Memories of a Future Home: Diasporic Citizenship of Chinese in Panama

Memories of a Future Home: Diasporic Citizenship of Chinese in Panama

Lok C. D. Siu

Stanford University Press

Memories of a Future Home

Memories of a Future Home diasporic citizenship of chinese in panama

 Lok C. D. Siu

S TA N F O R D U N I V E R S I T Y P R E S S Stanford, California 2005

Stanford University Press Stanford, California © 2005 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Stanford University Press. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Siu, Lok C. D. Memories of a future home : diasporic citizenship of Chinese in Panama / Lok C. D. Siu. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 0-8047-5302-4 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Chinese—Panama—History. 2. Chinese—Panama— Ethnic identity. 3. Chinese—Foreign countries—Ethnic identity. 4. Chinese—Migrations—History. 5. China—Emigration and immigration—History. 6. Transnationalism. 7. Geopolitics. 8. Nationalism—Social aspects. 9. Panama—Race relations I. Title. f1577.c48s58 2005 305.895'107287—dc22 2005019787 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free, archivalquality paper Original Printing 2005 Last figure below indicates year of this printing: 14 13 12 11 10 09 08 07 06 05 Typeset at Stanford University Press in 10/13 Sabon

For my mother and in memory of my father

 Contents

Acknowledgments Preface Introduction: Diasporic Citizenship

ix xiii 1

1. Prohibited Race / Ideal Citizens: The Social History and Background of the Chinese in Panama

33

2. The Queen of the Chinese Colony: Contesting Nationalism, En-Gendering Diaspora

54

3. Migration Stories: Serial Migration and the Production of Home and Identity in Diaspora

86

4. Home at the Intersection of Nations: Between Panama, China, and the United States 113 5. Immigrant Dreams and Nightmares: Remaking Community Amid New Migrations

136

6. “Good-bye, Uncle Sam, Hello, Uncle Chang”: Globalization, Diasporic Allegiance, and the China-Taiwan Conflict

164

Conclusion: Toward a Framework for the Study of Asians in the Americas

195

Epilogue: “The Chinese Century”—Redefining Panamanian National Identity

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Notes

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References

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Index

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 Acknowledgments

At Stanford, where this project began, I benefited immensely from the guidance and wisdom of my advisors. Akhil Gupta, from chair to trusted friend, has provided sustained critical engagement and steadfast support through the years. Renato Rosaldo, who taught me to trust my instincts, has always encouraged me to explore without losing sight of what is most important; his wisdom continues to inspire me in every way. I have always admired Sylvia Yanagisako for her astute intellectualism, thoughtful mentoring, and unmatched professionalism. And I thank both Gordon Chang and George Collier for their unyielding support from the moment I arrived at Stanford. At UC Berkeley, Trinh T. Minh-ha showed me the pleasure of writing and playing with theory; L. Ling-chi Wang encouraged me to pursue graduate studies; and Loni Ding taught me the power of stories and storytelling. Through the years, a number of colleagues and friends have provided invaluable advice on drafts of the manuscript. I thank Rhacel Parreñas for her immense generosity as colleague and friend; our conversations have sustained me through this challenging process. I am grateful to Ien Ang, Kathy Chetkovich, Lane Hirabayashi, Jeffrey Lesser, and an anonymous reader for commenting on the entire manuscript and offering insightful and detailed suggestions. I also appreciate the feedback I received from Arlene Davila, Akhil Gupta, Cynthia Liu, Margo Machida, Aihwa Ong, Arvind Rajagopal, Renya Ramirez, Rayna Rapp, Renato Rosaldo, Bambi Schieffelin, Celine Parreñas Shimizu, Sandhya Shukla, and Jack Tchen, who read specific chapters of the manuscript. The women in the Gender and Cultural Citizenship Working Group––Kia Caldwell, Kathy Coll, Tracy Fisher, and Renya Ramirez––helped nurture this project. And the New York-area writing group—which has included Juliana Chang, Evelyn Chien, Grace Hong, Shirley Lim, Mary Lui, Sanda Lwin, Suzette

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Min, Mae Ngai, Shuang Shen, and Sandhya Shukla—continues to be a great source of support. I have also benefited from conversations and discussions with Tom Abercrombie, Donald Carter, Nahum Chandler, Paulla Ebron, Deborah Elliston, David Eng, Faye Ginsburg, Stanley Heckadon-Moreno, Meg McLagan, Purnima Mankekar, Toby Miller, David Palumbo-Liu, Dhooleka Raj, Anupama Rao, and Roshni Rustomji-Kerns. At NYU, Fred Myers and Jack Tchen have been terrific chairs; I appreciate their sustained support and guidance. Also, I have been very fortunate to have Carolyn Dinshaw, Aisha Khan, Rayna Rapp, and Angela Zito as colleagues; I am grateful for their advice, encouragement, and friendship. I also want to thank the very capable and talented administrative staff of New York University’s Anthropology department and Asian/Pacific/American Studies Program. Sheelagh Cabalda, Fannie Chan, Laura Chen-Schultz, Ruby Gómez, and Jennie Tichenor have been truly amazing. My students, especially Alicia Carmona, Julie Chu, Alysha Galvez, Eleana Kim, Keiko Kitagawa, Lawrence Lin, Ayako Takamori, and Kristine Wang have been excellent interlocutors; Katie Hynes provided much needed research assistance. Along the way, this project has received support from a number of institutions. I thank Stanford University’s department of Anthropology, Latin American Studies program, and Asian American Studies program. I received support from the Mellon Foundation Pre-dissertation and Dissertation Write-up Fellowships; the Inter-America Foundation Research Fellowship; the Smithsonian Foundation Predoctoral Research Fellowship; the Stanford University Institute of International Studies Dissertation Write-up Fellowship; the New York University Goddard Fellowship; and the Rockefeller Foundation. Parts of this book were revised at Johns Hopkins University, where I had a postdoctoral fellowship in the Comparative American Cultures program. Nahum Chandler, Aaron Goodfellow, and Bettina Ngweno made my visit there especially enjoyable. I am most grateful to my colleagues in Anthropology and Asian/Pacific/American Studies at New York University for graciously allowing me to take time off to work on this manuscript. Kate Wahl at Stanford University Press has been an excellent editor; I appreciate the attention she gave to the manuscript. Thanks to Kristen Oster for her diligent editorial support and to John Feneron for his patience and flexibility in the production process. The talented Carmen Cham provided excellent proposals for the book cover, and I thank Alfonso Siu and the Cham Siu family for allowing me to use the photographs that appear on the book cover.

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I could not have written this book without the generous support of the Chinese in Panama. I am grateful to everyone who participated in this project, and I owe them much for answering my persistent queries, sharing their intimate stories, and inviting me into their homes. Enrique Castro and Ramon Mon were instrumental in getting this project off the ground. Juan Tam, with his in-depth knowledge of the community, always provided insightful details. I am particularly grateful for the generosity and enthusiastic support of Winston Cham, Peter Chan, Tomás Lam, Julio Mock, Dorothy de Sing, Maria Sang, Carlos Siu, Cecilia Siu, and Rosita Wong. I thank my good friends Enrique Castro, Elaine Hooper, Cesar Kiamco, Liling Li, Sylvia Mitchell, Jorge Williams, Lisa Yee, and Raul Yee, who provided excellent company and were always there in times of need. They made my year in Panama truly unforgettable. I also want to thank Olga Linares and Fernando Santos-Granero at the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute in Panama for facilitating a productive fieldwork year. The staff at STRI could not have been more supportive. I appreciate their taking interest in my work and showing me their Panama. Over the years, my good friends Asale Ajani, Bettina Ngweno, Rhacel Parreñas, and Celine Parreñas Shimizu have been wonderful allies. Their delightful humor, talent for storytelling, and passion for good food have sustained me through the good and the bad. I also want to thank Jaime Cham for sharing his memories, experiences, and insights; our conversations have shaped this manuscript. If it were not for my family, this project would not have been possible. Raymond and Lise Bertrand have cheered me on to the finish line. My sisters, Joanne and Linda Siu, have heard this project a thousand times; their interest and encouragement mean a great deal to me. Andre Bertrand—with his patience, generosity, understanding, and love—has sustained me throughout the writing of this book. He always made sure I had the optimal writing environment and provided all the necessary support and more. I cannot imagine a better person with whom to share my life. I give him my deepest love and gratitude. Finally, I am forever grateful to my mother, Joyce Siu, who nurtures me with unconditional love. Her humor, wisdom, and delightful recipes of food for the soul keep me healthy and strong in all aspects of life. This book is dedicated to her and in memory of my father, Willie Siu, whose stories and sacrifices have inspired this book and so much more.

CUBA

N

JAMAICA MEXICO GUATEMALA HONDURAS

NICARAGUA EL SALVADOR Bocas del Toro

Panama Colón Canal Panama City

COSTA RICA

PANAMA 0

100

200

300 Miles

0 100 200 300 400 500 Kilometers

Central America and Panama

COLOMBIA

 Preface

My family’s history of dispersal since the mid nineteenth century to different parts of the world—including Australia, Nicaragua, Singapore, Britain, Spain, and the United States—both inspires and informs my engagement with questions of belonging in diaspora. My father’s connection to Nicaragua, in particular, has always intrigued me. I grew up listening to all kinds of fantastic tales involving witchcraft and sorcery, love spells and magic potions, tales laced with nostalgia and anticipated returns, tales told with such passion and realism that I could never be sure of their truth-value. In 1989, I set off in search of my father’s homeland, my father’s Nicaragua. When I found it, however, it was not the same Nicaragua I had imagined. The bustling communities of Chinese that my father so often described were nowhere to be found. Years of civil war, political unrest, and economic instability had driven the majority of Nicaraguan Chinese to seek a home elsewhere in the Americas. Nonetheless, traces of their passage remained: tarnished signs reading “Restaurante Chu Wah,” “Tienda Lau,” and “Hospedaje Kong Fat” hung over small storefronts in different towns throughout the country. In seeing and not seeing what my father had impressed upon my memory through years of storytelling, I became that much more intrigued about how diasporic Chinese create “home” and experience belonging (and nonbelonging) in this part of the world. When and why did they come? What were the political, social, and cultural circumstances in which they lived? And finally, why did they leave? Although I ultimately decided not to conduct my research in Nicaragua, these questions stayed with me and motivated my exploration into the politics of diasporic belonging for Chinese in Latin America. While the general idea for this book project grew out of a longstanding interest, the current debates about globalization and its effects on

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identity and community informed its central concerns. In the past few decades, transnationalism and late-capitalist globalization have sparked considerable discussion about the changing role of the nation-state, the nature of community, the significance of ethnicity, and the meaning of citizenship and belonging. At the heart of these discussions is the struggle to understand how people imagine and practice community in a world where migration and displacement are becoming more commonplace than ever before. This book enters into these debates by examining the politics of belonging, the critical tissue that binds the questions of how, why, and on what basis people forge transnational forms of community. It explores how people—through remembering and narrating their past, performing cultural identifications, negotiating with different governments, and creating transnational social networks—construct belonging in migration and displacement amid the shifting geopolitical conditions of globalization. Indeed, it is particularly timely to examine the case of diasporic Chinese––and the Chinese in Latin America, specifically––at this historical juncture. The ascendance of China as a major economic power in the late twentieth century, coupled with the ever-increasing global migration of Chinese, has not only raised critical questions about their citizenship in diaspora but also ignited a strong backlash against their belonging. The case of Wen Ho Lee (a Chinese American nuclear scientist who was accused of espionage in 1999) exemplified the anxiety about Chinese loyalty to the U.S. nation-state; however, the anti-Chinese mass riots in Indonesia in 1997 represented the violent rejection, not just of Chinese belonging, but of their very presence. It is well recognized that while diasporic Chinese generally have achieved a certain level of economic mobility, they also have experienced tremendous political and cultural marginality. Their citizenship has always been contingent and their presence fraught with questions about national loyalty and their right to belong. Today, with an estimated fifty million diasporic Chinese living in more than 136 countries, it may be useful, if not critical, to reexamine the shifting conditions and practices of their citizenship. In particular, it is especially timely to turn our attention to the Chinese in Latin America. Between 1992 and 2000, the Chinese population in this region grew from 1 million to 3.5 million, and mainland Chinese President Hu Jintao recently announced more than $30 billion in new Chinese investments in Latin America. Indeed, this fast-growing population of Chinese, along with increases in Chinese in-

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vestments, demands that more attention be paid not only to the Chinese communities in this region but also to the ongoing interaction between China and Latin America more generally. Given the paucity and unevenness of scholarship on the Chinese in this region, our knowledge of their history and contemporary situation is quite limited. While several anthologies on the topic of Asians in Latin America have been published in recent years, much original research still needs to be done. A central goal of this book, then, is to contribute to the emergent field of Chinese––and Asians more generally–– in Latin America. I am often asked, “Why the Chinese in Panama?” In my experience of traveling throughout Latin America, the Chinese in Panama definitely stood out as the most vibrant of all such diasporic Chinese communities. Within Panama City alone, there are two “Chinatowns.” Numerous Chinese restaurants of various sizes, styles, and scales are scattered throughout the city; and, on every corner, there is either a general store or fruit market or electronics store or laundromat that is owned and operated by diasporic Chinese. Upon closer examination, I grew to appreciate the case of Chinese in Panama even more, primarily because it offered insight into a number of important questions and concerns of our time, four of which I have outlined below. First, the particular configuration of relationships between Panama, the United States, the People’s Republic of China (PRC), and Taiwan (the Republic of China, or ROC) offers a unique context in which to examine diasporic belonging. The tensions, contradictions, and possibilities of inhabiting such an intersection can all be observed in diasporic Chinese, who are situated at the cultural and political intersections of these geopolitical entities. By exploring the case of diasporic Chinese in Panama, what we learn more generally is not only how the nation of residence, the homeland, and the colonial government each contribute to diasporic formation, but also how the geopolitical relations between and among them generate the conditions of diasporic belonging, as well as the divergent ways in which diasporic subjects engage these constantly shifting conditions. Second, the case of the Chinese in Panama highlights the interwoven relationship between the Chinese homeland state (Taiwan, in this case) and its diasporic subjects. The extent to which the two parties interact and provide mutual support suggests a more equal relationship than one would expect between a state and its subjects. This brings up the question of how homeland state–diaspora relations are changing as more and more states adopt an active policy of sustaining ties with and recruiting

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support from their subjects living abroad. What this book does is clearly illustrate, with ethnographic detail, the manner in which the homeland state and diasporic Chinese sustain multilayered relations through mutual support and exchange. Third, the focus of this project provides a different perspective on globalization, one that involves the diminishing role of the United States and the increasing interaction between two globally Southern nations. By calling attention to Panama–PRC/ROC relations, this project disrupts the common view of globalization as yet another phase of American hegemony. Certainly, it is undeniable that the U.S. continues to impose its economic and political agenda on certain parts of the world. The recent wars in the Middle East are one such example. However, we should not lose sight of other emerging powers, sets of relations, and forms of interactions that also have an effect on the global political economy. This book intervenes in globalization studies by documenting a different unfolding or experience of the cultural, political, and economic processes of globalization. Our understanding of the contemporary world, I suggest, stands to be enriched and broadened by more analyses of how countries in the global South are participating in and affected by globalization. Fourth, this project contributes to the rethinking of area studies by providing empirical research that brings into conversation Latin American, Asian American, and Chinese diaspora studies. By making these different areas inseparable for the purposes of this study, it is my hope that the book will not only contribute to each of them individually but also help to develop a more integrated model of study, as well as spark new theoretical inquiries. One of the most challenging tasks in doing this kind of inter-area study has been the process of addressing multiple audiences that have very different reference points, sets of knowledge and expertise, and expectations. Presenting my work in a variety of venues has helped clarify some of the different concerns and interests, and although I have learned that it is impossible to please everyone, I have tried my best to incorporate the most important points necessary in understanding the case at hand. While it was a set of conceptual questions that brought me to Panama, it was the dynamism and warmth of the people and country that held my attention and fed my imagination. My research in Panama spanned the years between 1994 and 2000, although the bulk of it was done in thirteen months of sustained fieldwork in 1996 and 1997, preceded by several preliminary fieldwork trips and followed by one post-fieldwork visit.

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My sample included people who self-identified as Chinese, either partly or in whole. The names they used to identify themselves include Panamanian Chinese, Chinese Panamanian, Chinese, and/or Panamanian. They were from a wide range of racial, gender, religious, class, and generational backgrounds. While Panama City was my primary research site, the project took me to other parts of Panama too, as well as to San José, Costa Rica, and Oakland, California. A few contacts established before my fieldwork began facilitated my speedy integration into the community. I began participant observation by attending a variety of activities sponsored by Chinese Panamanian community organizations, which numbered over twenty (and growing). These included association meetings, special occasion banquets, karaoke performances, debutantes’ balls, beauty contests, carnival festivals, transnational conventions, and social gatherings. To reach diasporic Chinese who do not participate regularly in these activities, I also studied cultural sites such as the Barrio Chino and El Dorado (respectively known as the old and new Chinatowns) in Panama City, as well as the Chinese Cultural Center, the Sun Yat-Sen Institute, and the Chinese Catholic Church. These combined efforts enabled me to establish contact with a broad range of people from different social backgrounds and networks. In view of the lack of published literature on the Chinese in Panama, I relied heavily on life narratives and semi-structured interviews to provide situated histories, elaborate on specific themes, and reconstruct a skeletal outline of their collective experience. My ability to speak Cantonese, English, and Spanish enabled me to reach a broad cross-section of diasporic Chinese. In total I recorded eighteen life narratives and conducted over forty in-depth interviews with Chinese of different backgrounds. Additionally, I conducted small group interviews and had countless informal conversations. What these life narratives, interviews, and conversations forcefully reveal are a series of social ruptures that constitute their experience of belonging in diaspora. Rather than being social aberrations, these ruptures, through repeated occurrence, gain a certain degree of normalcy in the lives of diasporic Chinese. This book, hence, is organized around the notion of rupture, examining specific moments of disjuncture as sites in which diasporic Chinese citizenship is simultaneously challenged and transformed. Rupture, after all, entails both deconstruction and reconstruction. During the second half of my fieldwork, the convergence of several geopolitical events brought into relief the significance of examining Pan-

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ama’s shifting economic and international relations with the United States, Taiwan, and the PRC. To investigate their interwoven relationships, I interviewed members of the diplomatic corps of all three countries and attended their sponsored events and lectures. I also closely followed the print media, especially the two nationally distributed newspapers El Panamá América and La Prensa, both of which offered rich materials for analysis. This book strives to find a balance between illustrating the geopolitical factors that shape the conditions of citizenship and, at the same time, showing the various tactics, negotiations, and strategies of diasporic Chinese as they engage and rework these shifting conditions. A few notes on my own position as a Chinese American anthropologist are called for here. Being a fellow diasporic Chinese—and one with direct ties to Nicaragua and Central America in general—undoubtedly framed my interactions with the Chinese in Panama. In fact, the Central American region was one of the main nodes where the Siu family clan congregated. These ties, combined with my ability to speak the three primary languages used by diasporic Chinese there, clearly facilitated my acceptance into the community. I was treated more as a distant cousin than as a total stranger. They were quick to offer support: lowering my rent so I could have a safe place to live, lending me a car so I could get around easily in the city, giving me dishes because I had none, and inviting me to their homes, weekend outings, and other social gatherings so that I did not get too homesick in this new city. Moreover, being ethnically Chinese gave me firsthand experience of what it feels like to be Chinese in Panama. My everyday interactions with Panamanians at large were not much different from those experienced by diasporic Chinese living there. I was cross-examined by a Panamanian immigration officer, asked by young children if I knew kung fu, subjected to catcalls in the street, and made friends with Panamanians of various backgrounds. I was perceived on the basis of my gender and racial phenotype, and I was treated as though I were a “regular” Panamanian Chinese. In this sense, I not only entered into their social world but also inhabited it (if only for a short while). In order to protect the privacy of my interviewees, I have used pseudonyms for everyone except for those holding public offices and those cited or quoted in newspapers. The terms “ethnic Chinese,” “diasporic Chinese,” and “Panamanian Chinese” are used to describe the Chinese in Panama in general. While all reference the same people, “ethnic” positions Chinese in relation to the Panamanian nation-state, “diasporic”

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stresses their multiple relations with different communities (i.e. China, Panama, and the larger diaspora), and “Panamanian Chinese” acknowledges their localized, culturally mixed identity. The terms are not exclusive of one another. In one sense, I use them to avoid repetition. In another, I use them depending on context, and they reflect more the positionalities of Chinese in Panama than objective categories of identity. Finally, out of respect, I have left Chinese words used in interviews in the native Cantonese dialect of diasporic Chinese in Panama rather than transliterating them in Mandarin.

Memories of a Future Home

Cartoons of Uncle Sam and soldiers and of Uncle Chang. Source: La Prensa.

 Introduction Diasporic Citizenship

In August 1997, the Panamanian newspaper La Prensa featured several cartoons that accompanied a three-article series provocatively titled “From Uncle Sam to Uncle Chang” (De Tío Sam a Tío Chang). The first of the three parts juxtaposed two separate images. One cartoon frame shows a group of American soldiers, dressed in uniform and carrying military gear, marching in an orderly line toward an American Airlines jet. Following behind them, the last American to leave, is Uncle Sam. Outfitted in his usual red, white, and blue top hat and tailcoat, he is not marching with the soldiers but running so quickly that sweat is spewing from his head. In the background stands a watchtower, signifying the Multinational Anti-Drug Center, which was the only American military agency that would remain in Panama after 1999. Standing just outside the frame, a Panamanian man watches pensively. At the bottom of the page, a different scenario unfolds. In this frame, the same Anti-Drug Center remains in the background, but in the foreground, “Uncle Chang” (representing Uncle Sam’s Chinese counterpart) makes his entrance. This commercial jet sits, unlike the American jet, on a proper landing strip. Deplaning from the new aircraft of Taiwaneseowned Eva Airlines, Uncle Chang steps boldly forward and smiles. He is dressed in a Western suit and hat and carries two large suitcases bursting at the seams with green pieces of paper, no doubt signifying money. An entourage of Panamanians kowtows as he deplanes, and another Panamanian is running into the scene with a duster in hand to make sure everything is clean and tidy. Unlike Uncle Sam’s hurried departure, Uncle Chang, with money in hand, arrives with class, and Panamanian service comes with it. The pensive Panamanian, reflecting national ambivalence, once again appears just outside the frame. While American presence is represented in the first cartoon by Uncle

2

Introduction

Sam (as political agent), soldiers (as military force), and American Airlines (as American transnational capital), Uncle Chang represents the “Chinese.” Whether Uncle Chang is a symbol of the People’s Republic of China (PRC or mainland China), the Republic of China in Taiwan (ROC), or both is unclear, but, of course, their distinction is important (as I will discuss later). He brings with him not his military but his transnational capital, in the form not only of an airplane but also of suitcases full of hard cash. The juxtaposition of these images references the confluence of two processes—the long-anticipated American demilitarization of Panama and the unexpected arrival of Chinese capital—as well as Panamanians’ uneasiness about the cultural and political-economic implications of this convergence. As depicted by these cartoons, culture—and, more precisely in this instance, cultural representation—is the critical site through which Panama’s post–Cold War globalization is rendered socially meaningful. The specter of empire pervades the accompanying article. Will the “Chinese” replace Americans as the next imperial force in Panama? Will China/Taiwan be to Panama in the twenty-first century what the United States was to Panama in the nineteenth and twentieth? By the time this tripartite article was published, the Panamanian public was already absorbed in heated debate on the significance of “the Chinese” in Panama. In fact, rumors that the “Chinese are taking over the Canal” had spread across not only Panama but also the world, via the global media. Cold War rhetoric revived in Washington, inciting fears of the possibility of a mainland Chinese takeover in Panama.1 Given the longstanding colonial relationship between the U.S. and Panama, it is not surprising that American officials would be concerned with Panamanian affairs. With increasing national and international attention being paid to the question of the Chinese presence in Panama, the diasporic Chinese, about 6.5 percent of Panama’s 2.7 million population and a community that has been there for over 150 years, were pushed into the limelight, becoming objects of curiosity as well as participants in and mediators of these discussions. Like the rest of their Panamanian neighbors, the diasporic Chinese had become engulfed in a heated debate and a quest for answers. But their concerns were quite different from those of their neighbors. Rather than speculating about Chinese empire-building ambitions, they were grappling with ideological and existential questions that hit closer to home and compel a thorough rethinking of who they were and are: What does it mean to be both Panamanian and Chinese simultane-

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ously? Where do we stand in relation to Panama, the PRC, and Taiwan? What will happen if the PRC-Taiwan conflict intensifies and plays itself out in Panama? Indeed, not only do the two Chinese states, locked in bitter struggle since 1949, project oppositional ideas of what it means to be Chinese, but their competing presence in Panama will stimulate a new level of complexity and internal strife in identity and community formation among diasporic Chinese. The scenario I describe above is only the most recent eruption of debates about Chinese belonging in Panama. While the terms of the debate are unique to this particular historical conjuncture, the general question of Chinese belonging and citizenship has been a relevant one since Panama’s independence in 1903. This book examines the issue of diasporic Chinese belonging in several different contexts, illuminating both the shifting terrain on which debates about belonging emerge and the kinds of maneuvers undertaken within the realm of what is possible. Depending on the historical and sociopolitical context, the Chinese in Panama respond by using the various strategies and tactics available to them, which have included migration, social mobilization, and the assertion of ties with Taiwan, mainland China, and/or the United States. Like the changing scenes in a kaleidoscope, each chapter of this book represents a specific time-scale scenario that illuminates a different dimension of how the Chinese in Panama define, reposition, and transform their belonging in diaspora. Together, they convey the multiple articulations and modalities of diasporic Chinese citizenship across time and in relation to local and transnational community formation.

Diasporic Citizenship Although it focuses on one particular diasporic group, this book is more generally about the politics of belonging for any diasporic people who are affiliated with at least two cultures and places at once. The central question is how diasporic subjects experience, negotiate, and articulate their sense of belonging amid intersecting cultural-national formations. It proceeds from the premise that diasporic subjects engage a unique configuration of cultural-political dynamics that generate a complex politics of belonging. For one thing, the context within which they imagine and practice belonging is not confined to a single nation-state. Instead, it is situated in the transnational frame where nation-states interact with one another through geopolitics, neocolonialism, and cultural and economic

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Introduction

globalization. Being diasporic means sustaining a sense of connection to both where one is from and where one is, both one’s “homeland” and one’s “nation of residence” (Lavie and Swedenburg 1996; Tölöyan 1991). It also entails being part of a larger collectivity of people who share the same sense of displacement from a homeland and emplacement elsewhere in the world (Gilroy 1991, 1993; Hall 1990). These multiple links to places, cultures, and communities are nurtured by ongoing social relations, memories and imaginaries, and cultural production. Being diasporic, then, not only involves sustaining all these relationships at once; it is also an ongoing formation of a consciousness, a positioning, a subjective expression of living at the intersection of different cultural-national formations. It is within this configuration of intertwined relationships that the complexities of their belonging emerge. The spread of global media and advances in communication and transportation technologies have facilitated the reproduction of social ties and cultural links across geographical space. These factors, coupled with increasing transnational migrations, have contributed to the proliferation of diasporic formations. Indeed, as people migrate and maintain cultural ties with their place of emigration while creating new ones with places of settlement, as more nation-states offer possibilities of dual citizenship, and as ethnic homelands continue to recruit labor migration from their diasporas, questions of belonging acquire a new level of complexity (Glick Schiller and Fouron 2001; Lesser 2003; Tsuda 2003; Roth 2002). It is no longer (if ever) simply about belonging to one culture or nation. When people forge identity and community between two or more nations and amid transnational flows and exchanges, their particular experience of belonging must be examined within the broader transnational and geopolitical context. So, what does it mean for diasporic people to “belong”? The newspaper cartoon cited earlier—evoking the roles of Panama, the United States, the PRC, and Taiwan in defining the parameters of national belonging for diasporic Chinese—offers a glimpse of its complexities. In fact, the case of diasporic Chinese compels a critical rethinking of citizenship itself. It insists that our conventional understanding of citizenship as being exclusively linked to a single nation-state needs to be fundamentally reexamined. Citizenship—the qualitative experience of belonging to a nation—operates in both national and international spheres. Drawing on the case of the Chinese in Panama, I suggest that the politics of belonging in the diaspora can only be understood through the lens of

Introduction

5

diasporic citizenship, a concept that brings together diaspora and citizenship into one analytical frame in order to clarify the process of diasporic subject formation. By juxtaposing these two concepts, I use each to examine and extend the other. While diaspora highlights the intersectional position one inhabits when sustaining simultaneous ties with the homeland, nation of residence, and the larger diaspora, citizenship underscores the process of negotiating, asserting, and redefining what it means to belong to those cultural-political communities. Diasporic citizenship hence describes the processes by which diasporic subjects experience and practice cultural and social belonging amid shifting geopolitical circumstances and webs of transnational relations. By situating my analysis of diasporic citizenship within the particular constellation of forces that affect the Chinese in Panama, I show how diasporic Chinese construct their contingent sense of belonging in relation to multiple communities. Contingent here references both the conditional manner in which these communities have treated diasporic Chinese belonging (rejecting and accepting them depending on historical circumstance) and the ways that diasporic Chinese have formulated their own strategies of belonging within this context. Diasporic citizenship provides both a methodology and an epistemological framework in which to understand citizenship in a transnational context that accounts for geopolitical dynamics and people’s situated and simultaneous commitments to different cultural-political communities. It illuminates two interconnected processes: how the different cultural-national entities intersect and interact to determine the parameters of diasporic belonging, and how diasporic subjects engage these parameters, as well as each of the entities separately, to assert, redefine, and/or transform their belonging. In this book, I use diasporic citizenship to examine primarily diasporic subjects’ efforts to negotiate and rework the conditions of belonging generated by several intersecting cultural-political forces. This formulation of diasporic citizenship differs from Michel Laguerre’s definition of the term, which turns on “a set of practices that a person is engaged in, and a set of rights acquired or appropriated, that cross nation-state boundaries and that indicate membership in at least two nation-states” (Laguerre 1998, 190). While Laguerre uses the concept of diasporic citizenship to illustrate how Haitian Americans participate simultaneously in both Haitian and American social-political life, I use the concept to emphasize how diasporic Chinese experience and ex-

6

Introduction

ercise contingent belonging in the ever-shifting geopolitical terrain. In the case of the Chinese in Panama, this geopolitical terrain is generated not only by the homeland and the nation of residence but also the United States (the colonial force). Though our specific definitions differ, reflecting the particularities of our field sites and the groups with whom we worked, our shared insistence on examining citizenship in the transnational field and through the lens of diaspora suggests that the general phenomenon that can be captured by this concept is much more common than we had each assumed. Indeed, our mutual interest in exploring diasporic citizenship affirms that the concept may have wider import for others besides just Panamanian Chinese or, for that matter, Haitian Americans. The case of Chinese in Panama offers unique ethnographic insight into how diasporic citizenship transpires on the ground and illustrates its essentially double-edged nature. As Ien Ang puts it, diaspora “can be the site of both support and oppression, emancipation and confinement” (Ang 2001, 12). While being diasporic complicates the terms and practices of belonging, it also holds the promise of belonging to multiple communities. Similarly, while it facilitates the ability to identify with and draw on the cultural resources of several communities at once, it also means subjection to the multiple, overlapping, and sometimes opposing demands of these entities. Such relationships between diasporic subjects and nation-states are always mutually constituted. And more often than not, diasporic conditions are not of one’s choosing. Diasporic citizenship, then, suggests marginality, difference, and lack of full belonging to any one nation-state, yet it also holds out the possibility of creativity, innovation, and perseverance that come with occupying this intersection. We see this reflected in their diverse expressions of cultural identity, forms of social affiliation and institution, and strategies of political mobilization. Indeed, living in diaspora may not be a choice, but exercising particular forms of belonging is, for it implies both the recognition of contradictory forces at work and a willingness to engage those conditions. In other words, migration or displacement does not dictate an automatic adoption of diasporic practices, a formulation of diasporic sensibilities, or the development of a diasporic consciousness, which always already implies an engagement with multiplicity. One can choose to assert a single ethnic or national identity and refuse diasporic identifications. Importantly, then, diasporic citizenship should not be confused with what Nina Glick Schiller and Georges Fouron call “long-distance nationalism,” which de-

Introduction

7

scribes transmigrants’ “identification with a particular, existing [homeland] state or the desire to construct a new state,” in that diasporic citizenship is less concerned with one’s singular identification with and participation in homeland nation-state building than with articulating a contingent sense of belonging in relation to multiple sites (Glick Schiller and Fouron 2001, 23). Diasporic citizenship emphasizes a complex form of habitation and subject formation generated by the politics of maintaining simultaneous ties with multiple cultural-political communities. Since citizenship and diaspora are the two main ideas that inform diasporic citizenship, I now turn to discussing each of them separately. C i t i z e n s h i p i n t h e Tr a n s n a t i o n a l C o n t e x t

Since the emergence of cultural citizenship studies, citizenship has become widely accepted as a set of cultural and social processes rather than simply a political status or juridical contract—a set of rights, entitlements, and obligations—between individuals and a nation-state (Shafir 1998). Feminists and critical race theorists have long understood that citizenship is not universal and that one’s gender, race, class, and sexuality, among other categories of difference, all shape experiences of citizenship (Lister 1998; Young 1990; Yuval-Davis and Werbner 1999; Williams 1991; Crenshaw 1995; Rodolfo Torres et al. 1999).2 Indeed, citizenship is a qualitative experience produced and sustained by everyday interaction and practices that enact inclusion and exclusion (Flores and Benmayor 1997). Two approaches to cultural citizenship have been particularly influential to this project.3 In his study of Latinos in the United States, Renato Rosaldo establishes that social movements have helped to redefine and expand the meaning of citizenship in the United States. For him, citizenship is a continually expanding process of inclusion and enfranchisement, in which people are the main agents of change (Rosaldo 1996). Aihwa Ong treats cultural citizenship as a process of subject formation by which civil institutions socialize newcomers and integrate them into the nationstate (Ong 1996). While her work with Hong Kong elites theorizes flexible citizenship as strategic practices of acquiring citizenship (Ong 1999) and her work with Cambodian Americans considers the dual processes of being made and self-making within institutional webs of power (Ong 2003), Ong’s approach remains primarily concerned with regimes of governmentality—be they family, civil institutions, or the state—in subject formation. Moreover, while both authors gesture toward transnational

8

Introduction

concerns, with Ong doing so more explicitly, their analysis of citizenship remains in the context of a single nation-state. My concept of diasporic citizenship, then, not only brings together both Rosaldo’s emphasis on people’s agency in transforming citizenship and Ong’s focus on regimes of governmentality that mold people into cultural citizens, it also departs from these approaches by arguing that citizenship, conventionally defined in relation to a single nation-state, is embedded in and constituted by transnational as well as national and local forces. To extend the analysis of citizenship into the transnational sphere, I suggest we accept citizenship to mean more than membership in a nationstate but as participation and membership in a variety of political communities (Soysal 1994).4 Doing so makes possible the analytic separation of citizenship from the territorially and conceptually bounded nationstate. It also calls into question the assumption that citizenship equates with belonging to a single community or having a singular loyalty to a particular collectivity. Certainly, people belong to more than one political community at once, among them local, ethnic, religious, national, and supranational communities (Yuval-Davis 1999). For instance, diasporic Chinese in Panama belong not only to the local Chinese community and to the Panamanian nation but also to the regional community of Chinese in Central America. Under these circumstances, the relationships between people and these communities, as well as the relationships among the communities themselves, crisscross and overlap to form what Nira YuvalDavis calls a multilayered citizenship (ibid.). Citizenship, in this view, is not restricted to the relationship between an individual and a single nation-state or to any one community, for that matter. Instead, it is a dynamic process in which two sets of relationships—those between people and polities and those among the polities themselves—intersect to define the limits and possibilities of belonging and unbelonging. For instance, not only do the separate though simultaneous relationships that diasporic Chinese maintain with Panama, the U.S., and China/Taiwan affect the overall politics of belonging, but the geopolitical relations between these nations—such as U.S. colonial relations with Panama and American opposition to mainland China during the Cold War—also frame both the terms of the debates and the constraints and openings for Chinese responses. These are precisely the sets of relations I map out ethnographically in this book. Because it interfaces with both the national and international arenas, diasporic citizenship becomes a site of mediation between internal de-

Introduction

9

bates of belonging within the nation and geopolitics between nationstates. Diasporic citizenship therefore underscores citizenship as situated in and mediating between the national and the international arenas. In other words, citizenship not only operates within the nation-state but is also subjected to the global system of nation-states. The realm of the national is directly linked to the realm of the geopolitical, and what happens domestically is connected to the currents sweeping across the globe (Enloe 1990). My notion of the local, then, is thoroughly engaged in and part of the transnational. Constructions of Chinese Americans as “bad” citizens during the Cold War period and Japanese Americans as “enemies of war” during World War II are two examples of how localized treatment of citizens is shaped by geopolitical imperatives. It is also worth remembering that even though citizenship binds individuals to a particular territory and nation-state(s), the ideas and practices of citizenship travel, are shaped by transnational discourses, and intersect with other nationalist projects. Human rights is a prime example of a transnational discourse and global movement that has intervened in determining national belonging and citizenship rights and entitlements. My choice of field site has been instrumental in highlighting issues of colonialism and geopolitics as they pertain to diasporic citizenship, because American (informal) colonization of Panama played such a crucial role in framing the terms of diasporic Chinese citizenship. The fact that most citizenship studies have hitherto focused on Britain and the United States, two former imperial nations, has thus far made colonialism and geopolitics a secondary issue in discussions of citizenship (with the exception of Lisa Lowe’s work).5 These studies of Britain and the United States have been most concerned with citizenship within the national domain, sidestepping the effects of their colonial projects on immigration and the national politics of belonging. To think that diasporic Chinese citizenship is determined solely by forces within Panama is to assume that nation-states are bounded and isolated entities, when in fact they are subject to transnational forces and operate in relation to one another (Malkki 1994). Indeed, diasporic Chinese citizenship is defined vis-à-vis Panama, the PRC, Taiwan, and the United States all at once. It is therefore always contingent on their shifting geopolitical relations, relations that give rise to certain constructions of Chineseness, the valuation of diasporic Chinese in the global context, and ideas of belonging. Despite the contributions of cultural citizenship studies, commonsense

10

Introduction

understanding of citizenship has remained rights-oriented and state-centered. In countries where the legal-juridical system is central to the structure of governance, citizenship not only defines who belongs and has rights, but it also serves as a crucial site for contesting social injustice and advancing widespread social change. Diasporic citizenship, I would emphasize, is a social process that encompasses both the legal-juridical aspects and the cultural-affective dimensions of belonging. Indeed, the concept of belonging, most strongly forwarded by feminist scholars, addresses the affective dimensions of citizenship more explicitly by stressing the process of forming affinities, affiliations, and solidarities in community formation (Yuval-Davis 2003; Parreñas 2001; Ramirez 2004; Coll 2004; Benmayor et al. 1997; Pateman 1979; see also Calhoun 2003). Moreover, Lisa Lowe, in her seminal study of Asian American citizenship, argues forcefully that culture—be it in the form of stories, memories, icons, or narratives—is the primary terrain on which national belonging is enacted, felt, visualized, and challenged (1996). While citizenship often evokes the realm of formal politics and governmentality, belonging alludes to the cultural and social realms of everyday life. The two processes are inseparable in diasporic citizenship; where they differ is in emphasis. I therefore use the term “diasporic citizenship” in this expanded sense of belonging to illustrate the role of the state, the contending forces of cultural nationalisms, and the power of geopolitics, while at the same time not neglecting the imaginative, sentimental, and experiential aspects of diasporic life. I use the terms “belonging” and “citizenship” interchangeably throughout this book, insisting that they both reference the dynamics and processes involved in diasporic subject formation. The aim is to capture as fully as possible the complexity of diasporic Chinese citizenship as a historically situated, geopolitically contingent, and culturally mediated process through which the Chinese in Panama negotiate, define, and create a sense of belonging. Diaspora: the Condition and Meaning of Living with Intersectionality

In the case of the Chinese in Panama, the framework of diaspora as both social formation and cultural process is particularly useful in delineating the parameters of belonging, the specific players involved and the nature of their relationship, and the ongoing negotiation with multiple influences. The term “diaspora” refers to a collectivity of people who share a common history of dispersal from a homeland (real or imagined) and em-

Introduction

11

placement elsewhere, and who maintain a sense of connection to both places, as well as with their geographically dispersed co-ethnics. With few exceptions, diaspora studies have focused on either the binary relationship between the homeland and a local diasporic community (Raj 2003; Louie 2004; Hsu 2000; Manalansan 2003) or the relationship among dispersed communities of a given diaspora (Gilroy 1993, 1987). The concept of diasporic citizenship disrupts this convention by treating the two processes as simultaneous modes of diasporic subject formation. This approach is particularly important in the case of diasporic Chinese because the Chinese homeland continues to exert a strong cultural pull on the diaspora and diasporic Chinese continue to maintain widespread transnational ties with one another. My discussion of the annual Convention of Chinese in Central America and Panama, an event co-sponsored by diasporic Chinese and the Taiwanese state, is one such example (see chapter 2). Also, the migration stories in chapter 3, which map the serial migration of diasporic Chinese from China to Panama and throughout different places in the Americas, provide an example of how diasporic belonging is articulated through links to multiple sites. While the noun “diaspora” often connotes a stable object, a static collectivity with assumed and unchanging sets of identifications and connections,6 I prefer to use its adjectival form, “diasporic,” to emphasize the processual nature of producing diasporic subjectivities. It underscores that diasporic subjects are not ready-made, homogenous, or replicas of their ethnic counterparts in the homeland. The specific manner and style in which one articulates that subjectivity depends on a number of factors, including migration circumstance, place of settlement, and historical context. Moreover, being diasporic means experiencing both identification with and displacement from both “home” sites at once (Parreñas and Siu forthcoming). By this, I am referring to the tension between one’s affinity and affiliation with these sites and one’s acknowledgement of only partial belonging to and acceptance by them. Being diasporic entails active and conscious negotiation of one’s identity and one’s understandings of “home” and “community.” Hence, “diasporic” points not only to multiple links to places but also to the process by which those links are reworked and reproduced through sentiment, memory, and imagination (Hall 1990; Appadurai 1996; Leonard and Werbner 2000). I use “diasporic” not as a fashionable substitution for “immigrant,”7 then, but explicitly to engage the conceptual framework of diaspora.8 Diasporic subjects are not generationally specific, and their sensibilities do not au-

12

Introduction

tomatically fade with time. The term signals a subjective position, a state of being and becoming (Hall 1990). As such, it applies to all those who actively generate and reproduce diasporic relations, identifications, and sentiments. Diasporic citizenship addresses this complex process of subject formation, one that involves not only ongoing relationships with multiple communities (i.e., homeland, place of settlement, and the larger diaspora) and the continual production of a shared history but also the production of difference and disjuncture in relation to those communities. I have found Stuart Hall’s discussion of diasporic identities as reflecting a “doubleness” of similarity and difference particularly useful here. He suggests that these identities are framed by two simultaneously operating vectors. While the vector of similarity and continuity gives grounding in and reflects a shared past, the vector of difference and rupture indexes the discontinuity associated with dispersal and insertion into different locales (Hall 1990). In other words, traces of Chineseness across the diaspora reflect a shared history while local or national differences reveal the process of dispersion and emplacement. Following his argument, likeness and difference is reflected not only among diasporic communities (i.e., Chinese Panamanians and Chinese Americans) but also between a diasporic community and both the homeland and place of settlement. With this in mind, the study of diasporic citizenship seeks to examine situated experiences of belonging and insists on exploring specific histories of encounters that shape diasporic subject formation. Indeed, the vast scholarship on overseas Chinese studies reflects a diversity of contexts and experiences that cannot and should not be reduced to one formulation. In Southeast Asia, with its long historical presence of Chinese merchants, the dominant themes of study concern the resilience and persistence of Chinese cultural traits and social institutions, political loyalty, and Chinese cultural strategies in achieving economic success (Freedman 1957, 1965, 1979a, 1979b; Skinner 1957, 1968; Dewey 1972; Wickberg 1965; Olsen 1972; Amyot 1973; Crissman 1967). In the United States, where labor migration, economic integration, and political-cultural exclusion have been most salient, the central themes have been labor, exclusionary policies and practices, and the emergence of ethnic enclaves (Takaki 1989; Chan 1991; Hing 1993; Lee 1999; Kwong 1987, 1999; Tchen 2001). In Latin America and the Caribbean, where migration was split between indentured laborers and merchants, scholars have focused

Introduction

13

on the different conditions of migration and patterns of settlement (HuDehart 1980, 1989, 1998a, 1998b; Lai 1993, 1998; Stewart 1976; Lausent-Herrera 1983, 1987; Rodríguez 1989). In the past decade, with the end of the Cold War and increasing interest in transnationalism, diasporic Chinese studies have enjoyed a rebirth. Different conceptual approaches to understanding the Chinese diaspora (Tu 1994; Ang 1994; Ma and Cartier 2003; Wang 1991) and Chinese transnationalism (Ong and Nonini 1997; McKeown 2000; Palumbo-Liu 1999) have emerged from a variety of disciplines. Moreover, while Southeast Asia and the United States have traditionally been the two dominant sites of diasporic Chinese studies, more attention is now being given to Latin America, Europe, and Africa (Pieke et al. 2004; Hart 2002; Siu 2000; Rustomji-Kerns 1999). Given the array of differences among diasporic Chinese, it may be helpful to outline briefly four important aspects that are of particular relevance to the Chinese in Panama and, with some deviation, to the Chinese in Latin America in general. First, the national ideology of mestizaje, or cultural and racial mixedness, plays a critical role in determining the integration of diasporic Chinese into their nation-state of residence. Second, homeland state influence has been significant in sustaining diasporahomeland ties and in reproducing a diasporic Chinese consciousness. Third, American imperialism has thoroughly complicated the politics of belonging by offering alternative channels of cultural and social participation for diasporic Chinese, while at the same time contributing to nationalist anti-Chinese sentiments. Finally, transnational organizations, whether they take the form of institutionalized associations or informal family networks, have created yet another alternative resource for cultural production and diasporic subject formation. The next section explores these four aspects of diasporic Chinese citizenship in detail. While this book focuses specifically on the Chinese in Panama, the concept of diasporic citizenship is applicable in a variety of contexts. Certainly, the experience of cultural intersectionality is not uncommon among other diasporic groups. And the triangulation of forces among nation of residence, homeland, and American imperialism in diasporic subject formation may also be applicable to many. My hope is that this ethnography, while providing a close analysis of what is taking place on the ground among the Chinese in Panama, will also offer a viable framework to study belonging for other diasporic subjects.

