There was only one person in the Church when I went in to say my prayers for the Holy Souls. I knelt a little way forward of my companion and began reminiscing about my recent dead before actually starting my prayers. My companion’s stage whispered prayers were a mild distraction and I was relieved when she noisily left the church a few minutes later. As the door closed behind her the silent church became mine. The pillars were specially clothed in moody black drapes for the occasion, giving the entire building a somber mood and the empty Church seemed to murmur “remember the dead”, in case I needed reminding of my visit’s purpose. I sank into the bitter sweet recollection of those gone before me, hoping my “Our Father’s and “Hail Mary’s” would move them gently nearer the Paradise that I believe awaits them.

Suddenly the sound of loud footfalls again. I almost resented the intrusion into my recollection. It was the “stage whisperer” returned. Why was my erstwhile companion coming back to fill the gentle silence with her muttered pieties? She seemed to take forever, but it cannot have been more than a few minutes till she upped and noisily left again, much to my relief. I had barely returned once again my sentimental meditations when I was amazed to hear the now familiar sound of shoe on wooden floor, proclaiming the return of the whisperer. Irritated now, I could not work out what was driving this women’s revolving door prayer pattern.

Suddenly, drawing on memories of long forgotten primary school religion classes, I realized she was gaining indulgences for the dead by visiting a church and praying the prescribed prayers. With few churches to visit, she was applying the traditional solution, that is to physically  leave the building thus ending that “visit”, reentering the church counts as a new visit, and each new visit resulted in a new indulgence.

Listening with new ears to the remissions of sins being gained, I felt a new sense of solidarity with the “stage whisperer”. We had both come to remember our dead and pray them more speedily through the purification of purgatory into the promised land of Paradise. Listening to her mechanical recitations, I could only marvel, both at our common faith in the efficacy of prayers for the dead and the difference in the ways we choose to express it. Her classic form was recognizable to every generation up to my own and had been persevered by the Chinese Catholics, untouched by the revolution in popular spirituality that took place after the Second Vatican Council. My faith also invited me to visit a church that day, to pray for the repose of those gone before, but without much thought of reduction of days or weeks for those being punished outside time. The differences between us seemed inconsequential at that moment and one felt only solidarity in grief and the consolation of praying for the eternal salvation of those gone before us. Sitting in the empty, almost silent church, one could almost feel purgatorial chains snapping, and souls slipping gratefully in to their allotted places in the Heavenly court.

I would have, at that moment, loved to have prayed with her, but she was on a schedule and I doubt she would have welcomed my mystical solidarity. Instead I continued my sedentary litany, as she conducted her mobile one. In time we both finished and I heard her say loudly in Chinese what I was saying quietly in English. “May the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God, rest in peace Amen”. I wonder whose prayer reached heaven first.

Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks

As I write it is 7 in the morning, Florida time and yet I am connected emotionally and electronically to a minor  drama playing out at 7pm on in Beijing. The confusing time zones, as well as the jet lag, has me all out of kilter. In China, the time differences work to my advantage, giving me a whole day to get things done before it becomes offices open in Europe and America where those things are required. Here the reverse is true and I seem to spend all my time playing catch up. Oh for the day of the quill pen and the associated pace of life.

The beginning of the week finds me slowly adjusting to the rhythms of Southern Florida, which, though superficially so familiar, are actually rather disconcerting. I have felt, ever since landing here on Thursday to that I am in a parallel universe where the familiar has been distorted into a parody of itself, leaving me out of touch with my surroundings. One might imagine that the USA, after China, might be a cake walk, but to my surprise it is not, and more stressful for being familiar and alien at the same time.

