Opened, Sesame! Alibaba Files for IPO in the U.S.

Papers were filed May 8 for what is being called the biggest initial public offering in U.S. history. The catch? The IPO is for a Chinese company.

Alibaba – no, not the character from One Thousand and One Arabian Nights – but the Chinese company specialized in online and mobile sale, has suddenly emerged as the talk of the money town.

The IPO announced by Alibaba Group was for $1 billion. Analysts argue that much more will be raised. Specifically, it is expected that, in the upcoming process extending from three to four months, the company could raise over $16 billion. This sum would beat what Facebook raised in its IPO two years ago.

Information on Alibaba Group

Reuters reported that Alibaba currently makes up four fifths of all online commerce. It is the largest Chinese corporation to have sought a home on U.S. exchanges. While Yahoo Inc and Softbank own 22.6 percent and 34.4 percent of it respectively, Jack Ma owns 8.9 percent.

This former English teacher turned third richest man in China, founded the online retailer in 1999. Just twenty years earlier, China required its citizens to use ration tickets to buy supermarket items. Today, Ma’s creation allows costumers to buy and sell products online through Taobao (similar to eBay), to buy items from major brands through Tmall and make transactions through Alipay (similar to PayPal).

Alibaba broke sales on China’s Singles Day (November 11) last year, generating over $5.75 billion on Alibaba-owned platforms

USA Today described Alibaba as an Internet middleman, charging sellers for marketing and advertising. Such a business scheme will be continue to be lucrative as the online market continues to grow in China. Chinese consumers are increasingly turning to the Internet for purchases, with the growing popularity of smartphones facilitating such transactions. According to Alibaba, about 618 million Chinese used the Internet in 2013, but the number will rise to 790 million by 2016.

The news about the Alibaba IPO once again helps turn heads towards the East.

Western-based companies are often taken for granted as the example to follow or watch, but it is time to start looking a different way.

Before last week, Amazon and eBay were regarded as the heads in online retail. This IPO has shed light on the fact that Alibaba made $240 billion in sales last year. Guess what? That’s more than Amazon and eBay combined. Yet the world is still taken aback.

The Economist released a conclusion at the end of last month that did not seem to get enough attention. It announced an important verdict: China will overcome the U.S. and become the world’s largest economy by the end of 2014. You read that right. Not by the end of 2020 or the end of 2017, but by the end of this year. At least according to The Economist.

Maybe we should start reading up on other Chinese companies before the next one yells “open sesame”.

Three Chinese Dramas that Defy Stereotypes

East Asian dramas, often shunned for their cliched plotlines, superficial exploration of human relations, and blatant display of materialism, are deemed a guilty pleasure. Yet, as a growing market, they undoubtedly play an integral part in today’s Asian entertainment industry, and serves as a connection for different Asian populations around the world.

Here are a few classic modern Chinese dramas that defy these stereotypes, remaining beloved despite their relative age.

1. Princess Pearl (还珠格格, Huan Zhu Ge Ge), 1998-2003

Set in 18th century Qing Dynasty, Princess Pearl tells the tale of two young girls who, through a series of events, end up members of the imperial court and win the heart of the Qianlong Emperor.

Although it’s based in history and some historical facts, the story, like most Asian dramas, take artistic license; however, unlike most Asian dramas, the story is moving and the characters well-developed. Ultimately, it’s about growing up, friendships, and being together through obstacles. Oh, and a playful romance and some surprising humor doesn’t hurt, either.

Princess Pearl smashed broadcasting records at the turn of the century, marking the debut of the cast’s careers (Zhao Wei, Ruby Lin, Fang Bingbing) as well as China’s new age of television. It’s spun off several remakes, including a Chinese-driven reboot in 2011, but Princess Pearl shines above the rest.

2. Romance in the Rain (煙雨濛濛, Qing Shen Shen Yu Meng Meng)

A wartime saga set in 1930s Shanghai and featuring many of the same actors from Princess Pearl as well as a story based on a work from the same writer, Qiong Yao, Romance in the Rain is, at times true to its title, a literal romance in the rain.

Like Cinderella but set in a war-ridden China and with a kindhearted half-sister, a penniless young girl and a photographer fall in love and test their bond through the circumstances and fate of that uncertain period.

