Demolition and Eviction: Part 1

Here is the story of one Uyghur family and how they experienced demolition of their neighborhood and eviction from the city. The events told in this story are eye-witness accounts from the field during 2017, though identifiable demographic information has been changed to protect the participants.

Three-year-old Guzelnur was playing in the street with the neighborhood kids. Her face and hands were black with soot from the coal dust that coated every surface. She burst into a giggly smile with her arms outstretched for a hug when she saw me. I dropped my grocery bags and lifted her up into my arms as she squealed and gave me a kiss on each cheek.

With her legs wrapped around me, I carried Guzelnur to her mother’s shop. I greeted her mother, Aygul, by touching both of my cheeks to hers with light kisses. When I picked up some fruit, Aygul tried to refuse my money. I insisted, putting it into her fanny pack since she would not take it. She finally acquiesced and invited me to join her inside for a chat.

Aygul quickly swept the carpet with a hand broom, pulled out their guest mat with gold trim, folded it over double for me, and urged me to sit.

A picture of a typical Uyghur living room with carpet, decorated mat with gold trim, and a tablecloth for eating while a child sleeps in the corner. Fruit is commonly brought out for guests. Source: Photo by author.

Flustered, she apologized profusely for not having any tea on hand: “We just don’t have the conditions for luxuries like tea right now.” She then brought in naan bread, hot water, and tiny clementine oranges from the shop for us to share.

Pixar’s Ice Age dubbed in Uyghur played on a TV in the background. A sheet serving as a curtain covered the window, and ropes laced across the room held wet clothes hung to dry. The tiny room was heated by a coal stove in a corner that glowed red with burning embers. I tasted the coal in the air that made me cough and my throat tighten. The fumes made it difficult to breathe, but at least it was warm. She apologized for the mess and the mildew smell.

“I did laundry yesterday. I just don’t have the conditions where I can afford something like a washing machine,” she explained, shaking her head and shrugging.  

Guzelnur squatted and peed in a bucket on the floor. There was no toilet in their house, only a public one across the street that they have to pay one yuan each time to use.

Aygul then clapped her hands excitedly as she started to make noodles for lunch. I stood next to her as she cooked and refused my help. We chatted about our lives.

“I’m so tired and worn out. I’m a mother of two young kids, so there’s no such thing as rest for me,” she said, sighing.

Aygul had a round face that was almost always smiling, despite the fact that one of her favorite activities was complaining. She vented to me about her poor home conditions, her husband and kids, and the Chinese government. Aygul spoke fast, so fast that sometimes I couldn’t catch all the words as they jumbled together and piled on top of one another. But even when she was angry or upset, she usually still managed to slip in jokes, even if it was at the expense of her husband.

“He is so skinny and weak, ugly and poor, he was the worst of the lot that was pursuing me back in my younger days,” she told me laughing.

Her jolly chortles made her large belly shake and her chubby cheeks stick out. When she was tired—as she so often was—she put her head in her hands and her eyelids drooped, and she talked a bit slower, telling me about the pressures of trying to run the shop and raise two young children at the same time without the resources, such as a washing machine, that she envied and desired.

Her husband took a break from baking naan. He wore a white apron dirty with soot and dust, and his face shined with sweat. He sat cross-legged, leaning against the wall with a cigarette burning red between his fingers. When his cigarette was finished, he filled up a bucket of water from the spigot on the side of the room. When he returned to the tonur oven where he was making naan bread, he leaned over the cutting board, using his whole body to knead the dough. A fast Uyghur tune blasted its electronic harmony.

“He plays this song at least a hundred times a day,” Aygul explained. “It helps him get energy when he is bored or tired and he needs to get motivated to lean over the broiling tonur oven.”

Photo of a typical tonur oven with bread stuck to the sides as it bakes over coals. Source: https://allinnet.info/culture/the-armenian-tonir-oven/

Her husband then placed the moist, onioned and kneaded dough onto the sides of the fiery coal oven, sticking them on the sides with his hands and then pulling out the cooked ones with a metal pincher.

After lunch, I said my goodbyes and we continued our routine of talking every day when I stopped by to get fruit and naan. They renovated the naan shop in early spring of 2017 and life was good, they told me.  

China, COVID, and Authoritarianism

What the Coronavirus Tells Us about China’s Authoritarian State

During COVID-19, the world witnessed the efficiency—and despotism—of China’s authoritarian rule. Meanwhile, the widespread consequences of China’s censorship are evident. This is nothing new for China. The mass internment of the Uyghurs illustrates how China uses authoritarian rule and censorship to execute government policy with speed and force. 

Evidence is clear that over one million Uyghurs and other Muslim minorities are currently detained in mass internment camps. Some argue that the inmates are “sitting ducks” for an uncontrolled outbreak in the camps.

What happened in Xinjiang with mass internment of Uyghurs sheds light on what happened and is happening in the rest of China during the coronavirus crisis.

