The repercussions of the Sichuan earthquake are still echoing through China – literally and figuratively – having taken a big enough grip of the country to knock Tibet, and temporarily, the Olympics, back from the forefront of public consciousness. While – as in many other cities – Nanjing did not suffer anything beyond the tremors that drove downtown employees into its streets, the effect of the disaster has been felt in many ways. Two days after the quake, in front of the cafeteria, a former student stopped me. Wearing some sort of official red vest, he very earnestly asked if I could make some sort of a donation to the victims. I did, dropping a 100 RMB note through the slot in a simple red box on the table next to him. “You are a friend to China!” Signing my name in a notebook, I moved on. Later that day, I received a call from the university foreign affairs office, asking if I could contribute. I did. Another 100 yuan. I felt like Scrooge; I could have given much more than that. Easily. But I’ve been in China a little while now, and instinct told me that if twenty kuai of that loose cash actually makes it to where I hope it will go, it would be a small miracle. Later that week, on CCTV9, the English language channel, I watched Hu Jintao sitting on a cot, in a tent, giving a slow, endless, photo-op handshake – rising and falling in time with his words – to a ragged, vacant looking man who had probably just, quite literally, had his whole world come crashing down around him. The translation drowned out Hu’s Chinese and went, more or less, as follows: You can rest assured that the government of China will do all it can to help those who have suffered in this quake, blah, blah, blah... Over his shoulder was a ragged, vacant looking woman with a ragged, vacant looking baby, sitting next to an equally ragged, vacant looking grandma. None of them seemed to be that overwhelmed by Hu’s presence. I was embarrassed and strangely amused by the absurdity of the situation. Now, I just feel basic empathy towards Hu. After all, he’s in charge – he had to say something reassuring for everyone to hear. But what can he say? This terrible, unpredictable, textbook definition of an Act of God has destroyed and killed broadly and randomly. And all that anyone can really do now is pick up the pieces and count. But he can’t say that, can he.

Last week, on the first day of a three-day national mourning period, I observed a large part of the student body gather from the main plaza in front of the university library all the way down to the flagpole near the main gate. They stood in lines facing the Chinese flag hanging at half-mast as first the national anthem played, then words were said that I couldn’t make out, and then, at 2:28PM, horns were blared for three minutes from the parked fleet of university buses. And then, when the horns had finally stopped, everyone went their separate ways. During these days, public entertainment throughout the country was halted. I suppose, as a gesture of commemoration, this was okay. But Nanjing is far from the decrees of Beijing and, despite this, people surfed at the local Internet café and chalked up at the Fujian Lu pool yard. And this was okay, too. Life goes on, as it must. And all that I’ve observed in this time: the goodwill, the media inundation, and the unity more parts patriotism than nationalism – but easily reversed if mixed the right way – reminding me a little of the days just after September 11th in the States, still seemed, in large part, as unavoidably hollow, manufactured, and wide of the mark, in the face of what has happened. I find that, as with a death or terminal illness in the family, there’s not much one can do, aside from just being there. And, usually, even that isn’t enough.