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1/2014 Arise, Comrades!
F
uel yourselves with revolutionary spirit and drive the glorious proletariat toward a brighter future against the imperialist Western dogs! Or, ya know, don’t; it’s up to you really. Either way, TWOC has done its level best to bring you a Red China issue—from revolutionary intellectuals to villages living in the age of Mao. China’s relationship with communism is beyond complex, with the competing ideology of market capitalism and its success in driving the country’s modern reform miracle. However, the dream of a socialist paradise is alive and well at the heart of modern China. They’re the soul of the Party’s ideology and a thorn in its side; today’s Chinese left is a potent force in contemporary Chinese politics. They see themselves as a reminder of the past and the hope for China’s future, but they’re also often seen as a menace to the modern mass line. “China’s New Left” (see page 28) takes a look at how this dwindling group—obsessed with “historical nihilism” and wary of a market-oriented Middle Kingdom—hopes to change the course of the country. “Confession Controversy” (see page 36) studies the mores and importance of confessions from the Cultural Revolution. As one of the most turbulent times in China’s history, conversations about the sins and regrets of the period yo-yo between trendy and shameful. The era itself is cloaked in humiliation and pain, and the issue is mired in political sensitivity; those who choose to get on the agonizing road of the Cultural Revolution confession face fire on all fronts. Deep in Henan Province there lies a city stuck in time. Ornate portraits of Marx, Lenin, and Stalin dot the landscape, and slogans urging continual revolution are emblazoned on buildings, tenements built for the sole purpose of boasting the power of China’s socialist system. Today, tourists visit this modern Maoist Mecca for a taste of the past, but “Maoist Vacation” (see page 42) shows that this getaway isn’t as immune to the tribulations of the market Middle Kingdom as one might be led to believe. In “Martyrs’ Anthem” (see page 48) James Palmer gazes back through the decades of New China to study the history of “March of the Volunteers”, China’s national anthem. This well-known nationalist song has a past of success and pain that, in many ways, mirrors China’s own battles; on the way to creating the nation’s iconic song the creators suffered as China suffered. They rose quickly and fell hard, casualties of China’s march. If you’re still in the mood for the revolutionary spirit, you can always check out our “On the Character” (see page 92), which delves deep into the character 革. Or, if art’s your thing, head on over to “Gallery” (see page 58) to learn how “We Have Betrayed the Revolution”. However, if you’re sick of all this proletarian piffle, read about how the other half lives in our new section “Group Think” (see page 70), which looks at the golden world of the tuhao in all their vulgar glory. If your tastes are even more bourgeois—hedging on the literary—check out “Pioneer” (see page 88) which hosts an interview with China’s short story master Jiang Yitan, or try our new section “Bookmark” (see page 86) for a study of the famous Fortress Besieged. It’s a new year, and you may notice some changes around these parts: new columns, new writers, and new ideas. But, we’re still the same old TWOC, and we wish you and yours a happy New Year. Managing Editor Tyler Roney
Issue 1 /2014
1
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1/2014 48 MARTYRS' ANTHEM 国歌的悲伤
CHINA’S NEW LEFT 中国的新“左派”
Modern leftists have a new dream for contemporary China, and everyone from academics to bloggers want to be heard
AND
GAO FEI
The tale behind China’s national anthem is one of tragedy and loss, a story that runs through the lifeblood of China's history
28
COVER STORY
TANG HUIQIN
36
ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
CONFESSION CONTROVERSY 拒绝沉默和遗忘的人
The turbulent era of the Cultural Revolution saw atrocities and loss; all these years later, many are still looking for a kind ear to ease their guilt
Issue 1 /2014
42 MAOIST VACATION 坚守共产梦的南街村 The Mao era is mercifully over, but one Chinese village relies on the legacy of revolution and socialism to survive
3
GALLERY
THICKER THAN WATER 血缘：大家庭 Zhang Xiaogang uses old family photos— combined with his surreal style—to create a world of cruelty and anonymity
70
18
GROUP THINK
CHINA'S GILDED TUHAO
冰雪九寨沟
土豪归来
The golden world of the tuhao is often the butt of jokes, but they’re a growing segment of society—one that many want to join
24
4
FROZEN FALLS Photographer Alice Carfrae journeys to the icy falls of Jiuzhaigou in Sichuan Province to take a closer look at the frozen natural beauty of this unique landscape
76
MADE IN CHINA CHINESE LABOUR CORPS
SAVING CHINA THE HAZY WORLD OF COAL
一战中的华人劳工营
建在煤炭上的雾霾之城
像佛教徒一样说话
James Palmer looks at the legacy of Chinese laborers in WWI and the complex history of China in a world at war
Winter means one thing to Beijingers: smog. Take a look at the role coal plays in the haze that is choking China.
Learn how to find your inner Buddha with our zen-like guide to speaking like a bodhisattva who knows their sutras
SOCIAL CHINESE FLUENT BUDDHIST
1 EDITOR’S LETTER 卷首语
6 MISHMASH 多棱镜
8 WEIBO WHACK 微亦足道
11 STREET TALK 街头俚语
12 DRAGON'S DIGEST 三味书屋
74 COUNTERPOINT 锋面
84 CHI LE MA 吃了吗
86 BOOKMARK 好书有签
88 PIONEER ON THE ROAD
ALICE CARFRAE (ICE
FALLS)
HIP TO BE SQUARE
BY
在中国教四方舞
PHOTOGRAPH
Square dancing pros and amateurs travel through China on a mission to spread the art of the do-si-do throughout the Middle Kingdom
对话先锋
92 ON THE CHARACTER 魅力汉字
94 AGONY AYI 麻烦阿姨
96 COMICS 酷漫
WANT MORE LIKE THIS?
ZOETROPE THIS IS SANLITUN 《这是三里屯》 Taking a break from the bleak arena of Chinese cinema, Terence Hsieh looks at our very own Carlos Ottery’s Sanlitun satire
Issue 1 /2014
You can find more written, visual, and audio content on our website, theworldofchinese.com, which is updated daily with recipes, travel tales, language lessons and more!
