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Month: November 2020

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The Jack Bao Story

eowobble1 Comment 337 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back on October 2, 2020 and contribute ~1,000 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Seven – Passage Five


“Thirty years ago,” Jack begins grandly, “you know, it was different.  Sure, the CCP was around.  But China was big in a way that’s no longer true now.  You could hide out in your own little corner of the country, scheme grand dreams, and fly under the radar.

“In our laboratories, hidden away from the wider world out of the public gaze, we dreamed the biggest dreams!  We built the grandest projects!  Monumental achievements, I tell you, monumental.”  Jack sweeps his arm expansively, clearly seeing something the rest of us mere mortals cannot.  “We imagined a connected China where every man, woman, and child shared knowledge and a collective story!  Where information flowed freely and the entire genius of the Chinese people could be brought to bear!”

Jack drunkenly clambers onto a stone dais, one with a marble statue of a magnificent serpentine white dragon, three meters tall and thick with polished scales.  The monstrosity must weigh something like two tons and I briefly wonder if the mythological creature is going to suddenly turn real and launch into the midafternoon sky.

Dimly, as if in a heavy fog, I look at my drink. 

“There was a time,” Jack bellows, his glass raised in the air, “when we celebrated excellence!  Invention!  Chinese ingenuity!“

His expression turns dark.  Clearly in his mind’s eye, he’s a thespian for the ages; a modern-day Cicero orating to the peanut gallery.  He shakes his fist at the midafternoon sky, mostly blue with only one or two Cumulous poofs hanging in the air.

“Damn you dirty communists!  Damn you all to hell!” he cries dramatically, still shaking his fist.  “I know you 白痴s1 are watching from up there in the sky!  I know it!  I spit in all of your faces!”

After that tirade of rage and anger aimed at the heavens, the remainder of the afternoon is a hazy blur.

In my fleeting moments of consciousness as I swim in and out of transcendent worlds here and elsewhere, a narrative suddenly begins crystalizing in my vodka-infused brain.  Jack Bao was a man who’d briefly had it all before he’d lost it all.  His father, Yun Bao, had risen from nothing, a poor farmhand from one of the far-flung eastern provinces.  During the golden period in the early 2000s, China had loosened its control while warring factions had fought over the country’s direction. (Embrace capitalism? Double-down on communism? But last time we tried that, Mao had killed 30 million!)  During this turmoil, Yun had taken the initiative, quit his dead-end meatpacking job, and bet his meager lifesavings on becoming a successful entrepreneur and capitalizing on China’s ecommerce boom. 

And Yun Bao had bet right.

Ruthlessly, over the carcasses and discarded bodies of defeated competitors left and right, he’d risen to the top, slowly at first, and then eventually mercurially, and had groomed his only son, Jack, to take the reins once he left this mortal world.

But once Yun had died last year, Jack had somehow frittered it all away.  He and his allies had bumbled and fumbled, the CCP somehow wrestling away control of the gigantic, multi-continent-spanning, megacorp now the family patriarch was gone.  A legendary story come to an inglorious and ignominious end; Jack Bao had instead become a cautionary tale for all who dared cross the Chinese Communist Party.  Indeed, it suddenly dawned upon me, that must be another reason they kept him imprisoned here.  Alive, he served an iconic reminder that no one, not even multibillionaires, was safe from the arm of the Chinese communist government.  Its reach could always find you, strip you of everything, and detain you anywhere.

When I wake, I find myself in a soft, white feather bed, tucked in under sheets.  I have no recollection of how I’d gotten here, but someone at least someone had apparently helped me kick off my shoes.  The second thing I notice is a thunderous headache that slams into my being with the force of a thousand suns.  There’s a throbbing in my temples that feels like a locomotive derailed and struck a nuclear power plant.  All while somehow crashing into a jumbo airliner that screamed in from on high.  Every fiber of my being feels dehydrated and I feel like a depleted husk.

Looking around gingerly, I notice that I’m in a small quaint room, nicely appointed with modern furniture.  I see that the room has its own bathroom so I stumble over to take a shower and get cleaned up.  Outside, the windows are bright and daylight seems to be streaming through the curtain blinds.

Half-an-hour later, I stumble out of my room and down the stairs.  It’s all slowly coming back to me as I survey the damage of the night before in the living room floor.  Kristen is still passed out on the soft, draped in a bear fur, of all things.  Empty beer bottles litter the heated stone tile floor and I need to watch my step in order to not sprain an ankle on all of destruction.

We had one and truly laid waste to the place.

There’s a giant flat screen display on the wall opposite of the wall-length fireplace that Jack built into the wall.  It’s weird to me that a place as hot as Xi’an could also get snow, but sure.  On the display, I see that apparently at some point in the evening, we’d gone to town on karaoke.  The scrolling marque from John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” is still scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

“Do you want breakfast?”

I look behind me and see Li.  She’s wearing a grey oversized knit sweater and big, thick black-framed glasses.  I guess perfect eyesight still wasn’t a thing you could buy with all the CRISPR tech.  Also, despite the fact that it’s also quite cold, for some reason she’s wearing absurdly short shorts.

I start to say something but my head spasms with pain so I can only nod.

“Of course,” she says sympathetically.  “Sit, sit.  I’ll make something up.”

With great care, I sit on one of the orange leather barstools at the massive kitchen island that’s Antarctica-sized and she bustles about, cleaning up the countertop and sweeping away the mess from the night before.  She pours me a tall glass of orange juice which I accept gratefully.

A fragment of my piecemeal brain suddenly recalls a memory:  Li is definitely standing on the glass coffee table in the living room drinking Grey Goose straight from the bottle with one hand and a microphone in the other.  I look at her, now at the stovetop scrambling eggs; the smell of onions, chives, and cheddar wafting in the air.

“Li,” I manage to croak, my voice hoarse.  “How are you still alive?”

She laughs.  “Ah, high tolerance and a quick recovery period is one of the benefits, you see.”

She lays out the plate of food before me.

“Eat, eat!  Shu is currently out at the morning market.  She’s getting supplies for our big outing later today.”  Li smiles as me, “We’re all very happy that you’ve visited us.  It can sometimes become… isolating here, away from it all.”

  1. “dickheads” (roughly translated)
Story

Reverie

eowobble1 Comment 302 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back on October 2, 2020 and contribute ~1,000 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Seven – Passage Four


Zen rock gardens abut the lawn by linen-draped folding tables that the staff’s laid out for our lunch.  Maybe it’s the sudden oxygen deprivation that my brain’s suddenly suffered from all that physical exertion climbing that atrocious hill but as I sit there on those white marble steps under the midmorning sun catching my breath, I find my mind suddenly wandering.

Bao’s rock garden is immense, maybe the size of a volleyball court.  It’s certainly larger than any Zen garden that I’ve ever seen.  An ancient tradition inherited from the Japanese that started way back in the Muromachi Period, I know that the sands and landscaping of a Zen garden is arranged to evoke utmost peace and serenity of one’s inner-being.  Back when we were young and growing up with our mom, Devana went through a considerable spell of being completely enamored with Japanese culture.  Saturday morning anime, late nights under the covers reading manga by flashlight, Godzilla, and giant fighting mecha robots that could transform into increasingly powerful versions of themselves as a battle fight progressed.  (Which always begged the question in my mind, story-telling and dramatic tension purposes notwithstanding, why these didn’t just start in their “Ultimate Form” first and go from there?)  Personally, I was always more a fan of American comics: Captain America, Iron Man, Batman, and Supes.  But through Devana, I learned more than I ever cared to know about Japan.

Where is Devana now?

My thoughts are interrupted abruptly by a maid– she’s wordlessly handing me a damp towel and bottled water and I accept both gratefully.  No time to think about the past now and I suddenly snap out of my reverie back into reality.  Only our present and future matter; dwelling on what can’t be changed serves no purpose.  We humans can only move forward.  Once I’ve sufficiently recovered my breath I shake my head to clear my thoughts and wander over to the table spread under the lawn canopy to see what’s been laid out.

It’s Italian food!  Spaghetti with red sauce and meatballs, freshly tossed spinach salad with chives, portobello mushrooms, and diced carrots!  There’s also thin slices of Thai skirt steak and potato salad.  On the HSR ride to Xi’an, we’d been on a constant diet consisting solely of bento boxes.  Thank lord, the gods have deigned to grace mercy upon us today.

“Welcome!”

A giant booming voice sounds behind me and I turn to see an older man in his fifties, dressed casually in an unbuttoned collared shirt and wearing tan khakis.  This must be Jack Bao, the fifth richest man in all of China.  Jack holds out his hand and we shake– to my surprise, I feel his skin rough and calloused.

“We know you’ve traveled a great long way to visit our humble abode today,” he says, motioning to one of the wicker basket chairs around the table.  “Please!  Sit, sit.”

By this time, Kristen and the others have also wandered over.  Behind them, coming up the dirt path, I also see Da’an walking up towards us.  Over his shoulder he’s carrying Deepak fireman-rescue-style like a sack of flour.  The poor Indian professor apparently must still be unconscious from heat stroke, poor fellow.

“He’ll be fine, right?” Kristen asks, concerned.

“No worries at all,” Amanda assures her, waving her hand.  “It’s common!  Foreigners arrive all the time, unprepared for our newfound heat and humidity.”

“It wasn’t always like this,” Shu says sadly.  “Xi’an was always north and actually considered cold country for the longest time.”

I nod knowingly.  Back home in the States, it’s the same as well.  Climate change had eaten the polar bears and penguins alive taking no prisoners and was now coming for us all.  We’d kicked the can down the road as far as cans could be kicked.  The bill was coming due.

“Enough with the dour talk!” Jack says.  He looks like he’s already knocked a few back but graciously pours half a dozen glasses of some liquid that looks like red Kool-Aid mixed with lighter fluid and passes them around the table.

“Drink!” he says in a commanding voice.  “Drink!”

Kristen and I look at each other.  The liquid even smells like lighter fluid, now I’m holding a glass in my hand.  Across the table Alan gives me the look.  It’s a universal look that any consultant who’s done any time in the field will immediately recognize:  Client’s the boss.  Buckle up, buddy.  This is gonna be one wild ride.

I raise my glass in a toast.  “Cheers!”

An hour or three later, it’s  late afternoon and the luncheon is a complete wasteland.  The linen cloth is splattered with red spaghetti sauce and all the food’s gone; we’d collectively eaten everything the way Rome demolished Carthage.  There’s literally nothing left.

I don’t remember much, and what I do remember is hazy, but somewhere around the third glass of the watermelon-Kombucha infused vodka, it suddenly dawned on me the kind of man that Jack Bao was:  He was clearly a prisoner in his own castle. 

While his estate may be breathtaking in every way imaginable, and though he was married to an absolutely gorgeous trophy wife, and even though his father had founded the single more important Chinese telecommunications and social media company in the history of the continent, Jack Bao was a man who was stuck.

