Guarding the “Precious Embers” of Resistance

A New Year's reflection on the "cooling tide" of political action after China's White Paper protests and the story of one Chinese expat's exploration of personal identity and politics in Germany.

Editor’s Note: 

In the face of deepening repression in mainland China as well as Hong Kong, there have been increased efforts by members of Chinese-speaking communities abroad to find new ways of sharing information across borders. Journalists, academics, and activists pursuing new lives and identities in countries like Japan, Taiwan, Germany, and the United States have launched new media ventures and other forms of community building.

For these growing communities abroad, the issue of “diaspora media” (流散媒體), or “exile media” (流亡媒體), has become a topic of concern. How can these media reach diaspora communities while maintaining connections with like-minded people back home? How can they achieve sustainability? How can they ensure their own security, the security of their work, and even of their readers in the face of authoritarian pressure? 

In June last year, the journal Flow (如水), founded by Hong Kong exiles in January 2021,  devoted an entire issue to exile media, even looking at the challenges facing compatriots in exile media from Russia and Nicaragua.

In this special edition of Lingua Sinica, we focus on Mang Mang (莽莽), an independent magazine based in Europe that was born out of the wave of resistance in China and globally in 2022 that became known as the White Paper Movement (白紙運動). Founded by a group of young Chinese expatriates, Mang Mang focuses on the Chinese community abroad — writing about activism, resistance, connection, history, and identity in what they call “a time of great dislocation.”

Here at the start of 2024, one year on from its first edition, Mang Mang faces its own set of questions about how to move forward as a magazine, and as a movement. In the magazine’s New Year’s letter, translated in full below, the editors grapple with what they call the "cooling tide" (冷卻潮) of political action following the White Paper Movement of late 2022. Our translation of the letter is followed by a full translation of one of Mang Mang’s most recent essays in a series called “The Era of Dispersion” (離散時代). The essay is an intimate exploration of the intersection of personal identity and political activism in a global context.

Look for our interview with Mang Mang in next week’s edition of the Lingua Sinica newsletter. To support the important work Mang Mang is doing, consider pledging your support.

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New Year’s Message 2024

Strolling in the Dark, Moving Through the Fog

January 1, 2024

This past year, as epidemic prevention and control restrictions were relaxed, little prospect could be seen for political reforms in the wake of the Chinese Communist Party’s 20^th National Congress. China’s domestic economy faces a grim situation and society is in the midst of a new dilemma — a kind of “fog” of uncertainty in which the way forward cannot be seen.

What sort of year was 2023?

At Mang Mang, we wrote in last year’s New Year’s message that 2022 had been “the inauguration year of resistance” (抗爭元年). So did 2023 bring a continuation of that historical process?

Since the lifting of Covid restrictions, the fury that people felt at that time has gradually subsided, and calls made in an attempt to change the system of pandemic containment, or even transform the political system, have once again dropped to a minimum — as though the anger of the past had simply been packed away overnight, along with the health codes and PCR test kiosks.

The public memory of three years of oppressive rule and human suffering was erased, and people quickly embraced the "free" life that followed as if they had just woken up from a nightmare.

Events overseas, offline rallies and protests, and public online activities have also all diminished over the past year. How many of those who stood up a year ago are still willing to take action?

Now that the movement has receded like a wave, those who remain committed are organizing themselves in the hope of resisting the "cooling tide" (冷卻潮) of political action.

In our New Year's message last year, we expressed this vision: "Bearing close this imagined tomorrow, we can always remain aware that the values we cherish will be reflected upon and practiced in future struggles, and that together, each of us in our small groups, we can preserve and guard these precious embers."

Over the past year, we have seen the values and concepts of "democratic discussion and decision-making" (民主討論決策), "tolerance of dissent" (包容異見), and "decentralization" (去中心化) being trialed and practiced by a whole new generation of overseas social groups and organizations. In China's current political environment, civil society and self-governing organizations, which have been suppressed and have grown scarce in recent years, are gradually sprouting and growing.

