I was eating lunch at the restaurant with some friends when my roommate remarked that he saw a woman literally pick up the platter and scrape half of the salmon sashimi onto her plate. I decided to see this for myself.

Perhaps it was the furious way diners descended on the sashimi like ravens on a deer carcass, or perhaps it was because I had just finished Jonathan Watts’ fabulous but depressing book When One Billion Chinese Jump, about environmental crises in China and what they mean for the world, but I suddenly had a vision of the apocalypse.

Currently, Golden Jaguar is prohibitively expensive for most Chinese. Indeed, the only locations outside of provincial capitals are boomtowns Shenzhen and Wuxi. But maybe one day, it wouldn’t be. Perhaps one day China would have a solid middle class that could regularly enjoy Golden Jaguar’s decadent buffet. This might be great for Chinese epicures but what would it mean for the world?

In his book, Watts makes the counter-intuitive argument that the people most dangerous to China’s environment are not the countryside polluters but the consumers in big cities. He writes:

The energy use of the average person in Shanghai has surpassed that of Toyko, New York, and London and is now 50 percent higher than the global norm…. To provide everyone in China with a Shanghai lifestyle, factories will need to churn out an extra 159 million refrigerators, 213 million television, 233 million computers, 166 million microwave ovens, 260 million air conditioners, and 187 million cars…. Power plants would have to more than double their output.

And to provide everyone with a Beijing diet, the ocean would have to produce much more salmon. More than that, in fact. Other popular stations at Golden Jaguar serve chilled shrimp, steamed crab, and baked oysters. As I watched the people around me gorge on seafood, I couldn’t help thinking that if one day Golden Jaguar became available to the masses, the oceans might run out of animals.

Continue reading at Project Pengyou.

I ended up watching this lithe young gentleman writhe around to this God-awful piece of Korean bubblegum-pop (if you care, it’s Push Push Baby by SiSTAR) over and over again. Of course, my reasons for enjoying his performance were largely vicarious—according to comments on Sina Weibo, more than a few gay men, and even more straight women, of all colors and nationalities shared my appreciation of this 18 year-old ethnic Hmong fellow and his shameless webcam performance. I shut the sound off after 15 seconds.

Jia Baoyu's meizhengtai beauty from Dream of the Red Chambers.

However, beyond titillation, I felt a tug of pride at the broader statement made by this grainy video. Only in Asia, it seems, is a tradition valuing the androgynous beauty of the meizhengtai (美正太)—the beautiful boy—enjoying a revival. Increasingly, the meizhengtai is seen as on par, if not exceeding, the appeal of his more typically masculine counterpart, the nanzihan (男子汉). While we have our androgynous sex icons in the West, too—Johnny Depp, Taylor Lautner and, though I shudder to say it, Justin Bieber—the sexuality of these people is always kept rigorously beyond doubt, at least in the media.

Here is where East and West divide. Sexual ambiguity in males, unlike androgyny, is not looked upon with favor by either men or women, and appreciation of the beautiful and unapologetically gay man remains taboo. Sure, we had our dandies, our fops and our New Romantics, but there have been countless casualties along the way.

Federico Garcia Lorca, almost as famous for his passive role in sex as for his wonderful plays, was murdered on the orders of Franco during the Spanish Civil War. When Truman Capote published his “coming out” novel Other Voices, Other Rooms in 1948, the back cover featured a photograph of the young Capote reclining seductively and giving the reader his best “come to bed” eyes, causing a furore in conservative New York, with both Capote and photographer Harold Halma accused of “contemplating some outrage against conventional morality.”

Even today, performances by Adam Lambert (the artistic output of whom, I admit, is execrable) evoke howls of shock and outrage. People have come to terms, to a degree, with homosexuality. What they have yet to embrace, however, is the distinction between passive and active gay men—with the latter receiving most of the press while the former continue to be treated with distaste, disdain, even hatred. This is why gay hate crimes remain a serious problem even in otherwise progressive U.S. states. On the other side of the fence, gay men often resent and even dislike other gay men who seem “too straight”—they see us as somehow traitors to the fictitious “gay community,” believing that “straight acting” automatically means “closeted.”

We have to reach back into antiquity—the pederastic pornography of the Warren Cup and the homoerotic poetry of ancient Greece, to find an equivalent to the popularity of the younger, receptive partner in a gay male relationship—the shounan/shonen (受男), who are now, as in times past, held up by countless men, women and girls in China and Japan as the epitome of male perfection. Their female fans even self-define as 腐女—literally “rotten women,” meaning women who have been corrupted by their obsession with effeminate, young gay men.

This isn’t to say that Asian standards of beauty are somehow inherently deviant. Flick through your average glossy magazine and you’ll see ample evidence that the Chinese public like their men muscled, heavily-browed and slick and their women willowy, large-eyed and fair-skinned. I struggle to tell the interchangeable female “presenters” of most TV shows apart, so alike are they in skin tone, body shape, and facial characteristics.

Li Yugang, the modern-day Mei Lanfang.

However, there seems to be a greater tolerance in China and elsewhere in Asia for different varieties of beauty—even those which are in the West inextricably linked with alternative sexualities. The Chinese classic Dream of the Red Chamber is stuffed with meizhengtai “beauties”—led by the boyish Jia Baoyu, who demonstrates an uncanny power to ensnare both men and women through a combination of coquettishness, innocence and a cultivated bearing. Queer beauties even make their way to the top echelons of the mainstream entertainment industry—female impersonator Li Yugang, to many the rightful heir to 1930s opera star Mei Lanfang, has made a career out of exhibiting a fragile and utterly feminine beauty on stage. In the West, female impersonators outside mainstream gay entertainment are comic figures—while women playing roles intended for men (Felicity Huffman’s spectacular turn in Transamerica or Cate Blanchett’s less-impressive performance as Bob Dylan in I’m Not There) are commonplace, the reverse almost never occurs outside of comedy. Lady Gaga can get away with costumes and styling even David Bowie would have thought twice about—for the simple reason that gender roles for women are, in Western culture, more fluid than those assigned to men.

Felicity Huffman in Transamerica.

Such feminized, scholarly men remain, in China, one ideal, the other being the tough, muscled warrior. However, neither seems to hold dominance over mainstream aesthetics. For every masculine Huang Xiaoming, there’s a feminine Chen Kun. Some celebrities even manage to straddle a dividing line between masculine and feminine beauty—Korean pop king Rain is a good example of this. As the saying goes, “radish or celery, everyone’s got their own favorite” (萝卜青菜，各有所爱), the equivalent of “different strokes for different folks.” Why is the same not true in the West when it comes to standards of physical beauty? Is it mass media that tells women that the only attractive men are the brutish, hunky hard-drinking types? Or have we just bought in to the notion voiced by Robbie Williams that “all the handsome men are gay,” meaning that the slender, quiet and bookish are ruled out as a sexual prospect for women, making their attractiveness merely an academic debate?

Why is it that we can’t embrace the beauty of a feminine, and most likely gay, man? I can’t help but feel that those people, both Chinese and foreign, who have responded to the Push Push Baby video above with ridicule or disgust are simply made uncomfortable by the appropriation of flirtatious female gestures by a young man. In short, he’s flirting with everyone watching. Men and women in Asia seem to have a knack for learning to enjoy this discomfort, perhaps the way we enjoy secretly viewing naughty pictures online from our office cubicle—we know it’s wrong, but it feels good and adds some spice to our lives. I’m here to tell you that it’s natural to feel stirrings when someone objectively beautiful dances on the dividing line between male and female. Maybe I’m just a rancid old queen who can’t think outside his own perverted brain-pan, but it would be nice if it became okay for all of us to appreciate the beauty of the human form, in all its many permutations, regardless of whether or not the person we’re admiring plays on our team.