14

Introduction

Diasporic Citizenship at the Intersection of Panama, China, and the United States To understand what it means to inhabit the intersection of Panama, China, and the United States, one must first examine the nature of the relationship between diasporic Chinese and each of these cultural-political formations. Constructed as perpetual foreigners in Panama, treated as overseas compatriots by the Chinese state(s), and considered reliable labor resources by the American administration, diasporic Chinese confront three different hegemonic forces which bind them to each cultural polity in particular ways. Their intersectional positioning has everything to do with their ongoing marginality in Panama, their sustained relationship with the Chinese state(s), and their labor relations with American capitalism. (I should note here that these hegemonic forces by no means capture the full range of cultural complexity that emerge from this set of triangulating relations; I draw them out only to highlight their distinctive intervention in diasporic Chinese subject formation.) At the same time, all three entities embody and offer different cultural resources that diasporic Chinese can draw upon to construct identity and belonging. In addition, the larger diaspora of which Panamanian Chinese are part also plays a role. Below I delineate the position of diasporic Chinese vis-à-vis each of these entities. By separating them to gain analytic clarity, I hope to draw out the existing and potential contradictions, tensions, and collisions among them in order to better reveal how their interactions and overlaps produce the various limits and possibilities of diasporic Chinese citizenship. Pa n a m a : C i t i z e n s h i p i n t h e C o n t e x t o f M e s t i z a j e and Political Instability

Since becoming independent in 1903, Panama has survived U.S. military occupation, several military coups, at least two presidential assassinations, four different constitutions, two military regimes, a violent American invasion, and an international arrest of its chief of state. Under these conditions, not only are the rights and entitlements of citizenship difficult to maintain, much less enforce, but the people have virtually lost faith and belief in the state. Indeed, in everyday discourse, Panamanians consistently express their disillusionment by characterizing their politicians as mere puppets of the United States, money-mongers acting in their own interests, and/or corrupt, power-hungry dictators. Jokes about the police

Introduction

15

are also rampant.9 It has become common knowledge that if a policeman pulls you over for some unknown traffic violation, you simply give him some “coffee money” and he will let you go. Another revealing comment was expressed by a leading representative of the Chinese Association. He told me that, as part of his duties, he negotiates with Panamanian officials almost every week to resolve the ongoing problem of illegal Chinese immigration. He underscored that this has been and remains the largest problem for the community. When I asked him why he doesn’t try to change the law itself, he paused, looked at me with a raised eyebrow, and replied skeptically, “Hmmm. I never thought about that.” Whether his comment was meant to suggest either the irrelevance of the legal system or the impossibility of changing the law, it was clear that he did not seem to believe that working within the legal-juridical system would provide a solution to his problem. (Trafficking in Chinese, one of the most profitable ventures in Panama, in fact requires extensive official and unofficial networks.) Comments and jokes like these reveal Panamanians’ pervasive lack of confidence or faith in their government. Moreover, they perpetuate the undermining of state governance and legitimacy. With such a pervasive lack of faith in the formal political system, the realm of everyday culture becomes the key site of contest and negotiation of citizenship and national belonging. Panamanian nationalism, as ideology and social movement, is the central locus of defining and contesting national belonging. In 1940, after a decade of intense popular movements, Panamanian nationalism heralded the paradigm of mestizaje,10 the concept of racial and cultural mixing (especially in terms of indigenous and Spanish people and cultures), and made it the defining feature of Panamanian national identity and citizenship. Like all nationalist ideologies, mestizaje masks unequal power relations and is filled with contradictions. Even as it tries to construct an inclusionary vision of national belonging, it nonetheless relies on strategies of exclusion. In Panama, the paradigm of mestizaje has two different sets of meanings. While popular usage of the term mestizaje invokes the general ideology of racial-cultural mixing, its legal usage, as written into the constitution of 1940, referred only to people of mixed indigenous and Spanish backgrounds. It therefore deliberately excluded all those who do not fit into this category—including the Chinese, Arabs, Jews, Japanese, and English-speaking blacks—and made them into “outsiders” and “foreigners,” against whom Panamanian mestizos were defined.11 (In excluding the Chinese and English-speaking blacks, the constitution disen-

16

Introduction

franchised the two largest immigrant groups in Panama at the time.) Even though this constitution was revoked a few years after its implementation, the ideological tendency to posit Panamanian national identity against cultural and racial “outsiders” remains strong. Popular discourses about the Chinese in Panama today continue to reflect and reinforce the notion that diasporic Chinese are perpetual foreigners and outsiders. I was often shocked to hear statements like “The Chinese keep to themselves” and “The Chinese do not mix” by non-Chinese Panamanians, when in fact I saw constant interaction or “mixing” among Chinese and non-Chinese in workplaces, churches, schools, and social gatherings. Moreover, interracial marriage is quite common. Yet, despite daily encounters with diasporic Chinese, the general perception that the Chinese are separate from and outside of Panamanian cultural and social life persists with great tenacity. By eliding the fact that diasporic Chinese are mixing with the larger Panamanian society, dominant perceptions of Chinese as cultural isolationists and purists are used to justify their marginalization and exclusion. The argument is such that because the Chinese do not participate in cultural and social mixing, they are the ones choosing not to take part in Panamanian society, and in making that choice, they do not deserve to be part of the nation. Even the term used by both Chinese and non-Chinese Panamanians to refer to the community, “La Colonia China,” the Chinese Colony, suggests cultural and spatial separation of diasporic Chinese from the rest of Panama. No doubt a remnant of nineteenth and early twentieth-century ideology of spatial confinement based on race, the idea of a “Chinese Colony” suggests a self-contained, bounded cultural-political unit that is more a satellite of China than an ethnic community in Panama. These images reinforce perceptions of the Chinese as an insular and closed community, as having an unquestioned affinity with China, and as forever separate from the rest of Panamanian culture and society. More recently, popular concern about the existence of a Chinese mafia has emerged. Such discourses not only imply a culturally distinct system of self-governance but also invoke orientalist mystique and fear. These everyday discourses and perceptions of Chinese insularity, separateness, and unwillingness to “mix” with Panamanian culture and society have proved to be one of the most significant barriers to achieving full cultural and political belonging in Panama. Diasporic Chinese have been part of Panama for more than 150 years. They are the largest non–Latin American immigrant population, and they

Introduction

17

currently make up 6.5 percent of the total population. The experience of the Chinese in Panama is one that is familiar to diasporic Chinese (and arguably to diasporic Asians more generally) in the United States and elsewhere in the world. They live in a situation filled with contradictions. Though they have been subjected to exclusionary laws since the founding of the nation, in practice, they have managed to work around certain state disciplinary forces, and Chinese immigration has been more or less continuous since the 1850s. Also, while they have been subjected to antiChinese movements, disenfranchisement, and state violence, they have been able to achieve a certain level of economic integration and social mobility. And even as the Chinese continue to be construed as foreigners—to be tolerated, rejected, or embraced, depending on circumstance— within the Panamanian nation-state, they have nonetheless carved out a place of belonging. Establishing social institutions like community clubs and Chinese language schools, nurturing certain cultural practices like kung fu training or preparation and consumption of Chinese food, and participating in everyday Panamanian life, diasporic Chinese create their own way of belonging to Panama. The extent to which they have been successful in doing so, however, is due in large part to their strategy of nurturing transnational ties with the U.S., China/Taiwan, and the larger diaspora. Their emplacement in Panama, then, has always been embedded within webs of transnational flows and relations. American Imperialism and Cultural Hegemony

It is impossible to discuss the Chinese in Panama without addressing American imperialism and hegemony. From the outset, it was the American-based New York Railway Company that organized the initial labor migration of Chinese to Panama during the mid nineteenth century. When 500 of the first 705 Chinese laborers died within five months of their arrival, organized Chinese labor migration came to a halt. It was not until the late 1800s and early 1900s, with the expansion of the United Fruit Company and work on the French Canal, followed by the American Canal, that Chinese immigration got under way again. Panama’s growing economy attracted Chinese immigrants from Asia and the Americas. Some came directly from China, while others remigrated from Peru, Cuba, Jamaica, Central America, and the United States, among other places. They came through kinship networks, by pure chance, and/or in search of economic opportunities and less hostile conditions. Like the Chinese in Mexico, many Chinese in Panama built their

18

Introduction

livelihoods around American enterprises (Hu-Dehart 1980). They opened small grocery stores, eateries, cantinas, and laundries that served the workers of these enterprises. While the interaction between diasporic Chinese and American capitalists and government officials has shifted and changed over the past 150 years, their relationship was formed primarily as a result of labor and trade affiliation, diplomatic representation (for a short while), and, to a certain extent, Chinese marginality in Panama. Being outside of the Panamanian social structure, diasporic Chinese in the early decades of settlement searched for alternative routes of employment and social mobility. In addition to creating their own networks and structures, they also found an economic niche in American expansionism in Panama. In 1903, when Panama gained its independence from Columbia with the help of the American military, the United States formalized its occupation of Panama. The long-standing American dream of constructing a canal through Panama became a reality, and the United States gained controlled of the land surrounding what would become the Panama Canal. This U.S.-controlled area, known as the “Canal Zone,” had sovereignty and created its own cultural, social, and political structure separate from Panama. It was governed by an American administration and had a separate medical, educational, and juridical system. It was essentially an American city on Panamanian soil. The Canal Zone, though located inside Panama, operated under a different cultural logic and sociopolitical system. Diasporic Chinese, disadvantaged when competing with other Panamanians in the Panamanian social structure, found it easier to enter into the American system. This labor and trade affiliation between diasporic Chinese and the American administration has, however, been double-edged. While it opened an alternative path for social mobility, it also adversely affected the efforts of diasporic Chinese to gain full citizenship in Panama. Indeed, Panamanian nationalism has traditionally associated diasporic Chinese and black West Indians—the two largest racialized labor groups working for the American administration—with American imperialism. In the eyes of Panamanian nationalists, not only are diasporic Chinese foreigners and cultural outsiders, but they also are peons of American imperialism. Diasporic Chinese are thus caught in a double bind: their route of economic survival and pursuit worked against their cultural and political acceptance by Panama. Moreover, this connection between diasporic Chinese and the Ameri-

Introduction

19

can administration is reinforced by the fact that the American consulate actually provided international representation for the Chinese in Panama between 1885 and 1912. At the request of the Chinese government, the U.S. consul during that period served as the protector of the Chinese community there and mediated relations between the Chinese and the Panamanian state. This politically binding relationship further solidified diasporic Chinese/American relations and perpetuated the Panamanian perception regarding the position of the Chinese vis-à-vis the colonial government and Panama. Currently, the relationship between diasporic Chinese and the U.S. administration is most evident in the widespread use of English among all generations of Panamanian Chinese. While it may come as no surprise that Chinese youth today can understand and speak at least some English, given the global distribution of American media, many older diasporic Chinese also speak English fluently. This phenomenon is specific to the Panamanian context and contrasts with diasporic Chinese in other parts of Latin America. This is so for several reasons. First, many of them at one time lived and/or worked in or near the Canal Zone, U.S. military bases, or the United Fruit Company. Diasporic Chinese workers and shopkeepers had to learn English in order to keep their jobs or to do business with their primarily American and West Indian clientele. For these people, English was their primary language of work. Second, as a result of being excluded from Panamanian Catholic schools based on religion, many diasporic Chinese during the first half of the twentieth century attended American-run Methodist schools where English was the primary language of instruction. For many diasporic Chinese of this generation, learning English was their only means of getting an education. Third, diasporic Chinese of a certain privileged class, following in the footsteps of the Panamanian elite, often sent their children to study in American universities, and they returned to Panama upon graduation. As a form of cultural capital, an American university degree enabled diasporic Chinese to compete with Panamanian elites for employment in American and other transnational companies. It also served as an emblem of social class status and facilitated entry into certain social circles of Panama and elsewhere. And, finally, a small number of immigrants who came via the British colony of Hong Kong had attended English schools before migrating to Panama. Diasporic Chinese, across different class backgrounds and generations, acquired English in these various ways. For some, speaking English was

20

Introduction

a form of cultural capital, but for many, it was a practice of everyday life, a strategy of survival, or the only option they had. It emerged from the particular “contact zone,” to use Mary Louise Pratt’s phrase,12 in which they lived. Some even joke about speaking their own hybridized languages of “Spanglish” or “Chinspanglish,” in which they mix Chinese, Spanish, and English in everyday speech. Of course they understand the implications of speaking English. On the one hand, it has given them access to work opportunities within the American colonial structure in Panama (and elsewhere); on the other, their association with the Americans has inspired anti-Chinese sentiment among Panamanian nationalists. Speaking English, then, indexes the legacy of American imperialism and its role in shaping the limits and possibilities of diasporic citizenship for the Chinese in Panama. O n e C h i n e s e H o m e l a n d , Tw o C l a i m a n t S t a t e s

It is precisely the existence of the People’s Republic of China as a nationstate and the salient position it occupies in both the global political economy and global imagination that differentiates the experience of diasporic Chinese from people of other diasporas today. Posing one of the biggest challenges to American hegemony, China arouses global fascination (Ang 2001). It is shunned for its communist ideology, celebrated as the ultimate investors’ dream, and cheered as the fearless anti-West. Its monumental standing in the world creates a challenging predicament for diasporic Chinese, whose links to China, whether imposed by others or nurtured by choice, always haunt their presence abroad. It is virtually impossible for diasporic Chinese to escape China’s shadow. As Akhil Gupta and James Ferguson suggest, people, culture, and place remain conflated in our transnational world (Gupta and Ferguson 1992). In the case of diasporic Chinese, even though they no longer live in China, their Chinese ethnicity links them to China culturally, historically, and sometimes even politically. During one of my visits to Guangdong, China, I came upon a monument composed of blocks of stones commemorating diasporic support in the 1911 Chinese revolution. A stone is dedicated to every diasporic community that gave support to the revolutionaries. Somewhere in the middle of the monument is a stone engraved with “Bocas del Toro, Panama,” signifying the contributions of diasporic Chinese based in the city of Bocas del Toro in Panama. As indicated by this stone, the relationship between China and the diasporic Chinese in Panama has a long history.

Introduction

21

What is important to remember, also, is that homeland-diaspora relations are often mediated by the state. And with China, the situation is complicated by the fact that there are two states claiming to represent the Chinese nation, not one. In the international arena, the issue of Chinese state legitimacy remains contested. Since 1949, mainland China and Taiwan have been competing for Chinese state legitimacy.13 In doing so, each has actively sought to recruit diasporic Chinese support. Panama’s recognition of Taiwan as the legitimate Chinese state has facilitated and enabled homeland state-diaspora relations between diasporic Chinese there and Taiwan. Just as diasporic Chinese have contributed to the development of the modern Chinese nation-state, Taiwanese state officials have also been involved in diasporic Chinese institutions in Panama. Not only have they been instrumental in developing certain diasporic organizations, such as the Federation of Chinese Associations in Central America and Panama and the Chinese Panamanian Professionals Association,14 but they also play important roles in the governing apparatus of the diaspora. One of the most significant projects illustrating the symbiotic relationship between diasporic Chinese and the Taiwanese state has been the construction and administration of the Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center, which includes the Sun Yat-Sen Institute and Friendship Park. Located in the neighborhood of El Dorado, the “new Chinatown,” in Panama City, the Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center represents what some have called “the heart of the Chinese Panamanian community.” Stretching several city blocks, the administrative offices of the cultural center and the institute sit on one side of the highway, with Friendship Park on the other. Connecting the two sites is an elevated footbridge to ensure safe crossing. The Cultural Center houses all the administrative offices of the Chinese community, and the Sun Yat-Sen Institute provides kindergartenthrough-secondary education and is fully recognized by the Panamanian state. The institute teaches all the state-required courses, in addition to offering classes in Mandarin, Chinese folk dance, and kung fu. It consists of several school buildings, a large gymnasium, a library, computer facilities, and a sizable play yard. Friendship Park, its very name representing the sustained connection between Panama and Taiwan, prides itself on its pagoda structure and Chinese-inspired landscaping. This monumental project truly represents the joint efforts of both the Taiwanese government and diasporic Chinese. Representatives from both the Taiwanese embassy and the local Chinese community were responsi-

22

Introduction

ble for the architectural design, oversaw the actual construction, and are now managing the Cultural Center together. Special materials that went into the building of the pagoda and the Manchurian-style roofs were sent from Taiwan; and labor was drawn from Panama. Moreover, the project was built with funds from both the Taiwanese government and private donations from the Chinese community. The Cultural Center is by far the largest joint project in Panama of the homeland state and diasporic Chinese, and its existence continues to bind the two parties together. It could be said that the Cultural Center is as much an investment in the relationship between Taiwan and diasporic Chinese in Panama as it is in the community’s growth. Why is Taiwan so committed to this relationship? Up until the mid 1970s, the Taiwanese government was widely regarded as the legitimate Chinese state by most countries in the world. But when the United Nations formally recognized the mainland Chinese government in 1971, the tide began to shift, and one by one, individual nation-states slowly switched relations from Taiwan to mainland China. Today, only 28 out of 19215 countries still recognize Taiwan, while the rest have established formal relations with mainland China. Given this imbalance, it becomes increasingly important for Taiwan to do whatever it can to maintain formal relations with these remaining 28 countries, among which are Panama and the Central American states. One of its main strategies has been to recruit the support of diasporic Chinese, whose role as cultural translators and political mediators can influence the opinions of Panamanian officials. Diasporic Chinese communities have long served as the battleground on which the China-Taiwan conflict is played out. Indeed, the ongoing struggle between the two governments has created deep antagonism among diasporic Chinese everywhere, and Panama is no exception. One must keep in mind that the decision to ally with either government is not simply about which claimant state diasporic Chinese like better. Beyond the economic benefits that come with their political allegiance, what is at stake for diasporic Chinese is the power to define and shape who they are as Chinese subjects, as it involves debates about ideology, Chinese history, modernity, cultural authenticity, and identity. Yet, as much as the PRC-Taiwan conflict divides the diaspora and informs their contested notions of Chineseness, diasporic Chinese also have tremendous influence in shaping that conflict. Diasporic Chinese can and often do play an important intermediary role between the claimant Chinese states and the com-

Introduction

23

munity’s nation of residence. Both mainland China and Taiwan understand the importance of gaining diasporic support; this is why they so actively engage the diaspora in their ongoing struggle. In several chapters of this book, I illustrate the various ways in which the Taiwanese government has integrated itself socially and structurally into the diasporic community of Panama. Whether it is by cosponsoring transnational meetings or establishing the Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center, the Taiwanese government has made itself an integral part of the diaspora. (Undoubtedly, their close relationship has contributed to dominant perceptions of diasporic Chinese as outsiders in Panama.) On the other hand, the mainland Chinese government holds a different power over diasporic Chinese. Having sovereign control of mainland China, it has moral claims to representing the Chinese “homeland” and Chinese authenticity. We should recall that even as recently as 1996, the PRC launched missiles into the Taiwan Strait to reiterate its territorial claim over Taiwan. Today, the two governments continue to work toward their divergent agendas. As long as the PRC-Taiwan conflict continues, so will their struggle for diasporic Chinese allegiance and affinity. The drama is far from over. Until 1997, Taiwan enjoyed a virtual monopoly over Panamanian Chinese allegiance, but this may all change now that mainland China has established an official “commercial” office in Panama and its representatives now have direct contact with diasporic Chinese.16 Diasporic Chinese in Panama draw heavily on the cultural, moral, and political resources, not only of Panama itself, but of the United States, the PRC, and Taiwan. Emerging from their experience of being situated at the intersection of these national entities is their imaginative and creative production of identity, belonging, and community. Their play with difference is crystallized in numerous events, practices, and cultural sites, including the Chinese Colony’s annual beauty contest, serial migration, community plays, karaoke performances, and the Sun Yat-Sen Institute. All these are sites where diasporic Chinese invoke and practice their layered identifications. Moreover, inhabiting an intersectional position can enable diasporic subjects to leverage their placement in one nation against another, to use their positioning in one to negotiate, remake, and revise their relationship with the others. Take, for instance, how the Canal Zone offered an alternative arena for Chinese economic advancement, thereby allowing diasporic Chinese to gain relative influence in Panamanian society. Also, consider how their status as diasporic Chinese in Panama, which makes them into potential mediators between Panama

24

Introduction

and China/Taiwan, has given Panamanian Chinese more leverage in negotiating their relationship with the two Chinese governments. The in-between-ness of being in diaspora, though at times disconcerting, can also be used to challenge and undermine nation-states. It is precisely this dialectic between the limits and possibilities of displacement that comes to define the parameters of diasporic citizenship. Th e L a r g e r C h i n e s e D i a s p o r a

Furthermore, the vectors of diasporic formations are not limited to the homeland, nation of residence, and the colonial presence but also include the larger collectivity of diasporic communities dispersed in other locations. Paul Gilroy has described the “black Atlantic” as a cultural-political formation forged by historical and ongoing ties among diasporic black communities in Britain, the United States, and the Caribbean. Similarly, diasporic Chinese also maintain social and cultural ties through formal and informal networks with Chinese dispersed elsewhere. Transnational organizations such as the Federation of Chinese Associations in Central America and Panama, the Association of Chinese in the Americas, and the Global Association of Cantonese—all co-sponsored by the Taiwanese government—overlap and crisscross with kinship and other informal networks. These organizations and their annual meetings provide regular venues for reconnection and reproduction of social ties among diasporic Chinese. Meanwhile, family gatherings and reunions offer more intimate encounters. For instance, many Panamanian Chinese who have migrated elsewhere often return to Panama during the Christmas season to reconnect with their relatives and friends. Holiday parties provide an important arena to reconfirm bonds and to create new ones. Through participation in these organizations, annual meetings, and informal gatherings, diasporic Chinese gain a perspective, sensibility, and consciousness of being part of a larger diaspora, a diaspora linked together through a shared sense of collective history and cultural identification with Chineseness, the Chinese homeland, and their emplacement outside of China. While these transnational occasions powerfully affirm one’s ties to a larger collectivity that is geographically dispersed but nonetheless shares a sense of connectedness, they also make evident localnational differences and unequal power relations within the diaspora. Although the global diaspora is not a nation-state, the supranational organizations work as the political apparatus of the larger diaspora. While it does not wield the same power as Panama, the United States, the PRC, or

Introduction

25

Taiwan in diasporic Chinese formation, the global diaspora—as a cultural and political entity—nonetheless plays a significant role in shaping diasporic subjectivity. At the very least, it makes possible the reproduction of a global collectivity among transnationally dispersed diasporic communities.

Three Methodological Features of Diasporic Citizenship Having outlined the specific components involved in shaping the diasporic citizenship of Chinese in Panama, I want to draw attention to the three methodological features inherent in diasporic citizenship: intersectionality, contingency, and mediation. In making explicit these three features, my intention is to clarify how I approach diasporic citizenship and use it as a heuristic device. The intersectionality of diasporic citizenship alludes to the cultural-political positioning of diasporic subjects and underscores the significance of geopolitics, by which I mean the cultural and political-economic conditions created by interstate relations between nation-states. For the Chinese in Panama, diasporic citizenship is situated where Panama (the nation of residence), mainland China/Taiwan (the homeland), and the United States (the former colonial presence) intersect. I treat these nationstates as geopolitical entities with distinct political agendas and cultural logics of their own. Each embodies and conveys a distinct set of political and cultural forces that differentiates them from one other. The concept of intersectionality points to the manner in which these political-cultural forces collide, overlap, and conflict with one another, out of which diasporic Chinese citizenship is defined. Employing the analytics of border studies, which examines the emergence of a third syncretic culture when two nations of unequal power share one geopolitical border, intersectionality highlights both the literal border between Panama and the United States—as embodied by the Canal Zone—and the figurative border between mainland China/Taiwan and Panama. For instance, many diasporic Chinese work in the Canal Zone, while their children attend the Sun Yat-Sen Institute (co-founded by the Taiwanese state), and the family participates in Panamanian social life. Their simultaneous and differentiated forms of participation in these arenas contribute to their subject formation as Panamanian Chinese. Take, for example, their development of conversational Chinspanglish, their knowledge of both Panamanian and American popular cultures,

26

Introduction

and their experimentation with Panamanian and Chinese cuisine. Intersectionality also points to feminist interventions concerning intersectional modes of subject formation, in which race, gender, class, and other categories of difference coexist in tension with one another (Anzaldúa 1987; Alarcón 1990). In this sense, intersectionality underscores difference among diasporic subjects as well as their differentiated positioning in society, recognizing their uneven access to resources and unequal power relations within the diaspora. Certainly, a recent immigrant woman who works as a domestic worker occupies a very different position than a well-established Chinese businessman. The intersection of gender, class, and ethnicity place these two people in very different social locations within the diaspora. The contingency of diasporic citizenship to historical circumstances is the second feature. Tracing the shifting terms and practices of diasporic Chinese citizenship from 1940 to 2000, this book argues that diasporic citizenship is always historically situated as well as culturally mediated. It emphasizes that diasporic citizenship is an ongoing process that changes over time and is sensitive to sociopolitical shifts and ruptures. Recall for a moment the scenario opening this introduction in which a pair of political cartoons illustrates Panama grappling with the new conditions of post–Cold War globalization, the PRC and Taiwan extending their economic reach into Latin America, and the United States demilitarizing and preparing its exit from the country. This scenario differs dramatically from that which pertained in the 1940s, when Panamanian nationalism, the Chinese Communist Revolution, and American military expansion in Panama gave rise to another formulation of diasporic citizenship. To emphasize contingency is to underscore that belonging and citizenship do not necessarily follow a unidirectional, linear progression from nonbelonging to full belonging in a nation-state over time. On the contrary, they are processes that are always contextual, negotiated, and in production. The aspect of contingency in diasporic citizenship fundamentally contradicts both the concept of cultural assimilation,17 which posits the notion that immigrant ethnic groups can and will achieve national integration simply by adopting dominant values and behaviors, and that of ethnic succession, which holds that immigrant groups will be automatically absorbed into the higher ranks of society as the moral capital of suffering and contribution is accumulated through the generations (Flores and Benmayor 1997; Ong 2003; Portes and Rumbaut 1990). While both concepts of cultural assimilation and ethnic succession

Introduction

27

suggest that citizenship is achieved through the gradual accumulation of certain moral and cultural capital through time, diasporic citizenship holds that citizenship is always historically situated and subject to sociopolitical ruptures. This means that citizenship can be stripped away as easily as it was granted, and the slow march toward first-class citizenship can be reversed by changes in policy. Recall in American history the disenfranchisement of Japanese Americans during World War II. No doubt, the notion of contingency is particularly significant in the case of Panama, a nation-state whose sociopolitical system has historically been volatile and unstable, due in large part to American colonialism. For Panama, the notion of ruptures seems more appropriate for describing the process of citizenship than continuity or gradual succession. Mediation, the third feature of diasporic citizenship, underscores the role of culture and cultural processes in mediating global forces and local phenomena, geopolitics and local interactions in the politics of belonging. These mediating processes include everyday discourse, performance, representation, and cultural production. These are the cultural sites in which constructions of difference and identification along axes of race, ethnicity, gender, and class are contested, reworked, and made socially meaningful. They are the sites where different interest groups (diasporic subjects, Panamanian nationalists, state representatives, etc.) assert, debate, and negotiate the parameters of national belonging. As an example of cultural mediation at work, consider the article and political cartoon cited at the outset of this Introduction that uses caricatures of national difference to make sense of the particular historical conjuncture where American demilitarization meets the arrival of Chinese capital. The cartoon renders visible and legible both the geopolitical triangulation between Panama, the United States, and China as well as its effects on diasporic Chinese belonging in Panama. The cartoon and the debates of Chinese belonging become the critical sites of meaning production, and it is in these sites that global issues become locally interpreted and interpolated. Conversely, the newspaper cartoon and article also travel and facilitate the circulation of local events in the global arena, where meaning is transmitted and rearticulated. Mediation, then, suggests that the realm of the cultural—discourse, representation, memory, performance, artifacts, and everyday practice—offers an important arena to examine how the global and the local interact, intersect, and whose collisions are rendered socially meaningful.

28

Introduction

An Ethnography of Social Rupture: Organization of the Book This book examines diasporic citizenship—the meanings and practices of belonging—as experienced by the Chinese in Panama. I have found that diasporic belonging is articulated most clearly and vividly at points where it is tested, when there is conflict and disagreement about who belongs and why. It makes sense, then, that each of the following chapters examines a different type or moment of “social rupture,” when the social order implodes and the boundaries of what counts as belonging are actively debated, negotiated, and redrawn.18 These moments provide openings to examine the shifting circumstances, the players and their relative positions, and the various outcomes that result from this complex web of interactions. It is in these scenarios that diasporic un/belonging is articulated most clearly, crystallized, and made lucid for a short while. It is also in these scenarios that diasporic Chinese are forced to confront questions of home, belonging, and identity. This approach to studying diasporic belonging through social ruptures is informed by my understanding of community—be it ethnic, national, or regional—as a contested and continual process that attempts to produce coherence and unity out of difference and instability (Martin 1986; Mohanty 1987; Pratt 1984; Rich 1986; Rouse 1991).19 Social ruptures are precisely those points when community is suspended, when consensus is not possible, and/or when everyday life has been disrupted so radically that change is necessary. Another reason for organizing the chapters around social ruptures is to work against narratives of development. What I want to stress with diasporic citizenship is that the politics of belonging does not follow an assumed, unidirectional, and inevitable path from nonbelonging to full belonging. Instead, I underscore contingency. When diasporic Chinese are affiliated, by choice or conjecture, with several geopolitical entities at once, their national belonging becomes vulnerable to the status of relations between these entities. Given the multiple factors and parties involved, it is impossible to chart a predictable course. Diasporic citizenship, then, points to the ongoing and always incomplete process of creating a home, a community, and a sense of belonging amid shifting geopolitical conditions and power relations. In spanning the period between 1940 and 2000, then, this ethnography focuses on several specific incidents of social rupture, each of which is addressed in a separate chapter. Together, the chapters explore the challenges and conflicts, as well as the creativity and resourcefulness, of dias-

Introduction

29

poric Chinese as they negotiate and transform their sense of belonging at the intersection of and in relation to multiple cultural-political entities. Part of the challenge in writing about a largely unknown population involves the question of how to make comprehensible the particularities of their experience and the specific conditions they face. While there is a great deal of resonance among diasporic Chinese populations globally, there is also tremendous difference. National context plays a key role in shaping their subject and community formation. I therefore caution readers against using wholesale their assumptions about Chinese Americans to understand Panamanian Chinese. While the tendency to do so is inevitable, my hope is that, by providing enough background information, readers will have a better grasp of the particular cultural and political milieu in which Panamanian Chinese live and help constitute. Chapter 1, then, provides historical background on Panama and outlines the general social history of the Chinese there. It discusses Chinese migration patterns and their social institutions, religious affiliations, and linguistic diversity, as well as their occupational pursuits and national and transnational political participation. My treatment of each of these categories is necessarily brief, as the chapter is meant to offer a general overview of both Panama and Panamanian Chinese. Chapter 2 situates Panamanian Chinese in the larger Chinese diaspora of Central America and explores the politics of belonging among this group. When controversy erupted over who should win in the 1996 beauty contest hosted by the Convention of Chinese Associations in Central America and Panama, I quickly realized that relations among diasporic Chinese in this region were not without tension or struggle. In this chapter, I use gender as an analytical lens to explore how debates of who should be queen illustrate the shared goals as well as the differences and power asymmetries among diasporic Chinese of this region. I argue that the beauty contest is a microcosm of the larger diaspora. As such, debates about ethnicity, nationality, and racial difference that took place in that context reflect the ongoing discussions and concerns of belonging among diasporic Chinese in this region more generally. Early in my research, serial migration—the process of migrating to a series of places over an extended period of time or generations—emerged as an important theme in my interviews with diasporic Chinese in Panama. Chapter 3 focuses on four migration stories of Panamanian Chinese and explores the theme of serial migration—both as social experience and as a narrative strategy of “normalizing” ruptures—in their ar-

30

Introduction

ticulation of identity, home, and belonging. While each migration story maps a different itinerary between China and Panama and across different sites in the Americas, all four stories show the significance of serial migration in shaping notions of home and cultural identity. By connecting the various sites where they and their ancestors have migrated, diasporic Chinese affirm their ties to these places, allowing their identification to emerge not only with China and Panama but also with the Americas in general. Moreover, to the extent that their stories recall repeated uprootings across generations, I suggest that their narratives of serial migration help transform these disruptions into common events. Through reiteration, the narratives help normalize serial migration, making it into an ordinary aspect of living in diaspora. Chapter 4, inspired by several interviews I conducted with older diasporic Chinese, revisits a particular historical juncture in the 1940s during which the lives and worldviews of diasporic Chinese took a sudden dramatic turn. While Panama’s nationalist policy of “prohibited roots” disenfranchised diasporic Chinese, and the Chinese communist revolution closed the possibility of return to China, the expansion of U.S. military bases in Panama provided a place of refuge for the doubly displaced Chinese. This chapter conveys the precarious situation that confronted this generation of diasporic Chinese, who had been multiply displaced and excluded and whose ideas of belonging and home were now necessarily suspended somewhere between Panama, China, and the United States. The 1940s ushered in a dramatic transformation not only in the ways that diasporic Chinese saw themselves and imagined their futures in relation to these places but also in the practices and institutions they implemented to cope with this new environment. In chapter 5, I discuss the new migration of Chinese to Panama in the 1980s, a trend that doubled the Chinese population in less than five years and sparked fresh debates about Chinese belonging in Panama. In looking at the challenges faced by diasporic Chinese in post-U.S.-invasion Panama, this chapter examines not only the cultural and social factors that divided the new immigrants and the established Panamanian Chinese, but also the political imperatives that brought them together. It argues that debates of belonging among diasporic Chinese are intertwined with their collective struggle for national belonging. Chapter 6 examines a dramatic shift in popular constructions of Chineseness in 1997 and situates it at the convergence of several geopolitical events: U.S. demilitarization and return of the Canal, the Hong Kong

Introduction

31

handover, and Panama’s privatization efforts. Linking these events together, I show how they jointly produced the circumstances for an unexpected increase of Chinese economic and political presence—from both mainland China and Taiwan—in Panama. This, in turn, ignited not only national curiosity about all things Chinese but also a reevaluation of Chinese belonging in the nation. Meanwhile, diasporic Chinese themselves were concerned with another set of discussions; for them, the unfolding of the China-Taiwan conflict in Panama renewed old antagonisms and inspired divergent formulations of what it means to be Chinese in diaspora. This chapter, then, examines more closely the shifting representations of Chineseness as well as diasporic Chinese interpretations of and responses to this geopolitical conjuncture. Finally, the conclusion underscores the key contributions of this book and addresses the question of area studies by proposing a preliminary framework for the study of Asians in the Americas. Outlining some possible directions for comparative research, I propose a hemispheric approach to studying Asian America. This framework is meant to invite dialogue and to begin systematic discussion about the shared themes and divergences among the different Asian populations across the Americas. Closing the book is the epilogue, which discusses the Millennium Fair of 2000 in Panama and presents the newly emerging relationship between diasporic Chinese and the Panamanian nation-state. Showcasing Chinese cultural performances and commodities, this national fair brought together Panamanians of various backgrounds to celebrate the cultural uniqueness of diasporic Chinese and their potential significance to the future of Panama.

1

 Prohibited Race / Ideal Citizens The Social History and Background of the Chinese in Panama

Anyone visiting Panama today will immediately notice the extensive presence of the Chinese community.1 With an estimated 175,000 Chinese living in the Republic,2 they make up about 6.5 percent of the total population of 2.7 million. Their roots run deep, reaching back more than 150 years, and they are to be found everywhere in the country. The majority of Panamanian Chinese now live in Panama City and the surrounding suburb of Chorrera. Meanwhile, Colón and Bocas del Toro—which used to be two major centers for the Chinese—have been affected by out-migration. Today, the Chinese in Panama could not be more diverse. They range in generational, class, religious, occupational, linguistic, and regional backgrounds, not to mention their extremely diverse racial-ethnic makeup and cultural identifications, attitudes, and behaviors. Despite this diversity, they maintain a collective identification with being culturally Chinese, broadly defined, and at the same time, they feel deeply connected to Panama. This, no doubt, informs the kinds of social institutions they build, and, in fact, makes possible their distinct cultural formation. From constructing the transisthmian railroad to developing commercial distribution networks to forming Chinatowns, diasporic Chinese have played a key role in Panama’s economic, sociopolitical, and cultural development. Chinese labor and entrepreneurship have extended the reach of the global market into all parts of the country. Chinese social institutions have expanded the nation’s civil society, and Chinese culture, food, and art have contributed to the cultural diversity of Panama. In fact, certain Chinese items and practices have become so integral to Panamanian everyday life that they have lost their ethnic association and are considered simply to be “Panamanian.” Ma fa, a dessert made of sugarcoated fried dough, is a case in point; and ñapa, the shopkeepers’ practice of giving candy in place of monetary change or as a token of apprecia-

34

Prohibited Race / Ideal Citizens

tion, is another example. Conversely, some institutions have become so commonly identified with ethnic Chinese that they are automatically associated with them, such as tiendas, or family-run convenience stores. Indeed, throughout Panama, in cities and towns and along the highways, virtually all tiendas are run by Chinese families. In Panama City, the Chinese presence is particularly pronounced. In many cities throughout the world, Chinese distinctiveness is manifest in Chinatowns, and Panama City has two: Barrio Chino is located in the old part of Panama City and a new Chinatown is thriving in the neighborhood of El Dorado. Moreover, Chinese have been active in mainstream Panamanian politics. A number of them have been elected to legislative office, and the posts of minister of public works, minister of immigration, and mayor of Panama City have been held by Chinese Panamanians. Despite their vivid and inescapable presence in everyday Panamanian society, diasporic Chinese remain glaringly absent in most people’s knowledge of Panama and Latin America more broadly. In essence, a gap exists between dominant perceptions of Panamanian nationhood and the reality of Panamanian society. This chapter—and the book overall—attempts to address this gap by offering an overview of the history and current situation of diasporic Chinese in Panama. With a discussion of migration practices, transnational family formation, religion, language and education, and community organizations, this chapter also explores the ways in which Chinese Panamanian cultural and social life reflect their evolving engagement with not only Panama and mainland China/Taiwan but also the United States and the larger diaspora.