5
MISHMASH
A CUP OF ZHOU The Laba Festival ( 腊八节 ), which falls on the eighth day of the 12th month of the Lunar Year, traditionally symbolizes the beginning of festivities for Chinese New Year. And, like all good festivals, it comes with a tasty snack to celebrate: labazhou ( 腊 八粥 ), a porridge made from any number of ingredients including rice, glutinous rice, millet, peanuts, chestnuts, Chinese dates, lotus seeds, and red-beans. Originally, the occasion was for people to give sacrifices to their ancestors and to pray to heaven and earth for luck and a good harvest for the coming year. The dish itself is fabled to have first been an Indian dish. The story goes that during a lengthy fast, the Buddha fell faint when travelling around India. He was awoken by a shepherdess who nurtured him to health by giving him the nutritious porridge. The Buddha was then able to continue his spiritual journey, eventually achieving enlightenment on the 8th day of the 12th lunar month. As Buddhism spread more widely throughout China, so did the eating of labazhou; in the Qing Dynasty (1616-1911), on the auspicious day in question, the emperor would grant large portions of it to his men. It is cooked over a long period and tastes slightly different wherever you might try it but is usually slightly sweet. - CARLOS OTTERY
NOT ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL City authorities in Beijing found a man accommodation after he was found to have been living at the bottom of a manhole for 20 years. It is thought the man decided on the manhole so he could save extra money to put his children through school. The 53-year-old man, surnamed Wang, who had been living at the bottom of a utility well in Beijing’s Chaoyang District, has three school-aged children who live in Huairou, 40 kilometers outside the city center. “It costs a lot to put three kids through school. My wife takes care of the kids at home while I look for odd jobs. It costs at least 300 RMB to find a room, so I have used the well for 20 years,” he said. The space at the bottom of the damp well, which Wang sealed with cardboard, measures about four square meters. Utility workers say the wells are very dangerous. “There is a lot of equipment down there, and it is very cold,” said an employee for the Beijing Heating Power group. - C.O.
GONE TO THE DOGS A street dog on the loose has finally been caught after many years of evading capture in Zhengzhou, Henan Province, December 5. Over the past four years, the troublesome bitch bit many people and gave birth to several litters. The animal, aware that it was going to the dogs, would continually flee from captors, particularly if they were wearing a uniform. Eventually city management officers took a new approach and sent out a plain clothes dog-catching team of about 100 (yes, 100) officers, chengguan, and workers from animal protection to catch the beast. Ultimately, one hundred people were too much for the wily canine, and he was eventually captured in a net and taken to a nearby animal shelter. - C.O.
腊八节 腊 6
A SMOG DEFENSE Pollution is a bit of a downer for, well, pretty much everyone, but an in-depth article, by Global Times special reporter Zhang Jie, on December 9, pointed out that Chinese smog might have one big upside: bolstering military defense capabilities. In his report he points out that America has special “Eagle Scan” reconnaissance technology that can spot the smoke on a cup of coffee from up to a kilometer away. However in the presence of the extreme smog that China has, such reconnaissance “loses its meaning”. He goes on to explain how NATO faced difficulties in the Kosovo conflict as Yugoslavian insurgents were burning car tires to create smog, which one presumes would be an unnecessary task for Beijing. Chinese netizens were not much impressed by Zhang’s attempt at positive spin. As one reader responding to the article put it: “But enemies wouldn’t need to resort to missile attacks; if the smog continues to increase– people will simply be poisoned to death.”- C.O.
CLOWNING AROUND IS TIRING Nie Yongbing, 63, of Chengdu, Sichuan Province has been impressing people with his ability to inflate the inner tubes of car tires at speed. But Nie is a bit different from your average tire inflator as he inflates his tires manually: through his nose. Attaching a hose to his nose, he inflated four tires in less than 20 minutes on December 6. Nie, who taught himself the stunt, can perform other tricks, such as balancing on sharp blades whilst barefoot and lifting buckets of water with his eyelids. He has been practicing the Jackass-style stunts for eight years and eventually hopes to appear on a talent show and become famous. Other clowns have been less than impressed; someone from the Sichuan Society of Acrobats downplayed Nie’s super-lung capacity and other abilities, saying that such trickery is based on simple principles rather than any real skill. - C.O.
Issue 1 /2014
LAPTOP LOVE They say love is blind and that certainly proved to be the case for one 20-year-old laptop thief. In September, a young man, surnamed Yang, allegedly clambered through an open window to an apartment in Beijing’s Chaoyang District, where he stole a laptop worth 2,300 RMB. However, on getting home and opening the laptop, Yang found himself completely smitten by images of the owner on the computer. Eros had struck, and Yang found himself utterly obsessed with the woman, speedily rifling through her files to find her online chat identity. On finally making contact, he promised to return the laptop if the girl would arrange to go on a date with him. Yang must have been disappointed when he turned up at the date only to be met by police officers who promptly arrested him for theft. - C.O.
7
WEIBO THE OTHER BIG V Inspired by The Vagina Monologues, the Gender Studies Group at Beijing Foreign Studies University started a campaign entitled “我的 阴道说” (My Vagina Says) to promote their own production of the play. The group put 17 pictures of girls online, each holding a white board on which they wrote their messages to the world. Messages began with “My vagina says” and were followed by statements like “You need to be invited to get in”, “I want respect”, “I can flirt, you can’t harass”, and “Open for Business”. Many were furious, calling these girls sluts, but others came to their defense.
NO
ENGLISH
ALLOWED
8
胡嘉A：主张女权主义大可不必用第二张嘴去张扬，毕竟那是私 密, 不可常拿出来示众，人与动物是有区别滴！ 请问燃烧的犯罪现场：就算是话剧，也该有底线。这是我们不 明白的艺术还是低俗？ 陈子弘：搞了半天，原来天朝民众的礼义廉耻都很充足啊！本 来就是一种表达，没什么了不得的。话剧《阴道独白》如果上 演，小剧场可能要遭烧掉。 One doesn’t need to use the second mouth to promote feminism. After all, it is a private part; mankind is different from animals! Even a play should have limits. Is this an art that we don’t understand or is it just plain vulgar? So I’ve been mistaken—it turns out that the Chinese people all have a sufficient sense of morality! It’s just an expression, no big deal, but if the play The Vagina Monologues actually gets shown, the theater may be burnt down.