It’s also a story of family: how a girl and her mother, forsaken by the father and his other wife, become a part of the family again through mutual dependence. Romance in the Rain is a fictional story, but its portrayal of wartime Shanghai is both authentic and heartbreaking, and gives our generation a powerful understanding of our grandparents’ times.

3. Lurk (潜伏, Qian Fu)

The Jennings from The Americans on FX have nothing on Lurk.

As a TV drama created a mere five years ago, Lurk takes a spot in this list for its winning dialogue.

A spy thriller set during China’s Civil War, Lurk tells the tale of an underground Communist worker and his partner in “lurking,” a brash, naive, and incredibly kindhearted guerrilla fighter straight from the countryside. More thrilling than the mystery of this drama is perhaps the tragicomedy of the love story between the two main characters.

With a script that is sophisticated yet funny, Lurk manages to convey a shivering portrayal of 1940s China, as well as a sense of how fate can bring out the most cruel, or the most selfless kindness, in people.

Who’s Got the Best School Uniforms in Asia?

What’s in a school uniform? (And, if you clicked on this story because the main image showed EXO-K[orea]‘s six members – all well out of high school – still dressed in school uniforms for a photo shoot, you kinda understand the appeal of the school uniform in popular Asian, and non-Asian, imaginations.)

Japan

Visiting, you’ll see groups of students wearing school uniforms. Some may have graduated, actually; there was once an on-street interview asking those who’d left school why they still wore their uniforms, with the popular answer, “Because the uniform is still our favorite piece of clothing.” It’s a bit of a fashion symbol.

The reality:

Some super cool boys who go to the same hairstylist

Some super cool girls – the “sailor” look is typical of Japanese school uniforms

The not-so-reality:

Mutton dressed up as lambs – I mean, “street style”

South Korea

The Korean uniform is another one that’s steeped in pop culture: the girls usually wear white shirts and plaid, pleated skirts, while boys wear white shirts and trousers. Indeed, the uniforms show energy and some fashion.

The reality:

Some Korean students

The not-so-reality:

SNSD/Girls’ Generation in a world of their own

The cast of To the Beautiful You, a K-drama set in high school

Thailand

Schools in Thailand have strict dress codes: all students from primary schools to universities are required to wear uniforms every day. While primary schools’ uniforms are usually in bright colors, older students follow the white top (blouse, shirt) and black bottom (skirt, trousers) look. In 2013, Thai university uniforms were voted the “sexiest” among Asian uniforms by a poll conducted by Japanese media.

The reality:

A middle school in Thailand

The not-so-reality?:

A form of university-regulated uniforms

Malaysia

Malaysia is a Muslim country, so the students have very strict dress code. The girls’ skirts must be below the knee, and the sleeves long enough to cover elbows.

The reality:

Modesty in pinafores

Vietnam

The ao dai is a traditional Vietnamese costume with hundreds’ of years of history. A search online has many visitors talking about this beautiful scene: girls in white ao dai, riding a bicycle or walking and talking to friends. Clean, fresh, and all-purpose. Besides, selecting traditional wear as school uniforms is a brilliant idea: it provides a way for the younger generation to learn and be proud of their ethnic identity and culture.

The reality:

Two students ride a bike to school

The not-so-reality?:

Couldn’t tell if this was a photo shoot; the ao dai are missing the school’s emblem over the chest

China

School uniforms in China are basically sportswear, designed for activities, with a clear lack of fashion. Most Chinese uniforms that aren’t exercise outfits follow the Japanese/Korea styles, with blazer, shirt, and skirt/trousers.

The reality:

Exercise those young minds!

A step above the “sporty” look

My Yéye: More Than My Grandfather

My yéye (爺爺; paternal grandfather) was born in rural China and grew up in the relatively tranquil countryside with his mother, grandparents, and two older sisters. Mischievous and energetic, he spent his time – when not in school – playing with the family cow.

Chinese countryside

Outside his village, though, raged the political upheaval following the end of the Qing Dynasty. When he was ten years old, he and his family were forced to flee from the Chinese Civil War. He would not see his father and his sisters for the next forty years.