“They can’t throw me in prison,” he’d said at one point.  “Papa still has too many friends, you know, in the politburo.  But they can’t just let me roam free either.  And so here I am.”  His voice trailed off.  “Here I am…”

And so now he had nothing better to do than entertain guests at his McMansion at all hours of the day.  Every day was a feast.  He’d never need to work for money ever again.  But he could also never leave.

At first, I’d been confused.  Since we’d just about immediately started drinking without much pretense or chatter.  But then I also realized that all the alcohol served another purpose:  It was Jack’s way of weeding the weak from the strong.  By the second glass, Coleman was out.  Looking incredibly sick, he scuttled off to throw up in the bushes somewhere.  But all those years of wining and dining during my consultant jaunts had served me well.  I somehow manage to keep up with the man and Kristen does too.  The Australians are infamous for their iron stomachs, after all.

Finally, only after we’d sufficiently imbibed did Jack begin talking more openly.

Story

Jack’s Estate, Amanda Bao, Turtles, Here Be Dragons

eowobble1 Comment 313 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back on October 2, 2020 and contribute ~1,000 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Seven – Passage Three


Yet, rolling up to Jack Bao’s estate in our horse-drawn stagecoach makes me requestion all these suppositions.  For a communist country where everyone’s putatively equal, Jack Bao seems awfully more equal than everyone else I’ve seen in China thus far.

His estate is positively palatial in the most golden and gaudy way imaginable.  Everything is done up in a far-east, oriental style that must harken back to some dynastic period when China was ruled by Emperors and fire-breathing dragons.  I know nothing about Chinese history but it certainly feels like I’ve set foot in some Universal Studios theme park attraction.

The front gate itself is a deep, vermillion red with two grand columns framing the entrance.  Up top, the roof is ornate green with gold and jade embroidery of creatures from the Zodiac:  Rat, Monkey, Tiger, Horse, etc.  The whole thing basically looks like a classed up version of the entrance of San Francisco’s Chinatown.  The estate itself must at least be a dozen hectares and it surround by a 30-meter tall fence of black wrought iron.  Beyond the gates, I see rolling lawns of green, with carefully manicured bushes and hedges.  A gentle dirt path leisurely winds its way from the front entrance gate up the hill and to the estate house itself.

“How on earth is this communism?” Coleman asks, pointing at the grounds.  “I thought China was all about equality and everyone being equally poor.”

“Don’t believe everything you read on the internet,” Alan says dryly.  “It’s not the 1900s anymore.  Tremendous wealth always has a way of finding those who seek it.”

The stagecoach lets us off at the front gates and Alan pays the stagehand with weathered Chinese bills that look like they’ve been circulating for decades.  On the other side of the golden gate, a young elegantly dressed woman and her chauffer are awaiting us.  The chauffer is a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and dark-skinned man who’s got tree trunks for arms and legs.  He wears a severe, no-nonsense look– clearly the muscle and is dressed in a suit of black satin.  Next to him, the woman is a good 20cm shorter but still quite tall, at least 170cm, I’d guess.  She’s knockout gorgeous with shoulder-length chestnut colored hair and deep violet eyes.  Even under her flowing yellow sundress, it’s clear her figure is lithe but her bare shoulders and arms are toned, some clear signs of athleticism.  There’s something about her that feels familiar that I can’t quite put my finger on though.

The gates open and Shu bounds over and embraces the woman, giddy with delight. Some rapid-fire Chinese dialog happens between the two women that I don’t understand at all but the lightbulb suddenly clicks on for me.

“Yeah, they’re sisters,” Alan says to me, seeing my face.  “Amanda’s Jack’s wife –third wife, actually– that’s another reason we dropped by today.”

“Is she–“

“Yeah, Amanda’s a CRISPR baby too.  You might think she and Shu are twins but they’re actually a solid twelve years apart.”  Alan pauses, thinking a moment.  “Yup, Amanda’s gotta be pushing forty by now, I think.”

“Forty?!”  Kristen says, dumbstruck.  I also can’t believe it.  Laughing and smiling with Shu, Amanda looks maybe early-thirties, at most.

Deepak clasps his hand on Kirsten’s shoulder, comforting her, as if she’s suffered some great personal calamity.  “Don’t worry, in the future, everyone’s gonna have CRISPR tech.  And then aging will be a thing of the past.”

Kristen’s eyes narrow but she says nothing.  There’s apparently a kind of competitive spirt that’s ubiquitous among all women, I’ve come to notice.  Or at least women of a certain segment.  A sort of constant comparing that’s always ongoing even when there is no contest.  It’s honestly bizarre to me that someone like Kristen, super-educated, professionally accomplished, and enormously capable would even entertain the faintest notion of caring about Amanda’s beauty or age.  But I dunno.  I guess she does.  I’m an idiot though and honestly don’t understand these things at all.  My only saving grace is that I know enough (now, after some hard lessons over the years) to just keep my mouth shut on these matters, whenever in the presence of women.  Just smile and nod.  And then politely transition to the next topic. It’s a mysterious land, my friend, turtles all the way down. Here be dragons.

“Da’an will take your bags,” Amanda says motioning to the mountain man.  “Let’s walk up to the house though.  Jack’s finishing up a few meetings now but he’ll be joining us for lunch in the garden.”  She speaks with a slight English lilt just like Shu does and I’m beginning to wonder if it’s some side effect of the CRISPR-process.

Da’an, who’s essentially the Chinese version of Andre the Giant, grunts and lifts our luggage rollers and duffels effortlessly and begins lumbering up towards the estate house without saying a single word.

“This way,” Amanda says smiling and she starts up the path herself.  “It’s a beautiful day!  No better time for a walk!”

Some twenty minutes later we’ve walked up the hill, through half-a-dozen topiary gardens (also filled with Zodiac creatures; I’m beginning to sense a pattern) and finally make it to the front lawn of the house.  Da’an, despite carrying all of our bags, made it there well ahead of us and has already deposited our luggage on the marble steps of the house entrance where I see a small legion of maids and manservants assembled and awaiting our arrival.  Shu and Amanda chattered nonstop the entire way up like two nonstop phonographs on endless repeat catching up after some great hiatus away from each other.  And even Alan, though a little pudgy around the middle, also appears to have made it up the hill with a surprising briskness I wouldn’t have expected.

Coleman and I have sweated clear through our polo shirts by the time we reach the house though.

“Oh my God,” I pant, my hands on my knees.  “What the hell.”

Coleman sits down on the marble steps, wheezing.  “Jesus.”

Kristen, who also arrived ahead of us, wipes her brow and drinks from a bottled water that the maids are handing out.  Her white tank top is also completely soaked through and the staff have concerned looks on their faces.  She looks at us quizzically and frowns.

“Where’s Deepak?”

“He collapsed three-quarters of the way up,” Coleman huffs, pointing behind us, back the way we came.  “Somewhere by the rabbit-shaped topiary hedges, I think.”

The air is so humid and heavy; I feel rivets of sweat running down my spine and back.  Somewhere under the white lawn canopy, Shu and Amanda are still chattering away in nonstop Chinese.

Story

Two-Year Mandatory National Service

eowobble1 Comment 375 views
https://www.scmp.com/news/china/society/article/2165265/why-chinese-students-have-start-academic-year-short-spell
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back on October 2, 2020 and contribute ~1,000 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Seven – Passage Two


Xi’an, it turns out, had been deliberately designed as a city that all Chinese citizens were expected to live in after graduating high school and (if they went) attending college.  Upon turning 18, all Chinese citizens were required to show up for two years of military service and training.  One of those two years are spent in Xi’an.  To be clear, there hasn’t been a major land war engagement in the world in nearly two centuries.  But all Chinese citizens, men and women, are expected to learn how to shoot a rifle, address a field wound, cook in the wilderness, and other basic training you’d find in a typical ROTC-type program.

Mandatory National Service is a concept that had long since vanished in western societies but in China the idea is still very much alive.  Alan explains to us succinctly, “In order to make communism work, you need people to share a communal feeling. A single, cohesive sense of national character.  In any given society, you’re going to have tribalism and so integral to the CCP’s desire to maintain a single, unified China, we need to stamp out these seeds of prejudice to the best of our ability.”

“But China doesn’t officially sanction religion here,” says Deepak.  “So surely that helps with minimizing regional conflict and difference.”

“Yeah,” adds Coleman.  “And you guys don’t even have black people here!  How can you be racist when everyone’s the same race?”  You can tell the incident at Seven-Eleven from a few days ago is still on his mind.

“Here in China we may not have racism and freedom of/divisions over religion the same way you guys have it in America,” Alan explains patiently, “but bigotries are manifold and you don’t need religion or race to divide people.  Believe me, China’s been around since before America was even a twinkle in someone’s eye.  We have plenty of factionalism existent to keep our politburo members up at night.”

“China’s got the same problem that Australia does,” Kristen says, nodding slowly.  “It was one of the chief problems I’d worked on when I was in Darwin.  How to stamp out prejudices based on regionalism.”

“Exactly,” Alan nods.  “Chinese history is like everyone else’s.  You occupy a large enough space for long enough and before you know it, you’ve got the descendants of the Qing dynasty hating on the descendants of the Han dynasty and vice versa. Many of whom somehow harboring a mutual deep-seated hatred for the other despite never even having met.  You’ve also got a strong northern/southern divide that goes far beyond preference for noodles vs rice.”  Alan gives Coleman some side-eye.  “And while I know all Chinese people may look the same to you, there really are differences between our aboriginal, Manchurian, and mixed-ethnicity populations.”

Coleman holds up his hands.  “Okay, okay, I get it.  Jeez, accuse the one black guy in the whole group of being racist.”

“Anyway,” Alan continues.  “The current policy that the CCP’s settled on, which solves some problems but introduces others, is this idea of forced collective national service.  The hope is that by mandating all Chinese citizens from all walks– rich and poor, educated and not, eastern and western, Qing and Han– share a single collective experience over the course of a year during training in Xi’an, while being almost completely disconnected from the outside world, will foster some kinda comradery and empathy.”

“Sounds idealistic,” I say, feeling libertarian strains in me stirring.  “A one-year of hell that instead further breeds disdain and resentment.  Despite your lofty goals, you could in fact just be planting seeds of contempt.”

“Maybe,” admits Alan.  “But being someone who myself endured the ordeal, it’s definitely not glamorous.  But I’ll also add–” he gives me a look– “this is not some kinda didactic or pedantic, pretentious summer camp excursion in the woods.  It’s hard.  Maybe not on the level of SEAL camp training or whatever you have in America, but this is a program expected of everyone.  And this is China– 18-year old trainees die every year during these two years of training.  Remember, no human rights here– the CCP doesn’t care if a few hundred 18-year-olds perish in tragic accidents or off themselves because they’re too depressed, out-of-shape, or whatever.  Hell, Xi probably thinks it’s pruning the gene pool someway of all the weaklings.

