Yu Changwang outside his family’s shop
Beijing is full of patriotism these days. National flags adorn cars and “I [heart] China” t-shirts are in fashion. But it’s hard to match the display of one small store in central Beijing. A national flag flies high above its roof, next to a white Olympic flag. Below hang a pair of Communist Party hammer-and-sickle flags, and much of the wall space is covered by images of Chinese leaders including Mao Zedong, Deng Xiaoping, Hu Jintao and Wen Jiabao. But the display isn’t so much about patriotism as it is defiance.
The store, which is also a residence, is a nail house—the Chinese phrase for residents who refuse to capitulate to the wrecking ball, leaving their house sticking out like a nail. It’s a fairly common phenomenon, but some nail houses can, because of their circumstances, become more than a local story. The most famous case was of a house in the southwestern city of Chongqing last year, where some extreme excavation left the structure looking more like an island than a mere nail. The dramatic images, plus a media-savvy homeowner, elevated the Chongqing house into a national case.
Location is key to the Beijing house, which doubles as a shop selling dried fruit and drinks. It’s on a main road, Di’anmennei Street, just south of the Di’anmen intersection. It’s about a half mile north of the Forbidden City, and less than a mile from Zhongnanhai, the Chinese government’s leadership compound. Deng Xiaoping once lived down the block. There is also the element of timing. The run-up to the Olympics is a particularly sensitive time. As much as the government would like to have this building out of the way, it doesn’t want to be seen bullying the owners of a small shop just as the Olympics brings 20,000 journalists and a half million tourists to the Chinese capital.
A notice from a Beijing court posted on the door of the building gave the family until Sunday to leave. Another notice said the family’s refusal to move interfered with an environmental development program. To the south of the house the roadside lots have been filled with grass and flowers. Yu Changwang, who has lived in the house for all of his 42 years, says his family fears they will be shortchanged if they leave. “The best result would be for us to just stay,” he said.
On Sunday evening a few hundred people gathered around to see what would happen when the deadline expired. There were people who walked dogs, some who sat and ate ice cream and one woman who carried a baby in split-bottomed pants. They spilled out into the street, blocking bicycle traffic and prompting angry shouts from old men who just wanted to get somewhere. Across the street sat a police van with a single officer taking photos. The deadline came and went. At about 11 p.m. Yu’s younger sister, Yu Pingju, emerged with a small bullhorn to address the crowd, which pressed in close. She thanked those who had come for the protection they offered and restated her family’s belief that the central government will help them in their battle with local officials. “Misfortune has fallen on us, but we still believe in the constitution, the property law and the great president Hu,” she said. “We will follow the lead of brother Hu and believe justice will be restored.”
Some in the crowd shouted approval. One man told me he thought it was wrong to use the Olympics flag, a global symbol, for the sake of one family’s protest. Another told me that he supported them. Most people seemed content merely to watch as, for one more night at least, the Yu family shop remained standing in the heart of Beijing.