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Old Hong Kong, New China

Originally published in Consequence Volume 15.2 (November 2023).

I couldn’t stop consuming news about Nancy Pelosi’s visit to Taiwan in August 2022. It was political theatre: Beijing threatened Taiwan with sanctions and military action; Washington maintained its commitment to the One China Policy while celebrating Taiwan’s democracy. Meanwhile, in Taiwan, people ate their braised pork over rice at local diners, and the TV showed news clips of Pelosi shaking hands with the Taiwanese president, Tsai Ing-wen.

After Pelosi’s departure, the Chinese military shot missiles into the Taiwan Strait. Some landed twenty kilometers (12.4 miles) off the coast of Taiwan. When reporters interviewed Taiwanese residents about the military exercises in the southern city of Kaohsiung, they shrugged. Some said they went to work, and others claimed they took the ferry for their weekend getaway to Luiqui, the idyllic island known for its sea turtles.

I want to think I’m just as carefree about the impending invasion, but the truth is I’m panicking—as a Taiwanese Canadian woman married to an American who lived in Hong Kong for eight years, I have reasons for concern. The Taiwanese had indeed lived with the constant threat of Chinese aggression since 1949, when Chiang Kai-shek and the then-ruling party of Kuomintang (KMT) retreated to Taiwan after losing the Chinese Civil War. In Chiang’s lifetime, he vowed to take back the motherland from the “communist thugs” while ruling Taiwan with an iron fist. However, towards the end of the twentieth century, many countries began to recognize the Communist Party of China (CPC) as the legitimate ruler of China, and therefore, the United Nations suggested dual representation—allowing both Taiwan and China to be a part of the UN. However, Chiang withdrew from the intergovernmental organization, effectively removing Taiwan’s participation in global affairs. Thus, 1971 was the year China joined the UN, and Taiwan lost its status as a country.

The cross-strait relations between China and Taiwan have always been contentious, and they escalated under Xi Jinping’s leadership. Xi declared that “reunification” between Taiwan and China must be fulfilled and that Beijing may use force if necessary. However, many of us in Taiwan, myself included, have no desire to be ruled by a government with a dismal human rights record, known for imprisoning Muslim minorities and crushing a democratic movement in Hong Kong.

In 2019, while most Taiwanese watched the news in horror as militarized police brutalized young Hong Kong protestors, I lived in the midst of it.

§

I attended the Tiananmen Square vigil on June 4, 2019—the only annual event commemorating the 1989 massacre in Chinese territory—not knowing it would be my last one. After the serene candle-lit ceremony to remember the democracy-seeking Chinese students who died at the hands of the People’s Liberation Army, people began walking from Victoria Park through Wan Chai. They ended up at the Legislative Council Complex, about four kilometers (2.5 miles) away. This was the start of the 2019 protest movement—almost every week from then on, a protest happened every weekend. I could see the procession from the window of the Wan Chai apartment I shared with my husband, Derek. One day, we decided to join them. We donned black t-shirts and marched the streets with Hong Kongers—young and old, students and professionals, the elderly with their canes, and parents with their toddlers in strollers. Shoulder to shoulder with millions of Hong Kong residents, we shouted: “Reclaim Hong Kong; Revolution of Our Times!”—a common slogan that appeared everywhere in 2019. It reflected Hong Kongers’ desire to shelve the extradition bill—proposed by Carrie Lam, the Chief Executive of Hong Kong. Lam used a murder case involving Hong Kong citizens in Taiwan as a pretext to propose extradition agreements with Taiwan, Macau, and China. Lam said the bill would prevent lawbreakers from committing crimes in one region and fleeing to another. The reality was that the bill would let the Beijing government arrest people the CPC deemed unsavory—activists, journalists, and even business executives, and subject them to its justice system with a 99 percent conviction rate. Naturally, Hong Kongers didn’t want this extradition bill—they feared getting caught up in the unjust Chinese legal system and rotting in a Mainland prison.

That summer, I observed the gathering each weekend and watched the number of protestors swell. In June, one million people were on the streets. By the first weekend of July, two million people marched and chanted through the major roads of Wan Chai. The government, however, ignored people’s demands and cracked down on peaceful protests. Soon, there were allegations that police officers beat commuters on the MTR, Hong Kong’s subway system, and some had died at Prince Edward Station, a station I passed through every day to and from work. No one knew what happened—according to the news media, the security footage disappeared, and there were speculations that the government destroyed evidence to conceal their atrocities. As a result, many young people in Hong Kong felt pacifism was futile and resorted to violence. Believing that the MTR was colluding with the police to harm them, they trashed subway stations. Furthermore, they also vandalized businesses—belonging to those aggravated by the protests that disrupted their livelihood—and branded them pro-Beijing. The police ramped up their presence around the city to maintain order and protect property. As Derek and I walked home with our groceries one day, we bumped heads with a group of militarized police. We dropped our shopping bags and raised our arms as they sped past us, chasing black-clad protestors.

Bearing witness to the atrocities in Hong Kong, I couldn’t help but think about my ancestral homeland of Taiwan, which made me root for Hong Kong even more. However, after six months of constant turmoil, the political situation drained and depressed me. Despite myself, I was also resentful: I had already fled political unrest in Bahrain ten years ago—how did I get thrust into another? Friends called me after hearing about the situation in Hong Kong. “It seems like revolutions follow you wherever you go!” they teased.

I chuckled along, but the city’s ordeal was no laughing matter. People were hurt; lives were upended. Life in Hong Kong would never be the same again.

In 2012, I moved to Hong Kong not knowing a soul. I had just separated from my first husband and escaped the Arab Spring and Bahrain’s sectarian conflict—where burning tires blocked highways, and the smell of tear gas lingered in my neighbourhood—and landed in a maze of disorientating skyscrapers in the metropolis of “Fragrant Harbour.” Worn down by my failed marriage and driven by my desire to gain more professional experience, I moved to Hong Kong for a librarian position at a local university.

At this time, I was more concerned about establishing myself and finding love in my new city than worrying about the CPC’s growing power. So, I immersed myself in online dating. Many potential matches were excited that I lived in Wan Chai, famous for bars lit by neon lights that promised dancing girls and two-for-one drinks. “Shall we meet in your ‘hood for happy hour drinks?” They texted with the winking emoji.

I soon learned to steer clear of men who spent their weekends getting drunk in the red-light district of Wan Chai. On its main drag of Lockhart Road, the domineering, grandmother-aged madams congregated in front of bars shrouded by black draperies, tugging at men’s sleeves as they staggered by. When someone paused, smiled, or showed interest, a troop of young Southeast Asian women in cakey make-up and miniskirts swooped in and led him into their curtained establishments for a good time.

Back then, as a young Taiwanese Canadian expat in Hong Kong, the only thing that made me think about the other side of the border was who could be there. One day, I went to Shenzhen to meet a man I matched online. I gripped my Canadian passport with my single-entry visa at the Hong Kong-Shenzhen border. I was worried that a customs agent would see my face and demand that I produce some other kind of identification that showed that I was “Chinese.” Since my place of birth was Japan, I could pass for a non-Chinese person, but my Taiwanese surname might have given me away. I was wracking my brain with scenarios where I got into trouble as a foreigner imposter, but to my relief, the agent barely looked at me as I crossed the border.

My date met me at the train station. He was an American English teacher working on his first novel and not nearly as cute or cool as his profile suggested. However, since I had paid for the visa and gone through the two-hour ordeal of coming to Shenzhen, I let him play tour guide for the day. We walked through a shopping district and visited some tourist sights, but I couldn’t recall anything noteworthy—except that we walked by a Walmart. While having a mediocre meal, I complained about the lack of decent cocktails. After spending a day in Shenzhen, I deemed it unruly and unsophisticated, a stick in the mud in the backwaters of China.

By early 2014, I was bored with my job and the glitzy city that offered endless shopping expeditions and boozy weekend brunches. I was also frustrated by my lack of romantic prospects and the city’s noncommittal Romeos—the bankers, teachers, or journalists who wanted to get drunk and hook up. I didn’t feel connected to Hong Kong and found nothing and no one to keep me there. Therefore, I plotted my escape—instead of finding a professional librarian position in Canada when I finished my contract, I would move to the Philippines and become a dive instructor.

