The murder of a Chinese student in the UK and “Parachute kids”

Several months ago, a 24-year-old Chinese female student named Xixi Bi was beaten to death by her British boyfriend, Jordan Matthews. The pathologist who did the postmortem examination found 41 injuries on her body. Before her death, Bi was studying for a master’s degree in international business management in the UK.

The court report said that while Bi was dating this boyfriend, she had been repeatedly beaten by him and he had been controlling and manipulative to her.

While mourning Bi’s tragic death, I cannot help but notice that she was merely 15 years old when she was sent to the UK to study. She was one of those “parachute kids,” a term used to describe underaged children who are sent to foreign countries to study without their parents being around.

In recent years, a growing number of Chinese youngsters have traveled far to the United States, the UK, Australia, and many other Western countries to study in college (undergraduate studies) and high schools.  About 1/3 of international students enrolled in the United States are now from China. A decade ago, fewer than 1000 Chinese students studied in secondary schools in the U.S., and now the number has surpassed 30,000.

As someone who traveled overseas to study, I feel for these young people. I was 23 when I left China for graduate studies at Stanford University. Though I had finished 4-year college in China and had even worked for three years after college, it was not an easy journey. I remember those days when I felt defeated because I didn’t understand what my professors were saying in the class. I remember those days when I stayed at the library until 3 or 4am to finish school projects and then biked back to my dorm to get several hours’ sleep. I remember those holidays when I was by myself, and the days when I was sick with no one to comfort me. One evening, I stayed at my dorm room and cried for quite a while because I missed home so much.

These parachute kids are not even 20, some as young as 13 or 14, and I doubt they’ve had any summer jobs or internship in China for them to gain worldly knowledge and experience. They’re alone, lonely, far from home, surrounded by people who speak a different language and value a different culture. How easy it must be for them to feel homesick and lost.

I don’t want to go deep into the analysis of this phenomenon of young Chinese students studying overseas here, though I intend to write more about it in my future posts, to answer questions such as 1) who are these students? Why do they study overseas? How do they deal with cultural clashes? What do they want to achieve in their new country? How do they influence local schools, culture, commerce, etc.? The list is long.

If Bi had her family close by she would most likely have turned to them for help before the tragedy happened. If she was older, more mature when she was first sent to the UK, she would most likely have handled things differently, being less tolerant to her boyfriend’s abusive behaviors, being more confident in seeking support. If she didn’t feel that she had to live up to her parents’ expectation and succeed in a foreign land, she might have chosen to return to China when her relationship with her boyfriend turned bitter. If her university provided more attention and counseling to international students…….

These are all speculations, of course. But I wonder if there isn’t truth in them.

A young, beautiful life has ended way too soon.

 

 

 

 

Coming of age during the Cultural Revolution

I have four older brothers and my oldest brother, Xiang, and I are eleven years apart in age. He belongs to the “’60s generation” (六十年代后)while I belong to the “’70s generation” (七十年代后). He has a vivid memory of the Cultural Revolution as a child and preteen, while I was still a dodder when Mao died. Sometimes he makes fun of our age difference, saying that he feels that he’s several decades older than I.

I like to hear Xiang talk about his childhood. In my latest novel, Song of the Daisies, I wrote about the kids in the ’60s China.


From “Song of the Daisies

(Narrated by Kai)

My parents lived for three years in a military compound in Anhui Province, my father on a temporary assignment. It was close to the countryside. In winter, on evenings when it snowed, I would take my sister Moli and the other kids in the compound, boys and girls, to catch sparrows; for kids like us, growing up in warm weather, snow was the best thing. It had become a tradition, like eating moon cakes on Mid-Autumn Festival or shooting fireworks and wearing new clothes on the Lunar New Year.

On snowy nights, after dinner, many kids from the same compound would come to our house uninvited, each carrying a flashlight and a broom. They adored me and if I were away they would go home reluctantly. They could certainly catch sparrows without my advice or help but they said that without me it just wasn’t the same.