“Bridge of the World, Heart of the Universe”: Panama as Global Nexus Strategically located between the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans, and connecting North and Central America with South America, Panama has played a critical role in global capitalism. Indeed, it has been one of the most important transit points in international trade for the past 500 years. Given its strategic location and with the thinnest strip of land separating the two oceans, it was destined to become a main transit point for people and goods traveling east and west, as well as north and south. As early as the 1500s and for almost 300 years (with minor interruptions), Panama served as Spain’s sole official Pacific terminal and transfer point of all shipment to and from the Crown for all territories south of Mex-

Prohibited Race / Ideal Citizens

35

ico.3 It also attracted a number of contenders seeking partnership in, if not control of, its geographical advantage. Meanwhile, the Manila-Acapulco galleon trade linked China and Japan to Europe via the Philippines and Mexico, exchanging New World silver for Oriental luxury goods such as porcelain, textiles, tea, and spices.4 With these flows of exchange came people as well. While a canal across the Isthmus had been of interest since the 1500s, the first transisthmian project was the railroad. Constructed during the California Gold Rush in response to the demand for safer and faster transportation, the transisthmian railroad served as the most popular route for people traveling between the East Coast of the United States and California. With the success of the railroad, the dream of a water passageway was revitalized. The French made the first attempt at building the canal, and after its failure, the United States took over the task, but not before first helping Panama gain its independence from Colombia. Under the watchful eye of the American navy, only one cannon was fired by the Colombian ship Bogotá in this effort, killing a “Chinaman and a donkey” near the old market of Panama City.5 The Republic of Panama was formed in 1903, and to the resentment of isthmian patriots, it was a Frenchman, Philippe Bunau-Varilla, chief engineer of the sea-level canal project, who signed the canal treaty with the United States, wrote the Panamanian declaration of independence and constitution, and designed the Panamanian flag. To add insult to injury, the signed treaty gave the United States sovereignty “in perpetuity of the use, occupation, and control” of a sixteen-kilometer-wide strip of land for the canal and three nautical miles into the sea from each terminal. Within this designated canal area, the United States would possess all the rights, powers, and authority as “if it were the sovereign of the territory within which said lands and waters are located to the entire exclusion of the exercise by the Republic of Panama.”6 In essence, Panama became a virtual protectorate of the United States “through two provisions whereby the United States guaranteed the independence of Panama and received in return the right to intervene in its domestic affairs.”7 Panamanians, left with no apparent alternative, had no choice but to ratify the treaty and the constitution. These terms, as history has shown, became a major source of contention between Panama and the United States throughout the twentieth century.8 A cursory glance at the major events shaping Panamanian history and consciousness shows the centrality of American intervention: the student protests against American colonialism

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in the 1960s that led to American use of military force and the deaths of several people; the momentous signing of the Carter-Torrijos Treaty in 1977 that initiated the gradual handover of the Canal Zone, U.S. military bases, and the Canal itself to Panama; the U.S. invasion of Panama in 1989; and the final return of the Canal in 1999. Not unlike many of its Central American neighbors, Panama has had a sordid and complicated political history. In addition to American colonialism, dueling interests between the different classes and racial groups, and between the urban and rural segments produced tremendous instability throughout the twentieth century. Many exceptional studies have elaborated on Panama’s political history,9 and I shall simply highlight a few points here to illustrate the kind of domestic conditions faced by Panamanians. In its short history of just over 100 years, the Republic of Panama has had four different constitutions; one president (Arnulfo Arias) was elected three separate times and was removed from office within two years all three times. Between 1940 and 1949, seven different people were elected to the presidency. From 1968 to 1989, Panama was ruled by two different military regimes; the second ended with the U.S. invasion and the arrest of its dictator, Manuel Noriega. Clearly, Panama’s governance has not been the most stable, and this has produced much cynicism among Panamanians. With the completion of the canal in 1914, Panama solidified its position as a major global transit hub in the modern world. Today, the canal remains one of the most important routes for transporting cargo across the oceans. In the latter half of the twentieth century, other developments in Panama helped bolster the nation’s importance in international commerce and finance. In 1953, Panama opened the Colón Free Trade Zone, where products from all over the world are processed and distributed throughout the Americas. Today, the Colón Free Trade Zone has grown to be the largest in the Western Hemisphere, with China and Hong Kong producing the highest volume of goods passing through the zone. In international finance, Panama is widely recognized as an offshore banking haven. With its bank secrecy and tax-exempt laws passed in 1959 and 1970, respectively, Panama has attracted many international financiers and traders.10 Moreover, since Panama uses the U.S. dollar as its unit of exchange, there is little risk of currency devaluation. In 1997, one hundred and sixteen banks had branches in Panama City.11 Another noteworthy contribution to Panama’s economy is made by its corporation and ship registries. In the late 1980s, approximately 100,000 companies

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had been incorporated in Panama,12 and in terms of ship registration, Panama is ranked number one in the world’s merchant fleet, with more than 13,600 ships registered under the Panamanian flag. All these developments have reinforced Panama’s centrality in the global economy. Panama, “Bridge of the World, Heart of the Universe”(Puente del Mundo, Corazón del Universo), has always prided itself on being a passageway that connects the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans.13 By stressing constant movement, flow, and circulation, Panama has represented itself more as a path or a route and less as a destination, a place where people settle and create community. But one of Panama’s most noteworthy, if often overlooked, aspects is its ethnic and cultural diversity, enhanced by centuries of immigration from all over the world. In addition to its mestizo, white, West Indian,14 and indigenous15 populations, Panama is home to Chinese, Koreans, Japanese, Jews, Arabs, and Indians from India (referred to there as Hindus).16 While their exact numbers are difficult to gauge (since national censuses conducted after 1940 do not record racial and ethnic categories), the numerous temples, mosques, ethnic shops and restaurants attest to these ever-growing communities, each of which has left its mark on Panamanian society. At the end of the twentieth century, Panama entered another phase of rapid transformation. On December 31, 1999, the United States returned the Canal and its surrounding areas to Panama and ended its military occupation. In response to globalization pressures to open its borders and neoliberal pressures to privatize, Panama began offering many of its previously U.S.-administered properties for international investment and privatized some of its major state-run services. With the diversification of foreign investments and the expected decrease of U.S. influence on the nation’s domestic and foreign policies, the Panamanian state is taking a bolder and more decisive stance. One prime example of this is Panama’s newly established (albeit unofficial) relations with the People’s Republic of China (PRC). As a longtime ally of Taiwan (ROC), and in keeping with U.S. Cold War containment policies, Panama did not have formal interstate relations with the PRC until recently. Panama’s move on the eve of the U.S. demilitarization to negotiate commercial relations and establish mutual commercial offices with the PRC in 1996, while maintaining official diplomatic relations with Taiwan, was the nation’s first significant foreign relations step. Simultaneously having relations with both of the two Chinas was hard to achieve, and they may be even more challenging to maintain. Another example of Panama’s determination to distance it-

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self from U.S. control occurred in March 1997, when the Panamanian government uncharacteristically rejected a contract proposal from the U.S. corporate giant Bechtel to lease Panama’s Balboa and Cristóbal ports. Despite pressure from the U.S. ambassador, William Hughes, to “deal with the U.S. investors’ complaints [against the Panamanian government for impeding their investment and trade],”17 Panama remained firm in its decision to give Hong Kong-based Hutchinson Port Holdings the leasing rights to the ports. As reflected in both these instances, Panama is clearly projecting a more confident image as it repositions itself with its newfound independence and responds to the changing conditions of the global political economy. Instead of looking primarily to the north, it has now turned its attention to the east.18

Routes and Roots: Migration and Settlement To get a sense of the scope and duration of the Chinese presence in Panama, one must first have a sense of Chinese migration within the larger framework of Latin America. As mentioned above, by the sixteenth century, Spain had established the Manila galleon trade, linking China and Japan, via the Philippines and Mexico, to Europe, which lasted for almost three centuries without a break and undoubtedly facilitated the circulation of people as well as goods along the galleon’s transcontinental routes. As early as 1635, we find evidence of a burgeoning Chinese settlement in Mexico City, when a group of Spanish barbers filed a complaint against Chinese barbers for excessive competition.19 Then, it was not until 1802, when the British began experimenting with the exportation of Chinese contract labor to its overseas colonies,20 that 192 Chinese male workers landed in Trinidad, becoming the first organized Chinese settlement in the Americas (Lai 2004). The earliest documentation of Chinese migration to Panama (then part of the Spanish colony of New Granada) was in 1854,21 when a group of 705 Chinese came as contract laborers for the construction of the transisthmian Panama Railroad, a project organized by a group of New York financiers known as the Panama Railway Company.22 These laborers, along with several hundred others who followed shortly thereafter, came as part of the mid-1800s Asian labor migration to the Americas. To speak in terms of push-and-pull migration factors, the end of the African slave trade created a critical labor demand throughout the Americas. This pull coincided with the push for Asian emigration, primarily from China and

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India, followed by Japan and Korea. China’s defeat in the Opium Wars in the mid 1800s, along with a series of environmental disasters, had left the country economically weak, and large numbers of Chinese men resorted to signing labor contracts to work in the New World. Between 1847 and 1874, over 250,000 Chinese were sent to Peru and Cuba alone, with thousands more sent to Panama, Costa Rica, and the British West Indies. When the first group of 705 Chinese laborers arrived in Panama, they were confronted with unimaginable challenges.23 The environmental and working conditions were so unbearable that within six months, over 500 laborers had died and the remainder were sent to Jamaica in exchange for West Indian workers. Unlike in Peru and Cuba, then, indentured Chinese labor was short-lived in Panama, and it was not until the late 1800s, at the height of banana production and the construction work on the French Canal, followed by the building of the American Canal, that signs of Chinese cultural and commercial life began to flourish there. The Chinese who migrated during this period came not as contract laborers but as independent workers and merchants.24 They went into all sorts of industries, including farming, retail and wholesale vending of household goods, textiles, restaurants, bars, bakeries, and laundry services. Notably, they were most successful in the small retail market, and as early as the mid 1880s, they already had become a formidable force in this sector. It was during this period that sizable Chinese communities emerged in Panama City and Colón, the Canal’s two terminal cities, as well as Bocas del Toro, home to the United Fruit Company. To a large extent, Chinese commerce spread alongside American expansion: Chinese entrepreneurial efforts sustained and fulfilled the needs of the labor force working on American projects. This mutually beneficial economic relationship between the Chinese and the Americans would come to nurture their sociopolitical ties. Throughout the twentieth century, Panamanian Chinese and the U.S. Canal Administration maintained a rather friendly relationship. This alliance is underscored by the fact that the American administration, upon the request of the Chinese government, provided consular representation for diasporic Chinese in Panama during the early 1900s. Before 1903, immigration laws in Panama were quite lax. Upon becoming a republic, however, Panama adopted many of the same laws as the United States, thereby inheriting its restrictive immigration laws against the Chinese.25 This is not to say that Panama adopted these laws blindly. In fact, since the 1880s, substantial public pressure against Chinese immigration and commercial competition had been mounting. The

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institutionalization of Chinese exclusion laws was thus not unexpected. Despite official policy, however, the Chinese population continued to grow, and Panamanians soon realized that they had little control over the enforcement of immigration policy, since the United States had sovereignty over the sea terminals. In essence, immigration to Panama was left in the hands of the U.S. authorities, and the Americans had little interest in enforcing Panamanian immigration laws. With time, the Chinese community grew, their businesses expanded, and they began inserting themselves culturally and politically into Panamanian society. Meanwhile, anti-Chinese sentiment continued to grow. At the turn of the twentieth century, the Sociedad Anti-China (Anti-Chinese Society) had been established, rousing popular support and waging campaigns against Chinese immigration. With the formation in 1923 of Acción Communal (Community Action),26 an organization consisting mostly of urban professionals, nationalist, racialist, and xenophobic sentiments were articulated into political discourse, which in turn quickly became incorporated into political platforms. This nationalist movement culminated in 1940, when Arnulfo Arias Madrid was elected president and a new constitution was ratified, redefining Panamanian nationhood in terms of mestizaje and Hispanic culture, while disenfranchising Chinese and non-Hispanic blacks, among others. A popular movement against these groups was then fully unleashed. Now backed by official decree, many local Panamanians took the law into their own hands, and many Chinese lost their properties and livelihoods as a result of threats and violence by Panamanian civilians. These kinds of anti-Chinese movements were not uncommon in Latin America and the Caribbean. They occurred in Mexico, Trinidad, and Jamaica at different times throughout the twentieth century and often coincided with nationalist movements that inspired heightened nativist sentiment paired with racism and xenophobia.27 In the aftermath of these catastrophic events, local Chinese leaders in Panama reorganized the community’s governing structure and developed a new agenda of integration. Their aim was to strengthen their sense of political and cultural belonging in Panama. In light of China’s closing of its borders after the communist revolution in 1949, any dreams of returning to the homeland had evaporated, and the reality of creating a home in Panama had gained new urgency. In the next few decades, the Chinese leadership focused on building cohesion among the Chinese in Panama, asserting a Chinese presence in national politics, and extending

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transnational networks throughout the Americas. A number of local and transnational organizations were formed during the 1960s and 1970s (see below), and the first Panamanian of Chinese descent was elected to the Electoral Tribunal in 1964. Since then, a number of Panamanian Chinese have been elected to public office and have served in government cabinets (see below). Chinese immigration between the 1950s and the early 1980s was considerably slower than in previous periods. After the early 1950s, when Panama received a wave of Chinese fleeing the communist regime, Chinese immigration from mainland China decreased tremendously. During the 1960s and 1970s, the majority of Chinese immigrants came primarily from Hong Kong and Taiwan. It was not until the mid 1980s that Chinese immigration rose dramatically again. During the Noriega regime, thousands of Chinese from mainland China arrived in Panama. Some came to settle, but the majority used Panama as a point of transit into the United States. During this period, Panama was only one node within the global network of Chinese human trafficking. The Golden Venture, which ran aground off New York City in June 1993, was among the many ships that carried hundreds of mainland Chinese to the United States, Europe, Canada, and Latin America.28 The majority of the Chinese who arrived in Panama during this period were primarily Hakkas from the Canton (Guangdong) region, and they can be divided roughly into two groups: those who paid their passage in full and those who came with three-year work contracts. Also, for the first time in Panamanian history, a large number of single Chinese women were among this group of immigrants. It is important that these immigrants to Panama not be confused with the Hong Kong elites who immigrated directly to the United States and Canada during this same period.29 Indeed, while Hong Kong elites used investment visas to immigrate, those who came to Panama had less capital and had to resort to using so-called snakeheads, or Chinese human trafficking agents. After the American invasion and the ousting of Noriega in 1989, it was estimated that the Chinese population had doubled during the Noriega regime. No doubt, the invasion momentarily disrupted the communication and business-as-usual practices of trafficking networks, which in turn caused many unintended migrants to be stranded in Panama without legal documentation. Demonization of recent immigrants as criminals and accusations that they had used illegal means to enter Panama quickly led to demands for official investigations. Within a few months

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of the new government being established, a surprise police raid of Chinese homes and businesses was ordered. Hundreds of Chinese throughout Panama were arrested, and the Chinese community at large was outraged. Thanks to the efforts of community leaders, however, the situation was resolved, and the recent immigrants were redocumented and allowed to remain in Panama. With the doubling of the population in less than five years, the social dynamics of the Chinese community changed radically in a very short time, producing intense friction between local Chinese and the newcomers. Further exacerbating these tensions were the cultural, class, and ideological differences that persisted well after the process of redocumentation. Since their first arrival at least 150 years ago, then, Chinese in Panama have been met with prevailing sentiments of restriction, confinement, and even prohibition. From the 1904 constitution to Arnulfo Arias’s policy of prohibition to the 1980s police raids, the sense of belonging of diasporic Chinese in Panama has been challenged continually. This is not to say that ethnic Chinese were in no way accepted by or integrated into Panamanian society. They were, with varying degrees of success. However, these experiences were often punctuated by violent reminders of their marginality and exclusion, and acceptance was not the attitude espoused by most official documents. It was not until 1997, with changes in Panama-China relations, that perceptions of Chinese belonging improved significantly. For the first time in Panamanian history, ethnic Chinese began to be hailed as ideal citizens of Panama. Indeed, shifts in the global political economy had transformed China into an important economic ally of the Panamanian nation-state, and ethnic Chinese saw their status shift from that of tolerated foreigners to that of valued cultural-economic bridge builders of globalization. Today, the perception of ethnic Chinese could not be any more different from what it was in earlier decades. And Chineseness— those cultural characteristics associated with being Chinese—has acquired special status. Panamanians are not only realizing the importance of learning Mandarin but are also taking an interest in feng shui (Chinese geomancy), Chinese medicine, and kung fu. (While this drastic transformation is one of the underlying currents motivating this book, I want to underscore that my intention is not to depict a process in which gaining acceptance into Panamanian society is the end point, but rather to illustrate that each critical moment of transformation is generated by a combination of local-transnational circumstances and that ethnic Chinese

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have developed certain strategies and created a variety of cultural forms and practices in the process of living through these moments.) Although the 1990s were a slow decade for Chinese immigration, the increasing economic and political presence of both the Republic of China and the People’s Republic of China would seem to point to increased immigration from both nations in the years ahead. F a m i l i e s S p a n n i n g t h e Pa c i f i c and the Americas One of the most notable aspects of the nineteenth and early twentieth century Chinese migratory movements to Panama is that while some immigrants came directly from China, a large number migrated from different parts of the Americas and the Caribbean, including Peru, Jamaica, British Guiana, and Nicaragua. To be sure, many migrated from other parts of the world as well. However, what is significant about their movements within the Americas and between China and Panama is that they were often circular and continuous migrations.30 These ongoing travels and movements created a fluid and complex web of activities and networks that reflect characteristics of what some scholars have called migrant circuits, transnational migrant communities, and diasporas.31 More important, they gave rise to family ties spanning the Pacific and throughout the Americas, laying the basis for other networks. While Chinese migration and transnational family formation engendered diasporic sentiments and institutions that linked the collectivity more closely together, these same processes—embedded in structures of gender, sexuality, class, race, and ethnicity—also produced new cultural and social hierarchies in Panama. Given the harsh frontier conditions of Panama in the late 1800s and early 1900s, Chinese immigrants of that time were chiefly young men who considered their move temporary. To them, the rugged, undeveloped, and disease-infested environment made Panama inappropriate, even dangerous, for women and children. Under these conditions, transnational split households emerged. Most immigrants who came directly from China adopted this type of transnational family formation in which the men came alone to Panama while their families remained in China.32 The Chinese who migrated to Panama from other parts of the Americas, on the other hand, were more likely to bring along their families, who were presumably already in the Americas. Over time, the men began to set down roots in their adopted home.

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Those who were able to earn enough to do so had the choice of bringing their wives and other family members to Panama. Those without the means either maintained this split-household arrangement indefinitely or formed new families locally. However, even with this tendency toward establishing a home in the new country, transnational split households did not go away; rather, what had formerly been a matter of necessity became a matter of choice. Families that achieved a certain economic status began to send their children to China to obtain a Chinese education and learn Chinese practices, behavior, and discipline. In such cases, the mother and children would be sent to the Chinese home village, and once the children reached a certain age, they would return to Panama. In short, the transnational split household facilitated and enabled the reproduction of Chinese cultural knowledge and became a practice of choice among wealthy Chinese. It evolved into a strategy of cultural capital accumulation. This endeavor, as might be expected, was not inexpensive. Indeed, it was very much a class-based phenomenon, which also mapped loosely onto racialized differences among diasporic Chinese. With the lack of single Chinese women in Panama during the early migration periods, only those with capital had the option of sending for brides from China (which many did), while others with less capital married local Panamanians. Hence, class not only determined the possibility of gaining Chinese cultural capital but also correlated with marriage partners and the reproduction of (supposed) Chinese racial purity. To a large extent, then, transnational family formations helped convert economic capital into sociocultural capital in Chinese Panama, thereby producing a new cultural and social hierarchy among diasporic Chinese. To summarize this point succinctly: economic class determined (1) who had the option of marrying a Chinese woman and (2) who was able to establish and maintain a transnational split household. And through these practices, particular families were able to accrue Chinese cultural capital in the form of racial purity, language, education, and everyday knowledge, which, in turn, reproduced and sustained sociocultural status and divisions within the Chinese community. Chinese women, in many ways, embodied and performed a certain class status as cultural and biological reproducers of Chinese purity. And the racial delineation between “pure Chinese” and “mixed Chinese” served as a general marker of social class difference. Indeed, these forms of Chinese cultural capital remained the most significant markers of sociocultural status until the 1940s. After the Chinese communist government closed its borders in 1949, however,

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transnational family formations between mainland China and Panama were made virtually impossible, disrupting their racial and cultural correlation with class. Today, while the tendency to assert Chinese purity as idealized diasporic Chineseness still exists—most notably expressed in parents’ preferences as regards their children’s marriage partners—the correlation between race, cultural competence, and class no longer adheres so well. Moreover, the desire for Chinese cultural capital shifted in the 1940s when ethnic Chinese began to look toward the United States, the rising global superpower, and toward American culture as both a vehicle for social mobility and the preferred marker of cultural distinction. Transnational family formations continued, but members were now split between the United States and Panama. This time, mostly young men and women were sent abroad for education and work opportunities. Many returned after a period of time, but some chose to stay, thereby further extending their family networks. The United States remained the central source of cultural and economic aspiration for Panamanian Chinese until the 1990s, when China entered the global imagination as a major contender for economic hegemony. Today, while the United States remains the main emigration choice for Panamanian Chinese, China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong are becoming more popular as alternative destinations. Whether they will be temporary locations or permanent homes is yet to be determined. Transnational family formations facilitate a constant flow of remittances, the exchange of cultural ideas and practices, and continuous migratory movements and travel. While this discussion has focused primarily on the China-Panama corridor, other routes within the Americas and the Caribbean have also been significant, particularly since the Chinese communist revolution, when transnational relations shifted away from Asia and toward the Americas. Although these ties with the Americas have been less systematic and predictable, they are no less impressive, not just generating a set of intercontinental social institutions and kinship networks but also inspiring a cultural imaginary and shared consciousness connected to various locales. Places like Peru, Jamaica, Brazil, British Guiana, and Nicaragua often emerged in the stories and memories of people I talked to in the course of my research. To be sure, neither their conception nor experience of community is confined to the borders of the Panamanian nation-state.

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L o c a l a n d Tr a n s n a t i o n a l O r g a n i z a t i o n s Two of the earliest Chinese organizations in Panama, formed during the 1880s, were the Chinese Chamber of Commerce, whose primary goal was to protect Chinese business and commercial interests, and the Way On Association, whose main objectives were to care for elderly Chinese, to arrange for funerals and the transportation of bones and ashes back to China, and to maintain the Chinese cemetery. With increasing immigration, native place associations emerged in the 1890s, and they continue to exert substantial influence today. With the exception of a few hundred Taiwanese Chinese, the majority of Chinese in Panama (even those who immigrated via Hong Kong) can trace their ancestral lineage to the Canton (Guangdong) region of China, and the five largest native place associations in Panama are the Fa Yin, Gou Kong Chow (Say Yap), Chung San, Sam Yap, and Hok San.33 While the latter four associations represented most of the population until the 1980s, the recent influx of immigrants has tipped the scale, making Fa Yin the largest group in Panama. In general, native place association meetings are conducted in their specific dialects and are dominated by men, since native place affiliations are traced through patrilineal descent. As in most diasporic locations, the immigrant generation is the most active in these organizations, while Panamanian-born Chinese tend to participate in other organizations that are more bicultural and bilingual. Among the larger and more significant organizations formed by Panamanian-born Chinese are the Asociación de Profesionales China-Panameña (Chinese Panamanian Professionals Association), or APROCHIPA, which offers lectures, workshops, and network-building opportunities; a sociocultural organization called Agrupación, or Agrupa, which sponsors activities like the Panamanian Chinese Debutantes’ Ball, the Friendship Dance, and the Mother’s Day Cultural Performance; and the Asociación de Jóvenes Chinos (Chinese Youth Association), which primarily hosts social activities like field trips, karaoke nights, and dances. While there is a slight overlap in the constituencies of these groups, their leaders come from different segments of the community and have developed distinct profiles for each organization. Religious organizations also exist, though they have not been as active as the abovementioned organizations. The Yan Wo Association is in charge of caring for the Yan Wo Buddhist Temple, and the Asociación Católica China de Panamá (Chinese Catholic Association of Panama) was formed recently. These local organizations form the basic units of the national organization, the Asociación China de Panamá (Chinese Association of Pana-

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ma), and their elected officials serve as its voting members. Formed after Arnulfo Arias’s presidency, the Chinese Association of Panama was established in order to develop a more efficient process of decision making and community mobilization. Today, it is recognized as the central governing structure of the Chinese community in Panama, and it represents the community not only in national affairs but also in the transnational politics of the larger diaspora. Since the mid 1960s, Panamanian Chinese have extended their reach on various transnational levels. While the abovementioned native place associations form one kind of transnational organization, which ties diasporic Chinese to both their native place and to one another via their affiliation with the same native place, the transnational organizations established in the 1960s have a different emphasis. The Federación de Asociaciones Chinas de Centroamérica y Panamá (Federation of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama) was established after a series of joint meetings held by the presidents of Chinese associations in Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador. Their common ground as diasporic Chinese was based less on where they were from than on where they had ended up. The 1950s and 1960s were decades of tremendous turmoil in Central America and Panama, and diasporic Chinese already had reason to feel vulnerable, having lost their “state” with the closing of mainland China’s borders in 1949. Sharing similar conditions of uncertainty, then, the Chinese of Central America and Panama purposefully formed a regional organization to pool their resources to deal with any political and/or economic emergencies. In short, the federation was established in place of a fully functioning Chinese state that could protect the interests of diasporic Chinese. While at first the organization was not affiliated with either of the two Chinese governments, it soon established ties with the Republic of China in Taiwan, the Chinese government that is still officially recognized by countries in this region. With financial support from Taiwan, the federation hosts a rotating annual convention, though its headquarters are based permanently in Panama City. Soon after the founding of this federation, two other transnational organizations were formed. The Federation of Chinese Associations in the Americas established a network among Chinese throughout the American continent, and the Global Association of Cantonese further extended these networks. Both of these were initiated with the endorsement and support of the Republic of China in Taiwan, and meetings are held regularly on an annual and biennial basis, respectively.

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Religion Catholicism, Protestantism, Buddhism, and Chinese folk religion are the four major religions practiced by Chinese in Panama. While most immigrants from mainland China arrive in Panama practicing a combination of Buddhism and Chinese folk religion (often consisting of a mix of Taoism and Confucianism), those who came in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries often converted to Catholicism, and some did so without relinquishing their Buddhist and Chinese folk religious beliefs. In addition, many children of immigrants from the mid to late twentieth century have also converted to Catholicism. More than just being the dominant religion of Panama, Catholicism is woven into the social fabric of Panamanian society. For many of the early immigrants, embracing Catholicism meant not only religious conversion but also social integration and access to important resources. As many interviewees commented, marrying non-Chinese Panamanians and attending Catholic schools required religious conversion. Moreover, several mentioned the significance of the institution of compadrazgo (ritual kinship that involves children and their godparents),34 which helped broaden and solidify kinship, social, and economic ties with non-Chinese Panamanians. This was particularly important for business owners seeking the patronage of non-Chinese. Their parents being Catholic, the following generations of Panamanian-born Chinese were baptized Catholic by default. Hence, while degrees of religious belief and practice vary, most of the descendents of the early immigrants tend to be Catholic. Among Chinese in Panama, then, Catholicism is perhaps the most widespread of the four religions. The first Buddhist temple was built in Bocas del Toro as early as 1886. It was destroyed by a storm in the 1990s, and the only remaining temples are located in Colón and Panama City. Buddhism and Chinese folk religion are today practiced mostly among the immigrant generation from mainland China and Taiwan. With the recent influx of new immigrants from both places, they are experiencing a period of revitalization. Finally, Protestantism is practiced mostly by Chinese immigrants from Taiwan, and since the Chinese Taiwanese population is relatively small, numbering in the low hundreds, and since some of those are Buddhists, its constituency is quite few in number. Language Since Spanish is the official language of Panama, most of the Chinese there speak at least some Spanish. Naturally, too, the immigrants and

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some of their descendants speak Cantonese and/or Mandarin, and English is also widely spoken, as we have seen. A breakdown of the different combinations of language use is quite complex, since immigrant generation, place of emigration, place of settlement in Panama, and education are all important determinants. Most Chinese are bilingual in Spanish and English or Spanish and Cantonese or Mandarin. A small trilingual minority tend to be either immigrants from Hong Kong who arrived with English and Cantonese skills and acquired Spanish in Panama or mainland Chinese immigrants who lived in the U.S. Canal Zone or cities on the Atlantic coast (areas where English predominates) before moving to Panama City. Panamanian-born and -raised children of pre-1980s immigrants tend to be Spanish-speaking monoglots or bilingual in Spanish and English. A few may be able to speak some Cantonese and/or their village dialect. Differentiation among this group depends primarily on two factors: the kind of educational institution they attended and whether they were raised on the Atlantic (English-speaking) or Pacific (Spanish-speaking) coast. Among the Panamanian-born children of the 1980s immigrants who are now in their late teens or early twenties, most tend to be bilingual in Spanish and Cantonese (and/or a village dialect), although some have also learned English at school. Chinese from Taiwan generally speak Mandarin and Spanish or Mandarin and English, depending on how long they have been in Panama and what kind of educational backgrounds they had before immigration. Education and Occupation For Chinese in Panama, education is the key to social mobility. Panama offers a number of public and private schools, and Panama City has several universities. As mentioned above, before the 1940s, it was common practice for the children of wealthy families to go to China to acquire language and cultural skills before returning to Panama. For those who did not go abroad, an after-school Cantonese program operated during the 1930s and 1940s in the heart of Panama City’s Chinatown. After it closed, it wasn’t until the early 1980s that the Instituto Sun Yat-Sen (Sun Yat-Sen Institute) opened, offering state-approved curricula for grades kindergarten through twelve. What distinguishes the institute from other private schools is its list of offerings in Chinese language, Chinese dance, and kung fu. Cantonese was first offered as the Chinese language course, but soon thereafter, the school decided to teach Mandarin instead. The switch occurred not without controversy and was opposed by most of the

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community, because Cantonese is not only their native language but also what many immigrant families speak at home. To their dismay, however, Taiwanese officials insisted that since Mandarin is the official language of both Taiwan and the PRC, Mandarin is the language of choice. Here is a clear example of the homeland state asserting influence on the cultural development of the diaspora. After the 1940s, the pattern of sending children to China shifted to one of young adults going to the United States to pursue university degrees. While the former strategy helps reproduce family businesses, the latter enables access to job opportunities in the Canal Administration and in multinational companies. This shift facilitated the expansion of the professional class and perpetuated the class differentiation between those who worked in the Canal Zone (receiving U.S.-equivalent salaries) and those who worked in Panama (receiving a lower Panamanian salary). In general, studying abroad was and still is a practice of the middle class and elite in Panama, and although China and the United States, at different periods, have been the two main destinations, other countries in Europe and Latin America have also been popular. Those who wish to study in Panama can attend a variety of schools. The two most popular are the public University of Panama, opened in 1935, and the private University of Santa María la Antigua, established in 1965. Today, receiving an American university degree remains a key route to social mobility. More and more, however, these sojourns are becoming migrations. With limited opportunities in Panama and the increasing demand for skilled labor in the United States, graduates are likely to stay in the United States if they can find employment. As any Panamanian will note, the most visible occupation among ethnic Chinese is small (family) business ownership. Particular businesses associated with Chinese include convenience stores, produce markets, electronics stores, laundries, and restaurants. In fact, virtually every convenience store in Panama is owned and run by ethnic Chinese. It is also worth noting that these businesses are supported by wider networks of Chinese farmers, distributors, wholesalers, and importers/exporters. Most often, the small businesses were founded by early immigrants and either passed down to the next generation or sold to newcomers. Panamanian-born Chinese who do not operate family businesses most often go into engineering, medicine, accounting, law, or architecture. Most are employees of larger firms, but sometimes a family of doctors will form a private medical practice together, or families of engineers and architects will establish their own integrated companies.

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For recently arrived immigrants, employment can always be found in the many established Chinese businesses, and women often find jobs as domestic workers and caretakers in Panamanian Chinese homes. Some of the more educated immigrants go into teaching or administrative work at the Sun Yat-Sen Institute, or into news reporting for the Chinese newspapers, El Expresso and El Diario Chino, or the Chinese radio station. With a combination of hard work, business know-how, and luck, a few have been able to accumulate enough capital to start their own entrepreneurial ventures. P o l i t i c a l I n vo lv e m e n t i n t h e Nat i o n a l and Diasporic Spheres Chinese in Panama have engaged in national and transnational politics since the late nineteenth century, mostly in response to measures aimed at restricting their immigration and commercial competitiveness. Throughout the twentieth century, laws were passed to contain these or, after it became clear that it was futile to attempt to do so, to regulate them. In response, the Chinese have organized themselves, recruited support from both the Taiwanese and U.S. consulates, and mobilized for collective action. Indeed, this sustained struggle between the state and the Chinese population over immigration and commercial freedom is the backdrop against which the issue of Chinese belonging in Panama has played out. Compared with diasporic Chinese communities elsewhere in the Americas, the Chinese in Panama have been able to acquire significant political influence, which, in turn, has helped sustain their gradual growth as a community.35 This can be attributed not only to their ability to obtain American and Chinese state support throughout most of the twentieth century, but, more important, to their strategic planning and political organization. Chapters 4 and 5 elaborate on the nuances of these points. Despite their continual struggle with the state, ethnic Chinese have not shied away from participating in national politics. In fact, since 1964, at least nine Panamanian Chinese have been elected or appointed to government posts. They have served in a variety of capacities, including as legislators, deputy of the national assembly, minister of government and justice, director of the Colón Free Trade Zone, minister of public works, director of customs, vice mayor of Panama City, minister of immigration, and vice minister of commerce and industry.36 In addition to these official forms of political involvement, certain leaders of the Chinese community have served on various occasions as informal advisors to top government

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officials. In the national political sphere of Panama, then, ethnic Chinese have been extremely visible and active. Yet this has not translated into full citizenship. In terms of their political involvement in the global Chinese diaspora, it is worth noting again that Panama houses the headquarters of the Federation of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama. Chinese Panamanians’ role as custodians of this regional organization reflects their relative power within the larger diaspora. Moreover, among the twenty-eight countries with which Taiwan has official relations, Panama is arguably its strongest and perhaps also most significant ally. As a result, the Taiwanese government has placed tremendous emphasis on bolstering relations not only with the Panamanian state but also with the diasporic Chinese living there. Through community development projects like the Sun Yat-Sen Institute, the Panamanian Chinese Cultural Center, Friendship Park, and co-sponsorship of various national and transnational conventions, the Taiwanese government has been able to maintain strong ties with diasporic Chinese. In turn, the Chinese in Panama have been among the most vocal supporters of the Taiwan government.

 In sum, over the past 150 years, diasporic Chinese have developed a form of belonging in Panama that is thoroughly embedded within webs of transnational relations. For them, local integration goes hand in hand with maintaining transnational links with mainland China/Taiwan, the United States, and other Chinese communities dispersed elsewhere in the Americas. In fact, these dual processes are intimately woven together in their everyday lives. Not only do they actively practice transnationalism through migration, kinship, and social organization, but the transnational has always been present locally in Panama, in the sense that the United States had sovereignty over the Canal Zone for almost a century and the Chinese governments have maintained relations with the diaspora. Indeed, as reflected in all aspects of their cultural and social life, diasporic Chinese identity and ways of belonging are thoroughly informed by their ongoing relationships with Panamanian, Chinese, and American cultural forms and social institutions. Their multiplicity of expressions in cultural mixedness and political maneuvers, both coextensive and over time, illustrate their divergent and shifting modes of relating to this constellation of cultural and political reference points. What comes across clearly is that diasporic Chinese integration into Panamanian society has

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always involved an active process of engaging and drawing upon transnational links as alternative resources. Faced with uncertain conditions of belonging in Panama, diasporic Chinese cultivated strategies, including the accumulation of different forms of cultural capital and the formation of transnational networks, to expand the parameters of what is possible, both in terms of their effort to create a home in Panama and, if this becomes untenable, the ability to create a home elsewhere. Of course, what sometimes works in their favor also at times works against them. Diasporic Chinese citizenship, then, reflects and articulates this particular form of belonging that emerges from the cultural and political crosscurrents emanating from their dual process of local integration and transnational engagement. The following chapters of this book are organized around various moments of “rupture” in which the tensions between local formulations and transnational forces are clearly revealed and the exercise of diasporic citizenship can be identified. Chapter 2 situates Chinese in Panama within the larger context of Chinese in Central America. Using gender as the primary lens of analysis, I examine the beauty contest of the Convención de Asociaciones Chinas de Centroamérica y Panamá (Convention of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama) to tease out the critical issues confronting diasporic Chinese of this region. The involvement of Panamanian Chinese in this regional organization marks one important transnational component that informs their diasporic citizenship. My intent is to show how gender performance, racial and cultural embodiment, and national difference all become key elements in debates of diasporic Chinese identity and belonging within this region network. The remaining chapters focus on other instances of social ruptures and include analyses of migration stories, Arnulfo Arias’s “prohibited roots” policy and its effects on diasporic Chinese, the massive influx of Chinese immigration during the Noriega years and the criminalization of diasporic Chinese, and the dramatic refashioning of diasporic Chinese from tolerated foreigners into Panama’s ideal citizens in the late 1990s. How have diasporic Chinese managed these vastly different yet equally powerful social ruptures that have constantly shifted their parameters of belonging, redefined notions of identity and community, and destroyed or opened possibilities of making a “home” in diaspora? How, in short, have the Chinese in Panama engaged diasporic citizenship and made it theirs?

2

 The Queen of the Chinese Colony Contesting Nationalism, En-Gendering Diaspora

All the beauty contestants had performed their roles brilliantly—parading gracefully across the stage several times, modeling their national dresses and variations of traditional Chinese gowns, and performing their respective national dances.1 They had introduced themselves in Spanish and sometimes in Cantonese and/or Mandarin. Finally, they had offered their eloquent responses to the questions asked by the master of ceremonies. The audience of diasporic Chinese from Central America and Panama anxiously waited to hear the final decision of the judges. Half an hour went by, then an hour, then two. The banquet hall was by now only half full, with about a hundred restless people energized by gossip and suspicion. Why were they taking so long? What was the problem? Finally, the MC took the podium and proclaimed Miss Honduras 1996’s “Reina de la Colonia China” (Queen of the Chinese Colony).2 But before Miss Honduras could reach the stage, the vice president of the Convención de Asociaciones Chinas de Centroamérica y Panamá (Convention of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama) interjected and announced that there had been a mistake—that, in fact, Miss Costa Rica was the winner, not Miss Honduras. The audience was confused. They looked around at one another, not knowing how to react, wondering what to make of what had just happened. Judging from the looks on their faces, I could see this was not a common outcome, that something had clearly gone wrong. Then, suddenly, out of this confused silence, a man in his sixties marched onto the stage. The contrast of his angrily flushed face with his graying hair and formal dark gray suit attracted the crowd’s rapt attention. Without a moment’s hesitation, his body rose as if preparing for battle, and he unleashed a passionate tirade denouncing what had just happened: “This event is supposed to be a joyous celebration for all those

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attending this convention. Why do you newcomers insist on betraying the spirit of this convention and break the community in this way?”

 As reflected in this scene, the annual contest for the “Queen of the Chinese Colony” is not just about beauty, femininity, or friendly competition. The fact that the contest evokes such passionate interest suggests that other issues are at stake. As the anthropologists Colleen Ballerino Cohen, Richard Wilk, and Beverly Stoeltje have argued, “Beauty contests are places where cultural meanings are produced, consumed, and rejected, where local and global, ethnic and national, national and international cultures, and structures of power are engaged in their most trivial but vital aspects” (Cohen et al. 1996, 8). Wilk proposes that, as sites where multiple struggles for power and representation are publicly debated, beauty contests mediate difference in order to produce a “structure of common difference” and suggests that “the process of judging beauty is always a process of negotiation, a process of reconciling difference or at least accepting the terms of the disagreement” (Wilk 1996a, 117). I want to extend Wilk’s argument further by asserting that not only can this “structure of common difference” be created through beauty contests but, more important here, diasporic communities contest, forge, and reaffirm their identities through gender itself. Moreover, I argue that the contest over who is to be the Queen of the Chinese Colony is a microcosm of broader issues at play among diasporic Chinese in Central America and Panama. Indeed, what is at stake in this beauty contest is the struggle for diasporic citizenship, or for full belonging within the diaspora. By mediating debates about diasporic Chinese femininity, the contest seeks to establish the criteria for idealized diasporic subjectivity, criteria against which belonging in the diaspora is measured. With the beauty contestants embodying and performing specific ways of being diasporic Chinese, their divergent representations not only reflect the wide spectrum of diasporic Chinese in this region but also reveal and disrupt hegemonic constructions of what it means to be “Chinese” and “Central American” or “Panamanian.” Furthermore, the contest provides a window onto the regional differences among diasporic Chinese communities, thereby disrupting the simple binary formula of “nation of residence” and “homeland” in understanding diaspora. The contestants’ varied presentations and performances reflect the tension not only between their emplacement in specific local contexts and their ongoing engagement

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with Chineseness but also between their national difference and shared regional affiliation. Overall, their performance helps mediate debates of belonging and cultural identity, and the elected queen is supposed to become the symbol and representative of the Chinese diaspora. But what happens when there is no agreement, or even acceptance of the terms of disagreement, as in the case I describe above? What does this rupture, or disputed result of the beauty contest, tell us about the tensions and contradictions within the diaspora, and the cultural politics of diaspora? Furthermore, what does it tell us about the nature of diaspora that makes diasporic identifications so contingent and tenuous, yet so provocative and powerful? The ensuing debates about who should be queen and why reveal not only the politics of belonging within the diaspora, but also the shifts in identifications among diasporic Chinese. The question of belonging in diaspora is highly contested and, as we shall see, contingent on local-transnational dynamics. In the discussion that follows, I briefly outline the historical context of the Federation of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama, the organization that sponsors the beauty contest and the annual convention, before returning to a more detailed discussion of the 1996 convention and its controversial beauty contest. The final section turns specifically to Panamanian Chinese and examines their interpretations and responses to these debates. By using gender as a category of analysis (Scott 1999) and taking the beauty contest as a focus, I examine how racial-cultural purity, migration, and homeland politics intersect in setting the terms of diasporic citizenship.

Transnational Networks and Diasporic Identifications The Queen of the Chinese Colony beauty contest takes place at the annual Convention of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama, which is hosted by the Federation of Chinese Associations of this region. Its participants include Chinese from Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador. This transnational organization was founded in 1965, amid intensifying regional instability, by the presidents of the six national Chinese associations of this region. Shortly after its founding, the association leaders requested financial help from the Republic of China (ROC) embassies in order to make the organization a permanent institution of the diaspora. Since then, the organi-

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zation has become a joint venture between diasporic Chinese and the ROC government, solidifying both their sociopolitical ties and their symbolic ones.3 According to the Chinese Panamanian Association’s president, Alberto Lee, the Federation of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama decided to host an annual convention that would bring together representatives of the six nation-based associations to discuss economic and political issues confronting their respective communities. The founders intended this organization to provide additional resources and support for diasporic Chinese beyond what was available within the borders of their nation-states. For instance, during the Sandinista Revolution in Nicaragua, when diasporic Chinese who had supported the Somoza regime were being systematically captured and imprisoned, the organization raised funds and lobbied government officials on their behalf. As a result, a number of Chinese were able to escape to other parts of Central America. The organization has also provided relief funds for victims of natural disasters and scholarships for underprivileged Chinese. Given that these Central American countries have been relatively poor and—until recently—politically volatile, it was understandable that diasporic Chinese of the region would pool their resources on a transnational scale to form a safety net for themselves. The fact that diasporic Chinese have experienced long histories of persecution in Central America (and throughout the world), and the realization that they could not rely on China for protection, further motivated the formation of the organization to help ensure their safety and survival.4 It is also important to remember that there is not a simple binary relationship between the nation-state and the diaspora. On the contrary, diasporas are not only embedded in the system of nation-states but also partially constituted by the conditions within those nation-states. In other words, the marginalization of diasporic Chinese, manifested in their lack of cultural and legal-political acceptance in Central America and Panama, has everything to do with their desire to maintain ties with a distant “homeland” and to form transnational organizations that create “safe spaces” and a sense of community. Indeed, their inability to participate as full citizens of the nation-state has inspired many to participate in diasporic politics, where their voice is heard and their presence matters.