My plans fizzled when Derek entered my life. He was a typeface designer, a professor, and a “gentleman redneck” who hailed from the Indiana side of the Ohio River. He didn’t just want to get drunk and hook up. Instead, we went to a David Sedaris performance and a music festival. After that, we spent almost every waking moment together and texted each other nonstop when we were apart. Then, two weeks after we officially started dating, he told me he loved me and asked me what kind of engagement ring I wanted. Within four weeks, we flew to Taipei so he could ask my father for my hand in marriage. Ten months later, we were wed in Hong Kong, surrounded by family and friends.

After Derek and I married, he moved into my apartment in Wan Chai. We decided to make the Fragrant Harbour our permanent home, and I grew to love my neighborhood, which was more than a depraved watering hole. It existed at the intersection of contradictions—the seedy bars near a high-end shopping centre and a historic temple sandwiched between skyscrapers on Queen’s Road East, a major thoroughfare built on reclaimed land where the harbor used to open up to the South China Sea. On my way home from work, I stopped by my favorite stall in the Wan Chia market to buy Korean-imported socks in the narrow streets filled with kiosks selling tchotchkes, from the tacky “beckoning cat” lucky charms to counterfeit Calvin Klein underwear. I shopped for fresh vegetables and freshly butchered chicken on the weekends while hopping over puddles in front of live seafood tanks and snake soup stalls. In the bustling centre of Wan Chai was a ballpark with bleacher seating that separated the seedy part of the district from the rest, where people of all ages gathered to play sports and have picnics.

Hong Kong seemed to fall under Chinese rule overnight—I barely had time to catch my breath. Less than a year before the 2019 protests, the new high-speed rail service commenced between Hong Kong and Shenzhen. At that time, my wariness of the CPC had faded enough that I was tempted to visit when my friends boasted about inexpensive massages and spa treatments on the other side of the border. The pampering appealed to me, so I convinced Derek to join me for a leisurely weekend in Shenzhen.

Months before the trip, my mother convinced me it would be more economical and convenient to enter China with the “Taiwanese Compatriot Permit.” It is a travel document for Taiwanese citizens to enter China since the Chinese authorities don’t recognize the Taiwanese passport as a legitimate travel document. I agreed to let my mother apply because I otherwise would have had to pay for a non-transferable ten-year tourist visa on my Canadian passport, which was expiring in less than two years.

On a Saturday morning in late September 2018, Derek and I arrived at the newly built Hong Kong West Kowloon train station. We went through security and stopped at a well-stocked duty-free shop. Recalling my annoyance about the lack of quality alcohol in Shenzhen six years ago, I picked up a bottle of Roku, a Japanese gin, before going toward the passport control area. A thick black line with a thinner yellow line was in the middle outside the duty-free shop. In both Chinese and English, it said, on one side, “Hong Kong Port Area,” and on the other, “Mainland Port Area.” Once we crossed the threshold, all the signs changed from traditional to simplified Chinese. This jarring shift in the writing system indicated that I was entering the realm of the authoritarian CPC.

The passport control area has two sections: “Chinese Nationals” and “Foreigners.” Derek made his way to the 

“Foreigner” section. In the past, I entered China as a Canadian, a foreigner. But this time, by showing up with my “Compatriot Permit,” I was no longer Canadian—as far as the border customs agent was concerned, I was Chinese.

I sighed. “Hey, sweetie,” I said, turning to Derek. “I think I should probably go to the other line.”

We kissed each other goodbye, and I made my way to the other side, hating every minute. In my head, I was screaming: “I’M NOT CHINESE! I’M TAIWANESE!” But, I barely felt Taiwanese—I wasn’t even born there and had only lived there for four years as a child. Even though I grew up in Canada and spent most of my adult life in the Middle East and Hong Kong, in the eye of Chinese border control, I looked the part, and with my travel document, I was definitely a “Chinese National.” At this moment, I wondered if the money I had saved and the convenience my mother had touted were worth this identity crisis.

The line moved faster than I expected. Within ten minutes, I was through. After my weekend bag went through another security check, I was surrounded by thousands of people in the terminal. Derek was nowhere to be seen.

Where are you? I texted.

Still in line. Derek texted back. It barely moved since you left.

I found our gate and texted Derek again. Hey, the train is going to leave in twenty minutes. Are you almost through?

I hope so. He texted. 

I groaned. I distracted myself with Instagram, calming my nerves with luncheon spreads, beach vacations, and cat portraits.

Then, five minutes before the train was supposed to depart, I called Derek, “The train is leaving soon. Are you going to make it?”

“I am running toward you,” he yelled into the phone. Then, I spotted him scrambling to gather his bag at the security checkpoint and making a beeline toward me. Together, we sprinted to our gate. We made it on the train seconds before the doors closed.

Once we got off the train, we found ourselves in a spacious, spotless train station and followed the sign to an orderly taxi stand. In the cab, I told the driver the name of our hotel in Mandarin. Unlike some taxis in Hong Kong, this one was clean, free of stale cigarette smoke stench. The driver was courteous, and his driving etiquette was impeccable, unlike the cabbies in Hong Kong who crisscrossed the city in jerky, vomit-inducing brakes and cussed loudly when stuck in traffic. To my delight, I felt a breeze on my face—in Hong Kong, if the cab window were open even a crack, we would have been suffocated by exhaust fumes or deafened by the incessant honking. However, public vehicles and taxis in Shenzhen were electric, making the air cleaner. On the fourteen-lane highway, there was enough room for everyone, reducing the need for honking. There were even bike lanes.

We explored Shenzhen via the MRT, the public railway system. First, we had a relaxing massage and ate delicious and cheap spicy mudbugs—Derek’s favorite. Then, we went to the Overseas Chinese Town at night, famous for hip bars and restaurants, not unlike those in Wan Chai. We saw paintbrushes in a jar poking out of a window as we walked around.

“Look, they have studios here,” Derek said, pointing toward an old industrial building. “I bet you can rent a space here cheap.”

“Wouldn’t it be amazing to have a studio?” I sighed as my head filled with visions of life economically unattainable in Hong Kong.

On our final morning, we visited the Dafen Oil Painting Village, famous for oil paintings dedicated to the reproductions of masterworks, from Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and Van Gogh’s Starry Nights to Monet’s Lily Pond. This village supplied the world’s doctor’s offices and gift shops with the most realistic-looking fakes.

In a taxi to Dafen, we drove by massive housing complexes still under construction.

“I wonder how big those flats are.” Derek mused, “I bet we could get more space for our buck out here.”

Shenzhen seduced me. Not knowing what would happen to Hong Kong within the year, modern China almost convinced me that it was more advanced than Hong Kong, with abundant housing, electric cars, and bike lanes.

When we arrived in Dafen, it was drizzling. Easels were set up before every storefront, where artists demonstrated their painting techniques, copying the masterpieces from photographs. Even up close, the fakes were impressive—serious training went into creating them. But after we got over the initial marvel, we realized that the whole village was the same thing on repeat. I was wet and bored and demanded we leave.

“But isn’t it ironic that while China is trying to demonstrate progress and innovation, it has a whole village dedicated to copying masterpieces from the West?” Derek chuckled as we stepped out of Dafen.

We stood by the main road but couldn’t find a taxi. So, we searched for a subway station. This was an older part of town, rowdier and dirtier. The electric vehicles were gone; the clogged roads were filled with exhaust-spewing cars—this was China that matched the image in my mind. Then, we stumbled upon a Walmart. It wasn’t the same one I saw on my first trip to Shenzhen, but I convinced Derek to go in with me. Unlike the North American megastores, this one had no spacious aisles and logical signages. Instead, salespeople hollered at the top of their lungs, and shoppers elbowed each other through the crowded space. The scent of death clung to the air as we walked near butcher stalls.

“Ugh, even the Walmart is a rip-off,” I moaned.

Derek pointed to something behind me on the jam-packed train on our way back to the hotel. Our train accelerated through a three-block-wide housing estate. They were about fifteen stories each and no older than thirty years. Some buildings remained intact among the imposing cranes and menacing bulldozers, while others were half torn down. Most of their windows had been knocked out, revealing dark, empty interiors, and the cityscape of Shenzhen poked out of the jagged concrete structures. The view was fleeting but made an impression—it was the first of many we witnessed—remnants of homes torn down to pave the way for the newer, shinier Shenzhen.