Amnesty International reported on the human rights abuses in China during the outbreak. While leaders from the World Health Organization (WHO) praised China for its handling of the crisis, and China’s remarkable recovery from a public health disaster remains a model for countries around the world, China’s violation of basic patient confidentiality, widespread discrimination against people from Wuhan, and people’s unlawful limitation to access to essential needs—like HIV medication—was rightfully questioned. The heavy-handed enclosure and lockdown rules in China, as well as the data cover-ups and news censorship, during the outbreak are merely another manifestation of the government’s dishonesty and ruthlessness.

What does the coronavirus and authoritarian governance in China mean for minorities and the most marginalized and vulnerable populations? China’s media insists that the “re-education” centers do not pose risks for an outbreak. Others disagree, saying that it’s only a matter of time, especially considering that 76 confirmed cases were reported there, but it’s hard to know the real numbers. On an ABC television special in Australia, a Chinese diplomat, Wang Xining insisted that the coronavirus was not an issue.    

Although I can’t speak to the situation on the ground right now, or whether or not the coronavirus is spreading in Xinjiang, the point is that China’s authoritarian governance, mass internment camps, and censorship are brutal realities we should all be concerned about. 

The Conversation Article

I was in China doing research when I saw my Uighur friends disappear

I had this article published in The Conversation, an independent and not-for-profit global network of newsrooms. I hope you enjoy!

Jiu-Jitsu: A Universal Language

I wrote a blog post about training jiujitsu in China and published it on my gym's website. Here is the link! I hope you enjoy it.

https://eastonbjj.com/brazilian-jiu-jitsu/2019/jiu-jitsu-a-universal-language/

Letter to My 16-Year-Old Self

I have a confession to make. I have a compulsion. No, it's not diagnosed OCD. But it's a need to do something even when I know I don't need to, or even when I don't want to. I make lists.

All kinds of lists. Daily lists. Weekly lists. Monthly lists. Yearly lists.

I have a job task list. A life task list. An errand list. A grocery list. A people-to-text list. A books-to-read list. A fun-things-to-do list. A things-to-do-in-my-free-time list. A self-care list. A 2020 resolutions list.

Sounds nice, right? These lists are what keep me ultra-focused. These lists are what keep me efficient and always--ALWAYS--intentional with my time. These lists keep me always doing things with my time that put me closer to my goals. These lists keep me on TOP OF MY SHIT. NO MATTER WHAT. WHETHER I LIKE IT OR NOT.

These lists embody my need for order and control in my life at all times.

When I'm not paying attention, these lists start to control me and my life. I stop being present. I start being a robot. I start doing things mindlessly with no other goal than to check it off the list. I have let whole days go by without enjoying the sunshine or the world around me because I am so focused on the list in front of me.

What if I don't want to be intentional with my time? What if I want to just BE instead of DO? I will start to feel a balloon of anxiety welling up in my chest. My breathing will increase and my face gets hot. I'll start to feel like the world is starting to cave in around me, and I can hardly handle the chaos.

"When did this compulsion start?" asked my therapist.

My junior year of high school.

One of my high school besties said it best in a text to me one day: "I started at a new OCD therapist today. He said perfectionism is at the root of my issues. I was like, 'if you think I'm a perfectionist, you should see my friends!' #oaklandcatholic disorder. He was like, what if we made your therapy goal to be more mediocre and disorganized? I was like...genuinely triggered."

I laughed hard! And then added "be more mediocre and disorganized" to my most recent list.

My therapist suggested I write a letter to my junior year self. What would you say to that person? Here is my letter. I pull this out often when I find myself losing touch with what's really important in the present moment.

Dear 16-year-old Sarah,

I would rather that you enjoy this time in Pittsburgh with friends and be in the moment--and as a result go to a public college--than get into an Ivy League.

Enjoy this time you have in your carefree youth. Cherish this time being surrounded by loving family and friends. Laugh hard. Laugh often. Take the humor in every situation.

Getting into a good college cannot replace that love and that time and presence. That love is priceless but also temporary. This is the last time you’re going to be able to live in Pittsburgh with your friends and family in this way. This is the last time you will spend significant time with your caring and supportive grandfather. There is nothing that is more valuable than spending quality time and being present with them, supporting them and letting them support you.

Trying to get into an Ivy League college is a waste of time. Spending time being present with loved ones is never a waste.

You won’t even remember this year. You will completely block it out of your memory because it will be a blur of pulling all-nighters and stress over a couple of points lost here and there. Just forget about that trivial stuff.

Be present for the changing of the seasons. Taste the Trader Joe's Macaroni and Cheese. Smell the morning mist as you walk to the bus. Breathe in the air of Schenley Park and feel the leaves crunch under your feet as you run. Be present for the love of your family and friends surrounding you every single day. That kind of love and support you will never have again, at least not for the next 15 years.

You will be loved and supported, for sure. Family and friends will only be a phone call away. But having so many loving people around you and present with you in that way will never happen again.

Be a kid.

You are doing a great job. You are enough. You don't need to get into a fancy college. You just need to love yourself and others and everything else will fall into place.

