2022.06.14 回到中国让我对中国有了新的认识

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WHAT RETURNING TO CHINA TAUGHT ME ABOUT CHINA
Coming back to Beijing showed me what happens when an unfettered state is allowed free rein, unchecked by law or civil society.

By Michael Schuman
Illustrations by Ben Hickey
A human figure is surrounded by giant swabs.
Ben Hickey for The Atlantic
JUNE 14, 2022
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Four days into my covid-prevention quarantine at a Shanghai hotel, I heard someone knock on the door. Like my fellow travelers at the facility, I wasn’t allowed to interact with anyone during my weeks of isolation, except the medical officers tasked with monitoring my health. An unexpected visit could mean bad news. I had been tested that morning. Could the results have been positive?

I opened the door to find the elderly gentleman who had administered the earlier COVID test. He said nothing, pointed an infrared thermometer at my forehead, and shuffled off with a grunt. I was safe, at least for the moment.


The fear I felt then has been constant since I returned to China three months ago. It hovers in the back of my mind; it keeps me awake at night. The fear isn’t of the virus itself. It’s that the next knock will come from one of the health officials, community wardens, or security officers who enforce China’s strict pandemic controls and have the power to drag me into any quarantine, at any facility, for any length of time, at any time. It’s the fear of being suddenly locked into my apartment, without access to food. My fear—the fear of the millions experiencing harsh lockdowns in Shanghai and elsewhere in China—is the fear of the arbitrary.

China under Communist Party rule has always been an autocracy with overwhelming repressive capabilities. But in the era of Xi Jinping, the state has been empowered to tighten its grip on society and equipped with enhanced surveillance technology to make that possible. The pandemic has offered the state further rationale and opportunity to expand this power. Ever since the government squashed the initial coronavirus outbreak in Wuhan more than two years ago, keeping COVID cases at zero has been touted at home and abroad as a mark of Chinese greatness. To maintain that success, the bureaucracy has erected new controls and regulations, implemented through technology that tracks, monitors, and limits people’s movements and behavior, penetrating deep into Chinese life.

This zero-COVID policy is not an aberration. It is representative of China’s political and social system. Authoritarian rule, by its very nature, must be arbitrary. Anything else would require the state to be held accountable for its failings and actions, and that would be intolerable here. The knock on the door must be able to come at any moment—and too often does—for something written, said, read, or done that the state doesn’t like. The consequence, by design, is a society that lives in a constant atmosphere of trepidation and helplessness.

My experience returning to zero-COVID China shows what happens when an unfettered state is allowed free rein, unchecked by law or civil society. It helped me better appreciate what is truly at risk with China’s global ascent. Washington’s widening confrontation with Beijing is not only about geopolitical supremacy or economic primacy, but about something far more fundamental. It concerns the fate of the individual in the international community—whether our future will be guided by values that cherish individuals or run roughshod over them.

From afar, China can appear to be a society of relentless progress, of high-speed railways built at high speed, and a strategic government efficiently planning for years to come. It is that, to an extent, but it’s also a place where a stifling bureaucracy inconsistently applies a tangle of vague and confusing regulations. Sometimes that can work in your favor. An official, feeling charmed, or lazy, or intimidated, can let infractions or requirements slide. This opens the door, however, to abuse, frustration, and irrationality. China’s zero-COVID policy has produced an additional morass of opaque rules that can change by the hour, handing the already intrusive bureaucracy even more power over your life.

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In returning to China, I had to clamber through this bureaucratic steeplechase. An American journalist who had been living in Beijing, I was denied a new visa by the Chinese authorities amid deteriorating relations with Washington and, unable to work, I decided to exit the country in the summer of 2020. I left behind my wife, also an American journalist, who had to remain with her bureau.

I bought a plane ticket to Hong Kong (which, though part of China, has different regulations on journalists) and packed a single suitcase. Back then, the pandemic in China appeared to be under control and there was talk that its border with Hong Kong would open to freer travel, so we reasoned that we’d see each other again in a few weeks; at worst, a few months. Ultimately, we would not meet again for almost two years.

At first, COVID restrictions were what kept my wife and me separated: Foreign residents of China were prohibited from returning from trips abroad to prevent the virus from seeping in. But the hurdles were diplomatic as well. As part of Beijing’s continued harassment of American journalists, my wife was told that if she left the country, she might not be allowed to return. So we stayed where we were—I in Hong Kong, she in Beijing. We celebrated anniversaries and birthdays over FaceTime. Once, she reported from Shenzhen, so close to Hong Kong that it can be reached by subway, yet she might as well have been in the Himalayas.

