开心

It was the eighth day of the eighth month of the year 2008, a very important day in our household. Jade, our three and a half year old daughter, whom we had adopted from China, was giddy with excitement. She proudly sported her bright orange Yingying “Friendly” t-shirt and toted around her stuffed “Friendly”, Jingjing. I had purchased Jingjing in the Guangzhou airport in 2006 on our way home with our new daughter. I had no idea what the adorable panda with the bizarre headdress meant, other than the fact that he was one of the mascots or "Friendlies" for the upcoming Olympics to be held in Beijing. I stuffed Jingjing in my already overcrowded carry-on bag, yearning to take every last piece of my daughter’s native land home with us. I knew the culture shock was going to be difficult for Jade, as she was already a walking, talking toddler, not a baby. She was already an individual, with her own personality and idiosyncrasies. More importantly, she was already a Chinese person, and it was going to be part of my duty as her mother to honor her heritage.

So, on the night of 08/08/08, our small family of three huddled together in front of the television, in anticipation of the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics. Jade was even more elated that this special occasion had allowed her to stay up hours past her routine bedtime. Fondly reliving his time working in Beijing, my husband pointed out his favorite landmarks, as the camera offered a preview of a city ready to explode with pride over the spectacle they were about to place at the world’s doorstep. I held Jade’s hand, every once in a while reminding her that Mommy and Daddy had traveled all the way to China, just to adopt the best little girl in the universe. “I know,” she gurgled in response, her mouth full of laughter.

And then it started. 91,000 spectators sat at attention in the Beijing National Stadium, also known as the Bird’s Nest, as 2,008 Fou Drummers performed on a backdrop of a giant LED paper scroll. My jaw dropped, as I witnessed the perfect synchronization of a country ready to stick out their chins and unleash their carefully guarded power on the world. “The drummers were told to smile,” the commentator informed a shocked American television audience. “In the dress rehearsal, the director decided that the performers looked too intimidating, so they were all instructed to smile.” Little did they know that those perfectly pasted smiles would scare an already insecure world more than any grimace ever could. In perfect formation, the drummers lit their drums to collectively form digits, both in Arabic and Chinese numerals, to countdown the final seconds to the Games, 8pm local time, on 08/08/08. I glanced over at my husband to witness his “I told you so” smile, while Jade jumped up and down, applauding in excitement.

Unable to look away for even an instant, our multi-cultural family witnessed fireworks, flying fairies, and human paintbrushes creating art on a giant scroll of white canvas paper. Chinese history was glorified with the appearance of terracotta soldiers and a Beijing Opera reenactment. 2,008 Tai Chi masters in white performed with super-human fluidity, as they demonstrated on command their perfect harmony with nature. Brightly colored lights created flying birds to symbolize the rebirth of the phoenix, while the subsequent segment depicted the arrival of the modern astronaught. A 60-foot, 16-ton ball structure emerged to represent the Earth and to provide 58 acrobats a platform to tumble in every direction on its rounded surface. Gasps of awe reverberated throughout the Bird’s Nest, as the ball was suddenly transformed into a Chinese red lantern. Tears poured down my cheeks, as Sarah Brightman and Liu Huan sang the 2008 Olympic theme song, “You and Me”, while 2,008 performers held out parasols with smiling faces of young children.

As the grand opening led into the Parade of Nations, I finally unglued my astonished eyes from the television screen and turned to find the peaceful face of my own young Chinese child, curled up asleep between my husband and I, her two pillars of protection against a sometimes harsh world of judgments. Together, we gently scooped Jade up and tucked her innocence into the crowded bed in her room. We moved aside countless favorite toys and clothes to find a tiny space for her to rest amongst her belongings. In the beginning, I had tried to convince her to keep a neat bed, but quickly learned that the pathology ran too deep to instantly reverse. In the Chinese orphanage, where she spent the first 22 months of her life, she had been forced to share everything – her toys, her clothes. Nothing had every really belonged to her, until we came along. And now, she was convinced she still had to keep her belongings close to her, or they would be taken away. A quick routine inspection under her bed that night revealed a cup of water and a half-eaten snack. She also had learned early on that food was scarce, so she snuck food and drink into her room, hording it for some anticipated famine.

My tear stained cheeks guiltily welcomed more tears; this time, tears of heartbreak over what my daughter had endured. As I lay in my own American bed that night I struggled with an onslaught of conflicting emotions. There was sadness, of course, for my daughter’s past. Jade had been abandoned when she was five days old at the entrance to a hospital. I assumed that her birth parents had felt forced to abandon their baby girl in the midst of a “One Child” policy and a culture that covets male children to carry on the family name and care for the parents in old age. Then Jade had been diagnosed with congenital heart disease, which deemed her “special needs” and meant that she would need to spend even longer in the orphanage before she would be released for adoption. How difficult her existence there must have been.

