我与美国 W 先生的辩论赛The Debate with Mr. WДебаты с мистером У

Appetizer: On Israel and Freedom

I met Mr. W on the first day I was able to sit down and write since arriving in Cairo.

Before that, all I did was sleep and eat. I had no energy for anything else. My body felt like laundry just pulled from the washing machine, wrung out, damp, and heavy.

That afternoon I opened my laptop, placed my fingers on the keyboard, and began writing the article about the missile strikes. The cleaning lady was moving around in the next room. I sat at the table in the hallway, lost in my writing.

Then the door opened.

A man about my age walked in, glanced at me, and said something to the cleaning lady. She didn't respond. I said: "Are you the new guest? She doesn't understand English. You can have a seat."

He hesitated, then sat down across from me, still dusty from the road. We skipped the small talk and went straight into conversation. I later learned his name was W, a third-generation American Jew from the West Coast. It wasn't until we'd been talking for half an hour that he thought to ask my name.

He asked where I was from, where I was going, and what I was doing in Egypt.

Me: "That's a good question. I just came from Israel."

He said: "Oh."

Then silence. I noticed that "oh" was unusual. Anyone hearing that an Asian woman had just come from Israel would at least ask: why did you go? What happened? How did you get out? He asked nothing. The ticking of the clock became oddly noticeable in that silence.

My curiosity was triggered.

I couldn't help but ask: "So, as an American, how do you see this war? The general assumption is that America supports Israel. Are you Democrat or Republican? What do most Americans actually think?"

Before this conversation, I had already talked about it with the Egyptian landlord. I wanted to hear the American perspective.

The landlord had been sympathetic about my situation, but I noticed something in his face when he spoke. Something almost too calm.

I asked him what most Egyptians thought about the war.

Landlord: "We all think we will be the next one. We are ready."

I didn't understand. What did that mean?

He explained: Israel had once tried to take the Sinai Peninsula. Once the Iran situation settled, it would be their turn.

Me: "Ready? What does that mean? Are you planning to strike first once Iran is over?"

He said: "Not strike first. If they don't come for us, we won't move. But if the fire reaches us, we will fight back." Then he added: but right now we don't pay much attention to what's happening next door. We're more focused on putting food on the table.

I agreed completely, and found it interesting at the same time. What I agreed with: there is not a single ordinary person in this world who doesn't want peace, who doesn't want a stable and decent life. Our goals are the same.

What I found interesting: Egypt doesn't accept Palestinian refugees. They only recently opened the border to allow aid through. And yet they themselves believe Israel's next target is them.

W: "I'm a Democrat. Most Americans see this as the 'America-Israel-Iran war.' America is the main actor. About 25% of Americans support the war. The rest are against it."

Me: "But isn't Trump's base, MAGA, supposed to support him? How is it only 25%?"

W: "Most MAGA voters think America should focus on its own economy and stay out of foreign conflicts. That 25% would support Trump no matter what he does."

Me: "But aren't Democrats closer to the Jewish community? Why would they oppose it?"

W: "We used to strongly support Israel because we got our information from mainstream media. But since social media took over, and the situation in Gaza started getting exposed, American opinion shifted dramatically."

Me: "What about Ukraine? Do Americans support that?"

W: "Yes, we support Ukraine. But we've mostly stopped paying attention."

Me: "That's strange. Same war, different response. Why support Ukraine but oppose Israel?"

W: "We support Ukraine's resistance against Russia, but we've largely moved on from it. The difference is that America is a direct participant in the Israel-Iran conflict, so we care more. Though honestly, we'll probably stop paying attention to that too, eventually."

I sat with that for a moment, thinking about the document still open on my laptop. I had written that article in the middle of a war. I needed to get it published.

Me: "Don't you want to go to Israel and see for yourself?"

W: "Social media is how we finally know the truth. The truth is: if Palestinians and local Muslims can't even enter their own holy sites, where is the freedom in that? This is completely at odds with what Israel claims to stand for. I have no interest in going there."

