I Witness

Sociologists call it diffusion of responsibility. I call it the most surreal nightmare you can't wake up from.

Standing in a crowd of Chinese pedestrians and street vendors beside one of Beijing's many bus stops, you'd think that a victim could easily receive help if he were jumped. As I determined which bus route would take me back to my college campus before nightfall, I noticed the crowd suddenly part and center around a certain point. In my experience, this could only mean one thing: a fight.

Though most people would say that the sensible thing to do in this situation is to get as far away from the commotion as possible, one has to account for human nature and its lethal curiosity. So, I made my way toward the action and managed to get a spot that let me observe things clearly, but from a safe distance. It was then that I realized that this was not a fight.

At first, it seemed as if three men were outright mugging some poor guy in broad daylight. They were not only beating him cruelly, but also removing his personal belongings: his shoes, his messenger bag, his wallet, his belt... My guess was that, by the time someone called the police, the thieves would have been long gone. But the beating continued, and it became clear that this was not a robbery, but some sort of personal dispute.

The three men flung their victim's shoes to the side; they threw his bag onto the pavement; they scattered his money onto the street; and they used his belt to tie his hands as they punched him in the face and stomach and kneed him in the groin several times.

As the drama continued for an agonizing seven minutes, no one said a word, but looked on in powerless disapproval. Gradually, I felt something akin to panic: I knew I should be doing something; I knew this wasn't right; yet I couldn't shake myself from the stupor of helplessness as I vainly looked around for a face that also expressed a willingness to step in and take action.

Finally, a middle-aged Chinese man rode in on his bike, assessed the situation, and bellowed, "Why doesn't anyone help this man?" He shouted something along the same lines to some security guards who had been watching the whole thing.  "Use you phones to call the police!" he pleaded.

When my hand instinctively went to my bag and dug out my cell, I realized that I probably could not converse very well with the Beijing police. I rushed to the cyclist's side and handed him my phone. A girl my age had been watching and helped the man operate the phone. Suddenly, everyone seemed to have waken up, and shouted for the small gang to stop. In another minute, the guards finally decided to help the poor victim. After the situation seemed to be calming down, my bus pulled up. I got my phone from the pedaling hero, and rode the hell away from that place.

Was this an instance of the diffusion of responsibility, a reality that exists in most large modern cities around the world? My understanding of the concept is that people assume that other citizens will to do the right thing and, so, do not become involved themselves. I'm not sure that's what this was. I got the sense that the crowd wanted to help the man but was being blocked by something. Was it the fear of being "next?"

I told one of my study abroad professors about this incident, and he admitted that he had been in similar situations. The problem? China's lack of health care. The humanity of the Chinese citizen has to compete with a society in which health insurance and the means to pay hospital bills is limited; where the fine for killing someone in a car accident is less than paying for the victim's medical bills; and where helping a fallen elderly person may be a scam in which you are blamed for knocking that person down in the first place (which means you're responsible for the cost of the injury).

Not too long ago, the Beijinger ran several articles about a foreigner who had witnessed a hit and run, helped the victim call the police, and spent the night in jail because the police, against the word of the victim himself, decided that the foreigner was responsible and needed to pay the medical fees. The moral of the story: In China, someone always has to pay, and the government will go to any lengths to make sure it doesn't have to bear that burden. Therefore, we are looking at an atmosphere where it is in the citizen's financial and judicial interests to just walk away.

I don't know if this is why the crowd took so long to assist the beaten man. However, I find it amazing that the words of one clear-minded man could rouse people to enforce justice.

As for me: I'm not what you would call emotional or faint-hearted, but one thing's for sure. As the victim's bruised face and bloody mouth were pressed between the cold pavement and the boot of his attacker: as his eyes met mine, it was the first time I have ever been on the verge of sobbing. 

Getting Around

So I’m pressed against the window of the passenger compartment, feasting my eyes on the back-alley world of a crumbling hutong neighborhood, when it occurs to me that I willingly chose to spend my school night viewing the streets of Beijing from the back of a penny cab.

For those who don’t know, a penny cab is basically a small motor bike with a 5X4 covered wagon attached to the back seat. The passenger seats are back-to-back with the driver’s seat, so customers look out of the back and side windows.

A couple of decades ago, you could probably catch a ride in one of these at the cost of a penny; but China has experienced some inflation in the past few years. Tonight, we agree that 15 yuan (a little over 2 bucks) is acceptable.