Until this point during this autobiographical interview with me, he’d been happy and enthusiastic to reminisce. Here, he could only shake his head and repeat in Mandarin, “It was horrible, absolutely horrible.” He spoke haltingly, his expression stony as he recounted the horrors he saw as he and his mother escaped to Taiwan: the never-ending trail of bodies, piled up to obstruct the refugees; the nauseating scent that filled every breath he took; the thick, black clouds of flies that blocked the sun in the sky.

In Taiwan, my grandfather worked in a cloth factory to support his family, earning about $5 a month. At the age of 20, he joined the Navy and worked as a dispatcher, waving flags to relay messages to passing ships. Despite only finishing grade school, he continued to study and climbed to the top as the captain of a commercial ship.

He fell in love with sailing and traveled the world with his crew, a wonderfully simple and uncomplicated life unknown to civilians on land. Every two years, he’d return to Taiwan to spend time with his wife and children. When I was almost one year old, he and my grandmother immigrated to California to be with their son – my father.

It was a poignant hour for me as I asked him questions. I realized that while deep furrows carved creases in his face and liver spots dotted his wrinkled hands, my grandfather’s mind was still as young and nimble as the sharp sailor he must’ve been.

ROC Navy navigating battle ship pennant from the 1950s

When he spoke of his youth and his beloved grandmother, his face simply lit up. His memories were not filled with reluctance or agony but instead with vigor. Laughing through his ship dispatcher tales, he nonetheless complained humorously about the nonstop whizzing of bullets and how his calves throbbed when he felt scared in battle. He basked in the glory days of being captain of his own ship; chortled and exclaimed, “Of course, of course!” every time I asked him if he had visited a particular country.

Radiating with pride, he emphasized how, although he’d only received less than six years of formal education, with sheer dedication and resolve, he attained one of the highest scores on the sailing examination. (And, despite knowing no English when he arrived in the States 17 years ago, he’s acquired a strong grasp of the language.) With great certainty, he told me to keep willpower and integrity, the two traits that he learned were essential for creating a strong individual. After all, “failure is only a step towards success.”

Before this interview, conducted nearly four years ago, I’d never really seen my grandfather as anyone else but my dad’s father, whom my father admired above all others and who lovingly takes care of my Alzheimer’s-affected grandmother. He’s always called me a “good child” and constantly tries to give me pocket money when I visit.

In talking to him, I learned that he was also a beloved son, grandson, and brother; a refugee, a factory hand, a captain, an immigrant. He is also the most influential and inspiring figures in my life.

Who Needs a “Tiger Mom” When You’ve Got “Tiger Teachers”: Student Life in China

As the only child of an accountant working in a factory on the branch of the local railway bureau, I entered the Eleventh Railway Elementary School at the age of seven. Due to the fact that my school and my mother’s unit were subscribed under the same “system,” the fees was partially waived and the registration of my enrollment was relatively easy. (It’s no longer the case; a few years ago, the railway schools in my hometown were separated from the railway system by the enactment of a new policy.)

Neither exceptionally smart nor particularly docile as a kid, I was considered “annoying and unteachable” by my teachers in elementary school. On a daily basis, I was punished to stand up through the whole class for being “stupid”, “not paying attention”, or “talking to the neighbor.” Under my teachers’ intense glares and the mockery of my peers, I couldn’t focus on the lectures. My performance at school got worse; it increased the bad impressions my teachers had for me.

Who needs “tiger moms” when they’re waiting for you at schools?

Once, I forgot to bring my textbook to class; the angry teacher called my home immediately, reaching my grandmother and telling her (then a senior in her 60s) to come to my school right away. I remembered my grandmother hurrying into class within less than half an hour, tottering on her bad legs. She looked worried. I felt guilty, thinking of my parents’ warning to “not make trouble” for my aged grandmother, who helped to take care of me. In front of the class, my teacher told her that I was a “fool”, while I stood, looking down at my sneakers.

Another music teacher spent most of her time criticizing us – about our dirty hands, mindless attitudes, and so on. She seemed so frustrated at life that she needed to release her overwhelming anger… in the classroom. Each child was so terribly afraid of her. One girl even peed in her pants because she didn’t dare to ask for the restroom, crying in fear and shame when her wet clothing was discovered.

