China v. Google: Chinese Students' Surprising Perspectives

On Wednesday, I started out my classes the way I always do: with a self-deprecating story about the father I’d met at Starbucks the day before who told me I was the strangest looking person his son has ever seen, and a lesson on how to appropriately use the word “Haterade.”

But, instead of following this with an uncontroversial activity on dating advice or movie topics, I wrote the word “Google” on the board, and turned to face my class.
A wave of hushed whispering in Chinese swept across the classroom.

Some background info: The day before, Google had ended its tense stand-off with the Chinese government over Internet censorship by making the bold and very public move to cancel its Google.cn operations in the mainland. The Chinese government criticized Google for politicizing commercial matters. Google defended its belief in protecting users’ right to free speech and the free flow of information. In the end, given the choice either to submit to the Chinese government’s laws on Internet censorship or end its google.cn operations, Google chose to leave.

This very public stand-off with the world’s largest Internet search engine provider has shined a very bright spotlight on the Chinese government’s policy of restricting information access to its 1.3 billion citizens. I wanted to gauge my students’ opinions, even though I didn’t know how they would react to my queries.

The reactions were incredibly interesting and unexpected.

My first two classes consisted of freshmen English majors. In China, freshmen university students have not yet been recruited into the Communist Party, so their opinions and perspectives are much less influenced by CCP policies than older students. This had a significant effect, I came to realize, on my students' reactions to my discussion on Google.

“So, why is Google such a hot topic in China right now?” I asked the class of wide-eyed freshmen.

The excited whispering in Chinese ceased, but four hands immediately shot up.

“Google left. It was not happy with our government’s opinion about how to manage the Internet,” responded a usually shy girl with wide-rimmed glasses.

“That’s true. What do you think about that?” I carefully nudged them on.

“I am very disappointed. Now, how will we get information from foreign media? Before, that was the only way for us to learn about things that the government did not want us to know about. Now, we will be less informed,” offered another student.

Surprised and encouraged by this perspective, I gently pressed on.

“What do you mean by, they did not want you to know?”

“Things that are negative about China or the government. The government doesn’t want a lot of people here knowing about it. It will decrease the government’s legitimacy.
The government thinks it will make China weaker.”

Of course, I would have expected these comments from American students, but never did I expect them to come so readily from a classroom of shy, respectful Chinese freshmen. I was astounded.

“So, do you think Google’s decision to leave was based on politics or business? You know, it was having trouble competing with Baidu (China’s version of Google), so maybe it left because it wasn’t profitable in China anymore?”

This time, one of my more thoughtful students spoke up. “I think that Google does not care about money, in this case. It is already very successful. I think Google wants to use its power to show that China is not a place for free ideas. That means it will lose money, but Google thinks it is okay to lose money if it increases freedom instead.”

Innnnteresting.

“Do you want China to be a place for free ideas?”

“Yes. Free ideas are what we need to become more powerful. If we stay unfree, we will never be the most powerful country in the world. We need freedom for power.”

Wow.

Emboldened and excited by my discussion with my freshmen, I posed the same question to my sophomore class later in the day.

This time, the reaction was incredibly different.

“So, what happened with Google yesterday?”

Silence. Uncomfortable, shifty glances.

“Google left.” That was all I got.

“Why did Google leave?” I pressed them on.

The students hung their heads, suddenly intensely interested in the wood patterns on their desks.

“We don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means we don’t know. So please don’t ask us.”

Shut down.

But, knowing that students had access to more information on the dispute than that,
I tried one more time to get more discussion going.

I asked: “Google left because it had different opinions than China about how to do business, right? What was the Chinese government’s opinion?” Maybe I’d at least get some party-line perspective on the matter from this question.

“The government is not happy with Google for turning business into politics. It is not happy that Google refuses to obey Chinese laws but wants to take money from China. The government welcomes Google back, as long as Google agrees to do business only, and leave politics to government.”

Interesting. Completely complacent towards the Chinese government’s stance on the issue, and completely different from my freshmen’s critical eye on the motivations behind their government’s stance.

“Okay. So, do you think Google will come back?”

“Yes, because Google needs China. China is the world’s biggest market. Any international company needs China to be successful. Google will be back.”

A nationalistic response from a group of students who, as sophomores, had recently been integrated into the Party system.

For the first time, I saw my students as a political force. Instead of shy, giggly girls and awkward, lanky boys, I recognized them as participants in China’s fragile political apparatus. I observed, first-hand, the mental transformation that Chinese university students across the country undergo as they become irrevocably intertwined with the political philosophy and policies of the Communist Party: from intellectually curious freshmen with the confidence to voice their opinions in front of their peers, to indoctrinated upperclassmen reticent to voice dissent in front of their Party member classmates.

