駐華八年，回望我身後的那個中國

(Ajin 開口)

他們嘴說愛自由，卻不給他人自由。他們嘴說愛國，關注的是如何從骨肉同胞搶奪最大利益。他們高唱的是道德，但卻只有注重物質的奢華及感官上的滿足與專用。

沒錯，三十年來快猛速度的經濟發展確實帶給中國很大的變化，那是看得見的。至於看不見的部分，大腦裡面的內容，胸口底層的咚咚，變化幾乎是零，仍然維持在兩千多年前孔儒的時代。中國的變化是多麼大，又是多麼小。

他們是一群由本質虛假、嬌情、蓬風、偽善文化所千鍊百鎚出來的民族，五千年來不變，將來也不變！

http://cn.nytimes.com/opinion/20151130/c30jacobs/zh-hant/

駐華八年，回望我身後的那個中國

傑安迪 2015年11月30日

北京——前兩天的一個晚上，我和一些朋友在一家餐廳小聚，朋友里有中國人，也有外國人。在背景的巴薩諾瓦音樂中，我們抿着法國梅洛，用iPhone拍下彼此做鬼臉的樣子。

從遠處看，這場聚會完全表現出，在經歷三十年不間斷的經濟增長後，在中國終於成為大國的心態帶動下，近年來北京已經變得多麼國際化。

但任何一個偷聽到那晚談話的人，都會對我的朋友表達出的焦慮和恐懼感到震驚。我即將結束在這裡近八年的生活，朋友們是為我踐行的。

他們中包括一位說話溫柔的藏人作家、一名畫家和一家小企業的老闆。藏人作家一直拿不到護照，出不了國。畫家朋友的作品去年被警方全部沒收。那位企業老闆則是一位單親媽媽。雖然把尚處在青春期的兒子送去美國讀書她有些不情願，但她更「不願他被中國的教育制度洗腦」。

在桌子的另一頭，一位在官方通訊社任職的編輯在抱怨宣傳官員不斷提出的要求。那些官員一心想要控制13億人的思想。「我們是沒有希望的一代，」這位32歲的編輯後來這樣解釋他為什麼考慮放棄目前待遇豐厚的工作，去泰國尋找一個不確定的未來。「我認識的所有人都漫無目的，甚至對明天可能會發生的事情感到恐懼。」

面對在中國的日子即將結束，我才意識到自從我1985年第一次來中國以後，這裡的變化是多麼大，又是多麼小。那時候，毛澤東發起的文化大革命留下的傷口還沒癒合，但在寧靜的首都街頭，明顯能感覺到對未來會更好的期盼。那時的北京還滿是低層建築和縱橫交錯的胡同。自13世紀以來，那些胡同幾乎沒什麼變化。

2008年，在離北京奧運會開幕還有幾個月時，我再次來到中國。這時，這座城市已經發生了翻天覆地的變化。很多胡同被拆，讓位於扎哈·哈迪德(Zaha Hadid)和雷姆·庫哈斯(Rem Koolhaas)設計的高樓大廈，和一個每年都會新增一條線路的世界級地鐵網絡。

北京到處是意大利跑車和奢侈品牌手提包精品店。人們普遍認為，中國終於獲得了過去幾十年作為一個貧窮落後的國家所得不到的尊重。

中國知識分子曾經抱一種謹慎樂觀的態度，認為共產黨實行的限制措施可能最終會放鬆。他們在很大程度上寄希望於互聯網。當政府承諾在奧運會期間對之前被禁的網站解禁，並表示允許在官方規定的「示威區」舉行示威時，人們更是充滿了希望。

但後來，那些承諾證明是空話。示威區空無一人（申請抗議許可的人遭到拘捕），只有在奧運村工作的外國記者可以享用沒有限制的網絡。

回頭看，舉辦奧運會是中國進入一個新時代的開端：這個國家力量不斷增強，越來越自信，但它的領導層卻害怕自己的公民，下決心要對他們的思想和抱負進行限制。

互聯網沒有使社會發生革命性變化，而是變成了扭曲中國6.5億網民思想的一套精密工具。奧運會落下帷幕後沒幾個月，政府開始屏蔽Facebook、Twitter和YouTube；不久，這個名單繼續增大，囊括了《紐約時報》、彭博社(Bloomberg)、Instagram、Dropbox，以及谷歌(Google)的多項服務。

作為替代，北京支持本土的此類公司，如類似Twitter的新浪微博、即時通訊軟件微信和搜狐等門戶網站。它們的內容都受到嚴格監督，要剔除所有被認為威脅共產黨統治的東西。試着在中國主要的搜索引擎百度上輸入「天安門大屠殺」，它會在跳轉頁面顯示，「根據相關法規和政策」，搜索結果「未予顯示」。