Little Yueyue in the hospital.

Nearly everyday when I take the subway I hear the same refrain, “‘Respect the old and cherish the young’ is a traditional Chinese virtue.” So how does one make sense of the news that a two-year-old child was run over twice and passed by no less than 17 people before she was helped?

“Girl Who Was Hit Ignored by Passersby” is currently the most talked-about topic on Weibo and there is even a dedicated page which encourages users who care to write a post using the tag #please stop indifference. A notice on the list of “hot topics” says, “Please stop indifference! Don’t let Little Yueyue’s tragedy be repeated.” But sadly, Yueyue’s story is itself a repeat. Last September, a man was arrested for running over a three-year-old repeatedly in his BMW. That little boy is dead.

Viewed in this way, it is unlikely that pledges to prevent this kind of thing from happening again will be fulfilled. The problem is not as simple as arresting and punishing the drivers of the two cars that ran her over. If Yueyue dies, she will not have died of a car accident—she will have died of indifference. Two separate people drove over her. Seventeen people walked past her prostrate body. Any of these people could have saved her life. All of these people had the power to do what was morally right, regardless of the consequences. And yet none of them, not a single person, decided to help this child.

According to a damning report in China Daily, the driver was talking on his phone when he hit the girl. What’s more, he made the argument that should be familiar to us all by now:

“If she is dead, I may pay only about 20,000 yuan ($3,125). But if she is injured, it may cost me hundreds of thousands yuan,” said the driver over the phone to the media, before he gave himself up to the police.

It’s not a stretch to say that Chinese society is broken. The social contract has eroded. Values and virtues exist largely in school books. No one thing or person is at fault. This breakdown is the result of a confluence of factors: a political party that has destroyed their people’s faith and culture and can only replace them with material wealth; a government that is largely indifferent to the plight of the people it ostensibly represents, a government that emphasizes economic development at the cost of all else; a society that worships money because money is the only thing that can buy you safety; a weak legal system that, in this and many other cases, incentivizes immoral behavior; and citizens who are too scared to do the right thing, citizens who are willing and eager to sell their dignity for stability.

If I may take a moment to speak directly to any Chinese citizens that might stumble upon these words:

I know you’re scared. I know you just want a stable life. I know you want to go to a good college and get a good job and find a good wife and have a healthy child. I know in this dog-eat-dog world there are plenty of workers but not enough jobs, plenty of mouths but not enough food, plenty of things but not enough money. So it’s easy to see your neighbor as your enemy. It’s easy to think of their gain as your loss. It’s easy to say, I’m just going to keep my head down and worry about myself, worry about my child, worry about my family, and everyone else is on their own.

But, if everyone thinks that way, will this still be a society that you would want to live in? Do you really want to live in a society full of enemies, a society where every day is a battle, a society where all the fables about right and wrong you learned as a child are just that?

One person’s pain is the entire society’s responsibility. One person’s suffering is the entire society’s sorrow. Everyone is implicated in this tragedy, from the very bottom to the very top. If you are too cowardly to ensure that society advances in a positive direction, then you will have no one to blame when it is your child in the middle of the street. This is your country. This is your society. Whether you like it or not. Whether you choose to be a part of it or not.

Do not be indifferent. Do not let innocent children pay for your indifference. Do not close your eyes. The monsters will still be there when you open them.

UPDATE: Little Yueyue has passed away.

In both cases, it was determined that equipment failure triggered by inclement weather were to blame. So it’s been a tempestuous year for really fast locomotives but people still crowded into train stations to buy tickets simply because they have no choice—airplane tickets were too expensive and everything else was too slow.

My fellow contributor Abby Fitzgibbon, whom I was going to visit in Shanghai, begged me to take any means of travel other than the high-speed train but I didn’t listen. I willingly put my life in the dutiful hands of the Ministry of Railways because I relished the fear of death. I wanted to know what it felt like to knowingly put my life in danger, to make an actuarial calculation of what my life was worth and how much I was willing to risk it, to play dice with death and see who’d come out on top. I told her I’d buy a motorcycle helmet for the trip and picked the fastest train possible.

—

I stepped on the train ready to die. I knew, rationally, that an accident was unlikely—thousands of passenger trains run everyday and recently the government had lowered the maximum speed on the fastest commutes and recalled a number of trains on the Beijing-Shanghai route over safety concerns. Still, my mind focused on the recent… malfunctions of the Chinese railway system.

The train pulled out of the station into a clear Beijing morning. As we got rolling, I played through various worst-case scenarios:

1. The train, going at a maximum speed of 300 km/h derails. I’m in the middle of the train. The car rips apart like a pencil snapping in half. We cartwheel into the fields. I am knocked unconscious by an oversized piece of luggage. The rescue crew buries me alive.

2. We rear-end another train. I am far enough from the front of the train to survive the initial impact. But I fly forward from my seat at roughly 300 km/h, leaving a George-shaped hole in seat 5B.

3. Our train stops randomly. We have ten minutes to live before the next train smashes into us. I try jumping out of the windows but they are locked. The attendants tell everyone to stay in their seats but I know we’re all going to die. I contemplate having sex for the last time or robbing the food car but don’t because what if we don’t die, how embarrassing would that be?

The train was cruising by the time my paranoia subsided. Besides the sharp jolt every time we crossed another train, the ride was incredibly smooth. The trees lining the track passed just a little too quickly, like footage from a sped-up video. I made a game of spotting farmers amid the verdant green of their geometrically partitioned fields.

As the countryside flowed past, my mind drifted to the tragedy on July 23. None of the passengers knew they were going to die that day. Perhaps few would have even thought a train collision on the high-speed rail, the crown jewel of China’s infrastructure boom, possible.

But everything is impossible until it happens, and what has happened once can happen again.

I thought back to scenario three. If my train stopped, I would be worried about a collision because I knew of the Wenzhou accident, because there was a precedent. But what about the original passengers of D3115, the train that had stopped on the viaduct? Had they worried about another train ramming into them from behind, or was that outside the realm of possibility? Conversely, did anyone on D301, the train that ultimately ran into D3115, dream that their train would collide with another one stopped on the track?

If I hadn’t known about the Wenzhou accident, or if it had never happened, I probably wouldn’t have contemplated my own mortality before purchasing a high-speed rail ticket.

But more and more, I am forced to think about death, the premature and unnatural kind. Every new scandal reveals one more aspect of Chinese society to be unsafe. Every fuerdai beating makes me afraid to walk in front of riced-out BMWs. Every food scandal sullies another tier of the food pyramid. Every building fire makes me sleep just a little worse.

Indeed, there are only two ways to feel safe in China. One is to have enough money to insulate yourself from these dangers—to buy imported foods, to fly instead of taking the high-speed, to be the one administering the beatings instead of the one receiving them. The other way—the only way available for most Chinese—is to know as little as possible, to shut your eyes and smile.

Most of us live somewhere between these two extremes. We know the dangers but cannot avoid them. So we live in fear or resignation.

When it comes to some things, the less I know the better. I don’t want to know if my favorite restaurant uses gutter oil. I don’t want to know if my building has adequate fire protection. I don’t want to know what the Beijing air is doing to my lungs. Because even if I did know, what could I do about it?

