Hi there:
Hope this message finds everyone well in every sense of the word.
Please bear with me as I play catch-up after an early summer break.
First up is the last installment of our recent COVID series. I was drawn to this piece because it vividly captures the logistical nightmare and immense anxiety that domestic travel entailed when China was in full lockdown mode. Author Qin Yue, a native of the northern Xinjiang city of Altay, recalls the agonizing process that her mother had to endure before being able to reunite with her in Changsha.
A bit of context is called for. Xinjiang is an important case study because of the government’s heavy-handed tactics in managing the local Uighur population. With or without COVID, it often resembles a police state, especially for Uighurs. And of course the regional capital of Urumqi is the site of the deadly fire in an apartment building that killed 10 in late November. Officials deny that quarantine orders caused these deaths, but many believe otherwise. The subsequent outrage led to protests in Urumqi and across the country that served as a catalyst for China’s reopening in early December.
The source material was first published in Chinese by The Livings on April 4. All names mentioned in the story are aliases.
Take care and see you soon.
—ML
Missing Mobility: Mom's Tortuous Two-month Wait to Leave Xinjiang
By Qin Yue
Edited by Tang Tang
Introduction
After a week of infection control measures from late September to early October, life returned to normal quickly in my hometown of Altay. Mom, who was at home alone at the time, told me jokingly: "Altay is like a big pot. As long as we don't leave the pot, we can still move about freely. That's a luxury compared to your aunts and uncles." She was referring to our friends and family who lived in Urumqi, which had come under strict lockdown on Aug. 10.
But soon my mother's optimism was smashed by reality. From Oct. 5 onward, our daily conversation revolved around a single subject—to leave or not to leave? And how to leave? After rounds of fluctuation in local containment policy and other hurdles, Mom finally departed Xinjiang on Nov. 21.
In retrospect, this journey out of Xinjiang had a dreamlike quality to it—but it also was a dream that actually played out in reality.
1.
In early August, I had to move house and I asked my father to fly in from Altay to help out. After repeated cancellations and reschedulings, he finally set off on Aug. 18.
In retrospect, signs of an escalating trend in Xinjiang's exit control policy could be seen back then. Anyone who wanted to leave the region was subject to three straight days of PCR testing leading up the day of departure. You were only allowed to head to the airport after an all-clear. The night before his scheduled departure, Dad got word that he also had to take a "double antibody" test. He headed to the ER at 8 p.m. to get his blood drawn. Only after getting a negative result could he return home for a peaceful night's sleep.
Dad finally managed to board a flight from Altay to Urumqi the next day and subsequently caught a connecting flight to Changsha. Yet misfortune befell Uncle Tang, a friend of his who happened to be on the same flight to Urumqi. During his transit, Uncle Tang, who was bound for Hangzhou, in a rush to make it to the men's room, accidentally left the designated transit zone. By entering a departure hall, he became someone who had set foot in an area where there was an outbreak (Urumqi), which left him stranded at a relative's home in Urumqi. He wasn't allowed to leave Urumqi until late November. Later on Uncle Tang told Dad that quite a few passengers ended up getting stuck in Urumqi the same day. Most folks whose connecting flights were with a different airline saw those flights canceled.
Meanwhile, my mother remained in Altay to take care of my maternal grandmother. Grandma gave birth to six children. For years, the custom had been for them to take turns staying with her two months at a time. Because of the outbreak in Urumqi, my uncles were stuck at home. As a result, Mom, whose shift was supposed to end in July, had to stay on until the end of September, when my aunt could take over, before joining Dad and I in Changsha. She also asked me to book her a flight after Oct. 5, so she could celebrate Grandma's 90th birthday with her.
Little did we expect Mom's trip to Changsha to be postponed for another two months or so.
**
Chinese cyberspace was awash with news of Urumqi's shutdown of airline and freight traffic in the wee hours of Oct. 4.
Still, we clung to the hope that flights may resume at any given moment. There were three ways get to Changsha from Altay, after all—you could transit through either Xian, Lanzhou or Urumqi. Many folks were counting on leaving Xinjiang via Lanzhou or Xian. That way you could bypass Urumqi, a city under total lockdown.