Then came an unexpected breakthrough. Last November, Washington and Beijing negotiated a truce in their journalist war. Each would again issue visas to the other’s journalists, and much to my surprise, I was one of the initial Americans approved. Perhaps, my wife thought, I could be home by Christmas.

But when it comes to China, optimism is a dangerous thing. The authorities made me reapply for the visa, involving a mountain of paperwork and a Zoom interview with officials at China’s embassy in Washington, D.C., during which I was lectured on journalistic ethics and asked if I had ever been in a guerrilla army. My application was eventually approved, but then I had to do the paperwork all over again with Chinese consular officers in Hong Kong, where I was still living, to process the visa. Finally, in March, a prized J1 (for “journalist”) visa was in my passport. That little slip of paper lifted a great weight off of me. I could reunite with my wife.

A human figure is drowning in paperwork.
Ben Hickey for The Atlantic
Timing conspired against me, though: By the time I had the necessary documents, both mainland China and Hong Kong were going through renewed pandemic waves, the latter engulfed by its worst-ever outbreak, with daily cases skyrocketing into the tens of thousands. Getting to the mainland, always a tricky venture amid its COVID restrictions, became even more complicated as local officials strove to protect their towns from Hong Kong’s surge. Crossing the border into Shenzhen became difficult; flights to Beijing were delayed. I ended up boarding a plane to Shanghai, the best route open to me at the time.

Like anyone entering Shanghai from abroad (and that includes Hong Kong), I had to endure three weeks of government-managed quarantine. Rather than allowing travelers to arrange their own accommodations, China insists on allocating a room to those entering. You could find yourself relaxing in luxury or condemned to a one-star dump and not be able to do much about it. Most worrisome were the meals: Quarantine hotels typically don’t permit food deliveries, and that wouldn’t work for me. Though I’m not a religious person, I grew up in a household that kept a strictly kosher kitchen, and to this day, I won’t eat pork or shellfish. In China, a country that maintains a “strategic pork reserve” like America does a strategic petroleum reserve, it was safe to assume that most of my meals would contain pork, and if not pork, then shrimp, and if not shrimp, then more pork. There were only so many granola bars and cans of tuna I could carry.

We learned through friends that one particular quarantine hotel in Shanghai permitted meal deliveries, but to ensure that I was assigned to it, I needed an address in the same neighborhood. (Shanghai officials tend to quarantine incoming travelers based on where they live.) After several failed attempts, my wife and a friend devised an elaborate plan to book an Airbnb nearby as a place to stay after my quarantine, and use that address to get me into the right hotel. Owners were wary of hosting a traveler from COVID-ridden Hong Kong, but eventually, one agreed.

When I landed in Shanghai, the airport had been converted into a warren of pandemic-control checkpoints. After I got my suitcase, I wandered into another maze of desks and lines where I would be assigned to a quarantine hotel. At the end of it, I stepped onto a bus to a pork-free room at my hotel of choice. The scheme had worked.

Until it didn’t. The hotel had just a short time before changed its policy—no more food deliveries. The game, though, was not up. In China, many bureaucratic entanglements that seem so impersonal and impenetrable are not, if you know who to call. Rules that appear strict on the surface can be manipulated behind the scenes. We contacted a friend who knew a rabbi in Shanghai whose organization happened to run a kosher restaurant in the city. He intervened on my behalf, and the hotel staff assented to an exception: They would bring kosher meals sent by the restaurant to my room. Two hours later, I had chicken schnitzel, mashed potatoes, and lentil soup for dinner.

The purpose of zero covid is to save lives, and that, it has achieved. Yet this policy has often been imposed with extreme severity—even cruelty. Authorities erected fences around Shanghai apartment buildings to prevent residents from leaving. They have separated sick children from their parents, killed the pets of quarantined families, invaded apartments and soaked them indiscriminately with disinfectants, and kept innocent citizens penned in their homes without food or medical care. Why does the government act with such inhumanity in a supposedly humanitarian cause?