As I grew up, I learned to behave more attentively while interacting with my teachers so they wouldn’t find fault with me. There was only one exception when I was in third grade. The assigned homework was to review chapters in the textbook; I forgot to have my mother sign the book, which would prove that I’d completed the work; the absence would led to punishment. Realizing the situation, I tried to explain to the teacher.

Interrupting me, she shouted: “Don’t try to argue if you haven’t done the work!”

Unlike what I’d usually do, this time, I didn’t give up. The teacher grew impatient, and she picked a term from the book, ordering me to define it. I was nervous; of course, I failed to give the answer.

Roald Dahl’s Miss Trunchbull, unfortunately, existed outside of fiction

She was triumphant. “Ha! Is that how you reviewed at home? You were just looking over the terms before class, right? You think I don’t know? I’ve always kept a keen eye on you. You’re such a terrible liar.”

Hurt by this new charge, I reiterated my case. The teacher, vexed, frowned and made me leave the class and stand in the hallway until I admitted my dishonesty.

The vexed teacher frowned and ordered me to go out of the classroom and stand in the hallway before I choose to admit my dishonesty. The other students watched indignantly; they were used to, and probably tired, of the scenario – as well, the teacher was bound to win. For her, she wouldn’t make the situation easy for me: she had to make me confess, proving that she was always right, essential to sustain her authority.

Calling me back in ten minutes, she began her interrogation: “Admit it! You’re a liar!” Regardless of how much I protested, I surrendered in the end and burst into tears, believing that everyone in the class would look down on me. Now, I laugh at myself for being so naive: the teacher had dozens of these interactions with kids, and students barely recalled the episode before the week passed.

When I was young, I often looked forward to a cold or an illness so that I could avoid school. I think this may be a common feeling for children, but probably not so many would hope for these uncomfortable symptoms as desperately as me. Unfortunately, I was always a healthy child; under the keen eyes and care of my grandmother, I remained robust.

Years later, I learned from my mother’s colleagues that a few teachers who taught in my elementary school were workers in factories under the railway system. They definitely hadn’t attended colleges, and I’m not sure what level of education they had. In the factories, their employers could no longer bear their terrible performance at work, so they placed these workers on a special short-term training and sent them to schools to teach. Back then, these types of transfers weren’t difficult; the schools were short of staff, and most importantly, the schools and the factories were in the same “system” and under the same administration.

Of course, we have to question the validity of this information, but I don’t doubt the fact that many of my teachers were unqualified and downright unfit to teach children. Recently, some political reforms were launched in China, aiming to simplify the powerful and too-interconnected Chinese “systems,” though the results remain unclear.

The quality of elementary education has improved since my time, partly enhanced by the competitive recruitment of elementary school teachers (from a pool of applicants with university and even Master degrees), as well as the growing awareness of parents in selecting a good elementary education for their children. Some parents buy apartments or homes in the neighborhood of the good public elementary schools because, according to policy, their children will automatically be assigned to these schools; others choose to pay and send their children to private schools. The trade-offs, though, are much higher costs in education, which has put much pressure on today’s parents, as well as increased stress and allegations of corruption.

I don’t have the answers to education policy, but hopefully, the younger generation in China would have a healthier experience in their lower schools than I did.

For another personal narrative of growing up under China’s railways system, check out Lusha Chen’s “The ‘Railway Kids’: Growing Up Under China’s Ministry of Railways.”

Pen Spinning World Cup 2014: Yes, It’s Real, and You Won’t Believe These Tricks

The Sochi 2014 Olympics proceeds, to the attention of the world; but, in a small and unabashed corner of the internet, another global competition rages – the Pen Spinning World Cup 2014. With teams from 10 countries competing, the tournament is one of pen spinning community’s largest group events.

Yeah, this is a real thing.

Each of the five rounds of the tournament is comprised of three battles: two singles (1v1) and one double (2v2). The single matches are separated into two themes: artistic and technical. Videos of the pen spinning are uploaded, and judges evaluate them based on five criteria: execution, difficulty, creativity, presentation, and theme. The tournament will be completed at the end of May.

February 2014: Round 1, Group A, HAL from Team JEB wins against a battle in the “artistic” category

You’ve probably seen pen spinning in class, or have even done them yourself. Pen spinning, also known as “pen tricks”, is the art form of twirling and manipulating a pen, though its teenage practitioners almost exclusively spin custom “mods” with no writing utility, optimized for weight and balance.