Drawing from Uncle Tang's experience, I cautiously booked Mom on the same airline for both legs of her trip. The air fare had more than doubled. After I managed to make a reservation, Mom was in standby mode every day. Yet her flights were repeatedly canceled two days before the scheduled date of departure.
Flight cancellations typically result in two scenarios—either a refund or rebooking. Because we still harbored hope that flights might resume on any given day, after conferring with Mom, I kept on pushing her departure back instead of asking for a refund. Luckily the cancellations we encountered were classified as "inevitable," so we didn't have to pay a surcharge.
And so Mom's departure was delayed to the end of October. During this period, Altay also went into lockdown briefly on several occasions, but none lasted more than five days. Unlike in many other Chinese cities, locals weren't confined to their homes. Officials simply suspended public transportation to and from neighboring counties, townships and villages. Residents were still free to go for walks, shop and visit friends or relatives. Mom even attended an unusual wedding. Both bride and groom were trapped in a town some 20 or 30 kilometers from downtown Altay, so the wedding banquet was canceled several times. After the parents from both sides weighed their options, they decided to go ahead with the banquet, considering the fact that the guest list comprised their own friends. The two sets of parents would entertain their respective friends and treat the young friends of the bride and groom on a separate occasion after the couple returned to Altay.
And thus a Kazakh wedding sans bride and groom remained a full-fledged celebration. Guests feasted as they toasted the absent newlyweds with a performance of Qara Jorgha, a traditional Kazakh dance. Mom commented during one of our video calls: "Ordinary people have a way of figuring things out no matter what's going on in the world."
During that period, Mom could see from her window that a tent had been erected on a scenic path on the banks of Kelan River in early October. Two people would emerge from the tent in the early morning every day. They wore oversized red down jackets that looked shoddy and downright ridiculous—likely standard issue from their previous employers. The duo would clean up by the river, fill a pot with water and return to their tent.
Mom learned from community officials that the two campers were rural migrant workers. Work had suspended on their construction site and they couldn't go home. The tent was a donation. The community officials said they were exploring the possibility of moving them to a karaoke bar or restaurant that was shut for the time being.
Mom asked if she could pitch in. The community workers said they made periodic food deliveries to the pair. That comforted Mom, who in turn admonished me: "You should also watch your spending. Look at these rural migrant workers. All they made this year was a few thousand yuan (hundreds of dollars) and they want to save the sum for their families so they can enjoy Lunar New Year. Splurging on a hotel is the last thing on their minds."
**
People went about their lives as usual in Altay, but the question of whether to keep postponing Mom's flight or asking for a refund became a tough dilemma. Friends who were stuck at home in Urumqi advised against a refund, arguing that tickets would be hard to come by once flights resumed. Bur after rescheduling Mom's flight about a dozen times, I too grew impatient when taking my daily call from the airline.
Mom said: "Why don't I just leave after all containment measures have been dropped. There's no point in rescheduling the flight every day. It's a big hassle too."
Eventually Dad had a friend ask someone who worked at the Altay airport for the inside scoop. Their response: "Flights will be grounded until late November at the very least. Ask for a refund. You're not going anywhere right now." A search of major travel booking apps revealed that flights via Xian or Lanzhou were all suspended or sold out. I reluctantly asked for a refund as Mom and I began the long wait for the resumption of air travel.
2.
By early November, Urumqi was still reporting 500 or 600 new cases every day. That dashed any hope that air and train travel would resume anytime soon. The weather in Altay also gradually turned cold. Normally a calm presence, Mom started to get antsy.
In previous winters, Mom and Dad typically escaped the cold by flying out to either Changsha or Hainan Province in September. Having gone unused for 10-plus years, our heating system at home was long defunct. Mom rummaged to locate an old portable heater, which still emitted heat. She also wore a sweater and down vest jacket at home, so temperatures above 0 Celsius were still bearable.
