The Long Road from China

Two decades have passed since mainland China was “liberated” and subsequently closed its doors to the world. The government has changed; the language altered; the whole fabric of an ancient culture has been shredded. The children of the revolution have grown up, presumably a new breed, yet something in them which has somehow managed to survive continues to ache, throbbing just beneath the surface. Many in the New China are disenchanted, the disillusioned in a land where all are encouraged to dispossess. For these there is really only one way short of suicide to say no, to beat the system. They must give up their homeland.

In general, one escapes from China in three ways—by foot, by boat or by swimming. But regardless of the method, one must first of all reach the jumping-off point in the province of Kwantung, to which in better times people traveled from the remotest parts of the nation to dine in its largest city, Canton. (It is said that a princely life consists in being born in Soochow, where the climate produces China’s handsomest people; in dining in Canton, because of the richness of its soil and its proximity to the sea; in having one’s raiment made in Hongchow, where the silk is unmatched in delicacy; and in dying in Lowchow, because its beautiful woods provide a durable resting place.) But Kwantung has changed, and it is now best known as the first stage in expatriation.

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Robin C. C. Wu

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Two decades have passed since mainland China was “liberated” and subsequently closed its doors to the world. The government has changed; the language altered; the whole fabric of an ancient culture has been shredded. The children of the revolution have grown up, presumably a new breed, yet something in them which has somehow managed to survive continues to ache, throbbing just beneath the surface. Many in the New China are disenchanted, the disillusioned in a land where all are encouraged to dispossess. For these there is really only one way short of suicide to say no, to beat the system. They must give up their homeland.

In general, one escapes from China in three ways—by foot, by boat or by swimming. But regardless of the method, one must first of all reach the jumping-off point in the province of Kwantung, to which in better times people traveled from the remotest parts of the nation to dine in its largest city, Canton. (It is said that a princely life consists in being born in Soochow, where the climate produces China’s handsomest people; in dining in Canton, because of the richness of its soil and its proximity to the sea; in having one’s raiment made in Hongchow, where the silk is unmatched in delicacy; and in dying in Lowchow, because its beautiful woods provide a durable resting place.) But Kwantung has changed, and it is now best known as the first stage in expatriation.