Driving, for example, has a surreal quality, which has little to do with being on the wrong side of the road, and all to do with sense that at even the mildest infraction of the highway code, a squad car will appear miraculously in my rear view mirror and a gun carrying policeman will start reading me my Miranda Rights before carrying me off to a chain gang. It is not as if I could avoid driving either. The idea of “popping down to the shops” does not exist and everything is “a ride” away. The roads, at least in this corner of Florida are good and I have yet to hit anything like commuter traffic, but even the sedate 35 mile (or 25 mile in some cases) speed limit gives me no sense of ease. Having been shouted at by an irate (woman) driver for doing less than the permitted speed, the spectre of a gun totting outraged citizen fills one with even more dread than does her uniformed opposite number.

Ordinary social encounters have a stressful edge to them that surprises. There is an expectation of politeness in ordinary exchanges which seems almost intrusive, but is quite sincere. Faced with the pleasantness, is my hesitation to enter into conversation with the complete stranger in the elevator rude or appropriate? At the same time, as a counterpoint to the Pollyanna quality of social exchanges ,in the ordinarily solemn environs of the local bank, I watched a housewife very loudly express her dissatisfaction at the level of service. Used to more reverence in these temples of commerce, I found the experience quite intimidating.

The ubiquity of American popular culture leaves one with a sense of preparedness for the reality which is totally false. While everybody is unreservedly welcoming and hospitable, I cannot shake a sense of being out of place. I watch the lights go on in ordinary homes across Ft. Lauderdale and suddenly realize that I have not wandered onto the studio of an exotic TV show but am a guest in another part of God’s creation.  The customs may seem strange but the people here are also his children and to miss that because of the alien quality of the environment would be to miss something essential in a missionary experience. Having negotiated this issue with apparent ease in China, who would have thought that would be in “the States” that I would  find the process more challenging. God Bless America.

Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks, God Bless America

I have been at the edge of AIDS in China since 2003, I know the figures of projected spread and the main sources of infection etc, I can do the “NGO thing” when it comes to AIDS Awareness, but by and large, I rarely meet people living with HIV/AIDS (PLWHAs)in person.  The organizations I work with have focused on the plight of those who have been infected through blood selling or transfusions (mainly rural farmers at the bottom of China’s economic heap.  For the nuns who deliver these services, who are often from farming backgrounds themselves, this work is a “shoe in” and while it has many challenges, fits easily into a traditional approach to “Charitable Works”. It has the added advantage of having no moral issues; these PLWHAs were infected by poverty and are innocent victims in any ordinary meaning of those words. In these days I have been introduced me to another group who are now living with, rather than dying of, HIV AIDS- namely urban gay men.

The situation of these PLWHAs is rather different from those of the poor farming families I have been more aware of up to now. These men are often educated and articulate, needing much less material support or encouragement than their country cousins. But urban sophistication does not go as deep as a superficial encounter might suggest and one finds that their circumstances have their own poignancies.

Many gay men in China are married (since not to marry is virtually impossible) so few are “out of the closet”. Many of those who live a gay lifestyle do so clandestinely, though that is changing for the young. The extra stigma of HIV+ status imposes a second hidden life on top of the first. The pathetic nature of the situation was brought home to me when, visiting a clinic, I watched  obviously otherwise assured, self confident men, strip the labels from their tablet boxes, least anyone at home realize that it contained AIDS medication. Rejection by family is not uncommon, freedom to openly acknowledge ones condition in the workplace rare and support groups few. Although superficially urban gay PLWHAs have a better life, emotionally they are as much in need of support as anyone else.

Today I watched two Sisters deliver such support, not in some dramatic ‘do gooder’ kind of way, but just by being there. They had acted as midwives for a support organization and the occasion was to allow the 30 members to express their gratitude. The Sisters were probably, in a country where such things usually matter, the least educated of the group, but it was very obvious that these men appreciated the unconditional acceptance offered them more than any professional support.

Watching the unaffected approach of the Sisters made me aware that these men were not a collection of politically correct acronyms but People made in the image and likeness of God. Rather cold political correctness was not what was asked of me a priest and a baptized Christian, but rather unconditional love for each of them. These Chinese Sisters use a terribly non PC  description common in Chinese “infected people” to describe those whose gratitude they were accepting, but despite that, their Faith filled view meant  they saw only human beings to be loved. My being with them allowed me to see as they saw and that has made, this week has made all the difference. Thanks be to God.