Spending a weekend in Shenzhen gave me a glimpse into Hong Kong’s future. I couldn’t help but wonder: In the eyes of new China, how much of old Hong Kong would survive? Reflecting on the smog-free fourteen-lane highway, the trendy artist district alongside the copycat painting village, and the half-torn-down housing estates, I was disheartened to imagine Hong Kong’s future devoid of its contradictory charms: The upscale French restaurant in the puddle-filled street market, the prurient, neon-lit Lockhart Road next to a basketball court where children play, and the tiny temple dwarfed by glass skyscrapers. I love Hong Kong because it was a haven where quirks and weirdness were allowed to exist, a city that had room for resistance and diversity instead of snuffing them out. 

§

Derek and I left Hong Kong in December 2019 after witnessing months of crackdowns. Militarized police patrolled Wan Chai daily. Public transportation and businesses halted operations anticipating new clashes between the protestors and the police. Like in Bahrain, I was again subjected to unpredictable road closures and tear gas thrown around my neighborhood. International companies shuttered their Hong Kong offices, and our friends left in droves. As a Taiwanese woman, I felt unsafe in Hong Kong, even with my Canadian citizenship. When Derek got a job in Sri Lanka as a dean at a design university, we packed up our Wan Chai apartment and bid our Fragrant Harbour goodbye.

Two years later, after shuffling around Sri Lanka and the US during a global pandemic, Derek and I made Taiwan our home, despite its volatile relationship with China. Friends and family worried about our safety, but we reminded them that Hong Kong and Taiwan differed. The former was always going to be reunified with China according to the Sino-British Joint Declaration—but instead of maintaining Hong Kong’s capitalistic status quo until 2047, the CPC took control of the territory twenty-seven years ahead of schedule. With the implementation of the National Security Law in 2020, freedom of speech in the former British colony vanished overnight. The government banned the annual June Fourth Vigil. The popular slogan, “Reclaim Hong Kong; Revolution of Our Times!” became illegal, and anyone uttering it or displaying it was arrested. The border between Hong Kong and Shenzhen will soon be a thing of the past—old Hong Kong will be integrated into new China—the carefree, freewheeling city-state will solely exist in the collective memory of those who called it home.

On the other hand, in Beijing’s eyes, Taiwan became a renegade province when the rebel Kuomintang fled to the island in 1949. Chiang Kai-shek established his government in Taiwan and always planned to retake mainland China. He never succeeded. During his reign, he imposed martial law to squash dissidents and created an environment of terror until his death. In 1987, his son Chiang Ching-guo lifted martial law, and Taiwan had its first election in 1996. Slowly but surely, Taiwan shed its brutal authoritarian past and emerged as a beacon of democracy.

For the last decade, my feelings about CPC have oscillated from indifference and apprehension to panic—with a brief and misguided moment of enamor. As CPC under Xi’s rule becomes more powerful, Taiwan’s future is uncertain. Beijing’s track records in Hong Kong and Xinjiang are not reassuring, and I worry about what will happen to Taiwan if the CPC takes it by force. Yet, Derek and I love this island my Chinese ancestors made home over three hundred years ago—with its modern convenience, superb healthcare, and proximity to the rest of Asia, we can’t imagine living elsewhere. Therefore, I have to learn to channel the carefree attitude of my fellow Taiwanese—eat braised pork over rice at my local diner, enjoy a weekend island holiday, and live one day at a time. 

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In the Shadow of the Middle Kingdom

This essay was originally published by The Normal School on April 21, 2020.

What does it mean to be Chinese these days? Illustration by Ahmara Smith.

When I was 18, I crashed my car for the third time. My mother shook her head and said, “I should have listened to the fortune teller. He did tell me not to let you drive.”

My mother’s words echoed in my mind at the 2018 Microwave International New Media Art Festival in Hong Kong. I was standing before “RuShi” (2018), created by Hong Kong-based artist John Wong. It is an immersive installation that applied the algorithm of Bazi, the eight characters assigned to the birth year, month, day, and hour in Chinese fortune-telling. After entering my name, the date, and the hour of my birth on an iPad that was part of the installation, I walked into a dark room surrounded by curtains. I studied a projection consisting of eight squares, all flashing with horizontal and vertical threads of electrical lines in different colors. They appeared from different sides of each square, and as they moved across the projection, they gradually intersected. The result was a mesmerizing neo-noir tartan pattern that was supposed to represent my Bazi. I squinted my eyes and stared at the projection, hoping to glean some meaning from it. I could not.

Where were the prophetic narratives that were supposed to guide my future? When I was young, the westernized and feminist in me scoffed when my mother mentioned anything the fortune teller had said, especially the fortunes about me. Like many Asian-Canadians growing up in suburbia of the Greater Vancouver area in the 1990s, I tried to blend into my Anglo-Canadian surroundings. Mama’s nonsensical reasoning to take away driving and the freedom that came with it was unimaginable to my teenage brain. Ironically, I did give up driving—not because of what the fortune teller had said, but mainly because my insurance had become unaffordable after so many car crashes. I moved to the city where I could access public transportation to attend university. 

“RuShi” is the first of Wong’s Immersion/Decentralisation (迷/信) series. In his artist statement, he claims that Bazi, often used by the Chinese to predict the future and help navigate life, is a form of big data. Therefore, he says, big data could potentially become the religion of the age of new media. The starting point of “RuShi” is Bazi, which is a familiar concept to me— like ziweidoushu, an astronomy-based system of fortune-telling— Bazi is a common form of Chinese superstition. These practices provide believers with a narrative of their past and prophesize the direction of their lives. My mother has been a believer in these practices for as long as I can remember. In Wong’s work, however, I did not see any narratives or anything familiar. By digitizing the ancient algorithm and turning it into an unrecognizable form, Wong erased the cultural references associated with Bazi and left me with a void filled with meaningless lines.

The artwork made an impact on me. I thought about it for many days as I started to question my own confused reaction to the work. As a Taiwanese Canadian, I was raised with the belief that mainland China (中國), or the “Middle Kingdom,” cannot be trusted. Its ruling party, the Communist Party of China (CPC), has always viewed Taiwan as one of its wayward provinces, a thorn in its ‘One China’ doctrine. It has been trying to claim Taiwan since the CPC defeated the Nationalists, the Kuomintang, in 1949. When I was a child, I often overheard the grown-ups lamenting that the communists would eventually destroy Taiwan’s independence. My experience with “RuShi” somehow indirectly reinforced my sense of impending doom, but it took me almost a year to confront and analyze my fears.

Fast forward one year, the Middle Kingdom has been increasingly casting its shadow over Hong Kong, the city I have called home for the last seven years. Since June of 2019, Hong Kong has become entrenched in political turmoil. The major event to ignite the recent protests is when Carrie Lam, the Chief Executive of Hong Kong, proposed the extradition bill in early 2019 as a response to a gruesome murder that took place in Taiwan. She claimed that if this bill passed, it would allow Hong Kong to extradite a murderer—a Hong Kongese man who had killed his pregnant girlfriend—to Taiwan. This bill would enable Hong Kong to surrender fugitives to be extradited to other countries it does not have agreements with, including Taiwan, Macau, and mainland China. There is no inherent problem with transferring a murderer from Hong Kong to Taiwan, as both countries have functioning courts. However, the prospect of being tried in mainland China is terrifying—its courts have a dubious track record for respecting human rights and have a conviction rate of 99.9%[1]. In other words, this bill opens up the possibility that anyone Beijing deems unsavory, such as activists, journalists, or even business executives, could face the opaque justice system in mainland China. Therefore, Hong Kongers from all walks of life, from university students to senior citizens, civil servants to mothers, have marched against it. At first, the protests were calm and imbued with a sense of optimism. However, as the government continued to ignore their demands, the tension escalated, and violence erupted. The once orderly city has become a scene of bloodshed and in its wake, turned a bustling metropolis into a ghost town.

Back in 2018, I couldn’t have predicted the protests that would break out a year later, but I viscerally knew that “RuShi” represented more to me than what I saw. This feeling intensified in recent months as I have witnessed the erosion of Hong Kong’s freedom of speech and assembly. I have also started to worry about Hong Kong’s culture as a world city and its freewheeling way of life. At first, the artwork did not sit well with me. For something that is based on Bazi, I expected the work to give me a prediction. After all, that was the point of Bazi— to reveal my destiny. However, I have recently come to understand that the artwork also represents my fears—a future devoid of freedom of expression and diversity of culture. I fear that if the CPC has its way, it will fill Hong Kong with distracting and meaningless lines, a busy illusion like in “RuShi.” The more I think about it, the more I understand what is at stake.