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G e n d e r , Pa t r i l i n e a l i t y, a n d the Reproduction of the Diaspora Six years after the founding of the Convention, its annual gatherings were expanded to include women and youth, and new activities were initiated, one of which was the beauty contest. As Alberto Lee frankly explained to me, “[We] started these activities because the second generation was marrying out. [I] want my kids to meet other Chinese people and since my wife and I were working so hard, [we] never had time to do things with [our] children.” By bringing his family to these conventions, he had hoped his children and, later, his grandchildren would meet other “likeminded Chinese.” Lee continued, “In order to convince the kids that these conventions are not just a bunch of old men talking about boring business, I thought a beauty contest would attract both young men and women to participate, to ‘mingle,’ and you know, to build ‘friendships.’ ” He then proceeded to list several marriages that have resulted from these conventions: so-and-so’s daughter from Panama had married so-and-so’s son in Guatemala, and so on and so forth. He stopped in the middle of his narrative and abruptly turned to me, asking, “Are you married?” When I answered “No,” he paused and smiled mischievously, as if to say that his scheme works and perhaps it could also work for me. Lee’s emphasis on encouraging diasporic Chinese youth to meet and mingle reflects the dominant sentiment favoring endogamy, or marrying within one’s ethnic group. Parents often stated that ideally they want their children to marry “Chinese,” claiming that such unions promise a greater possibility of both spouses speaking the same language (Cantonese) and sharing the same cultural values, such as respect for elders, honesty, a strong work ethic, and commitment to family. What is suggested is not merely their preference for maintaining racial-cultural purity but, more important, a desire for shared cultural expectations that leads to familial intimacy rather than division. While this preference for “marrying within” has historical roots that link reproduction of racial-cultural purity with class distinction (chapter 1), Chinese parents are primarily expressing their profound anxiety over the possibility of “losing” their children through exogamy. They assume that marrying “Chinese” will reinforce familial bonds, while marrying out will lead to their deterioration. In fact, it is rather telling that their preference for marrying Chinese overrides their concern about geographical separation. The emphasis on endogamy is less consistent among diasporic youth. In fact, the question of marriage in general is less a concern for them than

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for their parents. The youth attend the convention because they want “to travel,” “to meet new friends,” or “to have a good time.” Amelia, the beauty contestant from Panama, asserted, “I came because I wanted the opportunity to meet people outside of Panama. I thought it would be fun to see how different their experience [of being diasporic Chinese] is from mine. Besides, I wanted to visit Costa Rica.” Many of the youth, including the contestants, offered similar answers, and for most, finding a marriage partner was not a priority. Getting to know one another is precisely what the youth did while attending the convention. Local Costa Rican Chinese youth organized trips to shopping malls, movies, and dance halls. I often went with them. During the day, we would explore the city, window-shop in malls, walk around tourist sites, and relax over a meal or a cup of coffee and snacks. Our conversations concerned family, experiences of discrimination, things we wanted to do, and the futures we imagined. We returned to the convention only to have dinner, and then off we went to the dance halls. By the end of the convention, we had made promises to one another to keep in touch via e-mail and phone, to continue attending these conventions, and to visit one another whenever possible. The intensive interaction we shared over the course of three days created strong bonds; most of us made meaningful friendships, and a few romances also developed. The purpose of the beauty contest, quite explicitly described by Alberto Lee, is to encourage youth participation and interaction. In fact, the contest has become the highlight of the convention, with the contestants embodying idealized qualities of diasporic subjectivity, qualities that are to be reaffirmed, emulated, and reproduced. In essence, the contestants represent both the source of encouraging youth participation and the medium through which the diaspora is reproduced. The trope of women as social and cultural reproducers of the nation is here reconfigured into the trope of women as reproducers of the diaspora (Cohen et al. 1996; Yuval-Davis and Anthias 1989). And constitutive of this gendered discourse of reproduction is the assumption and reification of heterosexuality. Diasporas have been described as masculinist projects of transnational community formation (Helmrich 1992; Brown 1998). Extending this, I suggest that patrilineality structures diasporic organizations from local to transnational contexts. Benedict Anderson’s idea of the nation as “a horizontal comradeship” between men—in the sense that the nation is imagined not as a hierarchical structure but as one in which men see one another as equals within the nation—is likewise useful as a way of thinking

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about the Chinese diaspora. In moving from nation to diaspora, however, this “horizontal comradeship” becomes what I would call a “brotherhood of patrilineages”—a nonhierarchical relationship among men of the same generation and among their respective generations of ancestors and descendants who reach beyond the temporal and territorial space of the nation. In other words, men are to nation as patrilineages are to diaspora. We can see this phenomenon at work in the relationships between this regional organization, the national Chinese associations, and the various native place associations that link together the diaspora. As I mentioned earlier, this umbrella organization is comprised of the various Chinese associations in Central America and Panama, and its voting members are representatives of each of the national Chinese associations. In Panama, and I suspect in the Central American countries as well, members of the Chinese Association are elected representatives of the various native place associations, which are the most basic unit of formal organization of the ethnic Chinese community.5 In fact, native place is arguably the most significant form of identification, aside from clan and family groupings, among ethnic Chinese in Panama. Historically, Chinese immigration to Panama has been disproportionately male, and native place associations were formed as a kind of fraternity that aimed to provide mutual aid and protection for immigrant men. Like other native place associations that have developed throughout the Chinese diaspora, these organizations serve as support networks, minigovernments, and mechanisms of control and discipline (Lai 1998; King 1994).6 In Panama, native place associations serve two major functions. They help immigrants maintain a sense of connection to and relations with their native places in China and give them access to “kinship” networks in Panama that provide them with support. In short, the associations link immigrants to their native villages in China and regroup them into quasi-kinship networks in Panama based on that linkage. Moreover, native place identifications and kinship networks are traced patrilineally. Each generation identifies with the father’s native place and kin group. Hence, these kinship networks are sustained and reproduced through male descent, thereby making men their nodes and primary guardians. For example, people who are from Chungsan (Zhongshan)7 Province or whose patrilineal ancestry can be traced to that province are presumed to belong to the same kinship network and are therefore related. Those who share the same surname can claim even closer relations. In this manner, native place associations extend the geographically de-

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fined kinship networks beyond the territorial space of China, replicating patrilineality and kinship relations in the diaspora. Over time, however, as people create their own family and social networks in Panama, these native place associations become less and less important. Also, people’s connections to their native places tend to weaken over generations. For instance, native place identifications do not conjure up the same nostalgic memories or feelings of attachment for Panamanian-born Chinese as they do for immigrants. Indeed, these associations were created for and are mostly nurtured by immigrants, and their existence, therefore, depends on immigration flows from their respective regions in China. It is not surprising, then, that the founding members of the Chinese Association in Panama were all men and that the association remains an all-male organization to this day. In addition, meetings are conducted in Cantonese, which further limits participation. For these reasons, the membership of the Chinese Association consists mostly of immigrant men and is extremely vulnerable to changes in patterns of immigration. Up until the 1980s, the Chinese Association, along with native place associations, had been diminishing in importance and power because of the low rate of Chinese immigration to Panama. Organizations headed by Panamanian-born Chinese were slowly eclipsing the Chinese Association in providing leadership. However, the sudden and dramatic influx of immigrants in the 1980s revitalized both the Chinese Association and the native place associations. In fact, these organizations are now wracked by struggles for control between the early immigrants and the recent immigrants. Patrilineality, then, structures gender bias into these various diasporic organizations. It ensures an (almost) all-male membership, which gives men control of these organizations and thereby also of the formal politics of the diaspora. In Panama, with the exception of two organizations that were founded and are run by women, all the organizations are dominated by men. It is important to note that the expansion of the Convention to include women and youth by no means opened the official meetings to them. On the contrary, it reinscribed and reenforced the division between the masculinized space of the “official meetings” and the feminized arena of the beauty contest and other “recreational” activities. For example, while men attended their two-day-long meetings, women were taken on tour buses around the city for sightseeing and shopping. Although there was no formal or explicit rule excluding women from these official meetings, there was no encouragement for them to participate either. When I

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sought permission to attend these meetings, I encountered mostly surprised looks and some resistance. Out of thirty attendees at these official meetings, only five were women (not counting myself); and out of these five women, three were translators and note takers. Only two were voting members. The stark gender imbalance clearly indicates male dominance in these official meetings. Indeed, since this regional organization ultimately draws its members from native place associations, it directly inherits its androcentric premises of belonging. Tourism and the beauty contest are the two arenas within the convention where women are the key participants. Tourism, the shared experience of exploration, facilitates the formation of social ties among women. Spending all day together, women build affective bonds through conversation, exchange knowledge about one another, and create shared memories of their experience. Often, the ties they create in these informal arenas are stronger and longer lasting than those formed between the male participants. In fact, these feminized arenas of sociality serve an important role in generating and reaffirming the social bonds among diasporic Chinese. Several women I interviewed commented on their lasting friendships with one another. While some had met each other outside this context, their participation in the convention over the years has sustained their relationship. Luana, who is now in her sixties, explained, “Carmen and I have been friends since we were teenagers in Nicaragua. However, since I moved to Guatemala twenty years ago, the annual conventions are the only chance we get to see each other. And every time we meet, it is like it was just yesterday that we were together.” The beauty contest is another arena where young women bond with one another, their mothers, and other women relatives. The contestants often draw on their female kinship networks for advice and support. Most are accompanied by their mothers and at least one other female relative, who work behind the scenes to make sure the contestants appear their best. Their intimate and honest interactions, their emotional reliance on one another, and their overall shared experience all engender strong social bonds. One contestant commented, “I have never felt so close to my mother. She was so proud of me and so supportive throughout the whole process. I never saw that side of her until then.” Another contestant claimed that she and her cousin have become closer because of this experience, stating that “without [her] cousin’s constant support and attention to detail,” she would have never been able to compete or have the strength to go through the contest. The beauty contest, then, provides

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an important site where intergenerational and lateral relations among women are affirmed and strengthened. The beauty contest is also the only arena where women are expected to assert their identities publicly. Certainly, the structure of the beauty contest limits the kind of agency they are allowed. Nonetheless, the contestants have creative license to shift established norms, offer new versions of what it means to be diasporic Chinese, and provoke discussion about their performances. In fact, the beauty contest itself offers an intersubjective space where the interaction between the contestants’ performances and the audience’s reception makes possible certain interventions. I shall return to this discussion shortly. For now, I underscore that the gendering of arenas, such as the masculinization of formal diasporic politics and the feminization of informal interactions and the beauty contest, have reproduced gendered practices and ways of belonging to this diasporic organization. Negotiating Homeland State and Diaspora Relations To grasp the full significance of the Chinese Association, one has to see it in its global context and examine its role in Chinese diasporic politics. As discussed in the Introduction, the Republic of China (ROC) and the People’s Republic of China (PRC) have debated the right to claim Chinese state legitimacy since 1949, and the issue is far from having been resolved today. While the PRC continues to insist that Taiwan is a province under its jurisdiction, the ROC argues that Taiwan should have sovereignty. 8 Panama has been a strong supporter of the ROC and continues to be part of the small minority of nation-states that maintain diplomatic relations with it. 9 Critical to maintaining the good relations between Panama and the ROC has been the work of Chinese Panamanians, who have fostered a mutually beneficial relationship with the ROC embassy. Part of the ROC’s strategy in garnering international support has been to increase the awareness and involvement of diasporic Chinese in the PRC–ROC conflict. Historically, the Chinese diaspora has played a significant role in Chinese political, economic, and cultural developments, and it continues to do so today (Duara 1997). By institutionalizing diasporic networks such as the Federation of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama, the ROC has demonstrated its commitment to sustaining relations with diasporic Chinese. In fact, this organization is part of a much larger structure of networks that tie the diaspora to the ROC.

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These networks include the Chinese associations on the national level, this organization on the regional level, the Federation of Chinese Associations in the Americas on the continental level, and, finally, the Global Association of Cantonese. Through this sophisticated structure of organizations, the ROC seeks to nurture a well-informed, highly connected, and politicized Chinese diaspora that can lobby on its behalf in both the national and the international arenas. A closer examination of the discussions that take place in the “business” meetings of the Convention reveals the complex relationship between diasporic Chinese and the ROC government. One Panamanian representative described a typical meeting as follows: We discussed two major topics: each country’s political and social matters, and our [collective] relationship with Taiwan. Basically, each country reports their annual activities and discusses their community’s needs. This year, we talked about the budget for [Chinese school] teachers and eventually passed a joint resolution to increase the allocation. In terms of our relationship with Taiwan, well . . . this year, the Taiwanese wanted us to support, morally mostly, a KMT (Kuomintang) member and his political position. We agreed to support a political framework but not a particular member of the KMT. The Taiwanese often ask the six countries for political support; in exchange, they give us support, whether it is economic or moral or whatever.

This only hints at the intricate symbiotic relationship between the diasporic Chinese of this region and the ROC government. It clearly shows the influential role of diasporic Chinese in negotiating geopolitical relations between the ROC and the PRC. In exchange for the ROC’s financial support, diasporic Chinese lend moral-political affirmation. Anthropologists Linda Basch, Nina Glick Schiller, and Cristina Szanton Blanc (1994) have coined the term “deterritorialized nation-state” to underscore the manner in which a state can exert influence over people living both within and outside its national territory. More recently, Glick Schiller and Georges Fouron (2001) have extended Benedict Anderson’s notion of “long-distance nationalism” (1992) to describe the process by which transnational migrants continue to participate in homeland politics. The difference between long-distance nationalism and diasporic Chinese–ROC relations is that the latter are based less on nationalism or nationalist sentiment than on mutual exchange. In fact, diasporic Chinese are concerned with Chinese politics only to the extent that it affects or benefits their local situation in the diaspora. The promise of funding to hire local Chinese schoolteachers in exchange for moral-political support is only one example. Given the ROC’s economic wealth in comparison to

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the collective wealth of diasporic Chinese in this region, what it has done via co-sponsorship of this transnational organization is to translate economic capital into political capital. Clearly, the ROC co-sponsors this organization and its annual convention in order to sustain relations with diasporic Chinese, to reinforce diasporic identifications and relations among Chinese in this region, and to recruit their political support. The ROC understands that this organization helps generate a collective consciousness among diasporic Chinese, which in turn helps build a community base from which to mobilize political support. The stronger and more organized the community, the more influence and power diasporic Chinese can wield in national and international politics. And it is precisely the dual relations that diasporic Chinese maintain with their place of residence and the ROC that can help its cause in the international arena. Hence, it is in the interest of the ROC both to nurture the economic, social, and political growth of diasporic Chinese in their local contexts and to maintain strong ties with them. Similarly, it is also in the best interest of diasporic Chinese to maintain relations with the ROC embassy, which provides significant material support for the development of the community. For both parties, then, the emphasis is on strengthening local development in the diaspora and not direct intervention in Chinese/Taiwanese national politics. This is what differentiates diasporic citizenship from long-distance nationalism. The Convention provides a transnational venue for the ROC and the leadership of the Chinese communities to reinforce their mutual support. While it draws diasporic Chinese into the sphere of PRC–ROC politics, it simultaneously provides a structure to reproduce a collective consciousness and continued alliance with the ROC. Furthermore, by making its annual gathering a family-friendly event, it engages multiple generations of diasporic Chinese and ensures the continuation of the organization by grooming the next generation of participants. For instance, the cohort of friends I met during the 1996 convention continues to maintain social relations through periodic visits, e-mail, and telephone calls. Moreover, the annual convention provides both a venue and a purpose for reunions. Hence, while these conventions help forge social networks among ethnic Chinese, those networks in turn increase participation in them. The Convención de Asociaciones Chinas de Centroamérica y Panamá is thus clearly and unabashedly a diaspora-building project. By providing a transnational structure that meets annually and pools their resources,

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the Convention builds alliances among the different Chinese communities and enables the formation of social networks and a sense of collective identity among diasporic Chinese. It also engages diasporic Chinese in the PRC–ROC struggle and reinforces the relationship between the diaspora and the ROC. Finally, it helps recruit and socially reproduce convention participants and ROC supporters by reaching to several generations of diasporic Chinese, thereby also ensuring the effectiveness of the organization in the diaspora.

The 1996 Convention In August 1996, I traveled with eighty-four Chinese Panamanians by plane to San José, the capital of Costa Rica. Miss Costa Rica and a few leaders of the Chinese Costa Rican community greeted our delegation as we deplaned and boarded the tour buses that would take us to the convention. With approximately two hundred participants in total, the Panamanian group was by far the largest, reflecting the relative size of Panama’s Chinese population with respect to the other countries. It may be useful to note that Costa Rica has the second largest Chinese population, estimated at 47,000, followed by El Salvador with 18,000 and Guatemala at 16,800 (Commission on Overseas Chinese Affairs, ROC 1997). With less than 5,000 Chinese, exact figures for Nicaragua and Honduras are not available (Ibid.). Overall, the participants were mostly men and women between the ages of forty and eighty. Most of the men came as representatives of their Chinese associations and were accompanied by their wives. A few brought their children who were in their teens and twenties; there were no more than thirty of these young people, and they were evenly divided by gender. Generally speaking, the participants belonged to either the petite bourgeoisie or the professional class. Most people of the older generation were small business owners, while the younger generation consisted primarily of college-educated professionals. With the exception of the Nicaraguan and Honduran delegations, the majority of the representatives were from the immigrant generation and were bilingual in Spanish and Cantonese, with some also speaking Mandarin and/or English. Latin American–born participants, especially the younger generation, tended to be fluent in Spanish and at least proficient in English and sometimes Cantonese. In addition to the Chinese Latin Americans, about thirty ROC officials from the Overseas Chinese Affairs Office in Taiwan and in Central America and Panama also attended the

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convention. Most of these officials were men between the ages of forty and sixty; all of them spoke Mandarin, and some also spoke English. Very few spoke Spanish. The convention hotel was spacious enough to host several small conventions at once. There were at least two large banquet rooms for hosting our lunches and dinners. After registration, there was no set schedule for our first day there, so we disbanded. While the more senior groups of men and women went shopping around the city, the twenty-something participants met and relaxed in the hotel. We introduced ourselves and discussed our different backgrounds and experiences. People were friendly and accepting, and we soon established rapport with one another. By the afternoon, we were ready to explore the city, and we all packed into several cars and headed towards the mall, where we window-shopped, ate, and took pictures. The convention officially convened the following day, and for the next two days, the delegates of each country met in the mornings and the afternoons, while most women participants shopped and toured the city, and the youth were free to do whatever they pleased. The last day of the convention was reserved for recreation. A group trip was organized to Mi Pueblo (my town), a tourist attraction where important scenes from the history of Costa Rica are reenacted. The group spent the remainder of the afternoon at an amusement park, which was open only to our private party. Each night after the dinner banquets, the younger participants gathered and planned their excursions to nightclubs and dance parties. Within those few days of the convention, we became good friends and promised to keep in contact in the years to come. In fact, during my thirteen months of field research in Panama from 1996 to 1997, we were able to meet twice as a group, once in Guatemala and another time in Panama. The costs of attending these annual conventions were kept to a minimum, with travel and hotel expenses subsidized by the respective Chinese associations and the ROC Overseas Affairs Office. A few participants informed me that the delegates from each country attend these conventions at no cost to them. All other participants paid only airfare and hotel expenses. The dinners were Chinese-style banquets and were sponsored by different organizations. For instance, the Chinese Association of Costa Rica hosted the inauguration dinner, while the ROC embassy in Costa Rica sponsored the second dinner banquet. The following day, it was the ROC Ministry of Overseas Chinese Affairs that sponsored the dinner,

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and the Kuomintang Chinese Affairs Commission hosted the closing banquet. At each of the dinner banquets, entertainment was provided. The first dinner banquet featured mostly student performances of Chinese and Latin American dance forms. The second night showcased mostly Chinese folk dance and music, and the beauty contest was the scheduled entertainment for the concluding banquet. These dinner banquets were formal affairs, and everyone was elegantly dressed in semi-formal or formal attire. In fact, before departing for this trip, I was explicitly told that I should bring my best outfits. The Chinese travel agent with whom I registered for this convention made it a point to warn me: “I know Americans tend to be casual. But here in Latin America, we are more formal, and in these banquets, we really do it up.” Indeed, every evening, men showed up in dark suits and women wore evening gowns. People of all ages took time to plan their outfits, and they looked simply spectacular. For most participants, these conventions provide one of the few occasions on which they can dress up, catch up with friends and family, and have a grand time. A look around the banquet hall shows new friendships forming, romances developing, and old friends reuniting. Whether through migration, marriage, kinship networks, or social relations formed at these conventions, people had strong transnational ties that made this regional convention seem almost neighborly. Indeed, looking around the room, I recognized a few people whom I had met in Nicaragua a few years ago. I walked over to reintroduce myself and was greeted with welcoming smiles and open arms. In that moment, I glimpsed why it was that people kept returning to these conventions. Th e B e a u t y C o n t e s t : P e r f o r m i n g Nation/Performing Diaspora Throughout the four days of the convention, the beauty contestants were at their best. They knew all too well that their performance began the moment they arrived and that they were judged not only on their onstage presence but also on their overall demeanor and comportment throughout the convention. Since the beauty contest took place during the last dinner banquet, people were by then already familiar with the contestants, and many had chosen their favorite. What follows is a discussion of the various categories of the beauty context, with a particular focus on the two contested queens, Miss Costa Rica and Miss Honduras,

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1996 Chinese of Central America and Panama Beauty Pageant. From left, reigning queen and contestants in the following country order: Panama, Guatemala, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Honduras. Photograph by author.

and their different strengths in the “national dance” and “self-introduction” categories. As the contestants performed, not only did they present hegemonic constructions of “Central American / Panamanian–ness” and “Chineseness,” they also disrupted them by revealing the tensions and contradictions inherent in diasporic subjectivities. Moreover, their very embodiment of difference within the diaspora also incited discussions of idealized diasporic subjectivity, unveiling in public debate competing notions of diasporic citizenship. The beauty contest was divided into four categories. The contest began with the contestants adorned in their respective national dresses.10 Carrying their respective national flags and marching to their national anthems, the contestants slowly entered the banquet room and walked onto the stage. The reigning queen, who also happened to be my cousin from Guatemala, marched with the contestants; but instead of wearing her national dress, she wore the traditional Chinese cheongsam and marched to the ROC national anthem. The symbolism of her Chinese dress in contrast to the national dresses worn by the contestants encapsulates the

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process by which the winner of the beauty contest shifts from representing the nation to representing the Chinese diaspora (and its connection to the Chinese homeland). The beauty contest in this sense serves to abstract the differences between the national communities and reconstitutes them into a queen whose image emphasizes a shared Chinese identity. Once all the contestants and the queen were on stage, the audience applauded, and the two masters of ceremony briefly introduced the contestants in Mandarin and Cantonese. 11 Following this segment, the contestants took turns performing their respective national dances. While a couple of the national dances used indigenous dance forms popularized as official representations of national culture, the others were drawn from colonial contexts. This category of performance underscored diasporic identification with the nation of residence. Yet, even as the contestants performed these dances, they inherently disrupted the very message they sought to convey—that of homogenizing the nation. Their embodiment of racialized difference articulated their disidentification with the nation. José Muñoz defines disidentification as the process of recycling and rethinking encoded meaning, stating that disidentification “scrambles and reconstructs the encoded message of a cultural text in a fashion that both exposes the encoded message’s universalizing and exclusionary machinations and recircuits its workings to account for, include, and empower minority identities and identifications” (1999, 31). As the contestants performed their national dances, they not only made visible the exclusionary practices that continually denied their right to full citizenship but also simultaneously inserted themselves and insisted on their belonging. In this category, Miss Honduras definitely outperformed her competitors. In general, the dance routines tended to be rather repetitive, but Miss Honduras displayed extraordinary originality and poise. Carrying a basket of roses, she sang along with the music and danced with ease and grace, prancing around the stage, rippling her dress and tossing roses into the audience. Her supporters responded happily, clapping, chanting her name, and catching the roses she threw to them. Without any sign of exhaustion or tentativeness, she exhibited a playfulness and ease with the dance steps that projected a sense of complete “at-home-ness.” Miss Costa Rica was less adept. With her eyes fixed on her feet, she seemed overly concerned with the dance steps, reflecting a lack of skill and confidence. Her steps seemed more prepared, more tentative, as if she were performing them by rote. Focusing on her dance steps, she was

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unable to engage the audience, and near the end of her performance, one could see the exhaustion in her face and her relief as the music came to an end. The two juxtaposed performances illustrated the contestants’ contrasting degrees of expertise and comfort. As one audience member commented, “Miss Honduras looked comfortable… as if she owned [the dance]… Miss Costa, on the other hand, needed more practice.” If this category were meant to establish one’s relationship with the nation, Miss Honduras seemed to embody Honduran-ness, whereas Miss Costa Rica showed far less familiarity with her national identity. The third category, the “self-introductions,” featured the contestants in cheongsams. With Chinese music playing in the background, the contestants glided elegantly across the stage and introduced themselves in whatever languages they chose. Coming after the national dance category, this segment showcased performances of Chineseness. Overall, the rhythm and pace were slower; the contestants assumed a more reserved and more subtly coquettish demeanor. In contrast to the dance category, this one focused on overall comportment, gestures, and speech. It was in the stylized movements (the tilt of one’s head, the swaying of hips and arms, the poses one strikes) and ways of presenting oneself (dress, hair, make-up, intonations, content and pattern of speech) that people discussed and judged their Chineseness. The seemingly simple act of walking across the stage took on immense meaning. According to my cousin, the reigning queen, the walk itself required arduous practice. She explained, “I watched videos of Hong Kong pageants to see how the women moved, walked with books on my head to check my balance. And once I learned the actual movements, I had to learn to be natural doing it.” The subtle movements of the arms, hips, hands, and face, along with particular ways of looking and smiling all played a role in presenting a particular style of feminine sexuality. In their introductions, most of the contestants spoke in Spanish and Cantonese, but a couple of them also spoke in Mandarin. The use of different languages and the information they included and excluded all reflected their strategies of self-representation (cf. Besnier 2002). Miss Costa Rica, dressed in a classic cheongsam, presented an archetypical image of idealized Chinese femininity. Slender, tall, with her hair tied in a bun and a few loose strands playing around her cheeks, she displayed an elegant, classic, and reserved femininity that clearly captivated the immigrant Chinese in the audience. Miss Honduras, with more voluptuous curves and wearing a less popular variation of the cheong-

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sam, was less able to reproduce the conventional ideal of Chinese femininity. Despite this disadvantage, her performance was no less powerful. Most contestants introduced themselves in Spanish and spoke at least a few words in Cantonese. Not surprisingly, since most were Latin American–born and/or raised, all of them spoke perfect Spanish. In the area of Chinese-language competency, Miss Costa Rica had an advantage. She spoke fluent Cantonese and Mandarin, while it was clear that the others had learned specific phrases for the purpose of the contest. When introducing herself, Miss Costa Rica spoke in Spanish, then repeated herself in both Cantonese and Mandarin. She had firm control of all three languages, coming across as truly multilingual. Miss Honduras, who clearly did not speak any Chinese, used her fan as a prop from which she read phonically a few words in Mandarin. As she struggled with pronunciation, audience members reacted with either mocking smiles or enthusiastic applause. A number of her supporters whistled, clapped, and shouted her name in support. To most Chinese speakers, her attempt was almost indecipherable. To monolingual Spanish speakers, her performance was courageous and commendable. In the intersubjective process between performance and reception, her sincere attempt to speak Chinese was interpreted as either mimicry or parody, as either “trying to be but not quite succeeding” or as criticizing and subverting the absurd notion that equated being Chinese with speaking Chinese. In my conversations with various audience members, I learned that most Chinese of the immigrant generation interpreted her attempt as an honest but failed effort, while most Panamanian-born Chinese saw it as a courageous act of subtle critique. In speaking with Miss Honduras after the contest, she commented, “I did what I could, what I was expected to do, but I am who I am, and there is nothing I can do to change that. People will judge me accordingly.” Keenly aware of the judges’ expectations, Miss Honduras understood both the possibilities and limits of performance. She knew all too well that one’s socialization and embodiment also play a role in the contest. Miss Honduras’s performance highlighted the long-standing divide between immigrant Chinese speakers and Latin American–born Spanish speakers and enabled the latter to express openly their collective rejection of marginalization based on linguistic ability. As one audience member resentfully remarked, “Immigrant Chinese-speaking men dominate the leadership of this organization. They are the gatekeepers of the Chinese colony and determine the agendas and set the criteria of belonging in the

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diaspora. It is time to change that.” Clearly, Miss Honduras’s insistence on speaking Chinese, however distorted it was, disrupted the dominant expectation that all contestants (and more generally, all diasporic Chinese) should speak Chinese with some degree of mastery. Her performance articulated disidentification. It created a break, a rupture, in representations of diasporic Chineseness, thereby allowing non-Chinesespeaking diasporic subjects to vocalize and confront the unspoken and unacknowledged marginalizing practices of the diasporic leadership. Indeed, diasporic formations are in part produced in response to the exclusionary practices of nation-states. Yet, in practice, diasporas often generate their own set of exclusions. In this particular case, the close relationship between diasporic Chinese and the ROC government undoubtedly shapes the manner in which idealized diasporic subjectivity is formulated and reproduced. Remarkably present throughout the contest, and the convention more generally, is the insistence on strong Chinese identifications, the ability to speak Chinese being the most significant of these. Speaking Chinese is also crucial for relations with the ROC, whose representatives are primarily monolingual Chinese speakers. The fact that business meetings in the annual conventions are conducted only in Mandarin and Cantonese further substantiates the importance of Chinese in sustaining diasporic communication and relations with the ROC. The final segment of the pageant featured the contestants in Westernstyle evening gowns, and they were asked one question each, to which they gave impromptu answers. The questions varied: Who is your female role model? What would you say to your fellow contestants if you were to win the contest? Which of the three—intelligence, wealth, beauty—is the most important to you, and why? Most of the contestants answered in Spanish only. In 1996, the two exceptions were Miss Costa Rica, who answered first in Cantonese and then in Spanish, and Miss Honduras, who answered in Spanish and then in English. By displaying their ability to speak at least two languages, they performed and simultaneously affirmed the value of biculturalism. Miss Costa Rica reemphasized her ability to speak Cantonese and Spanish, and Miss Honduras surprised the audience with English. When I asked her later why she had answered in English, she responded, “I really wanted the judges to hear what I have to say. I know that some of them, especially the Taiwanese representatives, don’t speak Spanish,12 so I thought it would be a good idea for me to answer in English. I know most of them speak at least some English. Also, I wanted to show the judges that I can speak a language other than

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Spanish. I don’t speak Chinese, but English has to count for something. I mean, just because I don’t speak Chinese doesn’t mean that I am closedminded or provincial.” While knowing that speaking Chinese is a quality valued in this competition, Miss Honduras also understood the significance of communication, and her strategic performance of English questioned the qualities associated with diasporic Chineseness. In play here were the complexities of geopolitics. By speaking English, Miss Honduras subtly called attention to the role of American imperialism as the basis for relations between the ROC and Central America and Panama. America’s Cold War campaign from the 1950s to the 1980s not only made impossible a mainland Chinese presence in this region but, in fact, encouraged and nurtured ROC relations with it and also with the diasporic Chinese there. While it may be difficult to assess Miss Honduras’s intentions, her comment at the end of the contest reflects her understanding of politics in culture: “We [the beauty contestants] are mere pawns in their game of politics. It does not matter who we are or what we do. It’s all about them and their political agendas.” Succinctly, she unveils the beauty contest as a platform for political posturing and maneuvering. Embodied Difference: Miss Costa Rica and Miss Honduras The contestants’ contrasting strengths in the beauty contest, conveying their degrees of cultural identification with the nation and Chineseness, were reinforced by their identity construction. Miss Costa Rica and Miss Honduras exemplified very different ways of being diasporic Chinese. Miss Costa Rica was born in mainland China and immigrated to Costa Rica about ten years ago. Both her parents are Chinese from the People’s Republic. She speaks fluent Mandarin, Cantonese, and Spanish. Given these characteristics, she was considered the “most Chinese,” both in racial and cultural terms. Light-skinned, svelte, and the tallest of all the contestants, she reminded me of a Hong Kong movie star. Her appearance, gestures, and mannerisms epitomized Chinese cosmopolitanism: her speech pattern and language abilities reflected a sense of worldliness, her choice of contemporary classic styles of dress marked her fashion consciousness, and her subtle yet effective make-up replicated contemporary Hong Kong aesthetics. She projected a reserved, slightly aloof aura of refinement and elegance. By way of gossip, I was told that her father has strong ties with the Taiwanese in Costa Rica, and a few people com-

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plained that she seemed arrogant because she did not mingle or “hang out” with the other participants in the convention. In her defense, however, another person responded that she has very protective, “traditional” parents and that she is not allowed to go out at night. Miss Honduras is almost the polar opposite of Miss Costa Rica on the spectrum of Chinese Central Americans. She was born in Honduras and is racially mixed, her father being Chinese and her mother mestiza Honduran. Her facial features are unmistakably mestiza, and her shoulderlength brown hair is slightly wavy. Her style of dress was distinctively Latin American. Her outfits were vibrant in color and snug-fitting, so that they accentuated her feminine curves. She exuded a certain sensuality, confidence, and maturity that the other contestants had not yet developed. There was a quality of openness, warmth, and sincerity about her. She spoke neither Cantonese nor Mandarin but was fluent in Spanish and had a firm grasp of English. Furthermore, she was eloquent, thoughtful, and reflexive, qualities that came across not only in casual conversation but also throughout the beauty contest. She was very popular among her peers, who generally described her as friendly, warm, outgoing, and witty. With the two women projecting such contrasting identities, one may ask how the winner could possibly have been in dispute? Unless, of course, there was little consensus to begin with, and, as a result, the votes were extremely polarized, with one group in favor of Miss Costa Rica and the other in support of Miss Honduras. What is at stake in the beauty contest involves not only who gets to represent the Chinese diaspora, but also what qualities are deemed to be idealized characteristics of that diaspora. Which of the women best embodies Chinese Central American beauty, femininity, and community? What characteristics, standards, and values are being projected, affirmed, and reinforced? That the two winners occupy two extremes of the Chinese diasporic spectrum is hardly accidental. Chineseness, after all, is a homogenizing label whose meanings are multiple and constantly shifting (Ang 1994, 5). To understand the concerns negotiated on stage, I suggest we examine the larger debates among diasporic Chinese in this region. First, however, I want to highlight the tensions and contradictions inherent in diasporic formations and, more specifically, in the Chinese diaspora, in hopes that this may help clarify the persistence of certain irreconcilable struggles for diasporic citizenship.

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Between “Here” and “There”: Irreconcilable Tensions in Diaspora In its simplest formulation, diaspora refers to the condition of a people who share a common “homeland,” real or imagined, and who are dispersed throughout the world, either by force or by choice. Diaspora most commonly refers to “the doubled relationship or dual loyalty . . . to two places—their connections to the space they currently occupy and their continuing involvement with ‘back home’ ” (Lavie and Swedenburg 1996, 15). It is precisely this dual relationship, this tension between “where you are at” versus “where you are from” (Gilroy 1990; Hall 1990; Ang 2001) that constitutes the condition and the idea of diaspora and gives diasporic identifications the potential to be empowering as well as disempowering. In a sense, diaspora embodies a third space where the “here and there,” “now and back then” coexist and engage in constant negotiation, and it is within this time-space continuum that diasporic subjects interpret their history, position themselves, and construct their identity. The Chinese diaspora has its distinct set of histories and complex relations with the Chinese “homeland.” Three particular factors—China’s immense presence in the global political economy, China’s image as the “Other” in the Western imagination, and the symbolic construction of China as the cultural and geographical core of “Chinese identity”—together exercise an extraordinary pull on diasporic Chinese to always look to China for identity and a sense of belonging (Ang 1994). While such identification can provide a sense of pride and serve as a tool for empowerment, it also reconfirms the “impurity,” the “lack,” and/or the “inauthenticity” of diasporic Chinese. Measuring “Chineseness” by one’s imagination and romanticization of China and at the same time recognizing the cultural difference that is informed by one’s current location fuels the debates over what constitutes “Chineseness” in the diaspora. Furthermore, the situation for diasporic Chinese is rendered more complicated by the existence of two political entities—the PRC and the ROC—espousing two different official narratives and imaginaries of the Chinese nation-state and “homeland.” (The conflict between the PRC and Taiwan, not explicitly apparent in this chapter, became much more significant after 1996 [see chapter 5].) Most diaspora literature has focused on the predicament of trying to maintain dual relations with the nation of residence and the homeland

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(Louie 2004; Axel 2001; Raj 2003), with few exceptions.13 In the case of diasporic Chinese, while it is certainly true that both the Chinese homeland and the nation of residence exert tremendous cultural-political influence, it is also important to recognize the interactions and relations among diasporic communities. Moreover, diasporic Chinese are not a homogenous group; distinctions in status and influence are evident within the diaspora (Tu 1994). As nation-based collectivities, each group’s place of residence tends to determine its relative power in the diaspora. For instance, diasporic Chinese in the United States wield more influence and have higher status than those in Ecuador or Kenya simply because the United States is a wealthier and more powerful nation, which in turn lends diasporic Chinese living there more weight within the larger diaspora. As shown in this chapter, nationality serves as a primary identifier of difference among diasporic Chinese, because people are associated with their countries of residence. Nowhere is this clearer than in the beauty contest, where contestants represent and perform their national differences. As mentioned earlier, the convention of Chinese Associations in Central America and Panama facilitates social ties and intimate relations that the Chinese across this region sustain and actively seek to reproduce. In recognizing these lateral relationships between diasporic communities, however, I also want to underscore their unequal power relations vis-à-vis one another. Heterogeneity and unevenness within diasporas have not received sufficient attention; those of us engaged in diaspora studies would do well to shift our analysis to include conversations and interactions among diasporic subjects across national—as well as class, racial, gender, and generation—groupings. National Differences and Inequalities Within the Diaspora Despite their common colonial histories and geographical proximity, Panama and these Central American countries each confront very different political-economic conditions. Consequently, in spite of their common ethnic status in this region, the Chinese communities have developed in contrasting ways. To a large extent, the beauty contestants reflected certain national differences. Just as Miss Honduras, Miss Nicaragua, and Miss Guatemala were Central American–born, racially mixed, and limited in their Chinese-speaking abilities, so are the majority of Chinese youth in these countries. Chinese immigration to El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Guatemala has not been significant in the past few

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decades due to these countries’ volatile political and economic situations. Therefore, the Chinese population in these countries has dwindled, with more emigration from than immigration to these countries. Furthermore, Chinese cultural practices and institutions such as Chinese-language schools, Buddhist temples, and native place associations have become almost obsolete. The leadership of the Chinese associations of Honduras and Nicaragua is now composed mostly of Spanish-speaking, Central American–born Chinese. In contrast, Chinese immigration to Panama and Costa Rica has increased tremendously in recent decades. While the influx of Chinese immigrants to Costa Rica has largely been from Taiwan, most of Panama’s immigrants are from the southern region of mainland China. These differences are not free of power asymmetries. For one thing, all the formal meetings at the convention are held in Mandarin and Cantonese. This is so largely because the Taiwanese delegates from the Overseas Chinese Affairs Office do not speak Spanish. Also, members of the immigrant generation often feel more comfortable speaking Cantonese or Mandarin than Spanish. Hence, while these meetings can be empowering experiences for Chinese immigrants, they often exclude the non-Chinesespeaking population from participating. Let me draw on one ethnographic example to illustrate this point. The official meetings of the Convention I attended were held in the following manner. The presiding officer would read an item of discussion in Mandarin, followed by open discussion in either Mandarin or Cantonese. After these discussions, the membership would vote. Throughout the meeting, the most outspoken members were from Panama, Costa Rica, and Guatemala. The Nicaraguan delegation sat there restlessly, looking around the room as representatives from different countries stood up and offered their opinions. It became clear that none of the Chinese Nicaraguans could understand the discussion. They were completely lost, unable to participate in any real way. The presiding officers, who had known about this problem, chose not to address it. Instead, a trilingual Chinese Panamanian, noticing the situation, walked over to the Chinese Nicaraguans and began translating for them. Language has always been a central problematic in the politics of diaspora.14 Ien Ang argues that her inability to speak Chinese has become “an existential condition that goes beyond the particularities of an arbitrary personal history. It is a condition that has been hegemonically constructed as a lack, a sign of loss of ‘authenticity’ ” (Ang 1994, 11). The

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privileging of Chinese languages in the official meetings of the Convention clearly reinscribes certain characteristics and even certain peoples as more “Chinese” and therefore more legitimate as participants than others. The Chinese Nicaraguan predicament also reminds us to be attentive to unequal power relations between the different Chinese communities in Central America and Panama vis-à-vis the larger diasporic organization. Although Chinese Nicaraguans are part of this network, they by no means participate to the same extent, with as much influence, as Chinese Panamanians or Chinese Costa Ricans, who are often bilingual. Similarly, the beauty contestants confront these same criteria for being diasporic Chinese. It is not surprising, then, that all the contestants attempted to say at least a few words in Chinese, with, of course, varying degrees of success. Clearly, the ability to speak Chinese is a salient factor in determining the level of participation in this diasporic organization, and more specifically, in gaining more leverage in the politics of diaspora. Immigration and Competing Claims of Belonging Aside from national differences, one of the most pronounced divisions within these communities, especially in Costa Rica and Panama, is between the recent immigrants, on the one hand, and the earlier immigrants and their descendants, on the other. It is important, moreover, to note that the category of “recent immigrants” is different in Costa Rica than in Panama. The controversy over the crowning of the queen brings these overlapping debates to the surface, as an examination of the Panamanian response to the pageant’s outcome makes clear. Ricardo, a Panamanian-born Chinese in his forties who had been attending these conventions for the past twenty years, offered this analysis of the 1996 beauty contest: Everyone wanted Miss Honduras to win. That was the talk around town the next morning. It’s not that they felt pity [for her for what had happened], but it was the right thing to do. It has always been that a full Chinese, a Chinesespeaking girl, has the preference. In this case, that was Miss Costa Rica. Further[more], the vice president of the Costa Rican association, the one who organized the event, is Taiwanese. He leaned toward a more traditional Chinese outlook, so to speak. Behind all this, there is an old infight between the old [immigrants] and the new [immigrants] in Costa Rica, as usual in all [of] Central America. The new are the Taiwanese and the old, well, are the old established [Cantonese] folks. In Panama, the story is different. The new are the newcomers from mainland China, who consist mostly of people who work in the tienditas [little stores], while the old are the established old-timers and

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Ricardo was careful to point out that in Costa Rica, the recent immigrants are mostly Taiwanese, while in Panama, they are mainland Chinese who work in or own small stores. However, in the context of this Convention, both the Taiwanese and the store-owning mainland Chinese are categorized together as “recent immigrants” and are defined in opposition to the old immigrants and their Central American–born descendants. A recent wave of Chinese immigrants to Panama in the 1980s has dramatically changed the demography of the Chinese population there, such that the recent immigrants now constitute about half of the total Chinese population in Panama. The two groups are characterized as complete opposites. While the old “Chinese Colony” (which includes the well-established Chinese immigrants and their descendants) are characterized as respectable, educated, and law-abiding citizens of Panama, the recent immigrants are portrayed as poor, uneducated, dirty, untrustworthy, and sometimes even criminal. These negative images of recent Chinese immigrants are constructed alongside several other discourses, which may help elucidate how these images come into being and how the divisions between the immigrants and the Chinese colony are actualized and solidified. First, this group of newer arrivals is criminalized by being characterized as illegal immigrants. Shortly after the arrest of Manuel Noriega in 1990, the incoming government publicly announced that Noriega’s military regime had sold Panamanian travel visas and passports to these immigrants. This information was then used to criminalize the immigrants, who quickly became scapegoats of Panamanian nationalism after the U.S. invasion. Second, the narrative of the immigrant-as-victim was set against the image of the established-Chinese-as-victimizer. A series of sensational newspaper articles showed that many recent immigrants came as either short-term contract laborers or as wage workers who took on low-paying jobs as maids, caretakers, and cooks for established Chinese. Immigrants and established Chinese were thus pitted against one another as victims and victimizers respectively. Finally, recent immigrants were distinguished from the “Chinese Colony” along explicitly ideological lines, such that these immigrants were described as “communist Chinese,” as if their undesirable behaviors were somehow inherently communist. These “communist

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Chinese” were deemed “a different breed of Chinese altogether,” I was told repeatedly. The fact that many of the earlier immigrants and their families had been persecuted during the communist revolution in China partially contributes to their deep antagonism toward the recent immigrants, whom they associate with the communist regime. Another factor has to do with U.S. imperialism and its use of Cold War anticommunist rhetoric to justify its military presence and political repression throughout this region. Although “communism” and the “Cold War” may not exist in those same terms today, in this age of so-called globalization, ideological residues of the Cold War discourse are still firmly planted in people’s memories and imaginations. Together, the three discursive constructions—the immigrant as criminal, as victim, and as ideological “deviant”—all feed into the formulation of the Chinese immigrant as an undesirable and dangerous subject. Underlying these distinctions lies a certain fear that these new immigrants are transforming the “old Chinese Colony.” According to Ricardo, the leadership of the Chinese Association in Panama is undergoing dramatic transformation. The representatives elected to office by the community are now reflecting the demographic changes in the Chinese population. More important, notions of “Chineseness” are changing faster than ever before. Since the 1980s, a number of new Chinese restaurants have opened, Chinese video rental stores have popped up in several places, cable television has given people easy access to Hong Kong media as well as American media, and Chinese karaoke performances are now being held regularly. In fact, at one of the Chinese Youth Association parties I attended, Chinese karaoke has now replaced salsa dancing, and a growing number of youth are speaking Cantonese with as much ease as Spanish. The members of the Youth Association convey their need to express their cultural pride and to affirm their difference. Salsa dancing no longer serves as a legitimate means of asserting their Chinese identity; rather, karaoke is their medium of choice to claim and reaffirm their Chineseness. It does not matter what language they sing in—Cantonese, Mandarin, Spanish, or English; what is significant is the act of singing karaoke and their participation in these performances. Karaoke has become the signifier of their Chineseness; it is the medium through which their diverse backgrounds and multiple identifications are enunciated. To be sure, this newfound Chinese confidence enacted by the recent immigrants threatens the established habitus of Panamanian Chinese who have survived culturally and economically by assuming a much more re-

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served and cautious comportment. The “Chinese Colony,” overwhelmed by these changes and challenges to their prescribed notions of “Chineseness,” feel as though they are losing control, losing their way of life, losing what was once an intimate community where everyone knew everybody else. To the extent that they are able to recreate their social networks and imaginings of a community that is connected by no more than two degrees of separation, the “Chinese Colony” has maintained its distinctive identity. However, even these boundaries are quickly eroding. The debate over who should be the beauty queen embodied these anxieties and tensions, articulating not only divisions within the existing diaspora but also contrasting visions of what the diaspora should be. Discussions of standards of beauty are imbued with discourses of racial-cultural purity versus hybridity, discussions that express two divergent notions of “Chineseness” in the diaspora. I draw again from a conversation with Ricardo: This year [1998], Miss Nicaragua was the winner, and she was certainly the best fit for the job. . . . It is fair to say that she fits the Western standard of beauty, body, intelligence, and grace. Chinese standards are totally different. She has to speak [Chinese], look Chinese, her body doesn’t matter, and above all [she] should and must be of Chinese [descent]. Costa Rica has always, to the best of my memory, chosen girls who met the Chinese standard. The Taiwanese are almost pure in Costa Rica, or at least . . . they consider themselves as pure.

Ricardo claims that the recent immigrants prefer an aesthetic that is considered racially and culturally “pure” Chinese, suggesting that other Central American Chinese do not share this preference, but rather one that fits “Western” standards of beauty. By “Western,” he means the Central American standard of beauty—that of a racially and culturally mixed woman (not the Western or European / North American idealized beauty). By preferring the “Western,” Central American standard of beauty himself, he is in a sense reaffirming his own positioning in Central America and Panama. His location in Panama, hence, is what informs his notions of Chineseness in the diaspora. In contrast, he would assert that the standards of beauty used by the recent immigrants are drawn from “China,” from what he considers to be the repository of “pure” Chineseness. Their notions are informed, he suggests, by their strong ties to the “homeland,” whether it is Taiwan or mainland China, not to Central America. Hence, Ricardo’s preference for the Central American aesthetic is more than just a subjective reading of beauty. What he makes explicit

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is the politics of aesthetics in determining what it means to be Chinese in the diaspora. In stating his preference, he is asserting an ideological position as well as his resistance against hegemonic constructions of Chineseness. In diaspora, notions of Chineseness change and evolve differently from those that are generated in China. Moreover, the play of difference within the diaspora also ranges tremendously. In the case of Chinese in Central America and Panama, these debates and contestations over Chineseness arise from the shifting power relations within the diaspora and the need for each community to assert belonging in relation to one another, to their nation of residence, and to the Chinese homeland. Indeed, at the center of the beauty contest controversy lies the struggle to determine what and who gets to represent diasporic Chineseness, at a time when the diaspora itself is undergoing rapid transformation.