Because it can. Only in a society like China’s, where the individual has little recourse against the state, could zero COVID operate as it has. Officials will get into trouble if COVID breaks out on their watch, so they are motivated to be as strict as possible. The result is a system that breeds abuse. That doesn’t mean the government is completely immune to public pressure, but it does mean that officials will and can do whatever they believe necessary to protect themselves. If some ordinary people suffer along the way, so be it.

I should stop here and make clear that I am in favor of stricter controls to contain COVID, such as mask and vaccine mandates. But I also believe that people must be treated with respect and dignity. Too often, the implementation of zero COVID in China has lacked this basic humanity.

My quarantine in Shanghai was tolerable enough. The room had a big window, an empty mini-fridge to store food, and a large (though uncomfortable) bed. But in many respects, we were treated like prisoners: We were given only two hand towels for our entire incarceration, bags of garbage piled up outside my door, and I was refused a change of bedding. Even murderers are allowed time out of their cells for exercise in the open air; we couldn’t step out into the hallway. An alarm rang if you opened your door for too long. Staff thumped on your door without warning and expected you to immediately come running. I was routinely woken at early-morning hours for COVID tests.

This already stressful period was made more so by the constant uncertainty. Upon arrival, I was slated to be confined in quarantine for 21 days, but while there, Shanghai suddenly shortened it to 14. Immediately, my hopes rose. Could I get to see my wife earlier than we anticipated?

Of course not. I discovered I could not book a flight out of Shanghai until I had been on the mainland for 21 days. So I checked into another hotel to wait it out. At least I wouldn’t be confined to one room.

Until I was confined to one room: The new hotel’s management refused to acknowledge these updated quarantine rules and insisted that I isolate for my entire seven-day stay. (I also couldn’t move again: Most hotels would not accept travelers after the shortened quarantine.)

During this period of isolation, which eventually stretched to five weeks across two cities, I came to the conclusion that Chinese quarantines are a form of torture: Throughout, I was in the open air for no more than 10 minutes. My visitors were mainly health officers who performed COVID tests. (I had 14 in all.) Sometimes these were administered with unnecessary harshness—wooden swabs jammed roughly into sensitive nasal tissue, or deep into the throat, inducing gagging and choking, often multiple times. I could speak with people by phone, but in many respects I was in solitary confinement.

I began to exhibit symptoms of the abused: recurring irrational bouts of terror for what might come, extreme lethargy that caused a loss of will and concentration, uncontrolled agitation and feelings of hostility toward my oppressors. I found myself literally counting the hours down to my release, and worrying that it wouldn’t happen.

Was all of that isolation necessary to protect the public? A study by America’s CDC suggests that the incubation period of the Omicron variant (the one now plaguing China) is two to five days. If my third and fourth COVID tests were negative, what were the chances I’d be positive on rounds seven and eight? (Let alone 14.) After two weeks locked up in my initial Shanghai hotel, the staff tested my mobile phone for COVID. I fully understand the need for extra caution. I also understand that much of zero COVID is a state protecting itself.

A human figure with luggage faces a giant eye.
Ben Hickey for The Atlantic
Covid outbreaks in a city like Shanghai, the country’s financial center, are embarrassing enough for the image-conscious Chinese leadership. Allowing a similar fiasco in Beijing, with starving, resentful residents protesting as they did in Shanghai—by clanging pots and screaming out their windows late into the night—within earshot of Xi Jinping is simply inconceivable. Officials often place extra hurdles on entering the capital to prevent such disturbances.

Anyone traveling anywhere in China requires a green “health code” generated by a government-run app on your smartphone, showing that you are COVID-free. If you don’t have a green code, you can’t get into a supermarket or an office building, to say nothing of boarding an airplane. Because I was emerging from quarantine in Shanghai, my code was green. But to enter Beijing, I would need a Beijing-specific green code, created by a special Beijing-specific subprogram. Coming from COVID-engulfed Shanghai, I assumed I wouldn’t have one. I faced the prospect of being shut out of Beijing indefinitely.

Hope rose when a friend discovered a new regulation that allows disabled people to travel to Beijing without the requisite health codes. I am almost completely blind, because of a rare genetic retinal condition, so I qualified. I have a general rule that I won’t use my disability to gain special favor. When it came to the Chinese government, however, I was willing to make an exception.