“Mandatory national service in China is not child-safe and babyproofed.  18-year-olds are put into situations where they must cooperate or they’ll be severely injured physically or even killed.”  Alan rolls up his shirt sleeve to show us a long scar that stretches on his forearm from his elbow to wrist.  “It’s the real deal.”

“So the idea,” Kristen concludes, “is that once you’ve been put through the ringer, in the trenches crawling over broken glass and barbwire, shoulder-to-shoulder with your fellow citizen to ensure mutual survival, that you’ll be much less likely to emerge on the other end making broad-stroked generalizations about entire population subsets.”

“Oh, people still generalize,” says Alan, shaking his head.  “No way to get around that.  But the CCP wants the Chinese people to give each other the benefit of the doubt.  Even if you’re a princeling from an aristocratic family, it’s much harder to hate a poor working-class kid if the guy’s once saved your life from live gunfire in some training exercise.  Stuff like that.”

By the time we reach the front gates of Jack Bao’s estate, we’ve all gotten the entire spiel on mandatory National Service from Alan.  And while I remain unconvinced that such a program would work in America, I understand Alan’s points.  They do make sense: China’s a collectivist culture that dates back centuries and is well-suited for a national service program. 

But in America, we’re a different breed.

We’re born free men!  Don’t tread on me!  Live free or die!  And in America we aren’t socialist the way the Chinese and many other European countries are.  In America, it’s a meritocracy!  The cream rises to the top!  And the chaff is separated and let go, the lowest of the low shunted aside into cardboard boxes living on the side of streets.  This is why in our shining American land of hope and prosperity that we have tent cities brimming with chronically homeless which stretch as far as the eye can see. Living in abject poverty and chewing shoe leather under the 280 while super-rich techie urbanites blithely drive overhead in their Teslas and Benzes.  If everyone were equal, true: There’d be no poor people and no starvation.  But there’d also be no rich people either.  And there’s nothing more American than the American Dream of becoming obscenely, filthy rich based on your own hard work, will, and dedication.  Anything else simply wouldn’t be red, white, and blue.

Story

Xi’an: The Unconnected City

eowobbleLeave a comment 299 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back on October 2, 2020 and contribute ~1,000 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Seven – Passage One


Winding our way in a horse-drawn stagecoach over cobblestone streets, we later get the full story about Xi’an from Alan.  The ride is a little tight with five of us sitting inside the carriage, facing each other; I’m sitting with Kristen opposite of Alan, Deepak, and Coleman.  And Shu’s sitting up top with the stagehand who’s working the reins.  Our luggage rollers and duffels are all tied up and chorded in the coach’s caboose.  It’s basically a scene out of Oregon Trail except we’re just trying to cross town and not all of North America.

As Kristen had mentioned earlier, we’re apparently on our way over to Jack Bao’s place for a luncheon appointment.  Dimly, I knew that the Bao family was one of the richest in China (“fifth richest,” Alan later informs us) and they’d accumulated their tremendous wealth on the back of a social network called Weibook.  Last I checked, it was estimated that Weibook had a roughly 90% penetration of the Chinese market which would make it the second largest platform in the world.  Of course, Chinese citizens didn’t really have a choice –all non-Chinese platforms had been explicitly banned– so it really, in my mind at least, begged the question of what 10% in China wasn’t on social media this day and age.

Aside from that founding story, the only other tidbit I know about Jack was that he’d stepped down from the company last year that his father had founded.  Bao Senior had passed away around that time and that was the reason that Jack, now in his fifties, had given for his retirement.  But there had also been speculation that it’d been a coup by the CCP.  And that once Bao Senior died, the predictable power vacuums had bloomed, Jack had lost, and that he’d been ousted.  But honestly, who knows?  It was all rumors.

“This is wild!” Coleman says over the sound of the clomping of horse hooves.  “It must take ages to get anywhere and do anything though!”

Alan nods.  “That’s precisely the point.”

It takes something like half-an-hour to go a meager few miles but during that time Alan explains to us the entire rationale behind Xi’an.

Like all countries, China at first was bowled over by the great technological tsunami that’d swept the world.  The internet!  Mobile smartphones in every pocket!  All that information at your fingertips!  But over the decades, as the gleam of the initial joy began to dull, the CCP started seeing all of the drawbacks of this new, smaller, interconnected, always-on, highspeed world as well.  Information was travelling so fast electronically that it couldn’t be factchecked in time.  Even with the Great Firewall enforcing at maximum blast, messages were falling through the cracks, as were full-bore websites.  Clever youths with their roundabout, multi-continent-traversing-proxy-VPNs were getting through to the outside world.  What’s fascinating though, that the CCP eventually discovered, was that while technology enabled these new deleterious social effects, they were not the cause.  The cause was something far more primitive– it was basic human appetite.  Chinese citizens weren’t consuming because they could; they were consuming the vast petaflops of information because they desired it.

So the CCP set up an experiment:  Xi’an: The Unconnected City.

Story

“Welcome to Xi’an.”

eowobbleLeave a comment 319 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back on October 2, 2020 and contribute ~1,000 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Six – Passage Six


Vigor and youth are honestly wasted on the young.  I reflect to myself, shaking my head.  But even the curmudgeon in me can’t help but marvel at this antiquated world that has been meticulously maintained around us.  All modern cities at some point face a dilemma with their central transit systems: How much history and tradition to preserve?  How much of the future to embrace?  And most places end up compromising.  The gaudy Americans embraced it all, of course.  And this is why you see flatscreen LCD displays at a place like Grand Central or Union Station.  New Yorkers apparently believe putting some museum exhibit enclosed in a glass case next to the bleeding-edge technology somehow classes up the joint.

But here, at Northlight Station, Xi’an’s main HSR hub, other than the futuristic maglev trains that we rode in on, everything else appears to have been frozen in time.  No compromise of any sort here.  From our wooden platform I spy horse-drawn carriages outside of the marble archways.  Additionally, for the poorer folk, rickshaws pulled by humans on both foot and bicycle are also available for service.

I don’t see a single automobile anywhere.

There is something enormously strange, impossible to describe with mere words, about being suddenly transported nearly two centuries back in time.  Most of my days, I move through the world brimming with confidence.  I’ve spent a lifetime studying and acquiring skills.  I know things.  Additionally, I’ve watched my countrymen put a man on the moon.  I’ve watched us drop the atomic bomb.  I’ve seen the full might and potential of the human species come to bear.  But abruptly arriving here at Northlight Station, where I don’t anywhere see a single smartphone, tablet, computer, or automobile– this evokes an entirely differently combination of emotions that I’ve not felt in a long time.

A sense of humility and awe. 

Suddenly, I feel incredibly, incredibly small.  A feeling washes over me all at once that there’s a wondrous force much larger than imaginable which is at work.  Words and logic fail to describe this sensation but it’s an acute and sharp feeling that undoubtedly exists.  Like a feeling that you’ve known always true but is so horribly inconvenient that you’ve simply shoved away in the deepest recesses of your brain, suddenly surfacing and finding air once more.

Beside me, Coleman takes out his smartphone to snap a few photos but Deepak snatches it from him, faster than I’d expect.

“Don’t!”

“Hey!  What the hell?”

Coleman’s phone in his hand, not yet on, Deepak explains:  “They’ve set up a constant EMP sphere here in Xi’an.  You turn on anything electronic, a cellphone, computer, anything— and the device will be instantly fried.  The only things that run electric here are the incoming HSR lines.”

Deepak hands Coleman back his phone.  “Be careful.”

Coleman can only stare, jaw agape.  No Spotify, music, or earmuffs for this young man today.

“C’mon, guys!” calls Alan from the marble steps leading out of the station foyer.  His shout interrupts our ad-hoc lesson and I see that he’s already several yards ahead of us, a dozen steps up, blazing ahead like the consummate scout leader he is. “Places to be and people to meet!” He grins and opens his arms expansively back at us, suddenly a theatrical showman.

“Welcome to Xi’an.”

Story

“It’s All True.”

eowobbleLeave a comment 300 views
https://mocah.org/652191-ernest-hemingway-quote.html
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back on October 2, 2020 and contribute ~1,000 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Six – Passage Five


“Using your logic, what’s the point of even having a country?” Kristen asks, apparently unimpressed with my reasoning.

“Countries are good for the big things.”  I shrug.  “A single national currency.  A standing military to ensure national defense.  Shiny national monuments like Mount Rushmore to put in the brochures and glossies.  But in America, at least, even since the beginning, people always strongly identified with one’s state far more than one’s country.  It was really only after World War II that people started to share to a single more national identity over their state identity.  Of course, in peace time, with the first few decades of the 2000s, the pendulum swung back, as it always does.  When things are going well, people tend to retreat back into their own corners.”

Kristen finishes drinking her Guava juice and crushes the carton in one hand before tossing it into the train’s rubbish bin, some shiny oblong-shaped trash receptacle that looks like a futuristic incinerator.

“You know an awful lot of history for someone who supposedly never studied it.”

“Nah,” I shake my head.  “I’ve looked at Foogle search trends over the decades.  Once this whole internet thing happened, it suddenly became markedly easy to get the pulse of an entire country.  For the first time in human history, if you had any question at all, anything under the sun, you could simply Foogle your query and find an answer.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get a correct answer,” Kristen points out.  “Just cause you find some answer you want doesn’t mean it’s rooted at all in reality.”

“Who cares?  It’s an answer.  And if it happens to reinforce your existing worldview or prejudices, then it’s even better in that it makes you feel good.  Isn’t that we humans like?  Feeling good?  Why else do people do what they do?”

I look at Kristen, as if seeing her for the first time in a new light.  I thought I’d known her MO, but maybe I’d been mistaken.

“You work in data science, just like me,” I say to her.  “Why are you in this field at all?  Isn’t shaping and influencing giant populations at the core of what we do?”

“It is, but not entirely divorced from what’s true.”

I laugh.  “What’s true?  It’s all true.”  I wave at the charts and graphs on my laptop that I was examining earlier.  “Look at his.  Human beings aren’t capable of just ingesting millions of rows and columns and somehow magically understanding it.  We require narrative, a story to make things legible and comprehensible.  But depending on what you want to spin, you can make anything sound plausible.

“For instance, I’ve been looking at this data that Alan shared with us earlier.  Two years ago, if you simply read the police reports and crime incidents, then Xinjiang was as peaceful as it’s ever been.  But if you monitored the log data and sentiment analysis on all of the internet chatter during this same time period for this same region, then you’ll see high spikes in the population, especially the 18-25 demographic, searching for terms like “protest,” “west,” and “democracy.”  And then months later as the security presence started to ratchet up, words like “rifles,” “bombs,” and “Molotov cocktails.”

Kristen tilts her head, apparently mulling over whether or not to pursue this debate with me.  I can tell that part of her really wants to.  She’d thoroughly enjoy nothing more than totally going to town in an all-night bull session like we’re in some college dormitory all over again.  Pontificating and discussing Life’s Big Questions until sunrise and then grabbing an egg and cheddar sandwich at the deli out around the corner.  The role of media and free speech in society.  Unintended consequences of an unfettered fourth estate; a world where anyone and everyone was suddenly a pressman, delivering breaking news, an outlet of information and misinformation for all.