 At the end of a very long evening, after most of the audience had retired to their hotel rooms, Miss Costa Rica was formally named queen of the Chinese Colony. In an almost empty banquet hall, the officials awkwardly presented her with the prize of U.S.$1,000 and a vacation package for two to Taiwan. The entire scene was somewhat surreal. The stage lights shone brightly on Miss Costa Rica, but there were only a few people left in the audience to witness her victory. Some people clapped, while others simple shuffled out of the banquet hall. With an awkward smile, Miss Costa Rica accepted her prize as if fulfilling an obligation. Shortly after my return to Panama, I was told that the leadership of the Convention had decided to disqualify the 1996 competition altogether. Perhaps it was an admission of wrongdoing, but ultimately it was the only way to address the pain and hurt that had been inflicted on all those involved. The following year, Miss Costa Rica of 1996 did not attend the convention, and my cousin from Guatemala, the 1995 queen, crowned the incoming queen. It was as if the 1996 competition had never happened—but of course it had, and the tensions that erupted that night still persist within the diaspora today.

Conclusion Initially established as a political and economic organization, the Federación de Asociaciones Chinas de Centroamérica y Panamá quickly in-

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corporated an annual beauty contest to encourage multigenerational attendance at its annual convention and sociocultural interaction across the region. In doing so, the leadership transformed the convention into a project of diasporic reproduction in political, social, and cultural terms. Using gender as a category of analysis, I have shown that both the organization and the convention are highly gendered. Building on established diasporic associations whose membership is determined by patrilineal descent, this organization reinforces androcentric biases toward male participation and male dominance in formal spheres of diasporic politics. The beauty contest, however, offers an opportunity for women to articulate and negotiate the tensions and contradictions within the diaspora. Disguised as a seemingly harmless competition of beauty and femininity, the beauty contest in actuality incites and facilitates passionate and highly politicized debates about belonging and the meaning of diasporic Chineseness. Though working within the framework of the contest, the contestants not only reveal and disrupt dominant expectations of diasporic subjectivity but insist on difference and belonging in the diaspora by embodying and performing divergent ideals of diasporic femininity. For while the contest seeks to convey the shared triadic identification with the nation of residence, the homeland, and the larger diaspora—identifications that create the parameters of diasporic belonging and citizenship— it also unveils the differences and inequalities within the diaspora. Although it attempts to generate “a structure of common difference,” the indeterminacy of the 1996 beauty contest reflects the enduring tensions within the diaspora—tensions that arise from a struggle for relatedness based simultaneously on shared identification with the Chinese homeland and the region of Central America / Panama and on difference along the lines of national context and racial and generational backgrounds. The idealism of diasporic egalitarianism is fractured by the realism of unequal access to material and cultural resources, both in terms of national economic development and of relations with the homeland and homeland state. Indeed, their emplacement in specific geopolitical entities matters in the diaspora, and recognizing this illuminates the complexities of diasporic belonging beyond the homeland / nation-of-residence binary. Diasporic citizenship points to this dynamic and contested process of subject formation. To examine its nuances requires a temporary crystallization in historical time, as if putting a film in slow motion or freezing a frame just long enough to analyze its details. Indeed, while diasporic citizenship addresses relations across cultural-geographical terrain, it also

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insists on historical specificity. To understand the significance of the beauty contest controversy fully, one must situate it in the context of recent migrations to Central America and Panama. With the new influx of Chinese immigrants and the new technologies of transnationalism enabling different diasporic subjectivities to emerge, notions of Chineseness in diaspora along with the conditions of living in diaspora are being reconfigured. In the past twenty years, Hong Kong movie videos and karaoke discs have found their special niche market in diasporic Chinese communities all over the world, including those in Panama and Central America. Unlike the earlier generations of Chinese immigrants and Panamanian-born Chinese, who did not have easy access to such media, the children of recent immigrants today are conversant with Hong Kong popular music and culture. These rapid changes in transnational media distribution have expanded the resources of diasporic identification as well as complicated the process of identity formation. Hence, what one sees in the Chinese diaspora of Central America and Panama today is not a structure of common difference, but rather, a debate, an ongoing argument about what the structure of common difference is or should be. Furthermore, membership in the Chinese diaspora is not defined by agreeing with this structure, but rather by participating in these debates and feeling that one has a stake in the argument. Finally, while studies of diaspora have emphasized the popular mobilization of diasporic cultural productions (Gilroy 1987, 1993), they have not, for the most part, focused on the role of the homeland state in constructing diaspora. In the case of diasporic Chinese, the involvement of the Taiwanese state in transnational organizations such as the one discussed here underscores the state’s influence in diasporic community formation. It not only shows the entrenched entanglement between the Taiwanese state and diasporic Chinese of this region but illustrates Taiwan’s profound investment in ensuring the reproduction of both the diaspora and its identification with Taiwan via Chineseness. For diasporic Chinese serve as one vehicle through which Taiwan legitimates itself as a sovereign nation-state. Hence, as long as the ROC continues to struggle for state status and the People’s Republic maintains its claims that Taiwan is a “renegade province” of the mainland, Taiwan will continue to seek to influence the diaspora.

3

 Migration Stories Serial Migration and the Production of Home and Identity in Diaspora

It is not surprising that migration should be a recurring theme in the life narratives of diasporic Chinese, but what is striking is the manner in which their migration stories convey a distinctive approach to migration, home, and belonging. One by one, my interviewees recounted what I have termed narratives of serial migration, a circuitous and open-ended process that entails crossing multiple national borders over an extended period of time and often over generations as well. Many diasporic Chinese locate themselves in a long trajectory of migration, starting with the first family member to arrive in the Americas. In these stories, they trace their ancestors’ border crossings and speak of their own experience of migration to different places. Sometimes, they even include their children’s migrations. Often, they traverse the same places, though many initiate new paths. With each interview, the pattern became more evident, and I began to understand these narratives to be origin stories of sorts: they reconstructed one’s diasporic genealogy through time and across space. By connecting the dots between the different places where they and their ancestors have traveled and lived, these narratives create a spatial-temporal map of geographically dispersed “homes” and, at the same time, affirm diasporic Chinese connection to those places via a genealogy of migration. In a sense, these narratives perform the dual roles of describing/reflecting and reinscribing/constituting a distinct collective experience of being diasporic Chinese. This chapter takes an intimate look at diasporic Chinese subject formation by examining four narratives of migration. Here, the theme of social rupture is manifest in border crossings; but rather than being seen as anomalous disruptions, these movements are revealed, through the narratives, to be something more like “normalized ruptures” that persist

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through generations. While each narrative tells a different story and maps a different itinerary, together they show the significance of migration, constructed as an ordinary aspect of diasporic life, in shaping Panamanian Chinese subjectivity and ideas of home and belonging. Through the narratives, we also come to understand that serial migration, in both empirical and narrative form, is a dynamic process of self-realization and of locating home in diaspora. As such, it must be examined on two registers, both as a social phenomenon that involves the physical act of crossing borders and as a cultural process of meaning production. By “serial migration,” I mean the process of migrating to a series of places—sometimes returning repeatedly to the same place—over an extended period of time.1 While it resonates with James Clifford’s notion of a “travel itinerary” (1997), serial migration describes a more profound engagement with dwelling places. If traveling connotes a transitory mode of moving across space, migration represents a more prolonged and meaningful interaction with place. Serial migration is also different from the concept of “cosmopolitanism” (Hannerz 1996; Cheah and Robbins 1992; Clifford 1997), which evokes a particular class of worldly subjects for whom travel is facilitated by free and unlimited choice. While this may account for some experiences of travel among diasporic Chinese, it does not account for the full range of their migration experience. Rather, serial migration is partly an effect of geopolitical circumstance, partly a strategy of social mobility, and partly caused by accidents of history. Serial migration is not restricted to any one mode of border crossing. It broadly describes the process of migrating more than once and having a meaningful engagement with the different places of settlement. Moreover, serial migration is not unique to diasporic Chinese and is practiced also by diasporic Indians, Koreans, and Filipinos, among others (Joseph 1999; Shukla 2003; Raj 2003; Park 2002; Parreñas 2001). Scholars have used terms such as “step migration,”2 “remigration,” and “secondary” or “tertiary migration” to describe one specific movement within the phenomenon of serial migrations (Wang 1998; Park 2002). While each of these terms refers to a singular act of border crossing, “serial migration” describes the overall cumulative process of engaging in multiple migrations across different nation-states. In some ways, serial migration is similar to a “transnational migrant circuit,” a phrase used by Roger Rouse to describe the formation of a single community across a variety of geographic sites (1991). But rather than taking a syn-

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chronic analysis of this circuit, serial migration is concerned with how the cumulative experience of multiple migrations across time and space informs and shapes diasporic subject formation. This chapter is inspired in part by Paul Gilroy’s discussion, in his 1993 book The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness, of the emergence of a black diasporic consciousness through the circulation of diasporic blacks and their cultural productions. Instead of thinking about diaspora through the metaphor of a tree, which locates the roots in the “homeland” with branches stretching into the diaspora, he suggests we use the metaphor of the rhizome, a resilient and environmentally responsive underground plant stem with networks of multiple nodes (see also Deleuze and Guattari 1987). This analytical shift from tree to rhizome calls attention to a set of dispersed locations of power rather than one singular all-powerful center. Shifting the focus away from the “homeland,” he decisively highlights the interaction among diasporic blacks in Britain, the United States, and the Caribbean and the expressive culture generated by that interaction. Following his lead, I set out to find a cultural form through which diasporic Chinese articulate their shared consciousness. What Gilroy locates in black music, I encounter in migration stories. I discovered that migration stories not only provide a form of diasporic articulation but also embody the substance—the shared memories and experiences of migration—that informs diasporic Chinese consciousness. Indeed, narratives of migration provide a common framework through which diasporic Chinese come to understand their relationship to particular places, as well as to one another. My aim in discussing these migration stories, then, is to bring into relief not only the significance of migration in the lives of diasporic Chinese and their remapping of home and community, but also how these narratives actually constitute and reproduce a collective understanding of diasporic Chinese citizenship, a form of belonging that is contingent on a combination of constraints and choices. Tracing their serial migration, these narratives do not fixate on the relationship between the Chinese homeland and Panama. Instead, they map diasporic belonging across different locales, allowing the Americas, and the United States in particular, to emerge as a significant site informing diasporic subject formation. Moreover, as cultural scripts that articulate what it means to live with contingent belonging, these narratives both reflect and transmit a distinct cultural knowledge that is simultaneously personal and collective, illustrative and pedagogical.

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The history of Chinese migration to the Americas is well documented, and to a certain extent, the circular transpacific migrations of Chinese between China and their new place of settlement in the Americas is widely recognized (Chan 1991; Takaki 1989; Hsu 2000; McKeown 2001). What is now necessary to underscore is the transcontinental migrations that have also taken place within the Americas. Indeed, as soon as the Chinese arrived in the Americas, as early as the 1600s, they began traveling and migrating throughout the New World. Some were indentured laborers who were sent from one country to another; some escaped from indentured servitude and migrated to other places; others were free men and women who sought better work opportunities and more welcoming environments (Tchen 2001; Hu-Dehart 1998a; Okihiro 1994; Lucy Cohen 1971). One of the most striking features of these early migrants in Panama (and I suspect it is not unique to Panama) is that they came, not just from Greater China,3 but also from different parts of the Caribbean and the Americas.4 These migratory movements between Panama and Asia and within the New World were often circular and part of a series of migrations. Panama was only one node in the larger network of diasporic Chinese settlements. And from these migratory movements emerged not only intricate webs of kinship and social networks that link diasporic Chinese to China and across the Americas but also a diasporic consciousness of being Chinese in and of the Americas. As I mentioned earlier, this chapter approaches serial migration not simply as a social phenomenon but as a cultural process of meaning production. I suggest that diasporic Chinese practice and narrate serial migration as a strategy for dealing with the contingencies of national belonging. While the physical act of crossing borders works as a process of self-realization and of finding the most suitable home in diaspora, the narratives of serial migration illustrate the processes of normalizing ruptures and remapping home and community. This chapter highlights three important aspects of serial migration. First, a combination of social circumstances, geopolitical contingencies, and individual choice frame the practice of serial migration. Second, I suggest that by narrating their stories of repeated migrations, Panamanian Chinese are in fact transforming them into common aspects of diasporic life. Narratives allow people to construct meaning in the act of organizing and connecting disparate events, making them into a coherent whole. They enable people to develop creative ways of interpreting disruptions to reestablish a sense of continuity (Becker 1997). The frequency

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of migration and the ease with which diasporic Chinese tell their stories offer a view of serial migration as an ordinary, mundane, and even expected characteristic of diasporic life. In contrast to the dominant perceptions of migration as an experience of traumatic breaks and ruptures, diasporic Chinese transform the disjunctures of migration into continuities by weaving disparate tales of border crossings into a broader, more encompassing history. In so doing, narratives of serial migration not only normalize and organize spatial-temporal disjunctures into a continuum of migration experiences but also articulate an emergent “tradition” of migration. Finally, the four narratives, taken together, reveal a mapping of the Americas and China as a connected terrain. In so doing, they articulate a diasporic consciousness of being part of the Americas. As Anthropologist Keith Basso has noted, “geographical landscapes are never culturally vacant. Filled to brimming with past and present significance, the trick is to try to fathom what it is that a particular landscape [or place] may be called upon to ‘say,’ and what, through saying, it may be called upon to ‘do’ ” (Basso 1988, 102). Although Basso is concerned with the cultural significance of landscape for Native Americans, I am interested in exploring what it is that Panamanian Chinese are “saying” and “doing” when they recall specific places and string them together into a collective itinerary of serial migrations. What, in fact, are they evoking with these stories? By situating their own experiences within a history of migration spanning several generations, diasporic Chinese construct narratives that link together not only the people involved and the multiple places of destination but, more important, the people with these places. In doing so, my interviewees affirm and reinscribe a diasporic sensibility of being connected to multiple locations, including China, Panama, and various other past and possible future homes in the Americas. In short, they are generating a cultural map of home and community. I selected the narratives for this chapter to demonstrate a range of experience across immigrant generations. I also tried to account for differences in race, gender, and class background, although my sample was limited by the focus of this chapter. Indeed, women and working class Chinese did not practice serial migration as much as middle-class men. Also worth noting is that these migration stories, like all narratives, are partial, both in the sense of being constructed subjectively and of being incomplete. They by no means represent the experience of all Panamanian Chinese. Instead, the four narratives presented here attest to both the

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history and the contemporary continuation of serial migration, a practice that is as much about locating home as it is about expanding the possible places one can call home. Moreover, through these narratives, diasporic Chinese simultaneously articulate the cultural meaning of belonging in diaspora and construct their geography of home and community.

Fernando: The Adventures of Bob Montenegro “Bob Montenegro. . . . Hello, my name is Bob Montenegro.” Fernando, who is in his sixties, enunciates these words slowly, pauses dramatically, then continues. “I just thought it was a cool name to use sometimes. It sounds so suave and cosmopolitan. I used to introduce myself that way at jazz clubs, when I was in college in Chicago. It was just for fun . . . the ladies liked it.” He winks, and I chuckle in response, prodding him to continue his story. I met Fernando through his son, a good friend of mine, who graciously helped set up the initial interview. We met for the first time at his home in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood of Panama City. Being “part Chinese, part white, part black, and part indigenous,” Fernando claims that he does not emphasize any one racial identity over the others. When asked, “How do you see yourself fitting into these different communities?” he responds, “Is there a category for mongrels? If so, that’s the category I fit into.” With brown skin and wavy black hair, he does not possess obvious Chinese features. Even his name, Fernando Jackson, gives no hint of his Chinese background. Despite his mixed racial identity and refusal to define his ethnic identity as exclusively Chinese, both his active participation in Chinese social networks and leadership in a prominent Chinese organization effectively demonstrate his affinity and identification with that community. Belonging in the Chinese diaspora, as demonstrated by Fernando, does not depend on essential definitions of race or ethnicity (Hall 1990). Rather, it is determined by self-identification and participation in diasporic activities. In other words, one belongs because one chooses to participate and take part in the community. It may be important to note from the outset that one important difference between Asians in Latin America and those in the United States (with the exception of Hawaii) is the historically high rate of interracial unions and family formation (McKeown 2001; Lesser 1999). Anti-miscegenation laws did not exist in Panama (and Latin American more generally), as they did in certain parts of the United States at one time. On

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the contrary, the dominant ideology in most of Latin America of mestizaje, or racial and cultural mixing, encourages interracial unions.5 Another factor in this cultural trend was the extreme imbalance in gender migration in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. For many of the early Chinese bachelors, marrying or cohabiting with Panamanian women was the only available form of heterosexual relationship in Panama. Nevertheless, despite the prevalence of interracial relationships in Panama, discrimination persists on the part of Chinese and non-Chinese alike. Among the Chinese community, there is a certain level of bias against non-Chinese speakers and racially mixed Chinese. Meanwhile, in certain circles of non-Chinese Panamanians, being Chinese is not considered a positive characteristic. In a sense, it may be easier for racially mixed Chinese not to assert any particular identity. Fernando’s identification as racially mixed reflects both the dominant ideology of mestizaje and his ambivalence about being Chinese. In the context of Latin America, Fernando’s biography is not extraordinary in any way. What is particularly interesting is his prominence in Chinese social networks. In particular, he has been extremely active in the Panamanian Chinese organization Agrupación, or Agrupa, as many members call it, which promotes cultural and social events for Panamanian Chinese (see chapter 1). His participation in this organization has less to do with his sense of being Chinese, however, than with his desire for social interaction: I have no trouble identifying with the Chinese community. However, it’s not so much because of my Chinese heritage but that most of [the people in] my social circle are Chinese in varying degrees. Almost all the active members of Agrupa are my friends from years ago. Setting up the organization was merely a way of providing an occasion for all of us to get together. People bring their friends, and they bring their friends, and that’s how we deal with our membership. Many of the people in Agrupa went to school with me in Colón [the main city on the Caribbean coast of Panama]. We basically grew up together. In fact, we all got married at around the same time, and our kids were born within years of each other.

Fernando walks into his library and returns with an old black-and-white fourth-grade class photo in his hand. He begins naming all the faces on the picture, and sure enough, they are people I have met through Agrupa. Creating community, for Fernando, depends more on affiliation, a sense of connection based on social relations, than on filiation, a sense of connection based on kinship relations.6 His practice of community and understanding of identity closely follow Stuart Hall’s notion that identity is

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not a stable, essential self but a positioning, a politics of identification (1990). As such, identity is a process and is created through memory, imagination, and narration. Fernando’s migration story, as represented below, further illustrates how memory and experience generate diasporic identification. Our conversation about serial migration begins three generations back. “My paternal grandfather was Chinese and first immigrated to Jamaica before coming to Colón, Panama, in the late 1800s,” Fernando explained. “He had owned a store in Jamaica, and it was there that he married my grandmother, who was a black Jamaican. After he married, he changed his surname from Cheng to Jackson in order to obtain a Jamaican passport. That’s why my last name is Jackson, not Cheng.” The politics of naming is also noteworthy. For a Panamanian to have a surname like Jackson automatically indicates a familial itinerary through the anglophone Caribbean. Purchasing another person’s documents and assuming his or her identity in order to immigrate was quite common in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and to a large extent it remains a common practice today. In fact, many of my interviewees have two different names: an official name on legal documents and a birth name. The combinations vary. Some have Anglo and Chinese names (e.g., Jackson/Lee, Wilson/Chan), while others have two Chinese names (e.g., Chu/Wang, Chen/Lee). Rarely have I encountered people who have used Hispanic names for immigration purposes. (Of course, this practice is not exclusive to Latin America, as the “paper son” phenomenon in the United States indicates.)7 Fernando continued: I am not sure why [my grandparents] decided to move to Colón. That was common back then, because my other grandparents also moved to Colón from Guyana. My [maternal] grandfather was Portuguese, and he married my grandmother who was a mixture of different backgrounds, including Chinese and Caucasian. I don’t have many memories of them. I only remember that my Chinese grandfather used to own a shop, and, from time to time, I could get a nickel from him. And my black grandmother, she was a nice fat lady who took care of us kids. My other grandmother was a good, caring person too, and my Portuguese grandfather . . . he left when I was very young. My father was born in Colón, and at a young age, he was sent to Jamaica for school. He didn’t return until after high school, and when he did he worked in the shipping division of the United Fruit Company.

Fernando was born in Colón and attended the only private boys’ school in the area. It was there that he met most of his lifelong friends. After the fifth grade, Fernando was sent to a boarding school in Jamaica

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that his father had attended; and after high school, he went to Chicago for his university degree. At first I was attending a public school in Colón, but because I was getting into so many fights with other kids, my father decided to put me into a private school. From there, I went to Jamaica. My father wanted me to learn English well, so he sent me to Jamaica. I guess he knew that knowing English is important. Afterwards, I applied for college in the United States, and I was accepted. So, I left and spent the next four years in Chicago. So, in a sense, I spent much of my childhood and young adult life outside of Panama.

The practice of sending children, especially sons, to school abroad is popular among diasporic Chinese for the purpose of accruing cultural capital, including language abilities and cultural values and practices. In Fernando’s generation, many sent their children to China to get a “Chinese” education, while others like Fernando and his father were sent elsewhere in the Americas to learn English, a skill that would facilitate employment by American companies or the U.S. Canal Zone administration. Although this practice was an ideal for all diasporic Chinese, only those families of means could actually afford to pursue it. When Fernando returned to Panama after college, he moved to Panama City instead of returning to Colón. He and his wife, who is also part Chinese, met through a social function sponsored by a Panamanian Chinese organization. When I asked why he had returned to Panama after graduating from the university rather than staying in the United States, Fernando sighed and said: “I was offered a job [in the United States] upon graduation; but, after spending six years in boarding school and four years in college, I just did not feel like being away from home anymore. In reality my ties to home were not strong, because [in] four years of college I had been home just once. Nevertheless, I did not want to stay in the United States any longer. Perhaps there was an unconscious desire to reestablish roots in Panama.” Upon his return, Fernando became an English teacher in Canal Zone schools for “Latin American” communities, where the majority of students came from black families working in the Canal Zone. Fernando’s return to Panama disrupts the dominant assumption in migration studies that people migrate unidirectionally from less developed nations to more developed ones, such as the United States, the countries of western Europe, and Canada. This perception is tied largely to our assumption that voluntary migrations are consistently motivated by economic interests.

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Fernando’s return to Panama shows, rather, how affective ties to “home” also play a role in determining migration. Clearly, the theme of serial migration is central to Fernando’s narrative. Not only does he trace his migration from Panama to Jamaica to the United States and back to Panama, but he also includes his father’s and grandparents’ migration trajectories from China to British Guiana and Jamaica to Panama as part of his own history. Moreover, with a continual return to Panama, Fernando’s migration story illustrates Panama’s overriding significance for his whole family. Even as he traces their passage through different locations in the Americas, their returns mark Panama as “home” and their place of belonging. A few months after our interview, Fernando became involved in his annual production of Neil Simon’s play The Odd Couple. Since his retirement, he has been directing this same play every year, varying the script ever so slightly. It seems noteworthy that Fernando would choose to direct an American play, not a Panamanian one. While Panama may be “home,” the United States, as a cultural force, clearly remains a significant part of his life.

Marco: Discovering Chineseness Abroad In his mid twenties, Marco is the youngest of four children and comes from a family that is quite well established and respected in the Chinese Panamanian community. As a fourth-generation Panamanian-born Chinese, he has an extensive family network in Panama. His father and all his siblings are in the medical field. Following in his mother’s footsteps, Marco handles the financial and management aspects of the family business. Like most people of his social standing, Marco received his degree in the United States and speaks flawless English. He not only went to school in the United States but also studied Mandarin in Taiwan. In his extended family, he is the only one who is fluent in all three languages— Spanish, English, and Mandarin—and is fascinated with Chinese culture and history. What makes Marco unique is not, however, his ability to speak three languages but rather his unusual mix of talents and aspirations. I met Marco for the first time at the annual inauguration dinner of the Asociación de Profesionales Chino-Panameños (Chinese Panamanian Professionals Association), or APROCHIPA. His cousin, my good friend Lau-

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ra, introduced us, and we immediately launched into a discussion of Chinese politics in Panama and the ins and outs of the Chinese community. Within minutes, we were like old friends who had known each other for years. A few months later, he invited me to join his family for Sunday dinner. I was honored, as I knew Sunday dinner was reserved for family, and I was grateful that he had reserved some time for me to speak with his father and maternal grandmother. Marco Wong’s family is considered one of the founding Chinese families in Panama City. His maternal great-grandfather immigrated to Panama in the 1890s and established both wholesale and retail businesses in Panama City’s Chinatown. As proprietor of one of the three largest Chinese-owned operations of that time, he was one of the earliest and most successful Chinese entrepreneurs in Panama. In the 1910s, he married Marco’s great-grandmother, a Chinese woman who had immigrated to Panama around that time. According to Marco’s grandmother, this great-grandmother was called Maria Cheng. She laughed, explaining: “Back then, almost all the ladies were called Maria. They each had different Chinese names, but their Spanish names were always Maria. What happened was that they had to use the same passport to come to Panama. Chinese immigration was not allowed then. So, to get the women here, they would use the same ‘Maria Cheng’ passport. The immigration officers couldn’t tell who was who. So that’s how they all ended up here and being called Maria.” As I mentioned earlier in discussing Fernando’s narrative, it is not uncommon for diasporic Chinese to have two different names, and, in fact, this seemingly mundane issue of naming actually reflects the complicated history of Chinese immigration to the Americas. Confronted with restrictive immigration policies, diasporic Chinese invented various strategies, such as the sharing of identification cards, to subvert practices of exclusion. As Marco’s grandmother’s account illustrates, it was not only men who had to adopt other names for immigration purposes. On Marco’s paternal side, his great-grandfather and two greatgranduncles came to Panama around the 1850s. Marco recalled: They first landed in California in search of gold, but with little success; [then] they came to Panama to work on the railroads, and after the completion of the railroad, they migrated to Peru. My great grandfather eventually came back to Panama, and he started a shoe store in Chinatown. He married a Chinese woman and had seven children. I am not sure what happened with his brothers. Rumors suggest that I have lots of cousins in Peru. I haven’t met any of them, but that’s what people say. My grandfather was born in Panama City,

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and through an arranged marriage, he was sent to China to marry my grandmother. They came back to Panama together, had two sons, and were separated shortly afterwards. Is that right, Pa?

His father interjected: Yes. My father remained in Panama City, but my mother took my brother and me to Colón. There, she opened a small cantina [bar] to get some income. My older brother was sent to China, as was common practice, and he was there until the 1950s. Needless to say, we didn’t spend a lot of time together. I, on the other hand, grew up in Colón, and when I decided to study medicine, I first went to Panama City, but after a short time, I decided to go to Germany to study. Germany is a very different place. Once I finished school, I came right back to Panama.

Having been in Panama for more than four generations, Marco’s family has a very extensive kinship network. On his paternal side, Marco’s great-grandfather had five children. On his maternal side, Marco’s grandmother comes from a family of seven, and his grandfather came from a family of five. With each generation, his extended family grows exponentially. From what Marco tells me, the extended family gathers only on holidays and special occasions. Most of the time, they see one another only at association meetings and other community activities. Prompted by my interview, Marco set out to assemble a genealogy of his extended family in Panama, and once he had completed it, he decided to reconnect with relatives in Taiwan, Hong Kong, Peru, and the United States. Shortly after I left Panama, he and one of his brothers traveled to Taiwan and Hong Kong to visit a couple of their uncles there. On that same trip, they also visited Los Angeles, where another uncle and aunt reside. More than any other Panamanian Chinese I have met, Marco actively situates himself within a global diasporic family network. The fact that he is trilingual in Spanish, English, and Mandarin facilitates his efforts to maintain ties with family dispersed throughout the world. In contrast to his peers of similar class and social background, Marco has been extremely enthusiastic about learning Chinese history, culture, and politics, and he is always equipped with the latest Taiwanese and Hong Kong CDs. I was thus surprised to learn that he has not always been this way. Ironically, he acquired his Chinese consciousness while living in the United States. As a teenager, I never liked the fact that I was Chinese. . . . But as I grew older, well, after I went to college in Miami and met some Chinese Americans, I came back to Panama with a new attitude. I wanted to learn Chinese and get in touch with my “Chinese side.” I guess my Chinese American friends were

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Since returning to Panama, Marco has tried to keep up his Mandarin by listening to language tapes and Taiwanese-produced music CDs. And whenever he encounters other Mandarin speakers, he lights up and enthusiastically engages them in conversation. Marco’s narrative illustrates the many different locations he and his family have traversed. California, Peru, Miami, Germany, Taiwan, and Panama are only some of the places that make up a larger mapping of home and family. His narrative also conveys how serial migration has shaped his sense of identity and redrawn the boundaries of community. Much like the intellectuals in Gilroy’s Black Atlantic, though in a more mundane fashion, Marco’s migration to the United States and subsequent interaction with Chinese Americans helped raise his diasporic Chinese consciousness, leading him to go to Taiwan and, later, to reconnect with his globally dispersed family. For Marco, migration is as much about selfdiscovery (Wolffe 1995) as it is about remapping and extending the possibilities of home and belonging. Indeed, it is through this process of serial migration that Marco firmly locates himself in the larger Chinese diaspora.

Pedro: Not Belonging Anywhere After spending all morning wandering around Chinatown, I was ready to leave the area. But then my attention was caught by the Chinese character Ko on the exterior of a building. Ko is my mother’s maiden name, and I suspected that the owner of the store must share that same surname. Speaking in Cantonese, I asked the man behind the counter where I could find Mr. Ko, presumably the owner of the store. In response, the clerk asked for my name, then walked toward the back of the store. When he returned, he led me to a small office where a solemn-looking man was writing at his desk. As I entered, I extended my hand and greeted him in Cantonese: “How are you, Mr. Ko?” I quickly introduced myself as a doctoral student doing research on the Chinese in Panama

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and presented him with my business card. He examined the card, then asked in fluent English, “So, what can I do for you, Ms. Siu?” When I began my research, I had naively expected that Panamanian Chinese would speak either Spanish or Cantonese. These two languages made logical sense, given that Spanish is the dominant and official language of Panama, and Cantonese is the most common dialect spoken by diasporic Chinese in this region. Yet, over and over again, my interviewees spoke fluent English. I quickly learned, through the process of interviewing, how profoundly the American presence in their country had influenced the Panamanian Chinese. Speaking English was no coincidence but a result of colonialism and a strategy for upward social mobility. I proceeded to give Mr. Ko more details about my work. After we had covered the usual formalities of exchanging brief family histories, he warmly invited me back for a longer conversation and dinner with his family. Certainly the fact that my mother and he shared the same last name and that our families were from the same region of China helped establish an immediate sense of connection. Happily, I accepted his invitation. Pedro Ko comes from another well-known Chinese family in Panama. His family’s store has become something of a historical landmark in old Chinatown. His father’s entrepreneurial success and his family’s longstanding presence in Chinatown have made Ko a household name among the larger community. Moreover, the family also makes donations to various organizations and community events. Its name and logo can be found in pamphlets and posters. Pedro, who was in his late fifties, appeared serious and pensive. Although he seemed at first to be a man of few words, he was quite intent on telling his story. My father left China when he was sixteen years old. After the family rice fields in China were flooded in 1922, my father was sent to Latin America to help generate income for the family. He was originally on board a cargo ship heading toward Cuba. People in his village were raving about the opportunities on that island of abundance. But, en route to Cuba, he was detained at the quarantine station in Panama,8 where he met a Chinese Panamanian who convinced him to stay. In the beginning, my father worked at the public market, selling vegetables in carts. Later he advanced to working in a shop across the street from the market. He worked hard and saved every penny, so that he eventually was able to send for my uncles.

In the early 1930s, Pedro’s father moved to the interior of Panama and married his mother, a Panamanian-born Chinese. By the time Pedro and

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his brothers were old enough for school, the family had relocated to Panama City’s Chinatown, now popularly known as Sal Si Puedes, which literally means “leave if you can.” (There are different stories about how Chinatown acquired this somewhat unfortunate nickname. One version claims that the area is so crowded with merchants and their outdoor stands that visitors can barely find their way out once they have entered it. Another version suggests that Chinatown is so dangerous that visitors may not survive the sly Chinese merchants’ tricks and booby traps. These orientalist portrayals of Chinatown as an immoral, dangerous place resonate with portrayals of Chinatowns elsewhere in the Americas [Tchen 2001; Lui 2005].) The old Chinatown in Panama City stretches no more than two city blocks, and, as in other older neighborhoods, the streets are narrow and the buildings are densely packed. During the day, the area is full of life. The fruit and vegetable stands are crowded with shoppers. American and European tourists busy themselves in the specialty stores, amused by the abundance of exotic goods. All around them, Chinese old-timers hurry to get their errands done. Despite its vibrant energy, however, the buildings in old Chinatown appear run-down and the general area seems neglected. Of course, Chinatown was not always like this. Nostalgically, Pedro commented: Sal Si Puedes was very nice before. It was clean, and it was a two-way street. Children played on the streets. It was safe, and everyone looked after one another. [My family] used to live right across from our restaurant. My father started it when we moved to Panama City. It was one of the nicest restaurants back then. Presidents used to dine there . . . and the Chinese school was close to the sea. It offered classes in Cantonese.9 We were here until 1947. For some unknown reason, my father just decided to go back to China. We sold everything, and the entire family moved into a very exclusive area of Canton (Guangdong). We started a textile company that made exercise outfits like Tshirts and sweats. Then, when the communists were approaching, our family sold everything again and came back to Panama. My oldest brother left first, followed by my father and another brother. My mother and I were the last ones to leave in 1950. We came back to Chinatown and bought back our old house and restaurant. Business was good in the 1950s; we even had to expand the restaurant, adding two more floors. Then the government decided to block the traffic around this area, and shacks began to appear. And by the late 1950s, most of the Chinese had moved away from Chinatown. Only some of the shops remained. We continued working at the restaurant until 1969, but the family started to go into the shrimping business. We invested in shrimp trawlers. At that time, shrimping was one of the biggest industries. . . .

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From the late 1950s to mid 1960s, I went to school in Northern California and studied architecture. Three out of the four brothers went to California for college. I was in California from 1957 to 1966. After I graduated and worked for a little while in San Diego, I was called back home to help with the family business. By this time, my father had gone into business with another Chinese and had started building shrimp-processing plants in Guatemala and Mazatlán. In Panama, we would send the shrimp to a packing company and export it to the United States. In Guatemala, we had our own packing company. To make a long story short, a big storm in 1968 badly affected the conditions for shrimping in Guatemala. . . . We eventually came back to Panama in the late 1970s. When we returned, we came back to Chinatown again, and I started to look after the family store. . . . Well, I have been here ever since. I met my wife right here in Chinatown.

I asked, “You’ve lived in so many places, where do you feel most comfortable? Where do you feel you most belong?” “Nowhere, really,” he responded. “I don’t feel like I belong anywhere, not even in Panama. Sometimes I get very sad about that. Well, anyway, what matters is that I have my family here in Panama. My children bring me happiness.” For Pedro, home does not necessarily mean a sense of full belonging to a particular place; instead, Panama has become home because it is where his family lives. Belonging, for Pedro, is much more tied to family than to place. Despite the prominence and visibility of his family name and business, Pedro almost never attends any community or social event. In contrast, Pedro’s oldest brother is extremely active and visible in the Chinese community. In fact, his brother is on the board of the Chinese Association, and he and his wife attend almost all the activities sponsored by the different Chinese organizations. (He is also—and this is an indication of how small and interconnected this community is—married to a distant aunt of Marco’s.) Pedro’s narrative elaborates a range of reasons for serial migration. For his father, immigrating to Panama was a way of sustaining his family in China, and once he had achieved a level of economic success there, he brought his brothers over as well. Pedro’s own multiple migrations were determined by different factors. The family’s return to China from Panama, I suspect, may have been part of the mass exodus of Chinese out of Panama when then-President Arnulfo Arias disenfranchised large numbers of Chinese immigrants and prohibited them from owning retail businesses. Many people I interviewed were faced with the same predicament of returning to China, immigrating to other parts of Latin America

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or relocating to the Canal Zone. Many of the wealthier families, like Pedro’s, left for China, only to migrate back to Panama when the communists took over. These back-and-forth migrations, then, were caused by political persecution. Finally, Pedro’s migrations to the United States, Guatemala, and Nicaragua were efforts to accumulate cultural capital and to expand the family business. Of the four narratives in this chapter, Pedro’s migration story most strongly resonates with Aihwa Ong’s discussion of flexible citizenship, which she defines as “strategies and effects of [transnational elites] to both circumvent and benefit from different nation-state regimes by selecting different sites for investment, work, and family relocation” (1999, 112). In her study of Hong Kong elites in California, Ong argues that flexible citizenship is a response to globalization and that it is a strategy to minimize political danger while maximizing economic accumulation. To do this, Hong Kong elites send their families to the politically safe United States while the patriarch remains in Asia to mind the family business. Given the class status of Pedro’s family, they were well positioned to exercise this kind of flexible citizenship. Pedro and his brothers were sent to different parts of Central America to expand their family’s shrimping business, for example, while the rest of the family remained in Panama. Yet Pedro’s circular migrations between Panama and China were not financially motivated but were caused primarily by political unrest in these countries. Also, the family remained together as much as possible during these relocations. The notion of flexible citizenship, then, does not explain the full range of Pedro’s migrations.

 Thus far, the narratives have focused on middle-class Panamanian-born men. This class and gender bias, not surprisingly, correlates to some extent with the phenomenon of serial migration, which specifically references multiple border crossings over time. Historically, migration among diasporic Chinese was primarily a male endeavor, in that the majority of migrants were men and migration was encouraged, even expected, of men to fulfill their role as providers for the family and as the means to achieve upward social mobility. This is not to say that women did not migrate; they did, but not in the same numbers. Moreover, their migration did not have the same cultural connotations. They were not masculine adventurers seeking to build family fortunes; instead, they were the behind-the-scene caretakers responsible for the biological-cultural repro-

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duction of the diaspora. During the early decades of the twentieth century, many of the women who migrated to Panama for marriage eventually returned to China. They often accompanied their children who went to China for education, but while many of the children returned to Panama once they reached adolescence, the women often remained in China. Since the 1960s, however, like their male counterparts, more and more women have been seeking a university education in the United States and other foreign countries. While the gender ratio of migration has become more balanced, class bias remains strong. The fourth narrative offers a different example of both of these variables. As an immigrant woman whose family fled from political persecution in China and experienced downward social mobility after arriving in Panama, Victoria grew up in a household that struggled to make ends meet. Her narrative shows that while she has engaged in serial migration, her reasons for doing so were distinctly different from those of the others, and she went to Brazil rather than the United States for her education.

Victoria: “I can do what a man can do” Victoria and I met during the summer of 1994, when her close friend and colleague Roberto Tang introduced us at a dinner party. She has a warm personality and a great sense of humor, and she was immediately approachable and easy to engage. Within the first hour of our meeting, I had learned that she had migrated from China, grown up in Colón, studied medicine in Brazil, lived in the interior of Panama, and finally moved to Panama City. Victoria does not consider herself a “typical” Chinese Panamanian woman. She made this very clear to me from the outset by stating that she is neither a member of any Chinese organization nor participates in the activities sponsored by the various Chinese Panamanian associations or “clubs,” as she calls them. Essentially, she considers herself an outsider to these social networks. Since I had met most of my informants through such networks, I thought she could offer a distinctively different perspective on what it means to be Chinese in Panama. Our time together was filled with food, stories, music, more stories, and always laughter. And despite her busy schedule, she was always generous with her time and energy. She shared memories and stories with me, introduced me to her family, and took me with her on weekend vis-

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its to her mother’s house in La Chorrera.10 As a doctor, Victoria made it clear that she treated our conversations as both interview and self-therapy: “I narrate my past in order to confront my own fears and, in a sense, to heal and remake myself.” By explicitly stating her own agenda in this project, Victoria made certain that I was aware of her sense of complicity and control in the interviewing process. Victoria’s parents and brother fled China at the time of the communist takeover and arrived in Panama around 1949. Victoria and her sister were left behind in China for a few years. During that period, the girls went into hiding, while some of their close relatives looked after them as much as they could. Victoria’s family had belonged to the landed class in China and was therefore persecuted by the communists. She had watched her grandparents’ execution at the town’s center, and one of her aunts was imprisoned for almost two decades. Once released, this same aunt immigrated to Panama to reunite with her husband and family. In one of my visits to Chorrera, I met this woman. She was quiet and removed. In her sixties by this point, she was a small woman, no taller than about four feet. Physically, she looked frail. Her back was hunched over, and she hardly moved or made any unnecessary gestures. I never had the chance to talk with her, for fear of disturbing her or interrupting her peace. Victoria later told me that this aunt had been imprisoned in place of her husband, who had fled to Panama. Before the end of my field research in 1997, I learned that she had committed suicide. The aunt’s history exemplifies the extent to which the communist revolution affected people like Victoria and her family. Even after four decades, conversations about their lives in China brought tears to their eyes, and strong emotions of pain and rage kept resurfacing. While most of the literature on diasporic Chinese has emphasized labor and economic reasons for migration, Victoria’s story forcefully illustrates the salience of politics and political persecution in motivating migration. Fleeing China was not a choice for Victoria’s family; it was the only way they could have survived. Most of the immigrants who fled China in the late 1940s came without any savings. They basically had to start all over. Victoria’s family was fortunate to have relatives already in Panama who were able to help them set up a small business. By the time Victoria (aged 9) and her sister (aged 11) reached Panama, their parents had opened a small, simple cafeteria in Colón City, serving breakfast to workers in the Canal Zone and on the American military bases. The cafeteria opened at six in the morning and closed at noon. Victoria and her

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mother woke up at two or three in the morning to start preparing the tortillas, empanadas, and plantains for breakfast. After finishing her tasks at the cafeteria, Victoria would go to school, and by the time she returned home at four in the afternoon, the family would start preparations for the following day. “It was hard,” Victoria remarked, “My brothers and father never did much to help. I was tired most of the time, [but] I never felt sad or depressed. . . . I guess I was just glad that at least I was here and not back in China.” The first time I visited Victoria’s mother in Chorrera, I was struck by the decor of her home. From the outside, there was nothing remarkable about her house, but when I walked through the front door, I felt as though I had magically traveled thousands of miles and suddenly stepped into a home in a Chinese village. The interior of the house was decorated in such a way that it appeared almost identical to the homes I had visited in southern China. Colors of red and gold were all around the room, and an altar of the Chinese warrior saint Guan Gong sat by the entrance to the living room. Victoria’s mother had been in Panama for over four decades, but judging by the interior decoration of her home, it seemed as though she had never left China, or at least had never left it behind. Her house powerfully conveyed a sense of diasporic nostalgia. Nothing in their interaction with one another suggested that Victoria and her mother had been through difficult times. However, during one of our trips, Victoria confessed that throughout high school, she had fought constantly with her parents, usually over issues of gender discrimination. She recognized that she and her sister were treated differently from her brothers, and she resented the fact that her parents favored the boys. My mother and I used to get in fights all the time. Once, [my mother] beat me with a fish in her hand, and I was very, very angry. I screamed at her, “I never told you to bring me into this world.” Now, I know it was very tough for her because she had to work, to care for us children. My father was drunk often, so she had to work alone, and she tried to get us to help her. . . . I was the only one who helped, and I couldn’t understand why she never liked me. I tried to please her, but at the time, she was awful to me. . . . Many times when [our fights got out of hand], my father would shut me and my sister out of the house . . . the craziness of being immigrants. Well, right now, I can understand what happened psychologically. It was my mother projecting her devaluation onto us. From what she has told me about her life, I know she wasn’t treated well as a child. Knowing that now helps me understand why she treated me the way she did, but at the time, when I was growing up, it was hard. My older brother was never around, and my father was often drunk. I remember he used to play records of Chinese operas, and he would just sit there listen-

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ing, with tears flowing down his face. He was depressed a lot. I guess my mother was under a lot of pressure to keep everything together. During the summer of my junior year in high school, my mother and I got into a fight, and my father told my sister and me to pack our suitcases. Then, he took us to the school where the nuns were and paid for our last year of high school. He just left us there, just like that. I promised myself then that I would not return anymore to my family. Instead, I studied a lot. I repressed my sadness, my fears, and my sense of powerlessness. I channeled all my energy into doing well in school, and I graduated first in my class. After high school graduation, my sister and I lived with our [non-Chinese Panamanian] teachers. They are like family to me. The teachers have always been there for me. They have taken me in every time. They fed me, encouraged me, and gave me so much. To me, they are family. We were so poor then. My sister and I made money by crocheting and selling small items like doilies, baby socks, and clothes. And with the help of my teachers, I eventually won a scholarship to study at the University of Santa María Antigua [USMA]. But when I decided to study medicine, I had to transfer to the University of Panama.

