The Fan-Shaped Gaping Black Hole in My China Dream
By Kadri Koop on Sep 1, 2014
Edited by Alex Dunne and Jimmy Chow (周漢慶)
Kadri Koop (right) with a dear friend.
Beijing, China
December 2013
Decembers in Beijing are cold. Not as cold as the winter months in Estonia, where I’m originally from, but the Beijing air feels crisper than the salty North European climate. Close to the Gobi, Beijing’s dry winters are accompanied by ruthless desert winds. Irregular puffs of air gush into poorly constructed houses—particularly unbearable for residents of the hútong (胡同). Prevalent in the north of the country, these alleyway neighborhoods lack central heating and insulation. Comprised of one-story spaces and quadrangle compounds, the dilapidated dwellings provide little protection from the harsh winter climate.
To ease their suffering, most locals rely on nuănfēngshàn (暖风扇), electrical fans that heat up the air. Much to my disappointment, these devices did little more than remind me of the absence of warmth. Nevertheless, I had one set up in front of my bed and aimed squarely at my nose, the only part of my body exposed to the bitter evening air. I wore layers of clothing, sweaters and socks and anything else I could wrap around my shivering body. As if the cold were not enough of an adversary, my roommate snored with such intensity that she nearly shook the bedframe. In the year we spent cramped together in nine square meters of living space, I never found the courage to confront her. Instead, I treasured my collection of citrus-colored earplugs that got me through the night and liberated me from any confrontation.
On one of these chilly nights, I found myself desperately needing to pee. Although only three steps away, a trip to the bathroom felt like an
unnecessary inconvenience, but alas, I had no choice. Without fully opening my eyes, I stumbled to the toilet and then back into bed, haphazardly wrapping myself in my blanket. I was quick to doze off again, but awoke shortly thereafter to the sound of my roommate talking. I didn’t hear what she said. I didn’t care. Already frustrated with having to suffer her snores every night, I forced the foam deeper into my ears while assuring her, “Méi yŏu wènti!” (没有问题, [Whatever it is,] it’s no problem!). She stopped talking and I drifted back to sleep.
Some time passed when the smell of smoke disrupted my dreams. Hesitant to detract from my already insufficient sleep, I begrudgingly opened one eye. A thick smoke had filled the room. I instantly sprang out of bed, searching for flames. In my clumsy rush to return to bed, I had tossed my blanket over the heater. Frantically, I freed my blanket from the heat. Only a few more moments and this night of sleep could have been my last—I could have died in this dump without ever fully realizing my China Dream.
Looking through the fan-shaped gaping black hole in the blanket, I felt that it was a perfect metaphor for how I had burned through the romanticized idea of China.
胡同/Chinese for alleyways where one-story houses form courtyard communities.
Singapore is much nicer at a glance. After living there for several months, the only thing I still appreciated was school, mainly the Modern Chinese History Through Film course in which I was enrolled. I was new to the works of the Fifth and Sixth Generation Chinese filmmakers, the first generations to have emerged from the Beijing Film Academy after the Cultural Revolution. I immediately fell under their spell. The stories of local people shackled by their ancient traditions felt unique and mysterious to me, a lăowài (老外), a foreigner.
My awe of Chinese film peaked upon seeing The Pickpocket by Jiǎ Zhāngkē (賈樟柯). I was fascinated with Jia’s distinct small town perspective on the rapidly changing sociocultural landscape of the country—how artfully he conveyed the tragedy of the average Chinese, the one-in-a-billion-something anonymous individual seeking his or her own unique place in the world. Coming from a nation of mere millions, I was compelled by these narratives. As an Estonian, it felt like everyone in the tiny Baltic state was special, if only because there were so few of us. I wanted to experience the anonymity of being one in a billion. And so, not long after my time in Singapore, I hopped on a train from Tallinn to Beijing to realize what had become my China Dream — to make documentaries of average people in China.
