2. Under the red flag

In the early days of this millennium, I graduated university in England and set out for a new life in China. Here, I share the quiet stories of my journey, a chronicle of discovery and displacement, woven into the fabric of a land vast and unfathomable.

INTRODUCTION | FIRST CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

The next morning, I wake to the muffled hum of the city outside my window, a sound that doesn’t stop. The air smells of dust and smog, thick and heavy, and the far-off clatter of rickshaws and buses fills the silence of the early hours, as though the city never fully sleeps. My thoughts are still scattered, my mind restless, but something about the city promises to reveal itself in new ways today.

Later, we are taken by minibus to Tiananmen Square, the colossal heart of Beijing, where the ghosts of history loom large in the air. We arrive just as dusk is beginning to cast its shadow over the city. A sea of concrete and stone stretches out before us, almost too vast to comprehend. Families gather in groups, children flying kites in the dimming sky.

Li Mei, our guide, keeps us together with a firm voice and a brightly-coloured baseball cap. Before long, the enormity of the square seems to open up before me. The distant silhouette of the Forbidden City hovers like an ancient shadow at one end, the red flag of China snapping in the wind, its colours vivid against the darkening sky.

A group of tourists - other Westerners - moves past us, their faces lit by the glow of their cameras, eager to capture the moment. But there is something about the place that resists the lens, as if the square is too large, too complex, to be contained in a photograph. I feel the space pressing in on me, and my breath catches slightly as I take it all in. The sound of a distant parade being practiced somewhere in the depths of the square, the low hum of people speaking in tones too soft to understand, their voices blending into the air like distant music.

Li Mei pauses before we reach the centre of the square, turning to us with a slight, almost imperceptible smile. "Tiananmen," she says, her voice steady but imbued with a reverence I’m not entirely sure I understand. "A symbol of China’s strength, and its past."

The group remains quiet, absorbing the magnitude of her words, though I am aware of my own sense of displacement. This is history, yes. But it is also a living, breathing city. The people moving through the square, the soldiers standing guard, the families strolling by the monument - these are not characters from some distant past, but figures of the present, part of the living fabric of this place.

I move closer to the flagpole, where a soldier stands rigid, his uniform immaculate. His face is unreadable, a mask of discipline. I feel the eyes of the group on me, but when I reach for my camera, I hesitate. The fading light makes it hard to be sure the shot will come out right, and I only have one disposable camera with me.

I move closer to the flagpole, where a soldier stands rigid, his uniform immaculate. His face is unreadable, a mask of discipline. I feel the eyes of the group on me, but when I reach for my camera, I hesitate. The fading light makes it hard to be sure the shot will come out right, and I only have one disposable camera with me.

As we draw closer to the gates of the Forbidden City, the sky deepens into a thick darkness, and the square begins to glow under the harsh, artificial lights. The brightness is almost too much, casting jagged shadows across the stone, and the flag at the top of the pole snaps and cracks in the wind, as though it’s trying to tell its own story, demanding to be heard. I stop, caught in the moment, when a small voice beside me pulls me back to the present.

A girl, no more than ten, tugs at my sleeve, her dark eyes wide with curiosity. She is holding a small trinket in her hands - perhaps a souvenir, though the meaning is lost to me.

"Hello. Look. Look," she says, smiling brightly, offering the trinket in her open hand.

I bend down, surprised by the directness of her approach, but I know the words. I have been practicing my Mandarin in the quiet moments of the hotel, learning how to haggle, how to ask for prices, how to say thank you. “Duoshao qian?” I ask. How much?

The girl smiles, clearly amused with my attempt. She holds up the trinket, a small jade pendant shaped like a dragon, and says, “Shi kuai.” Ten yuan.

I hesitate. I know the trick. The price is inflated, as always, for foreigners. And yet, there is something disarming about the child’s earnestness, her confidence in this small transaction. I glance toward Li Mei, who smiles faintly, as if to say you must learn, sooner or later. With a deep breath, I offer a lower price - “Wu kuai” - and the girl shakes her head, smiling once again as though humouring me. After a few more rounds of haggling and laughter, we agree on a price that feels right, though in the end, the exchange seems less about the money and more about the moment itself.

With the jade pendant tucked into my pocket, I continue on, a little lighter, the small victory of speaking the language, even in fragments, clinging to me. It’s not much, but it feels somehow significant, as though it might be the first hesitant step toward some understanding of this sprawling, unknowable country.

As the night settles, the city’s sounds deepen: car horns honking, voices low and constant, the sharp clink of metal as vendors slowly pack up their stalls. The lights of Tiananmen Square flicker in the distance, casting an almost ghostly glow, and for a moment, I see beyond the walls: a quiet, shifting world, full of unseen lives moving in the shadows. The hawkers are folding away their wares, yet the scene holds its energy, alive in a way that’s barely perceptible, like the quiet hum of something just beneath the surface, waiting.

The minibus ride back to the hotel is subdued now, the day’s weight pressing on us all. Through the window, I watch the darkened streets slip by, the soft blur of streetlights casting fleeting shadows across the pavement. The city’s sounds continue, an ancient beat that seems to reverberate through the streets, through the buildings, through the words I’m only beginning to grasp.

China is a land of contradictions, and at twenty-one, I still don’t know what it means to truly be present here. But the first steps have been taken: the first words, the first bargains, the first small gestures of connection. And somehow, despite its vastness and mystery, this country already feels as though it’s pulling me in.

A Moment of Gratitude

If the words of Ill Grandeur have resonated with you, consider buying me a cup of tea. In China, tea is more than just a drink—it is a symbol of connection, warmth, and reflection. A one-off tea is a way of sharing in the journey, supporting the story, and keeping the spirit of discovery alive. Every cup helps bring the next chapter to life.