Dear friend,
(Adele-style but with a cracky voice) Hello from the other side!
Our last email was sent to you on December 23, 2022, when the pandemic was still the major story of our lives. China, abruptly opened after protests, fell into a maniac chaos that tripped everyone. We (Yan and I, and perhaps more people) were muddled, pushed into a new dynasty as we thought then, and painfully cheered for it.
17 months later, I write to you in this new dynasty. COVID is now a history of the old; in this dynasty, it never happened. There are now new problems to be baffled with, though: a war-bearing, quivery world at far and a slacking economy, to say the best, at home.
I won’t bore you with pretentious, critical-sounding analyses of global or domestic affairs. Rather, with limited capability, I only wish to share with you some updates of our lives. For this new dynasty is as glorious-looking as it is fragile as past dynasties; for China is still the amazing land that breeds fascinating individual stories, only now strangled with an eternal string.
(And to the 500+ new friends who jumped on this mailing list during the past 17 months of our silence, hello and welcome! You may be puzzled by why you subscribed – in short, Elephant Room is a space for two Chinese females to write about our journeys to understand our motherland. I do most of the writing now as Yan prefers to stay backstage – more on our life updates later.)
润, or not
There’s no other way to say this: the topic of “润” (leaving the country) occupied our minds daily last year.
We intentionally and passively gathered the trails of our acquaintances who fled the country. The former Tencent executive who settled his entire family in Japan, the ex-producer of one of China’s most famous entertainment companies who moved to Bali as a digital nomad, the former colleague who migrated to the UK to restart as a supermarket cashier and family friends – flocks of them, mostly business elites – who moved to Singapore.
We admired their resolve and felt guilty about our own lack of it. Yan and I, as well as within our respective families, discussed the possibility of leaving constantly. Yet a single verb consists of many steps, some forward, some backward, and many stagnations. We’ve both just turned 30, childless, (over)educated, and self-conscious. We felt the need to be well-planned (perhaps to justify our lack of courage), so our steps outward became rather slow.
By the second half of last year, we had landed on some concrete plans. Yan began applying for immigration to Canada, while I went to Hong Kong for a one-year master’s program in Journalism. A few months later, as I write this to you, Yan has officially received her green card and is planning to leave China by the end of this year. As for me, I’ve completed my degree, returned to Beijing, and am now considering the next step out.
So here we are, in this year of farewell, savoring the last several months of friend gatherings in Beijing before Yan departs for Canada. As difficult as it is to type out this ticking clock reality, I also feel truly, beyond words, happy for us. As I told Yan last year (Her immigration application went through so many stages, and for a while, I thought she might leave at any moment – huge anxieties!), I’ve always felt that the essence of our bond is to expand the world for each other. If one of us goes further, wider, the other one follows.
(I could go on ranting much more, but Yan specifically warned me not to be too sentimental in this email. So, cheers! to friendships and move-ons. 🍻)
Hong Kong and Journalism School
So this two-semester study became my refuge, an excuse to extricate myself from the obligations and trappings of full-fledged adulthood. This feels shameful to admit, for it was only upon entering my classrooms last September that I realized my peers viewed this scholarly journey through a vastly different and seemingly more earnest lens. The majority of them were fresh-faced individuals in their early 20s, many of whom were venturing outside of mainland China for the first time, having endured the tribulations of COVID-19 lockdowns while confined to their undergraduate dormitories and graduating virtually via Tencent Meetings. At first glance, they struck me as a markedly distinct species: youthful, internet-savvy, and, as stereotypical as it might sound, more “Chinese”.
But we found common grounds for our shared journalistic aspirations (for me, it translates to “telling real stories from real people. “The definition varies, of course, in/out of academia and for different individuals) as well as for our mutual fascination with Hong Kong. This city, which I had once loathed in my youth due to fleeting memories of the cacophonous crowds in Central, now became my New World. Yes, Hong Kong is no longer the Hong Kong after 2019, but Hong Kong is still Hong Kong. A land anchored in the rule of law, individualism, traditional Chinese culture, and cruel yet orderly capitalism. For some, this land might be a torn episode of a certain past; for me, someone who grew up fiddling with an “East vs. West” narrative yet coined with Chinese heritage, this land is refreshing, robust, and hope-inspiring.
Snippets of my time in Hong Kong.
I won’t go into the details about why I loved Hong Kong, only to say that I’ve been planning to return since this escapist study period ended. As for journalism and the studying experience, let’s save the chat for another time.
