Category Archives: Xinjiang

Xinjiang: A Pokemon Journey to America (Part Three)

This is the third and final post in a brief, un-academic series about my personal experience of living in China’s troubled Xinjiang region, and the censorship both online and offline that it entailed. This functions largely as a final whimsical anecdote and a conclusion. You can read the background information here, and several other anecdotes from my time in China here.

I previously wrote about having my phone service shut down for using a Virtual Private Network to circumvent the ‘Great Firewall’ and use Facebook, Skype, and other foreign apps.

Well eventually Pokemon Go released, which several foreigners in my social circle downloaded and started playing. Given that Pokemon Go makes use of Google services to function, this was only possible by running the game through a VPN–the same kind that got me shut down several months before.

In an English class one day I discussed starter Pokemon choices with some of my students. They informed me that Pokemon Go was an American conspiracy to locate military bases in China. These students still played it anyways, though.

Not eager to be an unwilling participant in a supposed clandestine mapmaking operation, but a childhood lover of Pokemon, I knew I had to get back online.

A friend helped me register my passport with different cellphone carrier from the one that had shut me down, and I finally bought a new SIM card. By that time we knew I would be leaving China within a few months anyhow, so I went for broke and kept my VPN on 24/7. I didn’t end up getting shut down a second time, though it’s possible that if I had stayed it would have happened eventually.

What was curious to me was that while playing the game, I regularly found evidence of other players active in my area, despite having to use a VPN for it to work, and reports that it wasn’t supposed to function in China at all. One day I decided to use the in-game clues (active lure modules) to find others who were playing. After an hour of wandering from pokestop to pokestop, and setting a few lures of my own to draw out other players, I ran across three young guys in front of a movie theatre. It suddenly dawned on me that my Chinese vocabulary included exactly zero Pokemon terms. In the end I simply showed them my phone and smiled. They showed me theirs and laughed, and we all spent about ten minutes trying to get to an inconveniently placed pokestop. 

I wish I could properly follow up on Pokemon Go in Xinjiang. The number of players I found evidence of in Xinjiang was initially surprising, but it shouldn’t have been. The Chinese are notorious for their zealous adoption of mobile games, and the restrictions on Pokemon Go were relatively easy to circumvent. I even had a ten year old ask me to recommend a VPN service one day after class. 

I later learned that at that time Pokemon Go was unplayable even with a VPN in most of China, even in major cities like Beijing and Shanghai. But it was functioning well enough in Xinjiang, one of the more sensitive and closely-controlled regions. I never made sense of that.

I’ve now taken my Pokemon adventure (and the more mundane aspects of my life) out of China. But there are certain remnants of the surveillance and censorship apparatus that stick with you even outside the country.

When I visited my father over Christmas, for example, he picked me up from the airport and we went straight to a restaurant for breakfast. “What’s Xinjiang like, then? Do the people there want independence like in Tibet?*” he said. My stomach twisted and I instinctively checked the restaurant to see who might have heard. Of course nobody present cared.

(* – This is an oversimplification of the Tibet situation, but this post isn’t about that)

A Chinese Christian friend of mine related a similar experience she had: after years of fantasizing about boldly professing her religion, when she finally moved to America she simply could not feel comfortable praying without drawing the blinds first. Similarly, my girlfriend has physically recoiled once or twice when I spoke the name of a well-known Chinese dissident out loud in our thin-walled apartment. Every time she’s caught herself and said aloud “Oh, right. Nobody cares here.”

China is not Oceania; there is not really anything like thoughtcrime. But there are speechcrimes. And when certain things are spoken, especially in a full voice, you know in your stomach that those words could get someone in trouble if the speaker isn’t careful.

Before I moved to Xinjiang I had it in my mind that I might like to study Western China when I eventually return to school to pursue a Masters in Anthropology. But now I’m no longer certain if I can: as alluded to already, I met a wonderful woman in Xinjiang. We’ve been together for more than a year now, and we moved to the US now so she can attend a graduate program. While we will certainly return to Xinjiang in the future, the continuing presence of her family there, as well as my girlfriend’s Chinese passport make me ever-conscious of Chinese government’s attitude toward those who are critical. Even though I am against extremism of all kinds, and believe that independence would fly against the interests of those living in Xinjiang, the caveats I would attach to those positions are likely unacceptable to the regime.

And so, perhaps even what I’ve written here is too much to say.

If you have questions or requests for clarification please don’t hesitate to comment below. And as a good friend regularly says: “Every day’s a school day,” so if you’d like to suggest a correction, or a resource or if you otherwise take issue with something I’ve said, please don’t hesitate to comment either. If there is interest, I would love to contribute to Socionocular again.