Then the anger came, as boiling tears burnt my already raw cheeks. Where had the government been? Where were all of those perfectly centered souls when my daughter was crying out in the night, cold and hungry? Why couldn’t the Chinese government have taken the $100 million dollars it had cost to produce that elaborate Opening Ceremony and given it to those starving orphans? Why couldn’t those 15,000 Chinese performers band together to synchronize a relief effort for their own?

“One World, One Dream” – that was the theme, but that spectacle wasn’t my dream - no matter how proud I felt when those drummers performed with perfect precision. Yes, I had been proud - proud to say that my daughter had descended from such perfection and grace! But, what now? How could I teach my daughter to be proud of her birth country, when I felt such ambivalence?

As I cried in the dark, I realized that the Opening Ceremony had also been filled with children. Their innocent faces flashed behind my eyelids, as I struggled to force out the perfectly synchronized demons haunting my reasoning. Those children had no choice in how that money was spent. They had no vote, no voice. They were innocent, just like our American children. I had to, therefore, believe that China was filled with adults who were also innocent, who had no voice. They were not to blame for how their leaders chose to govern; any more than we, Americans, are to blame for the mistakes of our leaders. I would shutter for the world to think that my president’s choices had been my choices. Sometimes they had been, but usually they had not. How dangerous it is to begin lumping people into categories. “Those Chinese are all about appearances.” “Those Americans are all wasteful.” “Those blacks….” “Those whites…” “Those Jews…” “Those Christians…” Haven’t we learned anything from the past?

While my daughter faces a lifetime of struggles revolving around these issues, I vow to continue to teach her that she is a gift to the world, just as each child is. Our world’s children grow into our world’s adults, who have the power to enact great changes in our often apathetic world. As Jade grows into her role, I pray that she will become an example of a creation that crosses all borders. “One World, One Dream”. The Chinese had the right idea. There is no “them” versus “us”, just “we” Now it is up to us ALL to make that theme our reality, one innocent child of the world at a time. WE will get there.

The Day the Earth Shook

That night, I slept fitfully, kept tossing and turning, and drifting in and out of shallow dreams and memories of the past. Eventually before the day broke, on the morning of 12 May 2008, I got out of bed, eagerly anticipating the visit of Ming, my best friend from school, and Xiu, the girl who once hit me with a rusty hoe and nearly killed me when we were both fifteen while working in the peasants’ field one summer during the Cultural Revolution.

“Why don’t you visit us in Mianyang?” Xiu had enquired the day before. I understood her hospitality, and we had not seen each other for three decades.

“We are completely exhausted from our trekking to Zhangjiajie. Before that, a hectic university reunion in Chongqing. It’s better that you come and see us in Chengdu. Ming will be here too.”

Each left their homes miles away that fateful morning, for a mini get-together in the provincial capital. There were much gushing and excited exchanges. Xiu, just as I remembered, still loud and enthusiastic: “I called Feng earlier. He’s coming to collect us for lunch.”

“Another feast?” My husband John had raised his hands in mock horror. Then patting his belly, he said: “I’ll bail out this time. Besides, I want you to enjoy yourself, without having to interpret for me. Have fun!”

Feng had already made a round of calls to ‘summon’ former classmates within travelling distance. He only managed to get hold of one, the chubby faced man now sitting on my right. I looked across to my Mum. Her glass was full and plate piled high. Earlier they had insisted on picking up my mother, once head mistress in our school.

In front of me, a glass of beer, a small china cup with strong Chinese spirits, and a tall glass full of freshly squeezed melon juice. Two waitresses stood by, attentive and hawk-eyed, ready to refill our glasses the second they became empty. The VIP dining room, lavishly decorated with western oil paintings, with gold patterns on dark red background wallpaper, high-back velvet soft furnished chairs and an exotic Tibetan carpet. To me, it was another example of China’s catering for its new middle-class. Despite the summer heat outside, the room was suitably chilled.

The glasses clinked happily. Feeding our eyes were the bright orange shells of the prawns; the dark red beef soaking in the red chilli source, sprinkled with green spring onions; the steamed river fish appearing almost alive and ready to jump out of its oval plate; and numerous other colourful and hugely appetising poultry and vegetable dishes, expertly cooked and beautifully decorated on fine china and pottery.

“One more, please,” I asked the waitress who was holding my Cannon digital camera at the far corner of our sumptuous dinning room.

Suddenly, the building rocked, shaking violently from side to side. I lost my balance, head spinning. Had I really got so drunk or was it one of my migraine attacks?