On our way to the village plaza, forty-five minutes’ walk—where sparrows nested inside the straw stooks or under the eaves—I would tell stories, some as ancient as Pangu opening the sky with an ax and Nvwo creating humans with soil, mixing the mythical characters from different times and legends. Or Monkey King fighting Fire God Zhurong; Houyi, who shot ten suns to cool down an overheated earth, and legendary ruler Dayu curbing the deadly flood.

In earliest human history, I told Moli and the other kids, there were four worlds: the Barren, Beyond the Barren, Beyond the Ocean and the Unknown. And there were five countries: Gold in the West, Wood in the East, Water in the North, Fire in the South and Soil in the Center. I liked telling stories, moving my arms and legs to emulate the actions I was describing, changing the inflections of my voice to fit the characters and occasions. Moli once said that I was as intense as the New Year’s lion dancers.

The walk was long, especially when it was windy and snowing, and when none of us had proper shoes or clothes to stay dry and warm in the snow and mud. But we didn’t mind the cold and discomfort—all of us, girls as well as boys, had read many stories about ancient warriors who drink animals’ blood when thirsty and who wear no clothes year round, except a skirt of grass and tree bark, and we imagined that we were their offspring.

Time passed quickly as I told my stories. My mind strayed occasionally to the snowflakes, dancing gracefully, glittering in our flashlight beams like crystal moths, and I felt happy and jealous—happy that Moli was next to me, looking up at me with love and admiration, jealous because I wasn’t a carefree snowflake. Sometimes I would look up beyond the flashlight beams, for the snow to fall on my face. I would lick the snowflakes and smile.

Before we arrived at the plaza I would order everyone to switch off their flashlights and we would stand still for several minutes, surrounded by darkness and the snow falling on us and on the ground. “So we don’t stir the birds, right?” Moli once asked about this ritual. I nodded but the truth was that I wanted the darkness, I wanted the quiet. And I thought the silence could serve as a preordained memorial to the birds that were about to die.

In my experience sparrows are the most difficult of all birds to scare, especially when they are sleeping. Shine a flashlight into their eyes and instead of flying away they stay still, leaving their fate to you—you can even grab them and they’ll still be in a stupor. Their behavior made the killing easy.

I asked the other kids to pair up, one shining the flashlight, the other using the broom to hit the sparrows hiding inside the straw or under the eaves. As they did the killing I looked away and watched the snow. A small pile of bodies soon accumulated. If I didn’t stop the other kids the massacre would continue until no bird was left alive. But I had set the quota beforehand: four sparrows each, not including myself. Whatever I said was an order and even the greediest kids obeyed, fearing that disobedience would disqualify them from future participation.

We started a fire in a corner where the wind and snow couldn’t reach and after wrapping the sparrows in mud we skewered them with sticks and put them on the fire, chatting while waiting for them to cook. I always remember those moments, when fire turned our faces into golden apples and we talked about our wildest dreams without childish shyness and uncertainty: this girl wanted to be the first Chinese on the moon; that boy wanted to invent a robot that could play ping-pong; yet another boy wanted to become a patrol guard at Tiananmen Square.

They asked me what I wanted to become when I grew up. I said I would follow the Greatest Leader and do whatever he asked me to do. “What if he asked you to die for the country?” one boy asked. I replied that it would be my honor. Moli hugged me around my waist, lifting her small face to watch me with worry, mumbling that she didn’t want me to die ever.  I touched her head and comforted her. No, I would never die, never, never, I said to her.

The boys compared biceps to see whose was biggest and challenged each other to arm wrestling. I always let them beat me though I pretended to try my best—teeth bared, facial muscles tense. There was much laughter and cheering, our budding youth strengthened by the fire, the night, the camaraderie.

When we smelled the meat we took the sparrows from the fire and unwrapped the mud, which fell off with the feathers. There wasn’t much meat on them but sparrows were fattest in winter, their tiny chests bulging. Without salt or other ingredients Moli and the other kids enjoyed their small feast. They always invited me to eat but I said that I didn’t want to eat, and said, as I beat the ashes with a stick meditatively, that I didn’t like sparrow meat. I lied—I could feel my Adam’s apple bob as I swallowed the saliva filling my mouth. Who wouldn’t like sparrow meat, ten times more tender and juicy than chicken? I liked chicken and could eat a whole hen if one was available.