According to plans released by the Ministry of Education, English will no longer be a test subject in the gaokao (university entrance exam). Instead, students will take English tests throughout the year, and the highest score will count. While some are afraid that Chinese students will consider studying English unimportant, others worry that the tests will be a prerequisite to graduate.
培训师黄飞：看到教育部宣布英语退出高考， 感觉甚好。数亿学生学习了这么多年的英语， 浪费那么多时间，真正能用上的又有几人。只 会说那么几句“thank you”，“OK”等。
I read that the Ministry of Education will remove English from the gaokao, and it felt good. Billions of students studied English for so many years, and wasted so much time; but how many people actually use it? Most people can only say things like “thank you” and “OK”.
西门不暗：在30多年前，改革开放之初，就要 求学生必须学英语。为什么今天对英语的需求 远大于当时，取消英语高考科目的呼声反而起 来了？这一方面当然跟中国梦有关，强大了 嘛。另一方面，你知道的太多了……
Over 30 years ago, students were required to learn English at the beginning of the Reform and Opening Up. Why do the authorities want to cancel English as a gaokao subject now that we have a bigger demand of the language skills? Of course, it has to do with the “Chinese dream”, since China is so much stronger. But on the other hand, well, you can know too much…
WHACK NO DAY OFF FOR CHUXI
姜汝祥：我反对“五一”、“十一”长假，因为这些节日无意义。我建 议一切传统的节日，均应当放假，比如重阳节、七月半等。我建议春节 应当放两周假。谁说中国无宗教？中国的宗教是家，是孩子与老人！中 国缺的是人伦，请多放假！
The Chinese authorities managed to balls-up the New Year holiday schedule, yet again. It turns out the most significant day in the Chinese calendar, Chuxi (除夕), is not actually that significant at all—at least according to the Spring Festival scheduling. Inexplicably Chinese workers will not (officially) be given the day off and will have to ask their employers for an extra day. Those hoping to spend this particular day with their family (i.e. the whole country) are none too pleased.
魏德东: 在没有任何严肃研究的基础上，随便一个指令，就废除了除夕的 法定假日资格。从今以后，每个大年三十，不知有多少人奔波在车站码 头，不能与父母团圆、赶不上除夕祭祖，也不能为父母贴个春联。
财经女记者部落:“汪峰”这个人名变成 一个新的词汇了。1. 汪峰作动词，意思 为：被忽视，被忽略，虽然很努力但还 是被无视。例句：李总，对不起，您这 事汪峰了！ 2. 汪峰作名词，意思为：第 二名，第三名。例句：儿子，你考试考 得怎么样？别提了，考汪峰了。 萧如瑟:全社会能不能，能不能约定一个 日子，都不要发声、不要出柜、不要秀 恩爱、不要离婚，让汪峰说点他想说的 话，做点他想做的事…… “Wang Feng”, originally a person’s name, has become a new word: (1) a verb, meaning overlooked, ignored, and continuously neglected despite hard work. e.g. "CEO Li, I’m sorry, your project was Wang Feng-ed!" (2) a noun, meaning “2nd place or 3rd place”. e.g. "Son, how did you do at the exam?" "Forget it, I got a Wang Feng." Could society please, please select a day on which everyone refrains from making statements, going out, showing off relationships, or divorcing so that Wang Feng can say what he wants to say and do what he wants to do.
Issue 1 /2014
I oppose having holidays on Labor Day and National Day because these holidays mean nothing to me. Instead, we should have days off on all traditional festivals, like the Double Ninth Festival and the Hungry Ghost Festival. For the Spring Festival, I suggest we get two weeks off. Who says that China has no religion? In China, religion is family, children, and elders! What China lacks is family bonds. Please give us more days off! Without any serious research, just a simple instruction eliminated Chuxi as a legal holiday. From now on, every Spring Festival eve, who knows how many people will be at train stations and docks not able to reunite with their parents, not able to make it in time to pay tribute to ancestors or help their parents put up Spring Festival couplets.
BAD LUCK, WAN
G FENG
Singer Wang Feng recently made quite a for his rotten stir on Weibo luck—every ti me the rock st make headlin ar tries to es, someone be ats him to it. but no one n He divorced, oticed becaus e pop queen got divorced Faye Wong at the same ti me. When he relationship w made his ith actress Zh ang Ziyi publ one gave a da ic (again) no mn because th e Chinese foot won for the fi ball team rst time in 20 years; even h release coinci is new album ded with the launch of Ch moon rover. Fo ina’s first rtunately, net izens found th tremendously is pattern entertaining and started a weibo called campaign on “Help Wang Feng Hit the Headlines”.
STREET TALK
W
not altogether entirely removed from his foreign cousin, the English Chav. His hair cropped, he likes his clothes designer but invariably low-end—think Calvin Klein. He thinks he is rich but drives a black cab. He’s manly, aggressive even, with a proverbial pepper up his ass, always spoiling for a fight (using a baseball bat if need be), while fantasizing about being a real gangster who owns a gun. Typically abusive, few women are stupid enough to marry this particular creature. Usually coming from the countryside or a very small town, he somehow thinks of himself as a man-about-town and attempts to copy what he thinks are city-boy fashions. Our final faker is Silver Bracelet Girl (银镯女子 y!nzhu5 n)z@). SBG is all light and sensitivity; nobody understands the world quite like her. Only she can see the poetry in our melancholy world. Watching the leaves fall from the trees makes her think about life. Once it even got too much, and she cut herself. She is just so sensitive you see: “Doesn’t the rain, somehow remind you of cruel tears?” she opines. Her heart heaves like the deep sea as she tells you, “I only write in traditional characters. They are more beautiful, don’t you think?” She reads, writes, dances, and travels to isolated places to take photos of the grass, which she posts on Douban. Though the purest of maidens, she understands love, feeling it passionately and intensely, giving herself fully to her man, and she will die for him if she must. - BY CARLOS OTTERY, RESEARCH BY WEIJING ZHU (祝伟婧)
Silver Bracelet Girls always travel to the Old Town of Lijiang alone.
I am not sure if the new intern is truly innocent or just a Green Tea Bitch.
Gold Chain Men love to play loud music on their dodgy iPhones.
Y!nzhu5 n)z@ z6ngsh# d%z# q& L#ji`ng G^ch9ng l)x!ng.