 I have found it helpful to frame my newfound stake in Roland Barthes’ idea of punctum, which describes a “special acuity” in photography[2]. To Barthes, the punctum is a “sting, speck, cut, little hole—and also a cast of the dice.” A photograph’s punctum is often a result of an accident, creating details that enable the viewer to think beyond the image and to imagine the moment before or after the picture was made. What Wong’s work was missing, was the punctum of Bazi. More specifically, the work took away the superstitious elements of a cultural practice. Though I resented Taiwanese superstitions as a young person and still have my reservations about them, I do have many memories associated with them.

When I was a baby, a fortune teller told my mother that I should delay marriage, that I would not be happy if I married ‘too early.’ He did not give my mother a specific timeframe, but this may be the reason Mama never approved of any of my boyfriends. When I was 17, my Hungarian-Canadian boyfriend bought me a bouquet that contained a white carnation, among other vibrant flowers. “Is he cursing me to die?” she yelled, “tell him to never give you white flowers!” 

Mama’s words illustrate how many Taiwanese people, even when they have immigrated to Canada, hold their superstitions dear. Mama did not want to see white flowers because white is the color of death. But how would an 18-year-old Canadian boy, whose family fled Communist Hungary when he was a toddler, know anything about the role of white flowers within Chinese superstition?

The word ‘superstition’ in the Chinese language is ‘迷信’ or mixin, consisting of the characters of “lost” and “faith” or “belief.” In other words, someone who is lost in their faith or belief is superstitious. Mixin is often lumped in with the Chinese folk religion rituals, a complex combination of teachings from Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism. Unlike Abrahamic religions, the Chinese folk religion has no canonical text, nor is there any congregation. Each family has its own practices that take place at home altars or in temples. There are two layers of Chinese folk religion. The communal layer consists of local deities such as an earth god, a city god, and Mazu, the patron goddess of the sea. This layer also includes ancestor worship and its rituals, derived from the Confucian teachings of filial piety, the virtue of respecting one’s elders and origins. The individual layer of the Chinese folk religion consists of supernatural beliefs and practices that include a wide variety of fortune-telling practices, such as Bazi and ziweidoushu. In addition to the two layers, many Taiwanese people, my family included, also follow a school of Buddhism, worshipping deities such as the Buddha, the Enlightened One, and Guanyin, the bodhisattva, or the goddess of compassion and mercy. These mixin provide Taiwanese culture with a sense of time, a narrative, and that particular little ‘sting’ that makes me pause and think.

However, as a Canadian teenager in the 1990’s, I did not appreciate the quirkiness of my Taiwanese culture or how meaningful it was to have one outside of the dominant Anglo-Canadian ethos. Now, perhaps because I am getting older and have lived in East Asia for over seven years, I have started to develop an affection for my mother’s mixin, which to me, has become the punctum of my Taiwanese culture. When I saw “RuShi,” I could not understand or articulate my reaction, and why the technologically driven iteration of my destiny troubled me so. After months of contemplating, I have realized that despite my dismay about Chinese superstition as a young person, I still associated Bazi as a part of the Chinese folk religion, which is something sacred. To me, technology in places of worship felt unnatural. Seeing my Bazi displayed in lines on a projection is perhaps equivalent to praying before a digital recreation of Jesus on a crucifix. The digital projection did not make sense to me because, throughout my whole life, whenever my mother coerced me to, I have witnessed or partaken in the rituals of Chinese folk religion with low-tech activities, such as praying to physical pictures of statues of deities, burning incense, and physically interacting with monks, readers and fellow worshippers—not looking at a projection in a dark room by myself.

Wong’s work seems to suggest that technology can replace mixin, and more broadly, that the idea of progress can substitute for the ethos of different Chinese ethnic groups. “RuShi” indicates the disconcerting trend of CPC’s quest for ‘One China’ to eliminate ethnic identities across its vast and contested territories. In Xinjiang, the CPC has been tightening its grip through the use of sophisticated surveillance systems and the adoption of ‘re-education’ camps to force the Uyghurs, a Turkic ethnic group, to renounce their language as well as their cultural and religious identities. I shudder as I look at a photograph of rows of despondent Uyghur men sitting on the ground wearing blue prison uniforms and taqiyah, short, rounded skull caps worn by Muslims. Like the Han Chinese who only half a century ago were forced to denounce all beliefs deemed ‘traditional’ or ‘capitalistic,’ and sing songs in praise of Mao during the Cultural Revolution, these Uyghur men are subjected to similar self-criticism routines and forced to sing patriotic songs about Xi Jinping. History is repeating itself, and I dread the CPC’s attempt to eradicate cultures, languages, and identities.

Lately, I have been thinking back to the first time I saw “RuShi.” After the projection of my Bazi ended, I studied as other people viewed their eight characters on the screen. A woman stood in front of her projection, allowing the lines to fall on her face while her friend snapped a photo with her smartphone—they found joy in the seemingly meaningless lines and turned them into a photo-op. They remind me that the CPC has already effectively expunged Chinese folk religion. In a 2012 study, Fenggang Yang and Anning Hu mapped the practitioners of Chinese folk religion in mainland China and Taiwan. The percentage of people who still consider themselves practitioners of the Chinese folk religion in mainland China (11.8%) is significantly lower than in Taiwan (42.7%). While 82.5% of people in Taiwan worship local deities, only 4.1% of people in China do so. [3] The difference in religiosity is jarring across the different practices: ancestor worship, 87.4% to 17.5%; fortune-telling, 34.0 % to 9.8%; amulet practices, 74.4% to 30.2%. In short, the CPC has somehow succeeded significantly dilute traditional beliefs and rituals in mainland China in less than 50 years. Nowadays, Chinese people seem to be more interested in consuming the latest fashion garments and technologies, rather than worshipping their ancestors or reading life charts. 

I do not believe that it is Wong’s agenda to represent the CPC’s point of view through “RuShi,” but his work reminds me that my cultural identity, one I did not even acknowledge as a teenager, could be annihilated by the CPC. At the same time, I realize that besides the technological and economic progress in recent years, China’s core beliefs have not changed since the Cultural Revolution. The CPC is the same iron fist that subjects its secular, authoritative power over its populace, demanding complete obedience. In fact, it has been my perception that has shifted. It is this shift that has led to my understanding of what I could lose.

I left Canada when I was 26 to pursue a career in academic librarianship, first in the United Arab Emirates and then in Bahrain. A few months before my 30th birthday, I moved to Hong Kong to be closer to my parents, who had repatriated from Canada to Taiwan. At that time, I was secretly going through a divorce with a man my family thought was my boyfriend. Two years before, we had eloped so I could sponsor his spousal visa in Bahrain. I did not tell my family because he was between jobs, and there was no way my mother would have approved the union. Perhaps the ziweidoushu reader who warned my mother about my marriage had been right.

At first, my mother was excited to have me closer to her and thrilled that I had finally broken up with my good-for-nothing ‘boyfriend.’ However, she soon began to worry about my marriage prospects. As she saw my cousins get married and start families, she grew anxious that I might never find a suitable husband—she might never have grandchildren.

In 2014, after I had lived in Hong Kong for about two years, Mama handed me a bracelet, a type of amulet, made of red threads knotted together.  She said it was blessed by Mazu, the patron goddess of fishermen, and that she had asked the goddess to lead me to a good husband. This time, I did not roll my eyes and dismiss her behavior as mixin. I humored her and put on the bracelet. Whether it was the bracelet’s doing or not, by the end of the year, I started dating Derek, a colleague from the university I was working at. Early in the relationship, Mama was suspicious due to my track record of dating men she deemed not good enough. But, upon meeting the blue-eyed, well-mannered ‘gentleman redneck’ from Kentucky, Mama was smitten and accepted him.

Mazu is the protector of the fishermen, Queen of Heaven in the Chinese folk religion. She also found Derek. Illustration by Ahmara Smith.

Shortly after Derek and I got engaged, my ecstatic mother bragged about my magical amulet-bracelet and matching fiancé. Most of our family members were happy for my good fortune, except for Aunt Lily, who is a reader of ziweidoushu. She was hesitant about my engagement but would not give a reason. “Why can’t you be happy for Kayo?” Mama demanded.