I had a great weekend in Shanghai. I went to an art and fashion exhibition near the Cool Docks. I survived the high-speed train ride there and back, no power outages, no nothing. It was only after I got back to Beijing that I heard about the subway accident. It had occurred on the same line we took to the art exhibition, and at the same stop we had gotten off at not three days before.

Talk about a close call.

The key to this proportional response comes from the government’s ability to apply direct and indirect pressure on offenders. They use a variety of enforcement methods to ensure cooperation from the subject.

The concept in China is called ruanjian (“soft prison”), perhaps roughly corresponding to house arrest in English. However, ruanjian is far more nuanced than simple house arrest. It can be as simple as an athletic young man in a crew-cut following you wherever you go and sitting in a car outside your house at night, to full-on imprisonment in a small rural cottage, surrounded by bright floodlights and blaring speakers, with no phones or visitors.

Denying travel permits or roughing up journalists are only part of the picture.

The practice of collective responsibility (which hearkens back to the Qin dynasty) also ensures that people peripheral to the issue may feel the need to get involved in order to protect themselves. Methods used can vary from banning visits to grandchildren, or putting pressure on companies to fire friends and relatives.

If this doesn’t work, exile is often practiced as a lesser form of prison, usually termed as Re-education through Labor. The offender is packed off to the distant northwest, to spend several years doing hard labor. No one is exempt, not even septuagenarians protesting during the Olympics.

The government excels at finding the best leverage to use against the offender. They tend to target the livelihood and reputation of the offender. Additionally, in order to maintain plausible deniability, rather than using emergency laws or vague charges of sedition, they typically find some other excuse that is not overtly political.

Some of the best examples recently are of Ai Weiwei and the Xinjiang 13.  Ai Weiwei famously had his million dollar studio demolished practically overnight by the Shanghai municipal authorities (ostensibly because of permitting issues), and was later arrested on tax fraud charges. While there was clearly a political motive behind those actions, the stated reasons provide a legitimate-sounding, banal cover that permits them to claim non-political motivations.

The Xinjiang 13 are another example.  They are 13 American professors who published a report on Xinjiang in 2004.  Disliking the tone, China has quietly blacklisted them and is not granting them entry visas into the country. American universities, afraid of pissing off the Chinese, have not made much of a fuss. Instead, they almost fired one of them because they couldn’t go to China. I daresay any prospective Xinjiang scholar from here on out will think twice before publishing something overtly critical of the Chinese government’s behavior in Xinjiang.

The government’s use of indirect coercive methods tailored to the offense and the offender are some of the strongest tools in its toolbox. Rather than dismissing the offender as a miscreant and throwing them in jail, they do their best to understand the protesters. Then, armed with this understanding, they have the power to truly hit them where it hurts.

By controlling the flow of information, they possess a strong ability to control the narrative of a given story. While it is not especially difficult to get around the Great Firewall, the question that most Chinese people ask themselves is: “Why bother?” China has successfully cast the media narrative as an “us vs them” situation, where foreign sources are automatically biased against China. The average Chinese person feels little incentive to seek out foreign sources of news for a different point of view.  Similarly, despite there being almost no barriers to access, not many Americans actively seek out Al-Jazeera for a second opinon on world affairs.

Most Western media reports focus on the most basic of censorship methods—like blocked searches for sensitive keywords, deletion of blog posts, or media blackouts on certain news items. However, far more insidious than that is the censorship that editors impose upon themselves.

The genius here is that the Chinese government does not provide any general policies or guidelines on censorship. Meaning that, since you don’t know the criteria for censorship, you can never know if you will be censored. Therefore, authors will subtly alter their writings in the hopes that it will be more acceptable to their censors. As Murong Xueqin memorably puts it,

I call this “castrated writing” — I am a proactive eunuch, I have already castrated myself even before the surgeon raises his scalpel.

(His entire speech is priceless, read the full text of “Absurdities of China’s Censorship System.”)

Without an explicitly proscribed list, China allows censors the freedom to keep up with the zeitgeist and memes without allowing critics to say, “But this isn’t on the list yet!” It leaves writers with the hope that their work will be published, but with enough uncertainty that they will restrain their criticism.

Many of the more ridiculous directives, like the ban on time travel stories on television, serve a different purpose: discouraging people from playing the “What If?” game and applying it to the current government.

Much has been made of subversive internet language, as documented in the Grass Mud Horse Lexicon, and how it has evolved as a way to get around China’s censorship. How many of you understand the meaning of “watered weasel ape” or “Which work unit are you from?” Even most netizens don’t. These references are an in-joke among China’s netizens—precisely the ones who have benefited the most from China’s economic policies. They are primarily urban, well-educated, and affluent. In other words, the only ones who understand the subversive language are the ones who have the most to lose by subverting the system.

Many people underestimate the true subtlety of China’s censorship system. The genius is not in how effectively they censor what is already there. The genius is how they forestall people from putting ideas in the public space in the first place.

Ten years ago, I knew nothing of politics. I knew nothing of the struggle for power and the insatiable human lust for domination and violence. But I knew, from the faces of my teachers, that the world had shifted; that there was no going back to September 10.

In the last decade, regardless of what politicians say in their memorial speeches, Americans have lived in the shadow of 9/11. The heightened awareness—some might say fear—of terrorism led to a new government department, two intractable wars, and an ongoing Islamophobia. Words like “international terrorism,” “Islamic fundamentalism,” and “suicide bomber” are now common parlance. Only the death of Osama bin Laden offered some scant comfort to anxious Americans.

The world, too, has awakened to the threat of terrorism. The 2004 train bombings in Madrid, the 2005 bombings in London, the 2010 subway bombings in Moscow, and the 2011 bombings in Mumbai, to name a few, prove definitively that terrorism, specifically Islamic terrorism, is a war waged on a global scale. Al-Qaeda’s vision of a pan-Islamic state knows no boundaries.

The unwelcome realization that a few nihilistic sociopaths with nothing more than a wild imagination and some illicit funding can perpetrate violence anywhere and to anyone is the real lesson of 9/11. No one is safe from their derangement.

—

Aftermath from one of the three Fuzhou bombs.

But there are places in the world where it is still September 10. China is one of them. Though there have been terrorist attacks in China, most recently in Hotan and Kashgar in July which left 18 and 22 dead, respectively, there has not been a major event in a major city—there has been no 9/11. Most of these sporadic attacks have occured in Xinjiang, at the hands of the Uighur minority, and are ethnically or religiously motivated. However, 2011 also gave us the Fuzhou, Jiangxi bombings in May which killed three people and was perpetrated by a Han man with a grudge against the government.

But despite these disturbing events, awareness of terrorism remains low. This is predominantly due to the government’s belief that boots on the ground is a valid solution to any problem. The more dangerous the situation, the more soldiers dispatched. But this a reactionary measure, not a preventative one.

In addition, government censorship of news about the attacks and the official line that China is a harmonious nation dampens public awareness of potential threats. In the long run, this false sense of security could prove dangerous. Vigilant citizens are a powerful tool against terrorism, but how do you look out for suspicious activity when you don’t expect there to be any?

Indeed, many Chinese cheered when the twin towers came down, believing it to be just reward for American arrogance. (Of course, those same people probably felt scandalized when Sharon Stone made a similar argument after the Sichuan earthquake.) This way of thinking is predicated on three false assumptions: that China is not arrogant; that something akin to 9/11 could never occur in China; and that terrorist groups, being the enemy of China’s enemy, is somehow China’s friend. I wonder if those same people would cheer today.

