The next day, as continued from Part 2:
“Beep boop!”
My phone alerted me to the arrival of a new text message. It was from 10639585, one of several each day sent to all the phones with the city’s area code. This one informed me:
“The Process of ‘Old City District Renewal’: The capital government has started the renewal of old city districts to improve living space. The process will include the surrounding Tengritagh District and Sayabagh District, covering the space of 173 square kilometers and 1,600,000 people from every ethnicity. Old city renewal is for the preservation and improvement of all the people’s lives and is part of public service for the benefit of the people.”
The end of every text message told us in parentheses which government department the text came from. This one read at the end: “From the City Council’s Propaganda Bureau.” My chest tightened and my breathing quickened. I lived in Tengritagh District. We had known this was coming. Rumors had been circulating for weeks and Aygul had told me about this particular decision yesterday.
Walking home that day at 9:00 pm, I noticed the authorities had put up red banners with white Chinese characters across a few of the evicted shops on my street. It was late and nobody was around, so I quickly snapped a few pictures in the dark.
Then, I saw a family leaving their home behind the shuttered shops pictured here. They piled into the back bed of a pick-up truck that was filled with furniture and a television set. None of them were carrying bags. The older ones were carrying infants, and the younger kids were holding hands with each other with tiny backpacks on, leaving their home for good. There were about ten kids in the bed of the pick-up truck.
The next day, the rest of the shops were shuttered and locked with big white X’s to prevent anyone from getting back in. I saw through the window of Aygul's shop that there were still some abandoned blankets inside. But she and her family were nowhere to be found. The white X’s read the name of the neighborhood community center office.
I noticed a big white X taped firmly across the front doors of the noodle restaurant next door as well. I walked up to the window and looked inside. The display case for cakes was still illuminated, with half a watermelon sitting inside. Tables and chairs were stacked inside, with a metal basin filled with white porcelain cups. A container of spicy chili peppers and a basin of vinegar on the table sat closest to the window. It was as if they hadn’t even been informed of the demolition with enough time to clean out the inside of the shop.
“It’s closed!” a police officer yelled at me loudly. I ignored him, turned and walked away. Next to the noodle shop was a recently built a police station, which also had a huge Chinese character reading “demolish” in red and a number spray-painted on it. Its doors were locked shut with a chain around the front. The neighborhood was going to be flattened, even the police stations.




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