After weeks of pestering, Aunt Lily relented. She told Mama that according to my life chart, my first marriage was supposed to fail. Mama, who had just learned about my first marriage, was relieved. “It’s okay,” Mama said, “She’s been married once already. This is her second marriage.” 

Delighted, Aunt Lily gave Mama her blessing.

A year later, Derek and I were married. To this day, Mama is convinced that the Mazu has led Derek to me. The feminist in me would have liked to say that Mazu had led me to Derek, but Mama’s mixin is still very much entrenched in a symbolic order in which women’s sole concern has to do with finding a man, submitting to his needs, and bearing his children. When I was younger, I had nothing but disdain for these types of patriarchal mixin. Lately, I am not so sure. Can feminism co-exist with mixin? I can’t say that Mama’s mixin has not brought me fulfillment and happiness—maybe ziweidoushu does have my destiny spelled out for me in the stars. Perhaps it was Mazu who led me to my marriage. I have no concrete answers. On my wedding day, I took off my amulet-bracelet. Now, four years later, it is sitting in my jewelry box. It is faded now, but I cannot bear throwing it away. I have such affection for it—a part of me believes that it continues to bestow good luck.

The fond memories associated with fortune-telling, the Chinese gods, the amulets— the so-called superstitions, the mixin—are the punctum of my culture. In recent months, I have been thinking about all that is dear to my heart, as I watched a group of protestors wielding metal sticks and shattering the glass of the entrance of the MTR subway station in my neighborhood in Hong Kong. They were clad in black, their youthful faces concealed behind industrial gas masks. Moments later, a group of Raptors, the tactical unit of the Hong Kong Police Force (HKPF), stormed out from their hiding places, threw tear gas canisters, and chased after the fleeing protestors. In the process, there have been many serious injuries, mostly on the part of the demonstrators. Since June until October 2019, more than 2,000 people, some as young as 12, have been arrested. 1/3 of them are under the age of 18.[4] 

Though I do not condone the violence, I understand what the young people in Hong Kong are fighting for. They are not only struggling for their rights and freedoms outlined in the Basic Law, the CPC sanctioned constitution of Hong Kong, they are also safeguarding their way of life. They may not think about this consciously, but by demanding their rights, they are also protecting the punctum of their culture, which is not so different from mine. 

Thinking back now, “RuShi” is more ominous in light of the current situation. I am anxious about the future of Hong Kong and Taiwan as the shadow of the Middle Kingdom is expanding its reach. Though I am powerless to stop it, I can bear witness, document, and share my stories. 

SOURCES

[1] Many sources are citing this number, such as the Washington Post article from March 2014. https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2014/03/11/china-scored-99-9-percent-conviction-rate-last-year/

[2] Roland Barthes discusses his thoughts about punctum in Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography (London, UK: Vintage, 2000).

[3] To read Yang and Hu’s study on the level of superstition in Taiwan and China: “Mapping Chinese Folk Religion in Mainland China and Taiwan,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 51, no. 3 (2012).

[4] To read more about the arrested protestors in Hong Kong, read Verna Yu’ “Hong Kong: arrest of 750 children during protests sparks outcry, ” The Guardian, October 11 2019: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/oct/11/hong-kong-arrest-of-750-children-during-protests-sparks-outcry

Kayo Chang Black is a Taiwanese Canadian writer who explores hybrid identities, global citizenship, and the intersection of cultures. Her career as an academic librarian brought her to the U.A.E, Bahrain, and Hong Kong. After an eight-year stint in Hong Kong, she packed up her books and cat and moved to Colombo, Sri Lanka. She currently teaches research and writing at the Academy of Design (AoD). Her work has been published in Sunspot Literary Journal, Photography of Art, and others. To read her work, visit http://kayochangblack.com Follow her on Instagram: @kayo.chang.black or Facebook: @kayochangblack

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Telltale Signs that China is Slowly Taking Over the World

My first experience with censorship was when I first moved to Dubai. When I first moved there, I tried to log into my OkCupid account. Instead of the blue and pink login page, I was directed to a grey and red warning sign that told me that this site was restricted. I was stunned. Growing up in Canada, I had never had an experience where I couldn’t access a website due to government censorship. I eventually got a VPN and accessed whatever I wanted. However, I vehemently disagree with censorship in any form, personally and professionally.

When I was working as a librarian, I made a pledge to provide equal access to information and to fight censorship. China, with its great firewall, blocks thousands of websites and services, most of them from the West. Obviously, the Chinese policies regarding the internet and the dissemination of information have never sat well with me. However, now living in Hong Kong, reading about how the Communist Party of China (CPC) is controlling their populace and using their wealth to control other countries’ foreign policies and economies brings a chill down my spine.

On August 6, I read an article in The New York Times, A Generation Grows Up in China Without Google, Facebook or Twitter. It describes a group of Chinese millennials who grew up with social media sanctioned by the CPC. Unlike the rest of the world, they didn’t use Google, Facebook or Twitter. Except for one student who studied in Australia, the young people interviewed for the article either don’t know about western social media or don’t see the need for them. They basically trust whatever is fed to them through Baidu, WeChat, Tik Tok, and Weibo:

“Accustomed to the homegrown apps and online services, many appear uninterested in knowing what has been censored online, allowing Beijing to build an alternative value system that competes with Western liberal democracy.”

What worries me is that these young people have zero curiosity over other ways of thinking and a lack critical thinking skills. They will not question or hold their government accountable.

It gets worse:

“These trends are set to spread. China is now exporting its model of a censored internet to other countries, including Vietnam, Tanzania, and Ethiopia.”

This is a digital colonialism.

Back in April, I wrote “China’s New Silk Road” where I talked about the Belt & Road Initiative (BRI) and how it’s changing political and economic policies in Central Asia, West Asia, the Middle East, and Europe. In some ways, BRI is a form of Chinese colonialism, where the CCP can exert control over and gain strategic advantages by investing in foreign countries. This in itself is scary enough, but now, they are entering another realm importing their internet to African countries.

 

Original illustration for “China’s New Silk Road.” Illustrated by Ahmara Smith.

Am I being paranoid, or is China trying to take over the world through their version of the internet?

I am sitting here trying to grapple with my fear. Why am I so freaked out? Other people who read The New York Times article might pick up on the fact that this article is not legitimate—it is merely Chinese propaganda on the New York Times—after all, no sensible Chinese citizen would speak out against the CPC and its policies, especially to a foreign newspaper. To me, just the fact that the New York Times printed the views of these young people shows that they want to normalize this alternative, Chinese approach to the internet. It’s like they are saying, “Look, censorship is working. We’ve just brainwashed a population of young people who aren’t curious or critical and would not defy the government.”

Remember the man who stood in front of the tanks during the Tiananmen Square Protest? He wouldn’t have existed in the year 2018.

Tank Man by Jeff Widener,
1989.

Using the power of technologies and harnessing the wide reach of the internet, the CPC has bred the perfect citizens under a dictatorship. And, it only took less than a generation. We should be worried, very very worried.

For the last month or so, I have been writing personal stories, such as lessons on love and my first marriage. I almost forgot that this quest to tell my story and discover my Taiwanese culture came from a deep-seeded fear of China’s influence. I don’t want to live in a world where the government restricts our access to information. I don’t want to live in a world where people are passive and uncritical of their surroundings. I don’t want to live in a world where activists, writers and artists and jailed for speaking up against the government and challenging the status quo.

I can feel the chill as the shadow of the Middle Kingdom creeps closer. I don’t really know what to do about it. I don’t know if I can do anything about it. All I do is read news about the growing influence of CPC around the world, be horrified by it and write about it.

 

 

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The War Between Traditional and Simplified Chinese

In early June, Harrow International School sent a letter to parents announcing that the school will adopt simplified Chinese characters for their kindergarten and primary school curriculum  to better prepare their pupils for “the context Hong Kong will be in by 2047.”

Why is this controversial?

Language, spoken or written, has a significant impact. In a previous post, “Do You Speak Chinese,” I wrote about the transition between Hokkien and Mandarin in Taiwan and how Baba’s teacher punished his classmate for speaking Hokkien in school. This story demonstrates that language is not only the soul of a society, it is also a powerful weapon that can be used to control the populace.

It’s starting to happen in Hong Kong too.