這種網絡控制的影響發人深省。大多數中國年輕人認不出天安門事件的一張標誌性照片，上面是1989年春天一名抗議者獨自站在一輛坦克前。去年，當數以千計的學生走上香港街頭要求民主的時候，本來很理性的一些朋友卻只是機械地重複官方媒體談論的觀點：抗議者是被寵壞的小混混，受到「境外敵對勢力」的指使。

中國的確比25年前要開放得多。中國人去國外旅遊和學習的人數不斷增長，社會控制的放鬆意味着中國人可以和外國人交往，不受當局干預。儘管政府盡了最大努力，還有成百上千萬人成功地通過使用VPN軟件避開了網絡審查。

然而，共產黨的控制之術近乎完美，可以讓中國社會呈現出讓人陶醉的活力，模糊了政府對異見者無所不在的限制。現如今，官方大肆宣傳「民主」、「公正」等理念，但它的公民卻因倡導自由選舉或就工廠污染問題起訴政府而遭到監禁。

記者本應與報道的人物和新聞事件在情感上保持距離。但當我知道警察拘捕了知名人權律師浦志強——一年半過去了，他依然被警方扣押着——知道維吾爾學者伊力哈木·土赫提(Ilham Tohti)似乎因就政府針對中國西北部新疆地區的動蕩採取的措施向記者提供坦率評價而被判處無期徒刑，我的客觀性經受了考驗。這兩位不僅是可靠的信源，也成為了我的朋友。

自習近平在三年前上台以來，他力主推動的中國夢——公正！平等！創新！——成為了民族復興的集結令。但它的實際影響是挑起往往讓人感覺有仇外色彩的民族情緒。記者、學者和佛教僧侶被迫上政治教育課，反覆誦讀有關共產黨地位至高無上的陳詞濫調。

有這麼一件事讓人想起毛澤東時代的中國。最近幾周，中國最著名的一些演員和電影導演紛紛公開承諾要擁護「社會主義核心價值觀」。這是一場運動的一部分，其目的是確保流行文化是維護共產黨利益的可靠宣傳渠道。

儘管中國經濟近期開始放緩，但本月早些時候，北京的街頭依然到處是購物者，現代社會的各種虛飾一樣也不少。習近平政府贏得了很多人的喜愛：他在遏制讓普通中國人惱火的小腐敗方面取得了重大進展，他放鬆了限制中國夫婦生育第二胎的人口控制政策。時髦的高鐵將不少大城市連接起來，擁有一輛別克轎車對人數急劇增長的中國中產階級來說已不成問題。

與此同時，共產黨似乎也成功地引導許多中國人將自己的精力投入到物質消費追求上。這在很大程度上是通過讓他們擔憂和恐懼的方式來實現的。

不過，對於更好的明天——更清潔的空氣、正義、可以挑選自己的政治領袖的機會——的追求，不會完全泯滅。就要離開中國的時候，有一天，我在自己經常修單車的鋪子停了下來。那家店鋪的老闆非常愛國，經常動不動就辱罵日本人，或大讚自己國家的軍事力量日益強大。

我跟他做最後告別時，他開了個玩笑，說要躲在我的行李箱里偷渡出去。「但你不是很愛國嗎，」我一邊說，一邊指着新鋪的路，和一排由政府出資剛剛翻修的店面。「我是愛我的國家，」他難為情地看着自己的腳。「但我更愛自由。」

傑安迪(Andrew Jacobs)是《紐約時報》前駐華記者。

翻譯：紐約時報中文網

http://cn.nytimes.com/opinion/20151130/c30jacobs/en-us/

Notes on the China I’m Leaving Behind

By ANDREW JACOBS November 30, 2015

BEIJING — I GOT together at a restaurant the other night with some Chinese and expatriate friends. While bossa nova played in the background, we sipped French merlot and snapped iPhone photos of one another making goofy faces.

Observed from afar, the gathering suggested just how cosmopolitan Beijing has become in recent years, buoyed by three decades of nonstop economic growth and a sense that China has finally arrived as a global power.

But anyone eavesdropping on the conversations that evening would have been struck by the angst and trepidation expressed by my friends, who were marking my departure after I’d spent nearly eight years here.

They included a soft-spoken Tibetan writer who cannot obtain a passport to travel abroad, a painter whose entire body of work was confiscated by the police last year and a small-business owner and single mother who reluctantly sent her adolescent son to study in the United States “rather than have his mind brainwashed by the Chinese education system.”

At the other end of the table, an editor at a state-run news service griped about the unceasing demands of propaganda officials intent on shaping the minds of 1.3 billion people. “We are a generation without hope,” the editor, who is 32, later said, explaining why he was considering trading his well-paying job for an uncertain future in Thailand. “Everyone I know is adrift, even fearful about what tomorrow might bring.”

As I faced the end of my time in China, I realized just how much — and how little — had changed since my first visit here in 1985. In those days, the wounds of Mao’s Cultural Revolution were still raw, but hopes for a better future were palpable on the streets of the sleepy capital, a low-rise tangle of hutongs, or narrow alleys, that were little changed since the 13th century.

