non-fiction

It was the first day of the Chinese new year in Urumqi, not that many Uighurs particularly cared. It's not their holiday (although there was a Uighur language spring festival gala). But it was also a Friday, which meant the biggest weekly public prayer at the Grand Bazaar. The Bazaar itself, the world's largest, was closed. Outside it, hundreds of Muslims laid out their mats, kneeled and prostrated themselves to the yodelling refrain of "Allah Akbar" coming from the speaker system.

Across the street, a clump of security guards watched them, looking bored.

Being black in Taiwan – by Mycal L Ford

In front of me, a sea of bodies stretches for what seems like miles – though it couldn't be more than a hundred yards. I am on stage at the elementary school I'm about to start teaching at in Kaohsiung, southwest Taiwan. All eyes are on me. The sun beats down on my skin, cooking it almost well-done. Something liquid races down the side of my rib-cage to my hips. If I raise my arms, sweat will pour from my armpits and swallow the hundreds of students waiting to greet me. I keep my hands down to save myself the embarrassment.

A deep, almost god-like voice echoes from the speakers. That’s my cue. I puff out my chest, stand up straight, shake out my new dress shoes, adjust my khakis and straighten the collar of my wrinkled polo. That’s when the orator, the principal of the  school, introduces me as President Obama.

A run-in with reality – by Derek Sandhaus

THIS STORY FIRST APPEARED IN MALA LITERARY JOURNAL

There are few better places to be than Shanghai in the springtime. Sandwiched between the frigid bleakness and sweltering mosquito-infested blanket of the Yangtze Delta extremes are a perfect few weeks of shirtsleeves and al fresco dining. Under spring’s clear blue skies, one starts finding excuses to be outside. For me it was an impromptu editorial meeting with an author.

I had been in Shanghai for just over two years and was attempting to transition from nobody to entry-level somebody; from aimless transient to anchored expat.

The white laowai's burden – by Amy Daml

For foreigners or "laowai" living in China, it’s important to keep in touch with friends from home – you know, by stalking them on social media. Some of the conversations I had on Facebook last year were about race in America, after the acquittal of George Zimmerman in July finally brought the term “white privilege” to mass consciousness. Though I’ve only been an expat for three years, living abroad gives you just enough of an outsider’s perspective to trick you into thinking that these are not your problems. But they are my problems – or should I say, my privileges.

Whether out of frustration, innocence, the insistence of a Chinese friend, or just out of being an asshole, we’ve all played the laowai card.

From cultural revolution to rent collection – by Alec Ash

It's always a pleasant surprise when my landlady drops by unannounced at eight in the morning. I'm familiar with the early bird rap tap on my door by now, and the first thing I do before opening the door is put on the kettle. Sometimes she's there to collect the rent. Sometimes it's to check the heating came on, or to write down the electricity meter digits, or to switch off the water supply to the roof so it doesn't freeze in the pipes during winter, twiddling with hidden knobs under the kitchen sink.

This time, rap tap tap, it was just to have a chat.