But remember what I said about getting too optimistic in China? I may have completed three weeks of quarantine, but by the time I emerged, Shanghai had gone into lockdown and restrictions had been extended when I was due to fly to Beijing. No one was permitted on the streets—not even if, like me, you had a booked flight. I quickly filed paperwork to the Shanghai municipal government seeking permission to travel, arguing that, as a new foreign correspondent posted to Beijing, I was obligated to be in the capital. Much to our surprise, a pass permitting me to go to the airport appeared in a few hours. But even that wasn’t enough. I had a flight and a pass, but no transport. It’s not like you could just hail a taxi in the middle of a citywide lockdown. Working through contacts, we located a driver in possession of a permit allowing him to operate during the lockdown and scheduled a pickup at my hotel.

The morning of my flight was the most stressful of the entire journey. We had done everything we could, but there was always that fear of arbitrary action. Any official I encountered could bar me from the flight and strand me in Shanghai. And then what? I worried something would go wrong as the driver pulled up in a minibus and we drove through the eerie, depopulated streets of Shanghai, a city of 25 million people. An elevated highway, usually bumper to bumper, was empty as we approached the airport. I entered a vacant terminal of closed shops and check-in counters.

First, two security officers at the entrance examined my documents. (I carried a stack of 18.) Then they summoned the airport doctor to take a look. He gave his consent, and I rolled that one bag I had packed nearly two years prior through the silent terminal. At check-in, several staffers rifled through the same papers as I stood by nervously, attempting not to look nervous. Eventually, I was handed a boarding pass.

I was finally on my way to Beijing and my wife. And yet what would life be like there? More COVID tests, more intrusive high-tech tracking, and probably more lockdowns, more rules, and more uncertainty. It would be a life of perpetual fear of the arbitrary, of the next knock on the door.

Advocates of the Chinese system believe that the U.S. sacrificed hundreds of thousands of lives because of an ideological devotion to freedom. In that, there is an element of truth. But what China is propagating instead is far worse: a state without boundaries. Many proponents of that state within and outside China possess the wealth and connections to protect themselves from its most egregious abuses; most Chinese, still poor and voiceless, cannot. They remain defenseless against a capricious and powerful government. The state may have prevented COVID deaths better than many liberal democracies. But that success has come at great cost—to human dignity and to the human spirit. The threat of COVID will pass; the threat of autocracy, sadly, will not.

My reunion with my wife took place in the same airport where we had parted 662 days earlier. “Hi, it’s me,” she said as I emerged from baggage claim. It was as if we had seen each other the day before. For a moment, those painful, lonely years apart suddenly evaporated, as though they had never happened.

But only for a moment. On our way through the arrival hall, we were waylaid by men in hazmat suits. That morning, Beijing’s rules had changed yet again. No longer could I take my own transport to my 14-day quarantine at home. (The 21 days in Shanghai weren’t sufficient.) Now only designated cars, dispatched by the city’s districts, were permitted, in order to create a supposed “closed loop.” The problem was that no one seemed to have informed the district offices. The cars had not arrived. In the meantime, we were corralled like livestock into a roped-off pen inside the terminal with other Shanghai arrivals, without food or water. Eventually, staff at a nearby McDonald’s, apparently feeling sorry for us, took orders and brought them over. My first meal with my wife was Chicken McNuggets and fries. Four hours passed before a car finally materialized. The driver pulled on the requisite hazmat suit, but, a bulky fellow, he punched his foot through the bottom. (He had a ready replacement.)

Then when we got home, I got shut into our apartment, and my wife, unable to stay, took her packed suitcase and checked into a hotel down the street.

It wasn’t exactly how I had envisioned coming together again, us tearfully throwing ourselves into each other’s arms. But it was probably more fitting. In zero-COVID China, normalcy—and sanity—will have to wait.

Michael Schuman is a contributing writer at The Atlantic, and the author of Superpower Interrupted: The Chinese History of the World and The Miracle: The Epic Story of Asia’s Quest for Wealth.