Days later, as the outbreak in the regional capital worsened, Altay also stepped up controls. Word had it that an Urumqi resident had secretly driven back to Altay and infected family members, although there was no official confirmation. Locals were subject to daily PCR tests and limited movement. After obtaining community passes, only one person per household was allowed to leave home once per day. While shops and supermarkets were kept open, customers were not allowed to enter. They had to place their orders at the entrance. All transactions had to take place outdoors.
Soon enough even these days of relative freedom were brought to a close. Altay, located 500 kilometers from Urumqi, imposed its toughest control measures in history. Daily PCR testing was conducted one household a time, a building at a time, instead of allowing long queues. Only when one family was done could the next family leave their apartment. Folks were confined to their residential complexes. If you were running low on supplies, you had to place an order through community volunteers. Luckily prices remained at a normal level. It's just that there were no guarantees when it came to the quality of produce.
Having anticipated an imminent lockdown, Mom had stocked up on daily necessities like oil, rice, noodles, veggies and tissue paper, enough to last her half a month or so. Rumors swirled constantly during home confinement. One day it was word of a confirmed case and news of a hospitalization another. I could tell that Mom was extremely sensitive during that period. The slightest itch in her throat and Mom feared infection. Only when she feel better the next day did she rest easy.
Dad and I consoled Mom in our daily video calls. "As long as you stay at home and you see medical workers disinfecting their hands when they take your sample, you're bound to be safe," we told her.
**
One weekend, I got a call from my cousin Xixi, who works as a nurse in Korla. She had been taking samples for PCR tests for three months straight, living away from home during the entire period. She had finally received a day off and was resting up in her hotel room, which is why she had time to offer me a few pointers.
The outbreak in Korla was just as serious as the one in Urumqi. Like Xixi, nearly all of the city's medical workers hadn't been home in months. Even medical personnel who were infected, barring severe cases, were assigned to designated COVID hospitals. Upon learning that my mother was still in Altay, she made the following practical and professional suggestions: "Wear a mask whenever you go out and come in contact with others. Carefully disinfect any supplies delivered to you. Stock up on alcohol and basic anti-cough and anti-fever medication, as well as patent Chinese medicine that alleviates symptoms. Disinfect less obvious surfaces like door knobs."
Meanwhile, I was more interested in how Xixi survived the last few months. Xixi suffers from thalassemia, experiencing dizziness after physical exhaustion. She had been receiving treatment for the past two years. Her parents had suggested that she quit her job ahead of a planned pregnancy. Little did anyone expect the pandemic to last more than three years. The situation was finally looking up in Xinjiang in the early summer, which prompted Xixi to go into pre-pregnancy mode. Yet another outbreak struck in August, which put her plans on hold. She started collecting samples for PCR testing tirelessly, casting aside her visions of starting a family.
Xixi responded in a casual tone: "My situation hasn't been too bad. A colleague in the same division who's four months pregnant is still taking samples. My boss is slightly depressed and yet he still operates after taking his medication. Another colleague who developed a fever and couldn't handle clinical duty became a supervisor in our warehouse. In circumstances like this, unless someone is on the verge of collapse, no one is thick-skinned enough to ask for time off."
Meanwhile, Xixi's parents were still being quarantined at home in Urumqi. Their residential complex had been unable to source fresh fruit since early September and the box of vitamin tablets a generous neighbor had gifted to the elderly couple was about to run out.
3.
On Nov. 10, Mom finally got good news in the WeChat group for our neighborhood. Community officials were starting to compile the personal information of residents who wanted to leave Xinjiang. Word had it that the local government of Altay was going to charter non-stop trains and flights to cities like Chengdu, Zhengzhou and Changsha. The rural migrant workers, university students and people seeking family reunions like Mom in the WeChat group finally had a sliver of hope.
The community worker in charge of the task, Xiao (Junior) Zhao warned: "Everyone just put in their requests first. If there are too many requests, not everybody may get to leave. Some folks will have to leave first, others later."
On the same day, Mom noticed the tent on the banks of the Kelan River was gone. Community workers had finally relocated the two rural migrant workers to a restaurant that was closed for the time being. They no longer had to endure the elements of nature.