But instead she just shrugs.

“Dexter Fletcher, man, you really are a piece of work,” she says, polishing off her baby carrots.  The plastic bag goes into the futuristic incinerator.  “You know we’ll be visiting Jack Bao when we reach Xi’an tomorrow morning, right?  Oh man, you guys are going to get along famously.”

With that, she turns and leaves the dining car; disappearing into the connection way.  The sliding door closes behind her with a quiet woosh and I’m suddenly alone again.  In China on some Snowpiercer train racing through the blackness of night.

The next morning, The Silver Dragon arrives at the Xi’an Station and I step off the maglev train for the first time for the first time in something in like twenty-hours.  The first leg of the trip honestly wasn’t bad at all.  We were literally levitating on magnets the entire so you really couldn’t ask for a smoother rider.  And we had hot showers, highspeed internet, gourmet dining, and exercise machines on the train.  So it really was unequivocally the most comfortable train ride I’d ever been on by a country mile.

Xi’an though is nothing like Shanghai or Jinshui.  Shanghai screamed cosmopolitanism with architecture spanning everything from French to Portuguese to Russian influences.  And Jinshui, with its next-level camouflage projection technology was essentially like stepping into some futuristic Gibson sci-fi novel.  But Xi’an is the exact opposite of all that.  It is old school.

.

The terminal that receives The Silver Dragon has wooden planks for its platform and there’s a small brick kiosk with a straw-hatched roof that’s selling newspapers.  Jesus, I haven’t seen newspapers in like twenty years.  There is no computerized displays or cutting-edge holograms here.  You can hear the clickety-clack as the massive timetable placards flip their lettering to announce the incoming schedules and updated train timings.  A giant mechanical clock that looks like Big Ben’s oriental second cousin adorns the western wall, opposite of giant painted windows that stretch from floor to ceiling. At this early hour, morning light filters warmly and the entire station looks like 1920 Grand Central, untouched by time and place.  It’s bustling with travelers arriving from all over; Xi’an is the central hub that connects all of Central China’s rail lines, a major artery of the Chinese HSR network.

Alan and Shu find us.  Coleman and I are looking around like idiots at the parade but Deepak and Kristen apparently already knew that we’d be stepping into some time machine and traveling back to 19th-century China.

“Is this some kinda Universal Studios setup?” Coleman asks Shu, bewildered.  “When did all this happen?  You guys totally Wizarding World’ed this.”

Shu smiles politely and you can tell she’s bemused.  Ignorant Americans not knowing a single thing about the larger, broader world.  She hands us rectangular pieces of crinkled, yellowing paper.

“What’s this?”

“It’s money, you moron.”  Deepak rolls his eyes.  The old Indian’s gruff and keeps up a severe look, but you can also tell he too is at least a little impressed.

Coleman holds one of the bills against the sunlight, his eyes wide.  “Oh my God… actual, real-life money….“

Story

Cai Xia: Banished Political Exile

eowobble1 Comment 332 views
https://www.nytimes.com/2020/08/18/world/asia/china-cai-xia-expelled-communist-party.html
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back on October 2, 2020 and contribute ~1,000 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Six – Passage Four


That night I’ve sitting alone at a table in the dining car with my laptop and thoughts mulling over what Coleman and I had learned from Alan earlier in the day.  Of course the situation in Xinjiang was much more complicated than we’d been initially told.  And while I had done searches online for information about Cai Xia and her son, Cai Fudong, those results had been unsurprisingly sparse.  Looking through the archives, there had been one article in The Times about Cai Xia and her expulsion forty years ago from the Central Party School, the highest educational institution in the CCP that was responsible for training the regime’s next generation of leadership on the highest level.  Aside from that one article though, I’d been unable to find any other information on Xia.  Again, it was unsurprising that western media hadn’t exactly fallen over themselves to cover the incident.  In the west we may put freedom of the press upon the pedestal but we also shackle it to advertising dollars to keep the lights on.  Alas, we’re all beholden to someone.  Thus, some random article about a professor’s expulsion from China half-a-world away isn’t, let generously say, top-of-mind for your average American.  No page clicks; no coverage.

And on Cai Fudong, the son who’d be in his forties now, I’d found exactly nothing.

Which I guess makes sense.  If you wanted to stage an epic, revenge-styled payback story against all the people who ever wronged you, then it’d make sense to stay under the radar.

From her brief article on Wikipedia though, I’d learned that after Xia had fled China as a political exile, she’d relocated to the states with her then-newborn child, Fudong.  The Wikipedia article only gives years and not exact dates but if its timeline is to be believed, then Fudong couldn’t have been much older than one-year-old when he and his mother had been banished to America.

So this is the fate of those who speak out against Xi.  Banishment to foreign lands; out of sight, out of mind.  I frown.  But when I think about it a bit more, it remains a mystery to me how Fudong managed to make his way back into China years later as an adult.  Surely, he was on every single CCP-blacklist in the country.  China may be communist but it’s not incompetent; Fudong should’ve never been able to set foot on native Chinese soil ever again and the fact that was indeed back in the politburo, and not rotting away in some dank, unnamed Chinese prison somewhere in the Tibetan mountains, definitely meant there was more to the story here that I obviously didn’t know.

On my laptop, I flip over to some Excel spreadsheets and data dumps that Alan had also provided us earlier.  Though we’re on a highspeed, maglev train racing under the cover of night across the Chinese northern hinterlands, I still have blazing-fast gigabit wireless access.  (Back in New York, the densest urban center in America, sometimes I couldn’t even get signal when I was standing in the wrong place in my bedroom.)  Even though the previous project two years ago had apparently failed miserably, I was still curious to study and read over what had previously been attempted and succeeded or failed.  As a data scientist, a constant curiosity for evermore information is what separates amateurs from professionals.  And I, to toot my own horn a bit, was definitely no greenhorn.  To say the least, I’ve seen this rodeo more than once.

Looking at all of the data that Alan has provided, there are dozens of way to look at the data.  If you focus only on the decrease in petty crimes and acts of vandalism, then some of the harsher methods that the Xi loyalists had employed appeared to be effective.  But during that same period of martial law, factory output and commercial goods generation fell precipitously and the unemployment rate had skyrocketed.  Civil unrest was like one of those annoying air bubbles you’re trying to eliminate when you were trying to lay down carpet; it never totally disappeared– it just went elsewhere.  And depending on whatever metrics you wished to highlight, you could tell whatever story you wished. 

“Burning the candle at both ends, eh?”

I look up and see Kristen is at the other end of the dining car.  She’s wearing a white sweatshirt and grey sweatpants; evening garb, I guess.  It’s just the two of us at this hour, supper dining hours having already long since passed.  She helps herself to some guava juice that’s in the cabin refrigerator behind the counter and appears to be looking for snacks.

“Just trying to figure out how to make sense of everything going on,” I say.  “What are you doing up?”

She locates a remote on the counter and clicks it.

Over the dining bar, there’s a display that I hadn’t noticed earlier.  A Chinese news station blinks to life and the news anchor is reeling off highlights of the day.  I obviously don’t understand a word that she’s saying but pleasant visuals that stream by accompanying the bright, enthusiastic rapid-fire news anchor speech.  Apparently, it was yet another harmonious day of peace and prosperity in the middle kingdom.  Part of me strongly suspects that when the only news is state-sponsored news, then every day was likely similarly glorious.

Kristen tears open a plastic bag of baby carrots and pops one into her mouth.

“I’m trying to decide how I feel about all Uyghurs in Xinjiang getting all of their news from a single official source,” she says, chewing thoughtfully.  “Back home in Darwin, it’s not like this at all.  There’s half-a-dozen outlets and even then, a chunk of Australian don’t believe any of them and instead prefer to just get their news from their Foogle feeds.  And lord knows the provenance of those articles. Seriously, no one knows what’s true and what to believe anymore; it’s just all noise.“

“America’s the same,” I shrug, “as is every single other liberal democracy in the world.  You guys are in good company; join the club.”

On the display, the news station crew appears to have visited the National Zoo in Beijing and the camera’s zooming in on a pair of giant pandas who appear to have produced offspring.  Apparently this is an infrequent and momentous event, worthy of national celebration.

“Do you ever wonder,” Kristen asks me, “if maybe Xi’s onto something?  Maybe not full-up Mussolini-style autocracy; but maybe not a complete free-for-all like what we have in the west, either.”

I shake my head and motion to the display. 

“No way.  If we left it up to some central authority, we’d just be seeing panda mating rituals all day.  I don’t know about Australia but in America, I’m actually one of those people who solely gets my news from my custom Foogle feeds.  And I’ve chosen to live in a neighborhood and community that reflects my values and beliefs.” 

Kristen is looking at me like she’s befuddled so I try to clarify what I mean.

“Like, I don’t need, and frankly don’t care, if people the next neighborhood over disagree with me on most things, especially culture issues like immigration, abortion, taxes.  I care about my taxes.  If they want to pay more because they’ve got kids or whatever who attend the public school system, then good for them.  They can vote for higher taxes in their district.  How does that quote go?  ‘Perfectly reasonable minds can disagree.’  That’s fine. Agreeing to disagree is a gift!  At the day’s end, for practical purposes, you’re not a citizen of the world; or even of America or Australia.  You’re a citizen of your state, of your specific community.  It’s called federalism for a reason.”

Story

“It’s All Connected.”

eowobble1 Comment 566 views
https://www.reddit.com/r/ConspiracyMemes/comments/7d6vc3/the_swamp_its_all_connected/
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back on October 2, 2020 and contribute ~1,000 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Six – Passage Three


So it turns out they had tried exactly that. 

“We brought in a team of specialists two years ago,” Alan patiently explains.  “The most experienced professionals and prominent academics in all the land.  Knowledgeable and well-connected to Xinjiang, from China’s biggest and most successful companies as well as the prestigious Chinese Academy of Sciences– the most famous university in China, the equivalent of England’s Oxford.”

“Huh.  That’s nice.  Gathered the country’s best and brightest to go in and occupy and restore peace in a foreign land.  What could possibly go wrong?”

“Everything,” Alan sighs.  He looks at the scenery outside the train windows, racing by.  We’re cruising by pastoral rolling hills of gorgeous, untouched Chinese countryside.  Alan takes a moment to compose his thoughts.

“To understand the extent of the catastrophe that ensued though,” he continues after a beat, “it’s necessary to first know how the Chinese government functions.  Everyone thinks they know what communism and socialism is.  In the west, you’ve painted beautiful myths about communal sharing and the laboring class owning the means of production.  And while that’s nominally true, people also forget that leadership still needs to exist.  In a company, you can’t just have everyone being an individual contributor and there existing no middle management.  A world without hierarchy may be socialism; but it’s also chaos.”