Motivated by competition and artistic innovation, pen spinners carry their “sport” to skill levels ludicrous to the unpracticed eye. The pen passes, rolls, and spins across the hand and between the fingers. There exist “fingerless” tricks that exclusively use wrist and palm movements, and some pen spinners have even experimented doing tricks with their feet.

Do you think this would fall under the “summer” or “winter” Olympics?

While the precise origin and history of pen spinning is unknown, the first record of pen-spinning comes from a student in pre-World War II Japan. The activity became popular in the 1970s, and after the advent of the internet, blew up due to the ability for pen spinners to discuss their craft on forums and share videos. As a result, pen spinning clubs have formed in the Philippines, and live tournaments are conducted in Japan and South Korea. Businesses have attempted to capitalize on the custom-pen market.

Asia retains the largest communities of pen spinners; South Korea alone has over 300,000 spinners. On the forum UPSB (Ultimate Pen Spinning Board), one thread discusses the connection between Asian ethnicity and pen spinning. The obvious answer is that pen spinning originated in Asia; hence, most pen spinners and “pros” are Asian. But there may also be specific cultural reasons why pen spinning took place in Asia. Forum member Eso observed that when he spun in public, Asian youth expressed a particular curiosity. He argued that “most Westerners aren’t accepting toward activities that are seemingly useless,” assuming that Western culture privileges utility and pragmatism over aesthetics.

What do you mean by “double” in pen-spinning? Kay and ACT show how it’s done.

Tofu, a forum member from Hong Kong, attributes the strength of Asian pen spinners to their dexterity developed through playing instruments, a sentiment that has also been expressed in the context of Asians and urban dance. However, in the end, most all agree that the skill of Asians in the pen-spinning world has less to do with cultural heritages, and more to do with the fact that most pen spinners are Asian.

But who knows: with teams from Germany, Poland, and the United States competing for the Pen Spinning World Cup, perhaps it’s only a matter of months before non-Asians take home e-fame gold.

The Evolution of Chinese Characters

An ancient woman with snow-white braided hair sits hunched in front of a crackling fire, skillfully and carefully etching lines with a sharp object into a large ox bone. These strokes slowly form vaguely familiar figures: a square with a mark in the middle for “sun”, a shape with three points shooting upwards for “mountain”, what looks like a running stream for “water”. Later, this diviner will heat up these inscribed bones until they crack so that she can interpret the resulting patterns: an answer from the gods.

Oracle bone, Shang dynasty

Fast-forward 400 years: a craftsman deliberately carves intricate figures composed of individual lines and disconnected strokes into a bronze wine vessel, characters that bear significant resemblance to the ones from centuries ago, but are nevertheless slightly different.

Another 400 years later, the Qin emperor declares the unification of the writing system, whose individual characters are again modified versions of those from 400 years ago. However, like an ever-growing family tree, one can still detect a strong resemblance between these characters and their previous counterparts.

Five hundred years pass. In the Han Dynasty, this likeness is still present. During this time in history, an official script is established that eventually leads directly to the beginnings of a regular written language, which becomes the basis of modern day traditional Chinese characters.

A basic sketch of the evolution of Chinese characters

This is the basic evolutionary path of Chinese characters. Many people believe that Chinese characters derive from pictographic origins; that is, each character is designed based on what it represents. However, this is only true for a very small percentage of characters. In fact, most characters are pictophonetic and arise from a “radical”, which provides the basic meaning and phonetic expression of the character.

For this reason, my mom always claims that Chinese characters are quite easy to learn. If one does not recognize a Chinese character, he only needs to be able to discern the radical in order to have a good chance of guessing not only the gist, but also the general pronunciation of the character!

Today, there are writing styles beyond the basic standard script. For example, cursive writing is commonly used in Chinese calligraphy, and is respected and well-known for its artistic, flowing strokes. Additionally, there is freehand cursive, which is less abstract than cursive writing, and thus more legible to the general public. Furthermore, large seal and small seal scripts are forms of writing often used for personal stamps and stationary. Lastly, there has recently been a surge in popularity of simplified Chinese, especially in mainland China. This type of script was adopted more than 50 years ago as a governmental attempt to increase accessibility of knowledge to the masses and to eradicate illiteracy.