This is the vehicle that I am stuffed into, together with my friends Will and Matt, as we are in the final leg of our journey. Our driver seems oblivious to the fragility of his motorbike taxi and boldly defies oncoming traffic by crossing the wide intersection when it is clearly not our turn. Just when we reach the other side and I think the danger is past, the cab makes a sharp turn, causing the overloaded compartment to lean a bit to the right.

 

Of course, I’m in the right window seat, normally a favorable spot; except now it means that, if this motor bike contraption topples over, I’ll be pinned between the cold street and two relatively heavy young gentlemen.

“So, are we gonna die tonight then?”

“Oh, I think this guy knows what he’s doin’,” says Will.

“I told you guys I’d get you there… by any means necessary,” says Matt from his perch atop my right knee and Will’s left knee. He has to lean forward into the back window since the ceiling is too low for him to sit up.

By any means necessary… I’m sure that the past hour has seen us use every means available in Beijing’s transportation arsenal, short of taking the bus. When we left Bei Wai’s campus, we took a taxi (a real taxi) to Ditang Park. After deciding that we should meet the rest of the gang somewhere else, we hailed our third taxi (the second guy didn’t want to take us) and got as far as Jianguomen Rd. before getting stuck in traffic. We then paid the driver, got out, back-tracked a bit to the Jianguomen subway station, and got on the train. Of course, the train was not stopping at our stop that night, and we had to get off the train, leave the station, and walk until we were able to hail this little treasure of an automobile. All so we can get to…

“Where are we going again?”

“Tiananmen Square,” answers Matt. “I told them to meet us at Tiananmen Square.”

Ah, that’s right. Tonight is the last night of the Spring Festival. Though most Chinese celebrate this night with lanterns, Beijing opts for setting off fireworks… I should say “even more fireworks.”

Since the first night of Spring Festival, or Chunjie, it seems that every family in the city has been setting off their own storehouse of fireworks to celebrate the Chinese New Year. The first night was an awesome sight, as everyone, including children, took to the streets to light fireworks, firecrackers, sparklers, and what could be considered minor explosives in a non-stop, city-wide block party.

That was the first night. Then a week went by and loud booms and rumbles could still be heard, even during the day, when the colorful explosions aren’t even that visible. Many of us foreign students began to feel annoyed by the 8:30 wake-up calls of the little morning firework shows. However, the promise of seeing Chunjie literally go out with a bang has tempted us off of the campus.

But we were not at all prepared for the chaos outside Tiananmen.

No, it was not another riot or protest. It was just a mix of restlessness, the presence of half of Beijing’s population of 12 million, and the futile attempts of the security officers to enforce the city’s confusing crowd control strategy.

I didn’t see fireworks or anything. However, I did hop a small fence to cut the winding line toward Tiananmen Square; I did get herded with the rest of the crowd throughout the intersection outside the square until I arrived only to realize that the gates to the Forbidden City had been blocked off an hour earlier; and I did manage to find a subway station when I suddenly remembered (at 11pm) that I had a short paper to write for the next day’s 9:30 class.

To be honest, I’m still not sure what exactly we were supposed to see at Tiananmen Square. However, I did get to know the city a lot more intimately than I would have liked on a chilly Thursday night.

My view from the back of the penny cab

Fireworks near Ditang Park

Line to get into the subway station

Outside a classic Chinese hutong neighborhood

On the way to Tiananmen Square

Chunjie Festivities - a small Lantern Festival

Outside Tiananmen Square

A Nation without a Country

Sooo, I understand that the interview might seem a little rudimentary (especially for a journalism major), but this is my first interpreted interview...go easy on me!

Walking in from a bustling alley still in recovery from the Spring Festival mayhem, I find myself in an atmosphere totally different from the Chinese restaurants that usually occupy Beijing’s Haidian District. To the right of the door, fresh-baked naan awaits in neat shelves, while a small kitchen meant for kabob-roasting tempts me from the left. Further in, the walls are decorated with wallpaper of rich green complemented by golden Islamic motifs that dazzle the eye. I then notice that someone has thought to hang paintings reminiscent of the Tajh Mahal, lonely castles in the desert, and young women playing instruments like the tutar in lush oases.

When the waitress comes to take our order, I am surprised to see, not a delicate Chinese woman with a light complexion and small features, but a full-figured woman with olive skin, beautiful large eyes, and a proud, distinctive nose. 

