself. But neither guarantees glory for a state that pursues them for political ends (ask the Soviet Union). Sport should just be sport. The democracies should insist on that and leave political manipulation to the dictatorships.

It’s really a shame that to the party, the Olympics is all about altering the world’s perception about China using whatever methods possible, no matter how ham-fisted or unintentionally droll, a strategy that’s bound to backfire. Sure, every country that hosts the Olympic Games wants to show the world its best, but “the best” that China’s intent on showing is manufactured, having little or nothing to do with China’s reality.

China is such a great country with so much vitality and ingenuity. Why try to blind everyone with cheap stunts and pyrotechnics designed to obfuscate rather than educate? I don’t want to see China turn itself into the laughing stock of the world. Can someone just tell them to cut the sugar-coating and act like a real country, one that acknowledges its strengths and its weaknesses, its greatness and its shortcomings. The world will be fooled by all the smoke and mirrors just as it is fooled by those insane public rallies for Kim Jong Il across the border, which is to say not very much.

Yeah, I know this is a rant of pure wishful thinking, and Hu is highly unlikely to take my advice. But it’s okay to dream, isn’t it?

A post I put up earlier today seems to have generated some of the most emotional comments this blog has seen. A fascinating microcosm of different cultures and perspectives…

I’m drawing attention to this because I put up way more posts than usual today, and it’s very easy for this post ot get buried. Those who come here for links on China will certainly want to read it.

Here’s another essay on China, this one focusing on Confucianism and what it has wrought [pdf file]. I agree with its fundamental premise, i.e., that China is still reeling from the negative aspects of its Confucist and Legalist mindsets, which are inherently unjust and unhealthy. Unfortunately, their influence is still going strong in the China of the 21st century, where power and hierarchy matter above all else.

We all know about the near-uncontrollable hatred today’s young Chinese harbor against Japan, but I didn’t quite grasp the scale until I read this intriguing article.

The explosive growth of the web in China, where the number of users is growing by more than 25% a year, is often cited by advocates of political reform as a source of hope for greater openness in the world’s last big communist state.

But there is increasing evidence that the opposite may be true. Sites advocating democracy, religious freedom or union rights are closed down by the authorities and their operators often arrested. But there are countless sites like Mr Song’s devoted to one of the few political passions permitted by the government: hatred for Japan.

Every day on the “My View of Japan” bulletin board, Mr Song and his contributors post reports of perceived slights by their neighbours, who are referred to at least once as “shitty little Japanese”. Many predict that military conflict is inevitable, and some wish it would come sooner rather than later. “I’m 30 and a fire burns in my heart,” writes one contributor. “Only war can extinguish these flames.”

While hate-mongering is a feature of extremist internet chatrooms around the world, in China such inflammatory comments appear to represent anything but a small minority. In the past two years, small anti-Japanese protests have mushroomed into nationwide campaigns through the internet and mobile phone text messages.

The article focuses on one prosperous young man in Beijing who seems to have it all, and yet is a burning pillar of rage and fury, obsessed with Japan’s refusal to acknowledge and take responsibility for its monstrous crimes against the Chinese people in World War II. I can understand the anger, but I have to admit I can’t understand the obsession, where one’s entire life is focused on and consumed by the events of 65 years ago. Read the article to see just how all-consuming this hatred can be.

Thanks to the reader who alerted me to this.

…that half of China’s population cannot speak Mandarin? I knew it was a large number, but fifty percent?!