Zh8n b& zh~d3o x~nl1i de sh!x!sh8ng sh# ti`nr1nd`i h1ishi l_ch1bi2o.
J~nli3n h3zi x@huan z3i sh`nzh3i p!nggu6 sh6uj~ sh3ng d3sh8ng de f3ng y~nyu-.
银镯女子总是独自去丽江古 城旅行。
真不知道新来的实习生是天然 呆还是绿茶婊。
金链汉子喜欢在山寨苹果手机上 大声地放音乐。
ILLUSTRATION
BY
TANG HUIQIN
e are all experts in self-curation these days— collectively struggling to look that little bit hipper, cooler, more well-informed and sensitive than we really are; we desperately strain to create that required just-so effect, whether it’s the jewelry we wear, the books we (claim to) read, or the things we say; it seems we are all posers today. China is no different, in fact, as a nation obsessed with gaining face, it is arguably worse, sometimes with disastrous results. Here are a few of the nation’s most gaudy pretenders. First, there is the Green Tea Bitch (绿茶婊 l_ch1bi2o). Much like the tea from whence she is named, she cultivates an air of purity, innocence, and refinement. She’s pretty, but not too pretty; she wears make-up but never too much. When speaking, the Green Tea Bitch talks in girlish tones just on the right side of flirtatious, referencing the anodyne, sentimental books she has read. On the surface at least, she is not altogether too dissimilar from the girl-next-door. Men, seeing her innocence, long to protect her and orbit her like mindless flies. Under the surface, however, the GTB is a different beast; weaving an innocent web like a female black widow, she is in fact deadly, waiting to steal your man and to destroy your marriage, a charlatan and a whore. The next poser is the Gold Chain Man (金链汉子 j~nli3n h3nzi). As you might have guessed, he wears a chunky gold chain around his neck, thinking it confers status. It doesn’t. He is
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DRAGON'S DIGEST
F8ngni1nj#
丰年记
A FRUITFUL YEAR 12
ILLUSTRATION
BY
GAO FEI
1
The first time I brought Zhuo Ran home was last year in February. I didn’t let my mother know beforehand, nor did I know how to tell her. One morning, I simply asked: “I’d like to bring a friend home in a day or two; could you manage to be back at noon?” My mother was kneeling on the floor, scraping and washing unscrupulously. Without hesitation, she replied: “No, with the Spring Festival coming, I’m busy at the store.” At the time, she was working in a private photo studio, helping with photo cutting, lighting, storekeeping, and cleaning. Ever since her early retirement, she redirected most of her energy to the studio, but I still haven’t found any tangible, deep connection between her and photography. She enjoys being photographed though, and has kept numerous selfportraits from different periods and photographers. Some were taken by art fans in the factory’s labor union, some by young men in the neighboring workshop, some by distant relatives, and some by the backbone of the cultural and arts unit she became acquainted with during the Down to the Countryside Movement. She claims these photos were taken for me to look at so that I wouldn’t miss her too much when she passed away. However, it seems that such preparation had been going on for a long time—ever since she was a teenage girl. Back then, there were no coloring techniques; photos could only be printed the size of a fingernail. Still, she glued all these small pictures into a photo album, one by one, marking the date, location, photographer, the clothes she wore, and their colors. When I asked her about the whereabouts of the photographers, she muttered vague replies and seemed to be at a loss. But when it came to anecdotes of when the photos were taken, or how to strike a pose, she could be extremely talkative. Even though she can’t even turn on a digital camera—and is almost completely unaware of Photoshop—those images and experiences became a significant part of her life. She replied so resolutely that I didn’t want to throw her off of her work, so I had to tell Zhuo Ran: “Perhaps you can come in the evening. My mother is too busy. I’m afraid we can only treat you to a simple meal.” Zhuo Ran acquiesced, simply replying that he would need to inform his parents that the plan to visit my house had changed from noon to evening. Sometimes I wished he would say more, but he never took that cue. A good conformist and follower, he is like a well-behaved, tonguetied little boy. “Oh, about the money, have you spoken to her?” I couldn’t see Zhuo Ran’s expression over the phone, but my heart pulsed with complicated emotions—not a good feeling, but not an extremely bad one. “Qingqing, if you don’t have money, I could give you some. My mother will be comforted and gain face if your mother gives me some money.
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ZHANG YIWEI 张怡微 The year 2013 was indeed a fruitful one for 26-year-old Shanghaiese writer Zhang Yiwei 张怡微. Currently pursuing a doctorate in literature at the National Chengchi University in Taiwan, she’s the first mainlander to win the Taipei Literature Award (First Prize in the essay category). She has also been the recipient of the Taiwan Times Literary Prize (First Prize in the short story category), and the New Writer Prize from the Chinese Literature Media Awards. Zhang made her debut as the First Prize winner of the sixth New Concept Composition Competition in 2004 and since has been regarded as one of the leading writers of the post-80s generation. Her published novels include Woken From a Dream (《梦 · 醒》, 2008), Next Stop, Xidan (《下一 站西单》, 2010), The Night You Didn’t Know About (《你所不知道的夜晚》, 2012) and short story collections such as Time, Please Wait (《时光，请等一等》, 2010), and Youth’s Forbidden Games (《青春禁忌游戏》, 2006).
Author’s Note: This story originates from the scene “bringing the boyfriend home for the first time”. Personal relations in a cold world are the most common, yet most difficult, subject to depict, especially when you still want to maintain the warmth of life and the peaceful visage of the characters while their hearts boil. That is similar to this short story, which ultimately is warm and blissful.
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Then, maybe she will like you,” Zhuo Ran added. I shouldn’t have been blamed for neglecting this issue. In fact, I had been looking for an opportunity to break it to my mother. But, for some reason, the words just stuck in my throat like a fish bone. In my family, my mother and I have only each other, but we are on two different planets, each following its own orbit. Only in rare moments do we share some warmth together. I don’t offer painstaking reports or converse deeply with her, nor do I ask her for advice. As such, she rarely asks after me. This seems different from Zhuo Ran’s family or, rather, any healthy family. Actually, I had already dined twice with Zhuo Ran’s family behind my mother’s back. His family exercises the straightforwardness found in typical Shanghaiese, blunt and without pretense. But from start to finish, Zhuo Ran’s mother never said a word to me. His father appeared more amiable and asked about my family. “Why not let Zhuo Ran visit?” His father asked. “What’s the point?” I thought, but I said, “Next time.” “You know,” eyeing the chopsticks in my hand, his father continued, “even if your family lives in the slums, you should let Zhuo Ran visit.” I then realized, in this family, next to each plate lay a pair of serving chopsticks.
