This Generation

by Han Han

  Even if we concede the possibility that after Huang Yibo grows up he will stay just the way he is now and proceed to serve in officialdom, I have every reason to believe that he will be a good cadre—although, perhaps, a frustrated one. If he started watching network news when he was two and started reading People’s Daily when he was seven, he has to have an instinctive love of this regime, a love of this political party, a love for the people who inhabit this land. But the cruel history of power struggles in our country tells us that the more you love this party and the more that you try to act in the best interests of this regime, the more quickly you will be purged. Our young friend Huang Yibo doesn’t realize that in China, to be a successful administrator, there are three things you have to remember:

  1. You can’t love this party.

  2. You can’t love this country.

  3. You can’t love this people.

  Once you’ve mastered these three “can’t loves,” and have paired off with the right interest group, you have a good chance of a flourishing career in the bureaucracy. Classmate Huang Yibo innocently believes everything that the network news and People’s Daily tell him, but the problem is that the leaders themselves don’t believe a word they say—Huang Yibo is the only true believer. So we have every reason to predict that Huang Yibo will find himself elbowed out in the future. Because among a bunch of people who don’t believe any of this stuff and just want to use their position to get some benefits, he is going to stick out like a sore thumb.

  Secondly, although Huang Yibo’s posture may strike us as ridiculous, it’s in a child’s nature to act that way. When I was young, for example, I used to watch a TV series about the Qianlong Emperor. Thereafter, I would imitate Qianlong and stroll about all day with a fan in my hand, longing to hit somebody with it. After watching all these broadcasts of network news, Huang Yibo naturally is imitating those high-up leaders he’s seen so many pictures of. Although his mimicry is not entirely convincing, the way he holds himself does remind one of the mannerisms of a provincial city-level bureaucrat. His body type already shows some similarities, so that whereas his classmates’ physical ideal is shaped by their manga heroes, his idea of good looks is probably that beer belly you see leaders sporting—but that, too, is an expression of individuality. And there’s nothing wrong with watching network news from an early age. Many people fear that politics may be detrimental to the outlook of primary school children, but I think that the fairy tales you see on network news are actually perfectly appropriate for young minds. And any real effects from prepubescent brainwashing will be scattered to the four winds after the children have experienced adolescence, and will even recoil with a vengeance. Which of us hasn’t felt the reverse effects of all that education? What’s more, Huang Yibo is kind to the elderly—one has to admire how he went out of his way to visit an old people’s home and take an interest in the residents, even without a television camera following him around.

  And I don’t feel that Huang Yibo has lost out on his childhood. Everyone has their own idol, and ours were hard to emulate, because we couldn’t fly around the universe, changing shape and demonstrating miraculous powers like our manga models, so our childhood was a disappointment, whereas Huang Yibo’s idols are easy to imitate—all their activities involve is inspecting Unit A and inspecting Facility B, reading this document and reading that, meeting here and meeting there, issuing a directive now and another one later, and wrapping things up with a lot of empty platitudes, so Huang Yibo’s childhood is a happy one. It must give him a great sense of satisfaction that he and his idols can merge together so completely. Not only that, but he has got recognition as well—that five-bar badge which makes him the incarnation of an official. Huang Yibo is doing things he loves, so his childhood must be a total delight. We, on the other hand, were miserable, because nobody believed us when we told them we were incarnations of the manga knights, and we kept having to do things we hated.

  What a shame that, just as I was writing this essay, the Young Pioneers of the National Youth Work Commission issued a statement to the effect that they have never authorized the award of five stripes, that this innovation is entirely the brainchild of the local Wuhan committee, and that it has no institutional basis. Reading this report, I’m upset on Huang Yibo’s behalf. He has done so much, developing an image so close to that of the central leadership, but he has failed to win their recognition and has ended up simply as Wuhan’s guinea pig, one that has created tension between province and center. Little did Huang Yibo realize that these five stripes have created extraordinary complications for the Youth Commission. The organization never cares for controversial characters, and it’s bound to be seen as ominous when Huang Yibo’s school in Wuhan is called Slippery Slope Primary School. The leadership sets a lot of store by auspicious signs and names, and this unfortunate Slippery Slope has really cramped Huang Yibo’s style. It’s a fair guess that he won’t be progressing any further in the Young Pioneers’ leadership.

  I wish him luck in the Communist Youth League, however.

  Three Gorges is a fine dam

  May 22, 2011

  Recently, the Three Gorges Dam has come under a lot of criticism. Many people have deep concerns about the project, claiming that it is likely to trigger earthquakes, disrupt ecological balance, or provoke drought, and as a way of emphasizing the gravity of the crisis they cite Huang Wanli’s prediction that sooner or later the dam will have to be demolished. As a staunch supporter of the Three Gorges dam, I am convinced there is no substance to any of these fears; not only do the dam’s advantages outweigh its disadvantages, but its advantages are legion and its disadvantages nonexistent!

