Liberation

Two years ago, she was my assistant. Her English was excellent; but nothing compared to her intuitive grasp of teaching. Soon Wang became indispensable. She could tell me exactly where I had lost my students. She could spell out what was needed to leap the abyss between East and West.

Two years ago, she was my assistant. Her English was excellent; but nothing compared to her intuitive grasp of teaching. Soon Wang became indispensable. She could tell me exactly where I had lost my students. She could spell out what was needed to leap the abyss between East and West.

But as weeks passed, I noticed she had stopped washing her hair. Her body sagged. Her eyes, at first so lively, had gone dead.

"Is something wrong?" I finally asked.

"My other classes," she replied.

"Yes?"

"Fifteen this week." She hesitated, fidgeting with her pen. "I am not sure how long I can take it. Even the Professor says he is amazed I am not ill. That I am still able to stand up."

"But you must stop. You can't teach all those hours. You will kill yourself."

She looked down abruptly. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" I asked.

"Because of my parents," she explained. "They are getting old. They live in a city north of here. They want to come to Beijing. So it is my responsibility to buy them an apartment – that way, we can all live together."

"But apartments in Beijing cost a lot of money." I protested. "Much more than in the provinces."

Exactly, her eyes said. She looked down again.

"It is my responsibility. They are poor. They do not have good pensions. I am the first-born, so it falls to me as my duty to do this."

Defeated by this adamant assertion of the principles of xiao (filial duty), I abandoned Wang to her fate. No Western advice could turn the tide of two and a half thousand years of Confucian principle. If it did, Wang would no longer be Wang. She would no longer be Chinese.

Last week, Wang rang up, wanting to meet. Dreading the virtual zombie she had become by year's end, I reluctantly agreed. In the lobby, there was Wang. But Wang was no longer Wang. She leapt forward with a handshake. Her eyes sparkled. Her ponytail, newly washed, had a ribbon in it. She laughed in the face of my astonishment.

"What has happened to you?"

Over lunch, she tried to explain. "You see, I taught all last year. I taught all summer. I did not give myself even one day off. I had almost all the money for the down-payment on the apartment. Then my parents called. They said they had decided not to come to Beijing. That they would stay where they are."

She stopped, swallowing hard. "For the first time in my life, I felt I had nothing to live for. I had no one to live for. I did not know what to do. So I turned on the television set. And I watched television for two weeks. I told everyone I was sick. I was sick."

"Then something happened. I started to say 'no' to teaching the extra hours. And then I kept on saying 'no'. I became angry. I realised that for years they had exploited me. I had never said 'no' before.

"But now I had a new plan. I would use the money to buy an apartment for myself and my younger sister who is here in Beijing."

"So now you can have some time for yourself?" I asked, hopefully.

"Oh no," she said, alarmed. "My life does not belong to me. It belongs to my parents. It belongs to my sister."

And then, patiently, as if explaining to a child: "You must understand. This is my duty. Living for one's self..." She looked at me sharply.

"Living for oneself is not permitted."

Jerusha McCormack is a visiting professor at the foreign university in Beijing