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Some readers have complained that they want less political commentary here. It’s certainly not my intention to make this a political blog, so I’ll regress to some writing that’s about 16 months old.

Those that know the story already will have to forgive the repetition, as I have not been lucky enough to break any bones recently.

In November 2006 I broke my arm while playing table tennis. I decided to undergo the required surgery in Luoyang rather than go home for a less interesting experience. This is my account of the first of four days incarceration in a Chinese hospital.

Day 1

Not unexpectedly, the novelty of foreign flesh to carve up on the operating table and the connections of the Dean pushed my name further up the hospital waiting list than my injuries warranted. There’s absolutely nothing I could do about this other than to refuse treatment altogether; or perhaps that’s just the rationale of a guilty conscience. Either way, they found me a bed almost as quickly as they began charging. Be advised, exchanging informal greetings with a doctor in a Chinese hospital comes with a consultation fee. Even the simplest requests find their way onto the bill, a fact that would have bothered me more if these expenses had not been met by the medical terms of my contract. For the vast majority of people in this country it’s a ‘pay or die’ health care system, and most of them can’t raise the extortionate cost of treatment when ailments are life-threatening. Hospitals are strictly profit making organisations.

My ‘ward’ turned out to be a two-bed holding room for emergency cases that was situated next door to the nurse station. The other occupant, Mr Du, appeared to be in more pieces than a jigsaw. ‘No can du’ would have seemed more appropriate, somehow. During the first two days, before his transfer to another ward, Mr Du was a picture of suffering, especially when his wife was giving him his daily scolding. She would saunter in at about lunchtime and begin a hands-on inspection of her husband’s injuries. Mr Du was audibly distressed but in no condition to demand that his wife give him his trousers back. Thankfully for the unfortunate Du, his nephew was an always present and helpful companion.

Xu Shao Lin, a thoroughly delectable nurse with zero English (or zero inclination to practise), was the first of several to take my blood pressure and temperature, after which she performed a gentle massage above and below the limits of my plaster cast – a sort of rub down from a woman in uniform without the sleaze factor. A promising start, I hear you say. The dream was soon shattered, as I knew it would be, when I made my first visit to the tenth-floor facilities. I held on to the vision of Xu Shao Lin for as long as possible, but we all have to go in the end.

Emptying the bladder was possible with extreme focus and determination. However, if you are anything like me, the prospect of taking a very open dump in cold, damp, unsanitary conditions surrounded by curious onlookers is enough to close the door of even the most relaxed orifice. Inadequate numbers of urinals and only a couple of holes in the floor drove patients and visitors (not that they need much encouragement) to do whatever, wherever. Every receptacle was overflowing with the sludge of a thousand mixed samples. Cleaners periodically soaked up the excess with their mops before using the collected moisture to wipe footprints from the corridor, a most effective way of killing two birds – and possibly a few patients – with one stone.

Thankfully, fortune occasionally favours the desperate. Opposite the hospital was a small hotel that I felt sure could solve my bathroom requirements. With Monica’s help and my insistence, a deal was reached for the use of a room for three hours per day (no visit, no fee) for the duration of my residence in the hospital. The hotel was seedy at best, but room 308 seemed like a vision of paradise compared to the hospital facilities. With the exception of the day I chose to shave, I’d emerge from the room with a satisfied glow in less than one hour, an expression that I’m sure was misinterpreted by the numerous maids eager to see what state I’d left the room in.

The first night was an ordeal of boredom rather than discomfort. Family Du favoured lights-out before nine o’clock and snoring until dawn. He was in bad shape, so I wasn’t about to compromise his need for rest with my need for entertainment. Consequently, I took to wandering the other hospital floors and departments, finding amusement in the faces of the countless patients in the bed-lined corridors. I think I frightened a few of those for whom the existence of foreigners was confirmed for the first time.

Update

Great post from David over at Silk Road International about the China hospital experience.

Jeremiah is once again doing a great job of advancing the understanding of current events in a historical context. I recommend the whole piece, but here’s a taster:

The Qing Dynasty (1644-1912) is a good place to start as the Manchus did maintain garrisons on the ?ibetan plateau while administering the region through local elites. The Qing rulers, great patrons of Lamamism, consolidated their rule by maintaining cultural and religious ties with ?ibet beyond mere military occupation. They also–generally but not always–ruled with a light touch, allowing relative autonomy in religious and cultural matters, which suited the situation quite well. The Qing Dynasty was, after all, a large, multi-ethnic empire, and maintaining order and peace in outlying territories was the utmost concern.

The problem is that the PRC is a nation-state, and the demands a nation-state places on its people are different than those of an empire. It is not enough that Tibetans merely pay taxes and not revolt, they must also identify with the nation-state first and foremost, with other cultural and religious aspects secondary to the demands of modern state building. Empires want to be respected, nation-states want to be loved. That’s a sticky wicket the Qing never had to face.

This is a telling point. The CCP have always demanded allegiance and have often demonstrated brutality when they don’t get it. Intolerance towards the true feelings of Tibetans with regard to their cultural and spiritual leanings is one example. The latest evidence of this has been the petulant demonisation of the Dalai Lama by China’s leaders, and the requirement of Tibetan students in Beijing to denounce His Holiness:

They are required to provide four answers, Tibetan sources told The Times. First, they must write a reply to the question “What position does the Dalai Lama occupy in your heart?” Second, they must provide the address and place of work of their parents. Third, they must give details of their own identity card. Finally, they must guarantee not to take part in any political activities.

The recent violence should be condemned, as should some of the actions and policies in the last 50 years of Tibetan history that lie at the heart of the current problems. But forcing citizens to swear ‘loyalty to the emperor’ can only be seen as a backward step in a progressive society. This move would be embarrassing even if it was a joke. We know that it’s not a joke because the CCP don’t have a sense of humour, much less respect for free thought.

Whatever the geopolitical reality is for the Tibetan region, its marginalised indigenous population regard their land as being occupied by unwanted forces. There are two alternatives open to the Chinese government. One is to enter into a meaningful dialogue that will produce a framework acceptable to both Beijing and the Tibetan people, a dialogue that must include the Dalai Lama. The other is to drive every last vestige of cultural identity from the hearts and minds of the Tibetan people. Indications so far are that Beijing favours the latter approach.