It’s hard to believe I am still in Beijing, but this place is just off of Weigongcun Rd., right in the middle of the city’s university district, and it is ubiquitously known as “the Uighur restaurant.” 

The Uighurs (pronounced “Wee-Gers” for English speakers) are one of the many groups of ethnic Chinese, because of their non-Han background as well as their Muslim beliefs. Composed of various Turkic and Mongol tribes, the Uighurs  first settled in China’s Xinjiang Province during the height of the Silk Road trade through that area. When trade declined, these people remained and formed what is now the Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region (“Who Are the Uyghurs?” by Justin Rudelson). 

The owner or “jingli” of the restaurant is a proud Uighur migrant to Beijing. After attempting to converse with some of the restaurant workers, we were introduced to the man and explained to him our interest in the Uighur culture. He was then happy to oblige us with the following interview: 

What are some differences between the Uighur culture and the Beijing culture?

The two are not the same at all. It seems to me that Uighurs are more friendly with each other. In the mornings, we would say, “Hello” or “How are you?” or “Have you eaten today?” We would eat and talk with our friends a lot, and the food is a lot better too.

What was it like the first time you came to Beijing?

When I first came here, I couldn’t eat the food because the meat was not cooked for Muslims. I didn’t speak Chinese, and I couldn’t read the characters. After about a year, I could speak Chinese, and I got a handle on things. Even today, I still can only read simple characters. 

Did you have any friends here?

I had an uncle (mother’s brother) that I stayed with.

What was your reason for coming here?

There were a lot more economic opportunities here. I came here to make money and start a life for myself. 

Did you start your restaurant because there was no real place for Muslims to get food?

Yes, that was one of the reasons. Back home, I grow grapes; here, I run a restaurant. (Chuckle) The other reason was just to make money. 

If money weren’t an issue for you, would you have stayed in Xinjiang?

Yes, of course. The air is better there. The food is better. The people are better. The music…everything. Even my kids say they do not like Beijing. We go back home twice a year, two weeks.

Did you go back home for Spring Festival?

No, we go back home to celebrate the Muslim holidays like Ramadan. 

    

At this point in the conversation, I think about how many people, even Han Chinese, are in Beijing just for the economic opportunities. The promises of the big city are so tempting that it even lures Uighurs who share no racial, cultural, or even linguistic ties with the Han majority. Of course, the relationship between the two groups must be complex. 

Zachery Mexico, in his article “The Uighur Jimi Hendrix,” glimpses into the life of Hassan, the talented lead guitarist of an indie Uighur rock band in Shanghai. The most telling image of Hassan’s interactions with the Han Chinese can be grasped from Mexico’s description of one of his concerts: a young, exotic-looking Uighur man looking disgustedly out at the crowd of Chinese fans, who are screaming praises for his music. Here, I see Hassan’s  yearning for his own home being suppressed by a need to succeed in a society that he neither likes nor identifies with.

As Mexico goes on to say, “It would be hard to find a group more alienated from their own culture than China’s Uighurs. [They] are a people without a country.” In this, the Uighurs are in a similar situation to that of the Tibetans. Their autonomous region must also deal with economic disparities, an influx of Han Chinese residents, and the preservation of their culture against the flowing tides of Chinese modernism. Like the Tibetans, the Uighurs have also had violent clashes with the Chinese government. In fact, the Uighur American Association recalls, “Fourteen years ago on 5 February 1997 hundreds of Uyghurs were killed or imprisoned after participating in a peaceful demonstration in the city of Ghulja in Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region (XUAR), China.” 

In the face of all these factors, the Uighurs have also nourished their own sense of nationalism, and organizations such as the East Turkmenistan Liberation Front advocate an independent Uighur state. So, why is no one holding protests against the treatment of the Uighurs in the same breath as their cries for Tibetan autonomy? Because the Tibetans are “peace-loving” Buddhists, while the Uighurs are “radical” Muslims.

During Bush’s reign on terror, 17 Uighurs were detained as enemy combatants under pressure from Beijing, according to “The Uighur Problem” by Eric Etheridge of the New York Times. When the U.S. government decided that these detainees pose no threat, and probably never did, the 17 Uighurs were stuck between protests from the right if they were to stay in the U.S. and threats of torture from Beijing if they were to return home. Eventually, they found themselves on an island called Palau with a largely Mormon population. 

It seems that no one is willing to sympathize with the Uighur cause either because of their Muslim roots or their threat to Chinese nationalism. 

