Finding the Chinese Spirit
Lijiang, Yunnan Province, 2009
When people in China asked me where I am from, I would instinctively tell them that my ancestors hail from Guangzhou. The truth is I am not sure.
But it is a convenient answer and a most logical one because I am Cantonese and can speak the language. Albeit less fluently now as when I was six years old.
Coming to China has always felt a little bit like coming home. I met an overzealous train warden who felt that it was a necessary duty for him to impress upon me that I am as Chinese as he is.
“You learn Mandarin in Singapore? That makes you a Chinese. How does that make you a Singaporean, that is bullshit!”
“Do you know how much debt America owes us? All we have to do it trigger these debts and America will be brought to its knees.”
“We are the No.1 nation and I don’t understand how you don’t want to be associated with that.”
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I had no prior plan on how to photograph China.
Having entered the country from idyllic Laos, the change in landscape was enormous. From semi-lush jungles, I entered the city-like streets of Mengla, the nearest border town on the Chinese side.
I was surprised not only because of the vast change in sights, but also because I suddenly became capable of understanding people’s conversations. That distracted what my eyes saw. It was like momentary blindness.
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After one week in China, I realized that I wasn’t making wonderfully picturesque images despite being in Lijiang and Lugu Lake, two very scenic tourist spots in Yunnan. In fact, I ended up making a lot of pictures of domestic tourists armed with cameras of all sizes trying to make such shots.
Apart from these Martin Parr-ish moments, I found myself, somewhat guided by instincts, immensely drawn to photographing things that meant being Chinese to me.
A propaganda graffiti extolling the virtues of studying hard and caring for the aged scripted onto a brick wall stopped me in my tracks and I photographed it. A self-inflicted tattoo on the arm of a young man no older than 21 bores the Chinese characters for Wealth. I photographed it as well.
In Singapore, being part of the majority, I have never been confronted with what being a Chinese meant. Strangely. there are traits that I would readily associate with Malays, with Indians and with others. So there must be for Chinese too, but I never thought about it.
As I travelled, locals puzzled by my enormous backpack kept asking me where I was from. They commended, with tinges of surprise, that my pu tong hua (Han Chinese) was very fluent for someone from outside the country. They did not know that I have been speaking that language for the last 19 years of my life. (Before, I only spoke Cantonese)
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At an Uzbek restaurant in central Xinjiang, I chomped down a plate of shou zhua fan, akin to fried rice served with raisins, nuts and carrots. A gentleman from the table beside mine asked where I was from, probably intrigued by my cameras.
“Singapore,” I said, and he nodded in agreement before flicking his cigarette. “You can’t smoke like this in Singapore right?” he asked with a grin.
The restaurant owner came along and joined the conversation. “So you are a hua ren (Chinese).”
“Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore. It doesn’t matter where you are from. One day, you will all just be part of China. If China wants you, you can’t run away,” he announces to the laughter of his four waitresses and some other patrons.
I finished my rice and took out 20 yuan to pay for the delicious meal. In jest, I asked him for a discount since “we are all Chinese.” “It is 20 yuan!” he bellowed. “Because you said you are a Chinese, I am charging only 20 yuan. If you had said you were a Singaporean, it would be 50 yuan!”
I didn’t know whether or not to laugh with the rest. I smiled politely and left the restaurant.
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Finding the Chinese Spirit is a project first conceived sub-consciously when I had no proposed plan to photograph China. It was then realized as a conscious effort midway through my trip, after some conversations with the locals and much thinking on long-distance journeys across the country.
China’s scenic splendours meant little to me. So does its mythological rise to being a global power, a topic that photojournalists around the world are rushing to document. What I seek in my photographs is an answer to the question: What does it mean to be Chinese?
The Chinese spirit I am looking for is something that I think no amount of geological transformations and modern developments can change. I am prepared to find both pretty and ugly answers to my question. Certainly, not everything is great about being Chinese. Regardless, I hope that this will turn out to be a way of figuring out where my ancestral roots lie, instead of blindly proclaiming that I am also a Chinese, like its 1.3 billion people.