This seems to be a vital aspect of the Party’s plan to maintain power: take the best and brightest students from China’s university system, recruit them into the Party, “teach” them the party line through monthly meetings, and then disperse them to watch over their classmates to ensure that all students are abiding by the Party’s laws and policies.

The result: students who, before their first official foray into the Party, were comfortable questioning government policies, become unwilling to publicly convey displeasure with their government’s actions.

To diffuse the tension that pervaded the classrooms during our Google discussion, I followed our talk with a very uncontroversial and harmless children’s game of Screaming Viking. The students all loved this. As we stood in a circle, collapsing into laughter as we watched each other fail to assume the proper funny poses upon command, I almost saw my students the way I had before: as fun-loving, giggly teenagers.

Except, now I know that there’s so much more to them than meets the eye.

Hangzhou Bucket List

So, I’m entering the home stretch of my time in Home Sweet Hangzhou. And, even though I’m really excited about what next year holds, I’m also already getting a wee bit nostalgic for all the little things that make Hangzhou (and China) quirky, unique, and lovable. When will monks in their orange robes cheer me on as I jog past them on my morning run? Am I going to find another dumpling lady who decides whether or not she likes me based solely on the length of my hair? (apparently, the shorter my hair, the uglier I am. Good to know.) And I highly doubt I’ll ever again have students who welcome me back to class after break with a slightly inaccurate, very off-tune, but nevertheless hilariously passionate rendition of Lady GaGa’s “Bad Romance.”


Yep, China’s pretty sweet.

But, time is running out on me. So, in hopes that I won’t squander my time during my last few months in Hangzhou, I have composed a Hangzhou Bucket List of all the things I want to do before I set out on my kayak back to America:

1. Sing in public more often. Unlike in America, where this only puts your sanity in question, in China, it wins you lots of friends and free food.
2. Hike Huangshan in Anhui Province.
3. Hunker down on my Chinese and ramp up my private lessons.
4. Spend all my money in/fall in love with Hong Kong.
5. Hang out with the Uyghurs in Xinjiang.
6. Jog around the West Lake—a formidable challenge, indeed.
7. Finish a plate of stinky tofu. (might not be able to accomplish this one, but it’s good to have goals)
8. Be a better teacher for my students. I am officially and irrevocably attached to all 150 of them, and they deserve the best of me.
9. Ride the Maglev in Shanghai.
10. Get a new Chinese name. I can't really pronounce my current one, which is always problematic when meeting new people.
***Check! My students have now bestowed upon me a new Chinese name: Qian Duoduo. Literal translation: More and more money. I could get behind this one.
11. Play badminton with the neighborhood kids instead of always coming up with excuses so they don’t have to see how bad I am at the sport.
12. Have that Disney-themed karaoke night that we’ve been talking about for months (I can show you the world…)
13. Go hiking in Moganshan.
14. Explore the gardens on the west side of West Lake that I never went to before because they weren’t “urban” enough for me.
15. Go to Nanjing, Jiangsu Province—the city home to the topic of my senior thesis.
***Almost check! Going this weekend!
16. Embrace Zhuantang, the traditional, completely un-Westernized Chinese town next to my campus.
17. Read more—I’ve returned to China from America with Barnes and Noble’s entire inventory, and I am determined to read it all before I come home.
18. Make more memories with my four--or five, or six, depending on the day--awesome new housemates (yes, I live in a frat house).
***Partial check on this one already, thanks to the guys’ enthusiastic embrace of “International Women’s Day” by insisting on cooking incessantly for me and Wendy...tehehe.


My house!

















19. Live in the moment.
20. Eat all the chao la mian that I can get my hands on mmmmm.
21. Reflect more upon what I’m learning, how I’m growing, and what new thoughts, perspectives, and beliefs I’ll be taking back to the US with me....I should journal.
22. Continue my loyal patronage of the 1 kuai baozi and 1 kuai doughnuts.
23. Dance with the big pink bunny rabbit at Club 88 (don’t ask).
24. Be fearless.

The Ring of Fireeeeeee.

I was ready to get to Southern Thailand.

Although I really valued learning about the sociopolitical turmoil that ravaged Southeast Asia during the 1960s and 70s--visiting graphic Vietnam War memorials and the unimaginably disturbing Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng Prison that keep Camobdia's genocide alive--all of this “genocide tourism” had really gotten me down. I was ready to trade somber meals spent trying to make sense of the tragedies for a little more lighthearted environment.

Koh Phi Phi was calling.

The Lonely Planet description was absolutely intriguing: “in contention for the title ‘most beautiful place in the world,” “paradise on earth,” “so beautiful, it will evoke tears.”