Even though an exit journey wasn't guaranteed, starting from Nov. 10, everyone who put in a request for a ride out in the WeChat group began observing pre-departure quarantine protocols. Medical workers also started visiting these folks to take daily samples. Community officials stipulated that only those with seven straight days of negative PCR tests would be allowed on outbound trains and flights. And so Mom gave up her routine of heading downstairs to get her sample taken—while catching a breather at the same time—adhering to a strict home confinement in anticipation of her departure from Xinjiang.
On Nov. 12, the list of outgoing trains and flights was announced. There were no flights bound for Changsha, only trains. Our family huddled in front of our phones for another discussion. Should Mom leave? And how so?
Before logging Mom's exit plans, Xiao Zhao made a point of asking us to consider our options carefully, noting the exit journey wasn't a walk in the park. First, the charter train may not be equipped with sleeper berths, he said. Second, the train was bound to be packed with people from various backgrounds, so there was the risk of infection. If Mom decided to stay put, she could wait until all containment measures had ended, or at least another week or two, by which time flights to Changsha may be available.
A piece of unexpected news stiffened Mom's resolve to leave Xinjiang immediately.
Her distant cousin's son, someone I always called "Big Brother Xiao Cheng," had just turned 45 in June. He made a fortune working in IT, but in 2018, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. After major surgery, he had been focusing on rehab. In early 2022, Xiao Cheng had a relapse, the reason being the surgery did not remove the tumor entirely, because the growth was attached to his brain stem and was intertwined with neighboring blood vessels and nerves. The Chengs weren't short on cash and quickly scheduled a second surgery. After the surgery, even though his immune system was comprised, Xiao Cheng had to make frequent trips to the hospital for follow-up treatment, in spite of the pandemic. In early November, he contracted COVID, which led to heart and lung failure. He didn't make it this time. He wasn't even able to hold a proper funeral.
The news reminded me of an online saying: "Weibo's (quasi-Twitter) discussion groups form a world of their own that's both in sync and out of touch with reality." Mom said in a phone call: "My cousin is already in her early 70s. Luckily she also has a daughter who can take care of her. How can you possibly let COVID run unchecked? After all, there are all these chronically ill elderly folks, cancer patients. They are so vulnerable they can't survive a bad cold."
And thus Mom decided to catch the earliest train out of Altay. She wasn't bullish about the prospect of an imminent cancellation of control measures at all and she didn't want to spend Lunar New Year alone in Altay. I also persuaded her to head to Changsha ASAP. I had a nightmare a few days ago. In it, Mom stumbled while braving heavy snow to go grocery shopping. There was no one around to help out.
**
After confirming Mom's exit journey, all we had to do was to file the paperwork required by community workers.
I applied for a seat on the train leaving Altay on Nov. 17. Mom wasn't adept with a smartphone, so I worked remotely from Changsha, logging onto various apps and downloading the relevant forms. I filled out a letter of commitment on her behalf, completed her online application to leave Xinjiang and passed on soft copies to Xiao Zhao. At the same time I asked my residential complex in Changsha for a proof of residence and reported Mom's imminent arrival.
Meanwhile, Mom followed protocol on her end, remaining in her apartment in line with the home quarantine requirement starting on the day I submitted her application to leave Xinjiang. Every afternoon, medical workers showed up at her door at the same time to take a sample for PCR testing and take her temperature. Apart from her daily infection control routine, Mom also started planning meals based on her remaining groceries, with a mental countdown in mind. The goal was to clear the fridge the day of her departure. She also dusted and wiped every nook and cranny in the apartment. Apart from her own bedroom, every item of furniture had already been covered with sheets. She also held daily calls with a group of old friends who were also getting ready to leave Xinjiang to stay on top of the latest gossip on exit controls.
Xiao Zhao also reached out to me repeatedly to make sure we were sticking to our itinerary. To give him a peace of mind, I paid for the train ticket well in advance. We all thought the scheduled exit journey was reliable and would indeed happen.
4.