His tone was firm. Like someone who had finally seen clearly.

When I heard the word "freedom," my mind flashed to two Hong Kong girls I'd met the year before in Kazakhstan. They had told me: not being able to access Google is what it means to not be free.

I snapped back and said to W: "I don't know where your information is coming from. If we're talking about Al-Aqsa Mosque, I couldn't enter either, because I'm not Muslim. I could go to the Western Wall, I could go to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, but I was not allowed inside Al-Aqsa. As a non-religious Chinese person, an outsider, I knew almost nothing about Jerusalem before I went. What I found there overturned a lot of what I thought I knew. Yes, it's a place full of historical and religious conflict. But you also find that people there have somehow arrived at a fragile, surprising balance. I was genuinely shocked by it. I can't claim to really understand that place. But if you've never set foot on that land, learning about a country purely through media is not fair. At least go and see it for yourself."

When I finished saying all of that, I realized something slightly absurd: on my first day in Tel Aviv, I had told an Israeli friend I didn't like it there. He said to me: "You just arrived. Making a judgment this quickly isn't fair. At least go to the places I tell you about first."

And now here I was, sitting in Cairo, defending Israel, defending the people on that land.

I couldn't help but smile.

I picked up my phone and sent a message to an Israeli friend: "I'm talking to an American about Israel right now. I think I've actually become one of you."

W: "I understand what you're saying. Yes, I could go, and I have more right to than most people. My grandmother was a Jewish woman who fled Germany. I'm fully entitled to immigrate there. But I have no interest. I fundamentally don't accept that country."

I looked at him. My heart beat a little faster than before. A man whose grandmother had fled Germany as a Jew, entitled to return, refusing to set foot there. And me, a Chinese woman with no connection to any of this, who had just left under missile fire.

Me: "So are you not Jewish?"

W: "I am, but I'm an atheist. My grandmother converted to Catholicism when she married my grandfather. My parents are Catholic too. I don't follow any religion."

Me: "Did your grandmother ever say why she converted?"

W: "Because my grandfather was Catholic and she needed to convert for him. But I think she probably never fully believed in Judaism either."

I took a slow breath and let it settle. I nodded quietly and looked down at the reply from my Israeli friend:

Friend: Do you even trust his opinion about Israel?

Me: Hell no.

Friend: Who wins?

Me: No one wins.

Friend: But I know you win. And maybe he thinks you are a Zionist.

Me: Too bad. There is no space for me. Zionists told me to get out of Israel.

Friend: Wow, you really piss off a lot of people. Pissing off everyone means you're doing something right.

Me: I did piss off everyone from all around the world, including people from the Middle East and China.

Friend: But you didn't even say anything against China?

Me: I didn't say anything against anyone. I just said what I feel. It's fun somehow.

Friend: That's the most dangerous of all.

Friend: Well done.

· · ·

On Freedom

The year before, traveling in Kazakhstan, I met two young women from Hong Kong. We had grown up watching the same channel, TVB Jade. Their grandmothers lived in my city. We bonded over shopping recommendations. I mistook us for the same.

After a day of observation, I asked carefully: "So, how do young people in Hong Kong feel about the 2019 events?"

Ten seconds of silence. Then one of them said: "We don't really have strong opinions. We just understand it, because they were fighting for freedom."

Me: "What does freedom mean to you?"

Her: "Like, we can use Google, we can use YouTube. That's freedom."

Me: "We can access those things too if we want to. It's not as restricted as you think. And honestly, I'm against people without the critical thinking skills using those platforms. Same as I'm against elderly people mindlessly scrolling Douyin. They don't have the ability to distinguish what's real."

Her: "That's fair, but we used to be able to voice our opinions in LegCo, push for reform."

Me: "We have channels too. But do you think your expressions actually changed anything? I watched your news. I saw elderly women going up to shout profanities."

Her: "Ha, honestly, it didn't do much. A lot of arguing, not much action. But we need to defend the freedom to speak."