Like many women who face hostility and rejection by their biological families, Victoria has redefined her understanding of family as relations based not on biology but on enduring ties and support (Weston 1991). Having been thrown out of the house by her father, Victoria clearly understands that biological ties do not automatically translate into familial support. Rather, she insists that because her teachers provided her with a home, gave her emotional and financial support, and have been there for her throughout the years, they are her family. My goal was to be somebody. I was going to study . . . and this drive . . . the feeling of rage pushed me. It was the challenge to prove to [my parents] that even though I’m a woman, I can do what a man can do. . . . I started studying medicine in the University of Panama . . . but then, in 1968, the military had taken power, and it was a bad time in Panama and democracy was suspended, and the military government closed the university. At the time, my godmother was working at the Brazilian embassy, and she told me about the embassy’s scholarship. So I applied, and I got the scholarship. It was the only way I could pursue medicine at that time. After three years of not seeing my father, I decided to go to Colón to ask my father for help. And he was very happy to see me. When it came to education, he was always extremely supportive. I remember one time when he was on his knees begging my older brother to finish high school. I think he has always been proud of me in that sense. He gave me $500 [to help with my education]. In 1969, it was plenty of money. Brazil was a good period in my life. I got more autonomy, I met more people, and my professors appreciated me. I was the only Chinese in the class. Some of my patients would call me “japa,” thinking I was Japanese. Well,

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Brazil is different from Panama in that way. There are more Japanese there than Chinese. So, instead of calling [Asians] “china” or “chino,” they call us “japa.”

“Chino” and “china” are terms that non-Asian Panamanians (and others throughout Central America) use to refer to anyone with an East Asian phenotype. The terms “Asian” and “Asian American” as they are used in the United States to refer to the different ethnic groups in and from Asia have no cultural currency in Latin America.11 While studying in Brazil, Victoria met her first husband, who is also from Panama, and as soon as she graduated from medical school, she remigrated back to Panama to join her husband in the interior. There, she did her internship and had her two children. Those years were difficult. When my ex-husband came back to his hometown, he changed a lot. Things between him and me got worse and worse and worse. So I talked to my sister, who was married by then, and she lent me the money to move back to Panama City. I left my first husband and brought my children with me. It was such a crazy period then. I was still doing my internship at the hospital, and my children were so young. My daughter was about three years old, and my son was just a toddler. Again, my teachers came through for me. They took care of my children while I worked at the hospital.

Victoria and her sister Ana have maintained a very close relationship. They’ve always supported one another. Ana married a Panamanian Chinese whose family has been in Panama for several generations. With her husband’s business and family networks, Ana’s family actively participates in Chinese community activities. In fact, I frequently saw Ana and her family at the Chinese banquets and functions. Victoria, on the other hand, is less inclined to participate in these activities. Part of her hesitation has to do with her sense of nonbelonging in the community and her sense of non-acceptance by them. “I don’t participate in these Chinese activities because, well, I didn’t marry a Chinese man, and my children are racially mixed and don’t speak Chinese. The old Chinese can’t accept that, so I don’t go to these activities very often. Once in a while, I will attend a dinner banquet sponsored by my village association. But I don’t go to them regularly.” Her statement highlights the community’s intense bias against exogamy. Yet, unlike Fernando, who is racially mixed but nonetheless actively partakes in community activities, Victoria, who married a non-Chinese, has chosen not to participate at all. Fernando’s long-standing ties with fellow Panamanian Chinese and his gender role as patriarch enable

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him to assert belonging with confidence. As a single mother, Victoria has been faced with extraordinary demands and has had little leisure time to socialize. Moreover, being a divorced single mother carries a social stigma that hinders full participation and acceptance. These factors contribute to their different relationships to the Panamanian Chinese community. Moving from one place to another has never been a matter of “choice” for Victoria, at least not in the sense that she had other comparable alternatives. The communist revolution forced her to emigrate from China to Panama. The military government’s shutting down of the university compelled her to move from Panama to Brazil. And her migrations within Panama were consequences of gender discrimination. Also, in contrast to the other three interviewees, Victoria went to Brazil instead of the United States for her education. While receiving an American university degree may be the ideal for most Panamanian Chinese, it is not always an option for the less privileged—which was the case for Victoria— and neither is it the favored choice for everyone. In fact, Mexico is another popular destination for college students. There are a number of reasons for taking these alternative routes. Economic class certainly plays a role, since the cost of living and education in the United States is much higher than it is in Latin America. Fluency in English may be another factor. Victoria’s narrative thus runs counter to the dominant emphasis in migration studies on movements between the global South, or developing world, and the global North (i.e., between the Third and First Worlds). Her migrations within the global South exemplify a set of conversations and relationships that are equally important but that have not received adequate attention in our study of global migrations.

Conclusion The differences presented in these life narratives disrupt any fixed notion of what it means to be Chinese in diaspora. Whereas Marco strives to explore all the potential facets of his identity and extensive travel actually enhances his sense of diasporic belonging, Pedro’s high-profile family and his own set of migrations have left him feeling alienated. Also, whereas Fernando asserts his belonging by actively participating in community activities, Victoria holds herself aloof from the Chinese community because she feels it does not accept her. Juxtaposing their migration stories offsets reductionist tropes that homogenize the Chinese experience in diaspora. Indeed, even though they have all partaken in serial migration, each of

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their experiences has led to varying formulations of what it means to be Chinese and to belong in the diaspora. Despite their differences, however, serial migration emerges as a strategy of self-realization and of seeking the most suitable home amid the constraints and contingencies of national belonging. On one level, the actual practice of crossing borders occurs under a variety of circumstances and for a number of reasons. I shall highlight the three most salient themes. First, state violence and political persecution are recurrent issues in Chinese migration. Both Victoria and Pedro were forced to migrate because of the political situations in China and Panama. In China, it was communist persecution of the landed class. In Panama, it was Arias’s exclusionist and nationalist agenda that denied the Chinese (and other nonwhite immigrant groups) the right to Panamanian citizenship. Disenfranchisement, persecution, and forced migration have thus been important factors not only in shaping diasporic Chinese subjectivity but also in propelling serial migration. Under these circumstances, migration has served as a strategy of survival. Second, serial migration is also a method of accumulating cultural capital. Aihwa Ong’s work with Hong Kong elites (1999) and Donald Nonini’s study of Malaysian Chinese (1997) offer two instances of how differently positioned diasporic Chinese use migration to accrue cultural capital. Beyond the four interviewees presented in this chapter, I encountered significant numbers of diasporic Chinese who had attended college or university abroad. The Georgia Institute of Technology, University of Notre Dame, University of Chicago, and University of Florida are a few of the universities that they have attended. For most middle-class and upper-middle-class Panamanian Chinese, studying abroad is both a vehicle for social mobility and an emblem of social status. While some choose to stay abroad after graduation, many return to Panama either to pursue careers in their fields of study or, like Pedro and Marco, to manage their family businesses. The fact that not everyone who studied abroad did so for reasons of social mobility suggests that something more is at work, and when I situate this practice in relation to their contingent national belonging, I wonder if this could be a form of preparing for the worst-case scenario. In times of crisis, when one is forced to relocate at short notice, one’s educational degree may be the only thing that is transportable across national borders. Third, I suggest that serial migration is the process by which my interviewees have come to realize where home is or located where they

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wanted to commit to making a home in the diaspora. All four of the interviewees discussed in this chapter chose to return to Panama for one reason or another. Victoria came back with the intention of creating a family with her husband; Fernando left the United States in order to reestablish his roots in Panama. Marco and Pedro came back to be with their families and to participate in their respective family businesses. Indeed, my interviewees both symbolically and physically identified Panama as home. This is not to say that their detours did not affect their subject formation. Whether it is the United States for Fernando (as reflected in his play production), Brazil for Victoria (in gaining a sense of independence), or Taiwan for Marco (deepening his connection to Chinese culture), these stopovers have informed their sense of who they are. More important, in telling their stories, the interviewees implicitly and explicitly show how their respective migration experiences led each of them to make Panama their home. It was through migration that they came to realize where home was. On another level, these narratives of serial migration both perform the cultural work of normalizing the ruptures associated with migration and sketch an emergent diasporic identity of Chinese of the Americas. They do so in three ways. What struck me most about these narratives were, first, the frequency of my interviewees’ migrations; second, the ease with which they described them; and, third, their connections to multiple places across the Americas. The narratives not only mark a clear departure from the conventional understanding of migration as a singular and unidirectional movement, they also convey their multiple migrations as if they were ordinary and normal aspects of life. Over and over again, my interviewees narrated the history of their families’ migrations. By tracing serial migration through several generations, the narratives not only reorganize spatial-temporal disjunctures into a continuum but also illustrate how memories of migration influence the way people construct geographies of home, belonging, and community. The mapping of genealogies onto dispersed locales help transform unfamiliar places into familiar, homely ones. For Marco, weaving together generations of travel and migration not only mapped the various places to which members of his family had migrated but also connected those disparate locations with genealogies and kinship networks. Binding unfamiliar places with kinship ties, he incorporated them into his geography of family and community, thereby bringing them closer to home and making them into possible places of belonging.

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Moreover, as I listened closely to their migration stories, I realized that most of my interviewees did not convey the expected feelings of uprootedness or traumatic displacement from an estranged “home.” Even for Victoria, who had to leave China in order to survive, migration was portrayed as something necessary, and her idea of home and belonging was never romanticized or fixed. For most, the repeated relocations entailed in serial migration appeared more like normal changes than the traumatic disjunctures often associated with migration. Ironically, even as these narratives show the salience of constant movement and relocation, they simultaneously reveal their ordinariness in the lives of diasporic Chinese. Perhaps the narrative repetition of displacement helps transform it into something seemingly more common. In a sense, my interviewees described their serial migrations as open-ended journeys, in which ruptures were normal, expected, and accepted. It was as if once they had left China, migration became the means of self-realization and of finding the most suitable home, wherever that might be. Consistently, the narratives of serial migration record and retell not only the various circumstances that compel migration but also how migration is used as a strategy of survival and of accumulating cultural capital. As such, I have come to interpret these narratives as oral histories that serve as both a collective script and a reminder of what it means to live in diaspora. On one hand, through reiteration, these narratives remind Panamanian Chinese that, as people who historically have lacked full national belonging and citizenship, migration and the disruptions associated with relocation are common aspects of diasporic life. On the other hand, they serve as a collective script that enables diasporic Chinese to live within contingent forms of belonging. By showing the resilience of diasporic Chinese as they move from place to place, these narratives help transmit cultural knowledge and instill a sense of confidence about migration. Serial migration, hence, is not simply a social phenomenon of crossing multiple borders; it is also a distinct cultural logic that emerges from the experience of living in diaspora. Lastly, by tracing continuous routes between Panama and the United States, and across different parts of Latin America and the Caribbean, these narratives illustrate their collective identification with the Americas. While all my interviewees have made Panama their home, each of their stories traces a web of connected sites across the continent. For Fernando, the key nodes include Chicago and Jamaica, whereas Marco will always find important Miami and Peru. Meanwhile, Guatemala, Man-

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agua, and California remain significant places for Pedro, and Victoria will always remember Brazil. In all four cases, not only have their respective migrations revised their understanding of where home was, is, and can be, but their narratives also convey that even as they live in Panama, they remember and imagine themselves as part of the Americas.

4

 Home at the Intersection of Nations Between Panama, China, and the United States

Whereas the previous chapter discussed migration stories as one strategy of diasporic Chinese to normalize social ruptures more generally, this chapter examines the particular social ruptures of the 1940s to show the underlying circumstances that propel the cultural logic of serial migration and that ultimately form the bases of diasporic citizenship. To understand contingent belonging as it pertains to diasporic Chinese citizenship in Panama, we must examine how the national trajectories of Panama, China, and the United States converge and collide to set the parameters of what is possible. In this chapter, I follow Stuart Hall’s suggestion to “ ‘think’ our problems in a Gramscian way” by focusing on a specific historical conjuncture: “how different forces come together, conjunctively, to create the new terrain on which a different politics must form up” (1988, 162–63). While Hall was concerned primarily with the local-national context of Britain, I extend his methodological suggestion into the transnational arena in order to examine how different geopolitical forces come together to create the terrain on which Panamanian Chinese must negotiate and construct home in the diaspora. This chapter focuses on one particular decade, the 1940s, to explore how the convergence of three processes—the nationalist Panameñista movement, the communist revolution in China, and the expansion of U.S. military bases in Panama—framed the conditions of belonging for diasporic Chinese. It also shows how Panamanian Chinese made sense of and responded to the constraints and possibilities created by this confluence. Emerging from three national contexts, these processes not only reconfigured the circumstances of diasporic belonging but also compelled Panamanian Chinese to shift their conception of home and to reexamine their strategies of cultural and political incorporation. Situated at the intersection of three national forces, diasporic Chinese have had no choice but to negotiate their combined effects as best they can.

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What first called my attention to this particular historical conjuncture were the persistent and passionate testimonies of senior members of the Chinese community. Without solicitation, this cohort of Chinese, who at the time of my research (1994–97) were between the ages of sixty and ninety, consistently singled out Arnulfo Arias Madrid, who was elected president of Panama three times in 1940, 1949, and 1968 but never served a full term, as the cause of their worst suffering in Panama. In contrast to their usual calm and collected manner, they never hesitated to speak in an impassioned way about Arias, recalling the violence and persecution they had experienced under his regime. When I started my research, in 1994, more than fifty years had passed since Arias was first elected to the presidency, but the senior members of the community remembered it as if it had happened just yesterday. In my interviews with them, each made an explicit effort to discuss this important episode. Several even insisted that I include a discussion of it in my book. This chapter, then, commemorates the incredible hardship these people and their compatriots experienced at that time and documents their struggles to create a home in diaspora. The excerpts I include here, while representing only a handful of the narratives I collected, illustrate the range of their experiences during this period of displacement and intense discrimination. Working against the grain of Panamanian history, in which Arias continues to be seen as a heroic figure and powerful symbol of Panamanian nationalism, the memories of the diasporic Chinese also serve as an important counternarrative, reminding us of the dangers of exclusion inherent in all nationalisms. With the enactment of the 1941 constitution and Arias’s raíces prohibidas (prohibited roots) policy, Panamanian Chinese, among other nonHispanic groups, lost their right to citizenship and to own certain kinds of businesses. Faced with disenfranchisement and dispossession, they had few options. For many, the immediate response was to go back to China, which most diasporic Chinese still considered their homeland and place of eventual return. But China was also undergoing tremendous political turmoil at this point. After the communist takeover, not only were the country’s borders closed, but diasporic Chinese, whose relatively more privileged class status was seen as antithetical to communist ideology, were the objects of state suspicion and sometimes even persecution. These two factors effectively ended, for most, the possibility of returning to the Chinese homeland. Coincidentally, these constraints were met by American World War II efforts to expand military bases throughout

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Panama, a development that opened an unexpected opportunity for diasporic Chinese to work and live within the geographical territory of Panama but, at the same time, be under the protection of U.S. sovereignty. With China no longer providing state representation or protection, diasporic Chinese began to perceive the United States, which was quickly gaining hegemonic dominance globally, as an even more important ally, whose increasing presence in Panama would provide them with alternative opportunities. What follows is a two-part discussion. First, I explore in greater detail how the compounded effects of these three factors—the nationalist Panameñista movement, the communist takeover in China, and the expansion of U.S. military bases in Panama—redefined the future of Panamanian Chinese by closing some traditional avenues while making other new ones available. Second, I examine how diasporic Chinese responded to these conditions by adopting new strategies of national incorporation, both individually and collectively, and reworking the meaning of diasporic belonging. My intention is to show not only how their sense of belonging forms at the intersection of these nations but also how certain cultural attitudes, practices, and social relations take shape amid the shifting confluence of these national trajectories. For diasporic subjects like these, the politics of belonging clearly engages more than one nationstate and operates not only within the national context but in the transnational arena as well.

Arnulfo Arias Madrid and the 1941 Constitution In 1940, Arnulfo Arias Madrid was elected to the Panamanian presidency on his Panameñista platform, which called for “a government of Panamanians for the benefit of the Panamanian people [my emphasis]” (American University 1962, 51). Arias’s highly nationalistic agenda reflected and expressed the popular sentiments of the time. Indeed, after more than a decade of economic recession, Panamanians had grown increasingly resentful of both American imperialism and the labor competition posed by immigrants. Arias’s platform drew on the frustrations of Panamanians at large by articulating a nationalism that affirmed the mestizo population and Hispanic culture while at the same time embracing an anti-imperialist and anti-immigrant stance.1 Prompted by nationalistic experiments in Europe, Arias was the first in Panama’s history to combine race with culture in setting the criteria for national citizenship

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(American University 1962). Arias identified the mestizo race (a term that was used exclusively to refer to people of mixed white and indigenous origins),2 the Hispanic tradition, and the Spanish language as the defining characteristics of Panamanians. Moreover, by formalizing his nationalist politics through the implementation of a new Panamanian constitution (put in place between 1941 and 1945), Arias formally ostracized and disenfranchised his non-mestizo constituents. The new constitution of 1941 had enormous implications for non-mestizo “others”—including the Chinese, West Indians, Arabs, Jews and Hindus—because it not only diminished their political participation by retroactively stripping them of citizenship and prohibiting their future immigration altogether but also severely restricted their economic opportunities.3 What proved to be even more damaging than these legal changes, however, was the ideological foundation that underlay them: a race-based nationalism that depended on the exclusion of certain racial “others.” For although Arias was removed from office in 1941, and the constitution of 1941 was nullified in 1945, the ideological remnants of his policies lingered long after. In fact, his Panameñista platform motivated the formation of the Arnulfista political party, which remains active today. The constitution of 1941 established a number of laws against “prohibited immigrants” (raíces prohibidas), a category that included Panamanian Chinese.4 Of particular relevance to the Chinese were two important amendments. First, Chinese immigration was banned by an amendment that prohibited the immigration of “the black race whose native tongue was not Spanish, the yellow race and other races originating in India, Asia Minor, and North Africa” (Picardi de Ilueca 1995, 10). Even more drastic, another amendment denied citizenship to the children of “prohibited immigrants” born in Panama after 1928. Those born before 1928 would be considered naturalized, but those born after 1928 would automatically lose their citizenship (American University 1962; Conniff 1985). In essence, the goal of these two laws was not only to immediately reduce the political participation of the prohibited immigrants and their descendants but also eventually to drive them from Panama altogether. Under these new laws, those Chinese who were qualified for Panamanian citizenship made up only a small minority, consisting primarily of two groups: those who had come before the founding of the republic and who were granted citizenship by virtue of being in Panama at the time of independence, and those who had been born in Panama before 1928.

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In addition to these changes, two other laws were passed with the intention of crippling diasporic Chinese economically. The Naturalization of Commerce and Commercial Carnet Laws (number 24 of March 24, 1941, and the Decree-Law of July 28, 1941), specifically targeted Chinese merchants by stipulating that only Panamanian citizens could own retail businesses. Since it is the Chinese who have historically dominated the small-retail-market sector and since most of them were not naturalized citizens, these laws were clearly aimed at curtailing their economic success and, in fact, cost many of them their livelihoods. Race-based citizenship was thus used by the Panamanian state not only to define political membership in the nation but also to determine economic access. In Immigrant Acts: On Asian American Cultural Politics, Lisa Lowe observes that the U.S. state has significantly shaped “the life conditions, choices, and expressions of Asian Americans…through the apparatus of immigration laws and policies, through the enfranchisement denied or extended to immigrant individuals and communities, and through the processes of naturalization and citizenship” (Lowe 1996, 7). Her observation about the state’s use of immigration and citizenship laws to regulate and determine the overall formation of Asian Americans also applies to the case of Arias and Panamanian Chinese. What should be underscored is the extent to which these laws affected not just the political status of the Chinese but also the parameters of their economic development and the social conditions of their everyday life. By reinforcing the identification of the Chinese as a racial-cultural “other,” against whom the Panamanian nation could be constructed, Arias both transformed the Chinese into perpetual foreigners-within and reshaped Panama’s raceclass order along the lines he favored.5 This attempt at restraining Chinese economic activity should not be misconstrued as anomalous in Panamanian history. Even before the independence of Panama in 1903, Chinese dominance in the small-retail-business sector had posed a threat to Panama’s race-class order. In fact, the Republic of Panama and, before that, the Panamanian state government of Colombia both tried on numerous occasions to curtail the economic competitiveness of their Chinese residents through legislation. A letter from the U.S. consul to the prefect of Colón dated March 2, 1889, describes the restrictions imposed on Chinese merchants. A Committee made up of 125 Chinese merchants . . . [asked] me to help them obtain relief from prejudice. They say that they had been notified [by Panamanian officials] that they could not from here on sell rice, beans, peas, salt

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and salted meat; that is, what is classified under the name of Foodstuff, and this word includes every food that is sold by retail, and that if they did so, they would be under penalty of paying a fine of ten pesos and imprisonment. Better said: they cannot sell any kind of foodstuff by retail outside of the Public Market. . . [This] would be the ruin not only of small businesses in this city, but would also result in many [Chinese] business establishments to close their doors and this would be a fatal blow to the city [emphasis added].6

The U.S. consul intervened on behalf of the Chinese because, at the request of the Qing government in China, the United States had undertaken in 1885 to provide political representation and protection for diasporic Chinese in Panama, which it continued to do until 1912 (Mon 1992).7 This official diplomatic connection between the U.S. government and diasporic Chinese may, I suspect, have strengthened the alliance between the two and also contributed to the historical coupling of anti-American and anti-Chinese sentiments among non-Chinese Panamanians later in the twentieth century. While the above excerpt shows the state’s effort to contain Chinese economic competition, it also indicates the profound effect that these restrictions would have on not just the Chinese merchants but also, by extension, the city in general. It reflects the extent to which the city relied on Chinese trade. The sizable number of Chinese merchants referenced in the letter documents the already high concentration of Chinese in the retail-market sector at the close of the nineteenth century. Contrary to popular assumption, most of the Chinese who immigrated to Panama during the 1880s were not laborers on the French Canal. Most, in fact, came with some capital and went into the agricultural and service industries, including laundries, restaurants, and the sale of produce, food items, and imports from Asia (Mon 1992). In this sense, the pattern of Chinese immigration to Panama was more similar to that of Mexico, which consisted primarily of free men in search of work opportunities, than to those of Cuba and Peru, which consisted primarily of indentured laborers. The growth of Chinese retail businesses in Panama depended on continued immigration, and the process unfolded as follows. Established Chinese merchants often sent for relatives in China to work as their employees. Their familial ties, bound by cultural expectations and disciplinary codes, helped reinforce their business relations and mutual support. The recent immigrants were often sent to new territories to help expand the merchants’ distribution. Once the immigrants had accumulated enough capital of their own, they would set up their own kiosks, and

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later small shops, in these new areas. Chinese business practices were learned and passed on as a cultural tradition through informal apprenticeship, and as the recent immigrants became retailers, the original retailers became wholesalers. As a strategy of capital accumulation and market expansion, newly arrived immigrants and already established Chinese merchants thus forged symbiotic, if unequal, relations. They depended on one another for the growth of their businesses. It is not surprising, then, that despite repeated attempts to restrict Chinese immigration, the population kept growing. Chinese merchants actively encouraged immigration and were willing to pay the costs and potential penalties. What proved to be even more harmful than the actual implementation of the discriminatory laws was the encouragement of violent demonstrations against the Chinese. By giving Panamanians a sense of political righteousness and entitlement, Arias unleashed a popular movement against the Chinese in Panama. Feeling themselves to have the state on their side, some Panamanians took matters into their own hands and expropriated Chinese property. This episode of national exclusion and violence against diasporic Chinese is only one instance of many throughout the history of Chinese in the Americas (and beyond). Anti-Chinese movements in late nineteenthcentury California and in early twentieth-century Mexico and Jamaica, to name two examples, led to pogroms and mass exodus.8 In fact, the case of Chinese in Mexico presents an uncanny parallel. Evelyn Hu-Dehart, in her historical study of Chinese in northern Mexico, examines the various factors leading to their expulsion at the height of Mexico’s post-revolutionary nationalist period from the 1910s to the early 1930s. There are several similarities between their experience and that of the Chinese in Panama. First, both communities dominated the small-retail-market sector in the cities where they congregated. Second, both had strong economic ties with Americans and depended on the U.S. government for consular representation. Third, both were persecuted during nationalist movements that were anti-imperialist and xenophobic in nature. “Besides arousing resentment by their own activities, the Chinese [in Mexico] might well have suffered a ‘guilt by association’ with the much-hated Americans,” Hu-Dehart comments (1980, 285). In a way, the Chinese might very well have served as scapegoats in these nationalist and antiimperialist insurgencies. Lacking any real political recourse of their own, both in terms of political rights and of state protection, diasporic Chinese

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in Mexico and in Panama occupied an extraordinarily vulnerable position. They were, in a sense, stateless persons. Diasporic Chinese responded in several ways. Some went back to China, some sold their properties and took jobs in the U.S. Canal Zone, and others took bold steps to subvert the laws. Of the third group, many transferred their properties to trusted Panamanian neighbors, and a few even married citizens in order to save their businesses. (These arrangements were risky, however, and often ended in loss of property.) Several senior men I interviewed unabashedly admitted that they had married their wives in order to keep their businesses. Chu Wai, an 86-year-old man from Bocas del Toro, was one of them. When I arrived at Chu Wai’s house, a young Panamanian woman (who I gathered was the maid) opened the door and led me upstairs to the terrace. Chu Wai was listening intently to a talk show on the Chinese radio station, with the Panamanian Chinese newspaper El Espresso spread in front of him. On the other side of the terrace sat a petite woman with brown skin and graying hair who appeared to be in her late seventies or early eighties. Resting quietly in her lounge chair, she paid no attention to me and remained silent throughout my visit. As I greeted Chu Wai and took a seat next to him, he politely reached toward his old tabletop radio and turned it off. Being from Bocas del Toro, a city located on the Caribbean coast, Chu Wai spoke to me mostly in English and Cantonese. He began the interview by recalling his family’s migration history. At first, he said very little about the Arias period. But when I asked him specifically how he was able to keep his business despite Arias’s policies, he answered, switching to Cantonese and pointing to the woman resting on the lounge chair, “I married my wife because of Arnulfo Arias. I married her in order to keep my business. She is half-Panamanian; her father was Chinese. She doesn’t speak Cantonese. [In other words: Don’t worry, she can’t understand what we’re saying.]” He shrugged and switched back to English. “But no matter, we had five children together.” Without elaborating further, he moved onto another topic. Stunned by his frankness and unemotional response, I was a bit taken aback. On one hand, he had expressed a strong sense of resentment for having had to marry his wife to save his business; but, on the other, by telling me that they had had five children together, he was clearly conveying their intimacy and lifelong partnership. The latter statement seemed to be his way of counterbalancing the openness

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with which he had admitted to what had been—initially at least—a marriage of convenience. His switching from English to Cantonese and back to English also suggests an attempt to safeguard his sentiments from his wife. While I do not know him well enough to say for sure, I would guess that part of his resentment comes from the fact that he had had to marry someone not necessarily of his own choosing but out of convenience. Also, the fact that he regularly listens to the Chinese radio station and reads the Chinese newspaper indicates how culturally embedded he is in the Chinese cultural world, and his inability to share this with his wife might have caused some frustration and sadness. Whatever his feelings about it, Chu Wai’s decision to marry his wife “in order to keep my business,” as he put it, exemplifies an emotionally, if not economically, costly route taken by a number of diasporic Chinese.

The Impossibility of Return and the End of the Transpacific Family Felipe, who immigrated to Panama in 1927, is one of the oldest and better-known senior members of the Chinese community in Panama. He served as the president of the Chinese Association for a number of years. At the mature age of eighty-seven, he remains active and vocal in community meetings. With the help of his sister, we met for the first time over dim sum at a Chinese restaurant in Panama City. A week later, I called to request an interview, and he graciously invited me to his home. Felipe lives in an upper-middle-class neighborhood of Panama City. The view from his tenth-floor condominium is stunning, with the living room facing the Pacific Ocean. With the windows open, the ocean breeze filled the room. His sizable flat was furnished with beautiful replicas of antique Chinese furniture made of dark cherry wood, and all the houseplants were in large decorative ceramic Chinese pots. On his living room wall hung large portraits of Dr. Sun Yat-Sen, the father of the Chinese Republic, and General Chiang Kai-shek, former leader of the Kuomintang (KMT) party, who resettled his military and the Chinese republican government in Taiwan after being defeated by the communist army. Felipe was answering a question about citizenship when he began to talk about the 1940s: My heart is with China . . . but the Chinese in China don’t accept me because I have Panamanian citizenship. They consider me an Overseas Chinese. I’m

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Chinese by blood. It is in my blood, and my heart is with China. I had to get citizenship in Panama in order to do business. . . . In 1940, the Chinese could only enter into certain businesses. Arias, the president at that time, established the raíces prohibidas policy, which affected the Arabs, the Hindus,9 the Jews, the West Indians, and the Chinese. I almost left in 1940. In fact, lots of people left. They went back to China because the laws in Panama restricted the Chinese from doing retail business. Many left . . . in [the] hundreds. After World War II, some returned to Panama. Before 1940, I used to own a sewing factory, which employed over 150 people, but when Arias came into power, the Chinese were not allowed to work in this industry. So, I had to sell it. Sold it at a loss. I was ready to go back to China then, but [for] the war. . . . In the end, my wife [who was born in Panama before 1928 and therefore not affected by the new laws] bought back the business, again at a loss, and we started all over again. At that time, so many Chinese were arrested because they didn’t want to sell their businesses. The Chinese lost a lot in 1940. We suffered because of Arias.

Felipe’s voice conveyed a deep sense of pain and betrayal. Judging from his strong Chinese nationalist sentiments and the republican iconography in his home, I suspect he would have obeyed his first impulse and returned to China in response to Arias’s policies had it not been for the Japanese invasion of China between 1937 and 1945. For those individuals and families with sufficient capital but no citizenship, returning to China presented a better alternative than suffering the consequences in Panama—at least for a time. But China was involved in its own political struggles, first with battles against Japan and later with internal warfare between the communists and republicans. As a result of the communist revolution, many of the Chinese who returned to China were subsequently forced to leave again and return to Panama. José, who is Panamanian-born and in his early sixties, told me that his father, like so many Chinese, had fled to China in 1940, leaving José and his Colombian mother in Panama. “Fortunately,” he said, “[my father] returned to Panama just before the communists took over. Otherwise, I might have never seen him again.” Regardless of their actual economic status, to the Chinese communist regime, diasporic Chinese represented a class of wealthy merchants whose capitalist engagements were antithetical to communist ideology. They and their families, who received regular remittances from them, were considered subversive elements in communist China, and they were therefore subject to state persecution. Recall from the previous chapter, for instance, the migration stories of Victoria, whose family was subjected to violent persecution in China, and Pedro, whose family went back to China only to return to Panama a few years

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later. Mario, another Panamanian-born Chinese, recounted a similar experience: It was a crazy time for us Chinese. Like so many people, we had to sell our restaurant. We had no choice. Before that time, our business was doing quite well. It was a very popular place for Chinese and [non-Chinese] Panamanians. But we had to sell it. We packed our bags and the whole family went back to China. When we arrived, we moved into a nice part of town. We tried to start all over again, but when the fighting between the communists and the [republicans] intensified, we decided to leave. It was too dangerous. We had to leave, so we came back to Panama. By that time, Arias was gone. We moved back into Chinatown and bought back the restaurant.

As these testimonies indicate, even as late as the 1940s, diasporic Chinese considered China both their cultural center and place of belonging. This was most clearly reflected in their continued migrations there and the sustained practice of transpacific family formation, with members living in both China and Panama.10 In fact, the migrations and transpacific family formation enabled not only the continuation of close ties between diasporic Chinese and China but also the fashioning of a distinct bicultural and binational diasporic subjectivity, which in turn further perpetuated the reproduction of transnational ties and movements. It wasn’t until 1949, when the new communist regime closed China’s borders and turned hostile toward diasporic Chinese and their families, that this practice came to an end and the diasporic dream of a happy homecoming evaporated. That the practice of transpacific family formation was crucial in keeping China in the minds and hearts of diasporic Chinese is not surprising (see Yanagisako 1995). What is worth underscoring, however, is that it also helped produce a particular form of diasporic subjectivity. Family bonds—even those that stretched across vast distances—facilitated and encouraged communication, the sending of remittances, and transnational travels between Panama and China. They facilitated ongoing relations and interactions between people in different locations and a sense of belonging to a distant place. In Panama, as elsewhere in the Americas during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, transpacific families were common. Initially a consequence of a shortage of women (this period of migration being disproportionately male), transpacific family formation slowly transformed into a diasporic cultural ideal when it became the common practice of the wealthy. Given the disproportionate ratio of Chinese men to women in Panama, immigrant men often had to travel back to China if they wanted to marry a Chinese woman. And since

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travel between Panama and China was quite costly, only the wealthy could afford it. Marriage with Chinese women thus became a class-based phenomenon and acquired a certain cultural value. Once children were born, it was desirable to send at least the oldest male child back to China in order for him to acquire a “culturally Chinese” education. When asked what that entailed, my interviewees named a variety of skills and qualities, including a knowledge of spoken and written Chinese (Cantonese); Chinese values such as respect for elders and a focus on family; characteristics such as modesty, humility, and generosity; and certain business practices. Either accompanied by their mothers or entrusted to close family in China, the children would live in China until they reached their mid-teens, at which point they would return to Panama to join the family business, allowing the patriarch eventually to retire in China. Chu Wai, whom I mentioned earlier, followed such a path. Chu Wai’s grandfather had immigrated to Panama in the 1880s. After setting up his general store, he returned to China, married his wife, and brought her over to Panama. When Chu Wai’s father was a young boy, he was sent to China. There, he eventually married his wife and fathered Chu Wai. Although his father never returned to Panama, Chu Wai was sent there to relieve his grandfather shortly after he turned fifteen. In Panama, he assisted his grandfather, and eventually, he took over the management of the store, enabling his grandfather to return to China. In some instances, not just the eldest son but all the children and the mother would return to China, leaving the patriarch behind in Panama. While the children were more likely to remigrate to Panama once they reached adulthood, especially the male children, the mothers rarely did so, for reasons that are not entirely clear. One possibility may be that during their time apart, their husbands might have become involved with other women in Panama. This was not uncommon. Often, then, instead of returning to Panama, the women chose to remain in China. Armando’s family history illustrates a typical example of this form of transpacific family formation. After meeting him at a Chinese celebration banquet, I decided to stop by his general store in Chinatown to pay him a visit. The store was small, but it was packed with all kinds of items imported from Hong Kong and China. Spices and dried goods were stacked in shelves along one wall, while decorative Chinese vases, porcelain plates, and bowls were displayed on another wall. Near the door were baskets full of lentils, beans, and rice; and hanging from the ceiling were

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kites, lanterns, and other trinkets. With the exception of the narrow path for people to walk through the store, there was no floor to be seen. Sitting near the front of the store, we conversed in between his interactions with customers. My father was sixteen years old when he came to Panama in 1906, after the independence of Panama. He came to work with my uncle, who at that time was working in a restaurant near the Canal Zone. . . . In 1913 or 1914, my father and a few business partners started a wholesale business . . . but eventually, they broke up the partnership, and my father started his own business. In 1920, he went back to China to get married. By then, he had accumulated some money. My mother came to Panama through Jamaica. Leaving from Hong Kong, it was easier for her to go to Jamaica first, since [Hong Kong and Jamaica] were both British colonies. Then she found her way into Panama. I was born here, and so were my other three siblings. In 1929, ten years after she arrived in Panama, my mother took all of us children back to Hong Kong so that we would learn the Chinese language and culture. We basically grew up there. All my brothers and sister got married and remained in Hong Kong. I am the youngest, and I decided to take my chances here. I came back when I was twenty-four years old, in 1952. My mother never came back to Panama . . . because, after she left, my father married a Panamanian.

Although Hong Kong was politically separate from the mainland at this time, Chinese nonetheless considered it to be culturally part of China. The practice of this particular version of transpacific family formation reflects the sustained movements and social ties between Panama and China up until the mid twentieth century. It also conveys the significance of China and Chinese culture in the lives of diasporic Chinese. Sending one’s children to China for their education was a purposeful means of cultivating a distinct Chinese subjectivity and continuing a certain way of being, thinking, and living. It was an intentional effort to maintain connections to China, as well as to accrue Chinese cultural capital in the form of language skills, values, practices, and behaviors. And people did this, I suspect, in the belief that these were meaningful and useful attributes for diasporic life—that is, a life that straddled two cultures and nations at once. In their eyes, Chinese cultural ideas, values, and practices were not irrelevant items of a past they had left behind but important tools for living in diaspora. In 1949, however, this chapter of Panamanian Chinese history came to a close. China was no longer an alternate “home” to which one could return or from which one could draw moral strength and resources. Without China, diasporic Chinese now turned their attention more solidly to Panama and the United States.

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U.S. Military Expansion in Panama during World War II In the early 1940s, faced with the likelihood of a war in the Pacific, the United States and Panama temporarily set aside their differences. Over 100 new U.S. military facilities were opened in Panama, with contracts that were negotiated from 1939 through 1942, bringing the total number to more than 130 (Barry 1990; American University 1962; LaFeber 1989). In desperate need of labor to build and run these bases, the U.S. administration in Panama quickly absorbed the newly displaced Chinese, who had been not only disenfranchised but also dispossessed by Arias’s new policies. I met Adriana at a small social gathering hosted by Victoria, whose story was told in chapter 3. Adriana has known Victoria ever since Victoria’s family arrived in Panama in the late 1940s. They lived in Colón together, and Adriana’s granddaughter is one of Victoria’s best friends. Adriana is also the grandmother of a close friend of mine who is now living in the United States. (These overlapping relations enabled me to insert myself into the labyrinth of Chinese social networks rather effortlessly. Being within a few degrees of separation, I was treated more like distant kin than a total stranger. Furthermore, she had already heard about me, so when I approached her, she politely insisted that I sit with them.) At seventy-six, Adriana appeared healthy, strong, and alert. Her skin was tanned by the tropical sun, and her graying, shoulder-length hair was pulled back behind her ears. A slightly plump woman, she wore a loosefitting floral dress that gave her a nurturing, grandmotherly appearance, and she was welcoming and attentive to my inquiries. In Panamanian style, we sat on the patio of Victoria’s apartment as we conversed, enjoying the soothing breezes that alleviate the tropical humidity of the city. We began with the usual formalities. I introduced myself by providing some autobiographical information such as my birthplace, my family background, and how I had become interested in my research. I spoke about my impressions of Panama and the people I had met so far, topics that slowly led me to ask her about her experiences there. As our conversation continued, we slipped comfortably into a casual give-and-take. Using mostly Creole English, interspersed with Spanish, Cantonese, and Hakka (a Chinese dialect), Adriana spoke matter-of-factly about the events in her life. Her use of several different languages isn’t uncommon among people her age who grew up in China, lived in Colón (where Creole English is the dominant spoken language),11 then relocated to Panama

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City (where people speak mostly Spanish) and worked for Americans in the Canal Zone. But unlike others, who switched from one language to another according to context, she tended to use all four at once, so that her sentences were interspersed with words from different languages. Even though I speak Cantonese, Spanish, and English, it took a great deal of concentration to keep up with her linguistic acrobatics. And not speaking any Hakka, I relied on Victoria to translate it for me. Adriana immigrated to Panama in 1927 as a “picture bride” and settled with her husband in Colón, where they owned and ran small businesses.12 With nine children to raise, they worked day and night to make ends meet. When the 1941 constitution was implemented, they lost all of their property, leaving them no option but to seek employment in the Canal Zone. She recalled: Before, there were lots of Chinese in Colón. We used to own a small grocery store and a cantina [bar]. The American soldiers used to visit there every night. They never give me no trouble. But Arias forced us to sell our store and the cantina. So we closed shop. We sold it so cheap, we lost a lot of money. We had to sell it, and the Panamanians knew that they could pay almost nothing for it. We had something like two days to sell everything, or else we would be arrested. They knew that either I get a little money or they take it from me for nothing. They would come into my store and threaten to burn our building. They would just walk in and take our things and leave. They did that to everyone, all the Chinese. . . . Me and my husband moved to Panama [City] to make some money. We heard from other paisanos [a word used to refer to fellow Chinese] that we could get jobs in La Zona [the Canal Zone]. We didn’t have any skills, but we spoke some English, so the Americans gave us jobs.

She sighed as she shook her head and continued, “We had nine kids to support. . . . Life was hard. My husband had to do hard labor at the Canal Zone.” I asked her what she did, and she hesitantly replied, “I cleaned for them, cleaned and cooked . . . like a janitor. We worked so much, but there was so little money. . . . Anyhow, we had jobs, we had enough to eat. We just had to start all over. The Americans don’t treat us bad, so we stayed working for them. . . . We didn’t really have any choice. We never saved enough to open another store.” Adriana’s testimony powerfully conveys the material effects that the constitutional changes had on some diasporic Chinese. Her description characterizes the typical experience of the owners of small family-operated businesses who were forced to sell their properties and had little option but to remain in Panama. And although the actual laws were repealed a few years later, their effects were not reversible. Adriana and her

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family, like so many others, were never able to recover what they had lost. Other people I interviewed related similar experiences. Adriana’s story is also illustrative of the emerging importance of the United States for diasporic Chinese in the wake of Arias and the political turmoil in China. Although it was labor needs and not altruism that led the U.S. administration to hire the Chinese, the Chinese felt a sense of gratitude toward the Americans. For them, the Canal Zone was a place of refuge in their moment of crisis. Furthermore, in comparison to the open hostility expressed by some of their Panamanian neighbors, the Americans’ readiness to hire Chinese workers appeared benevolent. As Chu Wai commented, “I got along well with the American soldiers. In World War II, there were many soldiers based in Bocas del Toro.13 At that time, I used to supply bread to the army and navy. And they treated me very well and with respect, not like the Panamanians who go around calling me ‘chino.’ ” Panama’s violent rejection of them and the Americans’ welcoming attitude contrasted sharply for the diasporic Chinese, who associated the Arias government with chaos and injustice, and the U.S. Canal Zone administration with order and fairness. Seeking work outside the retail-market sector, young Chinese professionals soon realized that their fellow Panamanians had an advantage when it came to Panamanian companies. Ricardo, a Panamanian-born Chinese who was an employee of the U.S. Panama Canal Administration for almost thirty years, explained why so many Panamanian Chinese had sought jobs working for the Americans: In Panama, everything works around contacts. The Panamanians, that is, the mestizo Panamanians, have their own set of networks. They do favors for their relatives and friends. That’s how they are able to get jobs with no problem. The Chinese don’t have those contacts in high places, so we have to do things differently, find contacts elsewhere. The Americans also don’t work like the Panamanians; they don’t hire people just because they are so-and-so’s nephew or whatever. . . . That’s why the Chinese went to the Americans. There, we actually had a fair chance of getting the job.

That the Americans had had experience employing Chinese in the previous decades also enhanced the World War II generation’s chances of employment. In a sense, the earlier generations of Chinese had paved the way for them. Moreover, the pay and benefits offered by the Americans were generally better than those offered by Panamanian companies and included not only retirement pensions but also the opportunity of gaining U.S. citizenship.

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Historically, the Americans and the Panamanian Chinese have enjoyed a relationship based primarily on economic exchange. The Chinese often provided the necessary labor for U.S. companies (such as constructing the railroad and doing agricultural work for the United Fruit Company) or for the U.S. Canal Zone administration (such as servicing the military bases and maintaining the Canal). Chinese merchants like Chu Wai also did business with the Americans. And, as mentioned earlier, the United States also offered political representation for diasporic Chinese for a short period. In these ways, the two parties have always maintained a certain degree of contact and alliance. The political rupture of 1940 with the Panamanian state, then, only helped reinforce and solidify Chinese affinity for and reliance on the Americans. The testimonies in this chapter convey the variety of ways in which diasporic Chinese responded to and were personally affected by Arias’s policies against prohibited immigrants. Repeatedly, they described the tremendous political violence and the economic losses they had suffered. While some people, like Felipe and Mario, were able to repurchase their properties, others, like Adriana, never managed to recover their losses. And for all of them, the political vulnerability they experienced, the emotional hardship they endured, and their sense of contingent belonging in Panama was forever imprinted in their own and their children’s memories, engendering a collective consciousness that would shape their future practices of home-making.