全球
回到中国让我对中国有了新的认识
回到北京后，我看到了当一个不受约束的国家被允许自由发挥，不受法律或公民社会的制约时，会发生什么。

作者：迈克尔-舒曼
插图：Ben Hickey
一个人形被巨大的棉签包围。
本-希基为《大西洋》杂志撰稿
2022年6月14日

我在上海的一家酒店进行新冠隔离的四天后，听到有人敲门。像我在该设施的同伴一样，在我被隔离的几周内，除了负责监测我健康状况的医务人员外，我不允许与任何人交流。一次意外的拜访可能意味着坏消息。那天早上我接受了测试。结果会不会是阳性？

我打开门，发现是之前进行COVID测试的那位老先生。他什么也没说，用红外测温仪指了指我的额头，然后哼了一声就走了。我很安全，至少目前是这样。


自从三个月前我回到中国，我当时感到的恐惧一直存在。它在我的脑海中盘旋；它让我在晚上睡不着觉。这种恐惧并不是对病毒本身的恐惧。而是下一次敲门的人是卫生官员、社区管理员或安全官员，他们执行中国严格的大流行病控制措施，有权在任何时候把我拖进任何设施的任何隔离区，在任何时间内都可以。这是对突然被锁在我的公寓里，无法获得食物的恐惧。我的恐惧--在上海和中国其他地方经历严酷封锁的数百万人的恐惧--是对任意性的恐惧。

共产党统治下的中国一直是一个具有压倒性镇压能力的专制国家。但在习近平时代，国家被授权收紧对社会的控制，并配备了强化的监控技术，使之成为可能。大流行病为国家提供了进一步的理由和机会来扩大这种权力。自从两年多前政府在武汉压制了最初的冠状病毒爆发以来，将COVID病例保持在零的水平已经在国内外被吹捧为中国伟大的标志。为了保持这一成功，官僚机构建立了新的控制和法规，通过追踪、监测和限制人们的行动和行为的技术来实施，深入到中国的生活中。

这种零监控政策并不是一种反常现象。它是中国政治和社会制度的代表。专制统治，就其本质而言，必须是任意的。否则就需要国家对其失误和行动负责，而这在这里是不可容忍的。敲门声必须能够在任何时候出现--而且经常出现--对于一些国家不喜欢的文字、言论、阅读或行为。其结果是，在设计上，这个社会一直生活在惶恐和无助的气氛中。

我回到清零中国的经历表明，当一个不受约束的国家被允许自由支配，不受法律或公民社会的制约时，会发生什么。它帮助我更好地理解中国在全球的崛起中真正面临的风险。华盛顿与北京日益扩大的对抗不仅涉及地缘政治优势或经济主导权，而且涉及更根本的东西。它关系到个人在国际社会中的命运--我们的未来是由珍视个人的价值观指导，还是粗暴地践踏他们。

从远处看，中国似乎是一个不断进步的社会，高速建造的高速铁路，以及一个为未来几年有效规划的战略政府。在某种程度上，它是这样的，但它也是一个令人窒息的官僚机构不连贯地应用模糊和混乱的法规的地方。有时这可能对你有利。一个官员觉得自己很有魅力，或懒惰，或受到恐吓，可以让违规行为或要求被忽略。然而，这为滥用、沮丧和非理性打开了大门。中国的清零政策产生了更多不透明的规则，这些规则可能每小时都在变化，使已经具有侵入性的官僚机构对你的生活拥有更多权力。

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在返回中国时，我不得不爬过这个官僚主义的障碍。我是一名一直生活在北京的美国记者，在与华盛顿关系恶化的情况下，我被中国当局拒绝了新的签证，由于无法工作，我决定在2020年夏天离开中国。我留下了我的妻子，也是一名美国记者，她不得不留在她的办公室。

我买了一张去香港的机票（香港虽然是中国的一部分，但对记者有不同的规定），并收拾了一个手提箱。当时，中国的大流行病似乎得到了控制，而且有消息说中国与香港的边界将开放给更自由的旅行，所以我们推断，我们会在几周内再次见到对方；最坏的情况是几个月。最终，我们在将近两年的时间里没有再见面。

起初，COVID的限制使我的妻子和我分开。中国的外国居民被禁止从国外旅行回来，以防止病毒渗入。但是障碍也是外交方面的。作为北京对美国记者持续骚扰的一部分，我的妻子被告知，如果她离开中国，她可能不会被允许回来。所以我们留在原地，我在香港，她在北京。我们通过FaceTime庆祝周年纪念日和生日。有一次，她从深圳报告，深圳离香港如此之近，可以通过地铁到达，但她可能还在喜马拉雅山。

然后出现了一个意外的突破。去年11月，华盛顿和北京在他们的记者战争中谈判达成休战协议。双方将再次向对方的记者发放签证，令我惊讶的是，我是首批被批准的美国人之一。我的妻子想，也许我可以在圣诞节前回家。