Living in one of the only two-story hutongs of the community, I was able to spy on my neighbors gambling by playing Mahjong.
Singapore is much nicer at a glance.
While traveling through Siberia and Mongolia, I witnessed how the Western landscape gradually melt into the East. Crossing Mongolia (on the left) and reaching Beijing (on the right).
Upon arrival my Chinese was fairly non-existent, but I was eager to show off the few phrases I did know. Dismissive of correct pronunciation, I did not dwell on perfectionism or worry about embarrassment. Over the course of my time in China, I learned how to feel comfortable with failure when speaking the language. I challenged myself by moving in with a local girl in a small room in a ghetto mainly formed by migrant workers.
At first neither of us could understand each other. We spent hours looking up words in the dictionary simply to communicate the most basic thoughts. The fascination to understand one another was mutual, especially when we landed on topics related to relationships, dating and sex. Trying to fathom the origin of the graphic Chinese phrases, the linguist in me became particularly ambitious. For instance, why would the exact translation of ‘jerk off’ in Chinese be ‘to hit an airplane’ (dǎ fēijī/ 打飞机)? It was this and many other questions that fueled my appetite for cracking the code that was Chinese.
Mastering Putonghua, the Standard spoken form of Modern Chinese (pǔtōnghuà/普通话), was essential to my dream of making documentaries, while my desire to make documentaries inspired me to venture out of my comfort zone in order to progress faster in Chinese. Deep curiosity and a lack of shame encouraged me to film and photograph the migrant workers in my neighborhood. Unable to understand the regional dialects, I initially struggled to have functional conversations; but after many months and dozens of conversations with the locals, my vernacular improved. I was eventually able to fake the accent of a migrant laborer from Hebei province so well that from behind, a Beijing cab driver or a wandering street punk would be convinced I was one of them. It was only when turning around that they became biased about my Chinese.
Unable to understand the regional dialects, I initially struggled to have functional conversations; but after many months and dozens of conversations with the locals, my vernacular improved.
I soon realized that the Chinese sense of identity is strongly based on race. This is to say, if you don’t look Chinese, you cannot possibly be Chinese. Thus, even a person born and raised in China yet not racially Asian is treated as an outsider. I was so desperate to assimilate into the culture that I tried to abandon my Western lifestyle. I restricted my time with non-Chinese friends, instead spending hours in the shabby dormitory with migrant workers. I limited my sensitivity to “First World problems”—if everyone else could put up with the excruciating cold, eating the oily MSG-seasoned street food, cooking on the floor of a shared hallway, commuting three hours on the subway every day, and earning a meager salary, then I could, too. Over time, my aspiration to document the locals had transformed into wanting to be one myself. I was becoming the subject I used to only know from Jia’s realist depiction of Chinese average folk. While still a foreigner in China, I was far from being one of them, but in my head I had committed to the role. To the locals, I was still the foreign Miss Perfect, or, in other words, the white-rich-pretty girl (báifùměi/白富美) pretending to be something else.
Not until three years later, while staring at the fan-shaped gaping black hole in my blanket, did I realized that somewhere along the way I had forgotten why I came to this country in the first place. It was then that I knew I needed to reconsider my China Dream.
About the Author
By this time Kadri has left Beijing for graduate studies in documentary film at Stanford. She aspires to learn how to become a real documentary filmmaker, not just a self-taught urban anthropologist. Her love for China is still very much alive regardless of the past hindrances their relationship has encountered. One day she might even find herself back in the Middle Kingdom. However, while she is taking a break from the cold of Beijing by studying in sunny California, in her up and coming films, she is hoping to explore people’s motivational narratives: the stories we tell ourselves to find the impetus to work, and build careers.
For more imagesof life in the hutongs of Beijing:
www.kadrikoop.portfoliobox.me/summer-palace-stories
For an exhaustive collection of Kadri’s photography:
To watch the short films Kadri made while living in the migrant workers community:
All photos courtesy of Kadri Koop