Grieving Xinjiang

Grief has a way of bringing up old regrets. Those places and times and people that we can never have back. As a way to feel better, we tell ourselves, “I will never take that for granted again.” We promise to do more to reach out to the people we love.

Grief hit me like a ton of bricks one night. I was listening to the CECC Congressional Testimony on forced labor and mass internment in Xinjiang. As soon as I heard "Urumchi” being pronounced in Uyghur, my chest tightened. A knife dug into my heart and I couldn’t breathe for a moment. That word, “Urumchi”--the name of the city where I lived from 2014-2017--took me back.

The memories from Xinjiang flooded my vision. My body rocked with grief like I was trying to dry-heave the memories out of me. But they stayed.

I grieve the love that I came to know in Xinjiang. The love that connected me to the people I met there. The love that flowed and vibrated between us as static pulses of energy. I grieve the laughter and sadness and the talks and exchanges we shared.

I gave them two years of my life. I wish I could give more.

I will give more.

That experience changed me. To experience that love and openness between people from two different cultures and languages and backgrounds. I vow to never take love and energy for granted again.

I just hope the people of Xinjiang know how much they meant to me. I wish I had told them more. I wish I had told them every day how awesome they are and how much they helped me, and how much I love them, and how much they mean to me. You can’t say that enough. And now I have no way of telling them that. This is what grief teaches us—that we can do better next time.

Tell people how much they mean to you.

Tell people how awesome they are.

Trust that they know how much they meant to you.

Trust to know how much you meant to them.

The Uyghurs and Han that I met in Xinjiang: I will love you more than you will ever know.

The dissertation I wrote about my experiences is important, but what is even more important is keeping alive the love that will prevent this—gross human rights violations and genocide—from happening again.

We have the power to change the world. Little by little, through every interaction we have. The more we connect and care and love, and the less we drown ourselves in our phones and screens, the more we can help make people feel loved and included and cared for. Then the less this kind of stuff—racism and hatred that keeps people locked up—will happen. We can change the world, one piece at a time, one day at a time, one person at a time, one smile at a time.

Your presence makes a difference. You can invoke change in the world through ripples. We touch lives every day and it’s the little things that matter.

We can and will make a difference by recognizing we are all one in the universe.

A Coffee Shop: Inequality in the City

May 2017. 

When I walked into the Turkish coffee shop today, I felt as though I was attending a romantic and gluttonous party.

The menu featured coffee mochas with towering whipped cream, a delectable selection of 12 different flavors of ice cream, and extravagantly ornate chocolate tiramisu cakes advertised as “Turkish desert” that towered behind the glass.

Uzbek music blasted a little too loud on the speakers, and people spoke loudly to be heard over the music, creating a buzz of laughter and chatter all around me.

I saw a couple feeding each other bites of cake. Teenagers sat together, not talking, but viewing their phones with intense concentration and typing vigorously. Two girls in gray turbans tied in the front of their foreheads sat in a corner sharing a pot of tea and giggling softly. A group of middle-aged men wearing square skullcaps (doppa) sat in a circle the middle of the room, multiple tables pushed together, talking loudly and laughing boisterously with each other.

Another woman sat alone with a red headscarf and an iPhone 6S adorned with shiny rhinestones, face plastered with white foundation, and a thick, dark penciled-in unibrow. She sent voice messages into her phone as she ate a piece of strawberry cake.

The din of people’s laughter and stories mixed with the music like a melodious harmony—a song of love, friendship, and pleasure, a short burst of time in the midst of busy lives. When I listened in on the conversations, I noticed that they never broached the religious or the political, and the kids were speaking in Chinese to each other.

The friend I was with took a selfie of us with our two bowls of ice cream. She airbrushed my pimples and the bags under my eyes, made our skin instantly whiter, put it together in a collage that said ‘best friends’ in English, and posted it on social media.

Our curated image of ourselves and our night out, a night of pleasure and escape through ice cream and cozy coffee shops surrounded by foreign music and huge pictures of cake, was suddenly disrupted by a raspy voice.

“Please, acha [older sister], won’t you buy some? 3 for 10 som [Uyghur word for unit of currency]…”

I turned and a boy no older than five looked up at me. His face was dirty, his eyes were tired. He was wiggling and squirming as he stood next to our table, presenting packages of wet wipes for sale, and staring at our food. We shook our heads no, and went back to burying our heads in our phones, trying to escape this uncomfortable moment of sitting in his need and shameless begging. He pushed, asking us again, and we told him qeghez ba! (we have tissues!) a little too harshly.

The waitresses with black baseball caps and orange sweatshirts bustled around the crowds, clearing trash and returning dishes to the kitchen.

Outside, a military post was monitored by young men in camouflage holding large guns behind a black cage that says in large yellow characters: 请勿靠近 (please don’t get too close).

Across the street, a father stood at the entrance to the mosque, as he did every night, holding two young children in his arms while he rocked back and forth chanting praises to Allah and begging for help and mercy.

A black van reading 公安 (public safety) with bars on its windows rumbled past, its blue and red lights flashing.