A friend of mine was trapped in the ongoing Shanghai lockdown. A smart guy, he
aced in Tsinghua, came to America, got into computers and worked for Intel in
the dot-com days, and went on to Wharton and Wall Street during the go-go years
of financial engineering. To us, he was success incarnated.
I remembered asking why when he decided to go back and his answer was "You don't
get the feeling of being served here in the US." It seemed for some of my
compatriots, especially the talented, the idea of a man above men ran deep. I
didn't blame them for what they were raised to believe. If I were more clever, I
could have been counted as one of them. Our friendship survived these years,
however, and we had always exchanged greetings around the Chinese New Year.
I myself never thought of going back: I was not that smart and my resume looked
average. Moreover, an unnameable fear told me to stay. It might have come from
ancient records such as 400,000 Zhao POWs buried alive, the tragedies of Li
Ling and SiMa Qian, the phrase "swapping kids to eat" in famines, or the more
recent ruins of the communist elite including those returning from overseas to
help build the new China, etc. Any fantasy of success in the land of the dragon
was dispelled by that fear.
"Things have gone back to the 60s overnight. I'm sure after this, (foreign)
people will get out." He was born in the late 70s and couldn't have known
the cultural revolution firsthand. But growing up, he must have heard enough.
I myself didn't experience it either but my family suffered through that dark
era and I learnt from the older generations.
"I never suspected." I said.