"The value of democracy and freedom" (民主自由的價值) is not an empty fantasy or a mere slogan — nor can we expect it to simply come automatically to a people or a country. It can only be truly grasped through the concrete agency of individuals and organizations in continuous practice. 

In 2023, the sparks of the 2022 movement continued to fly, as the fury of resistance in the streets gradually transitioned to routine association, reflection, and a new form of public life.

Newcomers who have never undergone "democratic training" (民主訓練) have learned from the experience gained over the past year. But the process has also engendered new forms of confusion. Many organizations have been faced with difficulties this year as they have sought to develop and transform, and the individuals involved in these organizations have asked themselves: Who are we? What do we want to do? 

The considerations behind these questions have a great deal to do with how to position organizations (or groups of people) in terms of what things they wish to do, and what goals and values they hope to realize — and, based on this foundation, how they can find the right contacts and resources and most effectively allocate these resources.

In addition, as media reports have indicated, several organizations have faced challenges when it comes to agenda-setting at the local level. Some organizations have tried to "transform the wave of movements into a more normalized struggle" (將運動浪潮轉換為更常態化的抗爭) by organizing film festivals or salons. Some have also attempted to establish links and cooperation with multinational organizations. And some individuals, as their organizations have faced disintegration and failure, have been candid about the importance of the rules-based systems they have faced during transition efforts.

These challenges also apply to Mang Mang. Over the past year, our team has constantly engaged in discussion of these questions, and sought the views of others — and yet we continue to feel pressured and at a loss.

Artwork by 一嚿飯.

Cloaked within a fog, not knowing the way forward: this has been our state over the past year — and perhaps this has been the dilemma facing others on the same road. 

And yet, we do not doubt that Mang Mang has become an agent of civic power (民間力量). Recognizing this fact will point the way to our future. Within the fabric of public opinion in any normal society, there should be both professional media and voices from civil society, which together form the “publicness” (公共性) of our lives. The task before us is to strengthen this thread of civic autonomy, voice, and action — which forms the backdrop of the larger civil society. Our hope lies in this direction. 

The year 2023 has also afforded us a deeper understanding of "resistance" itself. What exactly does "resistance" entail?

In addition to street protests and the establishment of community organizations, a more subtle form of resistance emerges when individuals have a change of mindset.

In their daily interactions, people can begin to break beyond their atomization, learning how to care for the people around them. In the face of dissenting views, they can begin to learn how to listen and be tolerant, communicating non-violently and seeking common ground even as they recognize their differences. They can also begin to reflect on their speech, working to divest themselves of discriminatory, misogynistic, and paternalistic language. They can become more open to dialogue, no longer feeling a gap between themselves and the difficulties facing those of other ethnic groups, or different generations of resisters — so that we can say, “We are all watching.”

Over the past three years [of the pandemic], we have been taught that our lives are "non-essential" (非必要) — that we must live "non-essential lives.” For example, “not going out unless it is necessary," or "not gathering unless it is necessary.” Our lives of the “necessary” came to an end under the Covid lockdown, and this by necessity drove us to consider what the "necessary life" might look like — and beyond this, what our necessary public life might look like. 

To this question, we do not for the moment have a consensus response. But perhaps, step by step, our probing in this direction might quietly illuminate the way forward and inspire us amid our "fog."

Fellow travelers, readers, and friends, after a year of work and effort, we welcome New Year’s 2024 with confusion and bewilderment as well as the hope that it might bring transformation. As we bid farewell to the old and welcome the new, Mang Mang wishes you all a happy, safe, and prosperous New Year. May you be filled with confidence.

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The Diaspora Era ｜A New “Us” 

This third essay in our series on the diaspora era comes from Berlin-based community activist “Qin Xiaojie” (秦曉潔). As a classic Chinese émigré in Germany, she tells the story of her journey of identity, from the foreign language classroom upon her arrival, to university and then on to the workplace — beginning with the dilemma of her German name. 

After participating in a candlelight vigil at Berlin’s Brandenburg Gate for victims of the November 2022 Urumqi fire, when lockdown measures impeded the rescue of residents caught in a deadly apartment blaze, her mindset underwent a sudden transformation. No longer did she strive to “fit in,” and no longer did she want to become the “other.” 