Simplified Chinese characters were introduced in China in the early 20th century to increase literacy rate. During the latter part of the 20th century, the PRC government made it the official writing system of China. Other Chinese speaking countries, such as Singapore and Malaysia have also adopted simplified Chinese, but Taiwan and Hong Kong are still using the traditional script. The use of traditional characters sets Hong Kong (and Taiwan) apart from the PRC. It is a not-so-silent protest: “We are not part of the People’s Republic of China!”

The pro-independence camp in Hong Kong, those who were involved in the umbrella movement, are against integration with Mainland China. They see Harrow International School ‘s decision to adopt simplified characters as kowtowing to the PRC.

The Umbrella Movement, a series of pro-independence protests, kicked off in Hong Kong in September 2014. It lasted 79 days but did not succeed in creating permanent changes in governance.

To the dismay of many Hong Kongers, Hong Kong will unlikely be independent of China. It has been geo-politically part of the PRC since the United Kingdom handed Hong Kong back to China in 1997 after a 150-year rule.  The stipulation is that the PRC would have sovereignty of Hong Kong, but they would rule Hong Kong under “one country, two systems” model, meaning that the PRC’s would not enforce their socialist system in Hong Kong for fifty years.  However, PRC is already exerting their control over Hong Kong in many ways, like in education. Recently, the Education Bureau mandated a new Chinese History lesson in all secondary schools in Hong Kong.

The PRC’s effort to influence education in Hong Kong made more progress when Harrow International School decided to adopt simplified Chinese characters in their curriculum. They are the first international school to do so—how many more will soon follow?

Reading the article about Harrow International School is just another reminder that the clock is ticking for Hong Kong, and possibly Taiwan too. Taiwan has a slightly different situation than Hong Hong—its status in the international stage is ambiguous. However, living in Hong Kong, I can’t help but feel what’s happening here will eventually occur in Taiwan too—the PRC is patient, they are taking their time and making substantial progress in changing Hong Kong. First, they modify the school curriculum, then they take away the language.  Slowly but surely they are taking over Hong Kong, one step at a time. Most recently, the PRC plans to enforce Chinese law on a new train station on Hong Kong soil. 

Before we know it, Hong Kong will have centralized media and censored speech.  Residents will be living in constant fear as there will be more people like Liu Xiaobo, a Nobel laureate, and democracy activist who died in Chinese custody. He had spent his life protesting against the one-party rule in China and was serving an 11-year sentence when he was diagnosed with liver cancer. I don’t want to live in a society where people are imprisoned and denied access to medical care because they criticize the government.

Sadly, that’s the way the world seems to be going right now—and it is frightening.

 

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Fancy but Faux? The Instagram Libraries of China

By Kayo Chang Black

HONG KONG— In the recent years, China has been building some of the most ambitious libraries in the world—and the country needs them. As of 2016, China has 3,153 public libraries for a population of 1.38 billion. To put it in perspective, the U.S. has 9,082 libraries as of 2015, serving a population of 325.7 million.

Public libraries in China

Source: https://0-www.statista.com.library.scad.edu/statistics/226455/number-of-public-libraries-in-china/ from Statista, May 6, 2018

When Tianjin Binhai Library opened its doors in 2017, it was every book lover’s dream come true—at 33,700 square meters and five levels, there is enough shelf space for 1.2 million books.  The library has also become one of the most coveted Instagram locations—thousands of visitors flock to the library to take a selfie in its gorgeous atrium lined with millions of books.

A library user at the atrium of Tianjin Binhai Library, April 18, 2018. (Personal Picture/ Leslie Montgomery)

The images of this fantastic library piqued Leslie Montgomery‘s curiosity. Leslie is a Hong Kong-based photographer, videographer the driving force behind DesignAsia – a documentary series that follows designers and artists and their creative pursuits. The images of the Tianjin Binhai Library inspired Leslie to not only visit that library but to also explore other architecturally-interesting libraries in China. In the fall of 2017, she visited LiYuan Library, Mulan Weichang Visitor Center, and finally, Tianjin Binhai Library.

Like many, Leslie has a soft spot for libraries. She used to spend her afternoons in her local public library after school to wait for her mother to finish work. However, she didn’t think about the roles of libraries before her trip. “For me, it started purely on a visual and aesthetic level.” She said, “Libraries were like the medium and then behind that, it was just architecture.”

Leslie’s adventure started in Beijing. She traveled for 1.5 hours north to Jiaojiehecun. LiYuan library is nestled in the lush hills, and it looks like a contemporary version of the wooden house made by one of the Three Little Pigs—the outer wall of the building consisted of thousands of individual twigs.

LiYuan Library from the outside, April 10, 2018. (Personal Photo/Leslie Montgomery)

Inside, bookcases line the walls, and there are blocks of bookshelves throughout the library too. They function as storage for books and steps for users to reach for a book on a higher shelf. Even though there are no chairs in the library, the multi-layer bookshelves created cozy nooks and spaces for people to curl up with a book.

Interior of LiYuan Library, April 10, 2018 (DesignAsia/Leslie Montgomery)

Then, Leslie went to Inner Mongolia in the northeast of Heibei province to visit the library of Mulan Weichang Visitor Center. Historically, emperors held their autumn hunting festival on this stunning landscape where the grassland ends and the sky begins.

The welcome committee of Mulan Weichang Visitor Center, April 14. (Personal Photo/Leslie Montgomery)

The visitor center is made of locally sourced materials such as stones, used wood beams, and rattan—it is also shaped like the yurt, which is the traditional housing in the region.

The core of the building is the lobby, which is where the library is located. Inside, it is bright, with lots of natural light from the dome-light ceiling windows.

The library portion of the Mulan Weichang Visitor Center, April 13, 2018. (Personal Photo/Leslie Montgomery)

While Leslie was in awe of the design of each and every one of them, she questioned whether or not they are “real” libraries. She ponders about the role of these libraries.

Many visitors of Tianjin Binhai Library felt the same way. To their dismay, they found out that the millions of books in the atrium are not real —they are painted.

Are these new libraries in China just fancy buildings with books in them? What purpose do they serve?

Agnieszka Gorgon is a librarian whose 12 years career spans across Dubai and Toronto. In the clip below, she discusses the role of public libraries in the Greater Toronto Area (GTA).

Interview with Agnieszka Gorgon, April 29, 2018. (Personal —Video/Kayo Chang Black)

Public libraries have always served their community. What about these fancy libraries in China?

As Agnieszka stated, one of the core functions of public libraries is to connect with the community and to educate and inform the community. The International Federation of Library Associations and Institutions (IFLA) is a non-profit organization that provides best practices guidelines for libraries around the world. According to the Statement of Libraries and Development, libraries provide a vital role in providing equal access to information for all, as well as giving their communities opportunities to learn and empower them to self-develop.

However, the designers were not thinking about helping users when they design the libraries. For example, Li Yuan Library opened its door to the public in 2011. Its designer, Li Xiaodong, an architect and a professor at Tsinghua University, created the perfect space and filled it with books. In an interview, Mr. Li said he intended to create a tourist attraction for the village, a place busy Beijingers can escape to on the weekend.

Interview with Li Xiaodong, April 10, 2018. (DesignAsia/Leslie Montgomery)

While the library is an ideal place to read, are there any plans to update their book collection and develop programs for the local residents? “I don’t think they’re really focusing on the books or the literature,” Leslie said about the collection of books in the libraries, “[Mulan Weichang Visitor Center and Library in Mongolia] rely on donations for books so you can imagine you know what their collection is like. These spaces are beautiful, and people take pride in these spaces. But as libraries, they really need to invest in what they’re putting inside.“

On the surface, these libraries are extraordinary and architectural wonders. However, without investing in their collections and programming, they are mere eye candy, for visitors to come in, snap a photo for their social media and leave.

“[After visiting the libraries] I feel like maybe the libraries were more built as pieces of architecture. However, to make them attractive, they need to give the buildings some meaning. Libraries are perfect for providing a meaning—they are wholesome, make people feel welcomed and it’s a place of learning.”

While it is a good sign that the number of libraries is increasing in China, there is so much potential for these libraries to be more than mere photo-ops. With more care and funding, they can transform their communities, while still serving as a tourist attraction.

 

 

 

 

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Do You Speak Chinese?

There are many different Chinese languages with up to 200 dialects, and most of them are mutually intelligible. Illustration by Ahmara Smith.