Having been in my own fair share of Silicon Valley, libertarian pipedreams gone horribly awry, I nod my head knowingly.  I’m no political scientist, but I’ve seen my fair share of office politics.

“And the problem with the project two years ago,” Alan says, “is that everyone was connected to someone.  What you need to understand about China is that it’s all tightly connected and interwoven.  Even if you’re the department chair or endowed professor at the Academy of Sciences, that endowment actually comes from somewhere.  Similarly, if you’re the chief executive of some Chinese megacorp, you only have the position because you’ve been installed with the blessings of the regime.  No one ascends to any position of power in the communist and socialist structure without a network of deep alliances, coalition-building, backroom deals, and back-scratching. Everyone’s got dirt on someone because they otherwise wouldn’t even be there in the first place. Does that make sense?”

“Nothing new there,” says Coleman.  “Same way with American politics.  You’re describing a universal truth, buddy.”

“No,” says Alan, “you don’t get it.  Sure, favoritism and cronyism exist everywhere.  But at least in the west, the money is divorced from the power.  Your Silicon Valley billionaires can build their own corporations and Super-PACs to air commercials against your government.  Hell, you dismantle and rebuild your governments every four years, anyway.  But the point is, your wealthiest and most powerful may achieve their riches honestly or dishonestly, but after they’ve obtained it, they can do whatever they want with it.  Build their own nation states in the south pacific, run attack ads and campaigns against your sitting presidents, it’s all fair game.

“But in China, though we’ve minted more billionaires than the rest of the world combined in the recent decade, all those billionaires sit at the mercy of Xi.  Though impressive on paper, their vast wealth is all stored with the People’s Bank of China, a nationalized institution.  Remember, the laboring class owns the means of production.  Which may administratively means that the people do collectively own everything.  But there’s still a government.  And ‘the collective will of the people’ still need to me implemented by some state apparatus.

“So basically, you’re saying all that money can just be frozen or disappear at any time,” Coleman says slowly. The kid’s starting to get it.

“Exactly,” Alan nods. “Don’t you ever wonder why those anti-corruption charges that sweep China every few years are conveniently accompanied by periods of peace and minimal societal turmoil?  Billionaires just conveniently go to jail for life for ‘fraud charges’ and the like.  It’s simply suppression under the veneer of ‘draining the swamp’ and that’s where the difference lies.”

“What happened two years ago?” I ask.  “Why did that project fail?”

Alan’s a good guy but he has a habit of rambling sometimes.  Someone occasionally needs to set him back on track.

“Right.  So this is actually important for you to know.”  Alan blinks a few times and takes a moment to wipe down his glasses.  You can see the gears and cogs whirling away; he’s clearly trying to figure out how to summarize a ridiculously complicated geopolitical situation for Coleman and me, total neophytes.

“The first thing to understand is that Xi’s control has been waning in recent years,” Alan begins.  “The guy’s getting old and there’s a new guard vying for supremacy.  So realize that in this respect, Xinjiang has come to symbolize far more than just the Uyghur population.  It’s a proxy battle in many ways to show who’s the true leader of the CCP.”

“Alright,” Coleman says slowly.  “Sounds like we’ve got some good ol’ fashioned palace intrigue.  So set the table for us.  What we got?”

“Xi represents the hardliners,” Alan explains.  “The curmudgeon’s old school.  If he had his way, Urumqi would be a smoking crater by now.  23 million Uyghurs, in his mind, is a pittance in the grand scheme when his dominion, that’s still growing with no sight in end, is at 1.4 billion and ever climbing.  He’s cranky that this entire ordeal has already dragged on as long as it has.”

“So in his mind,” I summarize, “this whole situation in Xinjiang can be remedied with a few well-placed ballistic missiles.”

“Exactly.  But of course, there’s Cia Fudong, the son of the previous CCP viceroy, Cia Xia, the prominent former Central Party School professor who was exiled from the country forty-some years back.  Her son’s been building power slowly over the decades since returning to China and has accrued a loyal following– people who also think that Xi is taking China down the wrong path.”

I rub my temples, feeling a throbbing inchoate but inevitable.  “Okay, great.  So Xinjiang on a more meta-level isn’t about the Uyghurs at all.  But is a battle of egos to demonstrate very publicly who’s got the power.”

“There’s actually a third contender in the wings,” says Alan shaking his head, “but I’m just gonna gloss over that part for now.”  He looks me.  “So in a nutshell, yes.  What happened two years ago with the group we assembled then was that half were loyal to Cia’s strategy of a more peaceful and measured approach towards the Uyghurs.  While Xi loyalists instead wanted to send in the tank battalions and burn it all to the ground.  The impasse slowly built to a crescendo, dragged on for months, and then before things could come to a head, Xi disbanded the entire initiative when it started looking bad for him.”

Coleman furrows his brow in consternation.

“So basically you people have yourselves a Chinese civil war on your hands and you’ve dragged us into the middle of it?”

Story

Coleman and Blackness in China

eowobbleLeave a comment 313 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back on October 2, 2020 and contribute ~1,000 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Six – Passage Two


“Real talk a sec.  Stop being dim a moment,” says Coleman.  “I’m talking about wherever I go and whatever I do in this country, people seem to treat me like some kinda zoo exhibit.  A sort of endangered species on display for all to see.”

I sigh and fold my laptop lid.  It’s clear I’ll be getting no work done this morning.  Earlier on our car ride from JFL to the Jinshui High Speed Rail station that was 30-some kilometers away, we’d stopped by a Seven-Eleven convenience shop that’d literally been in the middle of nowhere, some small village off the bypass.  It’d been early and everyone needed orange juice and whatever in China passed for convivence-store breakfast (in this case, boiled eggs marinated in soy sauce and tasteless rice cakes).  As chance would have it, there was some local school bus that’d also similarly stopped over while we were there while apparently on some sort of field trip.  The Chinese school children had filtered out of the bus in abject wonder and crowded around Coleman like he was some kinda celebrity.  Smartphones out, snapping selfies, the whole nine yards.

“Coleman, dude,” I say, “put yourself in their shoes.  You know China’s a closed country.  No open borders.  Heavily controlled and restricted movement everywhere.  For those kids, seeing an actual black person was like meeting Tom Cruise or something.  Look around you– does this particular part of China strike you as remarkably multicultural and racially diverse?”

“But I’m not a museum display!”

“Good God, man, stop whining.  You should be happy!  You’re gonna grace their Instagram and Facebook feeds today.  Or whatever Chinese copycats of those are here in rip-off country.  You’ll be famous for all of fifteen minutes, or maybe more like two, and then everyone’ll forget and move onto the next TikTok video or whatever.  Who cares?”

“I care.”

“And you’re the only one,” I say.  “Stop being ornery about it.  To these people you’re OJ Simpson, Michael Jordan, and Barack Obama all rolled into one.  These kids have only seen black people in movies, in TV shows, and on their Saturday morning anime cartoon shows.  To them, you are the entirety of black people.”

“Jesus!  We’re well into the twenty-first century!  This isn’t the 1700s!”

“So what?” I shake my head.  To be fair, I was over a decade older than Coleman, a total newb so painfully fresh right outta school.  But it still struck me as absurd just how bubbled college-grads were these days.  Were they seriously learning anything on those fancy college campuses?

“It’s not like western progressivism is evenly distributed the world over,” I patiently explain.  “And with an authoritarian, autocratic country like China, the cultural value systems are even more stark because they’ve top-down resisted western liberal ideology.  If it feels in certain facets like the 1700s around here, it’s because the Communist party wants it to, at least culturally.”

I look at Coleman for a moment.

“Also, didn’t you study political science?  Jesus, why do I even need to be telling you this?”

Coleman huffs up, clearly agitated.  I obviously struck a nerve.

“I specialize in American elections,” he says.  The amount of pompousness in his tone is palpable.  “Specifically, American political and electoral history and innerworkings.  How the proverbial sausage is made.”

I raise an eyebrow.  “If you consider yourself a high-end charcutier,” I say, “it’d still behoove you to know about bacon and prosciutto.  Your precious American sausages aren’t the alpha-and-omega of it all, you know.”

“Oh please.”  Coleman scoffs.  “My massive intellect can’t be bothered with these obscure meanderings of these plebians.  Who knows what going through their empty heads?  These Neanderthals are the very definition of the collective herd.  There’s not a single original thought in the whole lot of them.”

“The Chinese people may be unoriginal but they’re united.”

Coleman and I both sit up in seats a little straighter and look behind us.  It turns out Alan’s been there the entire time, apparently eavesdropping.  Coleman doesn’t turn red exactly but I can tell he’s at least a tad embarrassed.  Good to know the kid’s still capable of at least a little shame.

“Oh.  Alan.  Sorry, I didn’t mean–“

Alan holds up his hand.  “No worries.  No offense taken.  Well, maybe a little taken.  But your ignorance speaks more about you than us.  Don’t worry, I’ll sleep fine tonight.” 

Coleman frowns.

“Even if your descriptions are incomplete,” Alan continues, “there is a seed of truth in them.  You’re correct that the Chinese people are wholly more collective in their identities than westerners.  Whereas you emphasize the individual, here in the east –especially the rural east– the family name is still everything.  Your family’s reputation in a village is your destiny.  Remember that most of these rural Uyghurs and Chinese in the region have never set foot outside their province.  For them, it’s truly a small world.”

“But you’ve got the internet!  Smartphones and YouTube!”  Coleman protests.  “Geographical parochiality is no excuse for ignorance.”

Alan merely shrugs.  “Yes and no.  It’s accurate that with the CCP’s Broadband Initiative a decade ago, all of China is indeed connected and online. But seeing black people on YouTube and in movies is a far cry, you’d surely agree, from meeting them in the flesh and blood.” Alan pauses and his furrows his brow. And then adds:  “Though I do feel it’s ironic that parts of rural China have internet connectivity but not clean running water or food security.”

It’s my time to shrug. “Internet’s actually trivial, if you really think about it,” I say.  “You can easily generate electricity with a hand-crank.  And internet is simply beamed to you from satellites up in outer space.  But clean running water requires infrastructure.  And modern crop yield, if you’re not already surrounded by developed agriculture, requires supply chains.  It’s not as ironic as you might at first suppose, to have internet before you have food and water.”

Alan can only shake his head.  “I guess?  Still, something insane about it all, if you ask me.”  He turns to Coleman.  “Dexter’s right though.  We’ve brought in you Americans to consult and advise on this project in Xinjiang.  But to get anywhere with it, you need to understand China and Xinjiang.  We obviously value your western perspectives, else you wouldn’t be here at all.  But you’re going to need to learn a lot about us too.”

“I actually don’t get why you didn’t bring in people more specialized and familiar with China,” I say, voicing a thought that’s been percolating in my head for a while now.  “Why bring in a bunch of people who know nothing about this entire geographic region and history?”

Alan looks at me.  “Who says we didn’t try that first?”

