For me, China is no longer that unknown place on the other side of the world. When I hear or read "China" my mind is filled with images. The spice seller at the daily market. The bicycle repair shop in Xi Zhou. Huge steaming pots of rice or dumplings. The women in the Dong village hauling produce from the fields. The children who were mostly fascinated and a little scared of me. The old gentleman who sang a song for us. The wild variety of wacky vehicles on the roads, crammed full of people. The grandmothers carrying their grandchildren on their backs. I think of Tang Lei and Yang Yang, and my old calligrapher friend, Mr. Yang.
Right after I came home, we received a special issue of National Geographic that was devoted to China. As I turned the pages, I realized I was searching the pictures for a familiar face.
The earthquake feels that way, too. Like it has affected people I know. I've seen the way their houses are constructed. I've marveled (and worried a bit) at the way they build their villages precariously perched on the terraced mountainsides. I've traveled where there is only one very steep and winding road to get from one place to the next. I've seen how closely their lives are linked to the land, how vulnerable they are to the vagaries of nature.
I don't know if there was damage to the villages we visited. Some are only 500 miles (Beijing was 1000) from the epicenter so I know they experienced it. But to me it feels like they were hurt. Okay, maybe not them exactly, but... grandmothers carrying their grandchildren, and people bending over their cooking pots, and kind old gentlemen calligraphers. People I might know.
