Author: Elyse Ding

‘On subway, you can’t see a city’s landscape.’ My friend Penny, a newcomer to Beijing, insisted on taking a bus rather than subway to the Tiananmen Square. She may be right, given a tourist’s habitual quest for landmarks. She may be wrong. For a five-year inhabitant in Beijing, subway is where landscape lies and glows:

        Wherever I sat, there I might live, and the landscape radiated from me accordingly.

——Henry David Thoreau

        If Henry Thoreau got the chance to try the Beijing subway, he might have substituted the word ‘sat’ to ‘squeezed’. Yes, you need to squeeze for survival.

        At Huixin Xijie Nankou, one of the most crowded transfer stations, people are always queuing in rounds of lines to enter the station. Especially at rush hours like 8 am, tides of people were moving forward, with impatience and anxiety. The pace speed was beyond personal control. Following the stream seemed to be the only choice. The queue finally reached the platform and I got closer to the train. The train came and the doors opened. Out bounced several leaning-against-the-door people, and then followed a crazy stream, a mixture of suits and dresses, running like warriors marching towards the battlefield. I squeezed forward by instinct, or I would be tossed out. Finally, I stepped onto the train and secured a place. But very soon, it became insecure because -‘Aiiiiiii, KA ZHU LA (I am stuck)!’- a young lady’s elbow was stuck by the impatient doors, and the whole crowd tried their utmost to move in and humanly created a little room for this poor lady’s elbow, and my newly secured place was conquered by a fat guy. Sandwiched between a black Bosideng jacket and a gray Adidas backpack, my mood was turned into gray black. The Bosideng jacket woman might not wash her hair for days. One did not have to be observant enough to notice the white dandruff on her greasy hair and black jacket. A strong scent of cologne was flowing around the Adidas backpack guy, making the carriage more suffocating…

        ‘The next station is Guomao. Please get ready for your arrival. Guomao is a transfer station. Passengers for line one please prepare to get off the train.’ The sweet voice of the stop reporter was the prelude for another battle. ‘Xia ma(Are you gonna get off)? ’ I whispered to the woman in front of me. She shook her greasy hair. I attached an ‘enemy’ tag to her secretly in my mind. Elbowing my way forward, I tried to find an ally on my way to the door. ‘Xia ma?’ I spoke to the back of a head, much higher than mine. The head gave a yes nod. ‘ALLY’, I tagged. Within seconds, our alliance grew, one two three four FIVE! When the train came to a halt, we marched out- a landscape one should never miss.

        I somehow cannot explain what we are squeezing for. Perhaps it is beyond explanation because if you do something by instinct, there is no reason. No matter how decent elegant or refined you might be, you have to squeeze like a warrior, reckless, fearless, out of irrationality, at the rush hours in Beijing Subway, or you can’t take the train.

        The subway extends like veins of this city, incessantly carrying blood to every part, making the whole city function. The blood is composed of tens of thousands of migrant workers, college students, job seekers, salary earners, the lower and middle class of this society. The subway, where the blood runs, is a place where the noise of friction between reality and dream can be heard and felt. The lady’s scream, the greasy hair, the cologne and the inevitable closeness to strangers are so intrusive. But I cannot find an escape. I am part of them.

        Wherever I squeezed, there I might live, and the landscape radiated from me accordingly.

——A passenger in Beijing Subway

Write in January 2013 

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The link of this article: Through Subway, To Beijing