.. it's from the San Francisco Chronicle
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PUBLIC HEALTH
Sickness Makes a City a Ghost Town
Love in the time of SARS
Marcus Anthony Sunday, May 11, 2003
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Beijing -- My girlfriend, Ping, her best friend Oyang, and I dined out
together a couple weeks ago. We were sitting in one of the restaurants in
the Chaoyang District that was still open, although patronage had slowed to
a trickle. The discussion, of course, was about SARS.
I told Oyang, 27, and Ping, 28, that I was not afraid of the dreaded SARS.
Every month in China, 12,000 people die in car accidents, 12,000 in
workplace accidents, and 20,000 more from all forms of pneumonia. Why should
I be afraid of a disease that -- in a city of 13 million -- had killed only
40? "The panic is totally irrational at a mathematical level," I stated
forcefully.
Oyang nodded politely and ate nervously. And that was the last I saw of her.
A week later, the restaurants are empty. So is the posh Pacific Century
Plaza where rumor has it someone died of SARS. Strolling through the
multifloor complex, I am reminded of scenes from a Craig Harrison novel,
"The Quiet Earth," where everyone has died and there is but one man left
alive.
I take a taxi home. The taxi approaches the compound where my apartment is
situated. But the guard at the gate will not let the taxi through. It is
unclear why. Taxis have always been allowed to pass through into the
compound. Just another one of the many SARS changes that seemingly have no
rationale.
Ping greets me with a hug. I tell her that there is trouble brewing at the
international school where I work as an English teacher. Despite the
government's decision to close all public schools for two weeks, the
management of my school has decided to stay open. With only 22 confirmed
SARS cases among 1.7 million students in Beijing, closing the school is
unnecessary,
the management says. But about 50 scared and disgruntled teachers met in a
rebel meeting after school, and discussed ways in which to take matters into
their own hands. Some are talking about resigning and leaving the country.
I ask Ping if she wants to go out, but she is reluctant.
"Come on," I say. "You can invite Oyang along."
"Oyang doesn't want to see you again," Ping informs me. She tells me that
Oyang doesn't not want to have any contact with me because I am not taking
SARS seriously enough, and that I am a health risk. Oyang thinks that I am
placing Ping's life at risk with my careless attitude. She has also asked
Ping to leave me and move in with her.
Ping assures me she will not move in with Oyang. Instead, she will return to
her family, in the far northeast of China. She is not afraid of SARS, she
says, but there is nothing for her to do since her office building has
closed down.
Finally, after some persuasion, I talk Ping into going out. We go to the
vibrant Latinos Club. At least it used to be vibrant. We sneak a look in the
door and see perhaps six people in a bar that usually contained hundreds.
We scurry off to another bar, and then another, and then another. But it is
more of the same. The capital of China is a ghost town.
The only bar that is bustling and vibrant is the Goose and Duck. But there
are no Chinese there, who usually comprise about 30 percent of the
patronage. Now, it is full of expats like me.
TV stations here devote almost all their news broadcasts to SARS. On one
station the broadcaster assures us that while the situation is challenging,
hospitals and medical authorities are dealing well with the situation. We
are shown scenes of Beijing hospitals where the entire staff and all
patients have been quarantined. The camera shows smiling nurses sitting
behind the gates. The voice-over assures us that those quarantined are in
good spirits and "are not panicking." Having seen the panic in the general
population, the comment sounds, at best, inane.
There was a time when Chinese people believed most of what their leaders
told them. This crisis has shown that the Chinese are no longer willing to
blindly believe the party propaganda.
The next morning Ping returns from the bus station. All tickets are sold
out. She cannot leave today. She tells me that she will rise even earlier
the next day and go buy the ticket. She doesn't know when she can return.
All buses to Beijing have been canceled, not because of government
imposition, but because no one wants to come here anymore.
It is Sunday morning and flowers are in bloom everywhere. I walk Ping to the
roadside where she can take a cab to the bus station. As a cab pulls up, I
kiss her on the forehead because her white surgical mask covers her lower
face.
I don't know when I will see her again.
I feel a mixture of emotions as the cab disappears into the distance.
Sadness. And perhaps something else pushing its way up through my stomach.
It feels like fear. But no. That would be irrational.
Marcus Anthony teaches English in Beijing. He wrote this piece for Pacific
News Service.
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