A BMW-driving volunteer in quake-hit Lushan

This reporter visited the scene of the April 20 earthquake that struck Ya`an city in Lushan County, Sichuan Province the next day. I took a seat on a sidewalk because I had to sleep out in the open. Around 10 p.m., a classy 20-something woman with a volunteer label got into the front passenger seat of a silver BMW. In the driver’s seat was a man who was about her age. The couple seemed to discuss for a while and drove out of the place.

A volunteer and a BMW made quite an odd contrast with many ambulances, makeshift tents, and continuing aftershocks. The awkward scene of volunteers and the disaster characterized Lushan. Among more than 10,000 young volunteers assembled there, most of them seemed to have nothing to do. They wandered about during the day and hanged out in groups at night.

The young volunteers became useless because the Chinese government did not want them. It said its military forces and rescue teams are enough for helping the victims. Nevertheless, young people formed a group of volunteers online and kept streaming into the scene. With more volunteers than the dislocated, the authorities even encouraged them to disband. It is quite a contrast with the lack of volunteers in the devastating 2008 Wenchuan earthquake.

There is a saying in China: Never mind other’s business. Chinese people ignored when an old man collapsed in a shopping mall and a child was hit by a car in a market, as news reported. But this time is different as young people tried to come to the scene either by driving a BMW or riding a bicycle on the mountainous road.

They flocked to Lushan for humanitarian aids. Was that it? Not returning home even though they had nothing to do, they sang and had fun overnight. They appeared to find a way out at the disaster scene, which turned into anarchy temporarily. In Lushan where the minimal level of order was maintained, they might have spewed pent-up youth energy while occupying asphalt, which had been controlled under the Socialist political regime.

It was not the first time that the pent-up energy cramped in Weibo, a Chinese version of Twitter, spew out. Angry young people filled the downtown of major Chinese cities due to the dispute over the Senkaku Islands (Diaoyu Islands in Chinese) with Japan last year. “I came here all the way from Zhejiang Province for one day by train,” said a student who I met in front of the Japanese Embassy in Beijing. “I hate Japan but it feels much better to protest.”

An acquaintance who was a freshman of Beijing University during the 1989 Tiananmen Square movement said, “We’re the failed generation since we can’t take to the street again.” Two decades later, young people have gathered again. But as was seen in the case of the Nanfang protest in January, they are not very cohesive over political issues. Still, they want to say something to the outside and show in action. The government control has been weakened slightly in the Xi Jinping era that judged the young Chinese would explode unless they are loosened.

Born in the 1980s and raised with nationalistic education in the wake of the Tiananmen incident, young Chinese yearn for the Western culture and have strong Sino-centric pride. Whenever their nation and national interests seem damaged, they attack the target indiscriminately. They are surprised to hear that some 120 Tibetans burned themselves to death, saying, “When did it happen? The media did not cover that.” But they backlash against other countries` worry about the Tibetans, saying, “Why do you care about our business?”

Now we should keep an eye on the meaningful change of young Chinese, which is as important as the leadership’s thoughts and directions to read China’s future.