Strengthening Roots in Panama While Looking Northward After China closed its doors to the outside world, Panamanian Chinese began to shift their attention away from China and toward the Americas. They began, in short, to strengthen their foundations of home and belonging in this part of the world. On a collective level, they did this by institutionalizing a new community apparatus and devising strategies to gain more effective political influence and cultural integration. On an individual level, they began diversifying their professional occupations and accumulating American cultural capital. Almost immediately after Arias’s policy changes, Chinese community leaders began mobilizing and founded the Asociación China de Panamá, or Chinese Association of Panama, to bring together the geographically dispersed Chinese in one coherent organization, serve as a governing entity for the Chinese community, and represent and advance its political

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interests.14 Recently touted by Taiwan’s Overseas Chinese Affairs Office as one of the most sophisticated and politically effective organizations of any Chinese community in Latin America, the association serves multiple purposes and has had wide-reaching effects. Functioning as a community government, it consists of an elected group of representatives and a president. This governing body assumes leadership authority in making decisions on behalf of the community and oversees more than thirty different bodies in Panama, ranging from regional-linguistic organizations to religious groups to professional societies. Over the decades, it has become one of the strongest and most politically involved ethnic organizations in Panama. Under the leadership of the association, the community has devised a number of strategies to improve cultural and political integration. First, active participation in public events has helped increase the visibility of Chinese and foster cultural understanding. For example, the association organizes an annual “Chinese Carnival Queen Pageant” in order to send a Chinese queen and her entourage to participate in the national Carnival parade. This kind of public visibility is supplemented by newspaper articles that discuss the history and culture of Chinese in Panama. Second, by making donations to specific community projects, such as the building of hospitals and schools, the association builds goodwill and improves relations between locals and diasporic Chinese. As one member of the association put it, “It’s a way of showing that we are part of the community, that we don’t just take from the community—which is what we are often accused of—but that we give back to the community as well.” Third, the association also provides financial and moral support to specific political candidates, and whenever possible, promotes candidates from within the Chinese community. Well aware that political influence necessitates personal and social connections, diasporic Chinese have made extensive efforts to forge relations with public officials and to run for office themselves. The first Panamanian Chinese was elected to the national Panamanian legislation in 1964,15 and since then, at least eight others have held national office. The association’s effectiveness as a political apparatus was tested—and significantly proven—in 1990, when the Panamanian government, led by the legislator Raúl Ossa de la Cruz, initiated a mass arrest of undocumented Chinese immigrants. Within twenty-four hours of the arrests, community leaders met and developed a protest strategy (see chapter 5).

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As a result of their efforts, 3,000 immigrants were redocumented and allowed to stay in Panama. Since its founding, the association also has worked closely with the Embassy of the Republic of China (Taiwan) and its Overseas Chinese Affairs office. In 1980, after years of collaboration, the Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center was built, which includes the association’s administrative offices and the kindergarten-through-grade-12 Sun Yat-Sen School. In the 1990s, the Friendship Park was added. As a major hub of the Chinese community, the area surrounding the Cultural Center has attracted many new Chinese businesses, leading it to be called the “new Chinatown.” In addition, a group of Panamanian Chinese has initiated the project of revitalizing the old Chinatown. A new Chinese gate has been erected at the entrance of the Barrio Chino, and there are plans to renovate and clean up the much-neglected area. As symbolic anchors of the community, these developments convey a sense of permanence and renewed commitment to Panama. With support from the Taiwanese government, the association has also formed transnational networks with diasporic Chinese in other countries. Sponsored by the Taiwanese government, three transnational organizations have been instituted to facilitate communication and mutual support among diasporic Chinese globally. As we have seen, the Federación de Asociaciones Chinas de Centroamérica y Panamá (Federation of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama) meets annually and includes participants from this region. The Federation of Chinese Associations in the Americas also meets annually and includes all Chinese associations in North, Central, and South America. And finally, the Global Association of Cantonese, which meets every other year, is a network of Chinese associations throughout the world. By participating in these organizations, Panamanian Chinese have expanded their social and political support base. They also are taking part in building a global diasporic consciousness. Aside from these institutional efforts, Panamanian Chinese have also made personal adjustments to strengthen their sense of belonging and security. One noticeable change has been in the occupational pursuits of the post-1940s generations. Instead of going into retail businesses, many have chosen to pursue higher degrees in professional fields. This shift resulted partly from the impulse to integrate more thoroughly into Panamanian society and partly from an experience of intense discrimination

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as ethnic shopkeepers. The emergence of the first Panamanian Chinese professionals’ association in 1967 suggests that a critical mass of Chinese professionals came of age around that period. As more Panamanian-born Chinese began pursuing university degrees and moving into professional fields, migration between Panama and the United States also gradually increased. The earlier practice of sending children to China to pursue a Chinese education has now been largely replaced with the practice of sending them to the United States to acquire American cultural capital. As the United States rose in global importance, diasporic Chinese began wanting their children to gain fluency in English, to earn an American university degree, and sometimes even to acquire U.S. citizenship. Moreover, as American and other international companies moved steadily into Panama during the 1970s and 1980s, the demand for bilingual and bicultural workers increased. The way of the future, as diasporic Chinese now see it, is to become biculturally conversant in both the American and Panamanian milieus. On their sojourns in the United States, most diasporic Chinese pursue what they considered to be “practical” degrees in engineering, business, and medicine in order to maximize their employment opportunities in both the United States and Panama. Luis, who received his degree in the United States and then returned to Panama explained, “I studied engineering because it allows me to work in either place. It gives me freedom to move around. And since I really didn’t know where I was going to end up, I just felt more secure knowing that I can get a job wherever I decide to live. I mean, if I went for an anthropology degree [as you did], I would never be able to find a job here. It’s more limiting.” Unlike the earlier transpacific families who sent sons more often than daughters to China, families since the 1970s have been sending their sons and daughters in more equal numbers. Among middle-class and elite diasporic Chinese, studying abroad in American universities is now a common practice of accumulating cultural capital (Nonini 1997; Ong 1999). In fact, I was surprised to learn of the large number of Panamanian Chinese who attended or are attending American universities, ranging from Stanford University to the University of Central Florida, from Northwestern University to the University of California, and from the University of Chicago to the University of Louisiana. Although many diasporic Chinese return to Panama after finishing their degrees, either becoming employed in their fields of expertise

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or deciding to work in their family businesses, a significant number remain in the United States. During the Christmas holidays, planeloads of Panamanian Chinese who have settled in different parts of the United States return to visit family in Panama. Some of the key places of settlement include Los Angeles, the San Francisco Bay Area, New York, Houston, and Miami. At Christmas parties, extended families with members both living in Panama and visiting from abroad congregate to catch up with one another and to share stories and good cheer. Multiple generations of diasporic Chinese dance salsa and meringue to the tunes of Juan Luis Guerra and Ruben Blades. Sometimes, they even karaoke to songs by the Beatles, Frank Sinatra, and Julio Iglesias. Speaking English and Spanish, they chat about the various Panamanian food specialties they have craved so much while living abroad: platanos en tentación, tres leches, sancocho, and carimañolas. Some even claim to miss the year-round warm, humid weather of Panama. Francisco, a Panamanian Chinese living in the San Francisco Bay Area, was visiting his family when I met him. His family history is a typical example of this immigration trajectory. Born in Panama in 1973, Francisco moved to Atlanta, Georgia, after graduating from high school to pursue a university degree in electrical engineering. After graduation, he moved to California to get his master’s degree. Now in his late twenties, he describes his own trajectory in these terms: Going to school in the States is not a big deal in my family. My mom attended the University of Texas. Almost all my uncles on my dad’s side of the family studied in the U.S. In fact, one of them stayed here after he graduated. He got married and had three kids there. And one of my aunts also got married to an American and is living in New York. And . . . almost all my cousins either finished or are getting degrees in the U.S. Most of them are staying, I think. As for me, I will probably come back once I’m done, but who knows? There are things I miss about Panama, like my family, the warmth of the people, and the laid-back culture. I really like the feeling of closeness here, in the sense that wherever you go, you are bound to run into people who you know, and you don’t have to explain yourself. But . . . I also like the U.S. a lot. There are more work opportunities, and there is so much to explore.

Just as earlier generations of diasporic Chinese formed transpacific families between Panama and China, this new version of transnational family formation between Panama and the United States has become commonplace. Francisco is the second generation of Panamanian Chinese in his

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family to travel to the United States for education. The question for him, and for many others in his position, remains: Will he stay in the United States or return to Panama after graduation? Where will he make his home?

Conclusion The complexity of diasporic Chinese citizenship lies in the community’s intersectional positioning within and between three separate national trajectories. Though significantly shaped by Panamanian nationalism, diasporic Chinese formation was also greatly influenced by U.S. colonialism and China’s political history. While Arias’s policies in the 1940s stripped the Chinese of their right to citizenship and removed their means of livelihood, American military expansion in Panama provided them with a set of alternative opportunities. The fate of diasporic Chinese was further determined by the communist victory in China, which put an end to their dreams of return. During this period of incredible change, the Chinese were forcefully made aware of their vulnerability within Panama and of the impossibility of their returning to China. For them, the idea of “home” was forever changed. It was no longer safeguarded in a distant place and neither could they simply assume automatic belonging in Panama. “Home” became more an open-ended question than an assumption. Its contingency inspired a variety of responses. Diasporic Chinese began reworking their ideas of where home is and will be, developing new strategies of sociopolitical integration in Panama, and turning toward the United States to acquire what they perceive to be the necessary cultural capital to ensure security and mobility. As I hope this close look at the triangulation of three national forces— that of the homeland, the nation of residence, and the colonial administration—during one particular decade makes clear, the conventional binaristic homeland/nation-of-residence approach to understanding diasporic formations is insufficient. The study of diaspora must look beyond this dual relationship of where one is from and where one lives to explore other vectors and forces that coalesce in shaping diasporic subjectivity and belonging. By situating our analysis in a transnational context, we can also see that Panamanian Chinese do not define diasporic citizenship in the restricted context of legal citizenship within a single nation-state; rather, they construct belonging in a broader cultural-political sense that involves locating “home” in a complexly interconnected world.

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The 1940s were clearly a cataclysmic decade for the Chinese in Panama, putting in motion a set of social trajectories that would change the diasporic landscape: a highly organized community structure, a racially conscious Chinese identity, and a remapping of home in the diaspora. And it was this social landscape that the immigrants of the 1980s would encounter and from which a different set of social dynamics and politics would evolve. The next chapter addresses this changed world. But before we turn to more recent events, I want to close with one final historical footnote. Without question, the Arias administration caused tremendous turmoil for the Chinese, and in fact, as Juan conveyed, “his ideology lasted longer than his reign.” To this day, diasporic Chinese who lived through Arias’s persecution still harbor strong resentments against him, the mere mention of his name igniting expressions of contempt and hatred. Despite Arias’s determined efforts to remove the Chinese and restrict their economic activities, however, he was successful only in temporarily stalling their integration into Panama. In the past sixty years, the Chinese have recovered, perhaps even surpassed, their pre-1940s social, political, and economic position in Panama. With astute leadership, the community was able to seize this moment of crisis to reorganize, restructure, and further consolidate its networks and resources. Not only have the Chinese regained their virtual monopoly in the small-retail market, but Panamanian-born Chinese now also figure prominently as some of the most talented professionals in their fields. And despite continuing restrictions on Chinese immigration, the community has grown rather than diminished. The distance the Chinese have come is perhaps most strikingly measured by an incident from the end of Arias’s own life. One afternoon, as I sat eating fried yucca with Joyce in her study, she patiently recalled pieces of history, weaving them together into a coherent whole. Wrapping up her discussion of Arnulfo Arias, she paused, looking directly into my eyes before proceeding again, this time speaking more slowly than before. “Near the end of his life, when [Arias] was desperately searching for the most capable doctor to perform surgery on him,” she said, “of all the doctors in Panama . . . he ended up choosing Ernesto Chu . . . a Panamanian Chinese. . . . He just couldn’t trust anybody else with his life.” She smiled, shaking her head slowly and knowingly. “Isn’t life just so ironic?

5

 Immigrant Dreams and Nightmares Remaking Community Amid New Migrations

My first encounter with Panama was also when I learned, through firsthand experience, about the “Chinese immigration problem” there. In June 1994, I embarked on a preliminary research trip and took the infamous milk run (el lechero) flown by Central-American-based airlines from Los Angeles to Panama. The flight takes its name from its stopovers at the capitals of Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica to drop off passengers, conjuring up the image of a close-knit community. As soon as the plane landed in Panama, I rushed to the immigration area as quickly as I could and handed the officer my PRC passport. (At the time, I was not a naturalized U.S. citizen.) She inspected it, flipping through each of the pages methodically and looking up at me once in a while to make sure I was the face that appeared on the document. After a couple of minutes of careful examination, she passed my passport to another immigration officer, who quickly led me into a small windowless room next to the immigration stalls. Patiently I waited alone without knowing why I had been brought there. The second officer returned, and I asked him what the problem was. He ignored me and led me to another room. I was slightly relieved to see a woman officer sitting behind the desk. The fear of traveling alone as a single woman is always present, but the fact that I was traveling in Central America, where disappearances and political repression had been common in the not-so-very-distant past, made it that much worse. At that moment in the detention room, I was acutely aware that anything could happen. The presence of another woman in the room did not guarantee anything, but somehow it gave me a bit of comfort. I had not anticipated any problems with my passport or visa. Before boarding the plane, I had made certain that every document was in order. Because Panama (like all the other Central American countries) has no

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formal relations with the People’s Republic of China, I was required to file a special application through the Panamanian consulate in San Francisco. In four years of dealing with similar bureaucratic procedures with other Central American countries, I had never had any problems before. Scrutiny, yes—but being detained was something altogether new. I asked again for an explanation, this time directing my request to the woman officer. She seemed hesitant, replying that they could not locate their copy of my visa approval. In response, I assured her that everything was in order, but she would not budge and simply told me to sit down and wait while they looked for the misplaced document. An hour passed, then two. I began to get impatient and frustrated. I asked if I could do something to speed up the process. I pulled out my list of contacts and flipped through my stack of business cards of people I knew in Panama. I asked if they wanted to call the Panamanian consulate in San Francisco. Out of nervousness, I even began to tell them about my research project and my scheduled presentation at the University of Santa María La Antigua. Luckily, something I said must have changed their minds, because after more than two hours of being detained in the immigration office, I was finally escorted out to the waiting area. While I at first naively assumed that what I had just gone through must be standard practice for all visa-holding travelers, my friend who was waiting at the airport soon informed me that, because of the increase in illegal Chinese immigration to Panama in the late 1980s, anyone coming in with a Chinese passport was likely to be inspected with the utmost care. And in the same breath, he asked, “Did you give them any money? Did they ask?” Unaware of what he was implying, I answered, “No,” to which he responded, “Oh. You probably would have gotten out faster if you gave them some money.” And he let out a sarcastic chuckle. As I thought back over exactly what had transpired in that office, I realized the officers never did find my “visa approval,” and I began to wonder if it had ever existed. Despite speaking American-accented Spanish, having intentionally dressed in the typical American khaki-and-denim attire, and carrying a travel backpack that can only signify a Western traveler, I had nonetheless been mistaken for a “fresh-off-the-plane” Chinese immigrant trying to enter Panama illegally. My being Chinese American had little currency there. I had been detained because I was Chinese and I was carrying a PRC passport. In sharing this first encounter with Panama’s immigration office, I want to underscore the varying privileges and liabilities associ-

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ated with different passports. Indeed, passports and passport holders are not treated equally everywhere. For people carrying European and North American passports, traveling across borders is often simply a matter of showing proof of identification. For others, however, the passport they carry determines whether they can enter their countries of destination.1 (Certainly the significance we place on technologies of identification has become increasingly clear since the events of September 11, 2001.) This incident not only provided personal insight into the intense scrutiny to which Chinese passport holders were subjected but also called my attention to the “problem of Chinese immigration.” In the months that followed, I was told by Panamanians of Chinese and non-Chinese descent alike that there are at least two different groups of Chinese in Panama: the recent Chinese immigrants and the Panamanian Chinese. When I asked who these groups consisted of, the typical response was that the “recent immigrants” are those who immigrated to Panama during Manuel Noriega’s military regime in the 1980s, whereas “Panamanian Chinese” are those who immigrated before the 1980s and their Panamanian-born descendants. My first inclination was to interpret these categories as ways of representing degrees of cultural assimilation. With further probing, however, I began to realize that these categories reflected more than just the length of time that people have lived in Panama or the acquisition of certain cultural knowledge and attitudes. It became clear to me that specific sets of cultural characteristics were attributed to these two groups, differentiating and separating them into two distinct entities. I would ask, “Do you mean that the recent immigrants are different because they have just recently arrived and have not yet learned the language, the customs, the way of life here?” To my surprise, Panamanian Chinese often responded, “These immigrants are a different kind of Chinese altogether,” implying that it was not a matter of learning certain cultural behaviors and practices, and that the newer immigrants could never become like them, that their difference was much more profound, perhaps even unchangeable. In my encounters with non-Chinese Panamanians, I noticed that they often expressed respect and admiration for the Panamanian Chinese, describing them as polite, educated, respectful, well-groomed, honest, hardworking, and smart. In contrast, they regarded recent Chinese immigrants as rude, ignorant, dirty, disrespectful, and dishonest. On several occasions they complained about recent immigrants’ inappropriate appearance, claiming that they “walk around with their boxers and slippers

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in public.” To a large extent, Panamanian Chinese echoed these descriptions and sentiments. In fact, many unabashedly expressed a strong antagonism against the recent immigrants, blaming them for giving the Chinese a “bad image” and accusing them of bringing crime and the Chinese mafia into Panama. Even the most sympathetic Panamanian Chinese would comment that the recent immigrants “go a little too far, that they need to be a little more cautious about public appearance and social manners.” Roberto Him was born in Panama and had lived in China for a few years before returning to Panama just before 1949. His immigration history situates him in the category of Panamanian Chinese. However, his ability to speak Spanish, Cantonese, and English gives him access to different sets of conversations within the community. He understands the different worldviews of the early immigrant generation and the Panamanian-born generations, and he sees himself as someone who bridges the two groups and who tries to resolve differences between them. He and his wife, who was also born in Panama, both come from well-established and well-known Chinese families in Panama. They grew up in the Barrio Chino (Chinatown) together, and after they got married, they moved into a middle-class neighborhood on the outskirts of Panama City. Now in their mid sixties, Roberto and his wife remain extremely active in community activities. In one conversation, Roberto told me that they had recently sold one of their businesses and that he is now only managing their hardware store in Panama City. It prompted him to recall this incident involving a nonChinese Panamanian: “Not too long ago, I went to order some supplies for my store. I didn’t have the total amount with me, so I told the owner I would come back tomorrow to pay him the rest. He looked at me, up and down, then said, ‘You must be from the earlier generation of Chinese. I can trust you. The new immigrants, they are a different breed of people. They can’t be trusted. They’ll steal and take from you.’ That’s what he told me. You see . . . people make these judgments.” This was his even-handed way of stating his concerns about the new immigrants. Even though Roberto avoided expressing his explicit opinion about them, his own position was clear. By not questioning this person’s opinion of the new immigrants, he in effect endorsed it and conceded that these distinctions have real consequences for the way people view diasporic Chinese. When I spoke with recently arrived Chinese immigrants about the dif-

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ferences between them and the Panamanian Chinese, they presented quite a different explanation. I met Clarita through a good friend of mine. She had immigrated to Panama in 1988. I remember even at our first meeting, she was forthcoming with her opinions. She claimed that Panamanian Chinese aren’t really “Chinese”: “They don’t have any sense of being Chinese. They have no regard for their fellow Chinese; they treat us badly, disrespectfully. They don’t act Chinese; they don’t even speak Chinese. They have turned ‘Panamanian.’ They look down at us because we are new here, because we don’t know the language. They don’t help us . . . they don’t want to help us.” Clarita, who was in her mid thirties, had worked as a domestic for several Panamanian Chinese households when she first arrived at Panama. She is now working as a massage therapist with her husband, who practices Chinese medicine; together they own a small doctor’s office in the financial district of Panama City. In the summer of 1994, the differentiation between the “recent immigrants” and the “Panamanian Chinese” was carefully guarded by those who claimed to be “Panamanian Chinese.” By reproducing images of the recent immigrant as “dangerous,” “deviant,” and “criminal,” they were defining themselves in opposition to them, boasting of their good citizenship and exceptional character. The recent immigrants, on the other hand, were contesting the cultural authenticity and allegiance of the Panamanian Chinese, whom they considered to have become “Panamanian” and to have lost all concern for their compatriots. Yet as I discovered later, the two groups had come together at a critical moment in 1990 to assert community. In light of what I had observed in 1994, I was quite surprised to hear about this unexpected alliance. Did these tensions and conflicts between them develop after 1990, or were they present before then? If they existed before, what brought them together in 1990, and what subsequently pulled them apart? What does this tell us about the nature of community and, more specifically, the formation of ethnic communities? This chapter focuses on the local politics of belonging among the Chinese in Panama. It is worth emphasizing here that the category of “Chinese” is culturally mediated, context specific, and embedded in a web of power relations. As such, the “Chinese community” is a contested and evolving collectivity. This chapter elaborates on the process by which recent immigrants and Panamanian Chinese, occupying contrasting subject positions, negotiate difference. It explores the dueling forces that divide the community and that pull them together into a working coalition.

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By separating the diasporic Chinese in Panama along the lines of recent immigrants and Panamanian Chinese for the sake of analysis, I am not suggesting that these are altogether coherent and stable groups in and of themselves. Rather, I intend to show how the distinction between these two groups is produced and maintained by a number of factors. The Chinese in Panama are heterogeneous and can be divided in numerous ways. My decision to highlight this distinction therefore reflects less on objective categories than on my consistent encounter with this thematic division as expressed by my interviewees. Indeed, the debates between recent immigrants and Panamanian Chinese over what constitutes “Chineseness” in Panama reflect their negotiation of the terms of belonging. At the same time, these debates do not occur in social isolation and are, in fact, generated by and contribute to nationwide discussions about Chinese immigration. My argument here is that debates about belonging within the local Chinese community are intertwined with their collective struggle to claim belonging to the national Panamanian community. In other words, differences within the Chinese community are accentuated or deemphasized depending on the national circumstances confronting ethnic Chinese as a whole. When the state’s actions toward one segment of the community become potentially threatening to the entire community, ethnic Chinese come together and assert their sense of collectivity. In this respect, notions of Chineseness and ethnic belonging are always being produced and redefined in relation to claims of national belonging. And the coherence of this local community of diasporic Chinese is very much linked to their collective political standing in relation to Panama. As discussed in the Introduction, diasporic citizenship involves the intersectional processes of negotiating belonging within multiple scales of “community.” In particular, this chapter examines the interaction between the local-internal struggles within the diasporic Chinese community and the community’s relationship to the Panamanian nation. What comes across clearly is the continual and interactive negotiation of “community” on both the local and national levels. The following discussion is divided into three sections, the first of which describes the explosive events of 1990 and details the community’s response to them.2 The second section examines the various tensions between these recent immigrants and the Panamanian Chinese. Finally, the third section explores some of the factors that help to define common ground and that have enabled the emergence of a collective consciousness.

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Mobilizing Community “Every day, thousands of Chinese come through the Tocumen airport, and like magic, they disappear as quickly as they appear. Just like that.” Oscar, a second-generation Panamanian Chinese, snapped his fingers and continued, “I don’t know where they go . . . maybe to Chinatown, maybe to Chorrera, but they just keep pouring in and they keep disappearing. And these are Chinese from the mainland, not Taiwanese or Hong Kongnese. They were definitely mainland Chinese.” As difficult as it was to imagine a constant flow of Chinese immigrants coming into Panama, Oscar was not the only person who described this scenario. Similar stories were circulating elsewhere; it seemed as though everyone believed some version of this urban legend. Shortly after the U.S. invasion of Panama and the subsequent removal of Manuel Noriega’s military regime in December 1989, discussions of immigration—especially Chinese immigration—began making their way into Panamanian newspapers and other popular media. In fact, just a few days after the invasion, it was reported that large numbers of Chinese immigrants had gone to the refugee camp on Albrook Field to request political-refugee visas from the U.S. authorities guarding the camp.3 Later, in February 1990, José Chen Barría, then director of immigration, “reported that between the years 1985–1989, 20,537 Chinese had entered [Panama], each paying around $5,000 for a tourist or an investor visa and that half of these had left Panama with false identification cards and passports for the United States, Canada, Mexico, Guatemala and other countries, each paying about $10,000, which all made up a big business with a grand total of $200 million” (Mon 1998, 74). The Chinese, however, were not the only culprits. Undocumented Cubans, Dominicans, and people who were referred to as “Hindus” were also reported, although concerns over these groups quickly faded, leaving Chinese immigrants as the main targets of public scrutiny. Part of the reason for this, I suggest, is the long history of anti-Chinese immigration sentiment in Panama (chapter 4). At first, these articles explicitly associated Chinese immigration with Noriega’s military regime, attributing the improper use of Panamanian documents to the corruption and greediness of Noriega’s administration. In time, however, the Chinese themselves were seen to be at fault for the situation. On April 19, 1990, as details of the international trafficking of Chinese immigrants emerged, Raúl Ossa de la Cruz, president of the Cre-

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dentials Commission of the Legislative Assembly, filed a formal complaint with the third district attorney of Panama, protesting against the “illegal” and lucrative business of selling Panamanian nationality to Chinese nationals. In the formal complaint, he targeted the Chinese and requested “a search of the Civil Registry to avoid the destruction of evidence and raids throughout the country in search of Chinese who had [false] Panamanian identification cards in order to determine how they obtained such documents” (Mon 1998, 74). No one responded to his request, leading Ossa, on July 6, to accuse the government of President Guillermo Endara of being “indifferent to and negligent on this serious and explosive problem of illegal Chinese immigration.”4 By mid-July, Director of Immigration Rubén Álvarez was using words like “mafia” to describe people involved in the “trafficking” of immigrants, reminding the public that these “mafias” that traffic in Arabs, Dominicans, Chinese, and El Salvadorans were still present in the country.5 The shift from associating Chinese immigration with the improper distribution of documents by the Noriega regime to seeing it as part of a mafia scheme channeled public attention away from the Panamanian state to internationally organized crime. The accountability of the state and the involvement of government officials in this complicated process thus quickly disappeared, and media attention shifted toward orientalist constructions of the “Chinese mafia.” Public discourse suddenly took on a much more serious, incriminating tone. While recent immigrants had at first been described as “undocumented” or “falsely documented,” media representations quickly transformed them into “illegal” immigrants and “criminals.” Subsequently, they became associated with all kinds of emerging urban problems. For example, one reporter quoted Minister of Government Ramón Lima as saying, “It is certain. . . . Not one, but at least five Chinese gangs, presumably from Hong Kong, have in the past few months been extorting from the Chinese community residing in Panama.”6 As these newspaper articles appeared with more frequency, the public response quickly gained momentum. With little knowledge about the situation confronting recent immigrants, these characterizations soon seized people’s imaginations. Then, on July 18–20, 1990, Panama’s Judicial Technical Police, along with local Zone Police, raided the homes of more than a hundred Chinese immigrants in the cities of Panama, Colón, and Chorrera (a suburb just outside of Panama City). Without warning, the police charged into the private homes and retail stores of ethnic Chinese who were suspected to

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be undocumented immigrants or to be hiding undocumented immigrants. According to the community historian Ramón Mon, “Homes were entered into violently, women were arrested, some of whom were nursing infants, and all kinds of outrages took place” (1998, 74). Altogether, the police arrested over 110 Chinese men and women. One television station conveniently had cameras at the scene to film the police raids and the mass arrests in Chorrera, which were aired on the national news later that evening. The televising of these state-sponsored police raids ignited the already heated atmosphere and widespread public concern about Chinese immigration. Public reaction in response to this mass-mediated display of police force and state power was extremely mixed, as reflected by newspaper articles and editorials. One needs to bear in mind that the U.S. invasion of Panama was still fresh in people’s minds. Only seven months had passed since then, and Panama was still in social, economic, and political disarray. The mass arrests of undocumented Chinese served as both a temporary distraction from and a reminder of the social chaos left in the wake of the invasion. The timing of this incident, as well as the context in which it arose, warrants further examination. If the United States had not invaded Panama and if Manuel Noriega had not been ousted, would these immigrants have been considered “illegal” in the first place? On what basis were the visas and passports that were distributed and endorsed by Noriega’s regime determined to be false or illegal? I suspect that the “problem” of Chinese immigration could have been framed very differently. Under Noriega’s regime, the influx of Chinese immigrants could very well have been accepted as the result of a change in Panama’s immigration policy. My intention here is not to make a legal argument for or against Chinese immigration but rather to highlight the link between domestic/national politics and geopolitics. The U.S. invasion of Panama, by removing Noriega’s regime, certainly had both direct and indirect effects on the 1990 action against Chinese immigrants. Not only did it change the political trajectory of the country, it also disrupted the northward flow of Chinese migration from Panama. The Chinese immigration situation was, of course, much more complicated than it appeared. Certainly, it involved an international network of border-crossing facilitators, or “snakeheads.”7 However, I am told by a number of informants that these border crossings also required the participation of Panamanian officials, immigration lawyers in Panama, tour

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agencies, and Panamanian Chinese. While some immigrants had knowingly purchased “false” documents, many had received valid tourist visas from the Panamanian consulate in Hong Kong. Additionally, another group of Chinese had immigrated as contract laborers, and their visas and travel expenses had been paid for by their future Panamanian Chinese employers. The existence of this group in Panama was not publicly revealed until 1993 (I shall return to this issue later). The diverse circumstances under which these immigrants had come to Panama, the inability to determine the validity of their documents, and the extensive networks of people involved in facilitating Chinese immigration all made the issue extremely complex and potentially embarrassing for many. Th e C h i n e s e R e s p o n s e Given the strong antagonisms I witnessed between the recent immigrants and Chinese Panamanians in 1994, I was surprised to learn that within twenty-four hours of the 1990 raids, the Chinese Association called an emergency meeting. Executive members from all the Chinese organizations in Panama came together to discuss how to respond to this action by the government.8 Arturo Chu, president of the association at the time, was infuriated by the unnecessarily harsh treatment of Chinese immigrants. According to him and other senior immigrant men in the association, the raids were yet another ethnically motivated attack. “Why,” they asked, “were the Chinese targeted when there were so many other undocumented immigrants from Latin America and the Caribbean?” According to several newspaper articles in La Prensa, public officials had acknowledged that the Chinese were only one of many groups involved in international networks of human trafficking, including “Arabs, Dominicans, El Salvadorans, Cubans, and Hindus.”9 The association’s leaders asked: “Why were the Chinese publicly humiliated?” Several others at the meeting drew parallels between these police raids and the anti-Chinese campaign of 1940 led by Arnulfo Arias (see chapter 4). A senior member of the association recalled saying, “They are targeting us again because we are Chinese. They envy us because they see that we come to Panama, work hard, and prosper. Even though we are different from these new immigrants, we are all still Chinese [emphasis added]. They look down at us. They abuse us and think that we won’t react. It is happening now, it has happened before, and it will continue to happen unless we do something about it.” Their memory of persecution during the 1940s in Panama served to make the connection between themselves

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and the recent immigrants. Rather than further disassociating them from the recent immigrants, historical memory enabled them to establish commonality based on their shared experience of political violence. As with diasporic Africans for whom the memory of slavery helps reproduce collective identification and consciousness (Gilroy 1993), memories of Chinese persecution also help draw the boundaries of Chinese belonging. Undoubtedly, the televising of the police raids and arrests brought that experience closer to home and invoked memories of collective violence and pain. Setting aside their differences with the recent immigrants, Chinese Panamanians realized that they needed to intervene in order to limit the rise of anti-Chinese sentiment in Panama. There was already talk of deportation, and the long-standing resentment against Chinese domination of the small-retail-market sector had resurfaced. In time, public debates would be accompanied by charges that the new immigrants were monopolizing economic opportunities that should rightfully be reserved for “Panamanians.” Fearing a repeat of the anti-Chinese eruption of the 1940s, the people present at the meeting decided to proceed in several ways. They began collecting a petition from members of the ethnic Chinese community in Panama to protest the cruel and inhumane treatment of the Chinese immigrants. They also proceeded to contact potential political allies within the Panamanian government, such as José Chen Barría, who is part Chinese and had served as director of immigration just before President Endara’s administration. The group also requested support from the Embassy of the Republic of China. And lastly, the Chinese Association directly approached the president of Panama, Guillermo Endara, to propose the formation of a special committee to investigate this matter. Aside from these official efforts, a number of Chinese shopkeepers organized their own protest. According to Jorge Cheng, an active member of the Chinese Association, the shopkeepers called one another to organize a nationwide collective strike. “[The shopkeepers] did it because they were afraid of being raided by the police and because they wanted to show solidarity with the Chinese immigrants. Of course, they also wanted to show the Panamanian people that the Chinese are not dispensable. They held the power in the small retail market.” Throughout Panama, from small rural areas to the urban centers, Chinese shopkeepers closed their stores for several days, partly out of fear and partly in protest. Because these small stores are often the only providers of food

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and basic household items in the rural areas, this forcefully conveyed their message. Together, these tactics added tremendous momentum to the mobilization effort. Th e Ta i w a n e s e E m b a s s y ’ s R e s p o n s e The Taiwanese embassy could provide only limited assistance to the recent Chinese immigrants, because they were citizens not of the ROC but of the PRC. Nonetheless, the Taiwanese ambassador, Admiral Soong Chang-Chih, issued a public statement, reprinted in La Prensa, expressing his hopes that President Endara’s government would “resolve the Chinese immigration problem with humanitarianism and goodwill.”10 Admiral Soong went on to express the need to find a “peaceful and positive solution, because force would not set a good precedent,” saying that the solid and harmonious relations between the government of Panama and ethnic Chinese, who had been in Panama for over 150 years,11 should not be overlooked.12 The admiral also pointed out that in addition to those who used false documentation to enter Panama, there were also those who came with legal documents issued by the Panamanian consulate in Hong Kong. He used the fact that the Panamanian government had been unable to distinguish the legitimate documents from the illegitimate ones to stress the unfair and incorrect assumption that all recent immigrants had entered Panama illegally. Finally, Soong appealed to humanitarian values by calling attention to the repression of dissidents in and around Tiananmen Square in Beijing in June 1989, which might have contributed to the large wave of Chinese immigration to Panama. By thus reframing the terms of the discussion, the ambassador turned attention away from the criminalization of these immigrants and instead painted the recent immigrants as victims of two bad governments: the Manuel Noriega military regime and the People’s Republic of China. Although it was legally unable to do any more for the recent immigrants, the ROC embassy was criticized by many senior members of the community for not responding more forcefully. The situation illustrated the limits of the ROC government’s ability to protect its “Chinese” constituents, since in reality it could only legitimately protect its own citizens, who number in the hundreds in Panama. Some quickly took this opportunity to criticize Panama’s lack of formal relations with the PRC, the Chinese state of which most Chinese immigrants are citizens. They were quick to point out the futility of the ROC embassy in responding to the needs of the Chinese community in Panama.

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Formation of a Special Commission Under tremendous pressure from all sides, President Endara formed a special commission consisting of government officials (Geomara de Jones, Raúl Ossa de la Cruz, and Mary Troya) and three representatives from the Chinese Association (Edith Lao de Barahona, Jorge Federico Lee, and Eduardo Yin). Two of the three Chinese Association representatives had been political figures at one point or another: Edith Lao de Barahona had been vice mayor of Panama City, and Jorge Federico Lee had been minister of government and justice as well as director of the Colón Free Trade Zone. Endara’s decision did not go uncriticized, and newspaper caricatures suggested that he had not only shirked confronting the Chinese immigration problem but had sided with the Chinese immigrants and acted against the interests of the “Panamanian” people (Mon 1998). The special commission eventually agreed to redocument the Chinese immigrants. On October 30, 1990, members of the commission and volunteers helped file official papers for 4,300 immigrants who showed up for the redocumentation program and census-taking process. The procedure for filing for immigration and naturalization is extremely complicated and lengthy.13 It takes a minimum of five years and three months’ residence in Panama before one can apply for citizenship. Even lengthier is the procedure to apply for a permit to engage in retail businesses. While one can apply for a permit to operate wholesale businesses and industry-related businesses as soon as one obtains a residence visa, to be eligible to apply for a retail business work permit requires three years of being a Panamanian citizen. Without considering the usual bureaucratic delays in the immigration process, it thus takes a minimum of eight years and three months before one can apply for a work permit in the retail business sector. In short, these immigration and naturalization procedures are designed to prohibit, or at least delay, immigrants from entering the retail sector. Furthermore, these barriers seem to target Chinese immigrants in particular, because they are the ones who historically have been most likely to go into this sector. As I mentioned in chapter 4, Chinese Panamanians have dominated the small retail market, especially small grocery stores and laundries, since the late 1800s. These restrictions on citizenship and permits to operate retail businesses are the state’s attempt to contain the proliferation of Chinese-owned businesses. Thanks to the mobilization efforts organized by the Chinese Association and Chinese business owners, the Chinese community was able to

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get thousands of undocumented immigrants redocumented. Notwithstanding this significant act of solidarity, various factors continue to divide the Chinese in Panama. We turn to those next.

Immigrant Dreams and Nightmares A good friend of mine who had taught Spanish to recent Chinese immigrants introduced me to several of his former students. With his introduction, I was able to gain their trust from the beginning to some extent; nevertheless, given the social stigma around undocumented immigration, neither they nor I wanted to broach this topic right away. After a series of visits and conversations, however, I finally felt comfortable asking them about their immigration experience and their relations with the Panamanian Chinese. I became good friends with one couple in particular, who had immigrated in the late 1980s. Unlike most recent immigrants, Dr. Woo and Clarita (who was mentioned earlier this chapter) did not work in the small retail sector. Instead, after several years of hard work, they had opened a small medical clinic. During the first summer of my field research, I visited them regularly at their medical office and spoke with them in between their sessions with patients, who were mostly non-Chinese. Clarita was in charge of communicating with the non-Chinesespeaking patients. She had learned enough Spanish to communicate effectively with their clients and seemed quite comfortable using the language. Dr. Woo, on the other hand, could only understand simple phrases and was reluctant to speak it. In our conversations, we always spoke Cantonese. Although Dr. Woo and Clarita had come to Panama separately, they had both immigrated in order to pursue dreams of upward social mobility. While Dr. Woo had originally intended to go to the United States from Panama, the U.S. invasion cut short his plans. Now in his late fifties, Dr. Woo recalled how he had reached Panama: The way I found out about this, about coming to Panama, was through a friend of mine. Through this friend, I met this Chinese from Panama who was visiting China. He claimed that for $5,000, anyone could come to Panama. I got my tourist visa paper approved in Hong Kong. The snakehead gave it to me in China. I then applied to get out of China and into Hong Kong. Once I got to Hong Kong, I went to the Panamanian consulate and picked up my tourist visa. The amount I paid him covered a round-trip airline ticket [to

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Panama], a tourist visa, and one-month room and board in the snakehead’s house while he got my residence card. I arrived in 1989 just before the invasion. And when the U.S. attacked Panama . . . in all that disarray, the snakehead took my money without ever giving me my residence card or passport. I had intended to go to the United States, but after the invasion, I knew that it was not going to happen. But I wasn’t too worried. Once you get here, there’s really nothing to worry about. I stayed in Barrio Chino for one month and shared a flat with four to five other people. There was one guy there who was waiting for his American tourist visa. He was so bored. He’d been waiting for a few months already. I don’t know what happened with him.

