Qunatum Time: Four Days to Tian Anmen

Paradoxes:

Three days to Tian’anmen

By Moira Laidlaw

Autumn 2006

For Pat D’Arcy, who always accompanies me on my journeys.

This journey didn’t really take three days, and it wasn’t actually to Tian’anmen.

Everything else is true.

20th October 2006. Village or City?

I received an email yesterday from America, telling me about Fall and how beautiful it is: the mosaic of colours and the crispness of chilly leaves. I wrote back to say I’d keep an eye open for it in Beijing, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath. In my flat, looking out onto a dual-carriageway - although I don’t have to look as it’s loud enough 24 hours a day for me not to have to guess where I am - and concrete buildings, grey sky because of pollution, and advertising slogans that light up at night, I’m not sure any season makes its presence felt here particularly, unless temperature is an infallible clue. Summer is roaring hot and Winter devilishly cold. Autumn and Spring seep vaguely through the swathes of industry, the surge of traffic and a busy metropolis.

Taking with me a heart that watches and receives, I’ve set out to walk to Tian’anmen over the next three days. I could easily do it in a couple of hours from here, but that’s hardly the point. Tian’anmen is far too difficult for me to capture such a short time. For example, if I stood at one end of the Square and walked to the other, taking in all the architectural features and historical and political significances, could I do it justice? I doubt it. And not in three days, either. Tian’anmen isn’t so much a place as an icon. And not an equivocal one at that. Does it stand for valiance in the face of dictatorship? Is it a bastion of freedom in an oppressive culture? Is it a monument to ancient imperial civilizations? Is it emblematic of Beijing’s power as the capital? As the most developed developing country’s capital, Beijing’s Tian’anmen is the national face, the international face of China. Tian’anmen is engraved, painted, drawn, etched, photographed onto a million surfaces from plates and cups to jewellery, tee-shirts and hearts.

For many people in China, both nationals and internationals, Tian’anmen represents the many paradoxes of this vast country. It’s meant so much to so many, and in different ways. Now it seems to occupy a precarious position as both a revered monument and a repository of abuse. I believe it’s because China seems to esteem fanatics, dictators, ruthless leaders and consummate bastards - at the same time as valuing family, children, innocence, beauty, grace, symmetry, harmony - that Tian’anmen occupies such a paradoxical position in China’s psyche.

‘Tian’anmen’ means the Gate of Heavenly Peace. The Square surrounding it has a complex history. It lies at the centre of Beijing, physically, geographically and spiritually. During the Qing and Ming dynasties, ‘common’ people were forbidden entrance beyond its gates. In fact, they were expected to lower their heads while walking past, ‘unless they see too much beauty and become unsettled by it’. Guards could not pass under the gates on horseback and had to walk their animals through in silence. It was forbidden to discuss the lay-out inside the walls with outsiders. Outsiders were anyone not occupying high positions inside. Leaders had to follow no such rules. They were the rules. It was a monument to feudalism.

Entrance to Tian’anmen’s interior

It is with a sense of freedom that I set off on this unusual journey, a slow stroll towards something ill-defined, but powerfully felt. In the true spirit of this enquiry I walk down to the main road and turn in the opposite direction to Tian’anmen. I might as well explore my home-territory a little, before venturing towards any destination. I’m going in the direction of Dong Zhimen. It is in this district that half-a-million-year-old bones – Peking Man’s [sic] – were found forty years ago. Peking ‘Man’ was homo sapiens, like you and me. S/he lived in the then more tropical climate, made stone tools, buried the dead with ritual and sacrifice. S/he had fire to heat up Winter nights and rush-fans to cool down Summer days. The remains are the oldest human relics to have been found in China. There’s a plaque on a brick wall at the entrance to a pavillioned building. I stop to read it. It’s in tarnished gold background with black lettering. ‘Dawn of Civilisation’ it says. ‘Beginnings of China’s greatness’. I smile at the way China turns every positive natural event into something revealing national prowess. The French do that too I’ve noticed. I have a sneaking admiration for the trait. In Britain, though, and in other countries, it’s led to colonialism and racism on a brutal scale, so I dismiss my ‘sneaking admiration’ and walk on.

