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in the myriad of factions that make up the growing melting pot that is Beijing， there is a special group of people who see life through a different lens. Some of them work in business； others are teachers， bankers， managers， mothers， fathers or students. Their Beijing website is a shoddily-managed monochromatic page stamped with the symbolic logo of a triangle inside a square： recovery， unity and service. They are， to each other， both a source of protection as well a reminder of what they struggle against daily.
For members of Alcoholics Anonymous in Beijing， and their counterparts around the country， managing daily life is more than just a struggle against addiction， it is a clash of two different cultures： one that generally recognizes alcoholism as a disease and another that is composed of thousands of years of traditions involving ritual consumption， symbolic meaning and production.
There is somewhat of a clash of ideals in trying to portray the stories and frustrations of AA members here in Beijing. As an organization that values secrecy， AA members in Beijing are understandably nervous about having a journalist on site—especially one with a camera. Sharing their personal troubles， turmoil and pain is a difficult task， made even harder when the veil of privacy that protects their livelihoods is threatened by a strange reporter. At the request of these individuals， all names have been altered to protect their anonymity. What remains are stories of those struggling to stay sober in a country that has an incredibly deep and long-running history of alcohol.
A QUIET STRUGGLE
Anton is a reserved， polite young man. I found him sitting on the floor outside the AA clubhouse room， disheveled and anxiously shuffling through a stack of HSK study books.
Anton carries himself with an earnestness and candor that can only come from someone who has hit absolute rock bottom—someone who has realized that living to see another day isn’t a given. As we shook hands and others filtered into the small， chapel-like room， I came to notice that everyone carried themselves with that same warmth of personality， the way one might imagine war time squadmates and brothers in arms meeting after years apart. Anton， William， Kirk， Mason， Andrew， Tatiana—soon there were nearly twenty people. Some milled about， while others put on a pot of coffee and quietly chatted in the kitchen. The walls of the AA clubhouse were sparsely decorated， save for a few simple posters： “This too， shall pass”， “Let go， Let God” and their Chinese equivalents “一切都会过去”（y！qi- d4u hu# gu7qu）， “放下执着， 顺其自然”（f3ngxi3 zh！zhu5， sh&n q！ z#r1n）. The messages are simple and transcendent. AA is a non-religious organization， and while religious terminology specific to Christianity can be found in its texts， members are encouraged to reinterpret the text to fit their own lives： Atheists read “God” as G.O.D. or GrandOl’-Drunks. At the Chinese AA fellowship， God is replaced with “Higher Being” or 上苍 （sh3ngc`ng）.“AA is designed to help the most pessimistic， narcissistic people out there—the ones who refuse to believe that anyone else can understand what they’re going through，” said Kirk. “So we don’t push any belief system on anyone. We’re a spiritual organization. No religion.” A bell rings， and everyone knows the procedure： the preamble is read， as are the Twelve Steps， the basic tenants of AA that every member knows well. There are moments of silence， deep gaps that allow everyone to marinate in the feelings of anxiety， craving and， quite possibly， pain， that are welling up inside them. It is evident in their faces. Anton raises his head. “Hi， I’m Anton， and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi Anton，” the room replies. Just a few days ago， Anton was sitting in a Starbucks in one of Beijing’s smaller neighboring cities. As one of just a handful of foreigners in the entire city， his attention was immediately drawn to the tall， European man in the corner； attached to his arm was a young， attractive Chinese woman. For Anton， this was a point of jealousy and annoyance：“When living in a place as small and isolated as China’s third-tier cities， you start to notice all those annoying little， small things，” he said， nervously fidgeting with the bundle of books in his arms. Having recently broken up with his girlfriend， his anger boiled over： “Why can’t I ever get on with super attractive Chinese girls？”
For most people， struggling with such thoughts doesn’t usually lead them down any particular path， but for Anton， the next thought that crossed his mind was one that he had come to know and realize as the first slip towards something far more sinister and dominating. The thought is： “I need a drink.”
Anton immediately got on the next train to Beijing， where I would find him sitting in a corner of the dark hall.
“That was scary，” he bit his lip and shivered. “I just needed to get back here and to go back to square one.”
ALcohoLISm In chInA
their formats are similar， there are some major differences in the subject matter.
The greatest difference between the Chineselanguage and English-language fellowships is the societal misunderstanding that surrounds their members’ disease and condition. For the most part in China， alcoholism is considered a non-issue： a straw poll on the street will reveal that while most people understand narcotic addictions， they believe alcoholism only affects foreigners. While this may be a stunning fact， differentiating true alcoholics from weeknight office-party drinkers is difficult because Chinese culture has such a deeply-imbedded history with alcohol. Intoxication is often socially-mandated and carries little stigma of negativity. With no minimum drinking age in China， people begin drinking as early as 12 years of age. This innate cultural clash brings about an entirely new level of discrimination and pain that largely doesn’t exist in most Western countries. Because of these social pressures， Chinese AA fellows tend to be in a far worse condition when first attending AA.
