Wish You Happy Forever (31 page)

We sold our house in Berkeley.

ZZ and I were on the road almost nonstop. Besides running our programs in twenty-eight orphanages, watching small miracles happen for children every day, perpetually fundraising, and managing a growing team of field supervisors, teachers, youth mentors, foster parents, and nannies, we were working with our program directors to develop a comprehensive training curriculum for caregivers and a plan for training the places we would never reach. Neither of us took days off anymore.

OUR SECOND BEIJING
apartment was number 142 on floor 14 of building 4 in the same diplomatic compound as our office. I knew enough by now to understand that all those fours just didn't bode well. Unlike the much sought after number eight,
ba
in Chinese, which sounds just like good fortune and happiness, four—
si—
sounds like the word for death. I wondered if I should pay a visit to Guanyin but decided that unlucky apartment numbers were too trivial, and who had time anyway? I was barely finding time to sleep in our new home, let alone figure out how to banish its bad juju.

Then
stuff
started happening.

First, we heard that Half the Sky was being investigated by the government. Orphanage directors started telling us not to come visit because the Public Security Bureau was in town investigating us.
What had happened to our government partnership?

“Do you think it's our bad-luck apartment, ZZ?” I asked.

“I don't think so. Certainly not.” But she didn't look so sure.

Then, on the May 1 holiday, we went to Gaoyou—the site of Half the Sky's first Family Village for children who are unlikely to be adopted—to join the families in celebrating the successful first year of their new lives. (Gaoyou is so far off the beaten track, I guess no one thought to investigate us there.)

It was a lovely event. Director Ni said a few words; I said even fewer. I asked the moms and dads if, after a year of family life, they had any concerns. One mother said, “Our only worry is that one day we may lose our children. We love them so much.”

That was my worry too. I knew it wouldn't be up to me.

“I look at all your happy faces,” I said, “and I feel so proud of what we've created together. This kind of family—our kind of family—is new . . . it's different, for sure. But it definitely isn't second-best. I dearly hope you and your beautiful children can stay together always.”

We all posed for pictures, the children surrounded and cuddled by their doting parents. The fathers set off endless strings of firecrackers in the courtyard. When the building was thoroughly obliterated by smoke, we had a feast.

It was a joyous day—made even better because our dear friend, Mr. Hu from Henan, joined the party. He toured the new apartments and chatted with the families. “Now I understand,” he said to me. “
This
is what children need.”

And then his phone rang. When he hung up, his face had gone as gray as the smoky sky.

“I have to leave.”

We found a quiet office to hide in. Mr. Hu and ZZ conferred in tense, low voices. I didn't understand a word. I cursed myself again for my pathetic Chinese.

“What's happened?” I blurted.

“That was the Henan Province party secretary,” ZZ said. “He asked why Mr. Hu was in Jiangsu. He said Hu must return at once.”

“What does it mean?”

“We think someone has reported that he brought a foreigner to the AIDS villages. And there is something about the Internet. Something found with photographs.”

I knew absolutely and with sudden dread what it was.

“ZZ, I feel sick. I used the Internet to send that report to the board about our visit to ask if we could seek funds for an AIDS Family Village project. It had photos.”

ZZ's face turned as pale as Mr. Hu's.

Mr. Hu said, “My colleague at the department was sentenced to prison for four years for talking to the Chinese press. He gave only official statistics, nothing more. No matter—I was in the army for more than thirty years. There is nothing that I fear.”

The two old survivors of the Cultural Revolution began discussing the best strategy. Don't rush back. Don't fly. Take the train. Arrive on Sunday. Call as soon as you know the score.

I closed my eyes and whispered, “If something happens to this dear man, I'll never forgive myself.”

Mr. Hu left by slow train, bound for Henan.

BEIJING
(
XINHUA
)—China declares all Living Buddhas must seek official permission before they reincarnate.

The minute we got back to Beijing, I asked ZZ if she could find some sort of feng shui master to give our bad-luck apartment a going-over.