On my right there are apartment blocks in salmon pink. Dong Gan (Eastern Courage) is the name on the sides of the buildings in blue and white enameled tiles. The whole street is lined with these apartments from one to ten. Each separate block has an entrance-guard to a compound. I smile at each young man as I pass, identically uniformed in green with red trimmings, standing ram-rod straight and expressionless. I smile exaggeratingly, as one shouts to a foreigner to inject meaning into babble. Many smile back, cracking their faces in cheeky grins. Others remain motionless all over. I almost feel like doing what I did once as a child in a cathedral: going up to a marble saint and tweaking his nose! I resist the impulse in the interests of international relations and continue on my way.

Up to the end of the road and turn left, after crossing a road and taking my life in my hands. Crossing the road in Beijing is an Art form. Just as High Art deals with life and death issues, bolding them in sharp relief, so does crossing the road in Beijing: one false move and you’re dead! There are many underpasses and I really ought to make more use of them, but I always feel cheated by having to climb steps up and down, when the land in Beijing is flat and even. It always seems a waste of time to me. However, this isn’t in the spirit of ambling about trying not to have a destination, so I decide to play the next junction by ear.

Across the double dual carriageway, Dongzhimen Road being one of the main arteries for traffic in this area of Beijing, I see a constructed archway in yellow and red bloated plastic: a huge air-filled structure that is used in China to denote a special occasion. I wonder what’s going on and decide to use the underpass to cross the road safely this time and have a look.

It’s Chaoyangmen’s Festival of Lights. Happens every year, so the posters say. Red posters glued to walls with heavy, black calligraphy, the traditional way to let people know what’s happening. On the right-hand side of the entrance, there’s a huge television screen mounted against the vast, grey, high-entrance wall, showing CCTV1 – China’s most popular station with 24-hour coverage of Chinese epic dramas, usually set in Ming or Qing Dynasty times, men in ponytails riding horseback, righting wrongs and cutting a swathe through feudalistic corruption and petty officials. I read the subtitles to gather what’s going on. People swirl around. It’s not ten o’clock in the morning, yet there’s already a winding snake growing round the semi-circular entrance grounds. Most people are watching the television screen. Children are hopping from foot to foot, playing tag; a group of roller-bladers, teenage lads, bandanas tightly wound round heads and wrists in red and gold, cavort through the space, dividing the queue in two, everyone taking it well and laughing at their antics. There are some four-star generals standing to the side, yellow epaulettes, wide shoulders, the lot. Some of them appear to be particularly important: they’re surrounded by fawning acolytes. I wish I knew who these VIPs were. I approach a guard, dressed trimly in olive-green jacket and matching skirt, her beret in bright scarlet set at a rakish angle.

‘Who are they?’ I ask her tentatively.

‘Goodness me, they’re the Chiefs of Police,’ she says, nicely, but as if I should have known.

‘Oh, I see. Why are they here?’

She looks at me now as if I’m simple-minded.

‘To represent the people!’

‘Oh, right!’ I wonder what that means, but don’t pursue it. What’s the point? We come from different worlds.

‘Are you British?’ she asks.

‘I am, yes.’

‘Oh, how lovely to see you here!’ she exclaims and suddenly, quite suddenly, her voice transforms from formality to candid delight. She steps closer and reaches out to take my arm. She squeezes it in a gesture of such genuine affection, I find tears in my eyes. It’s so unexpected, and yet of course, this is the China I know and love.

‘My name’s Moira,’ I say, reaching my hand out to shake hers.

‘I’m Zhang Zhelin. Pleased to meet you.’ She is nearly as tall as I am, about thirty years old, bright, shining hair drawn back in a hairstyle reminiscent for me of pictures I’ve seen of women’s fashions in the second world-war in Britain, a band of hair curled round at the nape of the neck and held in place with pins.

‘Absolutely delighted to meet you!’ I say with a big grin.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asks.

‘Just looking. I’m living in Beijing at the moment.’

