Cyndy Mote Saunders (63) from China - Journal #1 March 7, 2012 Greetings from somewhere north of Greenland.

. I wonder who claims the vast expanse below me. Does only nature own a barren place like this, or has some country staked a claim on it? Its scarred by deep crevasses. Are they ancient rivers, or maybe earthquake faults? Could they be cracks in an ancient field of ice softened by global warming? Its dark below completely. Theres a crimson glow where the sun is setting, and one bright light behind me a star? a planet? The only sign of man is the massive wing, strong enough to drag three engines through the frigid air. One small light marks the tip. All else belong to nature. Im on my way to China, returning once again after three years away. 3,247 miles are behind me; 4,686 are still ahead. Were more than six miles up imagine that! Soon Europe will lie below me, then Russias barren Siberia, Mongolia, and China. Well be there for a month, too short a time for all that needs to be seen and done. China speaks, but home tugs. So a month it is. This is my sixth trip to a land thats claimed a part of me since I first saw it. I begin to imagine the smells dried fish and mushrooms in outdoor markets, jasmine tea and steaming dumplings. I anticipate warm greetings from so many people my son, his partner, and good, good friends. At home, this rising giant makes me feel conflicted. I love the people and the feel of China. But Im angry when the giant stamps its massive foot and votes against a U.N. resolution that begs the end of a governments slaughter of its own people. I wonder if our countries will grow in respect and friendship. Or will both giants posture and fume to show their strength and independence? Our plane has landed. Im in Shanghai now, watching evening settle on the city. The sky is thick and heavy with rain and dust and so much industry. The lights are coming on giant red Mandarin characters. People on bicycles weave through the traffic. Not long ago there were only bikes. A taste of affluence has changed that. With a chicken found in every pot, Chinas people have discovered that they, too, want a car. Ill close for now. Jet lag muddles the mind. Goodbye from Shanghai.

Cyndy

Cyndy Mote Saunders (63) from China Journal #2 March 9, 2012 Greetings from Shanghai. Traffic sighting: A mother and daughter on a moped, weaving through fume laden traffic. The little girl is standing in front of her mother, deftly using her chopsticks to eat from a large paper cup. Yesterday Bob and I struck out on our own, riding a subway and wandering through Peoples Park as we sought the Ethnic Minorities exhibit at the Shanghai Museum. The Han Chinese are the overwhelming majority in China. Theyre the people with dark black hair and almondshaped eyes that we think of when we imagine China. Officially there are 55 ethnic minorities, comprising 8.5% of the population of China. In a population of 1.3 billion, thats a lot of people. The people of ethnic minorities look very different from the classic image of the Han. The Uighers in Xinjiang Province, for example, look more like the people of neighboring Kazakhstan, and their language looks and sounds very Arabic. Like the people of Tibet, there are many Uighers who struggle with the idea of Chinese citizenship, and unrest is not uncommon. The exhibit at the Shanghai Museum celebrates the unique identity of each minority culture, displaying artifacts that show their separate identities. There are incredible traditional clothes, some laden with elaborate embroidery and dangling strings of silver beads, some trimmed with fur, some strikingly contemporary in their colors and patterns. There are decorative items made from cloth, metal or wood, elaborately carved or pounded or dyed. The power and importance of identity speaks clearly in the exhibit. Theres nothing in the exhibit to show these minorities today. Today is where the struggle lies, as minorities increasingly find their identities submerged in the sea of Han Chinese moving to their parts of China. Throughout the world, we struggle with the idea of differentness. Countries rarely if ever encourage groups that are different to stand up and shout their individual identities. At best, countries try to assimilate a population, at worst to eliminate it. Think Native Americans in my country, or Aboriginals in Australia. Throughout history minority groups have struggled and fought to keep their language, to keep their culture, to keep their unique sense of self. Some countries set aside a piece of land for the people minimally successful reservations in the U.S., more successful Arnhem Land in Australia - and bits of identity stagger on. But too often, in the end, minority culture resides in a museum. But back to the subway and Peoples Park. The subway was a mass of moving people, crammed into cars swaying with the movement of the train, largely engrossed by whatever they were reading or writing on phones seen in so many hands. The subway cars in China are a sea of black hair. China is far from the melting pot you find in America, where a subway car would have many shades of skin and hair of every imaginable color including some blue or pink or purple. In China theres an occasional head of hair thats been tinted sort of red, but mostly black it is. Western faces dont elicit stares in Shanghai like they do in much of China. This is an international city, and Shanghais population of 23 million includes an ever-growing group of expats that moves closer to half a million each year. A Western face is not a novelty here. Peoples Park is a quiet green space in the center of a very noisy city. Paths pass ponds and wander into gardens of trees or flowers or sculptural rocks. Men gather to watch strangers playing cards, or a Chinese version of chess. This park belongs to the people now. Not so long ago it was the playground of wealthy Europeans and Americans who came to Shanghai to make their fortune often by selling opium to the masses. Once Peoples Park had a track for racing horses, the art museum was a club house where cocktails and conversations in English filled an

