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.

 

Coming from Singapore, an island-state located away from tectonic fault lines and sheltered from typhoons, it was a life-changing moment to be at the scene of the worst earthquake in China in 50 years.

“Did you see a lot of dead bodies?” topped the FAQ chart for my two-week endeavour.

It was a rather difficult question to answer. To address the question directly would seem to have simplified the magnitude of the devastation, as it was not just a matter of dead bodies, but the death of a certain part of the souls of the millions involved.

And it wasn’t so much of the gruesome dismembered remains that defined the tragedy ; it was the sheer grief and sense of hopelessness that comes the second, the hour, and the morning after.

The sunny sky in Sichuan did look dimmer while I was there.

To hear survivors talk about their losses, to see their tough front gradually breaking down into speechless tears was heart-wrenching to say the least.

Colleagues back home were worried, seriously worried about my crew and me, which I really appreciated.

I felt ok…well, maybe.

For the one-week that I was to be taking a break from covering the earthquake in Beijing, I was indulging in non-work activities on an unusual adrenaline high, while at the back of my mind, I was yearning to go back to Sichuan.

Even my cameraman, Sun, who’s usually cool and jovial, admitted he couldn’t watch another sob story on local TV stations and had switched to watching the cartoon channels instead. At times, while we navigated through the ruins, I thought I felt he was holding back tears, too.

I finally returned to the quake zones recently.

Sprawling shelters with Styrofoam-filled walls standing on former farmlands greeted us as we rode into Mianyang towards Beichuan, which by now has been destroyed, abandoned and flooded by the Tangjiashan Quake Lake.

Seas of blue tents that house the thousands waiting to be relocated punctuated the scenery.

At a camp en route to Beichuan, where 2,000 survivors now call home, people we spoke to have seemed to come to terms with the disaster. The sense of loss remains, but they told us they were thankful that the Chinese government took care of them fast, and well.

Local government officials, meanwhile, donned sun hats, t-shirts and rolled-up their pants. They convened in their tent offices, ate and drank the same food as the survivors as they are supposed to.

The person-in-charge seemed rather cold, and demanded that we produce a letter of authorization from the Mianyang government (which was not necessary, according to the Sichuan government, who accredited us for quake coverage).

We smiled and explained and smiled some more. Eventually, he left us alone.

We roamed around the camp and learnt that these are the supplies which each survivor receives every other day:

1 pack of sausages
2 packages of milk
5 sets of pre-packed rice meals
4 packets of instand noodles
4 bottles of water

To top it all, there are regular hot meals provided by volunteers.

The camp is powered and gets running water from a nearby water treatment plant all day. Hordes gathered at a “TV lounge” with large flat-screen TV to watch updates of relief efforts.  Later, an announcement over the loudspeaker informed all that a hair cutting service was now available.

Sun and I were by now scorched and tanned by the intense summer heat in the outskirts, but there were no complaints from the survivors. They stayed out of their tents, fanning themselves with straw fans or whatever they could find. They just found ways to chill.

I suddenly understood why I needed to return to Sichuan.   It’s the sense of closure that comes from being able to see the survivors move on, strong.