By Nov. 16, Xiao Zhao still hadn't heard from his superiors. He had no idea when the outbound residents had to leave the next day. Everyone could only stay on standby. Mom stored all the clothing she was leaving behind in her wardrobe. She also left leftover groceries in front of her neighbor's door for a contactless handover. Every item of furniture in the apartment was covered in sheets, the water heater was emptied and electricity to the unit cut.
At 10 p.m., Xiao Zhao called with the message: "There will be a final sample-taking tonight. Don't go to sleep yet. Keep your phone on." Shortly after midnight, medical workers showed up at Mom's apartment. Mom later recalled: "They stuck the Q-tips in extra deep. It probably had to do with the fact that we were leaving." After Mom had her sample taken, per Xiao Zhao's instructions, I stayed up, only going to bed after Mom's QR code on the Xinjiang government app indicated her latest PCR test and I had sent her the screen capture.
At 1:30 a.m., the wording "sample collected" finally showed up on Mom's QR code. Yet at the same time I got the following message from Xiao Zhao: "Tomorrow's train has been postponed to the 21st. Are you still in?"
After suppressing my disappointment and impatience and responding "yes," I called Mom to console her. "Maybe the train before ours was delayed. If it's another few days, so be it. Keep your head down and before you know it it'll be the 21st," I said.
Mom had no choice but to continue her quarantine. The groceries she had left for her neighbor would last her a few more days. Starting from the 18th, we began seeing footage on Douyin (TikTok) of charter trains arriving in Zhengzhou and Chengdu from Altay. The joy and relief of finally making it home after being stuck in Xinjiang for months was written all over the faces of the passengers.
**
It was only during those few days that I learned that Xiao Zhao is actually a native of Tianjin who was on loan to Altay. In his mid-20s, he had only been working for a few years. During lockdown, among his tasks was doing laundry for an old man who was living alone, talking down a college student who wanted to "bid farewell to the world" and babysitting for a mother who had to attend a medical appointment for a few hours. Xiao Zhao was forever the optimist. He always said: "Even though I'm at wit's end, I believe that we're about to see the light at the end of the tunnel."
On the evening of the 20th, Mom, already familiar with exit protocols, had also learned how to screen capture and submit her documentation online. Shortly after midnight, medical workers showed up for a final sample-taking for PCR testing. Two hours later, on the verge of 3 a.m., we turned in Mom's QR code—complete with the "sample taken" wording—to community officials.
Xiao Zhao told us that he train was still scheduled to leave that day, though he couldn't rule out last-minute changes. All exit passengers had to keep their phones on at all times. Community officials could send over rides to the train station at any given moment.
Naturally, that evening turned out to be an almost sleepless night for Mom and I. At 3 a.m., we finally got word that Mom would be leaving for the train station at 7:30 a.m. A driver would be picking up Mom first, then three other passengers who lived on the same street. Mom followed her departure routine meticulously again, cutting water and electricity to the apartment, clearing her fridge and packing her luggage.
At 6:30 a.m., Mom got up and prepared a simple breakfast for herself. After downing a piece of baked bread, an egg and the final bowl of milk tea she had left in the fridge, she headed downstairs with a small suitcase in tow. Community workers had warned that it was unclear how packed the train would be, asking passengers to cut down on their luggage.
That morning also witnessed Altay's first snowstorm of the winter. It was also the first time Mom had set foot outside her residential complex in 10-plus days.
**
Mom is someone who likes to operate ahead of time regardless of what she's doing. Even before the days of the pandemic and screening of health codes, she liked to leave for the airport an additional half hour before the suggested time. To make sure that she didn't miss this all-important train, she arrived at the curb at 7:20 a.m. She even sent me a few pictures of the snow swirling in the wind. The streets were entirely empty. Seven thirty had long come and gone. Mom didn't want to bug the driver, so she kept on waiting.
By 7:50, Mom told me her ride still hadn't arrived. I called the the driver immediately. Xiao Zhao had sent me his number. A young Kazakh man answered. He kept repeating: "My car was buried by the snow overnight. I've asked for help. I'll be heading out soon."
At 8:30, still no news. I told Mom to take shelter in the security guard's booth by the entrance to her residential complex while I called Xiao Zhao and the driver. Their response: "Traffic police is already on site shoveling snow. They'll be done soon."
