We are in the same Olympic city but remain a world apart
Two months ago, I called my grandma to tell her I'd be in Beijing for the Winter Olympics. She was thrilled.
But I explained that even though we'd
be in the same city, I wouldn't be able to see her. I'd be in a strict
bubble, separate from the rest of China's population. My grandma said
not to worry. Just focus on your work, she said.
I
lived in Beijing before taking up a posting in Tokyo early in the
pandemic. When I left, I wasn't sure when I'd see my grandma again.
China's borders have been virtually closed for two years because of
Covid, and the government has accepted limited visas for journalists.
The Winter Olympics offered a rare chance for me to return to the
country.
Yet
within the Olympic closed loop, it's as if I'm traversing the city in a
glass box, unable to experience the Beijing I know. Hotels and venues
are surrounded by temporary walls, fences, and security. I've gotten
used to seeing workers in hazmat suits -- waiting tables, serving
cocktails, or taking my Covid test. As I watch the familiar Beijing
streets zoom by through car windows -- a colorful blur of tall
buildings, masked faces and delivery scooters -- I long to step out just
for a moment.
So
when I noticed a bridge near my hotel that allowed Beijing residents to
look down into the closed loop, within the temporary walls, I saw a
window of opportunity to see my grandma. I dropped a location pin to my
relatives, and told them that unfortunately, this was the closest we
could get while I was in Beijing.
Selina Wang (left) pictured with her grandmother and her sister.
Still,
my grandma was delighted, arriving 20 minutes early in her nicest
winter coat. I yelled Happy New Year in Mandarin as loud as I could, as
she's hard of hearing, and jumped up and down. She took off her mask and
smiled broadly, her face crinkling at the edges.
Our
meeting was emblematic of the isolation the world has dealt with since
the pandemic began. Early on, I was separated from my husband for nine
months. I didn't see my parents for more than two years. I spent months
and months in various quarantines in Asia.
Now,
even though I was finally back in the same city as my grandma,
literally just meters away from her during the Lunar New Year holiday, I
couldn't embrace her. Tears started to well. It was overwhelming to see
her face from a distance.
I
took out my phone to video call her so she could hear me properly. How
ironic it was that even in our face-to-face meeting, we still had to
resort to a virtual call to communicate. Grandma told me she was mostly
staying at home for the holidays, as there were no festivities to attend
in Beijing because of Covid.
She
recently relocated from Henan to live with relatives in Beijing to have
heating in the wintertime. She was grateful for the warmth and was
comfortable -- albeit sometimes lonely -- at home.
Despite
the joy I felt in seeing my grandma, the tears continued to flow. It
was a cathartic emotional release. She's my last living grandparent, and
it was heartening to see that despite the tumult of the last few years,
she's safe and healthy.
Olympic sacrifices
Throughout
the pandemic, China has sealed off entire communities or cities over
even a single Covid case. In some cities, like in Wuhan and Xi'an,
residents have endured draconian measures.
At
the same time, for many locals like my grandma, who haven't lived in
cities with major outbreaks, the strict Covid rules are just a way of
life. They've accepted the restrictions, preferring the sporadic
lockdowns and confinement to the skyrocketing numbers of death they see
reported elsewhere.
I
spoke to one of the Covid testers stationed outside my hotel. He sits
in a small cubicle the size of a phone booth, wearing a hazmat suit,
mask and face shield. Through the plexiglass, he told me that during his
shifts that last at least six hours he cannot drink, eat, or use the
bathroom. To prevent himself from needing to relieve himself, he doesn't
eat before his shift starts. He says it's difficult to be away from his
six-year-old son for so long, but he manages to video call him every
day. Despite the grueling work, he said it's all worth it to be a part
of the Games.
On
Lunar New Year's Day, I saw little festivities. The only reminder was
the red lanterns that dotted the trees outside the media center. That
day, I noticed an Olympic worker standing at the edge of the closed
loop, waving to her two young sons behind layers of barricades and
fences. Her sons gripped the fence, yelling to their mother that they
missed her and wished they could be together for the New Year. It was a
touching moment that inspired me to meet my grandma the following day.
A security guard keeps watch at the boundary of the Beijing Olympic bubble on January 25.
The
woman told me this was the longest she'd ever been apart from her kids.
Once in a while, they would meet at the edge of the park and wave to
each other from afar. Local Chinese staff have been in the Olympic
bubble since early January and will stay in it through the end of the
Paralympic Games. After that, they're required to quarantine for as long
as 21 days at a government facility. Especially on Lunar New Year Day,
she said it made her tearful to think about how close she was to her
children, yet unbearably far.
I
heard similar stories over and over again from drivers, security
guards, restaurant waiters, and volunteers in the Olympic closed loop.
They've all decided to live separately from their families for months,
in order to be part of the Olympics. Some are frustrated by the
confinement -- disappointed they can't get closer to the Olympic action.
But most of them told me they're proud and excited to help make the
event happen, brushing off the personal sacrifice.
A young Selina Wang and her sister with their grandparents.
Worlds apart
For
my grandma, the pandemic times are just a small chapter in her life
beset with struggle and sacrifice. She survived The Great Leap Forward
in China, when tens of millions died from famine. When she was pregnant
with my father, she had to subsist on porridge, tree leaves and tree
bark to piece enough nutrition to survive. My father grew up in
similarly challenging conditions. He remembers the Lunar New Year as one
of the rare moments growing up when his belly was full.
My
parents attended graduate school in America, where they settled down
and raised me and my sister. My grandma and grandpa, who were farmers in
China, came to the US to care for us until I was in elementary school,
while my parents worked. Grandpa walked me to school every day.
Grandma's handmade dumplings and noodles were sitting on the table when I
came home. Grandpa turned our backyard into a vegetable garden. Grandma
sat by my bedside when I struggled to fall asleep. They taught me to
read and write Chinese. I even spoke Mandarin with a villager's
countryside accent.
As
I looked at my grandma from afar, I could see an expression of pride on
her face. In her eyes, I had succeeded as the product of the American
Dream and her other "grand" children in China were living through
China's rise.
Increasingly, China's rise is at odds with America's -- and many democratic nations' -- dream for the world.
The
China my grandma lives in now is far wealthier and more powerful than
the impoverished country she raised my father in. It's also become
increasingly authoritarian and intolerant of dissent.
The
United States and its allies have boycotted the Games as a statement
against allegations of human rights abuses that Beijing vehemently
denies. Tensions are growing between China and numerous countries.
Surveillance and censorship mechanisms have also become more
sophisticated. I've grown accustomed to seeing some of my television
reports censored in real time on TV screens in China.
Selina Wang as a child, pictured with her family.
At
the Olympics, the pandemic has also given China the ability to closely
monitor and track participants, including journalists. The restrictions
we face reflect a country that has become more hostile to journalists,
free speech, and generally any criticism of China.
In
that environment, it's harder than ever to tell stories about Chinese
people. Many are fearful of retribution for speaking to Western media,
even on non-sensitive topics. The woman I spoke to in the Olympic bubble
on New Year's Day -- the one who was meeting her children -- asked me
not to use her name or show her face on camera, worried about the
consequences of sharing her story. That sentiment makes it harder for
the world to learn about the rich and multifaceted lives of China's 1.4
billion people.
As
I watched my Grandma's peaceful expression from the bridge above, I
told her I couldn't wait to eat her dumplings again. I wanted to give
her a big hug and climb over that wall -- the barrier between us,
symbolic of a nation increasingly separated from the world, even for the
people who want to see the country and its residents thrive.
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