Story

The Silver Dragon

eowobbleLeave a comment 280 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back on October 2, 2020 and contribute ~500 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Six – Passage One


Quaint, idyllic Chinese countryside races by my passenger window.  We’re on the Silver Dragon, a highspeed express train which is scheduled to reach Xi’an, the first smart city on a two-day trip to Urumqi, the capital of Xinjiang province.  The maglev train itself is a gleaming technological marvel, a polished steel stallion that cuts its way across the Chinese northlands.  It’s been thirty years since China finished its high-speed rail system, having laid down more track in that same amount of time than all the rest of the world combined.

“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

I’d hoped for an entire row to myself but fate had seated Coleman next to me.  He’s wearing his giant earmuff headphones around his neck and looks like a hyperactive rabbit stuck in a box.

“It’s impressive,” I admit.  I was trying to get some work done on my laptop but it was a hopeless task.  When I wasn’t being distracted by the gorgeous scenery passing me by at 350km/hour outside my window, then I had Coleman talking in my ear.

“Tell me,” he continues, “why are you really here?”

“I’m here because I’m a specialist in data analytics and this is a state-surveillance project built on a mountain of data.  Why are you here?”

Coleman downs the rest of his gin and coke and gestures towards the sexy attendant standing in the connection way for another. She’s wearing a plaid miniskirt that’s apparently the formal train uniform despite the fact that it’s something like nineteen Celsius in the cabin.  Since we’re in business class, there’s an attendant per every train car whose sole purpose is to wait on their passengers hand and foot.  A moment later, the attendant’s whisked his empty tumbler away and replaced it with another, freshly filled.  Coleman’s twenty-two and he’s clearly living the time of his life.  I’m pretty sure he’s already knocked a few back, as it is.

“I was summoned here like the rest of you.  Received an anonymous, secure message in my inbox one day.  Took an assessment.  And apparently did something right.”  Coleman shrugs.  “And so I’m here.”

I roll my eyes.  “Obviously.  I meant why are you here?”

“Yeah, I know what you meant.”  He sighs and studies his tumbler briefly before replying.

“You must think it’s weird, because I’m black, right?  That I’m helping Communists set up mandatory internment and reeducation camps.”

“I literally didn’t say any of those words.  Or any words even phonetically similar to what you just said.”

Coleman just looks at me. 

“Yeah, maybe.  But you were definitely thinking it.”

“Coleman, son.  You are literally a few years removed from High School Musical territory.  No, never mind.  You’re so young you don’t even know what that is.  Point being:  You have no earthly idea what I’m thinking.”

“You know, man,” Coleman continues, his speech a little slurred.  “Have you ever contemplated the possibility that black people can basically be like white people too?  We’re perfectly capable of racism and acts of atrocity for the sole desire of material greed and power.  It’s not like white people have a sole monopoly over colonialism and enslaving others.”

“Yeah,” I say dryly.  “I think the Japanese and the Mongolians would likely agree with you.  Colonialism and empire building are most certainly not the sole province of white people. That’s a real keen insight you got there.”

Story

Planning a Field Trip

eowobbleLeave a comment 257 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back at the beginning of October 2020 and contribute ~500 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Five – Passage Nine


Pondering, Van taps her fingers against her lips and thinks for a moment.  She paces to the windows and back.  Outside, the sun has long since set and beyond the glass, it’s all now nothing but black, well into night.

“That is actually not as insane an idea as it first sounds,” she finally says.  “Unfortunately, Alan’s right.  I think he wouldn’t fit in well enough which could cause problems.  The last thing we want are the Uyghurs sniffing him out and then stringing Alan up out on the rack in the town square at high noon as an example.  That would be bad.”

“Yes,” says Deepak dryly.  “That’d be very bad.”

Alan looks relieved beyond all measure.  Clearly, going on some secret agent assignment to infiltrate the ranks of aspiring, would-be domestic terrorists was not high on his list of life goals.

“However,” continues Van, “I think a trip out west to Xinjiang is actually a good idea.  It will help you all learn a lot.  Along the way, you could additionally stop by several Chinese provinces to see the lay of the land.  These past few weeks, you’ve heard and learned all about China.  But maybe it’s high time you see the real thing with your own eyes.”

“You’re planning to send them to Urumqi by train?” asks Shu.  “That’s a ~4,000 km trip that’ll take two solid days.  They don’t even speak the language.”

“That’s why you and Alan are going with them,” Van says smiling.  “Consider it an educational exercise to expand horizons.  A cultural exchange between nations.”  The woman is clearly enjoying this.

Shu looks dismayed.  She purses her lips but says nothing.

“If we’re going by train, we could also visit the experimental smart cities in Hebei and Gansu along the way,” says Alan.  Though he initially seemed apprehensive, he appears to be warming to the idea.  “This could actually be good.”

It might be my imagination but I feel like Kristen perks up a bit at the mention of visiting the other smart cities.  But it’s late and maybe I’m just overthinking it.  She’s been quiet this entire time though.  I honestly can’t tell what she’s thinking.

Personally, this outing to Shanghai and Jinshui is the first time I’ve ever set foot outside America.  And it’s been great so far.  Free food, meeting interesting people, and tackling a tricky Gordian Knot of a problem.  If we’re traveling on the CCP’s dime, might as well milk the gravy train for all it’s worth.  See the world!  Learn something new!  Take in some sights along the way.

Let the record show that when adventure came calling, Dexter Fletcher answered the call.

“Let’s do it,” I say.  “When would we leave?”

“It’s settled then,” says Van, “tomorrow afternoon.  I’ll call the office in the morning and make the necessary arrangements.”  She smiles.  The prospect of a bunch of gringos traversing the Chinese countryside, clueless and confused, obviously amuses her.  “Buckle up, boys.  You’re about to get a whirlwind, firsthand taste of China.”

“Oh joy,” says Coleman wearily.  “What could possibly go wrong?”

Story

Undercover Brother

eowobbleLeave a comment 273 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back at the beginning of October 2020 and contribute ~500 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Five – Passage Eight


“Okay, guys.  Seriously.  This isn’t working.” 

Kristen leans back in her oversized beanbag chair and rubs her eyes tiredly.  It’s late in the evening and we’re all exhausted.  In the preceding weeks, we’d taken the liberty of special-ordering a king’s ransom-worth of office furniture to our little lounge here in Building 11.  So now at least we were able to work in more relative comfort.  Though it’d been necessary to convince Yu-Law that these items were “crucial” to the Uyghur suppression effort and so all of the expenses had gone blithely onto the Corporate AmEx.

Kristen flips through various charts and dashboard on her monitor; we see a projection of it all on the wall.

“Clearly, this is not what we want,” she says, frustrated.

On all the graphs, the amount of turmoil and discontent in Urumqi has only increased since we’d joined the project several weeks ago.  This is bad.  When you’re a data scientist and your sole value towards a project is measured only in bar graphs, there’s literally nowhere to hide.  No beautiful storytelling to obscure the total lack of results or excuses to explain away the abysmal outcomes.  The numbers and charts are all there, in the harsh light of day, for all to see.

We were failing.

We’d tried running an advertising campaign in the city promoting good behavior.  Building on top of China’s Social Credit System, Uyghurs would be rewarded with additional food rations if they ratted out on their fellow neighbors who were planning protests.  So far, no full-scale riots had exploded in the city yet, but acts of vandalism on public, government property were definitely on the rise.  There was a giant banner of Xi Jinping that hung from the public court house in Urumqi which had been defaced by spray paint last weekend and other miscreants had similarly defiled one of the statues celebrating The Great Mao in Hongshan Park in Hongshancun district.  So far, none of the vandalism done was irreversible, but the offenses were becoming increasingly brazen.

Despite our campaign to promise more food to good citizens, the program had generated very few leads though.  The only thing we could recommend was increase the number of “peace security officers” that were on patrol.  But again, that was bad optics and the last thing Yu-Law wanted.  So that idea was quickly scrapped.

“The problem,” Deepak says from his table, “we don’t have someone on the inside.  We need to better understand why they’re protesting in Urumqi.  What they’ve unhappy about.”

“Are you suggesting we go in undercover?”  Coleman looks dubious.  “I don’t know, man.  I think I’d kinda stick out.”

“Obviously, not you, genius.”  Deepak turns to Alan.  “Could you go in?  Infiltrate their ranks?”

Alan shifts uncomfortably in his office swivel chair.  “Me?  Really?”

Asians are generally a skinny folk.  For whatever reason, whether due to genetics or severe childhood malnutrition, Chinese people, were usually on the thinner, shorter side.

But Alan Chen is most definitely an exception.

Alan has a boyish face with bubbly cheeks and a short, rotund stature.  This was not exactly the look of a man who had suffered the great privations of the proletariat.

Story

Religion as a Means of State Control

eowobbleLeave a comment 295 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back at the beginning of October 2020 and contribute ~500 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Five – Passage Seven


Never before has anyone ever in the history of nation-building gone into the enterprise a humble man.  But once you actually get into the nitty-gritty, and are knee-deep in all the gory details, then the inevitable humility rapidly sets in.  What I slowly realize over the days and weeks that follow as we discuss and debate for hours on end was that there existed a chasm the width of the Milky Way between the Uyghur and the Chinese populations.  Essentially, Alan and Van gave us a very quick crash course covering all of China in just several days.  It was certainly an education.

For instance, here’s an easy but illuminating example:  Religion.

China is officially an atheist state but has informally made an exception for two religions:  Buddhism and Taoism.  One main reason is that the CCP considers Buddhism and Taoism to be “Asians religions” and a global check on “foreign religions” such as Christianity and Islam.  But the second big reason was that Buddhism and Taoism prominently champion the idea of reincarnation whereas in Christianity and Islam, there exist very-well defined notions of an “afterlife” that is distinctly different than the corporeal life that we’re all living now.  This is a massive contrast and makes a world of difference when it comes to how a state controls and manages its people.

As Van put succinctly one morning:  “In Buddhism and Taoism, if you do bad things and die, you’ll come back into this world as a dung beetle.  There are no 72 virgin maidens in paradise awaiting you if you die a martyr.  Nor is there a heaven or hell.  There’s simply this human life that we all come back to and nothing else.”

Furthermore, Buddhism and Taoism heavily emphasize good deeds like Judeo-strain of Christianity as opposed to the Protestant-strain where “belief alone” is sufficient for salvation.

In the Protestant version of Christianity, in the New Testament, Jesus is nailed up between two thieves— Dismas the Repentant and Gestas the Not.  Even as he died, bolts driven through his two hands to the Rosewood, the “good thief,” Dismas repents his criminal ways and pastors commonly teach that Dismas follows Christ into heaven.  (Gestas, I guess, is ostensibly condemned to the depths of hell and never seen again.  Sunday School often left that part out.)