October 28, 2023

(1) 

My name is Qin Xiaojie. From the first day I arrived in Germany, I knew that accurately reading my name was something Germans found impossible — whether they were tripped up by the “q” in my surname, or the “x” and “j” following in my given name. Germans simply had no way to pronounce them. At my very first language class, the teacher made a courageous but awkward effort to pronounce my first name, a process that embarrassed us both.

For a time, I tried to give myself a German name, Katharina, which means “pure” or something akin to “removing impurities.” In this sense, it was a good match with my Chinese name. As girls, we are taught that we must cherish ourselves and safeguard our chastity. My parents named me "Xiaojie" in Chinese in the hope that I would always know to cherish and protect my spotlessness. So you see, the expectations for girls are the same anywhere — whether they are Chinese or foreign. 

In my language program and at the university, however, teachers and professors resisted calling me Katharina. One reason was that we were accustomed in the German university to referring to one another as “you” (Sie), which indicated respect. A second reason was about basic record keeping. In the classroom and on exams I could of course only be addressed by the name shown in Pinyin on my passport: “Qin, Xiaojie.” To call me Katharina would have been an extra hassle for everyone, and there was no way the name would ever appear in any official document.

My university classmates, who all cared for and loved me very much, strongly advised me not to change my name. Each time I tried to explain the situation (“I think it’s just too difficult for all of you to pronounce ‘Xiaojie,’ so I'll just use a Europeanized name to make it easier,” I would say) they gave me soft looks. “No, Xiaojie,” they would respond, “that’s your name, and you don’t have to make things easy for us just because we can’t pronounce it.” Or they might say, without even the slightest sense of what my name meant in Chinese, “Xiaojie is such a beautiful name.”

That’s right. My dear German classmates not only knew nothing about the meaning of my Chinese name, but they also were ignorant of the reasons why I had chosen to change it. According to their reasoning, for a young woman from a country with an experience of colonization to trade her Asian name for a European one was an unconscious denial and devaluation of her own culture. It was a typical manifestation of the Eurocentric cultural oppression experienced by former colonial countries in Asia, Africa, and Latin America.

Believing in the necessity of deep reflection on colonialism, my classmates felt they had a moral obligation to refuse my name change — otherwise, they would be no different from the colonialists of a century ago. As college students of a new era, and as global citizens with a profound spirit of criticism, they insisted that all people from different cultural communities be afforded the right to live according to their cultural background, without any need to conform to European aesthetic standards. At that time, I felt sure my classmates were entirely correct about me — just as they were when they told one of our black classmates that her naturally curly hair was beautiful and there was no need for her to straighten it to appear more European.

It’s only been in more recent years that I’ve come to fully understand my classmates’ point of view. At the time, I only thought it was strange that they were so adamant — however awkward their insistence on saying “Xiaojie” was for them and me alike. They failed to understand, and perhaps did not want to understand, why a name change is not a matter of great importance to the Chinese. 

Of course, they did not know that, since ancient times, Chinese people have distinguished between given names and chosen names — those conferred by our parents and those embraced by ourselves. In the past, calling someone by their given name was considered rude. Confucius’ contemporaries insisted on calling him Zhong Ni (仲尼). Colleagues of the poet Li Bai always referred to him as Tai Bai (太白). So why was it such a sticking point for Germans not to call me Katharina? Not only was my choice to be called Katharina not a denial and repression of my culture of origin, but quite to the contrary: it could be regarded as an interesting attempt to carry forward my culture of origin in a European context.

(2)

At that time, unfortunately, I did not have a sufficient grasp of these things to be able to convince my classmates to accept my decision to change my name. After several fruitless attempts, I relented. I awkwardly conceded to my classmates’ gentle but clumsy efforts to call me Xiaojie, and this went on until I graduated from college. Once I graduated and entered the workplace, I began to realize that the question of whether to be Xiaojie or Katharina was just a small part of the large and vexing question of “identity." The part of the iceberg lurking under the surface was the realization: You are Chinese. But the problem was, I didn’t want to be treated as Chinese. 