Me: "But what use is that kind of freedom?"

I couldn't stop myself: "What if it's only you who thinks we're not free? What if we have a different definition of freedom? What if freedom has to be built on a foundation of safety first: physical safety, enough food. And only then can we talk about exploring freedom?"

Her: "You make a good point. I guess it doesn't really do much. I don't know, honestly. We don't really care about politics. We just care about where to eat and what to do."

After that, I said nothing more. Neither did they.

Just like me and Mr. W, a little while ago.

· · ·

Main Course: On Spiritual Journeys, Darkness, and Mirrors

The debate about freedom reached no conclusion. We both went quiet for a moment. The hallway had emptied. The cleaning lady was gone. Through the window, the distant sounds of Cairo traffic drifted in.

He asked: "So what are you working on?"

Me: "Oh, I'm writing a book."

Him: "What kind of book?"

Me: "It's about my own spiritual journey. How I learned to see myself through other people's eyes, and then, by looking inward, how I came to see others and the world, and finally found hope." As I said this, something tightened in my throat. I knew if I kept going, I might cry.

He said: "Oh. But what does any of that have to do with 'spiritual'?"

I tried to explain. I said a lot. My experiences, why I wanted to write, what I was trying to say. But by the end, even I wasn't sure what any of it had to do with a "spiritual journey."

I said: "It depends on how you define the word, partly because English isn't my first language. But it wasn't me who called it that. It was my Muslim friend, my Jewish friend, my Orthodox Christian friend. I never told them the full story behind everything. And yet they all said I was on this path. Your question made me realize I honestly don't know the connection either. But if three people from three different faiths all see the same thing, there must be a reason."

As I said this, their words came back to me. My Muslim friend Nawroz had said: "This journey of yours is a spiritual quest. A search for 'God.' The kind of God that each of us is searching for in our own way. The difference is that we Muslims, Jews, and Christians all received a letter that was already written for us." My Ukrainian Orthodox friend had said only one sentence, in Russian: "Ты попала в нужное место." You've arrived where you were meant to be. My Jewish friend kept it even simpler: Everything happens for a reason. And a Chinese friend with no religious beliefs at all, after looking through photos from my journey, said six characters: 见众生，见世界，见自己. See all beings. See the world. See yourself.

Four people. Four different backgrounds. All seeing the same thing. And I stood in the middle, still wondering what exactly they had seen.

I didn't share any of this with W. Because I hadn't finished digesting it myself.

He listened to my explanation without much reaction.

Me: "After hearing all that, would you want to buy this book?"

He hesitated and didn't answer.

Me: "I'm asking because I genuinely want to know whether my book can interest people. You didn't seem to have much of a response."

Him: "I understand why you want to write it. But I don't know what's in the book, so I can't really evaluate it."

That caught me off guard. I realized I couldn't even summarize my own book in a single sentence. I said, maybe I should let someone who's actually read it tell me what it's about. Because I can't seem to describe it myself.

I mentioned I'd been using AI to help me summarize it.

Him: "AI is terrible at summarizing."

I thought about it. Maybe, I said. AI can only work with what you give it. You get out what you put in.

· · ·

Then he asked: "But why do you think you're unique? Or, why do you think you're creating something new? I've never believed anything is truly new."

The question was direct. No malice, but no softness either.

Me: "I'm not saying my suffering is greater than anyone else's. But I went through it, and I came out the other side. And I have the courage to express myself honestly, to stay true to who I am. I have a layered cultural background. I have the ability to articulate things. I'm willing to be the one who speaks up, to light the way for others. I want to take what I've seen looking up at the sky and turn it into a path on the ground. Something others can walk on."

He looked puzzled, but listened quietly without responding.

Him: "But sometimes you look at the sky and find nothing. And you can still keep walking. I think it's important to keep your eyes on what's in front of you."

Me: "But what about someone who doesn't even want to walk? I was that person once. I've had depression. Do you know what that's like? Do you have people around you who've been through it?"