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Tags: Add new tag, AIDS, Beijing Diaries, bricks, gay, Robert Hannah

The young conductress looked more like a poor little match girl than the confident, almost imperial figures I associate with the traditional conductress on the Beijing Buses. The latter were Amazons with beady eyes who ruled their carriages with an iron sway. Their buses were rickety and liable to break down relatively frequently, but, to the ladies who held sway at the door, their bus was a personal “Forbidden City” and they were its’ Dowager Empress. Some made the effort to feminise the rather utilitarian coaches with flowers or banners, but even without these attempts at personalising the work space, one was under no doubt t as to whose territory one was in, and woe betide the mere mortal who did not kowtow before her. This girl was not in the same league. Her bus is one of a shiny new bus fleet which has replaced the clapped out contraptions of only a few years ago. The new models have a very strong corporate stamp to them and one feels that any attempt on her part to personalise this work spaces would be frowned upon by the “suits” in head office. Nothing should distract us from the flat screen TVs pouring advertisements over us as we trundle, relatively speedily it must be said, towards our destinations. She looked more kitchen maid than empress; there has definitely been a change in mandate from Heaven and she has been kicked off her celestial throne.

Her hunched up posture was unlike those of her predecessors who managed always to tower over us mere passengers. Their beady eyes constantly scanned the hoards as they mounted the bus and swift punishment followed those who those how failed to produce evidence of payment. During a longer gap between stops, they would descend to the level of the passengers, bearing their symbol of office, a heavy duty leather pouch, and sweep through the bus, scouting for miscreants. One was expected to produce one’s flimsy ticket, which I invariably could not find. t. However my western face had usually registered on purchase and I was exempt. For the poor Chinese, the story was different. Although nothing as crass as an accusation was ever made when no ticket was offered, one would see grown men, sheepishly proffering up their 1 yuan and listening like chastened schoolboys to the deliberately loud injunction to pay up promptly the next time. In a society where public humiliation is the worst possible punishment, it worked as a disincentive to fare avoidance. My young friend had no such presence about her. A smart card system has largely shorn her of her ticketing responsibilities, and while some of the old hands still keep a practiced eye on the scanning machines, this neophyte seemed unequal to the task and had simply given up. She looked too scared to risk leaving her conductress box and since there is no way of checking the cards she would have to take the word of the passenger in any case. That the fares have been reduced more than 50% in a time of rising inflation makes the effort seem pointless to her perhaps.

She tried, in a rather desultory way to announce the bus stops and direct us to the relevant exits. But her heart wasn’t in it and she could barely be heard. So unlike her elder sisters! They had voices and they knew how to use them. The lambasting that awaited the young person who failed to give up their seat to an elderly “comrade” (the only situation where I ever heard this now quaint title for a citizen being used) was quite serious and even the deafest of passengers was never in doubt as to the next stop. Occasionally one would come across a particularly piercing enunciation which one felt could cut steel. While having to endure its temporary impact, I would raise a silent prayer for the husband that it might never be directed to him. The same voice could part the sea of bicycles as the bus pulled up to a stop, murmuring an indistinct but recognisable incantation into a microphone that miraculously causes the bicycles to weave effortlessly around the bus. My conductress doesn’t need that voice, either to chastise callous youths, the buses are usually too crowed for the elderly to receive such attention, and the bicycle streams have disappeared, swallowed up by prosperity (in the major cities at least). So instead she sat, hardly bothering to mouth, let alone speak the Chinese equivalent of “mind the doors” and instead took refuge in frequent sips from a huge tea flask, the only moment of obvious connection with her Amazonian predecessors.