但在中国，乐观是一件危险的事情。当局让我重新申请签证，涉及到大量的文书工作和中国驻华盛顿特区大使馆官员的放大面试，期间我被告知新闻道德，并被问及我是否曾经参加过游击队。我的申请最终被批准了，但随后我不得不在我仍然居住的香港与中国领事官员重新做文书工作以处理签证。最后，在3月，我的护照上出现了一张珍贵的J1（代表 "记者"）签证。这张小小的纸条让我卸下了巨大的负担。我可以和我的妻子团聚了。

一个人影被淹没在文书工作中。
本-希克为《大西洋》杂志撰稿
然而，时机对我不利：当我拿到必要的文件时，中国大陆和香港都在经历新的流行病浪潮，后者被其有史以来最严重的爆发所吞噬，每天的病例激增到数万人。前往大陆，在其COVID限制下，一直是一个棘手的冒险，随着地方官员努力保护他们的城镇免受香港疫情的影响，变得更加复杂。越过边境进入深圳变得很困难；前往北京的航班被推迟。我最终登上了飞往上海的飞机，这是当时对我来说最好的路线。

像所有从国外（包括香港）进入上海的人一样，我不得不忍受三个星期的政府管理的检疫。中国不允许旅行者自己安排住宿，而是坚持为入境者分配一个房间。你可能发现自己在豪华的环境中放松，也可能被判处在一个一星级的垃圾堆里，而且不能做什么。最令人担忧的是膳食问题。隔离酒店通常不允许送餐，这对我来说是行不通的。虽然我不是一个宗教人士，但我在一个严格保持犹太厨房的家庭中长大，直到今天，我都不会吃猪肉或贝类。在中国，一个保持 "战略猪肉储备 "的国家，就像美国保持战略石油储备一样，可以肯定的是，我的大部分饭菜都会包含猪肉，如果不是猪肉，就是虾，如果不是虾，就是更多猪肉。我可以携带的燕麦片和金枪鱼罐头只有这么多。

我们通过朋友了解到，上海有一家特定的检疫酒店允许送餐，但为了确保我被分配到这家酒店，我需要有一个位于同一街区的地址。(上海官员倾向于根据入境旅客的居住地对其进行检疫）。经过几次失败的尝试，我的妻子和一个朋友制定了一个精心策划的计划，在我被隔离后，在附近预订一个Airbnb作为住宿的地方，并利用这个地址让我进入正确的酒店。房东们对接待一个来自COVID肆虐的香港的旅行者持谨慎态度，但最终，有一家同意了。

当我在上海着陆时，机场已经被改造成一个大流行病控制检查站的迷宫。拿到我的行李箱后，我走进另一个由办公桌和队伍组成的迷宫，我将被分配到一个隔离酒店。最后，我踏上一辆巴士，前往我选择的酒店的无猪肉房间。这个计划成功了。

直到它失效。该酒店在不久前刚刚改变了政策--不再有食物运送。不过，游戏还没有结束。在中国，如果你知道该找谁的话，许多看似不近人情、不可逾越的官僚纠葛其实不然。表面上看起来严格的规则可以在幕后被操纵。我们联系了一位朋友，他在上海认识一位拉比，他的组织正好在该市经营一家犹太餐厅。他代表我进行了干预，酒店工作人员同意了一个例外。他们会把餐厅送来的犹太餐送到我的房间。两个小时后，我的晚餐是鸡肉排、土豆泥和扁豆汤。

零食的目的是为了拯救生命，而这一点，它已经实现了。然而，这项政策往往被强加于人，而且极为严厉，甚至残酷。当局在上海的公寓楼周围竖起栅栏，防止居民离开。他们把生病的孩子和他们的父母分开，杀死被隔离家庭的宠物，侵入公寓并不分青红皂白地用消毒剂浸泡，并把无辜的市民关在家里，没有食物或医疗护理。为什么政府在一个所谓的人道主义事业中采取如此不人道的行为？

因为它可以。只有在中国这样的社会中，个人对国家几乎没有申诉权，才有可能像现在这样，在COVID中运作。如果COVID在他们的眼皮底下爆发，官员们就会陷入麻烦，所以他们有动力尽可能地严格执行。其结果是一个滋生滥用的系统。这并不意味着政府完全不受公众压力的影响，但它确实意味着官员们会也可以做任何他们认为必要的事情来保护自己。如果一些普通人在这一过程中受到伤害，那就这样吧。