What bothered me was my participation in killing. But I couldn’t persuade myself not to kill the birds, either, because our Greatest Leader had said that they were harmful to agriculture and should be exterminated, along with mosquitoes, flies and rats. Who could argue with our Greatest Leader? So I chose partial compliance, a conditioned appeasement: kill the pests but not with my own hands; not kill too many; never eat them.

 

Thanksgiving messages from Mothers’ Bridge of Love volunteers

Since this July, I’ve been volunteering at the London-based Mothers’ Bridge of Love (MBL), leading its website team. Our team is growing fast, and now we have more than 15 members from Europe, the U.S., and China. It’s wonderful to work with so many talented and passionate people to make a difference. 🙂

This belated post is from Thanksgiving, with messages from some volunteers in our team. Though Thanksgiving is an American holiday, I feel that it’s always important to remind ourselves to care for each other and be grateful for what we have.

Thank you, my dear MBL friends!

Julie: 

I’ve been with MBL for 13 years. It’s precious when we work together and support each other. I will keep all the beautiful memory in my heart forever. I’m so proud to be one of the volunteers for MBL and I’m grateful to everyone I’ve met in my life. I feel happy because knowing YOU is the most beautiful thing! Many thanks to you for supporting MBL charity. Happy Thanksgiving!

Fan:

Happy Thanksgiving! This is my first year to be an official MBLer. It feels wonderful to be in such a warm family where sharing and helping each other are deeply valued. I’m moved by the many stories about adoptive families and adopted children, and every project MBL has done for underprivileged children in China inspires me. Thank you, MBL, and thank you, our hardworking and talented volunteers all over the world! Thank you, all the friends and supporters of MBL. Thinking of you makes me smile.

Patrick:

Some friendships become more beautiful over time. Thank you for the color you add to my life! I wish you a heartfelt Thanksgiving.

Ding Ding: 

I am blessed to be part of MBL. MBL teaches me to bridge gaps and connect hearts. It seems difficult, but is worth an effort and certainly achievable for anyone who holds such a wish. Wish MBLers around the world can bridge more gaps and unite more hearts and souls. Love you all!

Chloe:

Thanks for those people who inspire me and challenge me to grow. We met in our life for a reason, which is that we all learn from each other.

Jieqiong:

A lot of things happened to me this year, some are good some are bad. I am so blessed that every time when I am happy or sad, I have the MBL family to share with. This warm family teaches me love and how to embrace frustrations with hope and peace. Thank you MBL family~! I love you all~!

Thibault:

在川普上任之后,我们都必需努力争取我们的权利、未来和自由,因为这个世界将到处充斥着模糊的仇恨和暴力

Ying:

Thanks to the MBL – the big family, who has brought us together for a good cause, through which I have met many wonderful people and spent my time meaningfully. Here is to a harvest of blessing to the MBL, you are the epitome of loving people and for that we are eternally grateful. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

A big thank you to MBL’s volunteer Gloria in China, who recently joined MBL, for the beautiful poster. If you want to read more about MBL, please visit www.mothersbridge.org 

 

Old Cultural Revolution Posters And The Stories Behind Them

Jules Nadeau, a freelance writer living in Montreal, shared with me several posters of the Cultural Revolution from his collection. I didn’t grow up with these posters, but have seen them many times in news, books and movies where the Cultural Revolution was concerned.

I asked Jules if if he could write something about these posters, and was extremely grateful that he said yes. Here are his words.


By Jules Nadeau

I spent a fabulous time in the PRC in 1979 as a consultant for a film crew. We were shooting an in-depth three hours documentary on the railroad network and this was the year I acquired my collection of political posters. In retrospect, I find the most interesting artifact is the one showing Chairman Mao Zedong saying in a paternalistic way to his protégé Hua Guofeng: “With you in charge, I’m at ease.” Other drawings eulogize the Canadian doctor Norman Bethune and the Communist Party.