I felt sorry for my “poor little match girl”. I have been luxuriating in the many advantages which the shiny new bus services have brought me. However, in her I saw the impact on the operators of the new Olympic ready bus system. Her elder sisters exuded a sense of competent responsibility, but she was tied to the drudgery of a very basic assembly line, and clearly had dumbed down to its level. I have been blessed with opportunities and stretching challenges all my life and I thank God for them, but it was salutary to get a sense of how cushioned I am from match girl realities, where one may never get on the first rung of the ladder of opportunity which is being created here. I hope, I pray that somehow God will show me how do more than just observe from a distance, shyly almost, the “match people” of modern China and in his grace actually be present with them in more than the fleeting solidarity that comes from a mumbled Xie Xie as I get off the bus. If only one knew how.

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Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks, Robert Hannah

When you know that the Bird’s Nest is a contrast, not a compliment, to the lifestyles of many in China, it’s easy to be po-faced about the Olympics and the impression given of First World sophistication. Lost in one’s reverse snobbery, one can end up underselling the positive impact of that extraordinary event.

My own epiphany came in the Underground, only a week ago. In the crowded passageways, I suddenly found my way blocked by a lady being pushed in a wheelchair. Suppressing, for the sake of charity, the minor burst of impatience that began to well up inside, I looked instead for a way past.  Suddenly it struck me that I had never seen a person in a wheelchair using the Underground before. I began to take a new interest in the couple in front of me and I allowed my pace to match theirs.  They seemed rather lost, but eventually negotiated the corridors to arrive, coincidentally, at the train I too wanted to board. Fellow passengers adjusted to the mild inconvenience of their presence on the crowded train, staff was positively helpful and, for the most part, the pair seemed to be making their way unassisted.  Eventually, they left the train as effortlessly as they had alighted and went their way. A Beijing first and all as a result of the Olympics.

I have spoken of the Games related additions to the Subway system before, namely the upgraded security, but perhaps even more revolutionary has been the introduction of stair lifts at many of the stations and the provision of an ingenious stair climber in other places.  The former is a rather more industrial version of those found in many homes now, and the latter is a contraption I had never seen before which can be wheeled to the beginning of a stair well, and allows a wheel chair-bound individual to be transported up or down  effortlessly.  They are not available everywhere, but they are to be had at the major stations and allows those in wheelchairs to access the system.  Up to this, the otherwise excellent Underground could not have been described as disabled friendly.

Access to public transport is just one of the challenges facing China’s 60 million disabled people.  Were one to look only at the legal code, the impression is of enlightened attention to their needs. The realities are less impressive. Many of the legal mandates remain aspiration. What services that are available are often confined to the urban areas, with few, if any, supports available to the rural disabled.  When one realizes that 56% of China’s population lives in the countryside, it shows how many are outside the loop. A Government Sponsored NGO exists to promote care of the disabled, but the top down approach is not complimented by a vibrant grass roots network promoting change.

The driver for the transformations of the situation in Beijing has been  the 2008 Games, the Paralympics in particular. It was perhaps a face saving exercise, one could hardly host a “Games for the disabled and have no access to the Transport System, but a year from now, that will seem immaterial. What will remain is a new mobility and extended range for people who, till now, could not easily move beyond their homes.  During the Olympics one saw many foreigners in wheelchairs but they were expected, and seemed an extension of the unreal quality of the Olympics month.  But the Olympics are over and this erstwhile po- faced observer is delighted to find that the legacy is more than a rather inaccurate impression of First World grandeur.

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Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks, olympics, people with disabilities, Robert Hannah

The hoarding was rather ambitious given the simplicity of the circumstances. The hole in the wall below the sign did not match its extravagant claim. In fact the frontage of the restaurant was the back wall of an older, now demolished, building. Mr. Li has simply broken a door through to a covered yard, set up tables and continued his dumpling business. Ingenious perhaps but hardly suggesting blue blood. I did not see a health and safety certification but I am confident that if one had been refused, a small gift would have smoothed the path to certification. Judging from appearances I very much doubt that Mr. Li is really the dumpling King.

