Life of an “Alien” in Beijing

When I received my Chinese employment pass in Beijing in January 2010, I did a double take when I first set my eyes upon the cover. It read “Alien Employment Permit”. An alien – is that what I was going to be in Beijing?

After having been mistaken in France for a Chinese national from Singapore, a Chinese province recently returned to the Middle Kingdom, I was now going to assume the identity of E.T. in the land of my ancestors? I’ve always aspired to be a global citizen but to be an interplanetary resident was probably more than what I had bargained for.

The reassurance factor is that I am not the only “alien” around. According to a report from the Ministry of Human Resources and Social Security at the end of last year, there are more than 120 000 foreigners (or aliens as suggested by the employment permit) staying for at least 6 months in Beijing and as many as 600 000 in the whole of China. This figure represents a 30-fold increase from the mere population of 20,000 foreigners in China back in the 1980s.  However, even as I seek consolation in the fact that I am not alone, I am convinced that life here holds more challenges for me than for my fellow red-haired and blue-eyed “compatriots”. The reason is simple: I am a Chinese-looking expatriate. 

In recent years, China’s surging economy has brought a wave of descendents of Chinese emigrants back to the shores of the motherland. This group of returnees is also known as “海龟”or sea turtles, a witty play of words referring to the fact that this population is returning from abroad “从海外归来”. For this group of “aliens” like for me, looking Chinese doesn’t make us any less foreign. Despite being able to speak mandarin and even sound remotely like a Beiijnger by adding the “er-suffix” (儿化音) to certain words in my phrases, despite having celebrated Chinese New Year, Dragon Boat & Mid-Autumn Festival throughout my childhood and despite often being “claimed” as Chinese, my perspective and thinking tend to be quite different from the locals.    

I naturally balk when being asked how much I earned within minutes of meeting someone new, develop goose bumps when a taxi driver clears his throat in the midst of a ride, jump in order to escape the frequent assaults of spit by fellow streetwalkers, hold the door for people passing through behind me (eventually realizing that this gesture normally resulted in me becoming the doorman of the day) and frown at the idea of having to be a sardine squeezed amongst fellow commuters in the Beijing subway, upset at the thought of not being able to maintain a decent level of personal space around me. With all the above reactions which sometimes resulted in cultural frictions unknown to other expatriates, my colleagues and friends finally decided that I was nothing less than a Chinese-looking foreigner.

Hereafter, I came to find the unromantic and somewhat hostile label of an “alien” to be rather apt and comforting. Even though I look and sound like a Chinese, enjoy local TV serial dramas and laugh at witty short plays during the annual CCTC Spring Festival Gala alongside the millions of Chinese who remain loyal supporters of this show year after year; and even if I have learnt to embrace the workings of “guanxi” (connections) and appreciate the advantages that it brings, there will always be moments where I just don’t get it. Culturally that is. And I no longer have any problems accepting this hard and naked truth.

Since then, I have also started on a journey to re-discover and unearth my underlying Singaporean identity. A “Singlish” dictionary published by an independent bookstore “Books Actually” in Singapore brought me back on track to the path of the intangible experience of the local Singaporean. It dawned upon me that deep down I was “a.cher.ly” (the correct Singlish pronunciation of actually) still pretty Singaporean at heart.

The moment of truth came when I overheard the following dialogue between 2 fellow Singaporeans in a lift at work:

A: Eh, did you hear about the recent uproar against foreign talent?

B: You mean, after the TKL Ferrari crash at Rochor?

A: Yah lor I don’t understand why our gah.men allows so many TKLs to come into our country and do jobs that we locals can do.

I realized almost immediately that they were talking about the Chinese Ferrari driver crashing into a taxi in Singapore in May 2012, killing himself, the taxi driver and a passenger. It was one of approximately 8,000 car wrecks in Singapore each year. Yet it has turned out to be a flashpoint for antiforeigner sentiment in Singapore as residents grow increasingly resentful of flashy displays of wealth.

I found the above encounter to be surreal: 2 foreigners in Beijing, speaking of resentment against “foreign talent” in their home country. As the word “foreign talent’ left their lips, I wonder if they realized, even if it were only to be for a fleeting moment, that the same term could also be used to describe themselves and could also one day, be accompanied by antiforeigner feelings sparked off by Chinese-looking foreigners being paid much more than Chinese-looking Chinese employees working in China?