He paused. "I do. I've had depression for over a decade."

I said: "Then you probably know what it really means."

I went on: "At its darkest, depression is the feeling that life has no hope and no point. You don't want to do anything. You just want it to end. The cruelest irony is that you don't even have the energy to end it."

Me: "Do you know why you got depressed?"

Him: "I don't. I think it's neurological. I've tried everything. Therapy, all kinds of new experimental approaches. None of it worked."

He said his problem, as he saw it, was feeling useless to society. So what he does now is try to contribute. Touch the ground. Focus on what's in front of you.

Something in me shifted quietly when I heard that.

Me: "But if the person is gone, how can anyone keep walking? My situation was the opposite. I did everything that was supposed to be useful, everything that was supposed to contribute. And none of it felt like mine. That was my illness."

In that moment, the mirror between us became visible. The same darkness. Different doors. He felt useless to the world, so he did useful things to fill the hole. I had done every useful thing there was, and found the hole wasn't there.

Me: "I wasn't as lucky as you. I was on medication for a long time. I asked many doctors. They all said the same thing: depression may be lifelong. You can reduce the dosage based on how you're doing, but you may need medication forever. I refused to accept that. I wasn't going to let medication control my life. Of course, I stopped several times and relapsed each time, got worse. Maybe that's why I left to travel. I just needed to go somewhere."

Me: "And that trip changed my life. I don't need medication anymore. It started at the Western Wall."

He looked at me and smiled. "I've never believed some god could heal you."

I thought he was probably confusing me with the kind of people who arrive in Jerusalem and suddenly believe they've been chosen by God. Psychiatrists have a name for it: Jerusalem Syndrome.

Me: "I can't say it was the Wall itself. It was the people I met along the way. The Wall was just where the shift happened. The right place at the right time. I'm an atheist. I still don't know what God is."

Him: "You've never believed in a higher power?"

Me: "Most Chinese people believe that human will can overcome heaven itself."

He seemed to half-understand. I didn't want to explain Confucianism and Taoism. Too vast, too easily misrepresented. I was afraid of leading him astray.

I thought of something else Nawroz had said to me: "You are walking out of the tunnel." And I understood something in that moment. I had already gone one layer deeper. I could see where the hole came from. He was still standing at the entrance, thinking that filling it would be enough.

Me: "How is your relationship with your parents?"

Him: "My mother passed away from cancer a few years ago. My parents divorced when I was in my teens. My father had fallen in love with someone else. My mother never saw my father again before she died. She never forgave him."

Me: "And your relationship with your father now. Is it normal?"

Him: "We talk on the phone every week. He's a good father."

Me: "Do you think your father is the same person when he's with the woman he loves as when he's being your father?"

Him: "No. Like he's a completely different person."

Me: "Did you know, growing up, that things weren't right between your parents?"

Him: "Maybe. But they never showed it in front of us."

I didn't dig any further.

I had caught a scent of something. He had pushed the door open a crack himself, but it wasn't the right time, and I wasn't the right person. Some things, once said, don't help. You can never wake someone who isn't ready to wake up. You'll only make them feel talked down to.

I stopped.

· · ·

Later in the conversation, we started to run dry. A slight awkwardness settled in.

He stood up and wandered over to the notice board behind me, murmuring to himself. I asked what he was looking at.

He picked up a book and said: "Look at this translation. The original is The History of Egypt, but in Chinese it became 'Four Hundred Years of Egypt.'"

I laughed. "That's exactly why I can never tell when someone's asking if I've seen a certain film. They always translate the titles into something completely different."

In that moment, we were just two ordinary travelers again.

· · ·

The conversation lasted four hours. No one won.

We found no common ground. He had his truth. I had mine.

When it was over, I was exhausted but couldn't sleep. I sat up and finished the war diary in one sitting, and published it.

At four in the morning, I received a message from him:

If you're leaving early, please come and wake me up. I want to say goodbye.