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 those buying mountains and volunteering for tree planting becoming a trend. The army of environmental protection advocates is gradually growing, spanning all social strata. Beyond the natural concern for desertification, the affectionate gaze for cultural environments is also focused. The indignant voices interfere with the crude and shortsighted construction teams, and everyone becomes a guardian of cultural heritage. 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 accumulated history and precious remnants are still being demolished and destroyed one by one. Identical overpasses divide the locals from their homes. Apathetic bank towers and shopping malls unify the rugged north and the gentle south into an abhorrent pattern. Among the clusters of buildings that resemble 1970s makeshift structures, selling European-Californian styles, they go to great lengths to add a "bird’s nest" and "pot cake." Foreign experts exploit the trendy bureaucratic mentality to give the shy city another term—a word called "city," which is misused in a vague and ridiculous 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 "cities" seems far from over. People are waiting for the day when a formal announcement like "China City Beijing City Badaling City" is issued. In Tang and Song legends, the military states and prefectures of the world, historical maps of prefectures and routes, even the county-level divisions of the Revolutionary Committee era—every human settlement description—prefectures, prefectures, provinces, counties, towns, and markets, regardless of size or importance, and without regard to function or, are all transformed into ambiguous "cities." Above, there is a uniform height; in the eyes, there are dazzling white tiles; in the ears, there are the 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 is completed, texts cursing it as "cuckoo-style architecture" have already appeared. The earliest advocates, those who called for action when it still carried strong political connotations, have long been silently despairing. Perhaps, for our emotionally dull nation, only when the historical city is gone will the observation of urban history begin. Only when ancient streets are one by one and the illusion takes hold, and even we truly treat them as heritage—new historical cities stage themselves, whether you like it or not—will people turn around and pay attention to the precious historical cities. The progress of human civilization, when it diverged at the ancient fork in the road, presented different approaches to urban types. That is to say, the cities we have actually had some inherent weaknesses from the beginning. Today, with a thoughtful comparison of some famous Mediterranean cities, we discover that they followed different planning traditions. 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 the neighbor’s outer wall 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 the springs and water sources, leaving clues for later 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 cave district, both within a few hundred steps of each other, were both early designated as UNESCO World Heritage sites. But in the minds of Chinese people, urban planning is about ritual. Since the time of the Rites of Zhou’s Kaogongji, the grand nine-east-nine-west grid has remained unchanged, regardless of dynastic changes or the passage of time. This is a flat plane to display the ruler’s majesty, not a design for comfortable and rational living. Such a layout naturally placed cities on plains, and plain cities, apart from their vulnerability 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 is not just in the-cutting divisions; other ideological factors also made it difficult for cities to survive. Need I mention the Yin Ruins of Anyang? Need I mention Bianjing in the Clear and Bright River Map? Even the great Chang’an, with its famous walled districts, why did they disappear later? There are countless examples worth reflecting on. Kashgar is also built on a plain, yet why is its charm so captivating? By the way: the foolish urban renewal of Kashgar is also proceeding relentlessly, aiming to eliminate its charm and using the nine-east-nine-west grid as its blueprint. In the not-so-distant future, one can imagine pedestrian crossings crowded with shuttle-like buses. Can a mere alley not hold your nostalgia? For traffic, cars, and residential buildings, for the will of officials and fat profits, can everything be carved to the bone and torn down to the core? I think of the city of Fez in Morocco. 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 uses a single-lane system for donkey carts to handle traffic. 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 dissent, there is no taboo, only arbitrariness. I have seen the old scenes of Zhengzhou disappear in an instant, and I have seen the wooden streets of Kunming torn down house by house. Last year, the charm of the Ili Han Bazaar vanished, and now I witness the encirclement of Timbaldan in Kashgar—cities are like history, fragile and can be rewritten. Regret has turned into sorrow, and even though the ink is thick, words fail. Is it that we compete to spread the news of ancient city demolitions? Is it that we race to curse the reckless demolition movement? Whenever I hear someone talking about Beijing’s hutongs, I feel frustrated.