The government is also careful to craft its enemies. This strategy works well to consolidate power by promoting nationalism and deflect blame from themselves. Japan and America are perennial targets but the government is loathe to air any of its own dirty laundry. Compare the angry condemnations by the government when Japanese leaders visit the Yasukuni Shrine, or when American presidents meet with the Dalai Lama with the media blackout or strict directives following the Sichuan earthquake and the Wenzhou train collision. It’s less a double standard than parallel universes.

This tactic extends to domestic problems as well. Tibetan unrest is stirred up by the Dalai Lama, Xinjiang uprisings are fomented by Rebiya Kadeer; nothing is the result of unjust government policies, corruption, or ethnic favoritism. The two latest attacks in July were tenuously linked to the shadowy East Turkestan Islamist Movement (ETIM), which has claimed responsibility for attacks in the past. But ETIM could have ties to Al-Qaeda and Pakistan, which has close relations with China and which, as America well knows, has no qualms about playing both sides. But last week, a group called the Turkistan Islamic Party claimed responsibility for the attacks in July. Experts are unsure if this group is an offshoot of ETIM or ETIM operating under another name.

There are no easy answers in the fight against global terrorism, no straight-forward cause and effect. Blaming someone does not make them guilty. Paying someone does not buy their support. But it is easier to invade a country than to reform an outdated foreign policy, easier to lash outward than to face your own demons.

A country cannot truly face terrorism if it does not truly face itself. This applies as much to America as it does to China. The Chinese government chooses to live in a world of black-and-white because it is easier than living in one of unappetizing shades of gray. They filter bad news like a flight attendant who doesn’t point out the emergency exits for fear of scaring the passengers. This unrealistic approach to reality can only harm the Chinese people.

It has been ten years. It is time we realize that terrorism is not just the enemy of America, or of developed nations, but the enemy of anyone who would seek to effect change through peace and negotiation. 9/11 was not a declaration of war against America—it was a declaration of war against the world, against tolerance and against pluralism.

However, we also need to realize that terrorism feeds on the angry, disenfranchised, abused, and neglected people in the world. If we decline to accommodate their basic needs, refuse to understand their hopes, and reject their attempts at negotiation, they will turn to violence, not because they seek it, but because we have given them no other alternative.

For a country like China—so large, so populous, so varied, and with growing unrest and a large Muslim population—to not take the threat of terrorism seriously, is nothing short of masochistic. It has been ten years. It’s time to wake up.

Sources:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-pacific-14834042
http://english.aljazeera.net/news/asia-pacific/2011/08/20118514622587173.html

The maintenance of stability in the Middle East and other countries, such as Russia or Venezuela, depends heavily on one thing: petrodollars. Generous government subsidies funded by oil or gas reserves help keep the population sedated—up to a point, as we can see from the Arab Spring. Others, like Cuba, depend heavily on a cult of personality built around the leader himself. But the largest authoritarian country in the world has neither vast natural resources nor a hypnotically charismatic leader. In fact, the opposite—China is resource poor, and its leaders are famously wooden-faced and stiff.

So how, then, do they maintain social order? Is it through the justness of their social policies? Is it through strong institutions? Or is it though respect for and commitment to their citizens? Anyone at all familiar with China knows that this is not the case.

Instead, social order is maintained through the one method in which Chinese government has surpassed any country in history in their level of skill, finesse, and achievement: repression.

China’s system is a far cry from the brute force “toss them in jail and throw away the key” approach that typically characterizes other repressive regimes. Instead, it is a multi-pronged, holistic, and responsive approach to unrest. It utilizes different levels of force depending on the subject, applying both direct and indirect pressure. It selectively makes examples of people, rather than attempting to punish all transgressors. The Chinese system is also far more responsive to events, showing both flexibility and ruthlessness in dealing with public response. In short, they have created the world’s most subtle repressive system.

In the weeks to follow, I will be detailing the many working parts of this system. In the meantime, I entreat you all to comment on the following question:

What is the most impressive/overlooked/effective feature of the Chinese internal security system?

Beijing is two cities. One is of power and of money. People don’t care who their neighbors are; they don’t trust you. The other city is one of desperation. I see people on public buses, and I see their eyes, and I see they hold no hope. They can’t even imagine that they’ll be able to buy a house. They come from very poor villages where they’ve never seen electricity or toilet paper.

Thus begins Ai Weiwei’s concise and lucid evaluation of Beijing, in which he alludes to the myriad indemnities of the city. In roughly chronological order: poor treatment of migrant workers, official corruption, unaffordable house prices, preferential treatment of foreigners, lack of health care, lack of an independent judiciary, rule of power, Beijing’s lack of vitality, black jails, arbitrary justice. He ends with a simple conlusion:

Beijing is a nightmare. A constant nightmare.

Though I think Ai’s piece faithfully captures the polarization of Beijing and Chinese society in general toward boundlessly rich and interminably poor, I can’t help but wonder why he wrote it. Is he fed up? Or is he back to his old tricks?

Last time I wrote about Ai, he had just been released from jail and taken a job at a university in Berlin. There weren’t any follow-ups to that report and I can’t find any definitive information on where Ai is now so I assume he is still under house arrest in Beijing.

His piece is purposefully dark and hyperbolic, and intensely critical of almost every aspect of Beijing life. (He gives the city some credit: “People still give birth to babies. There are a few nice parks.”) Beijing, the seat of power and a first-tier city, represents the direction that the country, along with many second- and third-tier cities, will take in the future. It is a scary vision to be sure.

Compare this with James Miles’ response in The Economist to the question, “What is the capital of the world?”:

Sadly, the answer has to be Beijing. Sadly because it is a city neither of physical charm (except in the few remaining neighbourhoods of imperial-era alleyways), nor of great culture (few are in awe of Beijing’s museums, theatre or music), nor even of breathable air (the Olympic games in 2008 marked a rare smog-free period). Its politics win few admirers. Citizens enjoy far more freedom than they did 30 years ago, but not to oppose the Communist Party. Beijing is not even especially welcoming to outsiders. No matter how long they stay, foreigners cannot acquire citizenship. It has just put up new barriers to migrants from the rest of China, making it almost impossible for most of them to buy cars or homes (to ease traffic jams and keep housing affordable, ostensibly).

Praise doesn’t get more begrudging than that.

It’s true though, no one seems to like this city. Conversations with locals, most of them originally from somewhere else, often drift toward complaining about the traffic or the weather; people are genuinely puzzled when I tell them I chose to be here.

And yet there are 20 million people in this city, and most of them choose to be here too, though many, I imagine, had few other options. Beijing boasts the most prestigious universities in China, the largest companies, one of the highest per capita incomes, and the best job prospects for corrupt officials and migrant workers alike. But people lament this city just like they lament the government, because they are powerless to change either—it’s just another force you have to live with.

They always tell me, “Weiwei, leave the nation, please.” Or “Live longer and watch them die.” Either leave, or be patient and watch how they die. I really don’t know what I’m going to do.

That’s basically the choice people make every day, and students at least are overwhelming choosing the former. China Daily reported that since 1978, only 30 percent of Chinese students have come back after studying abroad. (In fact, my parents are among the 1.6 million who never came back.) Countless times I’ve heard students sigh, “I can’t change my country, so I have to change myself.” Perhaps Twain would have rendered it, “I can’t change my country, so I’ll change my country.” For students today, going abroad is as much about escape as it is about education. What kind of life these students face overseas is another story, but many think it can’t be worse than what they have now.