Well, Koh Phi Phi didn’t quite evoke tears, but it was the perfect way to end an amazing trek through Southeast Asia. After spending a few intense days on Khao San Road in Bangkok, where we weaved our way through throngs of travelers, ladyboys, and the unfortunately ubiquitous Thai prostitutes, we excitedly bordered our last sleeper bus (!!!) to Krabi, a sleepy beach town with a boat to the island of Koh Phi Phi.

Needless to say, I was excited. With my hideous sunburn from Nha Trang, Vietnam finally fading away into a somewhat-tan, I was ready to take these tear-evoking beaches by storm.

And, oh we did. Koh Phi Phi turned out to be a paradise of translucent waters, out of which soared impressive, tree-topped limestone cliffs. Soft, white sandy beaches hugged the coastline, and quaint long-tail boats taxied visitors to and from the surrounding islands.



Yep, this was happiness. We spent a day snorkeling in the reefs around Koh Phi Phi, where I decided that I should have been a marine biologist (is it too late?). Equipped with my trusty fins and snorkeling mask that I didn’t really use, I dove down into the unknown to propel through skittish schools of tropical fish and to examine sea anemones, inches from the animals’ gently swaying polyps and tendrils. So awesome. Despite my love for aquariums, they will just never seem sufficient after this.



But, the real crescendo of excitement happened at the beach party the evening prior to our snorkeling adventure. Every night, the bars on the beach host parties illuminated by fire twirlers and ropes set aflame and left to dangle from the metal overhangs. Not exactly safe, but awesome nonetheless.

But, perhaps the even less safe fixture of these nightly pyromaniac parties is the invitation for travelers to play “fire jump rope.” Yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like. Two employees ignite a large rope, and then travelers see how long they can leap over the billowing flames before catching themselves on the rope and burning their legs. It was quite a spectacle to watch, as tourist after tourist took on the rope of fiery death, and, inevitably, lost the battle.

I’d like to say that I was “brave” enough to take on said rope. I wasn’t. I was, however, brave enough to take on another fiery challenge: the Ring of Fireeeeee. (imagine me saying this in the most intimidating and melodramatic way possible).



As we watched our fellow tourists somersault and gazelle leap through the fire, we became increasingly confident in our ability to do the same. Finally, after watching our friend, Phil, successfully conquer the Ring of Fire, I handed our friend my new Cambodian side-sling purse and said, “I’m going in.”

Now, when you’re careening toward an intimidating ring of fire, with the flames licking the interior of the ring, you can’t stop to think about the possibilities of injury. If you do, you’ll probably lose your momentum, take a wrong step, and find yourself face-first in the fire. Not an ideal situation.

So, I elected not to think. I just ran, and jumped, contorted my body into a position I didn’t know was possible, and rolled through the ring of fire out into the safe cool air on the other side.

Niceeeeeeeee. I had conquered the Ring of Fireeeeeee (cue the menacing and melodramatic voice).

Feeling accomplished and very bad ass, I trotted back over to the other side and told Wendy that it was her turn.

“I don’t know guys. Knowing me, I’d trip. You know me, I always trip! I’m going to
trip and fall and die.”

“Noooo, you won’t! We all did it! Come on, do itttt!” I’m such a good influence, I
thought.

“Okay, fine.” She hikes up her dress and sprints like a madwoman toward the flames. Right toward the flames. She starts to catapult herself into the air. This is looking good, this is going to be awesome, this is….

“Gooooo Wendy! Woooooo!…....oooooo. Ooooouch.”

Wendy trips over the Ring of Fire. Trips right over the bottom piece of metal, lands right onto the fiery ring.

Wah waahhh.

To the sound of onlookers going, “boooooooo,” we run over to her and try to help her off of the Ring of Fire. She’s obviously in pain, but this is also kind of a
hilarious situation, considering that she wasn’t hurt thaaat bad.



So, for the rest of the night, we help her put ice on the burn, and try to soothe her wounded ego: “It’s okay, lots of people have tripped over...(dramatic pause) the Ring of Fireeeee.”

Cambodia is a paradox to me.

I don’t really know what I expected from the small, culturally rich country that became tragically infamous after Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge's genocide killed 2 million of the country’s 7 million residents. The worst part was that almost all of the perpetrators, including Pol Pot, escaped prosecution and continued to live among Cambodian citizens and refugees throughout Southeast Asia. Perhaps more so than any other genocide in the world, this country’s residents have lacked closure. Instead, they’ve had to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives alone.

Maybe I was expecting a country whose relatively recent terrors stilled simmered close to the surface. I imagined that the tension, the distrust would still be palpable.

But, if it is, they hide it well. We rolled into the capital of Phnom Penh on a sunny, unseasonably warm and pleasant weekend afternoon, and were immediately met by the nicest, most agreeably persistent Cambodian tuk-tuk driver ever. His name was Lucky, and he had an easy-going smile and an excellent command of English (with an Australian accent that made him even more charming). He approached me as soon as I’d descended from the cramped bus that had delivered us to Cambodia from the motorbike-clogged insanity of Saigon. He pleasantly offered to take me around to find a guesthouse.