Despite being conscious of the inherent idiosyncrasy, I noticed with surprise that I naturally aligned myself to the side of my fellow Singaporean compatriots when I overheard their conversation that morning.  It was the moment where I realized that there was and will probably always be an overwhelming gulf between me and the Chinese around me. It was what the Sinica podcast (a weekly online discussion of current affairs in China hosted by Kaiser Kuo, a Chinese American communications professional and Jeremy Goldkorn a South African social media commentator in China) defined as a “Belgrade” moment. It is when a political, economic or social incident, like the U.S. bombing of the Chinese embassy in Belgrade in 1999 for instance, results in a dramatic rise in tension in the country, eventually “forcing” people of different nationalities to take sides. In such cases, sitting on the fence could hardly be tolerated and being on the “wrong side” could easily result in one being labeled as a “traitor”.

After having been away from Singapore for more than 10 years, I have learnt to integrate and learn from foreign cultures whilst not assimilating entirely into the culture of my host countries (France and China). From my experience in France, I have learnt to openly express my emotions and to stand up for what I believe in, even if this were to be the contrary of someone else’s opinion. It is less the art of contradiction but more the acceptance that it is perfectly alright “to agree to disagree” with one another. In short, I have learnt to become myself. From living in China, I have learnt often at my own expense that it is not always beneficial to divulge too much of one’s emotions and thoughts. I have understood that it is sometimes necessary to wear a mask. I have also come to acknowledge the importance of networking and have developed an E.Q. (Emotional Quotient) slightly higher than that of the average Singaporean who has often been said to be born with the “No U-turn Syndrome.”

Like any other person who has spent long periods of time away from his home country, my life has become a stunning piece of “mola” – an embroidery piece crafted in a style unique to the Kuna Indians of Panama. The fabrication process is as follows: Pieces of bright-colored fabric, as many as 5 – 8, are layered upon one another and attached temporarily at each corner. The seamstress cuts down to different layers, folds the edges under in the desired shape to reveal the colour beneath, and stitches the folds in place. As she continues to cut, fold, and stitch, a multihued pattern slowly emerges, finally coming together in a richly vibrant image of a fish or a lobster, for instance. The end result is a piece that has a solid hue on one side and emerges brilliantly into full color on the other. Each has the stamp of the creator’s individuality but is born of a distinct cultural heritage. 

So it is with my life as a global nomad. All my experiences of mind, heart, body and spirit, all the relationships I have knitted with people during my stay abroad, all the places I have been to, the losses I have encountered and the discoveries I have made; they are all layered one upon another through time. Ultimately, this may mean having to cut, sometimes deeply, through all the layers of my personal mola-like tapestry to reveal the richness and color underneath. With so many layers, I sometimes wonder if we, as global nomads, are even aware of what we portray to others through our outermost layer, and what we retain in our inner-most layer. As far as I am concerned, I will profess to be at a loss for an answer. I am constantly surprised at who I have become, at who I really am.

I will end with an encounter which happened during a recent trip back home to Singapore. This anecdote may perhaps shed some light on this enigma I call myself:

Having had my wallet pick pocketed in Beijing last year, I had to make a trip to the ICA (Immigration & Checkpoints Authority of Singapore) at Lavender to replace my identity card. Whilst queuing to take a photograph, I had the following conversation with the auntie manning the photo booth:

Auntie: You need to take a photo for IC ah?

Me: Yes

Auntie: Are you Singaporean?

Me: Yes

Auntie: Pink IC?

Me: Yes (This was accompanied by knitted brows and a frown on my face to which auntie felt she had to justify her series of questions with the final refrain below).

Auntie: I thought you new citizen mah.

I must admit to have been slightly thrown off by these questions which were all driving at the same point: the fact that I was probably not a native Singaporean. Till today, I am flabbergasted as to how such a conclusion could be drawn simply by glancing at the top layer of my “mola”.

If being a globetrotter results in one being in a constant state of an identity crisis, then I’d rather be or remain…an alien.

The above is an ode to globalization.