Okay, here is the translation following your instructions: Say it, Beijing

Author: Li Jiangshu
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2007-01-01
Features: It is difficult for Chinese people to reach ideological consensus, so people always witness tedious debates being staged endlessly. There is one exception: environmental issues. More and more people are getting involved, with mountain purchases and volunteer tree planting becoming a trend, and the army of environmental protection advocates gradually growing, spanning all social classes. Beyond the natural concern for desertification through green activism, a tender gaze for cultural environments is also focused. The indignant voices interfere with the crude and shortsighted construction teams, and everyone becomes a cultural heritage protector. Emphasizing refined culture and condemning shallow construction, foreigners are particularly enthusiastic. It is often heard that a foreign wife of European or American nationality is tirelessly blocking demolition and defending hutongs. Who can say this isn’t a form of social progress? But no matter what, nothing can stop the rumbling of construction sites. City after city, the accumulation of history and precious heritage is still being demolished and destroyed one by one. Identical overpasses make locals lose their way. Apathetic bank towers and shopping malls unify the rugged north and the gentle south into an abhorrent pattern. Amidst clusters of buildings resembling 1970s makeshift structures, selling European-California-style homes, they go to great lengths to add elements like the Bird’s Nest and pot stickers. Foreign experts exploit trendy bureaucratic psychology to give the shy city another term—a word called "city," which is misused in a confusing and laughable way: not only do names like "Dingzhou City Zhuozhou City" defy Chinese character logic, but on the ancient grasslands, can you understand signs like "Hulunbuir City Hailar City Manzhouli City"? And the obsession with naming cities seems far from over. People are waiting for the official announcement of "China City Beijing City Badaling City." In Tang and Song legends, the empire’s military prefectures; on historical maps, the prefectures and roads; even the county-level districts and provincial divisions of the Revolutionary Committee era—all descriptions of human settlements formed through historical sedimentation—states, prefectures, provinces, counties, towns, and markets, regardless of size or importance, are all turned into ambiguous terms like "city." Atop them is a uniform height, in their eyes are dazzling white tiles, and in their ears, they hear news of ancient sites being destroyed. At the end of monotony and exhaustion, people no longer love their hometowns. Fortunately, this is still an area where discussion is allowed. Like protecting forests, anyone can harshly criticize those who destroy the appearance of ancient cities. Even before the national landmark theater was completed, texts cursing it as "cockroach-style architecture" had already appeared. The earliest advocates, those who called for action when it still carried strong political connotations, have long been despondently silent. Perhaps, for our emotionally dull nation, only when historical cities cease to exist will the study of urban history begin. Only when imitation ancient streets are artificially created one after another, and the illusion sets in, do we truly treat them as heritage—new historical cities, unsatisfactorily, take the stage whether you like it or not—and only then do people turn to appreciate the precious historical cities.
The progress of human civilization, when it diverged at ancient crossroads, presented different approaches to urban types. In other words, the cities we have possess inherent weaknesses from the very beginning. Today, with a thoughtful comparison of some famous Mediterranean cities, we discover they followed different planning principles. For example, Granada is built on a hillside, following the mountain’s slope and undulations, first constructing the palace, the royal city. Then, outside the fortress walls, civilian residences were built haphazardly. The square was the market; using neighbors’ outer walls as my own front wall, connecting the small paths of a few neighbors formed a city network of roads. Private ownership of homes and land limited the state’s arbitrary will. Streets between neighborhoods were major thoroughfares, following water sources, leaving a basis for future modifications. The urban planning that borrowed from nature brought undeniable benefits to humanity. A thousand years later, the entire layout revealed a labyrinthine charm. No wonder the Alhambra Palace and the Albaicín caves, within a few hundred steps of each other, were both early designated as UNESCO World Heritage Sites.
In the minds of Chinese people, urban planning is about ritual. Since the time of the Rites of Zhou·Kaogongji, the grand nine-grid, nine-wire plan has remained unchanged, regardless of dynastic changes or the passage of time. This is a plane of imperial majesty, not a design for comfortable and rational living. Such planning inevitably placed cities on plains, and plain cities, besides being vulnerable to floods and wars, abandoned architectural variations, essentially losing the depth of the city. The flaws of ritual-based planning cannot be solely attributed to the placement on plains. The rigidity extends beyond the-cutting divisions; other ideological factors also make cities rare to survive. Need I mention the Yin Ruins of Anyang? Need I mention the Bianjing of the Clear and Bright River Map? Even the great Chang’an, famous for its renowned districts, why did its legendary litang (districts) disappear later? There are countless lessons worth reflecting upon. Kashgar is also built on a plain, yet why is its charm so irresistible? By the way, the foolish urban renewal of Kashgar is also proceeding relentlessly, eliminating its charm and following the nine-grid, nine-wire blueprint day and night.
