When night falls on my street, a smoky flavor from roadside kabob grills fills the air. After the alleys turn dark, men swagger with the relaxation of alcohol, holding on to each other, and ducking into the many convenience stores that line the street for another beer and cigarettes. As I walk down the sidewalk, I can hear the sizzling of the frying pans from inside the restaurant kitchens. The lamps attached to the sidewalk kabob grills glow brightly, and I stop at one street food stand for a cup of chickpeas with cumin and shredded carrots. I am careful to eat them while standing next to the stand, remembering that it is rude to walk while eating.
Store owners sit on tiny plastic stools on the sidewalk, their faces shiny with sweat from the day’s work, relaxing in the cool breeze of the summer night. They cool themselves with paper fans that the local gynecological hospital gives out for free, each side declaring 580 kuai painless sterilization surgery because “it takes care of the uterus, it doesn’t hurt, and of course one needs to love with worry” (baliyatquni asraydu, aghritmaydu, elwette soygu ghem-endishisiz bolush kerek). Radios blast Uyghur dance music, a playful and energetic tune of blasting trumpets and strumming dutar.
As I walk, I suddenly see four helmeted police officers frowning and facing me looking very serious indeed, standing in a row holding metal clubs at the edge of an alley. It startles me and puts me on edge because they are not usually standing there. I stare at them as I walk by and they stare back. There is one guy facing the opposite direction of the others, holding a walkie-talkie that is relaying some message. After I pass them, I turn around and take another glance. On the backs of their “knife-proof” (as opposed to bullet proof vests, as guns are strictly outlawed here) vests, it says “police” in English.
I keep walking and pass a tonur oven with piles upon piles of naan stuffed with mutton displayed on the counter, and inside the restaurant glows brightly and invitingly. A man with a huge pot belly talks with his friend on my left, while on my right, a man sitting and relaxing over a balcony railing smokes while looking at an iPad. I see a 10-year old boy riding on an electronic skateboards and a couple with their arms around each other. I pass a bakery full of cakes and cookies that tempts me.
As I walk past the fried chicken place called Ablek—the Uyghur branded Halal version of KFC—I pass a girl with a long over-sized black t-shirt that says “USA” and has the Puerto Rico flag on it. Two young Uyghur men walk past me, their arms draped around each other. When I get to the narrow part of the sidewalk I suddenly and unexpectedly come across another set of police officers, walking in the opposite direction from me, 12 of them in a single-file line, their leader holding a walkie-talkie. Because of their silence and their uniforms, they are ethnically ambiguous. One can often only tell Han and Uyghurs apart by their accents/language and clothing—yes, some Uyghurs have red hair and green eyes, but some look more East Asian. Uyghur, like all races—as biological and DNA research has proven time and time again—is a socially constructed, not biological, category. Another telling sign is if they have a mustache. Han men never grow mustaches. Uyghur men love mustaches. But police officers aren’t allowed to have facial hair of any kind, so it is hard to tell in this context.
As I walk, I see the red and blue lights of a black police van flashing across the street, and when I pass the police station, I see two shields and two helmets resting against the side of the wall, and a police officer talking and laughing with a Uyghur man. After I pass, I glance back and see a gun on the holster of the officer’s waist. I think about how if the police have guns, then the people should have guns. But really no one should have guns.
I pass a Chinese Muslim (Hui) BBQ place, and tekshurush (check) stations on my left: Barriers to block cars from entering the alley, an entrance that requires an ID scan, an office lit by bright florescent lights and a few security officers talking and eating ice cream inside, and an exit that is not monitored. I pass three of these on each alley way on my way home. I wonder if I should try to enter, and think about the scary time last summer when I got stopped in one such alley and asked not to come back. I wonder if they can require that of me when I live in the neighborhood?
I pass two drunk men arguing over something, three Wusu [brand of beer] cans perched on the black fence. One guy is holding another man back, a guy who is insisting on entering the store nearby that has rows of liquor inside. Then I pass a mustached man totally passed out on his back on the sidewalk, his huge belly protruding from under his orange polo shirt. I stare and when I look up, I make eye contact with a young Uyghur boy who is watching me and chuckling. I smile back. I pass hotels, their front desks protected by metal bars you would see at the bank. I pass row after row of hotels, wondering who patrons these? Prostitutes, or couples needing alone time? Travelers? Businessmen? They are shitty, seedy hotels that are only open at night, ones that my friend said he would never stay in.
Then I pass an intersection near my home. The policemen who are usually in their van are standing in two rows, five of them, standing there on alert but talking and laughing, the doors of the van still open. Nearby sit four men on the playground exercise equipment and smoking, and three women with headscarves standing and chatting. Four kids are playing on the elliptical machines next to them. A man walking very briskly with eyebrows furrowed and mouth tight in a police uniform passes me. I keep walking, a young couple staring at the blue light of their phone screen that illuminates their face as they walk with their arms around each other in the dark. The rest of the street is deserted and pitch black. I return home and collapse in my bed with exhaustion, but my mind races.
Why? Why are they wasting so much money on this “security” when clearly people are going about living their normal lives? Or is it “normal” the way people turn to alcohol and sex to cope? What is normal? How do people survive day in and day out in this suffocating environment?
What do people think of the government? Do they care, or notice at all? Or do they try not to think about it? Why is China so invested in maintaining control? Is it oil, or saving face, or the domino theory, or the territory buffer, or pride, or greed, or power, or a false sense of control and paternalism? Is it insecurity and fear? Is it about the false veneer of simultaneously looking back and looking forward into infinite time and space of the "nation-state”?
How people get through the day? How do they keep moving through amidst oppression? Do they ignore it? Do they see it not as oppression, but as liberation through development? Do they see it as an opportunity? Or do they push against it, doing what they can to avoid the power that tries to control their everyday life? How do people deal with inequality? Do they see it as normal and justified? Do they participate in tiny transgressions against oppression throughout their everyday life? Do they suffocate as I do? If so, how do they survive knowing that they will never leave? How do they deal with the lack of choice?
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