From the beginning of my schooling in China, I realized that my school textbooks, particularly for my language, history, and political science classes, were filled with carefully woven lies designed to produce "qualified socialist successors" (合格的社會主義接班人). The colloquialism we have for this now is “leeks” (韭菜). It was always my dream to leave this land of lies. And I believed that, once I realized this dream, I could bid farewell to my Chinese identity.

My thinking, it turned out, was far too simple. From the time I arrived in Germany, China’s economy underwent rapid development, the country’s power soared, and its influence in the world increased. According to the narrative espoused by the propaganda machinery of the Chinese Communist Party, China’s growing political and economic influence has resulted in greater rights and benefits for Chinese expatriates. This is a classic piece of propaganda. Nevertheless, it is absolutely true that, as China has developed, the “Chinese identity” of Chinese expats has become more deeply and firmly defined.

The clearest expression of this is how colleagues bring up China a lot when I chat with them, even though the organization where I work has nothing whatsoever to do with China. They sometimes mention that they have read books on Chinese history and culture. They marvel at China’s ancient history and the achievements of our past. Of course, they also talk about the reports they’ve read on China’s social credit system, our ubiquitous surveillance, and the mass persecution of Uyghurs. In these chats, I play the part of a “China expert,” commenting on their positive and negative views about China, issuing responses that to them feel “authentic.”

These responses are not something I feel very willing to share. One aspect of this reluctance is the fact that I left China many years ago, and my impressions of the country become fuzzier by the day.

As press freedom in China grows worse with each passing day, it is difficult to access honest and open information about the country. This is true whether you are a normal expat like me or a full-time journalist. I don’t necessarily understand China much more than my German colleagues, and I am no more “sure” of my knowledge than they are. For all of these reasons, I am incapable of playing the role of the “China expert.”

On the other hand, it makes me uncomfortable that I’ve been appointed to this role by others. Why must I play this role? After a time, this discomfort started to solidify into routine. Every time my colleagues praised China’s economic achievements, I told them about the wide disparities in development between rural and urban areas, the serious demographic imbalances, and institutional discrimination and exploitation. When colleagues marveled at traditional Chinese culture, I pointed out its emphasis on a strict hierarchy and its misogynistic, xenophobic undertones. When my colleagues talked about negative reports on China, I used my reluctant role as a “China expert” to inform them that the reality might be even worse than reported. I thought, mistakenly, that by critiquing Chinese institutions and culture I would be able to forge my own “Chinese identity.” It would convey to my colleagues that I did not want to be treated as “Chinese.” To my dismay, I found that all this hard work was in vain. My colleagues seemed not to understand what I wanted.     

Only over the past year have I begun to understand that my university classmates and colleagues have been raised in a social system in which racism has become rooted. And in what they say and do, they unconsciously replay this rootedness. Simply put, as a person with typical Asian characteristics, I can only play the role of the Asian. I am an “other” within German society. No matter how hard I try to "integrate," or regardless of whether I try at all, my role does not change. Moreover, I found that the more I tried to criticize Chinese traditions and the status quo, the more I reinforced the negative stereotypes my white colleagues had about China. Through my criticism of China, which seemed to them to be more genuine, they could gain a certain sense of superiority. This sense of superiority was not based on a heartfelt rejection of authoritarianism, but rather on a position of being innately better. “See, you are a foreigner, an ‘other,’ the voice said, “and you get to live in a ‘democratic and free’ society like Germany — shouldn't you be grateful?”

I no longer wish to “integrate,” because I no longer wish to act the part of the “other.”

(3)

I now know this practice by mainstream culture of marginalizing and even stigmatizing cultural practices that do not agree with it is called "othering." In all my previous years in Germany, society had always seen me as an “other,” and I have always been comfortable playing the role of the “other.” I tried hard to "integrate" with the German mainstream. But now I finally understand that the word “integration” was created as a tailor-made mission for the “other,” and that this mission can never be accomplished.

The opportunity for change began with the "White Paper Revolution," a series of protests that erupted across China after three years of rolling Covid-19 lockdowns.