Now, by this time, I’d been traveling long enough to know that you don’t accept the offers of cabbies or tuk-tuk drivers that lurk around bus stations—they’re more likely to scam you of your life savings, leaving you stranded in a city that you don’t even know if you like yet.

So, I waved him off and we started to walk towards where we thought a potential guest house would be located. But Lucky was following us, the easy-going smile never leaving his face.

“It is so far, and it’s so hot. Come on, let me take you. I’ll even drive you to several guesthouses so you can shop around and see which one you like best.”

We were beginning to realize that it was hot, and our bags were heavy (and the rice paddy hat I’d recently acquired in Vietnam was becomingly increasingly awkward to carry around), and the guesthouse began to seem farther and farther. Besides, Lucky seemed exceedingly affable, unlike the pushy taxi drivers I’d come to expect in other countries.

“Take us for a dollar?” I asked.

With a wide grin and a big thumbs up, Lucky said, “A-OK!”

So, before we knew it, we were in Lucky’s colorful tuk-tuk, careening down the crowded markets and wide avenues of Phnom Penh—a city that, for me, was surprisingly beautiful. As he drove us around, he chatted about his life in the capital; how he’d lived here for 8 years since moving from a small town northeast of Siem Reap, and that he’d fallen in love with the city because, as he said, “It’s always changing, and, more or less, I think it’s changing for the better. It’s not perfect, but it’s a good model for Cambodia.” So interesting considering Phnom Penh had been the center of the genocide only 30 years ago.

Upon finally selecting an awesome guesthouse that hugged the banks of the Mekong River, we agreed that Lucky would be back to take us to the Killing Fields of Cheong Ek and Tuol Sleng Prison the following morning.

He was waiting as promised at 8am, his characteristic wide smile greeting us as we climbed back into his tuk-tuk and made our way 10km out of the city to the Killing Fields. I was enjoying Lucky’s company. Probably unbeknownst to him, he was becoming the face of Cambodia for me: easy-going, affable, and happy.

The Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng provided a jarring complication of that sunny image, however. The eerily bright and foliaged fields where people had done such horrendous things to each other were indescribably disturbing. We paid an elderly local to give us a “tour” of the field. This tour provided us with an unscripted and genuine perspective on the genocide by someone who’d lived it. He said it was difficult for him to give these tours, but he did it because it ensured that the victims—his friends, family members, and acquaintances—would not be forgotten. He saw it as his duty.



Over and over, as we silently walked among the fields, finding it difficult to comprehend what had happened on the grounds upon which we were treading, he muttered, “Crazy Pol Pot. Crazy man.”

This seemed to be the encapsulation of Cambodians’ perspectives on the dictator. Even upon somberly exiting the Fields and returning to Lucky’s bright tuk-tuk, our usually cheerful driver simply said, “Pol Pot. Crazy, wasn’t he?”

This damnation of the country’s dictator stood out to me in stark contrast to the admiration that Chinese citizens still hold for their own controversial leader, Mao Zedong. Despite Mao’s similarly destructive policies that drove the country into economic and sociopolitical destruction, his face still adorns every piece of Chinese currency, and my students are still quick to complement his unifying leadership abilities.

Why is this so? Were Pol Pot’s policies more transparently evil than Mao’s? Possibly. Was the Chinese Communist propaganda machine more effective than its Khmer Rouge counterpart? I’d imagine so. But it still seems interesting that one evil leader has earned rightful criticism from his victims, and another has largely escaped historical retribution unscathed, at least domestically.

But, despite that exceedingly depressing day of “genocide tourism,” we returned to the public square of Phnom Penh to sights and sounds of residents enjoying their leisure time. Children squealed with delight as they ran in and out of clusters of pigeons, and families spread blankets on the bright green grass to have picnics under the twilight. There was even a balloon seller that had an unusually large line of customers—all men, in fact—waiting to purchase their bit of helium-filled goodness.



What an emotional whiplash from the sights we’d witnessed today. We happened upon an outdoors aerobics class that was moving and twisting to the sounds of early 90s dance music along the banks of the Mekong. Feeling inspired by the exercisers’ carefree smiles as they jumped and sashayed to the beat, we cast aside our bags and our somberness and joined in. We shared laughs with our fellow participants as we initially struggled to figure out the movements, and then giggled goodnaturedly when we accidentally bumped into each other as we struggled to master to the hop-step-two turn-jump maneuver. I never claimed to have rhythm.

It was a beautiful evening in Phnom Penh. It was the perfect way to end such a day: by following the reminders of the evil of which people are capable with the reassurances that the human spirit cannot, in the end, be broken.