“I know it's silly,” I said. “But all those fours. What else can we do?”

The next day she brought us a Living Buddha.

The Living Buddha was a young monk with a buzz cut and a cell phone. But even Dick had to admit he seemed to know his business.

He walked in the door and greeted us all with a charming smile. From his bag, he carefully removed a prayer book, beads, a small brass singing-bowl, a twig, and some rice.

The Living Buddha instructed us to arrange people and items of importance to us on the floor in a semicircle. The girls were at school, so we put out their photos. I also put out a Half the Sky brochure and my little jade Guanyin. I had nothing that belonged to Mr. Hu, so I added a small handful of Xinyang tea. Dick shrugged and contributed his camera.

The Living Buddha chanted for an hour. Every once in a while he struck the singing-bowl and a mellow hum would fill the air. He sprinkled water and rice around the apartment. He gave us little balls of stuff to eat that were both sweet and tasted of dirt.

While he was packing up, he invited us to visit his temple, a three-day donkey ride from Lhasa. “They look after orphans in that temple,” he told us. He said our work is a blessing and we should have good fortune always.

BUT FROM OUR
beloved Mr. Hu, there was only silence. I chewed on the fragrant dirt and worried.

Then, on Children's Day, June 1, 2006, President Hu Jintao visited the Beijing Children's Welfare Institution. President Hu played with the kids for a few minutes and, for the photo op, smiled benevolently at an adorable little girl who had cerebral palsy. Then he gave a speech:

China must increase its commitment to assisting disabled children and orphans. They are the weakest and neediest group in our society. They need care and love the most. Party committee and government at all levels must put these special children in their hearts—improve their care and education. We must mobilize the whole society to share in care and love for the orphans. We must bring them to the same level as other children, to live and grow happily under the same blue sky of the motherland.

It was an extraordinary statement from China's top leader. We didn't know where it had come from or where it would lead.

Then, just an hour after we heard news of the speech,
our
Mr. Hu called! He was jubilant about the message from Hu Jintao.

“He feels all things are possible now!” said ZZ.

“But ZZ, is he okay?”

“It seems he is well,” she said. “He gave his report to the government. The Civil Affairs director says he thinks it will be all right, but they wait for party secretary. Since someone has questioned Hu's activities, they need to find a way to make U-turn before further approval to say yes.”

“Yes to what?”

“To whether our Henan AIDS program will go on or stop.”

“But—we don't have board approval for an AIDS program yet. Or money.”

“If party secretary says yes, it is better to have the program. If not, the situation is quite difficult.”

“Oh. Of course. We'll just . . . figure it out.”

IN DECEMBER, JUST
six months after the president's speech, the Ministry of Civil Affairs announced China's Blue Sky Plan, a five-year initiative dedicating two billion
yuan
(then about 245 million dollars) to creating new children's welfare institutions that would deliver improved care, education, and rehabilitation for orphaned children across China.

In the New Year, ZZ and I were summoned to the Ministry of Civil Affairs. A rare invitation from a ministry that seldom deals with
guoji youren—
foreign friends. Despite the recent auspicious turn of events, this couldn't bode well.

Bundled against icy wind, ZZ and I crossed through the middle of a broad Beijing street swarming with traffic, dodging cabs that I could swear were aiming for us. I never dared this trick on my own. ZZ darted across with the resolute calm of a longtime Beijinger. I had no choice but to follow.

On the other side, at the gates of the Ministry of Civil Affairs of the People's Republic of China, two gloved and overcoated military guards stood at attention.

I stood there too, wondering what was waiting for us beyond those gates. ZZ tugged me toward them. One of the guards shouted. I froze.

“Give me your ID,” said ZZ.

The young guard studied my passport for a full minute. He made a phone call. Finally he pointed, stiff-armed, at the reception building.

A government drone sat embalmed behind dirty glass. ZZ handed her my passport and her ID card. The drone began painstakingly writing an essay, presumably on the background she found in my passport. ZZ sat me down.