With Beijing’s growing influence, its dialect, Mandarin, also known as Putonghua (the common language), has become the most dominant Chinese language. But this wasn’t always the case, not according to the speakers of other Chinese languages.

In the late 80’s, my family moved from Japan to Taiwan. This was just a few years after the Taiwanese government finally lifted the martial law. I was six years old.

Let’s quickly revisit Taiwanese history and its languages: Historically, at least up to the 1940s, most people in Taiwan spoke Hokkien, which is a version of a southern Chinese language from Fujian province, where many Taiwanese people came from during the 1700’s. During the Japanese occupation, some Japanese words and expressions were integrated into the Taiwanese Hokkien language. I remember clearly my grandparents speaking this Japanese-fied version of Hokkien.

When the Kuomintang (KMT) took control of Taiwan, they made Mandarin the official language and forced everyone to learn it.

I spoke neither Hokkien or Mandarin.

This is me as a Kindergartener in Japan.

Regardless, my parents threw me into a local school.

During class one day, I needed to use the toilet. Unable to communicate with the teacher verbally, I stood up and made my way towards the washroom. I only made it halfway down the hall when my teacher caught up with me, led me back to the classroom and sat me back down in my little wooden chair at my desk. A few moments later, I got up again and made another attempt. The teacher got me again and scolded me as she led me back to my seat.

I didn’t know exactly what she said, but I understood that she was displeased with me. I didn’t dare to get up again. Instead, I sat in my chair and concentrated on holding it in.

Eventually, a warm stream trickled down my legs and created a large, dark stain on my pleated navy blue skirt and a yellow pool around the legs of my little wooden chair. I burst into tears—I was powerless without speaking the language.

This sad little story is a segway to discuss the power of language, and specifically, the Chinese language. Spoken Chinese is organized into five main groups, Mandarin, Yue, Min, Wu, and Hakka. These languages are mutually intelligible.  Within those groups, there are hundreds of dialects, limited to small geographical areas.

Mandarin is only one of the hundreds of spoken Chinese languages. The Beijing dialect is the most common, spoken by approximately two-thirds of the Chinese population. At 55 million speakers, Cantonese, which is part of the Yue family, is the second most common Chinese language.  Hokkien, a language that is common in Taiwan and other countries where Fujan ancestry is common, is part of the Min language family.

How did Mandarin become “Putonghua,” the common language of China?

When Sun Yat-Sen overthrew the Qing Dynasty in 1911, Beijing became the capital of the new China. After some debating, the leadership decided that Mandarin is the official language of the new republic (This is strange because Dr. Sun and many of the leaders of the new republic are from Guangdong Province, and their mother tongue would have been Cantonese).

In Taiwan, Mandarin is known as “Guóyǔ”, literally translates to “the national language.”

During the occupation, the Japanese didn’t force the Taiwanese people to learn the language of their colonizers.** However, when the KMT arrived, they did. Baba told me a story of how his classmates were punished for speaking Hokkien at school. They had to wear a humiliating sign that said, “I spoke Hokkien” for the whole day for speaking the “uncivilized” tongue.

Here in Hong Kong, 97% of the population speaks Cantonese. If Beijing had their way, they would eliminate Cantonese completely. However, that would create an outcry that Beijing is not prepared to deal with. Instead, they slowly influence the educational curriculum in Hong Kong, to teach the next generation their version of the history.

The truth is, Mandarin is already common in Hong Kong. When my parents passed through Hong Kong in the early 90s, they said people didn’t speak Mandarin and yelled when spoken to in Mandarin. Thirty years later, the majority of people still speak Cantonese, but I can now get by speaking Mandarin if English fails.

Hmm. I wonder what the common language will in Hong Kong in another thirty years.

**As it turns out, The Japanese implemented an imperialist movement during their occupation. It was an assimilation initiative that forced Taiwanese people to adopt Japanese names and learn to speak Japanese.

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Where Are You From?

It’s complicated. Illustration by Ahmara Smith.

When I lived in Dubai, taxi drivers often asked, “Where are you from?”

“Canada,” I would say.

Studying me through their rearview mirror, they always looked doubtful. “But where are you really from?”

Ugh. Taxi drivers in Dubai aren’t that interested in me, personally. They wanted to put me in a box and be done with it.

Here in Asia, I face a different set of boxes. When Derek was in China for business, a woman asked him where I was from.

“She is a Taiwanese Canadian,”

The woman scoffed. “No, she’s a Chinese Canadian,” she said indignantly.

Ugh. Clearly, this woman and I have a different definition of Chinese-ness. I hate it when people deny me of my cultural and political identity without my presence.

I used to think it was easy for Derek when people asked him where he’s from. Most often, he would say, “The U.S.”

People are generally satisfied with this answer.

However, when we are traveling, he sometimes tells people that he’s from Hong Kong. People would look at him like he has lost his mind. The look on their faces basically says: a white person can’t be from Hong Kong!

Derek was born in Louisville, Kentucky and grew up in Madison, Indiana. Madison is a historic port city on the edge of the Ohio River. Back in its heydays, with over 100,000 residents, it was one of the busiest river ports in the country.

However, steamboats lost their place as the king of transportation with the advent of the railroad. These days, Madison has become a relic of its past, with only 3,000 people living in the downtown area.

In many ways, Derek is very American. My friend Kuba’s description of Derek as a “Gentleman Redneck” is perfect.  Derek has a polished, educated exterior, but underneath it all, he can skin a deer like nobody’s business. He’s a good boy from rural  Midwest.

He is also a product of American popular culture— he listens to Cat Stevens and Biggie Smalls.  His favorite movies are Spaceballs and The Princess Bride. He also loves the food of his land— when I came back from Savannah earlier this year, I basically brought back half of Krogers— my suitcase was filled with peppercinis, Texas Pete hot sauce, and Old Bay seasoning. Culturally, he is American through and through.

Derek and I did one of the most American things during our last trip— a bourbon tour!

However, Derek doesn’t identify as an American because he has such a disdain for the government.  He thinks the two-party system serves the interests of corporations, instead of the people. Also, he believes that the function of the American federal government and state governments have skewed from their original intention— the federal government has far too much power, often overriding state decisions. This imbalance of power is one of the causes of the many problems in American society, such as gun violence, the gutting of public schools, and police brutality.

“The United States today doesn’t align with the values I was raised with,” he said. “The country needs to steer back to these ideals, but it won’t happen without great peril to the average citizen.

Another reason Derek chooses Hong Kong to be his home is that he wants to witness the next shift in power. At the turn of the 20th century, his great-grandfather witnessed the transfer of power from Great Britain to the United States. Derek wants to experience the next shift when China takes over as the superpower of the world. By staying in Asia, he is in a better position to navigate in this new world order.

Ugh. I don’t want China to rule the world.

Derek, on the other hand, is excited about the transfer of power. This is going to sound crazy, but he said at least with Chinese rule, he would know who is in charge, whereas American politicians hide behind the ruse of democracy and do horrible things.

Anyway, to answer the original question of this post, “where are you from?”

“I am from earth.”

If you had asked me, “Where do you call home?”

Now, that’s a question that leads to many stories, as long as you have the patience to hear them.

Illustration by Ahmara Smith.

 

 

 

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You are Chinese

 

What does it mean to be Chinese these days? Illustration by Ahmara Smith.

Several posts ago, I made an argument that many Taiwanese people are ethnically Chinese. Since then, more than a few of you, my dear readers, pointed out that I need to clarify what I meant by “Chinese”.

I have spent days agonizing over this post. Then I realized that the whole idea of “Chinese-ness” is loaded because it covers so many different aspects—ethnically, politically, and culturally.

In this post, I will make an attempt to address the ethnicity and political aspects of being Chinese. In the future, I will discuss the cultural aspect and show that all aspects of Chinese-ness are connected— this why the idea is so contested and messy.

Let’s define “Chinese-ness”. There are two-folds of Chinese-ness. First, you are Chinese if you can trace your ancestry back to the Middle Kingdom.

Second, the word “Chinese” also describes something or someone that have an association with the Chinese state— in the mind of the current Chinese government, the CPC, this association is trans-historical, linking the PRC with every previous Chinese state all the way back to the Qing dynasty.