At first, I didn't fully realize what this movement meant to me. Harboring a long-standing distaste for authoritarian rule, I didn’t hesitate to attend the first protest rally in Berlin's Alexanderplatz. But this was before the White Paper Revolution had taken off. Most of the demonstrators were there to support the Sitong Bridge protestor and to oppose the Communist Party. Apart from attending the rally somewhat nervously and hollering a few slogans that I normally would not dare to shout in public, I had few feelings in particular. I still loathed China and my Chinese identity. Everyone at the rally was hidden behind in masks and sunglasses. There was something vaguely inhuman about it. It didn't have much of an impact on me.

But I never expected that news about the outbreak of protest rallies in several places overseas would be relayed back to major universities and cities in China and that the extension of strict Covid measures would stretch people’s patience to the extent that, by the end of November, the White Paper Revolution would break out.

Like participants in the domestic White Paper Movement, our rally in front of the Brandenburg Gate on the evening of November 26 to pay tribute to the victims of the Urumqi fire was largely spontaneous. No one had the express purpose of going to shout out political slogans as a form of resistance. Therefore, many of the participants did not wear masks as they had the previous time, and I think many of the participants were people who hadn’t taken part in the first protest rally at all.

However, in the relatively solemn and heavy atmosphere of that second rally, I felt some long-repressed emotions suddenly stirring in my heart. I had been in Germany for so many years, and never had I seen so many Chinese faces at a gathering of a political nature. For the first time, I saw a group of people to whom I could belong, a new "We." No longer was I alone as a rebellious “I,” but part of a “We” with similar backgrounds and shared experiences.

A candlelight memorial flash mob is organized by Chinese residents of Berlin in front of the Brandenburg Gate following the apartment fire in Urumqi.

We are from China. Perhaps we feel lucky to have escaped Chinese society but we also worry about the future of the country and its people. We have lived and studied abroad and endured all kinds of restrictions on foreign or non-EU citizens that make it difficult for us to consider the places we live abroad our homes. We have been anxious, fearful, and uncertain. To be a part of this "us,” I feel — to be a "Chinese" of this kind — would not only be something I would not resist, but would be precisely what I desire.

I’m sure a lot of people felt emotional over those two days. The widespread adoption of social media has meant that breaking news from across the world has now entered a multi-angled live mode. On platforms like Twitter and Instagram, our brains are flooded with images and videos. The Chinese, the community I thought I knew best of all, showed the unity, courage, and indomitable spirit I most hoped to see in a manner I least expected — and of course, they also shouted slogans I never dreamed of.

After I slept for a few blurry hours, I woke to find that the phrase “White Paper Revolution” had already been broadcast across various social media platforms — even on Chinese apps that are subject to strict censorship. In the excitement that followed I was constantly refreshing my phone, afraid I might miss some important development, and I was busy switching out my profile pics on various platforms with symbols of the White Paper Revolution. 

That evening, news of the protest movement breaking out in China was reported on Tagesschau, the most important news program on the German public television network ARD. I got a private message from one of my closest colleagues: “I really like your new profile pic.” Immersed in the moment’s excitement, I phoned her without giving it the least bit of thought. Only after hanging up the phone did it occur to me that our conversation had been entirely different from our interactions in the past. This time, I did not present myself as an observer or commentator. This was a movement in which I was participating, a resistance of which I was a part, a political expression that belonged to me. This time, I was not assigned a role. Rather, I decided myself to become a part of it.

Neither did my colleague treat me as a “China expert” whose views were sought after. Quite the contrary, I could feel that I was truly a friend, and she was doing her utmost to support me as a friend. I had the sudden realization that the choice to become “Chinese” and the act of being designated as “Chinese” were different things entirely. 

Footage of China's protests against the dynamic zero Covid lockdown policies appears in Tagesschau, an evening news program in Germany.

My overriding feeling that night was excitement and agitation. I also thought of how I wanted to make sure more people saw what was happening in China. While they could learn through the media that an unprecedented resistance movement was unfolding in China, I wanted this time to offer them a more vivid and genuine experience. I printed out a few images of the resistance, adding QR codes to these that linked to more related information. The next day, I posted these to the cabinet in my office.