“Foreigners don't usually come here,” she said.

“Do you think this is about the investigation, ZZ?”

“They didn't say.”

Her poker face made me nervous. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a movie in which a well-intentioned woman from China goes to Washington and offers to help the government overhaul the American foster care system.

They'd just ignore her, assume she was a nutcase. They certainly wouldn't arrest her, would they? What if Mr. Hu wasn't really okay? Maybe someone told him to say he was? . . .
I struggled to remember the sound of the Living Buddha chanting and the hum of his little singing-bowl.

“
DO YOU REMEMBER
me?” asked the man inside the ministry. He had a broad smile and round eyeglasses.

“Sure . . .”

“This is Section Chief Ma,” ZZ said. “You met him when you first came to Beijing!”

“Oh yes, in 1999!”

Of course! He was my first government official. My first China Smile.

“1999,” ZZ translated.

“1999,” Section Chief Ma concurred.

That settled, tea was poured, and I was introduced to two women. Division Chief Gan was a faded beauty with a white-toothed grin and a girlish ponytail. Once upon a time, she must have been gorgeous.

“I was sent to the Film Academy,” Mrs. Gan told me on another day. “I would have been selected to be a movie star, but I failed the acting test.”

Her sidekick, Mrs. Gao, was plump and balding, with frizzy bits—too many cheap China perms.

Now everyone was smiling. I began to relax just a bit. I'd feel better when I knew why I was there.

After a suitable amount of chitchat, the three got down to business. Section Chief Ma explained that China had made great progress in the past few years toward two important goals: economic development and President Hu's plan for establishing a harmonious society, which would encourage social development. Certainly, concern for orphans was part of that plan.

“Certainly,” I said.

“You have heard of the Blue Sky Plan?” Mrs. Gan asked.

“Yes, you plan to build new welfare institutions, right?”

“More than three hundred!” Mrs. Gan shouted.

“The children need facilities, but they also need service inside,” said the more sedate Mrs. Gao.

The three then launched into a discussion of their plans. Soon ZZ joined in. I was forgotten. Things heated up—voices rose, soon everyone was shouting—all in a perfectly friendly way.

“There is one problem,” said Section Chief Ma. He looked at me through his round eyeglasses. His smile was gone.

The chatter stopped.
Everyone
looked at me. Still clueless, I attempted the China Smile.

Section Chief Ma picked up a sheet of paper. He adjusted his glasses and read aloud: “On the afternoon of March 5, 2001, at the botanical gardens in Kunming, Jenny Bowen photographed young minority girls begging.”

Everyone looked at me and waited. My smile may have wilted a bit.

“The Public Security Bureau wishes to know the purpose,” said Section Chief Ma.

“2001?” I asked.

This was it? This was what would send me to the gulag?
I remembered the policeman's hand on my camera lens.
Did I still have that photo?

Whoosh!
In a tornado of female fury, all three ladies leaped to my defense, all shouting at once.

“She was just a tourist!” “She liked the colors of the minority clothes!” “She is an ignorant foreigner!” “Certainly she would not think to publish such photographs!”

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the storm subsided. No matter that two of the three women didn't even know me in 2001. Section Chief Ma wrote something and stamped it. ZZ patted my hand. It seemed that I was exonerated.

Mrs. Gao, the sedate one, turned to me. “We like Half the Sky,” she said. “Your method comes from experience inside, not like other NGOs coming from a foreign place. Unsuitable for China.”

“It should be like a joint venture,” barked Mrs. Gan, the failed actress. “We do hardware; you do software. Not just new facilities, but service inside.”

“With the Ministry of Civil Affairs in charge, of course,” said Section Chief Ma. “And we will submit a joint annual report to the State Council and hold seminars on-site for high-level government officials.”

“So . . . you mean Half the Sky could set up programs inside the new institutions?” I ventured.

“You decide how you want to proceed,” said Section Chief Ma with a wave of his hand and his biggest smile yet.