Do Not Discuss

I belong to a research group studying China’s culture. Members of this group meet every two weeks to discuss our observations and interpretations of various cultural phenomena in China. Recently, we decided to investigate class dynamics within Chinese society. A colleague proposed that the class stratification in Chinese society was eradicated after the establishment of the People’s Republic of China and re-emerged following the reform and opening-up policy. I disagree with this view. While the founding of the People’s Republic of China may have aimed to eliminate the bourgeoisie, the actual outcome in Chinese society at that time was that the old bourgeoisie—whether in terms of economic, political, or cultural assets—was violently overthrown and reduced to the lower class; the working class became the middle class; and the peasant class was raised to the lower-middle class. The aggression of both the former working and peasant classes was channeled toward the new lower class of the old bourgeoisie and intellectuals, while the emerging bureaucratic class enjoyed privileges and remained immune to attacks from the working and peasant classes.

When I shared a short essay expressing this perspective during one of our group’s online meetings, a colleague kindly remarked that he felt persecution anxiety, unsure whether our meetings might be monitored or if our group would consequently be disbanded. Another colleague added that the previous WeChat group she belonged to had been dissolved precisely because members had discussed topics considered politically inappropriate. Other group members began voicing growing concerns, stating that any publication of my ideas would require collective approval and review from the research group. I sensed a pervasive taboo: it was as if my thoughts threatened the very survival of the group, so they needed to undergo rigorous scrutiny and suppression. At that moment, the group no longer seemed to me a supportive community, but rather part of a persecuting entity.

I defended my position to the other group members, stating that these were merely my personal views; if the group felt my ideas could be harmful, I would naturally separate them from the group’s thoughts and creations in the future. Even if I wished to publish these “dangerous” ideas in a foreign journal, I would not attribute them to this group under my name. However, other members remained concerned; one member kindly remarked, “You’ve written well, but we can revise it to make it safer.” Yet I resisted the idea of having my work castrated for political reasons, and refused to share it with others for them to modify it into something more submissive.

I have made several attempts to express my genuine thoughts and feelings online, but my articles either failed to pass censorship due to political reasons and thus could not be published, or were initially published with considerable attention and response, only to be quickly deleted by social media platforms. These ideas or emotions that either failed to pass review or were ultimately deleted can essentially be summarized by a common Chinese taboo— “Do not discuss national affairs.”

The Chinese writer Lao She depicted in his 1956 play Teahouse how the slogan “Do not discuss national affairs” was increasingly posted on teahouse walls, in larger and larger characters, serving as a reminder and warning to diners. Although the story of Teahouse is set during the late Qing Dynasty through the early Republic of China, the prohibition “Those who discuss state affairs shall be punished or even killed” had been enshrined in national law since the Warring States period under the State of Wei (403–225 BCE) as an expression of state authority. Throughout China’s more than two thousand years of feudal imperial rule, despite frequent dynastic changes, this taboo—“Those who rashly comment on the court shall die”—never disappeared. This potentially fatal taboo instilled a profound fear of politics and an absolute obedience toward rulers among the Chinese people, leading most to consciously identify themselves as “commoners” or lao bai xing (老百姓,“ordinary people”) to distinguish themselves from the “bureaucratic class.” They expected proper care from officials, yet often felt aggrieved and resentful when such care was lacking.

The political autonomy of the Chinese people has been long deprived, leading to public affairs being consistently regarded as matters of officials, while ordinary people are expected only to abide by rules and protect themselves through suppression and silence. Apart from the bureaucratic class, the remaining Chinese people, including even the bourgeoisie, consider themselves ordinary people without political power. As a Chinese lao bai xing, I feel that the term evokes a sense of fragility, helplessness, fear, and consequently anger—making one passively accept policies determined by the upper echelons of bureaucracy, unable to express dissatisfaction, let alone engage in protest actions. This also parallelly reflects the power dynamics between parents and children in China.

When I began receiving remote analytic training from the American Institute of Psychoanalysis, I was deeply impressed by the political identities of many Americans I saw in the institute’s group emails, and also shocked by analysts’ participation in social movements such as No Kings and Free Palestine. In China, attending such gatherings would be considered an illegal assembly, and the individual could very likely face legal detention by the state. If the person held a public office (whether in government service, state-owned enterprises, or state-owned schools and institutions), they would be dismissed from their position, with potential repercussions extending to their family members’ official roles. Consequently, this taboo is conscientiously observed even within families.

While writing this article, I hesitated for a long time: should I use my real name to express these thoughts and feelings, or opt for a safer pen name? In the ending stages of the pandemic, I wrote an article about how the prolonged citywide lockdown had led to pent-up anger among residents that might erupt suddenly. My piece garnered significant attention on social media but was quickly removed by the platform, and I witnessed my family’s expressions of anger and dissatisfaction at my bold expression. Although they were either retired or held no public office, the fear associated with the taboo of discussing national affairs remained profound in their minds. Consequently, I ultimately decided to use the pen name “Neverland,” which also embodies the fear and sorrow within me.