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Mao Zedong and Hua Guofeng

However Hua Guofeng (1921-2008), the “designated successor”, was himself about to be excommunicated by the paramount leader Deng Xiaoping and that iconic poster was about to be withdrawn from all Xinhua State stores. A Wuhan university student purchased the whole set in 1978 and offered it to me as a token of friendship. It’s only now that I revel in the possession of these red archives.

The National Film Board

The affiches were obtained in Wuhan because this is where our Montreal crew of five was based for an unforgettable six weeks in the antiquated Shengli (Victory) hotel, sort of five-star establishment of the late 70’s. So we spent a lot of time in the European style train station of Hukou. We interviewed numerous employees during their working hours and their leisure time at home. We were also interested in young and old passengers boarding the socialist green wagons. George Dufaux, a reputed film director at the National Film Board of Canada (NFB), saw these travelers as genuine representives of the one billion inhabitants of the vast land. Just weeks before the “one couple one child” policy was introduced.

We were only three years away from the passing over of the Great Helmsman and the official invalidation of the Cultural Revolution (1966-76). Party cadres were still trying to outsmart the visiting medias. They were thus trying to show us the best side of the socialist Motherland. But Georges Dufaux was clever enough to concentrate on railroad people because that gave us the opportunity to interview all kinds of hiking people, in other words common folks who were not selected, “briefed” in advance or instructed to make politically correct declarations.

Surprise, spontaneity and frankness was our hush-hush motto. I acted as consultant for this purpose: discern the genuine speech from the Orwellian “doublespeak”. It was my fourth foray across the bamboo curtain in four years. (With the provison that we did not want to be ideologically attacked as the Italian director Michelagelo Antonioni was vilified following his 1972 film Chung Kuo (Zhongguo.)

No matter what the NFB was well considered by the Chinese authorities partly because of the fame of Norman Bethune. I often underlined to our hosts that the revolutionary doctor practiced for a few years in Montréal before leaving for China. “The father of my former magazine editor in Montréal was a patient of Bethune. In 1975 while visiting Shijiazhuang hospital I shook hand with a venerable veteran who had personally known Bethune”, I repeated. Such statements from the “foreign expert” were music to the ears of our railway blue collars. Ottawa established diplomatic relations with Beijing long time before Washington did.

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Cultural Revolution Poster

The Junior Brother of Deng Xiaoping

Personalities? I saluted the brother of Deng Xiaoping. How come? I knew that Deng Ken was the deputy governor of Hubei. The evening of the National day, October 1st, we saw several high cadres parading through the lobby of Victory hotel. One of them bore a striking ressemblance with Deng Xiaoping. “Is this the younger brother of…”, I asked one of the staff. Following the positive answer from a shy waitress, I went straight to him and offered him a blue fleur de lys pin Made in Québec. Deng Ken seemed surprised for a few seconds but he smiled and gave me a polite xiexie nin! Thank you! (My teamates did not believe me when I reported the coup d’éclat!

In 1979 there was a huge Railway Ministry in the PRC with some 2,400,00 staff. Workers plus all their relatives. The “iron rice bowl” for all. In Beijing, I was granted an exclusive interview with Minister Guo Weicheng (a former PLA General of Manchu origin). Quite an honor! In Wuhan, in an effort to get closer to the local cadres, genial Georges Dufaux had a wonderful idea. Instead of offering maple syrup or traditional handicraft to our hosts, he imagined to carry over a miniature locomotive with colorful wagons. The kind of toy that would drive any kid crazy. Needless to say, the responsible leaders were amazed to see the mini-train circle and circle around in the dining room. More clinking glasses! Touché!

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Cultural Revolution Poster

Our Online Documentary 

Thanks to Bethune, the interview at the top and the magic electric train, people-to-people rapports were warming up. A senior comrade we learned to trust, the guy who like to chit chat with laowai (foreigners), went as far as inviting our Gang of Five to his home for dinner. “This is unique!” I told my NFB friends. Mr. Zhang and his gentle wife (a physician) prepared some delicious dumplings (jiaozi) in gargantuan quantities. Georges Dufaux, Serge Lafortune, Richard Besse and the interpreter Elizabeth Lowe (Canadian student in Beijing) really savored the meal. That was gold to us: an informal visit in a private home. Unrehearsed and impromptu!