‘Living here? Have you seen the Summer Palace and Tian’anmen?’

‘Not the Summer Palace yet, but Tian’anmen I know well. I saw it first in 2001.’

‘You’ve been in China since then?’

‘Yes.’

She looks at me then, holding my eyes with hers. I’ve had this happen a lot in China. It’s a look which we don’t do with strangers in the West, but people do here, if they want to get to know you quickly. It is as if she is storing me up for later. I feel her gaze making me tingle. She nods her head slowly, I imagine when she feels she has finished looking. Then smiles again. A lovely smile.

‘Will you have your picture taken with me, Moira?’ she asks.

‘Yes, of course,’ I say, realizing that this is different from the usual, ‘let’s have our picture taken with the laowai’, that I first became acquainted with at Tian’anmen Square on day two of my China life in 2001. A whole load of us VSO volunteers were taken to Tian’anmen, and sitting in the late Summer glow of a vast-open space, we sat on the wall and were regaled with requests for families to have their pictures taken with us. At first it seemed quaint and even a little flattering, but very soon it became irksome and even objectionable, as we were pulled from pillar to post, limbs arranged to suit the photographer, commanded to smile, with the obligatory two fingers stuck up behind our heads to look like stupid little ears, a habit I still find annoying when trying to take a serious photograph here.

Miss Zhang alerts her comrade, pulling a digital camera out of her wide leather belt-bag around her slender middle. She hands it over and then comes and puts her arm around me. She looked at me, smiling widely. Not quite sure what at, but somehow, the fact I’ve only known her for five minutes means nothing in terms of feeling so comfortable.

‘What shall we say to make us smile?’ she says, looking sideways at me. ‘We say ‘qiezi’ (aubergine) in China. What do you say?’

‘Nai gan’. (Cheese)

She laughs. ‘Cheese. Yuk!’

I shrug my shoulders and laugh.

‘Cheese it is, then,’ she concludes.

We face the front and smile and smile. Her friend takes two pictures and we look at them together with much mirth and enjoyment.

‘I’d better go,’ I say.

‘Aren’t you staying?’ she asks.

‘No, I’m taking a walk around Beijing. I want to see as much as I can.’

‘I’m so happy to have met you!’ she says, putting her head slightly on one side as if for emphasis. This is someone so able to show warmth and humanity. She’s a guard, I remember, so whatever it is she’s guarding I hope it’s a worthwhile investment of her loyalty.

I walk away, turning back a little while later. She is staring after me and raises her hand in a waving gesture. I wave back.

Now it’s into Chaoyang Park, an expanse of green with sculpted flower-beds and statuary. There are men flying kites. Men used to fly kites a lot in ancient China I understand. Pitting their skills against the elements. Perhaps a bid for freedom of action in a society so heavily structured and hierarchical. This is whimsy. I don’t know why they flew kites. I wish I did. It seems purposeful. I am reminded of Somerset Maugham’s short story, ‘The Kite’, in which the kite, rather heavy-handedly, is set up as a symbol of freedom against oppression. I can’t help now but wonder why kite-flying is such a pastime in the capital. I never saw it once in the countryside in five years. Here I see it every day. Kites depicting birds of prey seem to be the most common. White bodies and black-tipped extremities soaring the heavens, cutting and cavorting in the open skies. I stand and watch one man from a distance, dark blue Mao cap perched stolidly on his head, weathered fingers plying the cord deftly. His eyes are glinting. He suddenly yanks the cord and the bird flips over in the air. I’ve never seen anything like it. I clap spontaneously. I don’t want to disturb him, but I have. He puts his head on one side quizzically.

‘You want a go?’ he asks, twinkling. This Chinese sociability again. If I were disturbed doing something solitary in that way, I am not sure my first impulse would be to share it with the disruptor.

‘I can’t!’ I say awkwardly. I have to stop doing this: disturbing people and getting into conversations like this.

‘You can. It’s just practice.’

‘You do it so well. I wouldn’t know where to start.’ I approach him and stand by his side. ‘Do you mind if I watch?’