afternoon, and gates and signs made it clear that the only Chinese who were welcome were those who came to serve. For all his faults, its because of Mao that the park belongs to the people now. Mao what a fascinating man. Without question, he helped move China out of a past that was stifling and stagnant. Without question, he helped move China toward the vibrant country you see evolving today. Without question, he wreaked havoc on a new China that was struggling in its evolution. But thats a subject for another journal. Its time to indulge in another Chinese meal at another wonderful restaurant. Truly, this is a city of incredible food. though the chicken in Bobs wonderful curry yesterday turned out to be chicken feet!! Goodbye from Shanghai. Cyndy

Cyndy Mote Saunders (63) from China Journal #3 March 12,, 2012 Greetings from Shanghai. Theres something resembling a sunny day going on here. There are actually slightly blurred shadows outside. Mind you, sunny in most of China doesnt mean crystal clear, bright blue, glorious azure skies. For that you need to travel someplace like Xinjiang Province in the far northwest, to a place where there are no factories to be found. A sunny day in the economically booming, industrial heart of China is more like a bright glow through the haze. Still, its better than the gray, cold gloom weve had most days. Shanghai is built on rather soft land, not far down the Huang Pu River from the East China Sea. Its known for its humidity. Summer is sweating weather; winter is a damp chill that penetrates the very marrow of your bones. Im perpetually cold; The Chinese seem not to have forgotten their lives before the economic miracle. It doesnt seem to bother them to be without central heat, thermal-pane windows, and insulation. They turn off their wall heaters whenever they leave, and turn them back on when they return to their very cold houses. The walls and marble floors radiate a chill. I leave my two sweaters on and add a sweatshirt, then make a hot, hot cup of tea. The best thing about this sunny day is that wet clothes will go outside on the line. Matts winter dcor is jeans and towels, tee-shirts and underwear, hanging from every nook and cranny like so many cobwebs waiting to be wiped away with a dust mop. A more upscale apartment would have a washing porch attached, with a washing machine and racks for drying. Clothes dry slowly in this weather. Still no one has a clothes drier. Can you imagine the spike in consumption of the worlds oil if the Chinese decide they want a clothes drier to go with their automobile!! No wonder the governments reaching out to lands where oil is found. What will happen when so many want so much of so limited a resource? Friday was a walking day. We wandered with Matt around the French Concession, the wonderful, historic neighborhood where he lives, down a narrow lane off Gao An Road. This is where the French lived in the boom days of Western influence, (of Western control!), in Shanghai. There are hundreds of grand houses behind high fences, shuttered off from the bustle of Shanghai by ornate iron gates that clearly say, Dont try to come in here. The houses were built in the 1920s and 30s, built to look like home, often with Tudor trim or bay windows. Theyre seedy now, with many families where one once lived. The gardens hint of their former grandeur, when the Chinese gardener kept them pristine, a little bit of the French countryside right here in the big city, a little bit of the West picked up and plunked down in the Far East. The streets are lined with thousands of carefully planted trees. Theyre stark and bare now, gnarled and gray. Soon theyll be in full leaf, shading the French Concession streets with tunnels of green. Its fun to walk the streets and imagine them in those distant days, good to squint your eyes and erase the air conditioners scarring the walls, to remove the wires dangling everywhere with no code for safety apparently in existence, to paint the trim and fix the broken windows. Its fun to imagine a time when rickshaws plied the streets and women went to the club for afternoon tea or a gin and tonic. But its hard to forget for a moment the reality of that time, when the Chinese were used and abused in their own country. Its intriguing to look into the eyes of an ancient couple walking by, their faces deeply wrinkled and their walk a shuffle to look into their eyes and think with awe of all theyve seen. They remember grandmothers with bound feet. Theyve seen the rise of Mao, known the war with Chiang Kai Shek, known the Great Leap Forward when Chinas farmers grew too little food, when they melted down their plows to make too much useless steel instead. Theyve known the hunger of too many famines. I once asked my good friend Ou Qin why they eat intestines and chicken feet and fish heads and everything imaginable. Because Cyndy, she gently said, for most of our history weve been hungry. But most of all, as I look in the eyes of old people, I think about their lives during The Cultural Revolution. A true story: Over dumplings the other night, Matts partner, Stan, spoke of his familys