Because Chinese script is the oldest script in East Asia, its influence can be seen in many Asian writing systems, such as Japanese and Korean, both of which consisted entirely of Chinese characters before adapting Chinese script to create their own writing systems. Indeed, the Chinese writing system is deeply entrenched in the history of East Asia, and continues to play a crucial part in the development of Chinese society.

The Red Guard and the Landlady

From cultural revolution to rent collection…

It’s always a pleasant surprise when my landlady drops by unannounced at eight in the morning. I’m familiar with the early bird rap tap on my door by now, and the first thing I do before opening the door is put on the kettle. Sometimes she’s there to collect the rent. Sometimes it’s to check the heating came on, or to write down the electricity meter digits, or to switch off the water supply to the roof so it doesn’t freeze in the pipes during winter, twiddling with hidden knobs under the kitchen sink.

This time, rap tap tap, it was just to have a chat. She had ambushed my downstairs neighbor while he was still in bed, to collect rent he hadn’t yet prepared, having just got back from a trip. He said to give him an hour or so to shower and wait for the bank to open. So she came up one floor to pass the time at mine, and have a natter. Sixty-four-year-old Beijing landladies tend to assume that everyone begins their day as early as they do.

I live in a dazayuan, or “miscellaneous courtyard”, in the hutongs, inside one of a myriad of doors tucked away behind the street entrance. Mine is on the third and top floor of a compact new building inside, which was knocked up in the summer of 2012, just before I moved in. I’ve written about my landlady before (Tales from the Hutong) and I like her. She’s friendly, trustworthy, and hasn’t hiked up the rent yet. In that respect, given some horror stories from Cuju bar just down the hutong, I’m lucky. She’s also relatively willing to talk about her life – and I’m by nature nosy.

I was still in my pajamas when she knocked (thick winter cottons, fortunately) and threw on a ratty dressing gown for decency’s sake. She stubbed out her cigarette in the narrow stairwell that connects up to the roof, and kicked off her sneakers before coming in. It wouldn’t do to get ash or dirt on her property.

The first thing which happens when my landlady visits, as I am well used to, is a short survey of what I’ve done with the place. A new shelf, a painting on the wall, different fish in the tank – any change is commented on with either “hao” (good) or “bu hao” (not good). No further explanation is offered, and her criteria for judgment are ever a mystery. This time she asked what the contraption behind the sofa was. I said it was a movie projector, and pointed at the blank wall opposite it. After a nerve-racking pause, she said “hao“.

Looking to fill the silence, which she was more comfortable in than I was, I showed her some photos of my family back in Oxford. As usual, we talked about my romantic prospects – she’s keen to see me settle down with a nice Chinese girl, and reminded me with a hand on my shoulder that it’s good to marry early, “or else when you’re old who will you have to give your money to?” I changed the topic and asked after her newest grandson, Chen Jiaming, who will be one next week and to whom I gave an English name (Jamie).

We talked about young Chinese today, something I’m always interested in hearing older generations on. “They haven’t eaten bitterness,” she replied, a familiar refrain. “They just think about eating, drinking, smoking, clothes.” The kids these days – if they weren’t kenlaozu (the “bite the old tribe”, living off their parents) they were yueguangzu, spending all their monthly wages. And then she started talking about her own youth.

A Red Guard, China, circa 1967

Auntie Wang (as she likes me to call her) was born in the spring of 1949, and grew up together with the People’s Republic of China. Her family is from Jiangtai in northeast Beijing, an area which is now home to the fashionable 798 art district and the expensive Lido hotel. Back then, it was mostly farmland, and she helped her parents to plant and harvest wheat each year.

Her memories of those years were of hard times. Her family was very poor, she said, and could not afford enough wool for new clothes. She was pulled out of school during the famine of the Great Leap Forward (Auntie Wang is illiterate, as I had discovered to my embarrassment when we were first looking at our contract), and said she had very little to eat. When I ask further, she simply said, “Let’s not talk about it” (bie tile). As a teen, she joined the Red Guards and cut short her hair, which then reached her waist. She never grew it out again.