I won’t go as far as Ai—I don’t think Beijing is two cities, but it’s getting there. It’s becoming a city of haves and have-nots. A city of fuerdai and qiongerdai. A city of those that can do anything and those that can do nothing. The only choices in a world like this are escape, resignation, and violence.

What will become of Beijing? If we look to the past, one thing’s for sure: the ones who steer this city won’t be the critics outside the system, or the foreign countries angling for control and influence. It will be, just as it was in the age of emperors, those cloistered in the heart of the city, those with all the power, the few who decide the fate of the many. At least for now.

On August 3, in her first television interview since the Red Cross Society scandal, Guo Meimei appeared on Ningxia television’s “Decoding Finance” with her mother, Guo Dengfeng. The host, “Larry” Lang Xianping, an economics professor at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, put on the kiddiest of kid gloves for the 20-minute interview and allowed Guo and her mom to prattle on even as they made outlandish claims and contradicted previous reports. But here was their chance to set the story straight, or at least recite the answers they’ve rehearsed for the last month.

Note: The following translation has been edited for clarity and omits certain phrases and interjections.

“Business General Manager of the Red Cross”

This claim by Guo Meimei, namely that she was the “business general manager” of the Red Cross Society of China, was what initially drew suspicion from netizens. How could a 20-year-old girl working for a charity organization afford a Maserati? In the interview, Guo explains that this was all a misunderstanding:

Lang Xianping: Why did you say that you were the business general manager of the Red Cross? Tell us the truth.

Guo Meimei: Actually, I was having dinner with my godfather and them… then, during dinner, they were chatting and I overheard them talking about establishing a company called Zhong Hong Bo Ai.

Lang: Zhong Hong Bo Ai is a subordinate of the Red Cross, right? A subsidiary?

Guo: I think it cooperates with a Chamber of Commerce under the Red Cross—

Lang: Right, Red Cross established the Commercial Red Cross, below that there’s a company called Wang Ding Corporation. Wang Ding Corporation made the Zhong Hong Bo Ai you’re talking about.

Guo: I think you’re right.

Lang: I’m just explaining it for you.

Guo: Because my godfather and them always dote on me, after they finished talking about their business, they told me to come work for the company after it’s established. I said, “Okay, but if it’s anything below general manager level”—I was joking—”I won’t do it.” They said, “Then we’ll let you be general manager.” Actually they were just placating me like a child, and I didn’t really believe them. After a few days, I was on Weibo… because all the friends I follow, they’ve all written [on their profile] something like “President” or “CEO,” and I guess it was vanity or competitiveness that made me change my Sina-verified job from singer and actress to China Red Cross Business General Manager. Actually at that time I didn’t even know the name of the company was Zhong Hong Bo Ai. I only knew that it was China-something Red-something, I only remembered those two words, so I just changed it to China Red Cross.

Lang: But this thing alone wouldn’t have evoked such a big reaction. What did you do to shock the netizens like this? Other than writing this, did you do or say anything else?

Guo: Because I don’t have a job right now, everyday I just sit at home or go shopping with my friends or go out, so that day I wrote on my Weibo, “Everyday I have to go to English class, swim, and study how to be general manager of the Red Cross.” Because that night at dinner we joked, I said, “How can I be a general manager? I’m so young I don’t know anything.”

…

Guo: Then [my godfather] said, “If you don’t know then learn.” So that day I was at home on the Internet, I was bored, and I suddenly remembered what my godfather said that day, so I changed it, I said that I was going to study how to be general manager of the Red Cross. I didn’t think it would become such a big thing.

Believe it or not I actually sympathize with Guo Meimei. If this story is true, then she shows a surprising amount of self-awareness and self-reflection. At least she knows she’s young and doesn’t know anything—there are plenty of fuerdai that would be more than happy to take a job they are completely unqualified for, just ask Wen Jiabao’s relatives.

I believe her when she says that vanity that caused her to embellish her resume; it must be hard being so untalented compared to your friends on Weibo. But I have to be critical of her explanation of the situation. It is clear that she has no idea what she’s talking about. I mean, this almost as bad as Paris Hilton on Larry King trying to answer questions about the Bible or Sarah Palin trying to answer questions about anything. Come on, you had a month to prepare. The producers showed you the questions beforehand. I thought you were an actress. The Chinese public deserves a better performance than this.

Who is Wang Jun?

Okay, so Guo Meimei doesn’t work for the Red Cross, it was just a joke that got out of hand. But who is this Wang Jun guy who resigned from the board of directors of a company affiliated with the Red Cross Society as a result of this scandal? Surely he’s not her godfather.

Lang: So this godfather of yours, is he Wang Jun?

Guo: Yes, he’s not the Wang Jun of the Red Cross as they say online. I saw some reports that said there maybe was a vice-chairman in the Red Cross also named Wang Jun. [My godfather] is from Shenzhen, he’s a businessman.

Lang: Is he a private entrepreneur?

Guo: All I know is he’s a businessman.

Lang: Do you know what he does?

Guo: I think he’s a real estate investor or something.

Lang: Well, Mrs. Guo, the relationship between you and Meimei’s godfather is husband-wife or are you unrelated?

Mother: There is no relationship.

Lang: Your surname is Guo, your daughter’s surname is Guo, so she took your last name?

Mother: Yes, she took my last name.

Lang: So does that mean you and her father have already…

Mother: We separated a long time ago.

Lang: You mean divorced?

Mother: We separated before she was even born.

So Wang Jun a.k.a. the godfather a.k.a. the boyfriend is the one who was talking over dinner about establishing Zhong Hong Bo Ai, otherwise known as the China Red Cross Bo’ai Asset Management Ltd. Corp. Wang, I love joking about nepotism as much as the next guy, but for Christ’s sake tell your girlfriend not to tweet, even jokingly, about your corruption—it makes you look amateurish. Look at former minister of railways Liu Zhijun. This guy had 18 mistresses, embezzled $150 million, and still kept his job for eight years. Now he didn’t accomplish that by letting his girls run their mouths.

What I don’t get is: if Wang Jun is Guo Meimei’s boyfriend and stepfather, she seems to know precious little about what he does. But I suppose you don’t need to know too much about a person if you’re only sleeping with them for money. Or maybe she’s just trying to protect him, though it’s a little late for that if you ask me. Lang comes back to Wang Jun’d role in this scandal later in the interview.

Guo Meimei and her Maserati.

Fun, Fun, Fun, ’til Her Sugar Daddy Takes the Maserati Away

One of the original pictures circulated on Guo Meimei’s blog was her posing in front of a Masterati. How did she get that car, and how did her family come into so much money?

Lang: It says online that you have two cars: one is a Lamborghini, right? The other is a Maserati.

Guo: No, no, one is a Masterati, the other is a Mini Cooper.

Lang: The Mini Cooper was…

Guo: Bought by my mother.

Lang: (to Guo Dengfeng) You gave it to her?

Guo: It was my 18th birthday present.

I wish my mommy loved me that much. Lang declines to ask about where the Maserati came from (he will come back to it) and instead questions the elder Guo’s finances.

Prize Stock

Lang: Your family was always relatively wealthy?

Mother: I don’t think you can say we were very rich, but we always had enough. Because in 1990, before [Guo Meimei] was born, I already had two houses in Shenzhen and a couple million yuan in cash. That time I had the money to raise her; I could not work and raise her.

I have to stop her right here. If you think that 20 years ago in China, having two houses and a couple million yuan in cash doesn’t qualify as rich, then that says something about how warped your world view is. But please, continue.

Lang: So what do you do now?

