MAY 31, 2014
POSTED BY JIAYANG FAN
Almost a year after September 11th, I returned from high school in Massachusetts to spend two months in Beijing, as the guest of family friends. My hosts, retired office workers, were genial people, and generally incurious about my life in America; the only acknowledgement that I had spent many years abroad was an oblique apology for the absence of hamburgers on the dinner table. But they had less oblique questions about my brush with terrorism in America. Had I had seen the planes? I hadn’t. Did I still feel unsafe in public places? Did I now suspect that certain people I saw walking down the street might be terrorists? And wasn’t that the trouble with the U.S. these days—that it had become a country overrun with terrorists?
It was the deadliest massacre in recent memory, and the fourth in the past month—another sign of the increasingly volatile relations between Uighurs, the culturally distinct minority native to northwest China, and the Han majority, who constitute ninety-five per cent of the country’s population. Unlike many of the previous attacks, which took aim at state entities like police stations or security offices, the Urumqi bombing deliberately targeted civilians. If the assailants intended to maximize casualties, generate publicity, and radicalize Uighurs and Hans who had previously been ambivalent about this conflict, they succeeded spectacularly.
China’s state-run media has long condemned these killings as acts of terrorism—against the “country, society and humanity.” Foreign media outlets have been more wary of the word “terrorism,” sidestepping a term unavoidably freighted with political significance. In March, when the U.S. Embassy referred to a coördinated slaughter in a Kunming train station that left dozens dead as a “senseless act of violence,” thousands of indignant Chinese micro-bloggers accused Americans of applying a double standard. Some asked if we would ever refer to the fall of the Twin Towers as a “regrettable traffic incident,” or to the Boston Marathon bombing as a “fireworks and burning problem.”
Thirteen years ago, terrorism seemed almost exotic to the Chinese, entirely confined to a world outside their borders. Today, citizens are clamoring for recognition of its grave implications in their own nation. Yet the inherently political nature of the crime—particularly when it is framed as a violent protest against state injustice—makes its handling problematic. Especially in a country known for its imperious style of one-party rule, and censorship of opinions that run contrary to the official script.