Beyond the layout, building materials are another weakness. From the Yin Ruins to the high platforms of the Warring States period (e.g., the of Zhao, the Zhanghua of Chu), ancient materials were only rammed earth. The rapid decay of wood and rammed earth is self-evident. Later, harder materials were added, and Chinese architecture embarked on a long path of (earth and wood) materials. As the cellular material of cities, the fragility and rapid corrosion of this construction material made preserving ancient buildings difficult. It cannot be compared to the stone-built city of Alara on the eastern coast of the Mediterranean. Ancient buildings everywhere had to be rebuilt every century and repaired every three decades. Although the inscriptions on the monuments claim origins dating back to the Tang and Song dynasties, the temples and halls before our eyes are almost all reconstructed in the Qing Dynasty. We lack a tradition of using stone. On the boundless plains, once dotted with brick kilns, today, cement plants are everywhere. Thus, there is no Alara, no Roman ruins stretching along the Mediterranean, towering even before the Common Era. The cheapness and limitations of materials fostered speculation and shortsightedness in urban construction. Take some time to visit a stone market—it reveals that no one actually plans to build a stone structure; instead, people cut stones into slabs and "dry-hang" them on poor-quality skeletons! Buildings like this, and cities built from such buildings, their precarious preservation, their historical heritage, are already on the brink of collapse.
Braudel, in The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World, summarized some elements of early capitalist cities, such as their geographical origins and relationships with markets and transportation, their functions as bureaucracies, commerce, industry, crafts, religion, and military, and pointed out the urban diseases of food, politics, transportation, and population. He concluded with the bank era of cities. He said, "If urban life develops in stages, then it also declines in stages. The birth, development, and decline of cities are closely tied to the overall economic situation. In the process of decline, cities gradually abandon their sources of power." (Commercial Press, volume, p. 468) But the transportation factors that led to the rise of capitalist cities in the 16th century had not yet developed into urban cancer as they have today. Transportation is the city’s veins; once it becomes inflamed, the city suffers high fever and paralysis. Developing transportation is a sacred name. Transportation problems are a cover for all conspiracies and corruption. Real estate’s massive profits are also quietly calculated behind this cover. Cities are fragile; with just the excuse of transportation, every corner of Beijing’s hutongs can be turned into a monstrosity of grade-separated intersections. People in cities are even more fragile; behind the construction teams and developers lies the "irresistible force," and people can only accept the judgment of having to leave their homes. Barriers and iron fences are for traffic, yet seventy-year-old men struggle to climb over high pedestrian bridges, while cars still swarm like locusts. Widening, every road is widened to 80 meters, 100 meters, and the troublesome nine-grid, nine-wire plan can be built into terrifying overpasses at all 81 intersections. In the near future, one can imagine pedestrian crossings packed with shuttle buses. Can a mere alley not hold your nostalgia? For transportation, cars, and real estate, for the will of officials and fat profits, can everything be carved bare, torn down to the core! I think of the Moroccan city of Fez. That ancient city, along with its modern life, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It is also built on relatively flat ground, and the materials are not hard granite, yet it manages traffic problems with a single-lane system for donkey carts. The key is that in the urban construction there, cultural preservation is absolute, like a taboo—no one dares to touch a single hair of the ancient city. In the planning lacking social supervision and expression of dissent, there is no taboo—only arbitrariness. I have seen the lower-level scenes of Zhengzhou disappear in an instant, and witnessed the wooden streets of Kunming being demolished street by street. Last year, the charm of the Ili Han bazaar vanished, and now I witness the encirclement of Timbada in Kashgar—cities are like history, fragile and can be rewritten. Regret has turned into sorrow, and though ink is thick, words fail. Could it be that we compete to spread the news of ancient cities being destroyed, could it be that we race to curse the reckless demolition movement? Whenever I hear someone talking about Beijing’s hutongs, I feel frustrated.