2
“Who is this friend?” Mother asked me. “My boyfriend,” I answered. I was helping her clear away tableware when she blurted out the question, but froze upon answering. She asked : “Oh, then why is he coming? Marriage proposal?” “Not exactly,” I laughed. “Actually, I am not sure why either. Just think of it as him casually hanging out with us.” My mother took a long and meaningful look at me and jeered lightheartedly: “No wonder you haven’t been paying attention to me recently, turns out you are soon to be married!” “No, not at all!” I swiftly denied. “Don’t talk gibberish— not this soon.” “Soon is not bad; either way it’s a good thing.” She sidled up to the stove and gestured for me to clean up the table, seemingly not have taken my words seriously. I felt temporarily reassured. Zhuo Ran and I met in middle school. From a secret relationship at school to a public one 14
MY MOTHER AND I HAVE ONLY EACH OTHER, BUT WE ARE ON TWO DIFFERENT PLANETS, EACH FOLLOWING ITS OWN ORBIT
later; from the endless confusion to the increased humdrum of daily trifles—all the grievances and melancholy—I never tried to share it with my mother. I didn’t know how. But I did know that, regardless of my decisions, my mother would always respect me. She only wished for my happiness. “Qingqing, it’s time to prepare. But, when your friend gets here, do you want to come in the store and have a picture taken? I can ask Uncle Lin to take a photo of you both together,” my mother said, as she came into the living room with a plate of apples. “A wedding photo?” I asked playfully. “No, of course not!” she said, immediately and forcefully denying just as I had earlier, “How could this kind of wedding photo be presentable? Your Uncle Lin’s workshop is tiny. We can’t have others looking down on you. But in truth, those studios with ‘Parisian’ and ‘Milanese’ in their names are not as good as your Uncle Lin’s. He still uses film, really brilliant, complicated, technical stuff that truly captures the depth of people. You young people wouldn’t understand.” I suddenly gathered my courage and asked: “Mom, could you prepare 2,000 kuai to give to Zhuo Ran?” “What? Why?” She was startled. To be honest, I didn’t know why either. “Maybe he will be happy. It shows that you like him,” I answered with false composure. “I haven’t even met him, how could I know if I like him or not. Didn’t you say that he is only coming to hang out?” “Qingqing, what is going on? Tell your mother the truth,” My mother suddenly tensed up, which made me anxious. “Are you having a…?” She closed in like Mei Shiping from Thunderstorm—ghastly. “Nonsense! Of course not. If you don’t want to, so be it. It’s nothing serious. I knew you would say no. I actually don’t see the point either; giving him money is pointless.
But I am in a difficult position, mom, I hate it too!” For some reason, with these words, I grew agitated. But I knew this agitation would end badly. So, I turned around and went into my room, cutting the conversation short. For an instant, I was almost overcome with the impulse to cry, but I soon calmed myself. What would be the point? Luckily, she didn’t bother me the whole night. All went as before, each of us on our own planet with our own worries.
3
The next day, when I woke, there was an envelope on the table with 2,000 kuai; it was heavy in my hand. Underneath it lay a note with oddly written characters: “Mom has money.” It was neatly written—and heartbreaking. Actually, I have money; Zhuo Ran has money as well—a lot of money. But he insisted that this 2,000 yuan would have insurmountable significance on his mother. After some deliberation, I put the money back in mother’s drawer. Zhuo Ran arrived at dusk, holding a paper bag labeled “Oriental Shopping Mall”. When I asked what it held, he answered: “Clothes my mom bought for your mother, a 3,000 kuai cashmere sweater—half off.” “Anything for my dad? Or you just decided you wouldn’t bother?” I asked. He looked ill at ease and at a loss. “I thought they were no longer together,” he said with a shaky voice. “He’s still my dad and not dead,” I replied gruffly. “Right, right, right. I will make up for it later. Please don’t be mad…I am visiting your home, you should be happy,” Zhuo Ran said in an attempt to appease. Happy. I hadn’t been happy for a long time, in fact; I constantly felt an invisible weight on my shoulders. When Zhuo Ran was busy looking around the house, I poured him a cup of hot water, wanting to turn on the heat, but not enough to look for the remote. He coughed twice, and I pretended not to hear it. Faked fragility, a little cold isn’t fatal. I really didn’t want to give him the special treatment, the money, or even heating. Watching him drinking water and shivering, I handed him a rubber hot-water bag: “This is what I use, very warm.” “Thank you,” he said politely, looking at me timidly. I hadn’t seen him so cordial in a while. Such gratitude Issue 1 /2014
aroused my sympathy. When my mother returned, Zhuo Ran and I went to the door to greet her together. This grand gesture gave her a start. “Sit, sit, sit, go sit,” she blurted out without even looking at Zhuo Ran. Zhuo Ran was transfixed and then smiled. I guess my mother was shy; after all, I’d never brought a boyfriend home before. My mother said: “There’s another guest coming, just in time to have a meal together. I bought a lot of good things!” “Someone’s coming?” I thought to myself. Now, that was rare. “Who is it?” asked Zhuo Ran. I had no idea either. Zhuo Ran walked around my house with light steps, leafing through my books absentmindedly. He also scrutinized our furniture and photos; most, of course, were displays of my mother’s youth. There’s not even one picture of me on display. Old family photos seemed to contain an extra person we avoided carefully. In all the pictures my mother and I took together, I looked glum and dull while she seemed in high spirits. Therefore, only the images of her youth were on display in our house, with mine nowhere to be found. My mother asked me to help wash the vegetables. After cleaning the green onions and slicing the ginger, I finally asked her who else was coming. Mother said, mysteriously: “This afternoon, a pigeon walked over to our photo studio door. It was thrilling. It stood resolutely in front of our door and pondered for a long, long time. Taking two steps forward, then two steps back, then two steps forward, it finally walked into the shop in the end. I thought it must have been too exhausted to fly, so I grabbed it and tied its feet. Tonight, your Uncle Lin will come to kill it. It just so happened that you had a friend coming as well.” She said all this proudly, as if she had won a battle. The poor pigeon, with feet tied tight, was thrown into the water basin. “I love pigeon meat,” Zhuo Ran chimed in. “Stewed pigeon tastes even better with some dried scallops, Chinese angelica, and dangshen (poor man’s ginseng)!”