Xinjiang: Internet Censorship Laboratory (Part One)

I recently completed eighteen months of living in China’s far-western province of Xinjiang. As part of the coming-home process I contacted Kyle and offered to write a brief account of my experience in the ‘internet censorship laboratory of the world.’ What follows is a whirlwind of thoughts, opinions, and personal anecdotes that I will be the first to admit require much fact-checking and cross-referencing. Please consider them pages torn from my personal journal and shared with readers of Socionocular for their curiosity value.

One random day in mid-2014 three of my soon-to-be coworkers received text messages from the propaganda bureau of Ürümqi, the capital of Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region in far western China. The messages reminded them that foreigners weren’t to be trusted, and that they must not share secrets with outsiders.

Which foreigners were these good Chinese citizens supposed to be wary of? And what secrets did three English teachers possess that could possibly compromise the safety of the nation? When later I asked these questions I betrayed my newcomer status. I would eventually conclude that all foreigners are suspect, especially in Xinjiang, and that the point is not so much to safeguard secrets as much as it’s to maintain the atmosphere of low-grade xenophobia.

The question that possessed my local friends was more pointed: why them? Broadcast text messages signed by the propaganda bureau weren’t uncommon, but this message was specific in its content and its recipients. For one, even though there were numerous foreigners working out of that office, only three of the more than two dozen Chinese staff got this particular message. As they chatted about it over lunch, they tried to work it out. One girl was dating a foreigner; the other was sleeping with one; the third was very close to a foreigner in a chaste, conservative Christian un-relationship that everyone could see through. But other staff had been so close with foreigners before. Besides, who would have been interested but inconspicuous enough to report these various liaisons to the propaganda bureau? And why would they bother?

The conclusion they eventually arrived at was that all three had used their ID cards to buy a SIM card for ‘their’ foreigner. That was the link.

And the phone company and Propaganda Bureau were evidently watching closely enough to notice.

To sign up for social media in China, most popular services require authentication using a mobile phone. In order to get a mobile number, one must register their government ID with the phone company before being given an activated SIM card. If the pieces fit together correctly anonymity is impossible on the Chinese internet. While I have friends who assure me that one can sever a link in this chain elsewhere in China, it’s much more difficult in Xinjiang.

The reason is, I suspect, that the stakes are higher in Xinjiang for the government, and so the fist is a little tighter. Like Tibet, Xinjiang is an autonomous region principally populated by China’s minorities, not the majority-everywhere-else Han. The Uyghurs who lend their name to the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region are a majority-muslim turkic ethnic group who share neither language nor culture with Beijing. The history of the region is complex, and contested, and supporting the wrong narrative or questioning the ‘right’ one is considered subversion.

20th century Xinjiang has been marked by episodes of pan-turkic, and separatist thought. There were two abortive independent states declared in the past century, both called East Turkestan. Both collapsed quickly. In the 21st century Beijing has bundled separatism with extremism and terrorism, labeling them ‘The Three Evils‘ which must be opposed at every level of society. The official line, packaged with China’s notorious control over the mainstream media has had the result of conflating each of the three evils with each-other.

The result of the party’s stranglehold on most of the news-media in China (if you’re curious, read The Party Line by Doug Young) is that the really interesting stuff is happening online. In China, the internet and social media have become somewhat of a haven for off-message thinking, mostly in the form of jokes. As mentioned, true anonymity is difficult on Chinese social media, but the Chinese language’s rich ability to cast puns has been used as a tool to avoid automated censorship, and make subtle jabs at those in power.

But the government has some surprisingly grassroots-seeming tactics of it’s own, such as its ability to rouse patriots to comment on the internet to support the party (mostly in Chinese, but also in other language). The use of paid government commenters is also an open secret. These paid internet posters are derogatorily called 五毛 (‘wǔmáo’), meaning ‘five mao’ (a unit of currency) because that is supposedly the going rate for one internet post (.5is about $.07 USD).

Ultimately, though, China is also willing to throw the switch completely. Similar to how Egypt did in the wake of protests in early 2011, China took all of Xinjiang offline in 2009 for 10 months in the wake of the Urumqi riots.

I’m sure you can imagine that in this atmosphere it’s impossible to take others at face-value unless you are very close with them. Very often people will claim apathy or ignorance when asked uncomfortable questions, or echo the official line even if they roll their eyes while doing so. Contrary opinions are not shared easily, and paranoia is pervasive.

There is much I haven’t even touched on, some of which has been discussed at length by others (such as the Great Firewall blocking Chinese citizens’ access to many foreign websites). Instead of repeating myself (or others), I’ll conclude this introduction to the situation here. Shortly I will follow up with another post containing a series of anecdotes which touch on this self-censorship and paranoia.