Mr. Li’s rather artless claim could not be considered as false advertising even in the most rigorous of regulatory environments. Unfortunately in China, the kind of confidence one has in advertising claims even by established brands is often misplaced and the supervision lax in the extreme. Until recently, I had taken a rather indulgent view of fake brands, since in the markets famous for such items, one gets no less than what you pay for. Government campaigns against the practice seemed more token than real, judging by the speed with which things returned to “normal” after the campaigns were over. For years people have been talking about the problem I did not appreciate the complexity of the issue.

A recent scandal has put the issue into a different perspective. A mysterious illness that has so far killed 4 babies resulted from wholesale contamination of the food chain. Reputable companies have been found to have sold milk powder which had been contaminated by fraudulent whole-milk suppliers. Local officials were prepared to bury the issue, and a New Zealand business partner had to go through convoluted diplomatic channels to inform the Chinese Central Government of the problem. Now a very thorough and transparent cleanup process is in play, but not before credibility in the milk supply has completely disappeared. The latest addition to those affected is Starbucks China who has very publicly announced a shift to new source for its milk products. It seems brand reputation and good enforcement of regulation are no laughing matter.

Government health standards are set centrally and are often in line with international best practice. They are rendered toothless however by endemic cronyism at the local level. In the case of the Milk Scandal, there are standards, but the petty criminality of two brothers in Hebei have undermined confidence in the national milk supply system and taken the edge of the feel-good factor engendered by Olympic successes. When the economy was less integrated, the impact of such fraud was minimal, but in a rapidly expanding and globalizing economy, small-scale corruption in the provinces can have national impact. The willingness to ignore the poor compliance record at a local level, is no longer sustainable when the consequences are so devastating.

I would bet that Mr. Li dumplings despite his claims, are not that good, but China is not going stay awake nights worrying about it. Nationally branded companies who proclaim their quality on hoardings across the country while delivering tainted product into the market place are a different matter. Of equal concern is the failure of government agencies to address the problem until pressure to do so came from the highest level. Pulling off a brilliant Olympics is not the only mark of a developed country. Brand confidence and a good regulatory framework are important also. I think I will be drinking my Starbuck’s Latte black until both of those are firmly in place.

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Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks, capitalism, corruption, Hebei

It was the annual diocesan pilgrimage and the crowd of more than 5,000 pilgrims were in festive mood. The Mass on the 8th of September was the high point of the three days of celebration. The setting was perfect, a tree-lined valley where, even without the addition of a well designed Lourdes Grotto, the veil between earth and heaven seems particularly thin. The bishop’s sermon was perhaps a little pious, but the delivery was firm and the tone commanding, hinting at the steel in his velvet words. The congregation were actively attentive and the ushers had almost to beat the faithful back as they tried to touch his robes at the end of the celebration. Within an hour, the crowds had thinned to a few hundred hard core devotees in front of the grotto, some praying, others singing songs and the rest eating packed lunches. In a while even they would be gone, bus bound for remote villages, shriven, nourished and ready to face the challenges of living the Christian life. It was a very successful annual pilgrimage.

The pilgrimage could have taken place almost anywhere in the Catholic world, the dynamic is instantly recognisable. I could have been in the West of Ireland not the North East of China. I find it somehow reassuring that the Catholicism of two such different places could have such similarities. Commentators, who tend to be more educated than the communities they are observing, usually highlight contrast, and take on a slightly superior view when introducing local customs of far away places. On a mild September morning, I saw only the familiar, and strangely comforting, folk Catholicism that was struggling but still vibrant in my 60’s west of Ireland childhood. I don’t think the feeling was simply nostalgia, but rather an emotional expression of an opinion I have long had about the importance of popular religion. In a glade in North East China, I might be educationally and culturally miles apart from the peasant women who predominated in the crowd, but when we knelt to recite the Hail Mary, those differences were stripped away and we were sisters and brothers praising the Mother of the Son we all worship.