  As everyone knows, the Three Gorges project37 was surrounded by controversy from the start, to the point that it attracted several hundred negative votes and abstentions at the National People’s Cheerleading Congress, something that only happens once every hundred years. But these objections failed to prevent the project from going ahead. The dam on the Yangtze, like the aircraft carrier commissioned by our navy, is without question an iconic symbol of China’s national strength. In this essay, I will refute the criticisms one by one.

  Critics tell us that the dam will degrade the environment in both the upper and the lower reaches of the Yangtze. But before the dam was built the environment was already degraded, so there is no merit to this criticism.

  Critics tell us that the dam will become a huge, sitting target for a military attack and a strike against it would wreak havoc on the power supply and the inhabitants of the lower Yangtze valley. I believe we have already resolved this issue in the most satisfactory manner possible. We have installed numerous enterprises like Foxconn in the cities of the lower Yangtze, and if the dam was blown up and those cities were inundated, the world would be unable to enjoy the fruits of China’s cheap labor and—most important—the U.S. imperialists would be unable to manufacture the iPhone. Just that point alone is enough to discourage foreign adversaries from attacking the Three Gorges Dam.

  Critics tell us that the dam will trigger earthquakes. First of all, this is just speculation, and it cannot be proven. Second, even if we entertain for a moment the possibility that the Wenchuan earthquake was caused by the Three Gorges Dam—well, didn’t you see that at the various events commemorating the third anniversary of the earthquake the emphasis was all on the miraculous reconstruction efforts? For us, the earthquake prompts no reflection—instead, it is an occasion for celebrating triumph. Thinking through this logically, then, we can conclude that the Three Gorges Dam has simply triggered Chinese miracles and in so doing has achieved a wonderful victory—could there be anything in the world better than that?

  Critics tell us that the dam will provoke drought. This year, China’s largest freshwater lake—Boyang Lake—has only ten percent of the water that it used to have, and many people find this very worrisome and assume that the Jiangxi provincial government must be terribly concerned. They are missing the point entirely. Local go
vernment revenue depends largely on the sale of real estate, and a lake with water in it can’t be parceled off and sold. What Jiangxi Province should do is seize the opportunity and dam the headwaters of Boyang Lake, getting rid of that remaining ten percent—that way, the provincial government will soon have tens of thousands of square miles more land to sell off! And a slogan like “Original Site of Boyang Lake” will make a great selling point and be a godsend for advertising—“Fertile Spring,” “Bountiful Basin”—they’ll be raking in the cash! Then all they need to do is invite one of the old gentlemen who pushed the Three Gorges Dam project through and have him draw a circle around where Boyang Lake used to be and make that a Special Economic Zone—that would be another splendid exploit, a huge boost to the hinterland economy.

  Some people use the Three Gorges Dam to attack some of our leaders, claiming that their mentality is “Once I’m dead, what does it matter if there’s a catastrophic flood?” I want these vicious naysayers to know that the leaders actually see things completely the other way around: It’s because the leaders were afraid there’d be a catastrophic flood after they were dead that they were so determined to build the Three Gorges Dam. That way, the worst that can happen is that there’s flooding above the dam. So long as there’s no flood below the dam, there will always be shrimp to eat. Therefore, this claim of theirs is also untenable.

  In short, the Three Gorges Dam is all positives and no negatives—who can go on criticizing it now?

  I have a good life in Shanghai

  June 24, 2011

  The other day I came back from the airport, and with nothing to do in the evening I thought I might as well go out and buy a few videos. It had rained, but the skies were clearing and the air was sweet, so I opened the windows and the moonroof and cruised along in a leisurely way. There wasn’t much traffic as I slipped onto the A8 Freeway. These past few years we’ve got into the habit of calling the Shanghai-Hangzhou Expressway the A8, the Shanghai-Qingpu Expressway the A9, and the ring road the A20, but now they’ve become the Shanghai-Kunming G60, the Shanghai-Chongqing G50, and the G1501. I managed to drive these roads for two years without registering the change.

  Before I got very far on the expressway I was forced off, so that they could do after-midnight maintenance. I dawdled along on surface streets until I got to the elevated expressway above Yan’an Road, where I suddenly got the idea of going to have a look at “Asia’s No. 1 Curve.”38 As I got close to the Bund I activated the camera feature on my phone, followed the original direction of the road—and ended up in a tunnel. It wasn’t until I recalled a news item from a few weeks before that I realized that “Asia’s No. 1 Curve” is no more. Somehow that reminded me that my old primary school no longer exists either, and I couldn’t help feel disconsolate. But when I thought of how a friend of mine’s primary school, middle school, high school, kindergarten, old home, paternal grandparents’ home, and maternal grandparents’ home all no longer exist, I had to cheer up. Shanghai people aren’t in a position to miss their native city, someone has remarked. But perhaps that’s true of all Chinese people. They leave their native districts in search of a better life, and if they don’t succeed they will wander here and there forever, and if they succeed they’ll put down roots somewhere else. The ones who hanker to reconnect with their past come back to find that their old homes have vanished, while the people who don’t care simply have no interest in going back at all. People who were born in big cities are maybe better off, because their old homes are not in another part of the country, but you find that even the vestiges associated with your growing up are gone. Often a passenger in my car will say, “Hey, my primary school used to be there!” I look out the window, and it turns out to be luxury apartments.