I asked Auntie what she did as a Red Guard. She waved vaguely in the direction of the hutongs to the south. “We struggled against landlords.” They would hang heavy wooden signs over the landlords’ necks, denoting them as capitalists, and make them take the “airplane” (feiji) position. That means body bent forwards from the waist at a right angle, arms back stiff and straight behind you, each hand clasping the other. Then… da si tamen. Beat them to death.

It was said in the same tone, with no special weight. If she saw the shock in my eyes, she didn’t let on. Auntie had all but directly admitted participating in murder, but to her it was just another part of the story of her life, told to pass the time while we waited. I didn’t say anything.

So she just went on. She remembered Zhou Enlai’s death, in January 1976, and how everyone cried. She remembered Mao Zedong’s death, nine months later, and how that was not so sad – the people, she said, remembered how poor they had been in those years, how his rule impacted their lives. The Cultural Revolution ended, and in 1978, at the age of 29, she married. She met her husband through a friend’s introduction – he was 35. The space I was living in was his, and when he died four years ago, she inherited it from him.

Now she was old, and forgetting things. The changes of the last decades were fast. Her two comments on China today were how expensive health care is, and that there are too many cars. In the evenings, she said, she couldn’t remember what she did that day. But the more distant past was still clear.

I saw an opening to make the obvious point. “The changes really are big,” I said. “Before, you were struggling against landlords. And now you’re a landlady…”

“No, I’m not,” Auntie said, simply. “I’m not a landlady, I just collect your rent.”

The thought was alien to her, rejected simply and with ease. She was a landlady, of course. I had seen her name on the property deed. But whenever I would hand her a fat envelope of rent cash, I had also felt her unease. I had figured it was because of prejudices against the landlord class ingrained during the Mao years. I had not thought through all that might have entailed.

We chatted some more, and then my neighbour knocked on the door, back from the bank. Auntie Wang put on her sneakers and went downstairs, telling me she would drop in again sometime with the rest of her family, to show me little Jamie. I said I would be sure to be up early, in case.

***

China is, of course, full of stories like this. Everyone over middle age has one. I find it difficult to connect the broader horrors of the Cultural Revolution as we read about it to those people, whether they were victims or perpetrators – and the line between the two, I suspect, is not so clear. I’m also fascinated by the collective amnesia that allows society to put such recent crime behind it and go on.

But the individual acts and their repercussions are still there in living memory. Just the other month, an eighty-year-old woman told me and a friend that she was sent to Sichuan for hard labor for ten years, along with her three sons, all because her husband was from a “bad family background”, with Qing dynasty officials in his bloodline. The author Yu Hua describes, in China in Ten Words, how as a schoolboy he and his vigilante classmates ambushed a young peasant who was illicitly selling food coupons, pushed him to the ground and hit him over the head with bricks until he was bloody.

I have so many questions for my landlady I didn’t ask, from somewhere between shyness and politeness. To face up to a past like that, whether out of trauma or shame or both, surely is unimaginably hard – let alone to a generation who has no understanding of those times, such as your children’s (and you certainly wouldn’t share it with a foreigner). Does her daughter know what she did? Will Jamie?

My distance from it all means there’s little comment I can give. I don’t feel I have the right to judge Auntie Wang, or rather that any sense of disapproval is muted, as if a dull banging behind heavy insulation. I still like her. What I do feel is ever deeper respect for Liu Boqin, a former Red Guard from Shandong province who apologized to his victims in a Chinese magazine last summer. He named nine people in particular, some of whom he has tracked down to apologize to in person. He’s in his early sixties, so like Auntie, he was in his teens during those years. Here’s what he wrote:

“I want to apologize to all victims and their families to obtain psychological relief. An open letter is simple and clear. [...] I was naive, easily bamboozled, and never distinguished good from bad. [...] As I grow older, I have a more profound understanding of the sins of the Cultural Revolution. I cannot forget what I’ve done wrong.”

*

Another, more recent apology from the Cultural Revolution, from someone higher up, here (in NYT, so behind the wall). For a personal perspective of what those early years were like I can’t recommend highly enough Red Guard: The Political Biography of Dai Hsiao-Ai (hat tip to Rana Mitter) as a blow-by-blow account – so to speak – from someone in the thick of it, rather than the broad brush strokes of history books.

This story originally appeared on the Anthill.