The fact of this pilgrimage, a very public event, might seem surprising to a Western reader, used to a diet of negative commentary on religious freedom issues in China. In fact, within undeniable constraints, there is a surprising degree of real freedom here. The pilgrimage I participated in took place with the active support of the police. Their presence ensured some measure of coordination in a situation where the crowd was just barely held under control by the familiar rhythms of the liturgy. Also, with the constraints, the Diocese in Jilin is thriving. Through this pilgrimage and other similar events, it is actively bonding the faithful together in a new way. It has to. Religious Freedom, in my opinion, is not the most pressing issue, China is changing very rapidly and so are the needs of the Catholic faithful. The farming women and men were content to come away from a pilgrimage having prayed to Mary and touched the robes of their saintly bishop, but their urbanised sons and daughters will want more. The question remains, can the Church here move quickly enough to provide it?

I came away from this pilgrimage, like my sisters and brothers, both shriven and nourished, but also confident that Our Lady is helping the Diocese of Jilin to find its answers to its challenges. I hope she will, in equal measure, help me find the answers to my own.

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Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks, folk religion, Jilin, pilgrimage

I was beginning to enjoy this running lark. Muggins, who never voluntarily sees 6.00 am is now regularly up, togged out in (don’t laugh), running kit and training at this ungodly hour, all part of a schedule for a charity half marathon run in October. The Seminary is quiet at that time; what, were we in Oxford would be called the “quad” is empty and ideal for a practice run. My regular progress in fitness was inviting an almost Palagian confidence in the possibilities of self-improvement. The fall was inevitable but unexpected.

On Tuesday I was ready for a relaxed 20 laps. All warmed up I begin. As usual I began the Rosary crossing the starting line. To those inclined to be impressed I must add a caveat. I count my laps in decades of the Rosary; one lap is enough to get through the prayers and give time for a short reflection at the end. Lap training is very boring and this keeps my mind in gear. At first I was mildly embarrassed to use the Rosary in this way. I say it fitfully at best, despite a theoretical appreciation of the prayer itself and no wish to exclude it from what might be called my prayer life. Over the months of training, I have begun to realize that it wasn’t just a lap counter but was prompting prayerful reflections different from those which I normally associate with my less active recitations of the familiar decades. My most, dare I say profound reflections, given their theme, are perhaps triggered by the aches and pains my poor out-of-shape body is experiencing from all this unfamiliar stressing. The decades which catch me most are the Birth and the Resurrection, with a respectful nod at the Assumption as well.

These days, pushing myself past unfamiliar milestones of endurance, I am all too aware of the limitations of the body, and marvel that God might voluntarily have assumed this condition. I am used to thinking of the Birth of Jesus as God present in the human simplicity of a baby and the pious stories of Mary’s painless delivery all suggest an almost heavenly carnality. Puffing my way round the “quad” I feel my own carnality in an all too earthbound way and when the third Joyful Mystery comes round I marvel, with new intensity, that Jesus could choose to take on such a limiting form.

The first Glorious Mystery provides a far more immediate hope than I normally associate with the theme. Instead of the rather theoretical sense of “life beyond the grave” that I usually link to this core doctrine, these mornings I feel a real delight in the certainty that there is a future for this frail body I am pushing round the track. I am comforted to know that it will find completeness in Paradise that it does not now have. I am not planning charity Marathon’s in the afterlife, but rather derive from these lap-counting reflections on the Resurrection a confidence that all this carnality has an ultimate purpose and will be transcended, not abandoned, come the day.

Coming out the 8th Hail Mary of the Presentation, I pulled a muscle and must rest for a week. This does not put paid to my (half) Marathon hopes, but it is a reminder, if ever I needed one that one cannot move effortlessly from a breathless reflection of the Joyful Mysteries to the sweaty meditation on the Glorious ones, without first going through a painful encounter Sorrow decades. Such are the thoughts of this long distance runner who had expected that Salvation was possible without the Cross; No longer!

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Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks