Yee Fong’s Blog

Flashbacks of my dad writhing in pain from kidney stones in the middle of the night appeared before me as I punched out yet another story of a food scandal in China.

That happened when I was barely 3. Yet, the image was etched in my mind because his agony was so intense. I watched as my mom frantically called the ambulance as she covered my dad with blankets, helplessly.

So imagine the shivers I got at the thought of babies having kidney stones. They have barely learned to smile at their parents even as they experience pain that is unbearable even for adults. Some ignorant grown-ups actually thought that adding toxic industrial substances to food is okay, as long as nobody gets killed.

Well, these adults killed four, and thousands of infants have become unfortunate guinea pigs to test the effects of melamine on humans.

Experiments have shown that melamine can cause renal stones and damage to the reproductive systems of small animals.

Thanks to the protein-cheats, now we know that it hurts human babies, too.

I put my faith in local-brand yoghurt shortly after I moved to Beijing as the French brand that I was accustomed to isn’t easily available. But that faith dissipated as fast as the CGI fireworks footprints that so impressed the world at the Beijing Olympics Opening Ceremony, when news of the scandal broke.

Has China’s pace of development moved so fast that money chasers have lost sight of ethics?

To millions of villagers, the milk business is literally a cash cow that can pull them out of poverty.

One could earn 10,000 yuan per month just by centralizing the process of milking and distribution.

Stories of crop farmers turning into cow rearers are aplenty.

Today, close to 70 percent of milk supply in China comes from village-based milk stations that collect raw milk from different farmers. These stations make money from offering facilities for milking and then distributing the milk to dairy companies.

Given the scale and the seeming laisser faire nature of the industry, there appears to be a lack of quality control on milk, even on cows. That’s when greed rears its ugly head and takes over.

It doesn’t help that local officials condoned questionable practices by sitting on the issue, hoping it would go away.

If they had studied China’s recent spate of scandals - from the SARS cover-up, poisoned pet food to lead-tainted toys, they might have anticipated the backlash. Or perhaps they were willing to gamble as the stakes were too…low?

“Greater good” aside, do they ever look squarely at themselves and ask what really matters?

All that the parents wanted was to offer the best for their children.

But the system has let them down.

Watching the Singapore flag raised in the prestigious Olympics hall for the much-anticipated table tennis match brought a tear to my eye.

It was one thing watching any Chinese team play against other teams in an Olympic venue - the cheering and support is overpowering; but rooting for your own country competing for the most coveted title in the sports arena is a whole new experience for me.

I never thought I would witness a Singapore team standing on the medal stand in my lifetime.

The romance of Singapore’s first Olympic medalist Tan Howe Liang with weightlifting remained as one of the most inspiring Olympics stories to date.

His story happened before I was born, so I never imagined the ability of an Olympic medal to elicit patriotism was so strong.

At the Singapore Embassy on the fateful – and a very much historic Sunday night, I’m convinced that Singaporeans can bring the house down. They came in red and white national colours, they waved flags and they roared.

More than 100 of us gathered at Singapore’s diplomatic grounds in Beijing to watch the table tennis finals ‘live’.

Being miles away from the actual venue did not stop hot-blooded Singapore patriots from yelling at the top of their lungs at the projection screen.

The younger ones chanted till their faces turned red, while the uncles and aunties hopped around in a rare display of animated youthfulness.

The cheers came in a combination of Mandarin, English, Hokkien, Malay in the most creative composition that only the Singlish-proficient could understand (Can someone please provide a list of these multi-lingual cheers?).

But hey, it’s far more interesting than the straight-laced Zhong Guo jia you! or Go, China! - probably the second most played out chant to the Chinese national anthem…

Never mind that Singapore missed the gold medal; a silver medal isn’t bad at all. As Consular Tang Weng Chau said to me after the telecast, everyone’s a champion that evening.

The media marathon in the run-up to the Beijing Olympics can be trying, and at times, exasperating. But it also brings out the most curious response from all of us who were, and still are, engulfed by Olympics hysteria…

Overheard at a press conference…

“I would like to know where that picture was taken. I’ve never seen a sky like this in Beijing,” said Righteous Journalist, referring to a huge picture of Beijing’s Bird Nest against a clear blue sky.

“March 2008,” said NGO spokesperson.

#####

Overheard at the entrance at a former diplomatic compound converted to a high-end wine and dine establishment…

“Where are you going?” said a Very Young Looking Guard.

“To the restaurant,” said First-Time Visitor.

“Which one?” persisted the Very Young Looking Guard.

“Erm, I’m not sure. I was only given the address. How many restaurants are there in the compound?”

“One,” said Very Young Looking Guard.

#####

Overheard the morning after Beijing’s spectacular Olympics Opening Ceremony….

“My, how can Singapore beat that for its Youth Olympics Games Opening Ceremony?” said Concerned Singaporean.

“Well, we may have to borrow labour from our neighbours like Batam and Malaysia, maybe even the Philippines,” said Cynical Singaporean.

#####

Overheard the morning after Beijing’s spectacular Olympics Opening Ceremony again…

“My, how can Singapore beat that for its Youth Olympics Games Opening Ceremony?”

“Instead of the drawing scroll, we shall have a giant murtabak, complete with minced meat, onions and sardines…” offered Singaporean food-junkie.

“How about you borrow Zhang Yimou from China?” offered cheeky Chinese.

If there was one thing that the Beijing laobaixing might have learnt from the whole Olympics fanfare, it would be the Human Wave (or Mexican Wave to the Mexicans; or the Kallang wave to Singaporeans…), and the fun of letting their hair down cheering for players on the courts.

I had a blast attending one of the preliminary rounds of volleyball in the first week of the Olympics, and it was not because of the matches.

It began with a brainwashing exercise as I got past the security check into the venue.

At least three student volunteers, just steps apart from each other, exclaimed to me in an overwhelming earnestness to “enjoy the games!” as I strolled towards the gymnasium.

Their enthusiasm was endearing but I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed to have my arrival announced to hordes of other strangers streaming in, who also got their fair share of embarrassment…

But hey, I’m all for the festive spirit and yeah, I would “enjoy the games!”

As the preliminary match went into full-swing, volunteers tried to rouse the crowd by urging spectators to do the human wave, rather coyly.

Among the spectators were a good number of residents in the neighbourhood let in by the organizers to fill the seats.

They consisted mainly of middle-to-old aged men and women dressed in their home-casuals, armed with paper fans, who sauntered into the venue in their slippers.

“Erm…Let’s do the human wave at the next time-out, ok? ” a volunteer said to his bemused audience politely.

The human wave was predictably subdued as it was a new activity to the grandpas and grandmas, who had no clue about what it was.

The volunteers didn’t know better, either, as they watched the wave dissipate, instead of keeping the momentum going.

If anything, the competitive mood was kept alive by the Polish contingent, who showed up with flags, banners and painted faces.

“Go, Egypt!!!!” a lone supporter of the Egyptian team yelled all of sudden.

He was, of course, quickly drowned out by the Polish collective.

I decided to rally the moms and pops to root for the underdog.

“Come on, this guy has no supporters!” I stood up, turned around, and said to moms and pops.

It was awkward as they stared at me like I had two heads on my neck, while the lone laowai continued to stretch his vocals.

But before long, the neighbourhood squad, who were at first tickled by the lone enthusiasm of the laowai, began to chant with him.

At one point, a frail old man even turned to me and initiated a chant, beating his pair of cheer sticks for effect.

Never mind that the Polish anthems were overpowering and their cheers were tight…we had the Chinese on our side!

As journalists, we are often caught up with capturing the moment of action. We get a kick out of freezing the most candid/emotional/telling/embarrassing expressions of our subjects. Rarely do we realize how WE ourselves may look through the lens of others.

Mr Chia Hui Yong of Mercy Relief, who kindly gave us a ride to difficult zone areas during the Sichuan earthquake, had, even more kindly, captured us in action during those intense times. I received them recently, after Hui Yong returned from his relief work from China.

They are priceless.

Thanks, Hui Yong!

I have always been a faithful participant of Singapore’s National Day celebrations.

Watching the parade on TV was an annual affair. Since I was three, my dad would take me to watch the parade “live” whenever he could, especially when there’s a march past near our home.

When I went to primary School, I would be the first in class to grab tickets to whichever NDP rehearsals were available. I could even belt out every word of every single National Day song without a glitch (and, erm…until this day).

In my teens, I once put on a hot-pink lycra catsuit, complete with a sheer mini-skirt (courtesy of a Singapore designer), and ran across the field at the National Stadium with a huge piece of blue fabric with my schoolmates– we were supposed to be part of an “ocean” during a mass display depicting the beginnings of Singapore as a fishing village.

Never mind that we looked silly in the costumes, I had fond memories of those times. Honestly, it was a welcome break from the high-stress of school life, whiling away our time at the stadium as the choreographers decided on our display formations. The rehearsals were numerous, and hours were long, but it was the thrill of being able to spend some fun time with friends, rather than behind our school desks, that made them excursions to look forward to.

In my years reporting in Singapore, I covered almost every NDP. Going behind the scenes of the parade preparations, I began the quest of looking beneath the National fanfare, and tried to make sense of my identity. What does it mean to be a Singaporean? How does my race matter?

The answers to these questions began to emerge, albeit in bits and pieces, after I moved to China.

It was a strange feeling, to have “returned” to a place where my forefathers had come from. I felt detached and foreign, despite the familiarity with the language, food and culture.

It’s odd but I often find myself both embraced and discriminated at the same time despite looking and speaking Chinese.

It is easier to get around and make conversations with the locals - I get better discounts at the markets; I defended the “Chinese way of doing things” against a laowai who thought “China should learn how the world works.”

Yet, I was deprived of a chance to ask questions at a press conference despite being the first to raise my hand - the organizer apologized after the conference when he realized I spoke English and came from Singapore. On another occasion, my taxi was offered to the laowai next in line at a self-professed six-star hotel.

But it was in dealing with these challenges that I affirmed my identity as a Singaporean - one who comes from a diverse enough background to grasp the nuances of a foreign culture.

As cliché as it sounds, I’ve come to appreciate the cultural harmony of my homeland; the mixture of perspectives has helped make me a more discerning observer of the transformation of China, my ancestral home.

It will be a unique opportunity to witness China’s Olympics celebrations and toast to Singapore’s birthday, back to back, for those of us in China, even in Singapore.

It’s still a strange feeling, but an exciting one.

Think about it…Singaporeans do have the best of both worlds (or even more), to a large extent, don’t we?

Yum Seng!

So the no-no list for the Beijing Olympics spectators is out - no long umbrellas allowed in the Olympics stadiums, folks.

There are other items restricted or banned – liquid cosmetic, crossbows, huge banners, flags representing Tibet and Taiwan Island, and oh, nudity!

Why have I picked the most ordinary of the lot –the brolly as a subject of this post?

Well, cosmetics and liquids have all been said and done in airports; crossbows are obviously something absurd to bring to the games; big banners and flags with political content…bring with them even bigger questions that call for far too many blog pages to address; as for nudity – yes, it’s a sexy topic, but we are in China, excuse me, its all about subtlety here.

And now, back to why the umbrella.

Apparently, one of the reasons cited for imposing the umbrella restriction was this:

In view of foreigners who have a penchant for sunbathing, and the Chinese spectators who tend to avoid the sun, long umbrellas are not allowed in the stadiums to prevent users from blocking the view of other spectators during the Games.

Collapsible umbrellas are allowed, though, so that they can be used in the event of rain.

I was rather tickled by this contention of brollies.

As always, the Chinese have taken pains to try to cater for the needs of both their comrades and foreign guests.

The Chinese’s obsession with fair skin is evident in shelves jam-packed with sunscreen and whitening skin-care products at the entrance of every Watson’s store here.

I still remembered how some Chinese friends looked at me in horror when I raved about getting a tan from my tropical holidays.

On the other hand, foreigners, especially those coming from temperate climate, would grab every opportunity to get kissed by the sun, even if it’s from that one ray that sneaked in between the clouds.

Perhaps what is so telling about the guideline is the message embedded beneath: the respect for personal space.

Many Chinese tend to be less bothered by the infringement of personal space – they press up against your back in queues and even peer over your shoulder as you fill in your application documents.

Here, getting bumped into at train stations and on the streets is taken as a given, and without apology. Maybe it’s simply too crowded; maybe life’s so rough that there are more important things to rush for than to dwell into another person’s space. You are on your own, mate.

In cities like London, New York, Tokyo and even Singapore, where it can get really congested in the subways, chances of getting bumped into are comparatively less, from my experience, as these cities have somewhat established a standard “social speed”, if you will, such that everyone gets their space no matter how busy the streets are.

Perhaps China is so much a mixture of people progressing at such different speeds that it will be some time before it finds that order of space.

But what happens when people with such different concepts of space (and sun-culture, for that matter ) come under one roof?

It would really be a spoiler for anyone to have to stare at the tip of an umbrella shielding Liu Xiang as he charges towards the finishing line.

To find that delicate balance between such glaring differences, the Beijing organizers have stop short of imposing a complete ban on umbrellas.

The collapsible umbrella is perhaps the ideal middle-ground for now.

It could be a potential obstacle, or a flexible tool, depends on how you look at it.

“Do you report about Beijing getting good weather?”

I recently posed this question to two friends working in the media. After all, so much has been said about the pollution and bad air in Beijing in the mainstream media.

My logic for asking the question was simple. You see, if bad news, and for that matter, odd news, make good news, and if the bad air in China gets so much publicity in the media because of its “bad” factor, wouldn’t it be news that it gets the “odd” blue-sky day?

Both instances were met with an embarrassing silence.

In Conversation A, the friend said, “But Beijing has never had blue skies.

Now, I may not have been in Beijing for a very long time, but I do remember a few occasions during the last winter in which I was quite delighted to see sunny, blue skies.

In fact, I even have footages of the Beijing skyline with blue skies with fluffy white clouds filmed during those times.

(For those of you who really want to know, according to statistics released by the city’s Bureau of Environmental Protection, Beijing hit 246 blue-sky days last year.)

In Conversation B, the friend, a European, argued, “But we were brought up to be critical. We don’t report when something is good.”

Well…point taken. His beliefs are closely tied to the historical, social-political and cultural system of his country. He has his stand.

“Sure, you can be critical,” I said. “But if you choose to write about China, or any another issues, and highlight only the bad, then your readers will only see a negative picture of the country or issue. Is that fair?”

“Yes, we should include the good part in the story, but good news doesn’t make a story,” he maintained.

In both instances, I had to quickly switch the topic of discussion, for I had unwittingly treaded into a minefield, a topic that is close to the hearts of every passionate journalist – journalistic integrity.

I couldn’t get those conversations out of my head.

It’s easy to criticize China for its inefficiencies, inabilities, bureaucracies, and a whole lot of other problems. Even easier, to compare it with nations which have “done it better”, and usually, the US and countries in Europe are hailed as examples.

But often, we run the risk of judging our subjects at face value.

China was lauded for its openness during the Sichuan Earthquake. Journalists had never encountered such freedom in getting around for interviews. You could literally get into the thick of action. It was liberating.

The freedom didn’t last very long, though, as questions about the construction quality of the collapsed schools in the earthquake zone emerged even before the dust had settled.

The authorities are naturally put on the defensive.

Access to school rubble and interviews with aggrieved parents were blocked in the name of maintaining social order.

For about three weeks, the world was free to look into how one of the most populous provinces in China was wrecked and the grief of its inhabitants.

It is difficult to shut that gate now. The world will be left wondering, while its own citizens want  answers.

But for a culture that is accustomed to the belief that dirty laundry should not be washed in public, China is struggling to find a balance in the face of scrutiny by an increasingly vocal society, and the intricacies of the same social system that places so much emphasis on guanxi and face at every level.

So, it’s hard to fault any outsider who feels frustrated and slams the way things are run here. Teething problems here do bite.

The pursuit for the truth should continue, but we should not lose sight of the cloud with the silver lining either.

Change is already in the air.

Many of you have shared your thoughts about my experiences in covering the Wenchuan earthquake in Sichuan. Rest assured I’ve read all of them and I appreciate your kind thoughts for us. J Do continue with your contributions and keep the discussions alive!

My last post was meant to highlight some of the challenges and intricacies in doing our work in China.

There are easier times, though, relatively speaking. After being booted out of Jiulong Town in Mianzhu, we had better luck two days later.

The destination was Xingfu Community, another sprawling resettlement in Du Jiangyan, one of the nearest disaster zones to Chengdu.

It was late night when we first set foot on the ruins of Du Jiangyan, and we were fortunate to have met Mr Long, the kind cabbie that spent a day of his earnings to buy instant noodles and bottled water for the quake survivors, hand-delivered them, and allowed us to film the whole process.

We contacted Mr Long again for our trip back. The small-built, middle-aged man was keen to see how the Du Jiangyan survivors were coping, too.

While we entered Du Jiangyan with little effort shortly after the earthquake, this time we were pulled over by a traffic police at the toll gate on Chengdu Highway leading to Du Jiangyan.

“You are supposed to be carrying a green pass with white text,” The plump guy said he didn’t recognize our blue passes.

“Green? You mean blue? Look at this,” I said in disbelief. I seriously thought he was colour-blind…or maybe I was the one with the eyesight condition??

He showed us the hand and shook his head. “Green, with white text. That was the order.”

It’s clear that he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, make the decision to let us through. So I called an Information Officer from the Sichuan Provincial Government, who asked to speak to the traffic police officer.

She was sounding more frustrated than we were. According to her, the Information department was supposed to have ironed out the details about media access with the traffic police just the day before.

But the traffic police declined to take her call. He finally offered that we should get permission from the Chengdu Traffic Police Command Center.

Nice tip…but there’s no way we were going to turn back to Chengdu!!

I relayed the message to the information officer again, who relayed the message to her director, who promised to contact the Chengdu Traffic Police for a solution…

For an hour, we loitered around the toll gate, watching enviously as vehicles got past their checks and whizzed towards our destination one after another.

We started making small talk with the traffic police – better to have a sense of humour while waiting than to sulk while breathing in the smog.

The traffic police got friendlier with us. Patience does pay off.

During one of his vehicle checks, he beckoned us to show us the green pass in question. Turns out the “approved” persons were indeed holding green passes issued by the Propaganda Department of the Communist Party of China (No wonder!).

And then, it happened. Two police officers showed up with two media liaison officers in a vehicle from Du Jiangyan to take down our particulars – our access was granted!

But that wasn’t the end.

(Those of you who managed to come this far in reading my ramblings must be feeling rather tired from the whole process. You have my sympathies - I know how that feels.)

You see, Mr Long couldn’t come with us as access was restricted to holders of green CCP passes, blue media passes, Du Jiangyan residents and probably a whole list of other registered vehicles/ dogs/ cats/ plants, etc…

That means we either had to get to Du Jiangyan on foot, or hitchhike our way in.

But all’s not lost …

Because the entourage from Du Jiangyan offered us a ride!

Hurray…

Journalists who come to China with ideas that they can report freely, without any constraints, are often in for a rude shock.

I never had any such illusions, maybe because being ethnically Chinese, I know better than to try to change the Chinese brand of media management. Moreover, having spent five years in China has taught me the importance of xian li hou bing or to be polite first before you engage in a battle.

It’s not an easy art to master, and my humble skills were put to the test during a trip to Sichuan’s Mianzhu city, in the quake zone, where we revisited Jiulong Town.

“You have to go to Mianzhu city government to get your accreditation,” a media liaison staff greeted us, rather reluctantly.

(A verbal ping pong match followed – I tried to explain my purpose while the staff in question tried to make us turn back…you get the idea)

“Are you trying to make us leave?” It was hard to contain the sarcasm in my tone, despite my attempt at giving them what I thought was my brightest smile.

“We were told that this pass could get us to any quake zone in Sichuan.” I flashed that big blue pass with the stamp of approval from the Sichuan Provincial Government.

“Oh, please don’t take it the wrong way, “said Staff, in true Chinese hospitality. “But you’ll have to go to Mianzhu City Government to get your accreditation.”

She was beginning to sound like a broken record. So was I, repeating myself on how we’ve traveled for hours just to get there and it wouldn’t make sense to go back and forth just to get entangled in red tape.

“Look,” I said, as I dug into my waist-pouch for my Royal Flush. “You are looking at me in the flesh, I’ve got my PASSPORT, my press pass issued by the STATE COUNCIL, AND my press pass issued by the Sichuan PROVINCIAL government. You can verify my authenticity here and now.”

I held up my Royal Flush between our faces in exasperation. “Let’s be flexible. Surely you could make a call to the city government to get me registered?”

It worked. One phone call later, the staff and a rather friendly police officer offered us bottled water and asked us to wait in the tent.

But no one would tell us when the town’s governor would be back.

Going by my understanding of Chinese custom, that was as good as telling us to leave.

So we left the tent and started talking to the displaced villagers, who would have made excellent stories — there was a man who set up shop selling fresh meat and offered interesting nuggets about pork prices. And then there was a woman who resumed making cardboard boxes to make ends meet….

I asked to see the woman’s tent and her workshop. She gamely agreed.

And then, the shadow of the same friendly police officer mentioned earlier, loomed over my shoulder.

He trailed us as we followed the woman to her tent, which happened to be situated right next to the site of a collapsed kindergarten. It was now covered with wreaths and banners with slogans accusing the government of malpractice — not the ideal portrayal of any government seeking goodwill after a disaster.

The friendly police officer grabbed our camera from Sun.

I tried to take it back, reminding him that it’s private property.

A little tug-of-war ensued. Finally, he insisted that Sun turn the camera towards himself, so that we couldn’t steal any shots.

As we approached the rubble of the kindergarten, two other security officers blocked our way as though on cue.

“You have to leave, NOW,” said the no longer friendly police officer. “No interviews are allowed in this town anymore. Please leave immediately.”

We were “escorted” to our rented vehicle. Another officer stared into the vehicle the whole time, making sure that we didn’t film from inside.

I would later learn that a fight nearly broke out between some police officers and a couple of German journalists who’d arrived in the same town later that day.

I don’t suppose they got offered any water.