Mother: I started buying stocks in 1990, investing in the stock market… I used stocks to make my fortune. I started early; when I started investing I only had five stocks. There weren’t even computers.

Lang: Do you remember the name of the stocks?

Mother: Yeah.

Lang: Tell me their names.

Mother: One was Fazhan, another was Jintian; Wanke, and Anda, and another Yuanye.

Lang: How much money did you make with these stocks?

Mother: I made several million. I only had a couple ten-thousand yuan. I made a few million in a few months. At that time prices could go up several ten yuan a day.

This is where the interview veers into arched-eyebrow territory. Unfortunately, I don’t know enough about the Chinese stock market to call bullshit, but, if her story is true, then she possesses an unparalleled level of financial prescience or some incredible guanxi. A note to Mr. Lang: I’m not Barbara Walters or anything but now would be the time to ask something like, “Mrs. Guo, could you tell me exactly how in the fuck that is possible?” Again, Lang, who drew a considerable amount of flak for this interview, misses the opportunity to engage with the real issues. Instead, he delivers a soliloquy about morality that Chinese drama students will be auditioning with for years to come.

On Morality

Lang: Why are so many focused on your personal matters? I don’t care if [Wang Jun is] your godfather or your boyfriend. If it’s his own money—if he made it legally—then no one can say anything about what he gives you, because it’s your private business. But, if he is an official, then our society cannot accept it, because officials’ salaries are limited. Unless he’s got it through corruption, he wouldn’t be able to give you such an expensive car, right? If it’s the Red Cross’ money, then we definitely cannot accept it.

What is the Red Cross’ duty? They raise donations from average citizens, then use it according to the citizens’ wishes to help those in need. This is why when you associated yourself with the Red Cross, public sentiment was seething and extremely negative. Because in their eyes, they think, “I managed to scrape some money together to donate to the Red Cross, but due to their corruption, a part of the money was used to buy you a multi-million yuan car, a Maserati.” Of course [they] can’t accept it, and public opinion finds [this] difficult to bear.

This is why when you tweet, saying you twisted your foot while dancing—we estimated there were about 40,000 comments, almost all of them were insulting you, and very severely. All kinds of profane insults, some even include your mother. Why has it turned into this kind of situation? If society thinks that the money you used to buy this car was diverted from Red Cross donations, then this is beyond terrible.

Thanks for the civics lesson Dr. Lang but this is something Guo Meimei’s mother should have taught her when she was a child. Of course this didn’t happen because Guo Dengfeng is a soulless aristocrat. If you want to know why China is becoming more and more stratified and why the strata are becoming more calcified, look no further.

All during this stern talking-to, Guo Meimei is struggling to show that she understands what he’s saying. Given, it might be hard for her to move her facial muscles after all that plastic surgery. Even when he launches into the hilarious last paragraph, she retains a glazed look of what I imagine must be bewilderment.

Left: Guo Meimei struggling to understand why corruption is bad. Right: Guo Meimei hearing that netizens have insulted her and her mother. Try to spot the differences.

Wang Jun Revisited

Finally, Lang turns the conversation back to Wang Jun, the shadowy businessman/godfather/boyfriend behind all of this, but first a caveat:

Lang: So right now on this program I have to be sure; I want to ask you specifically about this. This Wang Jun guy is an entrepreneur—of course, I have no way of authenticating or verifying what you say. All I can do is ask you, and you answer according to what I said earlier about honesty and sincerity, tell our good friends in the audience. I think this is the best attitude to have, alright?

Oh great, the honor system. I’m sure this will lead to honest and fruitful answers. Is this really the point of the interview? To provide Guo Meimei and her mother a platform to prevaricate on national television without the interviewer exercising any semblance of editorial judgment? Fuck it, let’s hear your story.

Lang: Let me ask you again, Wang Jun, according to what you said, is in the real estate business, right?

Guo: Right.

Lang: Then what money did he use to buy you this car?

Guo: The money he made from business, I guess.

Lang: We said before, the Red Cross has under it something called the Commercial Red Cross. Under that is Wang Ding Company. Under Wang Ding Company is the Zhong Hong Bo Ai you mentioned. What position does [Wang Jun] have in Zhong Hong Bo Ai?

Guo: As far as I know, this Zhong Hong Bo Ai works with [a company] under the Red Cross…

Lang: It has something to do with Wang Ding Corporation, right?

Here Guo Meimei looks utterly lost, which prompts Lang to backtrack.

Lang: But you don’t need to know because you aren’t an expert in this area, and we don’t want to know. In your understanding, Wang Jun is a board member of Zhong Hong Bo Ai, right, according to this information?

Guo: I think he’s a nominal director who has invested money.

Lang: How much money did he invest?

Guo: I heard them say, altogether about 60-70 million yuan, he invested 10 million or so.

Lang: Has he resigned? According to reports, it seems he is no longer a director.

Guo: I don’t know but the other day I heard him say to my mom that he didn’t plan on doing that anymore.

Lang: When was that?

Guo: A few days ago. A while ago.

Lang: He invested in Zhong Hong Bo Ai. Did he make any money from that company?

Guo: No. It isn’t operational yet. It’s under construction.

Lang: Because we did a lot of research before, and our reporter went to Zhong Hong Bo Ai and Wang Ding Company to film, and found that it was still under construction, that it had not started to do business.

Guo: Right.

Lang: So what you’re saying is, Wang Jun, after investing 10 million yuan or so, no longer wants to [be a director]? Has he withdrawn the money?

Guo: He doesn’t plan on keeping the money.

Lang: He doesn’t plan on keeping the money. He must be pretty rich! [Laughs]

Guo: He said as much.

Lang: It’s okay. As long as you tell me what you know, because we don’t need to get into whether or not this is reasonable.

Guo: I heard him say this to my mother.

Lang: Because you’re still young, you probably are fuzzy on a lot of things and don’t know for sure. Either way, just tell me what you know. Which is to say, he invested this money, and, as far as you know, did not make a single penny from Zhong Hong Bo Ai. Is that what you mean? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?

Talk about leading the witness. It is exchanges like this that caused netizens to wonder whose side Lang was on. I think that Lang, out of sympathy, is trying to help Guo answer these basic, factual questions in order to get to the bottom of the issue; and instead of letting her fall flat on her face, which, I would guess, is what most of the viewing audience wants (hell, it’s what I want), he helps her answer questions she should know the answers to.

Guo: Right.

Mother: Absoluely right, not a single cent.

Guo: Because the company had not started to do business.

Lang: Because the company had not started to do business, so it was impossible for him to earn any money.

Guo: Yes.

Lang: So if we follow this logic—Zhong Hong Bo Ai is not in business. We also checked and it is true, alright? So about his investment, whether or not he can get the 10 million yuan or so he invested back is his business. As far as you know, he said he didn’t want it. I don’t care; it’s not important. The question is: since he didn’t make any money, then the money he used to buy you the car couldnt have been Zhong Hong Bo Ai’s money right?

Guo and her mother: Of course not.

Lang: So it must have been his own money.

I know what Guo and her mother are thinking: shit, it’s this easy? It is when your interviewer helps you answer the questions!

