Yee Fong’s Blog

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.

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.