All Fall Down
On the last evening of April, I found myself immersed in the task of packing up my modest quarters in Hong Kong, preparing to embark on my return journey to Beijing. Kneeling amidst the sea of folded t-shirts and socks, I was suddenly and quite unexpectedly confronted by startling news surfacing on my WeChat. The beloved gym I had frequented in Beijing’s bustling central business district – boasting five branches across Beijing and Shanghai – had, it seemed, liquidated virtually overnight. Like a clandestine lover vanishing without a trace, the gym had been operating as usual just the day prior, continuing to offer its classes and even selling memberships and posting hiring information. Yet within the span of a mere twenty-four hours, it had issued a terse, impersonal announcement to all its members and employees, stating that “Closing down was an extremely difficult choice, but we have no other way to keep the operation going. We will resolve the company’s remaining debts and liabilities through legal procedures.”(A sentiment that, as I later learned, had yet to be fully realized, with the gym’s founder having seemingly absconded, disappearing from the world altogether.)
Just two days following my return to Beijing, I happened upon a prominent Closing Notice posted on the doors of the supermarket situated directly downstairs from my apartment. This was no ordinary grocer, but rather the esteemed Jenny Lou’s – one of the largest Western supermarket chains within the city, renowned for its impressive selection of imported goods. An integral fixture within the neighborhood since the very year this apartment complex was constructed, way back in 2010, the store had become a cherished and dependable institution.
“We all know how daunting the landscape has become for brick-and-mortar businesses these days,” the notice read, its words tinged with a palpable air of reluctance and conflicted emotion. “It is with profound regret that we have decided to shutter our store after faithfully accompanying our valued customers for the past fourteen years.”
The next day, I met up with a work friend for brunch. As we settled into our seats, she immediately launched into an exasperated account of her morning. She had just bid farewell to two of her Mongolian friends visiting China for the first time. Eager to make the most of their trip, she had sent them off on a one-day sightseeing excursion to the Great Wall.
“You won’t believe how hard it is for them to get around,”she vented, her brows furrowed in frustration. “They tried registering for Alipay and WeChat Pay, but the systems don’t acknowledge their Mogolian bank cards. And forget about buying any tourist passes – they all require real-name verification, and all these verifications require typing a code sent to the mobile number. They don’t have a freaking Chinese number!”
She went on to explain how she had painstakingly arranged all the travel logistics for her friends the night before. “The only solution we could come up with was for me to use my personal ID to purchase all the sightseeing tickets and public transport fares in advance, so they wouldn’t have to worry about spending money today.” She threw up her hands in dismay. “It’s just totally ridiculous!”
“If ever your world starts crashing down/Whenever your world starts crashing down/Whenever your world starts crashing down/That’s when you’ll find me.”
The song All Fall Down by OneRepublic kept echoing in my brain as I jotted these recent memories down.
The But
Just one week after the gym closed, I read some interesting updates on Red 小红书 (thanks to its scarily accurate algorithm, which seems to know everything about what I want to know and what I didn’t know I wanted to know). The popular trainers that we workout enthusiasts adored have quickly been absorbed by some other nearby gyms, starting their classes again in new facilities and inviting us to dance and cycle with them once more. “Let’s forget about the damn old boyfriend,” the trainers joked in WeChat groups, “ready for the next chapter!”
The week that Jenny Lou’s started closing down with a clearance sale, a Freshippo 盒马 store (Alibaba Group’s proprietary retail chain for groceries and fresh goods) opened across the street. Although slightly farther than Jenny Lou’s, it is twenty times larger, stocked with a huge variety of domestically and freshly supplied produce. My grandparents, who live in the same apartment building as me and are in their late 80s, immediately visited the new store after hearing the news of its opening. “Who needs a Western supermarket when you can buy such fresh, affordable produce?” my grandpa said to me as he excitedly showed off the yellow croaker he had just bought from Freshippo.
Last week, as my husband and I returned from a trip from Tokyo to Beijing, I noticed, to my utter surprise, that our afternoon Air China flight cabin was filled with an overwhelming proportion of foreigners. Judging by their large outdoor backpacks and flip-flops, We guessed they were most likely tourists. Our guess was confirmed as we departed the plane and saw them walking towards the terminal counter in Beijing Capital Airport, which had a sign for “Visa-Free Entry for Foreign Tourists.” As we walked out to the arrival hall, we also noticed a shiny new desk with two young staff members dressed in navy suits politely smiling at travelers. “Foreigner’s Help Desk for E-Payment,” the sign on the desk reads.
I still see these “but.” As long as there is a “but,” my curiosity for exploring China continues, and Elephant Room goes on.
Thank you for staying with us and see you next time,
Biyi
PS – Dear reader, since we haven’t touched base for such a long time, we’d love to know your experience since the COVID-19 dynasty. In specific, have you visited China, left the country, or thinking about coming in the near future?
PPS – We previously used MailChimp to send emails but have decided to switch to SubStack instead. Still playing around with the platform as a newbie though – hope your reading experience of this email isn’t too bad. 🙈