Beijing in Red

    From the beginning of my stay in China up until some point late last week, I have never truly felt as though I were in a communist country (at least, not the stereotypical one that we generally view in opposition to American politics). See, Zhongshan is a little piece of southern paradise. The people are sweet and charitable; the weather is warm, humid and full of sunshine, and the overall greenery, complete with palm trees and Charley plants, hardly comes together as the working portrayal of an autocratic governance. Instead, it mostly just feels like a vacation - a home away from home. Between my travels to Hong Kong, Guilin, and Shanghai those feelings have generally remained constant; however, Beijing turned my Chinese world on edge. Perhaps I am not fair in my judgement, after all, Beijing certainly has a lot to offer; the Great Wall, Imperial Palaces, and Terracotta Warriors match or exceed the aw with which I have seen anything up to this point, and yet I find, now that I am back home, I have no considerable desire to ever visit them again. I am sure that I could see Guilin, Shanghai, or Machu Picchu one thousand times and still not tire of their splendor, but Beijing is a different kind of marvel.

    Even on my very first night in the city, I could feel something different. I'll allow that a large part of that difference stemmed from the fact that it was nearly 1 in the morning, I was lost, it was dark, raining and cold, but aside from that, there was an added eeriness by the desertion of the streets. Beijing is the largest city in China, and yet on our hour walk to the hostel, we saw not a single soul aside from the few uniformed guards marching along Tian'an men Square. I am sure we were quite the sight to see - seven young girls in the dead of night lugging suitcases behind them, and we felt the awkwardness as we walked block after block. Though most of the walk I was focused on my ever numbing face and hands, I do not think I will easily forget that first sight of that yellow star of China's red flag as we passed that empty square where so much history has taken place. It was more numbing than drizzling rain, and I could feel my heartbeat slow. There was no real reason to be scared; it was mostly just the recognition that the movie depiction of communism, for that moment, did not seem too far off. The cold, empty streets felt oppressive. Mao's domineering portrait did nothing to aid the situation, and for the first time, I really could not believe that my feet were standing where they were standing. I had heard stories of this place. Stories that were nothing more than pages of texts and famous pictures. This place was real. The people that supported this man were real; his leadership, cruelty, and deceit were more real than anything imaginable.   

     Five days after my first steps in Beijing, I was again standing at Tian'an Men square, except this time it was a beautifully clear day, and I was beside more than 5,000 of the other daily viewers who comes to pay respect and bring flowers to the preserved body of their national hero, Mao. Beijing is littered with tourists wherever you go, but when it comes to Mao, most set their sights elsewhere; I was one of approximately ten other Westerners that day who was interested enough to wake up early, stand in line, and view his remains. The 5,000 visitors between 8am and 12pm are almost entirely made up of elderly Chinese men and women who were alive during Mao's reign and revolution, and their devotion to him is uncanny. It amazed my apparently naive American psyche how much democracy is not necessarily wanted throughout the world. I talked with one shop owner for nearly an hour as he explained the image on one the shirts he was selling; it depicted our President's face outfitted in a Chinese military uniform. Initially, I assumed the shirt was meant to stand as an insult as it might in the States. I have often heard people politically belittled by being called a "Commi" and my first thought was that that was what was trying to be portrayed. However, as I continued to talk with this man, it quickly became evident that the opposite was true. He explained that the shirt was mostly sold to Chinese people, and that it was seen as a symbol of hope. It depicted the desire (shared by many Chinese) for Obama to bring Communism to America so that there "can be peace in the world." His words rustled my democratic paradigm to say the least. I knew that not everyone wanted democracy in their own country, but I really never considered that people honestly sought to bring it down and replace it in my own. I rephrase, I know that there are many people in this world with malicious intentions. There are people who seek personal power through the oppression and submission of other's agency; however, it is unduly naive to assume that all communists are this way. Many, if not most, of them are genuinely good hearted and charitable people who seek to bring Communism to America much like we seek to bring Democracy to them. 

   Perhaps from this entry you may see Beijing in a darker light, but I admit that is not my intention. Beijing was eye opening for me. It was the first time I really felt the culture shock I had come to expect, and it has deepened my understanding of God's children. I will always love and appreciate Beijing for this. It is a culturally rich epicenter. It is just a shame that its history has come at such a high price. Its glory has been built through the reign of two particularly ruthless men, and though I marvel at the works created by those hands under their direction, I cringe to know the price that they were so willingly to pay when it was never theirs to offer.