  The only way I can console such people is to tell them: “I heard that someone asked a foreigner living in Shanghai, ‘Where are you from?’ The guy answered sadly, ‘What was once Yugoslavia.’ ”

  At least this city hasn’t changed its name, so we can be thankful for that.

  When I came out of the tunnel, I was relieved to see at least the Bund still standing. A bit farther on, I found Shanghai now has a Waldorf. As long as you’re rich, it seems, you’ll be happy here. I crossed Huaihai Road and found myself in Luwan District—only to realize it no longer exists. Although I was born a country boy, I came to have a deep feeling for Luwan District, because I would have meetings there when I came into the city for business, but now it’s become Huangpu District. As I approached Xintiandi, I felt a bit uncomfortable.39 After all, it’s said that the site of the Chinese Communist Party’s First Congress was here, but if the Party isn’t worried about it, then what have we to worry about? We’re used to this, anyway—things that should be reformed don’t get reformed, and things that shouldn’t get reformed do. I had the idea of following Huaihai Road and then Huashan Road down to Xujiahui, but found more roadwork in the way, so I decided instead to head for Gubei, where there’s a video store that stays open late.

  Gubei is one of Shanghai’s most posh residential areas, with a big expatriate population—I guess because it’s close to the airport, and if things ever get out of hand the foreigners can get to the airport in double quick time. I pulled over to the side of the road, only to be accosted by a drunken youth: “Who said you could park here? Do you think you can park anywhere you like, just because you have a smart car? Get out of here! Scram!”

  The shop I was looking for had already closed, so I did scram, and crossing Xianxia Road I saw three young women, also a bit the worse for drink. They were staggering along the street, clutching each other. When I pulled over to another video shop a few hundred yards farther on, they shouted at me, “You rich people think you’re so great, with your fancy cars. You’re just trash, the whole lot of you!”

  I couldn’t help but look back at my car. A standard mid-range black sedan in this city full of big-name automobiles—is it really all that fancy? Perhaps because I normally drive with windows closed, I just never heard this kind of comment before. I don’t know why they were so down in the dumps, but then if I had a difficult life in this city I might need an opportunity to blow off steam, too. Almost immediately a white Lamborghini convertible roared past, with a young woman in her twenties at the wheel. I spun around, fearful to see the girls’ reaction, only to find one of them throwing up with one hand on the wall, the other two patting her on the back, so none of them had seen.

  In front of the video store was a stretch of grass where a young man was picking up discarded plastic water bottles and stuffing them into two sacks. He turned around as I walked past and I noticed he was wearing a cap and a face mask, the cap pushed down low over his eyes. Clearly he didn’t want to do this during the day, and didn’t want to be seen. He and those other young people, I thought, perhaps belong to that huge class of disadvantaged who text their families and say, “I have a good life here in Shanghai.” When I entered the video store, a young guy behind the desk greeted me. “Hey there, handsome. Have you seen The Consolidation of the Party?”40

  “Oh, yes,” I told him. “I watch it all the time.”

  The disconnected nation

  July 26, 2011

  On July 23, 2011, two high-speed trains collided near Wenzhou, in Zhejiang Province, killing dozens of passengers and injuring many more. The authorities brought rescue operations to a rapid halt, burying the derailed carriages, and attempted to restrict media coverage.

  You never stop asking: Why do they always have to misrepresent the facts? But they feel they could hardly be more candid and fair.

  You never stop asking: Why do they always have to shield the offender? But they feel they’ve let their buddy down.

  You never stop asking: Why do they always have to cover up the truth? But they feel they could hardly be more transparent and open.

  You never stop asking: Why do they always have to lead such corrupt lives? But they feel they could hardly live in a more simple, spartan way.

  You never
stop asking: Why do they always have to be so overbearing and arrogant? But they feel they could hardly have a more humble attitude.

  You feel aggrieved, but they feel aggrieved, too. Under the Qing government a hundred years ago, they recall, the common people never got to see television at all, whereas now everyone has a television—what a big step forward this is!

  We built this, they think, and we built that. You don’t need to concern yourselves with what happened in the process or whose palms were greased—you got to enjoy it, didn’t you? It used to take a day and a night to get from Shanghai to Beijing, and now—so long as the train’s not struck by lightning—you can make the trip in five hours. Why aren’t you grateful? Why do you raise so many questions?