When Yuan Yang was four years old, she tells us, her parents brought her from China to the UK as they pursued new educational opportunities. Although Private Revolutions, her vivid and detailed memoir, is not primarily the story of her own family, they, too, exemplify the theme of the book: a close look at how China’s citizens responded to the potentially transformative opportunities that four decades of rapid growth afforded.
Under Mao Zedong (毛澤東), Yang’s father’s family labored as peasants in western China; as a child, her father paid his school fees with sweet potatoes, and when the sweet potato season was over he ate watermelon. From this unpromising beginning, he made it to university and later to a doctorate in computer science in the UK. Yang writes of his departure from China: “It was a simple decision for him: all the students who could leave were doing so. Chinese academia lagged behind the west, especially in the sciences, and the Beijing government’s massacre of students and workers in Tiananmen Square in 1989 had left many questioning the future of China’s universities.”
Her mother’s family had been a couple of rungs up the social scale, working in a state semiconductor materials factory buried at the foot of the holy Mount Emei in Sichuan province, hidden from China’s then hostile neighbor, the Soviet Union. Hers was an equally remarkable progression — secondary, then tertiary education as a means of advancement and eventual escape.
Sam became a radical Maoist only to find that China’s revolutionary party does not want any more revolutions
Brought up in the UK, Yang returned to China each year to visit grandparents, and in 2016 moved to Beijing to serve as a correspondent for the Financial Times. The stories she tells in this book describe the responses of a series of young women to Deng Xiaoping’s (鄧小平) “reform and opening”, launched after Mao’s death in the 70s and renewed in the early 90s following the Tiananmen massacre.
Over just a couple of generations, an overwhelmingly agrarian society with deep attachments to family and clan became a mostly urban society composed of single-child families. Girls, who in the countryside are seen as a burden, could now go to city factories and earn cash, that rarest of assets in rural societies. The young men, previously bound to the land, migrated to the booming urban building sites. For the first time they had a measure of agency and the opportunity to change their fate. This is both a study of a moment of social mobility that the author considers now over, and a window into the realities of a changing social and political system, in which cultural prejudice and bureaucratic restrictions continued to obstruct the hopes of its citizens.
Four young women — Leiya, Siyue, Sam and June — battled poverty, poor diets, bad schools, repressive attitudes and family separation as they tested the limits of the new possibilities that the Deng era offered. In China, citizens remain tied to their place of birth through a registration system that now allows them to travel and work elsewhere but denies the adults social rights and denies their children access to education other than in their place of origin. This forces migrant workers to live apart from their children, often for many years. That is a battle that Leiya took on: she escaped a village that saw her only as a potential mother of the next generation of males and the many injustices suffered by migrant factory workers spurred her to organize on their behalf, setting up a series of help centres to support them and to demand labor protection and other rights.
Siyue rebelled against a repressive education system and became an educational entrepreneur; Sam became a radical Maoist out of indignation at the treatment of the workers, only to find that China’s revolutionary party does not want any more revolutions; June acted on the realization that there is a world beyond her native mountain village that she could explore.
Sam’s parents had moved from Sichuan to the boom town of Shenzhen, just over the border from Hong Kong and one of the first “special economic zones” that became the engines of China’s industrial revolution. Shenzhen became a huge city within 20 years, but Sam was forced back to the village in her early teens since she was not entitled to sit university entrance exams outside her home province.
The transformation of China that resulted from Deng’s reform and opening was astonishing, but it was also hard-won by millions of China’s citizens, each trying to carve a new path, as Yang’s subjects did. It was an era of possibility but also one of cruel inequalities in which the already powerful appropriated land, profits and more power. All were open to self-transformation, but were also exploited in brutal working conditions and abused by greedy bureaucrats; all were vulnerable to reversals of fortune and changes in policy: Siyue’s highly successful private tutoring company was closed down overnight when Xi Jinping decided the sector had to go.
The stories Yang tells are the fruit of a set of close relationships that would be difficult to achieve now in China’s changed mood. It is the tale of a unique time and an intimate picture of what it was like to live through, and learn to navigate, the storm.
The Democratic Progressive Party (DPP), Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT), and the country’s other political groups dare not offend religious groups, says Chen Lih-ming (陳立民), founder of the Taiwan Anti-Religion Alliance (台灣反宗教者聯盟). “It’s the same in other democracies, of course, but because political struggles in Taiwan are extraordinarily fierce, you’ll see candidates visiting several temples each day ahead of elections. That adds impetus to religion here,” says the retired college lecturer. In Japan’s most recent election, the Liberal Democratic Party lost many votes because of its ties to the Unification Church (“the Moonies”). Chen contrasts the progress made by anti-religion movements in
Taiwan doesn’t have a lot of railways, but its network has plenty of history. The government-owned entity that last year became the Taiwan Railway Corp (TRC) has been operating trains since 1891. During the 1895-1945 period of Japanese rule, the colonial government made huge investments in rail infrastructure. The northern port city of Keelung was connected to Kaohsiung in the south. New lines appeared in Pingtung, Yilan and the Hualien-Taitung region. Railway enthusiasts exploring Taiwan will find plenty to amuse themselves. Taipei will soon gain its second rail-themed museum. Elsewhere there’s a number of endearing branch lines and rolling-stock collections, some
Last week the State Department made several small changes to its Web information on Taiwan. First, it removed a statement saying that the US “does not support Taiwan independence.” The current statement now reads: “We oppose any unilateral changes to the status quo from either side. We expect cross-strait differences to be resolved by peaceful means, free from coercion, in a manner acceptable to the people on both sides of the Strait.” In 2022 the administration of Joe Biden also removed that verbiage, but after a month of pressure from the People’s Republic of China (PRC), reinstated it. The American
Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) legislative caucus convener Fu Kun-chi (傅?萁) and some in the deep blue camp seem determined to ensure many of the recall campaigns against their lawmakers succeed. Widely known as the “King of Hualien,” Fu also appears to have become the king of the KMT. In theory, Legislative Speaker Han Kuo-yu (韓國瑜) outranks him, but Han is supposed to be even-handed in negotiations between party caucuses — the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) says he is not — and Fu has been outright ignoring Han. Party Chairman Eric Chu (朱立倫) isn’t taking the lead on anything while Fu