Guo: Right, because—

God dammit let her say something stupid, please. Wait, no, not another soliloquy…

Lang: Of course I believe Zhong Hong Bo Ai has not yet started doing business, therefore it was impossible for him to make money. Unless it was his own money… otherwise I can’t find another reason. Supposing he paid for the gift with his own money, then make a clarification. Of course I can’t help you clarify anything because I don’t understand it fully. I’m just giving you the chance to make a clarification. That is to say, if he really gave you money, then that’s between you two. Whatever relationship you have with your godfather, I don’t care, and I don’t think our society needs to pay such close attention to this issue because he isn’t a government official, and he isn’t a member of the Red Cross, and he didn’t take money from the average citizen, and he didn’t take their donations. He can give you whatever he wants, that’s your business. But the result of our investigation, the only job title he has, the only job title related to the Red Cross, is Zhong Hong Bo Ai, okay? He is a director. But this director, after investing money—because the company is not in business—of course has not made any money. So, if we follow this logic, we can affirm, that the money he gave you was his own.

Guo: Right—

FOR FUCK’S SAKE LET HER TALK.

Lang: If this is so, then if you could make this clarification, I think it would very important to the Red Cross, to yourself, and to Wang Jun. But I hope this is all the truth, okay? All three parties can consequently get rid of these nightmares—these few months of nightmares, okay, alright?

Guo: Because if I had lied, I wouldn’t be sitting here…

This is, like seriously, the worse defense in the world. “Your honor, if I were guilty of embezzling millions of dollars in public funds, why would I be in this courtroom today, pleading my innocence? Surely I would be in the Caymans, sipping a strong cocktail. Therefore, I must be innocent. The defense rests.” But Lang, ever the eager beaver, finishes her sentence for her.

Lang: Right. I believe, if you had lied, you wouldn’t dare come on my show because my questions are very severe. Also, in order to ask you these questions, we did a lot of research in advance. We guarantee that you didn’t lie.

“Very severe” questions don’t really scare liars from what I can tell. Take James Frey on Oprah for example, or any interview with Dick Cheney. I really can’t decide who is the biggest moron here: the brain-dead Paris Hilton impersonator, her mother (who doesn’t really seem fazed by or disappointed in her daughter), or the interviewer who is ANSWERING HIS OWN QUESTIONS.

The Inquiry

Guo: Because when we were coming back from Shenzhen to Beijing, that day when I got off the plane, reporters were taking—

Let me guess, Lang wants to finish her sentence.

Lang: Right, we saw this. We have all the information here today. We have a whole stack, can you see? So our information—

Lang makes a point to flip through the stack of paper on his lap, to show that he’s done his homework. Here, Guo ACTUALLY HAS TO INTERRUPT HIM in order to say something. The more I watch this, the more I feel for Guo. Fucking scary.

Guo: Because the second and third day after we returned… The second day the police requested we go in for an investigation.

Lang: Right, when was this? When you came back to Beijing from Shenzhen?

Guo: Right. We were in the police station for ten hours answering questions. The third day—we were recording our confession—and they were asking us all kinds of questions related to this—

Mother: Inquiry.

Guo: Right, inquiry.

Lang: You two went together?

Mother: She doesn’t understand. It was an inquiry.

Lang: You can’t say “recording a confession,” you two are not criminals. [Laughs]

Mother: She doesn’t understand.

Lang: She’s still young. She’s said a lot of things that are quite funny.

Hahaha, criminals? Of course not! Oh Lang Xianping, you’re such a joker. And how about Guo Meimei? What a doll. I remember when I was her age I didn’t know how to perjure myself correctly either.

Lang: So, you went with her?

Mother: Correct.

Lang: So you spent two days, each day you recorded ten hours or so.

Mother: Right, it was an inquiry. The first day was ten hours, the second was eleven hours or so.

Lang: So what you said during the inquiry is the exactly the same as what you’re telling me now?

Guo and her mother: Yes, exactly the same.

Guo Meimei and her Hermes bag.

Mama’s Got a Brand New Bag

Now, onto the question of her many Hermes bags, which were featured in some pictures on her microblog.

Lang: So, on your microblog you also posted a lot of pictures. You have a lot of Hermes bags, a lot of designer bags, right?

Guo: I want to clarify something…

Mother: I bought those bags.

Lang: Where did you buy them?

Mother: I bought them in Shenzhen.

Lang: You bought them in Luohu, right?

Mother: Yes.

Lang: In Luohu Department store, right? All the bags there are fake, right?

Guo: Yeah, only two are real, the rest are fake.

Lang: Which two are real?

Guo: The green one is real, the other is orange.

Lang: Both are Hermes? Who gave them to you?

Guo: One of them my mom bought. And the green one…

Lang: You bought a real one. You gave her a real one, right?

Mother: I wouldn’t say gave. It’s mine, but she often uses my bags.

Lang: What color is this real bag?

Guo and her mother: Orange.

Lang: The orange one is real, and you [Guo Meimei] also use it?

Mother: Right, she uses mine.

Lang: Who gave you the green one?

Guo: My father gave it to me. My godfather.

Mother: Because I watch the news, and the’re all saying a bunch of stuff that isn’t true.

Lang: Right, and it keeps getting uglier. The more they say the worse it gets.

Mother: Right, it’s all lies. They say she… anyway, in reality all the human flesh search engine stuff is not true. A lot of it isn’t true.

A strange thing happens here. There is a cut to a camera which zooms in on Guo as she starts to cry. Guo dabs at her nose and rubs the discharge on her hand as if it were moisturizer. Because the cut is so jarring and not continuous, it might have caused some viewers to assume that the crying was an act. I happen to disagree.

Lang: You didn’t let her come out [to talk to the media], what was your thought process? Did you want to lie low or what?

Mother:I don’t know, I thought this stuff would blow over in a day or two…

Lang: A lot of things blow over in a day or two.

Mother: Right, I didn’t anticipate that after more than a month there would still be people insulting [her]. When I saw it I was very angry.

Lang: But you two just decided to not make any clarification?

Mother: No, but later on I thought that maybe we still had to come out—we had to come out and make things clear. So that’s why we’re here today.

[Guo's mother and Lang laugh]

During this exchange Guo is crying and finally her mother fishes out a tissue and gives it to her. Then there is an abrupt cut, probably made in the editing room in the interest of time.

The Apology

Here’s what we’ve all been waiting for. This poor soul, misunderstood by society, bares it all in a defense worthy of Socrates himself.

Guo: I always say the wrong thing; it’s been like that my whole life. Either I stay out of trouble, or if I get into trouble—

Lang: You get into big trouble.

Guo: I get into grave trouble. I didn’t do it on purpose, I didn’t know.

Lang: Although I believe that in your whole life you’ve never caused this much of a stir. You certainly have gotten into a lot of trouble. With respect to this situation, which has itself caused so many negative effects, can you tell our audience sincerely and honestly what you’re feeling inside right now?

Guo: I want to say that I am truly very sorry.

Lang: Why?

For the record, this is the first MEANINGFUL QUESTION Lang has asked in approximately 10 minutes.

Guo: I know I’m vain, and tweet that kind of stuff that many common people might not be able to accept. They wonder why her life is so good while they have to work so hard. Actually, I’m deep down a pretty kind person. I wasn’t like this before, maybe girls…

Lang: What does, “wasn’t like this before” mean? What were you like before?

Guo: I wasn’t this extravagant before.

My goodness. Honest answers, great follow-up questions, no interruptions—this is becoming frighteningly close to a real interview. Guo Meimei might really just be a confused ingenue who caught the ire of a jealous public through an honest mistake. Here she shows an understanding of and, more importantly, an empathy for those less fortunate. She even betrays a hint of remorse and self-reflection. I think I’m convinced. Back, BACK you cannibalistic netizens, I won’t let anyone hurt Guo Meimei.

Lang: How long ago was “before”?

Guo: Before I came to Beijing, really. Before I turned 18. I went to Beijing when I was 18.