Considering all this, I decided to ask the restaurant manager how he felt toward the Han Chinese: 

Who usually eats in your restaurant?

Most of my customers are actually Han Chinese; the rest are Uighur students from nearby universities. 

Do you get along with the Han Chinese then?

I don’t have any negative feelings toward them. I’m a little liberal in my views. After all, I’ve been here for ten years now, and I run a restaurant. I have to be more understanding. 

What is the relationship between the minorities and the Han Chinese usually like?

There are as many relationships as there are fingers on a hand. Some people get along, some people are resentful, and some people choose to fight. You can’t lump us all together. 

In the U.S., I am a minority, and the older generation tells me that, when there was discrimination, the Black community helped each other: there were Black doctors, shop owners, lawyers, etc. that tried to help out the people in the community as much as possible. Does that exist in the Uighur community today?

Yes. And that is how it should be. It helped me when I first moved to Beijing all the way from Xinjiang. 

Could you give me an example?

(Sidelong glance to the surrounding customers) No. I’m sorry.

 

When you started the restaurant, were you able to meet a lot of people from Xinjiang? 

Yes. They would all come here to eat and talk and be with their friends. It turned out to be a great way to meet people and make friends.

What impact do you think your restaurant had on the Uighur community?

Well, it gave Muslims a place to eat and socialize. That’s important, of course, but I wouldn’t say there was a major impact.

Do you hire more than just Uighurs here?

Yes. Some are Muslim but are still Han Chinese. The Muslim Hans are not considered minorities though. Ethnicity is something you’re born with. Still, very few Han are Muslims, and religion is usually tied to some sort of ethnicity here.

Indeed, the manager and his friends are part of a very small percentage of Beijingers who go to worship at the temple near the Renmin University in Haidian.

This man and Hassan approach the culture clash in two different ways. While the one pursues understanding and a reverse multiculturalism, the other is often defendant and even arrogant about the cultural differences between the Uighur and the Han Chinese. In both cases, however, both men have brought a little of the Xinjian culture to the heart of China. Though both of their motives were to advance their socio-economic status, something else is happening here. It seems that, as more Uighurs and other Xinjianese migrate to the coast, more of their culture makes its way into China’s mainstream society. 

China often claims diversity, but the government seems to promote a certain Confucian-based society that does not fully represent the many cultures that lie within China’s vast expanse. However, if these cultures are actually forced to mingle with one another, could China one day be the melting pot that the United States is today? So many languages are spoken, so many religions are practiced, and so many beliefs are held dear that this may not be such a ludicrous proposition. 

For now, I leave the Uighur to make the comfort foods of his homeland as I formulate plans to come back for the layers of fresh-baked naan lying in the window, across the street from a humble baozi stand. 

(FYI: Baozi = Chinese steamed dumplings)

A Couple Pics from the Chinese Acrobat Show

China 101 Lesson 1: A Beijinger's Crossing Guide

Because traveling throughout Beijing requires that one rely heavily on public transportation, knowing how to navigate to bus stops, train stations, and parked cabs on foot is an essential skill for the everyday Beijinger. Therefore, this lesson will teach the reader how to cross the hazardous streets with ease, expertise, and the ability to avoid sudden death.

The pedestrian must keep in mind that the streets in this immense, fast-growing city are teeming with various types of vehicles, whose drivers are not wont to give any type of deference whatsoever to travelers on foot. In fact, many of these drivers are behind the wheel for the first time (as one can quickly see). Though some experts have likened it to darting across the path of a herd of stampeding bulls, the reader need not be nervous. Following these steps can make the learning process smooth and “incident”-free.

Step 1: Approach the point of crossing. For the most part, this might be an intersection or a street corner, but, as the city blocks are rather long, most seasoned pedestrians opt for crossing at any point that suits them.

Step 2: Stare at the street. For formality’s sake, just give the impression that you are planning your crossing carefully so that, in the event that you do get hit, you will have a convincing argument to shout at the flustered driver, who will no doubt get out of his vehicle and start shouting at you. Note: this step does not require you to look left then right, then left and right again, as many foreigners do. Literally, you need only stare at a fixed point on the street in order to complete this step successfully. 

Step 3: Make your move. There is no exact formula for timing the start of the actual crossing. After approaching the point of crossing, staring at the street, and standing there for a period of time, the spirit will soon move you, and you can begin your traverse across the highway in a seemingly arbitrary fashion to those observing you incredulously.