“Earthquake!” Feng called out. For a moment, everyone was too stunned to move. The glasses started falling over and smashed. Chairs took on a life of their own.

“Run!” someone shouted.

Chaotic and panicking, people shouted and ran frantically, the air heavy with fear.

In my mind’s eye, I caught a glimpse of John, up on the 13th floor of Emeishan Grand Hotel, falling. I wanted to run to him. Outside, diners were gathered, unsure what was happening. I saw an old man being carried out. He was either too shocked to walk, or had suffered a stroke. Everyone was in different degrees of panicking state. The earth under our feet continued to tremor. I felt as if I was in a stormy sea, disorientated.

I dialled John’s number with my China and UK mobiles. No joy. Around me, everyone was trying to make calls but nobody was getting through.

“Let’s get out of here,” I turned to Feng. In his car I said a little prayer in silence: dear Lord, please let me find John alive and safe; fear was gripping me at the same time. The five minutes in the car seemed to take forever.

When I saw the highest building in the five-mile radius still standing, a relief washed over me: He must be OK.

Hordes of people were gathered outside. The security guard stopped me: “Nobody is allowed in. All the guests have been evacuated.” He looked deadly serious and business like.

“Have you seen the ‘Laowai’?” I asked him. In our hotel John was the only ‘Laowai’, or ‘Old Foreigner’, a local nickname for non-Chinese Westerner.

“He wasn’t in when we evacuated, but I saw him going out that way.” He pointed at the side street. I knew instantly where I could find him, the outdoor public swimming pool across the road. He was the only one still inside the fence. “This is the safest place to be,” he stressed, wise and calm.

The earth shook time and again and the aftershocks punctuated our conversation, waiting in the streets with hundreds of others. It was evening before we were allowed back into the hotel. Lifts no longer working, we had to climb the 13 flights of stairs. The cracks on the walls and debris on the floor told their own story.

Information slowly filtered through that it was the worst earthquake in Sichuan, with 7.9 on the epic centre Wenchuan, northwest of Chengdu. Still no phone connection, we managed to get onto the internet and contact our family in the UK. John also sent an email to the BBC website.

The following day John’s mobile rang continuously. “It is CNN;” he mouthed to me, as he walked away from the breakfast table. Somehow his phone number was passed around, to UK and USA media, and calls just kept coming in, all wanting a piece of his story.

Being one of few western eye-witnesses, John’s testimonies were to appear in various UK newspapers, and his voice on the radio. Instant fame. One friend heard him speaking on Radio 2 as he drove to work in Cheltenham. His wife immediately emailed us: Is that really you in Chengdu? Another family of friends were shocked to see our photo on the front of The Birmingham Post.

That evening, John was called again by Fox News in America: “Mr Kirk, you’re now live. Can you please tell us what you were doing at the time of the earthquake?”

I heard John repeating the same information for the umpteenth time that day: “I was in a swimming pool, when huge waves started, as if I was in a sea. Then there was this almighty roar, like thunder. The building next to the pool started to rock and sway violently, and I heard people shouting ‘Dizhen, Dizhen’, which I now understand as Earthquake.”

He told the interviewer what his wife was doing and how my friends were now unable to go home, due to damage to road and rail systems. In fact, Xiu’s house was destroyed – had we agreed to visit her, instead inviting her to Chengdu, where would we be now?

“How do you think the Chinese government is doing in the current situation? Are the Chinese people happy with their response?” The interviewer probably had a list of questions in front of him, expecting to hear criticism about the Chinese officials. It would make good news-feed.

John was too smart: “I think the Chinese government have reacted promptly and efficiently. Their Prime Minister was on the scene already, and as I speak, I can see Army Lorries passing by our hotel window, no doubt heading towards the disaster area, doing rescue work. Compared to what Bush did when the Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, I’d say that the Chinese are doing a good job…”

Before he could finish though, the interviewers interrupted him: “Thank you, Mr Kirk”. I gave my husband my big thumb. We both knew that they would not call back.

For the next few days, aftershocks continued. One of my uncles visited Dujiangyan, where many of his colleagues were based and then disappeared under the rubble. He brought back many heart-breaking stories, of school children buried and whole towns disappearing under piles of concrete, bricks and stones. Every day on TV and newspapers, stories of sacrifice, bravery and survival were reported. Never before in China had I seen so much live reporting in the media, so much support from all over the country, and from all over the world. Unlike the Tangshan Earthquake in 1976, when the city was destroyed and most of its citizens perished, the outside world had known little. This time, it was different. The whole world watched and shared China’s grief.

The affected towns and cities will take a long time to rebuild. China, after many years of isolation and political upheavals, has emerged stronger than ever before. Like a phoenix, Sichuan will rise from its ashes.