Xinjiangren

(Or, Prejudice and Picked Pockets)

Her eyes were the color of ice. Set into her long, angular face, they were cold, blue and almost crystal clear. She didn't look anything like the child strapped to her chest with a strip of fabric. The infant, a drooling little fat Chinese baby, clutched to the woman, his expressionless face resting against her bosom. They stood out quite clearly in the crowd of commuters at the Shanghai Railway Station.

Behind them, a taller and more masculine female followed closely, briskly shuffling at the heels of the younger woman with the icy eyes. They were covered in a faint layer of dust and dirt, but they moved with a hurried, focused swiftness. The intensity in their eyes was disturbingly frightening. The poor guy walking in front of them couldn't even see them coming.

The cheeseburger waited in my hand, but I didn't take a bite. I stared out the window, mouth agape. The girl with the blue eyes unzipped the outer pocket of this guy's laptop bag, foolishly slung behind the clueless man's back. Delicately extracting her prize with slender fingers, she stuffed it into the crevice between her stomach and the baby's, turned on her heels and immediately hustled in the opposite direction, the mannish woman following closely behind. It was over in a matter of seconds, so fast that I spun around to the tables around me, eyes begging to connect with someone else who had just saw what happened. A pair of older aunties at the table next to me shook their heads with crooked smiles and simply muttered, "Those Xinjiang people..."

It was not my first time witnessing a pickpocket in action. However this was the most fluid execution I had ever seen, so efficient that I was actually a little hesitant to go outside when my burger was done. But what struck me the most was the way the aunties dismissed the whole affair, as if it were perfectly normal for that Xinjiang woman to be a thief. The city is filled with local Han Chinese thieves, but no one seems to notice. These folks from Xinjiang have an especially bad reputation in China.

The Xinjiang Autonomous Region is located at the northwestern quadrant of China, a massive area larger than the size of South Africa, with a population almost double that of Greece. Bordering Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan, Pakistan and India to the West and Russia to the North, it is symbolic as a significant segment of the ancient Silk Road. Most people here -- the Uighurs -- look distinctly different from the Han Chinese, with fairer Eurasian features that are more akin to the neighboring 'Stans and Middle Eastern brethren, and most are Muslim. Much like its politically hyper-sensitive Himalayan neighbor to the south, this region is highly disputed and a volatile flashpoint that makes headlines fairly often, especially whenever the Chinese government wishes to add a little more fire to the already negative reputation the general Chinese populace hold towards Xinjiang people. Today, the deliberate influx of Han Chinese threatens to squeeze out the indigenous cultures and efforts by the government are also aimed at Han-ifying the area, thereby erasing as much of Xinjiang's culture as possible. Without harming the lucrative tourist trade, of course.

As early as the Han Dynasty (60 BC), the Han Chinese have staked their claim to the area. As any student of Chinese history can attest to, keeping track of the dynastic changes is challenging enough; tracing the dealings of each dynasty and the Xinjiang area is equally complicated. Feel free to read all about it in your free time, for I have neither the energy or qualifications to do it justice here.

In Shanghai, observers have the opportunity to see the fallout of this cultural conflict with their own eyes. To be fair, there are a lot of Xinjiang thieves. But there are also swarms of Chinese ones too. They just blend in better. The locals brush these outsiders off as barbarians from the North who are only here to thieve and grill up delicious lamb skewers at street-side barbecue stalls. In recent news, accusations of AIDS-filled syringe attacks have further fueled prejudice against these migrants.

Last year at the fake market, I was in the midst of a hard bargain session with a shop boss who was trying to swindle me with an absurd price inflation for a few crappy paintings. I was in no mood, so I gave her my final offer, which cut her starting offer by almost 90%. She laughed at me, so I walked away toward another stall. In typical fashion, she chased after me as I left, waving me back in to her store, the universal sign for "OK I give up, you have a deal." As she wrapped up my purchases, she asked me where I was from. Cutting to the chase, I told her I was mixed: dad Chinese, mom American. She scoffed at me and said with a dismissive sneer, "Your father must be from Xinjiang then," implying that my shrewd bargaining was attributed to the assumed genetics of a thieving and tricky race. After correcting her ("Daddy is a money-hungry Hong Konger, duh..."), I wanted to smack her on behalf of my non-thieving Xinjiang brethren.

Back in Burger King, I looked at the two aunties sitting next to me. I asked, "Did you just see that?" and they nodded in affirmation. They probably took one look at me and wondered whether I was in on the swindle too. Finishing my meal, I continued to chat with my buddy who was sitting across from me. The pickpocket tag team appeared again, closing in on yet another hapless victim. My friend got up and walked outside, ever the American hero. Standing on the sidewalk, he waited. When the ladies came back our way, he stared them down with determined eyes, psychically instilling whatever message of justice that happened to be swirling in his brain. The younger girl furrowed her brow, visibly disturbed by my friend's gaze. The older lady just smiled at him.