4
When Uncle Lin came through the door, the startling thirst for blood in his eyes frightened me. He saw me and smiled, saying: “Qingqing, where’s the pigeon?” Zhuo Ran 15
laughed out loud, recognizing the sardonic savagery in Uncle Lin’s words. “In the kitchen, I can’t bare looking at it. Are you going to kill it now?” I asked. “Yes, I will bring it to you for a last look. Ha-ha! Oh right, this must be Zhuo Ran?” I really did not expect that Zhuo Ran would meet Uncle Lin so soon. I was going to bring Lin up later, so as to delay Zhuo Ran’s report to his family. Uncle Lin is the owner of the photo studio, and my mother works at his studio now. The two of them so naturally entwined is a wonderful thing. Actually, I had known Uncle Lin for quite a while. More precisely and conspicuously, it was before my father left; we met at my grandfather’s funeral. My mother asked him for a family photo shoot. He smiled at me, zooming in and out with the lens. I could not see his eyes, but I felt that his smile embodied a threat. Alongside the funeral music, it gave me chills down my spine. He was not a bad person. If it wasn’t for him being the one who drove my father away, I would have believed that he was a perfectly amiable middle-aged man. Zhuo Ran didn’t know what to do with this sudden change in events, but his confusion held both curiosity and excitement. I hated his excitement; he could always so easily display his best side to me, and I constantly had to expose the parts I least wanted. Perhaps that was how marriage was supposed to work: no veil, two people, completely naked, aside from the alarming defects of forgivable imperfections. Uncle Lin took the pigeon to the courtyard and untied the string. It collapsed feebly on the ground, having lost all strength. “Give it something to eat,” I said. “That poor creature, so pretty too.” “If it was ugly, you wouldn’t mind, would you? It’s just a pigeon, good for your health,” Zhuo Ran said. “Humph, so you haven’t had enough of those dried
IT COLLAPSED FEEBLY ON THE GROUND, HAVING LOST ALL STRENGTH 16
scallops, Chinese angelica, and dangshen? This is a life. It hasn’t done anything wrong!” I found myself getting quite upset. Zhuo Ran stared, dazed, not uttering a word. He quietly entwined his fingers with mine. All of a sudden, my heart melted. I was more anxious, nervous, and uneasy than upset. He was innocent in this after all. Who isn’t? “It is a homing pigeon,” said Uncle Lin. “Its feet have words written on them. Must have traveled a long way, a good pigeon.” By then, delicious smells wafted up from the kitchen. My mother had started to prepare her best dish, the eggplant clay pot with braised yellow croaker. The rich scent of soy sauce almost brought back childhood memories. It had been so long since the house bustled with so many people. It was as if I were in a dream. I could either relive it or look forward to it—such a lovely four-member household and simple family happiness. “Uncle Lin,” I beckoned. “Let it go.”
5
Obviously, this dinner made mother quite nervous. She was not yet ready to chat. Perhaps that was why she suddenly wanted Uncle Lin to be present. It made me feel awkward as well. Uncle Lin kept the pigeon in the courtyard. As we ate our soy-sauce-rich dinner, it kept on pecking rice, drinking water, and cooing, which caused a bit of a stir. My mother, though, hadn’t quite given up and kept nagging: “Why aren’t we eating such a good pigeon?” Zhuo Ran on the other hand, kept praising my kindness, obvious flattery. Uncle Lin said to Zhuo Ran: “Qingqing has quite a temper; her moods are so changeable. But, she means well. I watched her grow up. She is very sensitive. Be patient with her as much as you can.” Zhuo Ran kept nodding, even my mother nodded along. Mother asked Zhuo Ran: “Is it good?” And she put a chopstick-full in his bowl. I became irritated: “He can eat by himself, no need to help him.” “It’s all right,” Zhuo Ran said politely. Hatefully, I thought of the “serving” chopsticks. “Good?” I asked. But to me, Zhuo Ran’s answer would not make a difference. “Uncle Lin is a good person; we’ve been
friends for a long time. You should be nice to Uncle Lin from now on,” I told Zhuo Ran in a dull voice, while keeping my head down, avoiding his gaze. After night fell, as my mother tidied up and chopped fruits, Zhuo Ran, Uncle Lin, and I watched television and played a round of poker. I never anticipated the three of us sitting together, but everything seemed so pleasant, cozy, and full of life. Such a rare occasion, yet illusory. Somehow, I felt that this would the first time and the last time. All beautiful things are veiled and transitory. “Looking at you youngsters makes me feel old,” said Uncle Lin. “You still have a wonderful youth and a wonderful life ahead. All is well.” “Uncle Lin, how old are you?” asked Zhuo Ran. “This year happens to be the Chinese Zodiac Year for Qingqing and I, so I’m…12 years older than her,” Uncle Lin answered in a flash. “Wha—” “It’s 24 years,” I corrected him. “Oh, ha! My mistake. Old age has addled my wits,” Uncle Lin laughed. My mother overheard our conversation and entered in earnest. She tapped Uncle Lin’s shoulder with a wet finger. “Oh, right!” Uncle Lin looked at my mother and then at us apologetically. He told Zhuo Ran: “Qingqing’s mother only has Qingqing, and I have no children of my own. I have always treated her as my own daughter. Her mother means—”