For members of Alcoholics Anonymous in Beijing， and their counterparts around the country， managing daily life is more than just a struggle against addiction， it is a clash of two different cultures： one that generally recognizes alcoholism as a disease and another that is composed of thousands of years of traditions involving ritual consumption， symbolic meaning and production.
There is somewhat of a clash of ideals in trying to portray the stories and frustrations of AA members here in Beijing. As an organization that values secrecy， AA members in Beijing are understandably nervous about having a journalist on site—especially one with a camera. Sharing their personal troubles， turmoil and pain is a difficult task， made even harder when the veil of privacy that protects their livelihoods is threatened by a strange reporter. At the request of these individuals， all names have been altered to protect their anonymity. What remains are stories of those struggling to stay sober in a country that has an incredibly deep and long-running history of alcohol.
A QUIET STRUGGLE
Anton is a reserved， polite young man. I found him sitting on the floor outside the AA clubhouse room， disheveled and anxiously shuffling through a stack of HSK study books.
Anton carries himself with an earnestness and candor that can only come from someone who has hit absolute rock bottom—someone who has realized that living to see another day isn’t a given. As we shook hands and others filtered into the small， chapel-like room， I came to notice that everyone carried themselves with that same warmth of personality， the way one might imagine war time squadmates and brothers in arms meeting after years apart. Anton， William， Kirk， Mason， Andrew， Tatiana—soon there were nearly twenty people. Some milled about， while others put on a pot of coffee and quietly chatted in the kitchen. The walls of the AA clubhouse were sparsely decorated， save for a few simple posters： “This too， shall pass”， “Let go， Let God” and their Chinese equivalents “一切都会过去”（y！qi- d4u hu# gu7qu）， “放下执着， 顺其自然”（f3ngxi3 zh！zhu5， sh&n q！ z#r1n）. The messages are simple and transcendent. AA is a non-religious organization， and while religious terminology specific to Christianity can be found in its texts， members are encouraged to reinterpret the text to fit their own lives： Atheists read “God” as G.O.D. or GrandOl’-Drunks. At the Chinese AA fellowship， God is replaced with “Higher Being” or 上苍 （sh3ngc`ng）.“AA is designed to help the most pessimistic， narcissistic people out there—the ones who refuse to believe that anyone else can understand what they’re going through，” said Kirk. “So we don’t push any belief system on anyone. We’re a spiritual organization. No religion.” A bell rings， and everyone knows the procedure： the preamble is read， as are the Twelve Steps， the basic tenants of AA that every member knows well. There are moments of silence， deep gaps that allow everyone to marinate in the feelings of anxiety， craving and， quite possibly， pain， that are welling up inside them. It is evident in their faces. Anton raises his head. “Hi， I’m Anton， and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi Anton，” the room replies. Just a few days ago， Anton was sitting in a Starbucks in one of Beijing’s smaller neighboring cities. As one of just a handful of foreigners in the entire city， his attention was immediately drawn to the tall， European man in the corner； attached to his arm was a young， attractive Chinese woman. For Anton， this was a point of jealousy and annoyance：“When living in a place as small and isolated as China’s third-tier cities， you start to notice all those annoying little， small things，” he said， nervously fidgeting with the bundle of books in his arms. Having recently broken up with his girlfriend， his anger boiled over： “Why can’t I ever get on with super attractive Chinese girls？”
For most people， struggling with such thoughts doesn’t usually lead them down any particular path， but for Anton， the next thought that crossed his mind was one that he had come to know and realize as the first slip towards something far more sinister and dominating. The thought is： “I need a drink.”
Anton immediately got on the next train to Beijing， where I would find him sitting in a corner of the dark hall.
“That was scary，” he bit his lip and shivered. “I just needed to get back here and to go back to square one.”
ALcohoLISm In chInA
their formats are similar， there are some major differences in the subject matter.
The greatest difference between the Chineselanguage and English-language fellowships is the societal misunderstanding that surrounds their members’ disease and condition. For the most part in China， alcoholism is considered a non-issue： a straw poll on the street will reveal that while most people understand narcotic addictions， they believe alcoholism only affects foreigners. While this may be a stunning fact， differentiating true alcoholics from weeknight office-party drinkers is difficult because Chinese culture has such a deeply-imbedded history with alcohol. Intoxication is often socially-mandated and carries little stigma of negativity. With no minimum drinking age in China， people begin drinking as early as 12 years of age. This innate cultural clash brings about an entirely new level of discrimination and pain that largely doesn’t exist in most Western countries. Because of these social pressures， Chinese AA fellows tend to be in a far worse condition when first attending AA.