Xiao Zhao had created a WeChat group for the people who were scheduled to leave that morning. When he texted to explain the delay, everyone went berserk. One of the other passengers was a mother traveling with a 1-year-old. Like Mom, she had been waiting curbside for more than an hour. Her child's pants were already soaking wet from the snow. There was also a university student who was even more anxious than we were. She said if she didn't make today's train, she would miss out on her last chance to return to campus.
Nine thirty, the scheduled meetup at the train station, crept closer and closer. Bearing in mind that Xiao Zhao had already stayed up for several nights straight to sort out logistics, no one wanted to play the blame game, offering alternatives instead. Could community officials send another car? Or maybe ask traffic police for help? Would it be possible to give the train station a heads up, so they could hold the train in case we were late? Did any neighboring communities have cars that had completed their runs already?
All Xiao Zhao could do was pass our suggestions upstairs. These were the responses he came back with intermittently: "The stuck car is the only car with the necessary pass. Other communities don't have free cars right now. We're still reaching out to traffic police."
Ten minutes later, Mom, who never swears, finally lost it and called me to unload. "They didn't have a contingency plan in the first place!" she blasted.
I could tell she was on the cusp of an emotional meltdown.
5.
Luckily the driver finally managed to dig his car out of the snow and picked up Mom and the other passengers before 9. In the end, by stepping up their tempo, the group made the meetup at the train station.
But the train did not depart as scheduled, which sent my heart thumping hard again. Would Mom leave Xinjiang smoothly or would she be returned to her residential complex?
At noon, I finally received the following WeChat message from her: "The train has left. For now I have a seat. We'll be switching trains in Kuitun. This is an old train that isn't equipped with electricity outlets, so I'm switching off my phone for now."
Over the next three days and two nights, to make sure she still had power when the train reached Changsha, Mom only turned on her phone once a day. I got WeChat messages from her when she passed Jiayuguan, Zhengzhou and Wuhan respectively.
At 7 p.m. on Nov. 23, this charter train that hailed from remote northern Xinjiang finally arrived at Changsha Train Station safely. About an hour later, only after checking into her quarantine hotel without incident, did Mom feel secure enough to turn on her phone to call me. During a video call, she recalled various details from her journey.
En route to the train station in Altay, Mom and the three other passengers received a "community gift bag" from the driver, which included a bowl of instant noodles, a pork sausage, an apple and a bag of disinfecting wet napkins. When she boarded the train, she noticed that not everyone had received the gift bag, so she gave the bowl of instant noodles to a middle-aged rural migrant worker who sat next to her. In return, the man offered elderly Mom his quieter window seat that had enough room to fully stretch your legs.
The sleeper and dining cars in the train were converted into carriages with seats to accommodate more passengers. Most of the passengers were rural migrant workers and businessmen who arrived in Xinjiang after the Lunar New Year. The overhead racks and the space under seats and sinks were packed with woven bags, suitcases, canvas bags and fertilizer bags. It seemed that every single bag was bursting with story material about the lone subject of going home. The train did not have a dining section, nor did it allow passengers to disembark during any of its brief stops. The firmly shut train doors were the key to containment.
Mom was also delighted to discover that the two migrant workers that had been camping on the banks of Kelan River were also on the train. She identified them from their oversized red down jackets. It's just that these two people didn't know that the elderly women in front of them had been quietly monitoring their movements through a window.
By the first evening on the train, Mom's phone was already low on power. The university student sitting across from her kindly lent her a solar-powered phone charger. She told Mom: "Word has it a government official is riding along on this train to make sure we arrive in Changsha smoothly in spite of any unexpected developments." The train ended up making a two-hour stop in Xiaogan for repairs, a privilege supposedly secured by the same government official.
When the train steadily pulled into Changsha Train Station after the three-day, two-night trek, the passengers erupted in cheers and applause. Mom also finally laid eyes on the government official "ride-along" everyone was talking about. He was wearing a black jacket. Mom had seen him before on the local news in Altay. She thinks he's a deputy mayor. All the official could see was throngs of people, but Mom knew full well that he had just marked the successful completion of his solemn mission to guarantee the safe and punctual arrival of the first Altay-Hunan charter train.