In Buddhism and Taoism though– there is no repentance for salvation.  Belief as a card to heaven simply doesn’t even exist.  Instead, these two CCP-approved religions solely emphasize that your fate in the great cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth is solely defined by your character.  If you do bad things, you are simply doomed.  Do not pass Go.  Do not collect $200.  It’s simply game over.  And, conveniently for the CCP, “good character” largely follows Confucianism– an ancient Chinese philosophical school of thought dating back to 2070 BCE that primary champions obedience.

Well, of course, Xinjiang is a Muslim-majority population.

So… great.  Now we essentially have two populations– the Uyghurs in Xinjiang on one side.  And the Buddhists/Taoists/Atheists of China on the other.  What divides them, religious belief, is not a matter that can be empirically decided or proved in this material world.  Yet, this monumental schism exists.  How the hell are we supposed to solve this?

Story

Quelling Dissent Quietly is a Puzzle

eowobbleLeave a comment 278 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back at the beginning of October 2020 and contribute ~500 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Five – Passage Six


“Meeting the locals will be a crucial part of the project,” Alan is saying.  “If we’re going to build a campaign to win over hearts and minds, we’re going to need to know how they feel and think.”

It’s a few weeks later and we’re back in Building 11 again.  For days we’d tossed about dozens of ideas.  No matter which approach we came up with, the chief obstacle was always the same:  The key challenge in Xinjiang was that there existed a small but vocal faction of protestors in the region who resented Chinese control and rule.  Using the state surveillance apparatus, we’d gleaned their whereabouts.  Overhead satellite imagery told us where they convened, an old building in the Shuimogou district above a convenience shop stuck between a clothing store and a rundown Chinese restaurant.  Once they entered the building though, we had no idea what happened inside.

“I don’t understand,” Coleman says.  “In Ürümqi, the people have everything.  The local municipality provides government-sponsored housing and daily food rations for the destitute.  No one goes hungry or without a roof over their heads.  Why are people plotting in secret to overthrow the regime?”

“The discontent and disillusioned are predominately the young, new generation,” says Alan.  “Among the older folks, for decades, there was never a single peep.  But increasingly, as young people return to Ürümqi after studying and working abroad, they’re appalled by what they see in their hometown.”

“Is it possible,” asks Deepak, “to simply restrict all movement in and out of the capital?  Lock down all of the borders and disallow free movement between provincial and city borders?”

Van sighs.  “So obviously, it’s possible.  Anything’s possible.  But if we can help it, we’d prefer not to.”  She taps a few keys on her computer and projection of China springs up on the wall.  Some areas are colored in light pink.  “These colored regions represent potential zones of turmoil by what we’ve been able to observe.  When we operate in Xinjiang, it’s critical to understand that we’re operating under a microscope.  While there is some western press covering Xinjiang, what’s really important is that we don’t provide any fodder to China’s other autonomous regions that would instigate rebellion or action.”

“But you guys control of the media, right?” Coleman asks.  “Why are we worried about this?”

This is my cue.  I’ve actually been studying this data in the last few weeks and my findings aren’t what I expected.

“The Great Firewall of China,” I explain, “is considerable but not impregnable.  In fact, with each passing year, the CCP has actually been losing its ability to control information within the country.  There’s a significant uptick in people using VPNs, among other methods, to circumvent state control.  While once formidable, the sieve is slipping.”

Kristen chuckles.  “Have you ever tried containing the internet?  It’s easier said than done.”

“Right,” says Van.  She turns to Deepak to answer his question.  “So like I was saying earlier.  If we did just shut down all movement in and out of Xinjiang, there’s no way to do that quietly.  We’re talking about closing down border checkpoints, shutting down airports, and barricading all ports of entry.”

“Yeah,” I say.  “And also, you’ll need to enforce it too, which is a whole other project in itself.  There’s gonna be coyotes illegally ferreting people in and out– what are we going to do with these folks?  The Chinese army is just supposed to shoot rulebreakers on sight?”

“Right, and then you just know that some kid’s gonna snap a photo of it with his ancient 3G Huawei phone: his 80-something Grandma being shot in the back as she flees Chinese border patrol on foot–“

“–and that’ll eventually make it onto the frontpage of Reddit, The Post, or worse.”

We all sigh.  This is a puzzle, alright.  Quelling dissent in Xinjiang– but doing it quietly.

Story

The Chinese Dream and Leaving America

eowobbleLeave a comment 295 views
https://aasyp.org/2019/06/24/the-vulnerability-of-xi-jinping-implications-for-regional-relations/
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back at the beginning of October 2020 and contribute ~500 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Five – Passage Five


Leaving America though, if I’m reflecting honestly, was one of the easiest things I’ve ever done.  The thing is– I simply no longer belonged there.  It’d slowly but surely grown into something I no longer recognized, like a favorite sweater that once fit snugly and served you well which you wore for many years.  But then slowly frayed and faded over time until one day, you looked in a mirror, and seriously didn’t like what you saw reflected back.

The truth was, even though America billed itself as a democratic republic, increasingly over the years, the country had grown increasingly autocratic in many ways.  Sure, on paper, it was “one person, one vote” and there theoretically existed those highly vaunted “checks and balances” that you always learned so much about growing up as a kid.

But the reality was that, especially with the first term of the DTJ administration, for all practical purposes, via executive actions, Junior had unilaterally curtailed everything from voting rights to freedom of the press.  America’s founding principles of “every man was created equal” (unless you’re black) had become more a mythological shingle that we hung in front of the shop to avoid any actual public scrutiny.  People saw it every day, was comforted by it, and walked by contented, blissfully ignorant that they were in fact living under an increasingly authoritarian regime wherein all men were definitely not created equal.

I take another bite of my chicken-rice and chew for a moment.  The koi fish in the pond before me swam happily about.  I wonder, briefly, if they even at all realize or comprehend that they’re all in a pond.  Do they believe that the entire koi universe simply stretches the length of their enclosure?

Yet, the koi really are so beautiful.  What Shu said earlier had struck a chord.  Is it such a crime to rely on others?

Maybe I was looking at America the wrong way.  Growing up, we were taught individualism as a prime directive. Be yourself. Everyone’s a snowflake. Everyone’s special.  And sure, one could simply lounge about sipping fancy dry martinis all day and spew bile and reams of discontent at DTJ or whatever poor hapless soul who happened to be in office. That ankle-high bar isn’t a particularly ambitious reach.  But at the crux of it, thinking back about why individualism was such a cornerstone of the American identity– I realize now that there’s a fundamental basis of mistrust behind that core philosophy.

Here in China, I see that people simply trust their government.  The CCP wants to steamroll your ancestral home to make way for the 2008 Beijing Olympics?  Sure, no problem.  The government wants to forcibly relocate your neighborhood to across the province for the new metro line?  Awesome, sign me up.  There was never any pushback. Chinese citizens simply trusted that their government knew what it was doing and that whatever inconveniences or sacrifices that was being asked of them was simply for the greater good. For the Chinese Dream.

.

Now, to be sure, this extreme deference has led to a totalitarian regime that’s curb stomped human rights, enabled forced sterilizations, and sprouted “mandatory reeducation camps.”  But a more glass-half-full read on everything would also fairly conclude that the vast majority of Chinese citizens did have enough to eat, had jobs, and had roofs over their heads.  And ever since the Chinese economy entered a “hybrid-pseudo-capitalistic-model,” the younger working generations in the major urban centers like Beijing and Shanghai now also had a way to constantly save up and buy the latest iPhone, PlayStation, or whatever shiny-new-toy-of-the-week.  Consumerism was slowly becoming the new frontier now that Maslow’s basics needs were increasingly being met.

So, in short:  America to me had grown increasingly into a place where we didn’t trust our leaders.  We didn’t trust our most educated, men and women who had trained for decades to hone a specific expertise.  In America, we believed in equality– freedom of speech had allowed everyone a seat at the table.  And then the internet and social media had given everyone megaphones so we could hear everyone’s voice equally.

But did I really want to live in this world?  A world where everyone had an equal voice?  Where the pot-smoking teenager in his mother’s basement had the same amplification and audience as Nobel-winning laurates?

Story

Koi

eowobbleLeave a comment 323 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back at the beginning of October 2020 and contribute ~500 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Five – Passage Four


Kristen closes the lid of her MacBook and rubs her eyes.  “Guys, let’s give it a break,” she says.  “We’ve been going at it for three hours now.  I need a breather.” 

I look up at the clock and see that it’s indeed nearing noon.  Somehow, the entire morning has whizzed by in a complete blur.  Funny how time flies when one is nation-building and I hear my own stomach grumble.  Nothing whets your appetite like playing God, after all. 

Van nods.  “Let’s take twenty, everyone.  It’s Tuesday which means the chicken-rice cart ought be out on the main lawn if you want to get some air.  I recommend it.” 

I grab my jacket and head outside.  Nothing stands between a man and good chicken-rice.

.

Outside the air’s crisp and cool.  It’s September and autumn’s in full swing here in Jinshui.  The grounds of the office park is built to emulate traditional Japanese koi ponds dating back to fifth century BC and I stop my amble a moment to admire the little red and golden fish swimming around.  It’s an ocean of vibrant orange, white, and vermillion.

“They look pretty happy, don’t they?” 

Shu walks up from behind me and kneels by the water’s edge.  I see in her hand she has a small knit pouch of something and she flicks a handful into the pond.  Ah, it’s fish food.  The koi swarm in and it’s a complete feeding frenzy.

“I guess so,” I say, watching the koi fight over the flecks.  “It must be pretty nice to just be able to laze around all day and get free food.  Never having to worry about being hunted or needing to fight to survive.”

Shu laughs.  It’s soft, proper laugh, the kind that is polite and trained.  Back from a time when young women attended finishing schools and learned about manners from stern headmistresses and textbooks.

“These koi are domesticated.  They’ve won the genetic lottery.  Because of their beauty, they’ve come to mean prosperity and good luck.”  She smiles.  “It’s win-win for everyone.”

“It’s good if you can get it,” I say, shrugging.  “But these fish wouldn’t last two seconds in the wild.  Their bright colors would make them instant fodder.  They only live such good lives because they’ve got sugar mommas and daddies fending off the wildebeests.”

“Is that such a crime to rely on others?”  Shu asks.  She stands and walks away, leaving me with a distinct feeling that I’ve somehow offended her.  But my stomach resumes its growling and I have no more time to overthink the situation.  It’s chicken-rice time.

Van was right.  The chicken-rice is positively sublime.  It comes in a litter-sized Styrofoam container that I’m confident undoubtedly contributes towards climate change once it’s discarded into some monstrous landfill that’s likely the size of Mount Fuji but that might as well be the story of mankind.  Enjoy the moment today and kick the can down the road.  Different day; someone else’s problem.

I have no idea where everyone’s wandered off to, but I take a beat to simply bask in this moment of being alone.  There’s a bench by one of the footbridges that’s off the cobblestone path.  It’s out of the way and secluded so I decide to eat lunch there.  Everywhere, the trees and foliage have all turned red and orange and leaves rustle in the slight breeze.  As a child growing up, China was always a distant land which may well have been a completely different planet.  Growing up in the rustbelt Midwest of America, I’d never imagined in my days of youth that I’d one day be in China.  Working for communists, nonetheless.  I chuckle.  Unbelievable.  What would that Dexter of yesteryear think of the Dexter of now?  Traitor to America?  Betrayer of the red, white, and blue?

