Yee Fong’s Blog

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.

 

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