past. Theyre Shanghainese, born and bred. His fathers family was wealthy. They owned a lot of land thats now prime Shanghai property. His grandfather had a bicycle factory. Owning a bicycle factory then must have been a bit like owning an iPhone factory today. Everyone had a bicycle!! Stans father had a nanny as a child. He went to school and lived a pampered life. When The Cultural Revolution came, his father joined the Red Army for awhile. It was just what everyone did. His education stopped in middle school. The schools simply closed elementary schools, middle schools, high schools, universities. Education stopped for ten long years. Maos government took the bicycle factory, claimed possession, owned their future. Still, life was relatively good for the Shen family. Stans grandfather continued on as the manager. Where a worker might get 30 yuan a month, Grandfather got 120. Enter Stans mother. She came from a poor Shanghai family who lived on the edge of town. She worked in a factory one of the 30 yuan a month people. Her siblings had all been sent to villages in the countryside - Maos great migration of young people. They were sent to experience the glories of the peasants life. They were given a room and food by those in the villages sometimes grudgingly. But money for things like soap came from home. Stans mother was the family wage earner, and 25 of that 30 yuan went to her siblings in distant provinces. The rest went to her mother, (to Stans much beloved grandmother), to support the struggle to stay alive. Stans grandmother scoured the markets at night, looking for cabbage leaves left behind. She stole from gardens to stay alive. She sold her blood. Hunger drove decisions in the days of The Cultural Revolution. Stans mother is a beautiful woman, and she won the heart of the former factory owners grandson. They worked together in a different factory, one that made instruments like erhus and pipas. To her, he was rich man, a catch, a chance to escape poverty. How, I asked, did people feel during The Cultural Revolution. Were they angry? Did they want to fight it? It seems not. It seems they just accepted it. It was what it was. You endured. You survived. You didnt waste energy wondering when or if it would end. My Chinese friends will answer any question I ask. They are open and honest. But I think they find my intense curiosity about the past confusing. They find it odd that I like discussing issues, that I thrive on analyzing the past to understand the present and the future. They understand The Cultural Revolution. They understand Maos flaws. Still, they value his contributions the way he unified China and made them proud as a people. They just dont give him a lot of thought. They dont seem particularly interested in government as theory. Just keep the economy booming. Just keep those consumer goods coming. Just let them to enjoy the life weve known for so long. Goodbye for now. Cyndy