我应该在这里停下来，明确表示我赞成采取更严格的控制措施来遏制COVID，比如口罩和疫苗的强制性规定。但我也相信，人们必须得到尊重和尊严的对待。在中国，清零的实施往往缺乏这种基本的人性。

我在上海的隔离是可以忍受的。房间里有一扇大窗户，一个空的小冰箱可以储存食物，还有一张大床（虽然不舒服）。但是在许多方面，我们被当作囚犯对待。在整个监禁期间，我们只得到两条手巾，一袋袋垃圾堆在我的门外，而且我被拒绝更换被褥。即使是杀人犯也有时间离开牢房到户外锻炼；而我们却不能走到走廊上。如果你开门的时间过长，警报就会响起。工作人员在没有警告的情况下敲打你的门，并希望你能立即跑过来。我经常在清晨时分被叫醒进行COVID测试。

这段本来就很紧张的时期，又因为持续的不确定性而变得更加紧张。抵达后，我被安排在隔离区关押21天，但在那里，上海突然将其缩短为14天。随即，我的希望升温。我能否比我们预期的更早见到我的妻子？

当然不能。我发现在大陆停留21天之前，我无法预订离开上海的航班。所以我住进了另一家酒店，等待时机。至少我不会被限制在一个房间里。

直到我被禁锢在一个房间里。新酒店的管理层拒绝承认这些最新的检疫规则，坚持要求我在整个七天的逗留期间与外界隔离。(我也不能再移动。大多数酒店在缩短隔离期后不接受旅行者）。

在这段隔离期间，我得出的结论是，中国的隔离是一种酷刑，最终延伸到两个城市的五个星期。在整个过程中，我在户外的时间不超过10分钟。我的访客主要是负责进行COVID测试的卫生官员。(我总共做了14次。)有时，这些测试是以不必要的粗暴方式进行的--将木签粗暴地塞入敏感的鼻腔组织，或深入到喉咙，导致咽喉和窒息，往往是多次的。我可以通过电话与人交谈，但在许多方面，我是被单独监禁的。

我开始表现出受虐者的症状：反复出现对可能发生的事情的非理性恐惧，导致意志和注意力丧失的极端嗜睡，无法控制的激动和对压迫者的敌意。我发现自己简直是在倒数着时间等待释放，并担心它不会发生。

为了保护公众，所有这些隔离都是必要的吗？美国CDC的一项研究表明，Omicron变体（现在困扰中国的变体）的潜伏期为2至5天。如果我的第三和第四次COVID测试是阴性的，那么我在第七和第八轮测试中出现阳性的可能性有多大？(更不用说14天了。）在我最初被关在上海酒店的两个星期后，工作人员对我的手机进行了COVID测试。我完全理解需要格外谨慎的原因。我也明白，零COVID的大部分是国家在保护自己。

一个带着行李的人影面对一只巨大的眼睛。
本-希基为《大西洋》撰写的文章
在像上海这样的城市，该国的金融中心，爆发COVID，对于注重形象的中国领导层来说，已经够尴尬了。如果允许在北京发生类似的惨剧，让饥饿、怨恨的居民在习近平的耳边像在上海那样，通过敲打锅子和从窗户里尖叫到深夜来进行抗议，这简直是不可想象的。官员们经常在进入首都时设置额外的障碍，以防止此类骚乱。

任何人在中国的任何地方旅行，都需要一个绿色的 "健康代码"，由政府管理的应用程序在你的智能手机上生成，显示你没有COVID。如果你没有绿色代码，你就不能进入超市或办公大楼，更不用说登上飞机了。因为我刚从上海的隔离区出来，我的代码是绿色的。但是要进入北京，我需要一个北京专用的绿色代码，由一个特殊的北京专用子程序创建。我来自被COVID笼罩的上海，我想我不会有一个。我面临着被无限期地拒之于北京之外的前景。

当一个朋友发现了一项新的规定，允许残疾人在没有必要的健康守则的情况下到北京旅行时，我的希望就来了。我几乎完全失明，因为患有罕见的遗传性视网膜疾病，所以我符合条件。我有一个一般规则，即我不会利用我的残疾来获得特殊的好处。然而，当涉及到中国政府时，我愿意做一个例外。