Much to my relief and joy, messages from my colleagues quickly materialized on the cabinet expressing support for me and for “us.” A few days later, one of my colleagues even left a bookmark on my desk they had brought back from Taiwan’s 228 Memorial Museum. “Democracy,” it read. 

Post-It Notes with protest messages are added by German colleagues to the author’s post about the White Paper Revolution to her cabinet at work. Source: Author.

During those days I talked a lot with my closest colleagues about resistance. I talked a lot about things in China, even about the disgraceful role played by German enterprises on the question of human rights in the country. I gradually discovered how it was possible to accept my identity as a Chinese person, contributing my experiences and perspective to German society — and how it was even possible for me to better find my value in that society.

One classic manifestation of this came in my thoughts about my name. With the development of the women’s movement in China in recent years, I had already become more aware of the self-restraining connotations lingering behind the two characters for “Xiaojie,” which means something like “radiant purity.” Ideas of purity and chastity are shackles imposed on women by patriarchal societies. 

But actually, I’ve never hated this name, which perhaps is another form of self-restraint. There might also have been an element of self-restraint in the way I had retained my Chinese name and not embraced Katharina, simply abiding and accepting the suggestions of my classmates. The same was true of the way I resorted reflexively to criticism and minimization whenever my colleagues praised China. As I came to have a deeper understanding of Germany, I realized more and more that there is a great deal of injustice and oppression in German society. And yet I forced myself to deny that this injustice was structural and systemic — just as I had forced myself to deny that Katharina is just a European form of “purity” conveyed by “Xiaojie,” with the same patriarchal connotations. 

The "othering" of minorities by "mainstream society" can only be countered by bringing my identity into German society and enriching its perspectives, so that society as a whole can become more accustomed to looking at the contradictions in society from a more pluralistic perspective. 

After I experienced the White Paper Movement, I announced at my workplace that I wished to live as Katharina. No longer would I let my coworkers decide whether they wanted to call me Xiaojie with twisted tongues, or Katharina with twisted hearts. I made it clear that I was Katharina. A Chinese person can be called Katharina. Not only this, but the link between my Chinese name and my German name became the key to unlocking conversations about women's rights at my job. 

After the White Paper Movement, Chinese people overseas engaged in deeper and more fruitful discussions about women's rights, and these experiences not only benefited me intellectually but also gave me the courage to fight for my rights. The fact that oppression against Chinese women runs so deep makes it all the more admirable and remarkable to see how resolutely Chinese women have fought back. 

In the process of explaining the connection between my Chinese and German names, I can better convey the experience of resistance among Chinese women in both Germany and Europe. By the same token, since China was once a powerful empire and later experienced the pains of colonialism, it can be said that the Chinese have suffered both the price of imperial expansion and the trials and tribulations of being colonized. This experience is unique in Europe, and it has become a means by which Chinese can accept their Chinese identity without necessarily becoming the “other” within European society. Rather, through my Chinese identity and perspective I can bring a different anti-colonial perspective to German society and thus participate in and become part of it.

I also recognize that I cannot possibly, through the erasing of my identity, escape the unfair value system constructed based on racism. On the contrary, it is only by bearing my identity in German society that can I enrich the perspectives within it — enabling society as a whole to become more adept at understanding social conflicts from pluralistic perspectives, and countering the "otherization" (他者化) of minorities by so-called "mainstream society” (主流社會).  

I believe that this wider participation is the true meaning of democratic politics, and the degree of democratization in a society relies on the extent to which that society has improved the participation of groups that have been marginalized in the process of rule-making. I feel confident that, in a truly democratic society, there must be a place for people who identify themselves as Chinese — as there must also be for marginalized communities such as Muslims, Roma, or LGBTQ. 

"Xiaojie" has not become Katharina; "Xiaojie" is just a part of Katharina, a part of China, and a part of the world. The process of deep globalization over the past 30 years has created myriad problems and has given rise to countless Xiaojies named Katharina. I am also convinced that the Xiaojies named Katharina will, in their special way, remain engaged with the problems of globalization, offering their perspectives and solutions.