Story

Sheeple

eowobbleLeave a comment 296 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back at the beginning of October 2020 and contribute ~500 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Five – Passage Three


“Jesus, calm down,” says Deepak, “no one here’s even remotely considering anything like that.  Besides, like Van said earlier, that sort of ‘hard-power’ move only works initially.  It only gets you so far.  Eventually, the poor slaves in the galleys will all kinda look at each other and realize that they’re being trampled upon by artificially-imposed scarcity.  And once that happens, you’re gonna get Spartacus on your hands, which ends exactly how you’d imagine.”

“What we need to watch out for,” says Katherine, “is the ten percent.”  She says this while staring intently at a donut which she’s speared with a fork off the breakfast spread.  The intensity of her gaze seems to suggest that she’s about the untangle some grand mystery of the universe.

“The ten percent?”  Coleman looks perplexed.  “Ten percent of what exactly?”

“In any given population,” Kat continues, “ninety percent of your people will be followers.  Maybe not always happy.  But they’ll be obedient.  As long as they’re ensured safety, food, and shelter, they’ll fall in line and do as they’re told.  The mass of men are not leaders.  Leading is difficult.  And annoying.  It’s a burdensome and thankless job.”

Van nods.  It’s the nod of a kindred soul whose been in the trenches.  Beside her, Coleman swivels around in his office chair, looking clueless.

“Ah.  And the other ten percent?” I ask.

“The other ten is the potential for trouble.  These are your aspiring revolutionaries, your dreamers, the wide-eyed and the eager.  People who’ll harp on about the grandeur of democracy and equality.  Young folk who grew up having never worked a single day of their lives and instead read James Baldwin and Malcolm X on Mommy and Daddy’s dime.”

Deepak nods.  “Your Gandhis and your Kings.  The Jeffersons and Adams of the world.”

“Exactly,” Van agrees.  “Without leaders, people degenerate to their native and primordial form– the common sheep.”

“Alright,” I say, “some gross and sweepingly broad generalizations notwithstanding, let’s say we run with Kat’s idea.  So what exactly?  You’re not thinking of more starvation and disappearance campaigns, I hope.”

“Tsk, tsk,” Van shakes her head.  “Honestly, you think such awful things about my nature.  On the contrary, it’s in fact the exact opposite.  We devise a system to reward the outliers and would-be changemakers.  Scholarships and job opportunities abroad.  We export them out of China.”

The moment Van describes her idea, I immediately realize there is merit in her thinking.  By appealing to the self-interest of the excellent and ambitious, it’s possible to use a carrot and simply lure them away.  No sticks necessary. It’s promising and the idea I like best so far, as it doesn’t require forced starvation or genocide.

“But how do we do that, exactly?” asks Katherine.  “Academic decathlons?  National competitions?”

“No, rewarding scholastic aptitude won’t work,” says Alan.  “In fact, many of the best test-takers and highest scorers, our data has repeatedly shown, are in fact the least capable of independent thought.  They are beneficiaries of China’s rigorous standardized testing system and destined for government sinecures and riches.  Many are from wealthy families as well who obviously possess a healthy interest in maintaining the status quo.  Almost entirely across the board, they’re the least likely to shake the boat.”

“So basically,” Coleman summarizes, “the valedictorians are sheeple and non-threats.  It’s the rebels and dropouts that we need to watch out for.”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

Appreciation / Bagel / Contemplation / Daily Life

Inventors

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Inventors are a breed of people whom I have long admired.  There’s something enormously empowering about moving through the world, noticing that something is lacking, and then feeling confident and capable enough to think to oneself, “Huh.  I can fix this.”  And then proceeding to just fix it and reify your imagination into reality.

Years ago, in a different lifetime, my company once dispatched me to some conference in some great wild yonder.  I don’t remember the details at all; like, I literally don’t even remember what the whole event was even about anymore.  (Such is the hazy reliance of human memory, alas.)  But I do remember one single memory:  That morning I was sitting in the little dining area adjoined to the lobby, enjoying the hotel’s complimentary breakfast spread and leisurely perusing the morning’s paper.  It was some local rag, the kind I always enjoyed flipping through whenever I traveled.  There was a certain feeling of total voyeuristic locality that I always loved.  Ha!  Here’s what’s going on in town!  I’m one of the people!  And for whatever reason, a small article caught my eye:  “Local man gets fed up and builds steps at town park on his own.”  The exact wording of the headline escapes me now, but the gist of the writeup was that there was this sexagenarian who always strolled the town’s park every day.  And the dirt walking path in the park apparently had an easement that was quite steep not easily navigable for older folks.

Well, for years, this sexagenarian –a war vet; or at least someone who had served, if I recall right– had bugged the local municipal government to build some steps on the easement.  It was steep!  Dangerous for old folk, especially!  Well, for years, the town did nothing.  So one day, at the crack of dawn before anyone was up and about, this old geezer just takes a bunch of wooden boards, a hammer, and a bucket of nails to the park and builds his own steps!

Of course, once the town learned about it, they sent engineers to tear the whole thing down (“not to code”), which I think everyone generally expected.  (Governments can do great things.  But often, they’re much more adept at impeding and destroying rather than building!)  But it was the principle of the matter.  That old dude tried to follow all of the right procedures, saw nothing was being done, and finally just did everything himself!  Yeah!

This morning, I had my own bout of two-handed-can-do-attitude as well. My stupefying, unbridled genius was restless for a fresh, new challenge.  Later this evening, Mal is coming over for “artistic-foreign-movie-night.”  She and Bagel wanted to watch something and while I rooted for a Vin Diesel or The Rock vehicle, I was soundly rebuffed and summarily shot down.  The only wrinkle in our planned endeavor though is that Mal is Chinese and her English isn’t the greatest.  So I needed to obtain Chinese subtitles for whatever we’d be watching.  Well, we ended up selecting Certified Copy which is a 2010 art film by the Iranian writer and director, Abbas Kiarostami.  (Not exactly Michael Bay, but alas, I was outnumbered. ☹️)

Anyway, getting to the point:  Certified Copy is a French movie and features significant spoken portions in French and Italian, in addition to English.  So if we were gonna make this work, Bagel and I also needed English subtitles.  We basically needed dual-track subtitles for this foreign film.

Dear Reader, let me assure you:  I looked everywhere.  Dual-subtitled video doesn’t exist for purchase or rent anywhere!

I tried Amazon Prime, Netflix, as well as our local library.  And while our library had a Criterion Collection edition of Certified Copy, there was nothing that featured dual-track subtitles.  Anyway, fast-forwarding to the end, by using VLC, Google, and sheer force of will and perseverance, after spending all morning on it, I figured everything out!

Where there’s a will, there’s a way! ✊

Mwhahaha!  Sure, maybe not quite on the level of inventing the lightbulb or the printing press.  But I’d like to think I channeled some of my inner-Edison and Guttenberg this morning.  They’d be proud.  😀😄😁

Story

Anyone Can Be William Wallace

eowobbleLeave a comment 267 views
NOTE: This is an ongoing original fiction story that I’m currently writing. I started writing this fictional story back at the beginning of October 2020 and contribute ~500 words to it every day on this blog. I didn’t outline the story at all going into it but it’s slowly evolved into a tale about a data scientist in his mid-thirties from America who finds himself summoned to China where’s he’s been offered a job to work for the Chinese Communist Party on a project monitoring the Uyghurs in the Chinese “autonomous region” of Xinjiang. In China, the story’s protagonist, Dexter Fletcher, meets other professionals who’ve also been brought in from abroad to help consult on the project. My story takes place several decades in the future and explores human rights, privacy in an age of ever-increasing state-surveillance, and differences between competing dichotomies: democracy vs communism, eastern vs western political philosophies, and individual liberties vs collective security. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to read more, my fiction story starts here.

Chapter Five – Passage Two


“I’ve done more with less,” Van says delicately.  “Besides, I think we’ve got the right stuff here.”

She moves to the front of the lounge and pours herself a new mug of coffee.  For the life of me, I cannot imagine where this is possibly going.  Not to toot my own horn too much, but I consider myself a man of considerable imagination.  (Fan fiction, after all, is one of my strong suits.  North American Top 100, right here. ✊)  But even my own wide-ranging imaginative wonder is having some difficulty surmising how all this is going to come together.

“Generally speaking,” Van starts, “a population is vulnerable to authoritarian rule only under very specific conditions.  The easiest way to think about this is in terms of what the population in question needs.

“If the target population is destitute and living in abject famine, a totalitarian ruler will initially be able win over the people simply with food, fresh water, safety, and shelter.  In this first phase, no one cares about human rights, free speech, or democracy.”

“Sure,” Katherine nods.  “That totally makes sense.  You can’t eat human rights.  And democracy will not feed neither you nor your starving family.”

“The ability to really dig in and endure a long-running war of attrition is paramount too,” Van adds as she waves a beignet covered in powdered sugar around, picking it off the breakfast spread that’s on the folding table.  “Anyone can suffer or even die valiantly for the cause in the heat of the moment, going out in a blaze of glory that’s forever immortalized in memory and song.”  Van scrunches up her face for a moment, trying to remember something.  “Basically, that bad anti-Semitic man in that one Scottish movie.”

It takes me a minute.  “Wait, you mean Mel Gibson?  William Wallace from Braveheart?”

Alan snaps his fingers.  “That’s it!”  He gives a nod of approval, to no one in particular.  “You Americans do make really great movies though.  I’ll give you that.”

Coleman makes a face.  I can’t tell exactly what’s perplexed him.  (Probably, all of it.)  Also, he still has the thousand-yard stare of a young man on Cloud 9, after a hard night of one too many mojitos.

“Yeah, anyone can be William Wallace,” says Van shrugging.  “You just suffer excruciating pain for maybe ten minutes while your intestines are being pulled out, yell something memorable, die, and then you’ll be subsequently be made a martyr immortalized for time immemorial.  Easy-peasy.”

“Uh,” Coleman mumbles, “I don’t… that’s not so easy, actually…”  Poor kid.

“The point,” continues Van starting in on a second powdered beignet, “is that ‘flash-in-the-pan courage’ is nothing.  Every wanna-be Che Guevara’s got that in him.  What’s an infinitely heavier lift is asking a man to watch his small children starve and die slowly from starvation and malnutrition for weeks and months on end.  That’s the kinda sacrifice that most are unable to make.  That takes real conviction.  A conviction that precious few possess.”

I hold up my hands.  “Whoa.  Hold up.  Stop the Crazy Express.  I didn’t sign up for no ‘Operation-Starve-the-Children’ here.  That’s a big, fat red line for me.  Next idea.”