Lang: Why did you become vain only after arriving in Beijing?

Guo: I don’t know if it was because I got older and encountered society or what. Before, at home, I would conserve electricity and water. If there were a lot of lights on in the house, I would tell my mom to turn off all the lights, tell her not to waste electricity. I said I was afraid that in the future, my children, or my children’s children, wouldn’t have electricity. Because electricity is generated by water, right?

Lang: That isn’t important, that isn’t important. [Laughs]

Guo: Because the earth has a water shortage right?

See? What did I tell you guys? Guo Meimei is innocent. She is a kind, gentle 20-year-old ingenue who was ruined, defiled and defamed by this wretched, bloodsucking city we call Beijing. How could she be at the center of a huge corruption scandal when she doesn’t even know where electricity comes from? I think we can all agree that this interview exonerates her completely. Though to be fair, if it were up to me, people with her intelligence would not be allowed to breed, much less have grandchildren.

Lang: That isn’t important. Let’s not get off topic, otherwise netizens will insult you. Continue, continue.

Guo: So after I went to Beijing, like I went to the Beijing Film Academy for a one-year training course. Afterward, I started acting and met some people in society, even I noticed that I was becoming…

Lang: Mrs. Guo, you two live together. Why do you think she underwent this transformation after going to Beijing? She might not be able to explain it clearly, right? Could it be because of the people you met? Did the film school have a somewhat negative effect on you?

Guo: I wouldn’t say “negative.”

Lang: Uh oh, I brought up film school. That’s going to cause a stir.

Guo: Better not say that.

Guo says this as a joke and both she and Lang chuckle. The tone of the interview has changed so much and you can see Guo’s guard come down. Too bad it’s almost over.

Guo: After I entered society, everyone was very… girls liked to compete with each other.

Lang: What kind of friends do you have? Where did you make these friends? Why would they like competition?

Guo: Where did I make these friends… Actually, if you make me say right now exactly which friends, of course I can’t remember.

Lang: Whatever you do, do not say their names.

Mother: No, she usually just hangs out with her classmates.

Lang: Classmates from film school, right?

Mother: Right.

Lang: About your daughter’s transformation, how do you usually educate her?

Mother: Transformation… Actually, I probably spoiled her from when she was little. Because I’m a single-parent; she doesn’t have a father. I always wanted to give her a little more love…

Lang: Speak candidly. I can understand this. Our audience will understand as well. You are a single-parent family. [Abrupt cut] Well, what do you want to do next?

Mother: Probably get into the entertainment industry.

Just have to interject here: good luck, not even Aaron Spelling could get this face on a TV show.

Lang: Do you have any special plans?

Guo: Not at the moment.

Lang: Wait till things quiet down first?

Guo: I wanted to use Professor Lang’s show in order to clarify some things first.

Lang: Right, the clarifications you made today are very important. Through this opportunity… Let me talk about my personal views. I think the biggest harm to this society is the whole “Business General Manager of the Red Cross” affair.

Guo: I know.

Lang: A rock created a tidal wave. All of the Red Cross’ operational details, thanks to you, have been exposed to the entire country. Of course, this is also a chance for the Red Cross to reform itself. Indeed, if you receive donations and such from us common people, you must have an explanation—you have to take some responsibility. But it doesn’t matter what we say, even though you yourself made an honest mistake—of course I can criticize you for doing something wrong—but with regards to the Red Cross… This time, including the release of donation platform information, especially regarding future reform of China’s charities, or privatization itself, you certainly have been the biggest biggest impetus. Actually, I believe that we don’t want the Red Cross to regress, and we also don’t want the Red Cross to collapse. This is definitely not what we want. We want is for the Red Cross to take charge of allocating donations, manage projects well, decentralize power, and be fair, equitable, and transparent. This ought to be one positive outcome of the “Guo Meimei Incident.”

Of course, at the end of our program I have to say, I cannot help you confirm all that you have said. I believe our audience’s eyes are keen. As long as you have made things clear, I believe our friends in the audience will give you the most fair assessment. This is also this interview’s most important purpose. But more importantly, I hope that through the “Guo Meimei Incident” our Red Cross can better satisfy the expectations of their patrons, better satisfy the expectations of our society, alright? Thank you for watching, we’ll see you same time next week!

It’s over. It’s finally over. So what did we learn?

Parting Thoughts

I think by now it’s clear that Guo and her mother are not immoral people, just terribly stupid. As much as I’d like to burn them at the stake for all of China’s corruption, or corruption in Chinese charities, I can’t. They are just rich and selfish—the banality of wealth, as it were. What do I feel for a mother who believes that money can be a substitute for love and a daughter whose pride and shallowness made her the enemy of her country? Nothing but profound pity.

The grand irony is that this interview only makes one person look good: Guo herself. Her mother comes off as a terrible parent and Lang comes off as the worse interviewer since the first homo sapiens asked another homo sapiens a question. (In fact, after the interview, some netizens refashioned the event as: “Lang Xianping interviewed by Guo Meimei.”) Guo, however, proves herself  incapable of advanced cognition and likely innocent of the serious accusations of deception and manipulation from netizens. This interview might be bad for anyone else but it’s great for Guo because it proves that the corruption only begins with her but ends with someone else much more powerful.

Indeed, future shows regarding the incident were prevented from airing, according to a post on Lang’s Weibo:

This interview with Guo Meimei aroused widespread attention. We, in order to be the first to cast aside the aspersions and humiliation toward [Guo and her mother], sat down with the involved parties, and gave them a neutral platform from which to speak. The goal was to provide a space for clues and queries, in order to balance the information out there. Of course I cannot endorse their lifestyles and questions about their integrity still theirs to bear. At the same time I regret that the episode originally scheduled for August 5th where we investigate the Red Cross, and the two shows last week analyzing the Red Cross have all (been made to) stop broadcasting. Moreover, I have to sternly rebuke violent netizens, including craziness from distinguished and not-so-distinguished media. You can disagree with my interviewing style, and you can reasonably doubt their integrity, but what right do you have to use vulgar language to forcibly occupy the platform of public opinion? I took two million yuan in bribes, had a threesome, all these obscene personal attacks. I have to tell the netizens who support me, please think about it: they are the result of a systemic corruption, and this has just begun. I will not give up. I will continue to defend with everyone conscience and responsibility, to investigate the truth of society together. My principles have never changed.

Quite a stirring speech and he’s right. There is a whole system of corruption and the Guo’s are merely the product. Who does it originate with? We probably will never know. In the end, Lang was trying to do the right thing, trying to pick at the truth but nearly became the victim of a public that desperately wants someone, anyone, to blame.

The Guo Meimei case is important, not for the conclusions we can draw about China’s charities, (which she did, however unwittingly, shed light on) but its conclusions about the nouveau riche and fuerdai caste that is emerging in China. It’s nothing we didn’t know already, but it’s startling to see it up close. Like the rich and powerful anywhere, the Guo’s live in a world so different from the great majority of their countrymen, which makes it simple for them to be indifferent toward their plight.

This indifference, not corruption, is the real threat to social stability. How can a society be called harmonious when a minuscule portion of that society exploits the great majority for economic benefit, while denying them basic rights? How long can a country thus divided endure? How long can a country, slipping toward two poles of existence, maintain cohesion?

We shouldn’t worry about a country that has corruption, if that country has effective government institutions. But we should worry about a country where the biggest scandal involving an international charity was not revealed by the government, the judiciary, the media, or any other relevant organ, but by the careless words of a rich, spoiled girl.