Step 4: Do NOT deviate! All around you there will be cars, trucks, buses, bikes, motorcycles, trolleys, and scooters coming at you in a massive wall of honking horns and exhaust fumes. You might be tempted to keep an eye on the on-coming traffic and dodge the many vehicles as you make your way to the opposite sidewalk. However, it is of the up-most importance that you DO NOT DEVIATE. Keep your eyes fixed on the ground in front of you, refrain from taking a glance out of the corners of your eyes, and keep on a rigidly straight line until you reach your destination. Do not speed up or slow down to adjust to the perpendicular traffic. Instead, keep at an even pace as if you are taking a relaxing stroll through the park. You will find that, against all odds, you will suddenly arrive at the curb unscathed and with all your limbs intact.

Step 5: Ignore bad examples. Living in Beijing, you might come across some crazy-looking people who may frequently be seen screaming and running through intersections in fear of being hit and killed by a bus or clipped by a cyclist. These are usually expats and foreign students, and the general term for this type of specimen is laowai. The laowai have curious habits of their own, and it is best to leave them to their ways and not follow suit. If you are still at Step 2, you may choose to stare at them instead of the street (it is all the same in the end) to observe their idiosyncrasies, but, during Steps 3-4, simply ignore them. They usually manage to get across eventually.

Congratulations! With this first lesson, you have gained a fundamental skill that all natives of Beijing possess. Now, all you need is a small dog trailing behind you without a leash and the ability to summon up and launch giant wads of mucous onto the street, and you will be well on your way to becoming a true citizen.

Suitcases and Pillowcases (written on January 18th)

Never go on a trip without making your bed.

This is one of the few pieces of my parents’ advice that became ingrained in my habits almost immediately after it was given – no frustrating repetitions required.

Any other day, my room has what I fancy to be a “lived-in look.” In other words, clothes lie dejectedly where I cast them off; my bedspread remains hopelessly askew, and any space on my dresser is filled with little odds and ends that I may or may not need later. But when it comes to leaving home for an extended period, my brother and I have been trained in the art of the immaculate. Disney World, Mississippi, New York, Grandma’s house, science camp, ranch camp – before embarking on any journey, I leave my room, for once, looking like an ad in a magazine.

So when, amidst the early morning chaos of my Beijing departure day (Did you find your glasses case? Did you try on your boot warmers? Is the suitcase under 70 lbs.? Do you know how long it takes to ship a package from Ohio to Beijing?), I find it absolutely rational to be in my room silently tucking my sheets and arranging my pillows with the speed and dexterity of a conditioned Marine soldier.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking to myself that there is something to be said for a well-made bed.

This morning I woke up at 4:27 (twenty-seven minutes after my alarm setting), and I took great delight in the soft flannel sheets that embraced me in my sleep. Perhaps, it was the two hours of rest that I had stored up, but I could have sworn that my bed wanted to keep me from getting on that plane. A recurring thought crept into my head – “You can still put a stop to this. You should just stay here anyway…It’s so much easier.” It was this thought – not the fact that I was almost a half-hour behind schedule – that made me spring out of bed because I knew this was no premonition, but a resurgence of the cold feet syndrome I had the day before.

It seems odd that I could look forward to something since high school, but, when January 14 becomes tomorrow morning, I get a feeling akin to stage fright: nausea, butterflies, anxiety, all that jazz. Suddenly, “Oh, yeah! I’m goin to China!” becomes “Holy ####, I’m going to CHINA!” and I demand of myself what in God’s name was I thinking? Suddenly, I’m considering how I just seemed to be getting the whole college thing down, how I left behind so much unfinished business, and how the new friendships I have come to value might not be waiting for me when I come home.

But at 4:27 in the AM, I decide to jump out of those comfortable sheets and make my bed the way I was taught. Of course, I can’t have the thought of unfluffed pillows, untucked corners, and unsmoothed blankets distract me while I’m on the other side of the globe. Better to give things a little finality, I figure.

Now, I’m sitting here at Gate 123, and the only thing I can think of is how awesome the Great Wall is going to look with a light blanket of snow to cover it. And even when I chance to think of all the all the obligations on the home soil I have to manage and how exactly I’m going to manage them with a 12-hour time difference, I still take comfort, and even a little pride, in the fact that my homecoming ceremony will include straightened fluffed pillows, nicely pressed sheets, and a stuffed tiger who eagerly awaits my stories from afar.