For the sake of clarification, in the context of this blog, I will use the term “Chinese” to refer to the ethnic group. For those who are politically or culturally associated with the Chinese state, they are “Zhongguo ren”, or “Middle Kingdom people.” Middle Kingdom people are subjects to the Chinese state, and they may or may not be ethnically Han Chinese.

In other words, not every Chinese person is a Middle Kingdom person. (a second-generation Chinese Canadian may be ethnically Chinese but not a Chinese subject), and not every Middle Kingdom person is ethnically Chinese— I will elaborate below.  

Contrary to popular belief, the PRC isn’t a monoethnic state. The Middle Kingdom is a country of diverse ethnic groups— there may be as many as 400 ethnic groups, though the CPC only officially recognizes 56 of them. At 92% of the population, the Han Chinese are the dominant ethnic group in PRC. 

The CPC see themselves as the leader of the Chinese and the Middle Kingdom people. They also see themselves as the custodians of the Chinese culture. Anyone who poses a threat to the dominant and national narrative of Chinese-ness and Middle Kingdom-ness, like the  Uighurs, are punished relentlessly. The Uighurs are a minority ethnic group from Xinjiang Province, located in the northwest region of the country. They are distant cousins of the Turks, speak a Turkic language, and are predominately Muslims.

Uighur is an ethnic group in China genetically related to the Turks. Photo from Wikipedia.

When Mao took power in 1949, Xinjiang province became a part of PRC. The CPC encouraged the Han Chinese people to settle in Xinjiang. They took vital roles in government, often discriminating the Uighurs, leading to numerous protests and uprisings that challenge the authority of the party.

Needless to say, the Uighurs in Xinjiang is a thorn in the party’s back. In an effort to control them, they banned the Uighurs to express their culture by outlawing long beards and wearing veils. Furthermore, even as recently as January 2018, the party is still trying to assimilate the Uighurs by forcing them into re-educational camps. The plight of the Uighurs people is appalling and terrifying.

The Uighurs, are Middle Kingdom people, as they are holders of People’s Republic of China citizenship. However, they are certainly not Chinese.

As for me, I am Chinese— my ancestry can be traced back to Fujian Province. However, I was born in Japan to Taiwanese parents and grew up in Canada; I do not identify as a Middle Kingdom person. In other words, I am not a Chinese subject, though PRC would beg to defer. I am of Han Chinese ancestry, my family is from Taiwan, a contested territory  —both of which makes me “Chinese” (ethnically, politically and culturally) in their eyes. All Taiwanese are Chinese and Middle Kingdom people, they believe— we will realize that soon enough.

I shudder at that thought. Taiwanese people use a special “return to motherland” permit to go to China (including Hong Kong) since the PRC doesn’t recognize our passport. I am in Hong Kong as a Canadian citizen. I hope that the PRC wouldn’t be able to tell that I was Taiwanese since I was born in Japan.  If I get into trouble somehow (through this blog, for instance),  I might be able to access Canadian consular services instead of the alternative— disappearing into a black hole where no one can ever find me.

Illustration by Ahmara Smith.

 

 

 

 

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Is Taiwan Part of China?

A crash course on modern Taiwanese history. Illustration by Ahmara Smith.

In my last post, I pondered whether Taiwanese people are ethnically Chinese. The answer to that is complicated and requires a crash course on Taiwanese history.

Taiwan is an island off the east coast of mainland China. Historically, it was part of the Middle Kingdom territory up until the Qing dynasty. My ancestors and many other people immigrated to Taiwan in the 1700’s, mostly from the provinces of Fujian and Guangdong.  Most likely, they intermarried with the aboriginal peoples of Taiwan, who are a part of the Austronesian ethnic family, which are related to the peoples of the Philippines, Malaysia, and other South East Asian countries.

In 1895, the Middle Kingdom lost the First Sino-Japanese War. The Japanese Empire demanded control of Taiwan as a part of the peace negotiation. As a result, the Japanese occupied Taiwan for the next 50 years, under the Treaty of Shimonoseki.

The Japanese made huge impacts on the Taiwanese psyche during their occupation. They modernized Taiwan by developing its infrastructure,  building roads, government buildings, hospitals, and schools. Furthermore, their language and culture also permeated Taiwanese culture–many Japanese words were absorbed into Hokkien, which was one of the main languages of Taiwan.

Meanwhile, in China, Sun Yat-Sen overthrew the Qing Dynasty in 1911 and established the Republic of China (ROC). His political party, Kuomintang (KMT) became the official ruler of the new Republic.

The world turned up-side-down for many nations in East Asia in 1945. The Japanese Empire fell when they lost World War II. They lost all their colonies and returned the control of Taiwan to the Republic of China. At the time, Chiang Kai-Shek was in charge of the KMT in mainland China. He set up a provisional government in Taipei, in order to gain control of the island and its populace.

The KMT eventually set up the official government of the ROC in 1949, when they were defeated by the People’s Communist Party (CPC), led by Mao Zedong. The Taiwanese suffered greatly during the transitional period between the end of Japanese occupation in 1945 and when the KMT officially took control of the island.

The transition between Japanese colonialism and KMT rule was bloody. The KMT government enforced martial law in 1947 after Taiwanese people rebelled against inflation. This is the start of what is known as the White Terror– the KMT government arrested, imprisoned and executed dissents who opposed them.

Many Taiwanese people who opposed the KMT government were arrested. This image is from Hou Hsiao-hsien’s film A City of Sadness, in which Tony Leung’s character was imprisoned due to his friends’ political activities. .

The martial law was finally lifted in 1987. A couple of years later, my parents moved back to Taiwan from Japan. I was six, and my brother Davis was four.

My family history is intertwined with Taiwan’s.  My ancestors moved from Fujian Province in the 1700’s. Also, we are a product of Japanese colonialism: Both sets of my grandparents spoke Japanese fluently; my parents and many of their siblings were educated in Japan; I was born in Japan.

Taiwan’s history is complicated and this is why there are so many debates about whether Taiwan is part of the PRC. Depending on who you ask, you will get a different answer.

To answer my own question, I suppose I am mostly ethnically Chinese (my ancestors may have intermarried with the aboriginal people of Taiwan), but I am Taiwanese through and through.

However, the more interesting question is whether or not the Chinese ethnicity is one ethnicity. That’s one more complicated question for another time.

Illustration by Ahmara Smith.

 

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Why now? Why me?

On March 20th, Xi Jinping made a speech at the closing of the 2018 National People’s Congress. It was a nationalistic speech in which “he warned against challenges to China over Taiwan, Hong Kong or other regions where Beijing’s claims to sovereignty are contested”.

Xi Jinping

“All maneuvers and tricks to split the motherland are sure to fail,” Mr. Xi said. “Not one inch of the territory of the great motherland can be carved off from China.”

Some might say this is nothing new. China has always been sensitive about Taiwan and considers it one of its wayward provinces. Taiwan’s reunification with its “motherland” is integral to the “One China” policy. However, many people in Taiwan, my family included, have been in Taiwan for many generations and consider ourselves Taiwanese. This is a problem for China.

The dear leader claims that we are all Chinese.  Well sure, there are overlaps between Taiwanese and Chinese cultures; my ancestors came from a town near Xiamen, Fujian province in the 1700’s. Having said that, Taiwan had since been colonized by Japan and it’s populace absorbed some aspects of its language and customs into their culture. Also, our resentment towards “the motherland”, also make us uniquely Taiwanese. My point is, many people in Taiwan don’t consider themselves Chinese.  But… do we consider ourselves ethnically Chinese? That’s the tricky part. I don’t know what to think about that.

Mr. Xi’s speech spurred some anxiety with me, not only because I am Taiwanese, but also because I live in Hong Kong. In the same speech, Mr. Xi  “vowed to strengthen the national identity and patriotism of the people of Hong Kong and Macau.”

Map of South China, including Taiwan, Xiamen, and Hong Kong. Courtesy of http://www.johomaps.com/as/china/chinasouth.html

Hong Kong had been a British colony until 1997. Upon its return to China, Beijing guaranteed that the city, as a special administrative region, will have a high degree of autonomy, and China’s socialist systems will not be implemented until 2047. However, incidents such as the disappearances of Hong Kong booksellers, and the imprisonment Joshua Wong, a young activist who was one of the leaders of the umbrella revolution in 2014, are indications that civil liberties are going away fast in Hong Kong.

So yeah. Mr. Xi’s speech posed a double whammy for me. He made me uncomfortable about who I and where I am.