By the time I returned in 2008, a few months before the start of the Beijing Summer Olympics, the city had been transformed, many of the hutongs replaced by Zaha Hadid and Rem Koolhaas-designed high-rises and a world-class subway system that was adding a new line every year.

Beijing was awash with Italian sports cars, luxury handbag boutiques and a belief that China was finally commanding the respect it had been denied during its decades as an impoverished backwater.

For Chinese intellectuals, there was tentative optimism that the constraints imposed by the Communist Party might finally be eased. Much of that hope was pinned to the Internet. Hopes soared when the government pledged to unblock previously banned websites during the Games and said it would allow demonstrations in official “protest zones.”

Those promises turned out to be hollow. The protest zones stayed empty (those who applied for permission to protest were detained) and only foreign reporters working at the Olympic Village enjoyed unfettered access to the web.

Looking back, the Olympics were the beginning of a new era for China: that of an increasingly powerful and self-confident nation but one whose leaders fear their own citizens and one that has committed itself to constraining their thoughts and aspirations.

Instead of revolutionizing society, the web has become a sophisticated tool for contorting the minds of China’s 650 million Internet users. Within months of the Olympics closing ceremony, the government moved to block Facebook, Twitter and YouTube; before long, the list of banned websites would grow to include The New York Times, Bloomberg, Instagram, Dropbox and Google’s services.

In their place, Beijing has promoted domestic offerings like Sina Weibo, a Twitter-like service, the messaging app WeChat and news portals like Sohu — all of them strictly policed for content deemed threatening to the party’s hold on power. Try typing in “Tiananmen Square massacre” and the dominant Chinese search engine Baidu will spit back a screen announcing that the results “are not available according to certain laws and policies.”

The impact of this online manipulation has been sobering. Most young Chinese cannot identify the iconic photo of the lone protester who stood in front of a tank that spring in 1989, and last year, when thousands of students took to the streets of Hong Kong demanding democracy, otherwise sensible friends could only parrot back the state media’s talking points: that the protesters were spoiled hooligans who had been manipulated by “hostile foreign forces.”

It’s true that China is far more open than it was 25 years ago. Chinese are traveling and studying abroad in ever greater numbers, and loosened social controls mean that Chinese and foreigners can mix without interference from the authorities. Despite the government’s best efforts, millions manage to circumvent online censorship by using VPN software.

But the party has nearly perfected the art of control, giving Chinese society a heady dynamism that often obscures the government’s far-reaching limits on dissent. These days, official slogans trumpet such ideals as “democracy” and “justice” but citizens are jailed for advocating free elections or for suing the government over polluting factories.

Journalists are supposed to remain emotionally detached from the people and news events we cover. But my objectivity was tested when police detained Pu Zhiqiang, a prominent human rights lawyer, who remains in police custody 18 months later, and Ilham Tohti, an ethnic Uighur academic who received a life sentence last year, ostensibly because he offered reporters a frank assessment of the government’s approach to unrest in the Xinjiang region in China’s far west. Both men were not just reliable sources but had become friends.

Since President Xi Jinping came to power three years ago, his promotion of the Chinese Dream — Equity! Fairness! Innovation! — has become a rallying cry for national rejuvenation. Its practical impact, however, has been to foment nationalist sentiment that often feels xenophobic. Journalists, academics and Buddhist monks are forced to attend political education classes, where they repeat bromides about the primacy of the Communist Party.

In a scene redolent of China’s Maoist past, some of the nation’s most celebrated actors and film directors have in recent weeks been publicly pledging to uphold “core socialist values,” part of a campaign to ensure that popular culture is a reliable vehicle for promoting the party’s interest.

Despite the recent economic slowdown, the streets of Beijing earlier this month were abuzz with shoppers and all the trappings of modern society. Mr. Xi’s administration has won the affections of many: He has made significant headway curbing the petty corruption that frustrated average Chinese and eased population controls that limited couples to a single child. Sleek high-speed trains connect many of the country’s largest cities, and owning a Buick sedan is now within reach of China’s burgeoning middle class.

At the same time, the Communist Party, largely through fear and intimidation, seems to have trained much of the population to channel their energies into the pursuit of consumerism.

But the desire for a better tomorrow — for cleaner air, for justice, for a chance to pick their political leaders — cannot be entirely extinguished. A few days before I left, I stopped by my local bicycle repair shop, whose patriotic owner had always been quick to insult the Japanese or laud his country’s rising military might.

As I said my final goodbye, he made a joke about stowing away in my luggage. “But I thought you loved China,” I said, gesturing to the freshly paved road and the row of newly renovated storefronts that had been paid for by the government. “I do love my country,” he said, looking sheepishly at his feet. “But I love freedom even more.”

Andrew Jacobs is a former China correspondent for The New York Times.