25 Years Ago, Nothing Happened Here. Move Along.

I arrived in Beijing late on the night of June 3rd. The city was somber. I was to meet up with Galen, the photographer, the next day. It was almost midnight when I made it into town. The first hotel I tried rejected me. They could not take foreigners, they said. They had hung a sign out advertising their hotel entirely in English. Move along.

Blue Skies

The next hotel took me in. Laying my bags against the bed, I wandered around the city for a few more hours, getting my bearings. It had been almost five years since I had been in Beijing.

The next day, June 4th, I decided to go to Tiananmen Square. It is the tourist thing to do. Living in Beijing for half a year, I had rarely taken my passport anywhere with me, though it is technically required by law. Recognizing that June 4th was the most sensitive date on China’s unspoken calendar of sensitive dates, I decided to take it with me.

Nothing happened here

When I arrived at Tiananmen, they had set up white gates controlling access to the Square. “Passport.” A large man in a blue police uniform ordered. “Chinese visa.” He examined my papers and then waved me towards the security counter. He was checking my visa to make sure that I did not have a Journalist Visa. No journalists were allowed onto Tiananmen on June 4th. Why would journalists need to be in the Square that day? Nothing happened here. Move along.

25 years ago, the last remnants for a protest movement did not huddle on these stairs to exit the Square.

I wandered around the Square for half an hour, getting the requisite photos with Mao’s portrait. I am not a great smiler, but I tried to smile as ridiculously as possible. No reason not to smile. Nothing happened here.

An Irishman approached me, wearing a yellow shirt with “WTF?”printed on it. “Can you take a photo of me?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “By the way, I like your shirt.”

“You get it? I thought I’d give those bastards the finger.” The Irishman said, looking over the photo I had taken of him.
I smiled. “Nothing happened here. Move along.” He winked at me and disappeared into the masses of tourists weaving their way beneath Mao’s portrait.

How many surveillance cameras can you count?

On the square, police officers were approaching Westerners randomly, checking their papers. Somehow I escaped their eye exercise.

Walking around the Square, I realized that some of them were journalists. When I had entered the Square, I had watched the proper authorities scrutinizing a Frenchman’s papers, his Chinese partner looking on. They were both dressed as though they were trying to look like tourists. Twenty minutes later, when I left the Square, I heard the Frenchman and his Chinese partner asking Chinese tourists what they thought about what they were being told did not happen here twenty-five years before. The old Chinese couple they questioned was not interested. They waved their hands. “Nothing happened here,” they said, moving along.

Happy Days!