After disembarking, the passengers were led to a waiting zone in a orderly manner. Liaisons from various cities and counties were already standing in place holding their respective signs. Folks whose final destination was Changsha were directly bused to their quarantine hotel for check-in. Staff members were quick to verify the personal information of each individual passenger and adopted the practice of allowing the passengers, fresh from nearly three days of no sleep, to rest up first before having their samples collected. The staffers even delivered steaming hot box dinners on the dot. There were no convoluted steps or long waits. Mom kept repeating: "The arrangements on the Changsha side were better."
**
First thing on the morning of the 24th, after getting her sample taken, Mom gave me a video call to show off her sumptuous hotel breakfast. "Last night was the best night's sleep I had gotten in a month," she said with a smile.
Since Xinjiang went into lockdown, Mom had learned how to update her health code, screen capture and fill out online declarations—skills that most seniors lacked. Her most common refrain on the phone: "Your dad and I are already quite fortunate. We don't have to worry about making ends meet. We're in relatively good health. We even have a home in another city."
Like many others, Mom turned the suffering she witnessed into fuel to soldier on. One of the hottest topics in Urumqi-related discussion groups on Weibo since August has been "most livable city." There are those who are gearing up to leave Xinjiang after the pandemic. Others bid farewell to the passengers on outbound trains with the message: "You're welcome to come back after things settle down here." There are also those who are torn over the dilemma of whether to leave their hometowns. "Our bodies feel trapped in our hometowns, yet elsewhere our souls feel out of place."
On the second evening after Mom arrived in Changsha, we learned about the deadly fire in the Urumqi high-rise. On the same day, a relative from Altay who runs a ski supplies shop told us on WeChat that he's terminated his lease and closed his business because ski season isn't expected to happen this year.
On Nov. 27, Mom was certified as testing negative for three days straight and released from quarantine, finally making it home to reunite with Dad and I. After another seven days of self-monitoring at home, she'd be a free person again. Thinking back to the comment she used to repeat constantly—"Since when did going home become the most difficult thing to do?"—I was overcome with emotion.
6.
In early December, cities and provinces across the country dropped their infection control measures one after another. Our friends and family in Urumqi were finally able to leave their apartments after 100-plus days of quarantine. At the same time, the ubiquitous sample-taking stations, the screens and barricades that came with any lockdown, venue check-in QR codes, the standing thermometers—it felt as if they had all vanished overnight. In select cities and provinces, sample-taking tents were converted to information stands. The white tents that most medical workers had served in were completely dismantled, disappearing from the streets and alleys of your neighborhood.
Xinjiang soon welcomed it first wave of ski tourists. Our relative's ski shop reopened. Altay's restaurants, car rentals and hotels saw business skyrocket. Xiao Zhao also ended his days as a community volunteer.
After that, Mom, Dad and I came down with COVID in succession. By mid-January, we had all more or less recovered. The worst-case scenario Mom had feared didn't materialize.
On the day before Lunar New Year's Eve, huddled around our dining table, we held a video call with our relatives in Altay. We learned that 90-year-old Grandma had recovered from COVID and that Xixi was once more gearing up to get pregnant. Fireworks exploded in full splendor outside, as if banishing the doom and gloom of the past with each bang.
Nowadays, as Mom and I walk the streets of Changsha, barring masked pedestrians, there are barely remnants of the three-year pandemic. Mom told me the past three years felt like a long dream, punctuated by deep emotion, regret, anger, as well as contentment. "The biggest takeaway is a completely new understanding of living in the moment," she said.
Indeed, during these past three years, some of us confronted death while others idled away or stayed carefree and kept living in style. Whatever emotions we were harboring, we treated the granular moments of daily life as magical, learning how to regroup time and again from disappointment. Because of that, we are stronger and more clear-headed than we ever have been.
Perhaps this is also our default, most ordinary form of existence—scaling heights and conquering mountains as we constantly try to stay true to ourselves.