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T he homing pigeon stayed with us for several days; Uncle Lin phoned the Homing Pigeon Association, but he could not find anyone to adopt it. Bizarrely, pigeon keepers rejected our wishes to give it away, perhaps afraid that our true intention was a high price. Neighbors coming and going at the studio all expressed doubt at our decision to send the pigeon away; though, some expressed interest in it purely as dinner. Uncle Lin refused them all. In the end, he made up his mind to keep it, perhaps in an attempt to please me and my bitter heart. He even ventured to the pet market and bought a massive pigeon case. However, after spending his first day with it, someone called and wanted to take it. Uncle Lin asked mother about my opinion. I said: “Give it away.” Issue 1 /2014
So, the pigeon case ended up at my place, empty as it stood in the courtyard. Once it bustled with life, once it was full, but that seemed like a distant hallucination. As for the heated argument that night, neither of us mentioned it later. My mother wanted to move out of our house to live with Uncle Lin, so I could sell it and buy a place with Zhuo Ran. What Zhuo Ran had in mind, in line with his parents’ wishes, was for me to live with his family and accept my house as the dowry. All I wanted was to keep the house—the house my father had lived in. Even just one more day would be worth it. Zhuo Ran’s father said to me on the phone: “I thought that girls in your condition would cherish the opportunity to marry into a family like ours.” At that moment, I realized I still had a responsibility to protect my family, just like Zhuo Ran’s family protected him. My mother told me: “Besides the house, I have nothing to offer you. I am sorry, and I owe it to your father, too. But I don’t want you to feel poor, because we all love you. Be with the person you love, that has nothing to do with money or a house. We don’t have great means, but that can change.” “You have to be with who you love as well. Don’t do it for me; do it for yourself,” I said to my mother. “Qingqing, mom has money,” she added, musing. But I really could not bear hearing these three words. These three words were the most ear-piercing and heart-wrenching words in the whole world. Every time she uttered these three words, I felt like I could give up everything in my life. No romantic love could heal this scar in my heart. After the Spring Festival, Uncle Lin and my mother got their wedding certificate. It was a day with heavy snow, a good omen. I praised my mother as the “bride in the snow”. Her smile was shy, yet moving. I had never seen her so shy, never a smile like that. I took their wedding photo. In Uncle Lin’s studio, the three of us set up lights together. I was like a photographer in an old film, ordering them “to the left, to the right, a little closer, smile!” Also, I used film, complicated, technical stuff. Later, I managed to hang the photo on the wall along with all the other photos in our house—that is, after some fiddling and reordering. There really was no room for this pair of newlyweds. Fortunately, an auspicious snowfall promises a fruitful year. - TRANSLATED BY WEIJING ZHU (祝伟婧) 17
KALEIDOSCOPE
PHOTOGRAPHS AND TEXT BY ALICE CARFRAE
A frozen landscape and warm company on the edge of the Himalayan Plateau 冬日里九寨沟寂静无人的冰雪天堂
18
J
iuzhaigou (九寨沟) is located on the edge of the Tibetan Himalayan Plateau in northern Sichuan Province. With its sparkling turquoise lakes, spectacular waterfalls, and unique wildlife, it is a popular destination for mainland tourists. Almost all of them visit in the summer months; in the winter, this stunning UNESCO world heritage site is a virtually deserted wilderness—a true winter wonderland. Jiuzhaigou literally translates as “Nine Village Valley” and takes its name from the nine Tibetan villages dotted along its length. Due to modernization, only seven of the nine villages are populated today. After exploring the stunning scenery that Jiuzhaigou has to offer, I decided to stay in one of the less touristy villages on the outskirts of the park. I was warmly welcomed at “Zohma’s Homestay” by Zohma’s elderly mother who is affectionately known as Amma. Zohma is a local entrepreneur who hosts this family run home-stay. Amma greeted me with a smile as wide as the Pearl Falls ( 珍珠滩瀑布 ) that I had been exploring in the park. She speaks little English but communicates with an infectious laugh and wide smile. She ushered me in from the cold, as yak butter tea simmered away in a large pot on the stove. For those not keen on the rich and salty yak tea there was a large kettle full of chang, or barley wine, and Amma made sure that nobody’s cup was half empty, even for a second. That night I was joined around the stove by other guests and Zohma herself who serenaded us with hauntingly beautiful Tibetan folk songs. The endless refills of barley wine left us all glowing as brightly as the embers of the stove. The next day I decided to take a horse trek through the village, although my horse turned out to be more of a stubborn, stubby-legged pony than anything else. I made my way, along traditional wooden and stone houses that perch on the steep hillsides, to a mountain-top shrine that is sacred to the local people. My guide took some thin paper prayer sheets out from his pocket and threw them into the wind, which carried them up into the a sky that was fast turning an ominous black. Our trek was cut short as the guide decided we should head for home as snow had already begun falling. A biting wind picked up, and icy snow that was more like hail, lashed my face making it hard to see. It was a reminder of just how wild this beautiful but unforgiving landscape can be. The guide did a good job of navigating our way down the mountainside, and waiting for us at the doorway of the guesthouse was Amma with warm towels, yak butter tea, and an even warmer smile.