Shopping for dictionaries and art books was a lot of fun. We went for haircuts just for smelling the atmosphere of a post-cultural revolution barber shop. I also guided the crew to the Liberation photography studio. This is where we had our corporate pix taken. In my case, with a proletariat cap and a working class vest, I tried to look like a bona fide member of the popular masses. When I look at this shot nowadays, I think I almost succeeded. Except for my high nose and the thick moustache that betray me… No  Chineseness at that level!

Dufaux was not able to edit the film down to less than three hours. The personal testimonies about the day to day life in China and the canonical statements coexist side by side. “We will show the viewers what the authorities want them to see. Let the spectators judge by themselves” confided the experienced director to me. The three-part documentary called Guidao: On the Way can now be seen online on the web site of the National Film Board. The vintage posters can also be admired on this blog. Quite a different planet… almost 40 years ago! Wuhan now has a grandiose train station. The Victory hotel is a mere paper souvenir. People are also different. And trains move much faster between Wuhan, the ground zero of the Wuchang Uprising of October 10th 1911 Revolution and the post-1949 capital city of Beijing.

—–

The long-time barefoot Sinophile Jules Nadeau is a freelance writer living in Montreal who spent 10 years in Greater China. He is the author of 20 Million Chinese Made in Taiwan and also 1997: In the Mouth of the Red Dragon. In 1979, Jules Nadeau was a full-time journalist at La Presse, a French language daily in the province of Québec. 

Bridge School Benefit Concert & Cui Jian

Work, work, work…kids, kids, kids…finally my husband and I got to go out a bit with close friends to watch the Bridge School Benefit Concert last Sunday. (Thanks to our fantastic babysitter who was my daughter’s preschool teacher.) This is an all-acoustic, non-profit charity held every October Shoreline Amphitheater in Mountain View. The lineup list was impressive: Neil Young, Metallica, Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds, Willie Nelson, Norah Jones, Cage the Elephant, Nils Lofgren, and Roger Waters.

The place was packed, both expected and exciting as all the money would go to the charity. We arrived late and missed Neil Young. Cage the Elephant was new to me and I liked their songs and energy. Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” was always great to hum along, which I first heard when I was at college in China.

Norah Jones, though I like her, seemed a bit boring for this occasion. The location and the crowd with their beer, cigarettes and who-knows-what just weren’t right for her music.

Bridge Stone School Concert
Bridge Stone School Concert

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dave Matthews was wonderful but also predicable. When I first watched his show, I had been in the U.S. for fewer than 3 years, was working at Yahoo!. At that time, the company was the Wall Street’s darling and we, as employees, enjoyed perks, fancy parties and a lot of good food. One of the perks was free tickets to cool events. That was how one day I got to see Dave Matthews from the first row. Honestly, I didn’t know who he was and had to ask my American coworker, who seemed appalled by my ignorance.

As I was watching the show, I thought of Cui Jian, the father of Chinese rock. When I first listened to his music, I was not yet in college, and I was dreaming big and wild. With his guitar and hoarse voice, Cui Jian conquered me and my friends, physically and psychologically, making us stomp on the chairs and cry. He made us realize for the first time that we, the Chinese, could be freed from the burdens that our tumultuous history had inflicted on us. At the top of our lungs, with feigned melancholy, my friends and I sang “Nothing to My Name,” “A Piece of Red Cloth” and “Greenhouse girl.” We thought how true it was that the Party blinded us by covering our eyes with a piece of red cloth, pelting us with propaganda and forced political learning.

I still listen to Cui Jian from time to time, and am still moved by many of his songs, mostly old ones.

At the Sunday concert, when Willie Nelson was singing, four old men in front of me stood up and, with their hands on each other’s shoulders, they sang along and danced along, completely mesmerized. I watched them, and I, too, was happy, because of them, because of my memory.