[Even by the standards of an authoritarian government, the rules are strict. The city has imposed bans on flying kites, drones, balloons and captive pigeons, a popular pastime, in many areas. Some Chinese cities are barring officials from consuming alcohol in the run-up to the parade.]
By
Javier C. Hernández
 |
|
Residents
in Beijing watched as People’s Liberation Army tanks rolled by during a
rehearsal
early on Sunday. Credit Gilles Sabrié for The New York Times
|
BEIJING
— President Xi Jinping was
holding a military parade, and the Chinese police wanted me out.
Officer Wang Yong, a veteran of the Beijing
security bureau with nervous eyes and amber teeth, came to my door one recent
Saturday morning to deliver the news.
“Do you know about the National Day
celebrations?” he asked.
I nodded. In early October, Mr. Xi would be
the host of a grand celebration to mark the 70th anniversary of the founding of
the People’s Republic of China, along the Street of Eternal Peace, near my
apartment.
“You need to leave,” Officer Wang said.
“Armed police will be stationed inside for four days.”
As an American journalist based in Beijing
for the past four years, I am accustomed to onerous visa rules, hassles at the
airport and arbitrary detentions in the countryside.
But never had the police insisted on
occupying my home. I imagined a cantankerous bunch of officers spread out on
the sofa, poring over books on dissident art and American politics as they
smoked the night away.
Officer Wang, strong but slumping, with gray
tufts of hair springing from under his navy cap, grew impatient. “Do you
understand?” he said. “Don’t you have another place to go?”
Even in quiet times, Beijing can feel
stifling: the police, the propaganda, the smog.
But the city is in a state of extreme agitation
before Mr. Xi’s parade, a show of strength meant to signal to the United States
and other countries that China and its leader, who is also general secretary of
the ruling Communist Party, are more resilient than ever.
Officials are leading a more extensive
security crackdown than usual, perhaps reflecting concerns within the party
about threats to social stability, as unrest brews in Hong Kong.
Bomb-sniffing dogs patrol shopping malls.
Police and military officers stand guard on street corners. X-ray machines and
metal detectors protect entrances to residential buildings, shops and hotels
along the parade route.
Even by the standards of an authoritarian
government, the rules are strict. The city has imposed bans on flying kites,
drones, balloons and captive pigeons, a popular pastime, in many areas. Some
Chinese cities are barring officials from consuming alcohol in the run-up to
the parade.
Mr. Xi, China’s most powerful leader since
Mao, is the unmistakable star of the show, and the streets are filled with
bright red propaganda banners urging the public to rally behind him, referring
to his call for a “new era” of centralized control and his vision of a “Chinese
dream” of economic prosperity.
“Seek happiness for the Chinese people, seek
rejuvenation for the Chinese nation,” one banner says.
“Everybody is a witness, pioneer and builder
of the new era,” reads another.
“We are all chasing the dream,” proclaims a
third.
Since early September, the authorities have
placed my entire neighborhood, not far from Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden
City, on lockdown. Roads are blocked, and the internet has slowed to a crawl.
Security officers pat me down every time I enter my apartment building, morning
and night.
On weekends, during rehearsals for the
parade, tanks rumble down the street and fighter jets and helicopters patrol
the skies, carrying red hammer-and-sickle flags as cargo.
The police have imposed curfews, requiring
residents to return to their homes by 5 p.m., and lock windows and close
curtains by 8. Police officers sleep in the hallways of apartment buildings to
ensure the rules are followed.
In messages slipped under my door, the
authorities thanked me for my cooperation in the security campaign, known as
“safe and sound Beijing.” But the checks were tedious and exhausting, another
reminder of the strength of the police state in China, where surveillance
cameras and facial-recognition technology are used to spy on citizens on a huge
scale.
Yet many of my Chinese friends are
indifferent, even proud. When the Beijing government posted an online notice
detailing nightmarish traffic disruptions, internet users rejoiced.
“I look forward to the grand military
parade,” said one of the most popular comments made in response to the post on
WeChat, a popular messaging app, punctuated by three thumbs-up emoticons. “My country
is amazing.”
On a recent afternoon, I walked to Tiananmen
Square, the site of pro-democracy demonstrations in 1989 that ended in a bloody
crackdown. The parade was set to culminate in Tiananmen, though this painful
chapter in modern Chinese history would not be discussed, in keeping with the
party line.
Outside the Forbidden City, which is just
north of Tiananmen Square, many people told me the parade was another sign of
China’s growing military and economic prowess.
“China now ranks top in the world,” said Wang
Wanting, 22, a university student in Beijing. “China will get stronger and
stronger and surpass the United States.”
Nearby, Li Peiqin, a food delivery worker, sat
on his scooter, watching tourists wander around the gates of the Forbidden
City.
Mr. Li said he moved to Beijing last month
from the southern province of Guangdong so that he could experience two things:
the snow and Mr. Xi’s parade. He had stocked up on instant noodles and rice in
anticipation. He said he was most looking forward to the cannons and fighter
jets, which are expected to be featured alongside intercontinental ballistic
missiles, drones and other weapons.
“China needs to better protect itself,” he
said.
I walked to a nearby park. A propaganda sign
now hung at the entrance: “Let patriotism become every Chinese person’s firm
belief and spiritual sustenance.”
Inside, construction workers napped on
benches. Small groups of chain-smoking men played poker, shouting obscenities
as they slapped cards on the table.
“They can’t stop our games,” a retiree, Xu
Jin, said of the security crackdown, as he anted up 35 renminbi, or about $5.
With the curfew approaching, I headed home.
From my window, I could see police officers gathering on nearby rooftops,
assembling tents and surveying the neighborhood through binoculars.
At 8 p.m., I closed my curtains, following
police orders. About a half-hour later, Officer Wang was at my door, more
brusque than before.
“Didn’t I tell you there was an exercise
today?” he asked. “Why didn’t you close your curtains?”
I explained that I had, but Officer Wang,
incredulous, stepped into my living room to inspect. “Keep them closed,” he
said, storming out.
In the days that followed, Officer Wang
called my cellphone to remind me I needed to leave and to ask where I would go.
It was clear that there was no room for negotiation, that I had no choice but
to obey the rules.
One day, I awoke to a rainbow-colored
tapestry outside my window. The authorities had hung 40 lines of red, blue,
green and yellow flags between two buildings that overlooked my street. The
flags were most likely aimed at blocking views of Mr. Xi and the weapons, but
they were decidedly out of place, an irreverent diversion from the sea of
black-and-gray office buildings that surround my home.
I watched one day as a group of visiting
Tibetan monks wandered over to the multicolor display, seemingly amused by its
likeness to traditional prayer flags.
As police officers patrolled the neighborhood
and office workers submitted to pat-downs, the monks stood before the flags and
smiled blissfully, snapping selfies in the late-summer sun.
Javier C. Hernández has been a China
correspondent in Beijing since 2015. He joined The New York Times in 2008, and
previously covered education and politics. Follow him on Twitter:
@HernandezJavier.
Albee Zhang contributed research.