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REED LAKE IS A REED-COVERED MARSH WITH A CLEAR TURQUOISE BROOK ZIGZAGGING THROUGH IT
A LOCAL GUIDE HELPED NAVIGATE OUR WAY DOWN THE MOUNTAIN, BACK TO THE WARMTH OF THE GUESTHOUSE 20
ZOHMA’S MOTHER “AMMA”, AS SHE IS AFFECTIONATELY KNOWN, HANGS HER HAT ON THE STONE WALL OF THEIR SMALL GUESTHOUSE
MY GUIDE HOLDS THE REIGNS OF THE SMALL PONY THAT CARRIED ME THROUGH THE VALLEY
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ONCE A BATTLEFIELD, THE GRASSLANDS ARE NOW TRAMPLED BY TOURISTS, NOT WARRIORS
CHILDREN FROM THE LOCAL SCHOOL HURRY HOME AS IT BEGINS TO SNOW 22
JOSS STICKS MADE FROM TRADITIONAL TIBETAN INCENSE BURN IN THE ZHARU MONASTERY
PRAYER FLAGS DECORATE A SACRED SPOT OUTSIDE THE ZHARU MONASTERY IN JIUZHAIGOU
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MADE IN CHINA
CHINESE LABOUR
CORPS
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I
n the tiny French commune of Noyellessur-Mer, facing the English Channel, a stone Chinese archway rises incongruously at a cemetery entrance. Inside, over 800 graves are marked with Chinese names, birthplaces, death-dates between 1916 and 1920, and Biblical phrases in Chinese and English. The dead of Noyelles came from the Chinese Labour Corps (CLC), a force of 100,000 Chinese who, from 1916 onward, dug many of the trenches that criss-crossed war-torn France. The British-led CLC, and another 40,000 men working for the French, carved out defences, built barricades, fixed railways, and mended telegraph wire. The Chinese Labour Corps was the creation of wily Chinese statesman Liang Shiyi (梁士诒 ), once the technophile Minister of Railways under the Qing Dynasty (1616-1911). It was an attempt to get on what he saw as the winning side of the war and ultimately better China’s place. Germany,
SUN HONGJIA BY
ILLUSTRATION
like the other Great Powers, held considerable concessions in China, and siding with the Allies, even if only quietly at first, would position China to reclaim those colonies at war’s end. It was appropriate enough, then, that the majority of the laborers he negotiated to send to France were from Shandong, where the German concessions were sited. The British and French officials involved in negotiating the contracts were looking for strong Northerners, and the men were said to be often “six feet tall”, a striking height at the time. The legal status of the laborers was somewhat dubious; as, officially, a non-belligerent China could not supply military aid to the Allies without violating its neutrality. The Germans protested against the creation of the labour corps to the Chinese government, which replied by specifying that this was a purely civilian deal, handled through a conveniently created “private company”, the Huimin Company, and if this supply of labor happened to be used for martial purposes, that was nothing to do with them. That the Huimin Company had been brought into existence by Liang Shiyi purely for this purpose was not allowed to trouble this legal fiction. The laborers themselves have left little record. Almost entirely illiterate, their histories were set down by others, whether the British officers who dealt with them or the educated Chinese who accompanied them as translators. Far mers and migrants from rural villages, their transition into the war was also a transition into modernity. As they entered “the sausage machine” of processing, their traditional queues were chopped off; they were washed, fingerprinted, and given a number, not a name. In his book, Strangers on the Western Front, Guoqi Xu demonstrated why this mechanistic process was made necessary; in the book, a British officer is recorded saying, “The man didn’t know his own name. If you questioned him, he’d say ‘Well, I come from the Wong family village, so my name is probably Issue 1 /2014
Wong.’ You’d say, ‘All right, well what is your personal name?’ and he’d grin and say ‘Wong’. We’d say, ‘Well, what are you called at home?’ and he’d say ‘Well, I’m known as Number Five, or Little Dog, or Big Nose.’ But the conditions were praised by the workers, who enjoyed the food, the hot baths with soap, and the clean housing. Even shipped in crammed holds, or in packed railway carriages across Canada, they remained, according to their supervisors, cheerful and practical, “the finest lot of men I have ever seen.” While they were often the target of racism from locals who had little contact with them, and from a military hierarchy that sometimes treated them like prisoners, locking them away in camps when off-duty, soldiers and officers who worked alongside them were full of admiration. They dug an average 200 cubic feet per day, compared to 140 for a British worker. And like the soldiers around them, they died. They were killed in artillery shelling, as they dug embankments or strung wire under the fire of German guns. They were killed by snipers, unable to distinguish civilian workers from Allied soldiers across the haze of No-Man’s-Land. They were killed by Ger man soldiers unable to make fine distinctions in the angry fury of breakthroughs into the enemy’s trenches. Most of all, they died of disease, coughing and spluttering their last in the great wave of post-war influenza, which slew more worldwide than the war itself. Traditional Chinese belief valued being returned to one’s birthplace so highly that an entire profession of “corpse-walkers” existed who would single-handedly, and literally, walk dead men back to their hometowns. But there was neither the knowledge nor the infrastructure in place to send corpses back to Shandong. Instead they were buried among the rest of the Allied fallen, clustered
in tens or twenties in some places, or not commemorated at all. The first that a distant wife, now widow, might hear of it was when a payment s topped or c omr ades retur ne d , with the absent presumed dead. Just how many of the laborers died is a matter of contention. The official Allied total was just under 2,000, but this is certainly an underestimate. S o m e C h i n e s e a c a d e m i c s h ave placed the total at 20,000, but more out of a need to emphasize China’s contribution and suffering than out of actual evidence. Likely numbers may be around 8,000 to 10,000. Liang Shiyi’s dreams of Chinese rejuvenation at the expense of a beaten Germany did not come to fruition. Although China officially joined the Allies in 1917, it never sent soldiers, since the war ended before a proposed expedition force could be sent. Instead those men were sent to Mongolia, which had declared independence in 1911, in a brutal and futile attempt to reimpose Chinese rule that ended in ignominious defeat by the White Russian warlord, Ro m a n vo n U n g e r n - S t e r n b e rg. And in one of the most short-sighted and toxic moves of the Paris Peace Conference in 1919 (and there were many), Japan, busily engaged in trying to reduce China to its colony, was granted Germany’s former holdings. Chinese students erupted, fanning the flames of the country’s revolutionary ideologies and newfound nationalism. Of the CLC, around 3,000 stayed in France, where they became part of a Chinese presence that would provide an intellectual home for hundreds of influential figures, from Deng Xiaoping (邓小平 ) to Ho Chi Minh (胡志明 ). Tens of thousands returned to their hometowns with strange tales of foreign lands, corpses strung on wire, and the rattle of machine guns. In the next decade, after the Republican government collapsed and the country was split among warlords, these memories became all too practical. - JAMES PALMER 25
636
B nual ReM an e rag
500
ION BILL RMB es
605
loss omic al Econ he Cultur t o t e du lution Revo
70%
16,000,000 URBAN YOUTHS SENT TO THE COUNTRYSIDE DURING THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION
av 966 y in 1 salar
B nual ReM an e rag av 976 y in 1 salar
DENG XIAOPING SAYS MAO WAS
RIGHT
30% WRONG
Source: Mao's China and After: A History of the People's Republic since 1949. By M. Meisner, 1986
11 MILLION RED GUARDS CAME TO BEIJING IN A SERIES OF MASS RALLIES HELD BETWEEN AUGUST 18 AND NOVEMBER 26, 1966
Chinese Communist Party established in Shanghai with 53 attendees
1921 26
Mao Zedong leads the Communists to victory over the nationalists, proclaiming the beginning of the People's Republic of China
1949
Mao launches the "Great Leap Forward", which resulted in a catastrophic economic meltdown, with millions of lives lost to famine
APPROX.
1958 5%
OF THE CHINESE POPULATION MAY HAVE DIED IN THE GREAT CHINESE FAMINE