但还记得我说过的关于在中国变得太乐观的问题吗？我可能已经完成了三个星期的隔离，但是当我出现的时候，上海已经进入了封锁状态，当我要飞往北京的时候，限制已经延长。没有人被允许上街--即使像我一样，你有一个预订的航班。我迅速向上海市政府提交文件，寻求旅行许可，辩称作为新派驻北京的外国记者，我有义务留在首都。令我们惊讶的是，允许我去机场的通行证在几个小时后出现了。但即使这样也是不够的。我有一个航班和一张通行证，但没有交通工具。在全城封锁的情况下，你不可能随便叫一辆出租车。通过联系，我们找到了一个拥有许可证的司机，允许他在封锁期间运营，并安排他到我的酒店接我。

飞行的那天早上是整个旅程中最紧张的时候。我们已经做了我们能做的一切，但总是担心会有任意的行动。我遇到的任何官员都可能禁止我登机，把我困在上海。然后呢？当司机开着一辆小巴，我们驶过上海这个拥有2,500万人口的城市中阴森恐怖、人烟稀少的街道时，我担心会出问题。当我们接近机场时，一条通常是碰碰车的高架公路上空无一人。我进入了一个由封闭的商店和登记柜台组成的空旷航站楼。

首先，入口处的两名安保人员检查了我的文件。(我带了一叠18个文件。)然后他们召集机场医生来检查。他同意了，我就把我近两年前装好的那个袋子滚过了寂静的航站楼。在办理登机手续时，几个工作人员翻阅了同样的文件，我紧张地站在旁边，试图不显得紧张。最终，我拿到了一张登机牌。

我终于踏上了前往北京和我妻子的道路。然而，那里的生活会是怎样的呢？更多的COVID测试，更多侵扰性的高科技追踪，可能还有更多的封锁，更多的规则，更多的不确定性。这将是一种对任意性、对下一次敲门的永久恐惧的生活。

中国制度的倡导者认为，美国因为在意识形态上对自由的奉献而牺牲了数十万人的生命。在这一点上，有一个真理的因素。但中国所宣传的反而更糟糕：一个没有边界的国家。在中国境内外，这个国家的许多支持者拥有财富和关系，可以保护自己免受最恶劣的虐待；而大多数中国人，仍然贫穷，没有发言权，无法保护自己。在一个反复无常的强大政府面前，他们仍然毫无防备。国家可能比许多自由民主国家更好地防止了COVID的死亡。但是这种成功是以巨大的代价换来的--人类尊严和人类精神。COVID的威胁会过去；可悲的是，专制的威胁不会。

我和我妻子的重逢是在662天前我们分开的那个机场进行的。"嗨，是我。"当我从行李领取处出来时，她说。仿佛我们在前一天就看到了对方。有那么一瞬间，那些痛苦的、孤独的分离岁月突然消失了，就像它们从未发生过一样。

但只是一瞬间。在我们通过入境大厅的时候，我们被身穿危险品防护服的人拦住了。那天早上，北京的规则再次改变。我不能再乘坐自己的交通工具到家里进行为期14天的检疫了。(在上海的21天是不够的。)现在只允许使用由市内各区派来的指定车辆，以创造一个所谓的 "闭环"。问题是，似乎没有人通知各区办公室。这些车还没有到达。与此同时，我们像牲畜一样被关在航站楼内的一个有绳索的围栏里，和其他上海来的人在一起，没有食物和水。最后，附近一家麦当劳的工作人员显然为我们感到遗憾，接过订单并送了过来。我和妻子的第一顿饭是麦乐鸡和薯条。四个小时过去了，一辆车终于出现了。司机穿上了必要的防毒服，但他是个笨重的家伙，他的脚被打穿了底部（他有一个现成的替代品）。

然后，当我们回到家时，我被关进了我们的公寓，而我的妻子，无法留下来，带着她打包好的行李箱，住进了街边的一家酒店。

这并不是我所设想的再次走到一起，我们泪流满面地投入对方的怀抱的样子。但这可能更合适。在清零的中国，正常状态和理智都必须等待。

迈克尔-舒曼是《大西洋》杂志的特约撰稿人，也是《超级大国中断》和《中国的世界史》的作者。中国的世界史》和《奇迹：亚洲追求财富的史诗故事》。