Dr. Woo’s story is consistent with what others have told me. Immigration packages usually included airline tickets, a tourist visa to Panama, and room and board for the first month. The fees for these packages ranged between $3,000 and $7,000, depending on when people arrived. In the mid 1980s, the price was much less than it was by the late 1980s. Those who used this method of immigration tended to be educated, from a middle-class background, and from the urban areas of Canton (Guangdong) in southern China. For most, these packages were purchased with funds collected from the entire family; despite their middle-class backgrounds, many of these immigrants—like Dr. Woo, who had been trained in Chinese medicine in China—experienced downward social mobility once they arrived in Panama. Like her husband, Clarita had come to Panama by purchasing a tourist visa. She had bought her visa for $3,000, and her family had paid for her airplane ticket. Her brother had immigrated a few years before her, and despite his warnings that life in Panama was not easy, she decided to take her chances. Clarita had been a schoolteacher, a respectable and fairly well paid position in China. Not understanding why she would want to give up a seemingly comfortable situation, I asked her why she had chosen to leave China. She responded, “In China, no matter how hard you work, you can never save any money. Your income was always just enough for your basic expenses. . . . Before, I had the perception that all Chinese emigrants were wealthy. I thought that maybe if I left China, I could also become wealthy. All I thought about was that if I worked hard, saved some money, I could eventually start my own business. I never expected that it would be this difficult.” When Clarita first arrived in Panama, she worked as a live-in domestic servant for a Chinese Panamanian family who paid her less than $50 a month. Working more than fourteen hours a day, six days a week, she was always tired and hungry. She described the experience: “There was

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so much work to be done. Every day I had to mop the floors, clean the windows, do laundry, iron, cook. They kept me busy from morning to night. The worst thing was that the family ate at the most unusual hours. Lunch was at 2 p.m. and dinner was at 10 p.m. Of course, being a maid, I couldn’t eat until after they were finished. In less than a month, I was getting these terrible stomach pains, unbearable pains. That’s when I met him.” She pointed to her husband sitting behind his desk and continued, “He was my doctor. Of course, I wasn’t allowed to snack during the day either. Eventually, I just couldn’t take it anymore.” Through a friend who had also immigrated in the 1980s, she found another job working as a domestic servant for another Chinese Panamanian family, who paid her $100 a month, and she rented a small apartment with another friend, who had also recently immigrated. “Imagine that! I was getting paid $100 compared to $50 at my first job. I was so happy. I can’t believe how terrible my first employers were. They paid me so little!” When I asked her why she didn’t seek help from other Chinese Panamanians or Chinese Panamanian organizations, she shook her head and said, “None of them want to help you. You’ll be lucky if they don’t eat you alive.” Dr. Woo also shook his head and interjected, “They don’t help anyone. All they think about is money and themselves.” He pointed to a framed medical certificate hanging on the wall, and made his point. “See that? That’s how they help you. I have to pay a [Panamanian Chinese] to use his name, his certificate to open this office. . . . It means that he owns the office, and he is the doctor of this office. If anyone asks, I am just an employee here. . . . It has not been easy in Panama.” “Have you considered returning to China?” I asked. “Returning?! No! We can’t return to China! People will think we are failures,” Dr. Woo explained. “In China, people think it is so easy to make money abroad. They won’t believe you if you tell them that life is hard here. They think that everyone who goes abroad automatically becomes rich, so if you return empty-handed, they’ll think you are loser. No . . . we can’t return. Once you leave, you can’t really go back, no matter how bad it is here.” Clarita nodded and let out a sigh. For recent immigrants like Dr. Woo and Clarita who do not have an already established kinship or social network to help them, the first few years are the hardest. I remember asking another immigrant man whether he was happy in Panama, and he replied, “That’s a bad question. It doesn’t matter if I am happy here or not. I am here and I can’t go back to Hong Kong.” The ambivalence expressed by Dr. Woo, Clarita, and other recent immigrants reflects their

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sense of being caught between a rock and a hard place, with nowhere else to go. Despite their relative success in Panama at this point, Clarita was full of curiosity about life in the United States. In exchange for answers to my questions, she often asked me about life in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Houston, Boston, and New York. Where had I lived? Which of these did I like better? What was the cost of living in these cities? Would it be difficult to start a business there? Were there lots of Chinese in these cities? As I answered her questions, she intermittently turned toward her husband, as if trying to lure him into her dream of immigrating to the United States. Every once in a while, she facetiously suggested, “Let’s move there.” In response to her girlish pleas, her husband smiled. When she nudged him some more with, “Come on, husband, let’s go while we are still young and still have the energy to endure,” he smiled again and replied, “You think life is easy there? We’ll have to start all over again. I am too old for that.” For Dr. Woo, who is considerably older than Clarita, the thought of immigrating to the United States now is not appealing. Once in a while, though, he would remind me that he had a son in Philadelphia, and that he might visit him soon. Donald Nonini has argued that what he calls “imaginaries of desire” help generate new social practices that aim to “transcend [the] delimited space and localizations of bodies” (1997, 205). In his study of both middle- and working-class ethnic Chinese men in Malaysia, Nonini notes that these imaginaries are rooted in people’s desire for capital and cultural accumulation. He contends that for these ethnic Chinese men, the practices produced by their imaginaries of desire are highly gendered and in fact arise from cultural constructs that allow men freedom of movement while positing women and children as locatable objects that support and enable men’s mobility. These imaginaries of desire, he contends, are in tension with “cascades of symbolic violence” (1997, 222). While ethnic Chinese men develop new social practices that help them transcend the disciplinary regimes placed upon them, they in turn reproduce another set of unequal power relations between themselves and the women and children they leave behind. Following Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guatarri, Nonini’s emphasis on desire points to the importance of collective imaginaries and the production of new social practices based on those imaginaries. While his analysis illuminates the mobility of ethnic Chinese men who are pursuing goals of capital and cultural accumulation, it opens up at least two new lines of inquiry. First, how do women

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who travel and share similar desires of movement participate in these imaginaries of desire? What different social practices do they develop in response to their imaginaries? Second, what other kinds of imaginaries of desire may lead to these practices of mobility? In my interviews with Dr. Woo and Clarita, it seemed that their aspiration to mobility did not necessarily stem only from fantasies of capital or cultural accumulation. Without question, Clarita’s interest in hearing about American cities and their comparative costs of living indicated both her desire to emigrate again and her evaluation of the viability of doing so. Moreover, her urge to emigrate stemmed more from her dissatisfaction with the lack of belonging in Panama than from any desire to make money. She seemed much more interested in leaving Panama than in going to any particular place in the United States. By comparison, Dr. Woo was less enthusiastic in general about the idea of a further emigration. For him, seeing and perhaps reuniting with his son seemed to be the main priority. The following summer, when I visited Clarita and Dr. Woo at their clinic, they warmly welcomed me. And when they learned that I was looking for a place to stay, they invited me to stay with them at their recently purchased condominium located just a few blocks from their clinic. Clarita insisted, “We have a lot of room, and we are hardly there. We intentionally bought a condo that has two bedrooms so that there would be space for Dr. Woo’s son if and when he ever visits. No one is using that now. It’s free. So, come, stay with us.” I happily accepted, thanking them for their hospitality. After seven years of hard work in Panama, Clarita and Dr. Woo were finally achieving some degree of economic mobility. Their newly acquired condominium was only one indication of what they had achieved in Panama. Moreover, they were finally finding time to meet and socialize with other Chinese immigrants. Just a year before, they had been completely absorbed in work, with no time to do much else. Now, they regularly met with friends in casinos, restaurants, and at Chinese karaoke performances. The social and educational background of Clarita and Dr. Woo reflects the general pattern of one segment of recent immigrants in Panama. Worth noting is that the 1980s influx of immigrants included a much higher number of single women than ever before. Like Clarita, educated and single women in their twenties and early thirties were immigrating to pursue their own dreams of mobility. Although there is no official record of the total number of Chinese women who immigrated to Panama dur-

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ing the 1980s, I encountered many of them working as waitresses, language teachers, secretaries, and newspaper journalists. Despite their initial period of suffering and hardship, most of the recent immigrants I interviewed seemed content with their decision to come to Panama. They told me that at the very least, they felt as though they could achieve their aspirations through hard work—that in Panama, there was the possibility of being rewarded for their ambition and perseverance. But they also acknowledged that their daily experiences of discrimination wore them down and demoralized them. They felt they were treated as second-class citizens by both Chinese and non-Chinese Panamanians. As Clarita put it, “The [non-Chinese] Panamanians look down on us because we don’t speak Spanish. They call us ‘chino’ and ‘china’ in the street. They don’t have any manners or any respect for us. . . . The Panamanian-born Chinese are almost the same. They also look down on us.” Despite their sense of nonacceptance, however, they also felt they could not return to China, at least not until they had saved enough money. Both Clarita and Dr. Woo agreed that when they first arrived in Panama, they had been tempted to return, but the thought of humiliation had kept them from turning back. Instead, in moments of difficulty, they found refuge in dreams of success and happiness. In Panama, being “Chinese” is both the reason for their being discriminated against and a source of strength and pride to them. Chinese Contract Laborers Aside from those immigrants who were able to purchase their visas and airline tickets to Panama, there are Chinese who came as contract laborers for Panamanian Chinese. Stories about this group highlight some of the key sources of antagonism between recent immigrants and Panamanian Chinese. Several informants mentioned that they knew of Panamanian Chinese who had paid for immigrants’ passage to Panama in exchange for three years’ labor. Other versions of these stories were found in newspapers. For example, an article in La Prensa reported that a large number of Chinese immigrants were brought over by “Chinese who speak Spanish and who go to China to bring people to Panama.”14 The article noted that once the immigrants arrived in Panama, the recruiters took away their legal papers. Without documentation, the immigrants had no legal status in Panama and thus were forced to work in small convenience stores until they had paid the equivalent of U.S.$20,000 in labor.15

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By calling such practices modern-day “Chinese slavery,” articles like these underscore the exploitative relationship between the recent immigrants and Panamanian Chinese. Clearly, the tension between these two groups, which has been intensified by the media’s portrayal of recent immigrants as criminals and illegal aliens, has an even deeper basis in their unequal class relations. Given the intense stigma attached to being part of a contract-labor group, their fear of public exposure, and the vulnerable position they occupy, I was able only to get third-party narratives about their situation. Across the board, my interviews revealed that recent immigrants (regardless of whether they had come as contract laborers or not) experienced harsh working conditions (such as long hours, little pay, and no respect) imposed by Panamanian Chinese. Socioeconomic class difference and opposing interests between recent immigrants and Panamanian Chinese have largely blocked any possibility of establishing mutual trust or friendly relations between the two groups. The 1980s influx of immigrants was divided into two uneven groups: those who purchased their immigration packages and those who came as contract laborers or were coerced into becoming contract laborers. Regardless of their different status, however, relations between all recent immigrants and Panamanian Chinese were often determined by their structural location vis-à-vis one another, that is, employee-employer and/or immigrant-snakehead relations. For obvious reasons, these factors were not likely to emerge in my conversations with Panamanian Chinese. Some were no doubt implicated in the process, while others may have been completely ignorant of these issues. What turned out to be the most common concern among Panamanian Chinese was the increasing rate of crime and violence committed by Chinese, which they saw as associated with the recent wave of immigration. Yet for recent immigrants, it was their experience of abuse and exploitation by Panamanian Chinese that was foremost in their minds. The gap signaled by these structural relations was further reinforced in another domain: cultural and ethnic difference. Uncontrollable Crossings Cultural constructions of recent immigrants as nomadic, rootless, and without concern for Panama have also generated tremendous tension between the recent immigrants and Panamanian Chinese. The urban legend of several planeloads of “Chinese” landing daily and vanishing as quickly as they appeared is one such example. (I put “Chinese” in quotes because

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most Panamanians use this term indiscriminately to refer to all people of East Asian background.) These accounts suggest that the recent immigrants had no intention of staying but were only using Panama as a point of transit where they could acquire new passports, exit documents, and plane tickets to North America. Panamanian Chinese claim that the immigrants’ “rootlessness” and lack of attachment to Panama actually encourages irresponsible and reckless behavior, that because these immigrants do not think of Panama as their new “home,” they are more likely to abuse it. Many people are quick to see the new immigrants’ “reckless” behavior—including gambling, extortion, and kidnapping—and their confrontational and disrespectful attitudes as consequences of their nomadism. Without a history or anticipated future in Panama, these immigrants are said to be free of social accountability and to lack the incentive to form a community. These descriptions of uncontrollable mobility and unruly behavior must be considered alongside both the dramatic demographic shift caused by this influx of recent immigrants and the cultural reconstruction of their “Hakka” identity. While both 1980s and pre-1980s immigrants largely come from the same Canton (Guangdong) region, their cultural differences and historically tenuous relations in China as distinct ethnic subgroups (Hakka versus Punti Chinese) are evoked and reproduced in Panama. While the majority of Panamanian Chinese consider themselves to be Punti (bendi, literally, “native earth”) people, most of the recent immigrants come from the Hakka (keijia, literally, “guest family”) dialect group. The president of the Chinese Panamanian Association, Horacio Lee, has estimated that Hakkas now make up about 50 percent of the total Chinese population. This rapid demographic shift undoubtedly has contributed to the antagonism of Panamanian Chinese toward the newcomers. Historically, Hakkas were from the mountainous region of northeastern Canton (Guangdong); by the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, however, they began moving into the more prosperous lowland Chungsan (Zhongshan) county, settling among the Punti people. Due to their lower economic status, lack of a native place, and distinctive language and customs, Hakkas have been stigmatized as being culturally inferior by Punti. These differences were further reinforced by Punti portrayals of themselves as “wealthy, civilized lowlanders and of Hakkas as untrustworthy, backward, mountain people” (McKeown 2001, 63). According to the linguist Mary Erbaugh, “Hakka is a hostile Cantonese coinage, as clear an epithet for impoverished wanderers as ‘Gypsy’ or

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‘Okie.’ . . . Cantonese and Min antagonists have described Hakka as rootless, poor, barbarian fighters” (1996, 197). The name “Hakka” has since been reappropriated and used affirmatively by Hakkas to express cultural pride and group identity. Relational dynamics between the two groups and the cultural constructions of Hakkas have been recreated in Panama by many early immigrant Chinese, who continue to identify closely with their clan and native place associations. For instance, according to one Panamanian Chinese, “The recent immigrants are mostly Hakka speakers. Historically, they are poor and uneducated, and they come from an area that’s not well regarded. Here, they stick to themselves and like to make trouble. They like to separate themselves from the rest of us.” Endowing recent immigrants with these additionally undesirable characteristics, Chinese Panamanians use these constructions to explain the unpleasant behavior of recent immigrants and to justify their antagonism to them. Furthermore, unquestioned stereotypes of Hakkas are transposed directly onto recent immigrants, providing evidence for the group’s distinctiveness and separation. In many ways, the cultural construction of recent Hakka immigrants to Panama resonates with early portrayals of sojourners and with the more recent description of Chinese transnationals. Nineteenth-century Chinese immigrants to the United States are often described as sojourners: people who migrated to another country for work and who would eventually return to China with their riches. Sojourners are presumed not to have any personal ties to, or interest in, their adopted lands. Their sojourn is expected to be temporary, implying that they have no real intention of staying longer than necessary (Paul Siu 1952). Similarly, recent literature on Chinese transnationals portrays immigrants as being unattached to any specific location and therefore uninterested and not politically invested in building a community. Rather, their travels and migratory movements are driven by their desire to maximize economic profits.16 Neither sojourners nor transnationals are seen as having much concern for making a home in their new locations. The depiction of Hakkas in Panama makes them resemble transnationals more than sojourners in that, whereas the sojourner actually has a final destination (real or imagined) and an anticipated homecoming, the transnational does not seem to have personal attachments to any place. Accused of being rootless and lacking a sense of personal accountability to Panama, the Hakkas are treated with distrust. For Panamanian Chinese who have been in Panama for generations

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and who have made Panama their home, the immigration scandal and the subsequent portrayals of ethnic Chinese are quite disturbing. Some even resent the defamation of their public image, which they have so carefully molded through the years. Roberto Him, who was mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, clearly alluded to feeling this way when he said, “The reputation of the Chinese has been tainted. It used to be that Chinese people were considered the best candidates for everything, especially employment. Now, the image of the Chinese has been changed. We are associated with mafias, criminals, etc. People don’t trust the Chinese as much anymore.” Since Arnulfo Arias’s persecution of the Chinese in the 1940s, Panamanian Chinese have actively pursued public relations and interactions with mainstream Panama as a means of showing their ability and willingness to integrate into Panama. As I discussed in the previous chapter, ethnic Chinese have made strides in breaking their pre-1940s image as perpetual foreigners and cultural hermits. To a large extent, their strategic integration has earned them acceptance and respect from the dominant Panamanian society. In fact, throughout my fieldwork, I was told by a number of non-Chinese Panamanians that the Chinese, in comparison with other ethnic groups—and they point to Jewish Panamanians in particular—have been exceptionally successful in integrating into Panamanian society.17 Many Panamanian Chinese now fear, however, that the negative images of recent immigrants may have unraveled much hard work. In one of my interviews with the late Arturo Chu, who had been president of the Chinese Association for many years, he expressed concern about the changing perception of the Chinese in Panama. Chu, who was then in his eighties and who had immigrated to Panama in the 1920s, lamented, “We’ve worked hard and for a long time to build a good image [of the Chinese] in Panama. Because of our racial and cultural difference, we have had to make ourselves into exceptional citizens. It’s painful to see all this work undone by these new immigrants in just a few years. Instead of being recognized as honorable, respectable people, we are now tainted by accusations of criminal behavior, of being untrustworthy and a disgrace to society.” His concern is echoed by many others. The sense of disappointment and regret that their hard-won reputation is being damaged seems to be a significant source of their antagonism toward recent immigrants. They feel as though they have to maintain a separate identity from the newcomers to preserve their image as Panama’s harmonious, honest, and hardworking “Chinese Colony.” In short, not only are

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they suspicious of the new immigrants, but they also feel they must safeguard their carefully crafted identity. It is not surprising, then, that they have tried so vehemently to distinguish themselves from the recent immigrants. Yet despite such tensions and antagonisms, it is important to note that the Panamanian Chinese did not hesitate to protest the police raids and the mass arrests of undocumented immigrants in 1990.

Memory and Community A number of reasons led to the mobilization of the ethnic Chinese community and their protest efforts in 1990. Among these, two central themes emerged: the memory of marginalization vis-à-vis the state and the recognition of their shared immigrant experience. As mentioned earlier, the 1990 police raids reminded many Panamanian Chinese of the persecution they, their parents, and/or their grandparents had endured during the 1940s. In my interview with David Lau, a key member of the Chinese Association, he discussed two main reasons why the Panamanian Chinese had responded so quickly to the situation: “It was for humanitarian reasons and also because [Panamanian Chinese] experienced an awakening [sense] of being Chinese [emphasis added].” It was only fifty years ago that a similar situation had arisen, and memories of that event were still fresh in the minds of most Panamanian Chinese. Hence, despite their differences and antagonistic relations, Panamanian Chinese mobilized around ethnic solidarity in order to claim certain rights for the immigrants. Their memory of state persecution was reanimated by the 1990 police raids, and they felt a certain connectedness with the immigrants based on their shared experience of powerlessness and social injustice. In short, they identified with the recent immigrants because they saw themselves occupying a similar position of marginality within the Panamanian nation-state. In a way, the 1990 incident gave Panamanian Chinese an opportunity to vindicate themselves, to finally confront and challenge the discriminatory policies of the state, which had repeatedly targeted (and continues to target) the Chinese as undesirable immigrants. Whereas they had lacked the economic clout and political influence in the 1940s to effectively respond to actions injurious to Chinese, they were much more capable and prepared to confront such situations in 1990. In fifty years, the Panamanian Chinese had amassed much more political and economic influ-

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ence. For one thing, they now had more experience working within the Panamanian political system. A number of Panamanian Chinese had held elected office by this time and had secured access to extensive social networks in the political sphere. Another aspect of their increased power was their almost-exclusive control of the small-retail-store sector throughout Panama. Panamanian Chinese knew they presented a formidable force if they could only mobilize the community. More important, they realized the significance of responding quickly and forcefully in order to prevent similar incidents in the future. This incident forced Panamanian Chinese to exercise their claims to citizenship and belonging by contesting the unjust practices of the state. As much as they experienced a reawakening sense of being Chinese, they also reaffirmed their position as citizens of Panama. Another link between these two groups that helped prompt Panamanian Chinese mobilization may very simply be the fact that they saw their own immigration experiences reflected in the immigrants’ present. From 1904 to 1946, when Chinese immigration was greatly restricted, it was not uncommon for immigrants, especially women, to use other people’s identification cards and passports. Through interviews with elderly Chinese, I found that before the 1940s, women who immigrated to Panama as brides often returned to China after their children were born, and their Panamanian identification cards and travel documents were sometimes then reused by another bride or bride-to-be. Hence, it was not unusual to know three different people with the same Spanish name. During an interview with a third-generation Panamanian-born Chinese woman who was explaining her complicated family network to me, I noticed that she mentioned two women in her family with the same name. I asked if they were related, and she replied, “They were related only by marriage. You see, María Tee was the wife of my grandfather. She returned to China, and gave her identity papers to another woman who was coming to Panama to marry my grand-uncle. Chinese immigration [policy] was very strict in those days, so they had to recycle their identities, so to speak. I mean, they used the same identity papers to come to Panama, but they weren’t the same person, and neither of their names was really María Tee.” Recall, also, Marco’s grandmother’s comments in chapter 3. The identification documents of Panamanian-born children (male and female) who returned to China were also reused. In fact, many of the earlier Chinese immigrants have two names, a legal surname and a given

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surname used among friends and family. For example, José Chan is known as Chi-Wei Wong in Cantonese. And while his Chinese-speaking friends call him Mr. Wong, Spanish-speakers refer to him as José Chan. Under Panama’s restrictive official immigration policy, the recycling and sharing of documents was—and perhaps still remains—a common strategy among Chinese. These double identities, I should add, are not explicitly discussed or explained; they are simply considered common knowledge among the Chinese. They serve as both an uncanny reminder and reinforcement of a shared and collective “immigrant” and minoritized status in Panama. Strangers and non-Chinese speakers do not have easy access to the given Chinese names or titles of these individuals. Hence, addressing someone by their given Chinese surname indicates a level of familiarity and connection. It is in a sense a reenactment and assertion of community while acknowledging a shared history. These double identities are symbols that convey one’s belonging to two separate but overlapping communities. These names explicitly mark the doubleness of immigrant existence, and I suggest that they help produce an understanding of oneself as both Chinese and Panamanian at the same time, what W. E. B. Du Bois called “double consciousness.” Through the use of these names in their everyday encounters, people are reminded of their movement across different cultural contexts and their contrasting relationships to them. The prevalence of these double identities indicates not only that exclusion and subversive strategies of immigration are nothing new but, more important, that experiences of immigration may be the overriding theme that unites the community and that is central to diasporic Chinese subject formation. In fact, the widespread and recurring concern around immigration, with all its contradictions and transfigurations over time, reflects its ever-changing but persistent presence in diasporic Chinese consciousness. Paul Gilroy has described black expressive culture as “the changing same,” to reference the complex process of cultural reproduction that accounts for both the conscious invocation of enduring traditions and the invention of new ones in response to changing circumstances (Gilroy 1993, 101). In this regard, I suggest that the memories, discourses, and stories of migration represent “the changing same” of diasporic Chinese culture in that they articulate a distinct formulation––sensitive to temporal-spatial specificity––of a broadly shared experience. As shown in this chapter, immigration embodies both the rupture that divides diasporic Chinese and the continuity that binds them together.

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Conclusion In Making Ethnic Choices, Karen Leonard examines the way “culture” gets struggled over as cohorts grapple with their differences across time and generations (1992). Her chapter exploring antagonisms between post-1965 South Asian immigrants and second-generation Punjabi Mexican Americans offers an interesting comparison to the case of diasporic Chinese in Panama. While both cases show that, despite sharing the same place of origin, frictions and tensions arise when new immigrants meet and coexist with descendants of the same ethnic group, they led to different responses and outcomes. The South Asian newcomers had comparatively more economic power than the Punjabi Mexican Americans in California. Moreover, as their antagonism intensified, each group took a different approach to asserting its distinct identity: the newcomers laid claim to an urban, cosmopolitan Hindu identity, while the Punjabi Mexican Americans emphasized their American identity. The Chinese in Panama acted out a different scenario. First, the newcomers were situated in an economically disadvantaged position relative to the Panamanian Chinese. Second, while the newcomers accused the Panamanian Chinese of not treating them as compatriots, and thereby claiming that they have become “Panamanian,” the Panamanian Chinese evoked ethnic constructions of Hakka alterity to separate themselves from the newcomers. Unlike the Punjabi Mexican Americans, who asserted their American identity, Panamanian Chinese did not actively claim their Panamanian side. Instead, they chose to reclaim “Chineseness” by asserting that Hakkas are a different “kind” of Chinese. Furthermore, these contests of belonging within the local Chinese community are intertwined with a collective struggle to claim belonging to the national Panamanian community. This is an important dimension of diasporic citizenship, because it underscores the tension between local and national negotiations of belonging and illuminates the contrasting and converging positions of the two cohorts within the Chinese community. By focusing on the social rupture that inspired the two groups to come together, I also discovered the link that binds them as diasporic Chinese. I have argued that Panamanian Chinese did not build alliances with recent immigrants based on some essentialized notion of ethnic identity. Rather, their identification with recent immigrants stems from their shared experience and memory of migration and collective positionality

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vis-à-vis the Panamanian state. By remembering their subjection to state aggression, Panamanian Chinese narrate their own experience of marginality in order to forge a collective consciousness and concertedly protest the state’s discrimination against recent Chinese immigrants. In getting the recent immigrants redocumented and in challenging the exclusionary practices of the state, Panamanian Chinese asserted claims of national belonging for all Chinese and thereby redrew the boundaries of national belonging. It is worth emphasizing that notions of “Chineseness” and ideas of belonging to a “Chinese” community are not universally defined, but locally determined and historically contingent. Being ethnically “Chinese” does not give recent immigrants automatic entry into or acceptance by the Panamanian Chinese community. The tensions between the two groups reflect their ongoing contest over what constitutes “Chineseness” in Panama. Furthermore, I have illustrated how their unequal relations and antagonistic social class positions work to maintain and reproduce the divisions between the two groups. During the course of my field-research period, the differences between these two groups not only persisted but became much more profound, and the tension between them intensified rather than dissipated. The deepening chasm between the recent immigrants and the Panamanian Chinese cannot be easily summarized here and must be understood in the context of a chain of events that swept across Panama during 1996–97. To this we turn our attention in chapter 6.

6

 “Good-bye, Uncle Sam, Hello, Uncle Chang” Globalization, Diasporic Allegiance, and the China-Taiwan Conflict “Bye, tío Sam, chou san, (hola) tío Chang. O, si no entiende cantonés, ni hau ma? en mandarin.” “Good-bye, Uncle Sam, Chou san [Good morning] (hola) [Hello], Uncle Chang. Or, if he does not understand Cantonese, Ni hau ma? [How are you?] in Mandarin.” —La Prensa, August 3, 1997

As the recent immigrants and Panamanian Chinese continued to negotiate their relationship in Panama, another set of events once again shifted the terms of diasporic citizenship. This chapter revisits the political cartoon introduced at the beginning of this book to explore in more detail the various debates that emerged on the eve of the U.S. transfer of the Panama Canal. In August 1997, after eight months of continuous media coverage, the Panamanian newspaper La Prensa featured a three-part series entitled “De tío Sam a tío Chang” (From Uncle Sam to Uncle Chang), providing a powerful narrative of the nation’s shifting geopolitical relations with the United States, Taiwan, and the PRC. The provocative title and its equally provocative images highlighted the nation’s ambivalence about two converging processes: the return of the Panama Canal and the departure of the U.S. Canal Zone administration, and the rapid expansion of Chinese economic and political presence. As the text of the article suggested, this ambivalence rested on the possibility that one imperial force was replacing another and that Panama was being transferred from America’s Uncle Sam to China’s Uncle Chang. The issue quickly became more complicated when the question of China was transformed into “which” China. Panamanians were abruptly reminded that there was not just one China to contend with but two. With no uncertain force, the conflict between the PRC and Taiwan exploded in Panama, compelling the nation to grapple with all kinds of questions concerning

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“China,” Chineseness, and, most important to Panamanians, the place of the Chinese in Panama. While the departure of the United States and its return of the Panama Canal (as laid down in the Carter-Torrijos Treaty of 1977) were anticipated, the dramatic influx of Chinese capital and the unfolding of the PRC–ROC conflict in Panama were both quite unexpected. What initiated this outpouring of Chinese economic investments into Panama? And what brought on the PRC–ROC conflict there? I trace these developments to the confluence of two independent incidents. First, the official departure of the United States gave Panama the responsibility of reorganizing and redistributing the management of the Canal and the properties within the formerly U.S.-administered Canal Zone. When Panama, caught up in the wave of globalization, decided to privatize these properties by opening them up for international investment, a number of PRC–Hong Kong investors responded. The most notable and high profile case was Hutchinson Port Holdings Group’s success in obtaining a 25year contract to operate the Balboa and Cristóbal ports, located at the two ends of the Canal. Outbidding such major transnational corporations as Bechtel and Maersk, the success of this Hong Kong–based company attracted tremendous speculation. Soon, rumors were reverberating across the globe that “the Chinese were taking over the Canal.”1 Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, the British handover of Hong Kong to the PRC in July 1997 was creating another dilemma for Panama and the other nations that maintain official relations with Taiwan. After the Hong Kong handover, the government of the PRC announced that in order for countries to maintain economic relations with Hong Kong, they would now have to deal directly with China. In essence, the Chinese government was pressuring countries like Panama to switch diplomatic relations (from Taiwan to the PRC) in order to continue economic interactions with Hong Kong. As port cities, Panama and Hong Kong have long-standing and entrenched economic ties. Losing this relationship with Hong Kong would be unthinkable. After all, the Panama Canal is critical to international trade between Asia and the Americas and Europe, and Hong Kong is a main point of departure for exports from the PRC to the rest of the world. With this pressure, combined with the increasing economic presence of PRC–Hong Kong investors in Panama, the Panamanian government had to seriously consider changing diplomatic relations. But, of course, Taiwan could not let this happen, and, in response, it began to pour its own economic investments into Panama. Thus began the

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growing tension between the PRC and Taiwan in Panama. The two Chinese governments used economic investments, promises of technical support, and arguments about national affinity and global political influence to compete for official relations with Panama. These combined circumstances created an unexpected and rather peculiar situation in which “Chineseness” became the central mediating theme through which Panama engaged with post–Cold War globalization. While questions about the significance of this increasing Chinese presence in Panama were erupting in the national public sphere, another set of discussions was taking place among diasporic Chinese. With no delusions about a Chinese takeover in Panama, diasporic Chinese were consumed with their own debates on the merits of celebrating the Hong Kong handover and the significance of supporting either of the two Chinese states. As these overlapping sets of discussions intensified, cultural and political constructions of Chineseness took center stage, becoming the critical site through which Panamanians—Chinese and non-Chinese alike—made sense of these recent changes. This chapter examines these two sets of separate, though connected, discussions by analyzing newspaper coverage and the divergent positions taken by diasporic Chinese. By looking at the different entry points into this discussion, I argue that Chineseness serves as a critical site of meaning production for Panamanians at large. Moreover, it is through this category of Chineseness that the intersecting relationships among Panama, the PRC, Taiwan, and diasporic Chinese are articulated and transformed. Once again, diasporic citizenship is situated at the geopolitical intersection between Panama, China/Taiwan, and the United States. This time, however, the United States fades into the background, while the PRC and Taiwan emerge as the key players, foreshadowing the future of Panama and of diasporic Chinese living there. By examining the relationship between constructions of Chineseness and the repositioning of diasporic Chinese in relation to Panama and the Chinese states, this chapter affirms the salience of ethnicity in globalization.2 It also asserts that ethnicity remains a critical site through which states are reconfiguring their strategies of nation-building in order to adjust to the new political and economic demands of globalization. What follows first is an analysis of the tripartite article “De Tío Sam a Tío Chang” (From Uncle Sam to Uncle Chang). While dozens of articles preceded and followed this series, it provides a good, representative illustration of how Panamanians generally were interpreting these events. A

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closer look at this particular set of articles enables us to see both the general concerns permeating the Panamanian public and the popular representation of Chineseness in Panama.

“De Tío Sam a Tío Chang”: Constructing Chineseness and Chinese Belonging Recall from the Introduction the juxtaposition of the two political cartoons involving Uncle Sam and Uncle Chang (see figs. 1 and 2). These cartoons forcefully show that interstate relations and economic capital are interconnected. By juxtaposing the Americans with the Chinese, the cartoons suggest that the two powers occupy similar positions vis-à-vis Panama, and that the kind of unequal relationship that Panama had with the United States is likely to continue with the Chinese. Of significance, however, is the shift in the criteria and style of that relationship. Economic imperatives seem to have replaced military force, and the technologies of globalization have overtaken the machinery of the Cold War. The ambivalence of Panamanians about the U.S. departure, as suggested by these images, is further reinforced by gendered metaphors in the articles themselves. In a somewhat nostalgic tone, the authors liken the departure of the United States to a divorce, saying: “It is not possible to coexist for more than eight decades and not feel some anxiety from this separation. . . .After all the ceremonies of this harmonious divorce–– including the reversion of forts, military installations, and seaports—the emptiness that the U.S. has left behind is already being filled, slowly but persistently, by recent [Chinese] arrivals who are foreign, different, and simultaneously, very familiar.” International relations are rendered as marriage relations, making geopolitical consequences a personal and affective matter. Like a divorce, the departure of the United States leaves Panamanians filled with complex feelings of sadness, nostalgia, relief, and acceptance that the past is irretrievable. And like an anxious romantic suitor, the Chinese are already stepping in to fill the emptiness left behind by the United States. To make sense of the connection between the U.S. departure and the arrival of the new Chinese presence, we must consider the sociopolitical context. As early as 1996, the return of the Panama Canal was being planned and set in motion. At the same time, the buzz of “globalization” was beginning to make its way into Panama. The state already had begun adopting neoliberal economic policies in an effort to climb on the global-

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ization bandwagon. The plan was to privatize and allow international companies to bid on state-run services and formerly U.S.-owned properties, which included military bases, the transisthmian railroad, and the seaports and their surrounding areas. To everyone’s surprise, the most prominent international investors that rose to the occasion were from the PRC, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. To the Panamanian nation, the sudden and dramatic manner in which Chinese capital made its presence felt in Panama aroused much anxiety. It seemed as though the Chinese, with their immense purchasing power and political presence in the world, were replacing the United States as the next imperial force in Panama. Significantly, the article’s authors connect the new Chinese presence to an older more familiar one. Throughout the article, these “recent [Chinese] arrivals” are described as simultaneously new and old, strange yet familiar, recently arrived yet having roots from long ago. In broad strokes, the authors use the two words “Chinese presence” to bridge the gap in time and space between the diasporic Chinese who have been in Panama for more than 150 years and the recent economic and political players from China and Taiwan. The homogenization of diasporic Chinese with the new arrivals, primarily state representatives and transnational managers, helps smooth this geopolitical shift, making the sudden eruption of this particular group of Chinese people, politics, and capital seem less threatening. The connection that is drawn between these new arrivals with an already existing presence makes them seem more familiar and less strange. That connection enables the Panamanian public to interpret these new arrivals with their knowledge and understanding of diasporic Chinese, who are their neighbors, co-workers, corner-store owners, fellow church members, and friends and family. While the impulse to connect the new arrivals with the older, established community may be understandable, the fact remains that the former are likely to be quite different from the latter. For one thing, their status as diplomats and transnational managers who are expected to live in Panama for only a few short years does not allow for the formation of diasporic sensibilities. Moreover, their relationship to the Panamanian nation-state and the Chinese homeland is quite distinct from that of diasporic Chinese. These qualitative differences are critical in distinguishing diasporic subjects from other categories, such as cosmopolitans and transnationals,3 that describe contrasting experiences of displacement and dislocation. This is not to say that this group cannot eventually be-

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come diasporic subjects if they choose to migrate, adopt a more permanent relationship to Panama, and develop a diasporic consciousness. But it is important to recognize that, at present, the two groups occupy categorically different subject positions. This homogenizing move also allows the authors to convey an irony of historical development. Once diasporic Chinese and the recent Chinese are rendered one and the same, the past and the present of the collective “Chinese presence” are made into one seamless historical narrative. Gender is also employed here, for this transference through time is made continuous through male descent. Male contract laborers were formerly brought to Panama by U.S. companies to work on the transisthmian railway and the Canal; now male investors and male government officials come with offers of economic exchange and political relations. The situation was made even more ironic when a Taiwanese official announced that Taiwan would offer job opportunities for Panamanians wanting to relocate there. The change in circumstances is dramatic, and the narrative of an underdog turned hero is compelling. These claims are made possible only by strategies of homogenizing and conflating people, race, and nation. Ideas of national belonging are embedded in these conflations. In fact, the connections between diasporic Chinese and the new Chinese arrivals are not only dialectically constructed but also double-edged. Just as the new Chinese are made familiar through their connection to diasporic Chinese, diasporic Chinese can also be made foreign through the recent arrivals. As the authors write, “Without our taking note of their arrival, Uncle Chang is already among us.” The ambiguity of whom Uncle Chang represents allows for multiple and strategic interpretations, and different interpretations will emerge depending on historical circumstance. When national origin is essentialized and naturalized as the primary determinant of loyalty and belonging, the possibility of imagining full participation and acceptance of Chinese in Panama is rendered virtually impossible. To bring the narrative full circle, the authors once again evoke a parallel between American and Chinese effects on Panama. They suggest that just as Panamanians had learned English, adopted American business practices, and got their university degrees from the United States, they will soon learn to speak Chinese and adopt Chinese cultural practices. They write: “With Uncle Chang comes a new way of conducting business. A new generation of intermediaries—the Castros, Alemans . . .

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and Torrijos of the world—will learn quickly how to deal with the new Taipans and the millennial art of ‘guanxi.’4 They will learn to say, ‘chou san’ [Good morning] in Cantonese and ‘ni hau ma?’ [How are you?] in Mandarin.” “ Th e H a t f i e l d s a n d M c C o y s o f t h e F a r E a s t ” : Tw o D i v e r g e n t N o t i o n s o f C h i n e s e M a s c u l i n i t y The second part of the La Prensa article complicates and builds on what has been presented in the first. Sitting at the negotiating table are three people. At one end is Uncle Chang, holding a wad of dollar bills, and at the other end sits another male figure who, like Uncle Chang, is racially marked by stereotypical Asian phenotypes. To distinguish him as Chinese, he is wearing a triangular rice-field hat and the traditional Chinese cheongsam (or qi pao). He is holding some kind of certificate, which presumably has something to do with Hong Kong (as explained in the article). In his other hand, each of these men is holding a wooden hammer, with which he is bopping the head of the man in the middle. By bopping his head, the two men are supposedly competing for his attention. The man in the middle is presumably a Panamanian official, who is literally depicted as being of two heads about the situation. Wearing sunglasses and a white shirt, he is turning his head back and forth between the two Chinese men, and he is moving so vigorously that sweat is flying in the air. On the table, his fingers are moving rapidly, as if anxious to grab onto something. This particular gesture has been used in other cartoons to suggest that the character is engaged in a process of calculation associated with greediness. The two Chinese men secretly extend third arms toward each other under the table, where each holds a saw to cut off the legs of the other man’s chair. Figuratively, they are attempting to undercut each other. That the characters are all male reaffirms and reinforces masculinity in the geopolitical sphere. However, as Cynthia Enloe astutely observes, “Notions of masculinity aren’t necessarily identical across generations or across cultural boundaries.” The cartoon makes this clear. Each of the characters is also nationally and racially marked. The way Uncle Chang and his nemesis reflect divergent constructions of Chinese masculinity is significant. Examining them in the context of geopolitics can provide insight into the “politics of masculinity between countries and between ethnic groups within the same country” (Enloe 1990, 13). In this case, it il-

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Uncle Chang, his nemesis, and a Panamanian official. Source: La Prensa.

lustrates the general perception of Taiwan and the PRC and brings to the foreground various assumptions surrounding the two polities. As cultural analysts have noted, constructions of national and ethnic difference have always relied on creating stereotypes, many of which are conflicting images that nonetheless characterize the same group (Lee 1999). For Asians in the United States, the character of the cunning and dangerous Fu Manchu, “the yellow peril incarnate in one man,” reflected the nation’s anxiety around Asian immigrants. Since the 1970s, the model minority image recast Asian Americans as hardworking overachievers. Depending on historical circumstance, different stereotypes gain salience at different moments. Indeed, cultural representations not only reflect popular anxieties but also have political effects. As shown in this particular cartoon, the two Chinese men are carefully crafted to depict Taiwan and the PRC. Whereas Uncle Chang is dressed in a Western suit and hat, his nemesis is wearing a traditional Chinese cheongsam and a rice-field hat. While the former epitomizes the modern (and westernized) Taiwan Chinese, the other appears to be an artifact of the past, stuck in tradition that seems inconsistent with the West. What is suggested by his ethnically marked clothing is a sense of backwardness; his immobility through time has resulted in the lack of progress and development. The contradictory personification of these two characters reflect and help construct popular understandings of what Chineseness entails. Being diasporic Chinese, then, implies occupying both these positions: the presence of Chinese in the West gives them access to being

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modern, but their otherness, marked by an attachment to Chinese traditions, resituates them at the margins. As this cartoon clearly illustrates, although Uncle Chang and his nemesis share a similar phenotype, the two are culturally distinct. Yet the article that accompanies it shows little interest in the specificity of their cultural differences. It is concerned primarily with what the two states have to offer in terms of economic benefits. Whereas Taiwan has a strong economy and cash flow, the PRC holds the promissory note for economic ties with Hong Kong. The question arises, then, why not have relations with both? The article offers an answer with an analogy: International relations are like marital relations. When one gets married, one does not marry just a partner but his or her entire family. So one has to be willing to accept the occasional visits of an irritable in-law or suffer the sight of a crazy cousin. In a similar vein, then, establishing international relations with a country is not just a matter of building a relationship with a government but with a nation, a history, a culture, and all their accompanying problems. Once again, the trope of marriage is employed. Taking it one step further, the authors allude to the feuding families of the Capulets and Montagues in Verona and the Hatfields and McCoys in the rural United States, in which having relations with one family makes your relationship with the other more difficult, if not impossible. The trope describes the situation confronting Panama. If the PRC and Taiwan are the feuding families, into which of these should Panama choose to marry? In addition to its economic concerns, Panama has yet another factor to consider. Now that Uncle Sam has removed his military forces from Panama, the issue of international security arises. As the civil war in Colombia intensifies, the violence has moved slowly into the border area between Colombia and Panama. The Darien jungle has already begun to experience the first signs of guerrilla and paramilitary activity. Without a military of its own, Panama will need assistance. The article notes that Taiwan has a particular advantage over China in this area. As one official remarked, “Taiwan has had much experience in political warfare and counterinsurgency. It has a strong army and it certainly could help Panama.” Irrespective of the economic arguments for relations with one or the other of the two Chinas, international security is also a serious consideration. The article concludes by returning to the opening question: Is Uncle Chang replacing Uncle Sam? The author suggests that the answer lies in

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the question of military presence. “If Uncle Chang ever arrives in Darien in military uniform, that would be a clear sign that Uncle Sam has departed completely.” Until then, the question remains unanswered, deferred to a later time. For now, the new Chinese presence is limited to the economic and cultural realms. In conclusion, the authors quote a Panamanian businessman as saying, “I do not want to learn Chinese.” To which they respond: “There may not be another alternative, however.” “Good-bye, Uncle Sam, Chou san, Uncle Chang. Or, if he doesn’t understand Cantonese, Ni hau ma? in Mandarin.” Chinese lessons, anyone? Geopolitics, Racialization, and Diasporic Citizenship At this historical moment, Chineseness has become the critical site through which Panamanians at large make sense of the shifting geopolitical circumstances in Panama. The La Prensa article discussed above raises several important issues. First, it shows how divergent constructions of Chinese masculinity are used to represent and distinguish the PRC and Taiwan as two separate political and cultural entities. While Uncle Chang, who represents Taiwan, appears modern and westernized, his PRC nemesis embodies Chinese tradition in its most orientalizing guise. Second, these different representations of Chinese masculinity not only comment on the differences between the PRC and Taiwan but also re-ethnicize diasporic Chinese. By using the term “the Chinese presence,” the newspaper writers conflate the new Chinese capital and political force with diasporic Chinese. In so doing, Chinese investments, politics, and people, be they Panamanian residents or not, are homogenized into one single group. This conflation presumes a natural relationship between these groups by virtue of their ethnic sameness, thereby denying diasporic Chinese the option of claiming Panamanian national affiliation over ethnic homeland identification. Subsequently, the question of diasporic Chinese belonging in the nation is linked to Panama’s relationships with the PRC and Taiwan. It is worth remembering that just as these recent geopolitical shifts have associated Chineseness with transnational capital and political dominance, less than ten years ago, Chinese immigrants were characterized as criminals and illegal immigrants. My point is that if diasporic Chinese continue to be represented as perpetual foreigners whose primary allegiance lies with their ethnic “homeland,” their belonging in Panama will remain vulnerable to changes in geopolitical conditions. This is so because diasporic Chinese are continually relinked to

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“China” through processes of racialization and ethnicization, making Chinese belonging in the nation contingent on Panama’s geopolitical relations with the PRC and Taiwan. By considering how race, ethnicity, and gender mediate notions of belonging within the nation-state and geopolitical relations between nation-states, I show that diasporic citizenship is situated between the national and transnational arenas.

Multiple Interpretations of Diasporic Chinese While the general public is grappling with these changes, diasporic Chinese are engaged in their own debates. Their concern is less with economic advantages than with issues of national and ideological affiliation. Among them, there is little consensus about the future influence of the PRC and Taiwan on Panama. They engage these discussions from different perspectives, and their viewpoints vary according to their points of reference, social memory, and future trajectories. C o m p a r i n g I m p e r i a l i s m s : Th e H o n g K o n g H a n d ov e r a s a Vi c t o ry f o r A l l C h i n e s e The phone rang in the middle of our conversation, and Wayne picked it up immediately. He began speaking in Cantonese to the person on the other end. I sat there patiently, listening to him saying something about food, the banquet, and celebration. Then, he launched into an impassioned monologue about the importance of the Hong Kong handover. He insisted that the Sam Yap Association (the native place organization to which he belongs) must attend and help celebrate this momentous occasion. Taking a deep breath, he sighed and said, “I was there in Hong Kong when the ‘red beards’ (British) were shooting everyone . . . children, grandmothers, innocent people in the street. It didn’t matter who they were. I remember distinctly seeing a grandmother being shot multiple times while shielding her grandchild from the flying bullets! It was a nightmare.” Absorbed in his storytelling, he continued, They were shooting in all directions. If one of their people got killed, they’d shoot hundreds of Chinese. It was so unfair. People suffered when the British were there. Hong Kong’s return to China is a victory, not just for the Chinese government, but for Chinese people everywhere. It signifies the end of the [British] presence, their conquest, and their colonial rule over the fate of Chinese people. Of course we Sam Yap folks should buy tickets for the dinner celebration! I don’t care if the food is not good. We must celebrate this. Even if I have to buy tickets for one entire table, I will.

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The conversation quickly came to an end, and Wayne hung up the phone with a look of annoyance and frustration. I wanted to ask what that was all about, but instead I kept quiet and gave him a couple of minutes to recover his composure, hoping he would bring it up himself—and he did. Wayne was born in 1911 and immigrated to Panama in 1927 at the age of 16. Following his grandfather, whose unsuccessful gold mining expedition in Bluefields, Nicaragua led him to Jamaica and finally to Bocas del Toro, where he invested in a small banana plantation, Wayne came to Panama. He lived most of his life in the city of Bocas del Toro, located on Isla Colón (also call Isla Bocas) in the Caribbean Sea near the Panamanian–Costa Rican border. When he first arrived, he worked for relatives, and once he acquired sufficient funds, he opened his own general foods store and a bakery. His business grew during World War II, when American soldiers filled the island and increased the demand for his bread and other baked goods. He remained in Bocas until the early 1970s, when he finally relocated to Panama City to join his family. The island did not provide education beyond middle school, so his children had left one by one when each went to high school in the capital. His wife had gone with them. When the time came for his youngest child to leave, Wayne decided to pack up and move with him. The province of Bocas del Toro is known for its banana plantations. Since the turn of the century, the United Fruit Company, now renamed Chiquita Brands, has controlled most of the plantations in this area and in most of Central America. The company’s first headquarters was located on Isla Bocas. At its height, the island was one of the most vibrant places in the country and was home to five consuls and three newspapers.5 Since banana production moved entirely to the mainland, however, the island has been much neglected. Today, it is populated by no more than a few thousand people and has been transformed into a tourist destination. Whereas natives and United Fruit personnel were the main occupants of the island, Bocas in the past twenty years has turned into a haven for expatriates from Canada, Europe, and the United States. The oldest Chinese and Buddhist temple in Panama once stood on this quiet island, but floods destroyed it a few years ago, obliterating one of the community’s most significant cultural institutions. Now, only a handful of Chinese remains. With the exception of a Chinese restaurant, a couple of convenience stores, and a hardware store owned by Chinese families, the presence of the Chinese is hardly detectable. Yet in diasporic Chinese history, the community of “Bocas del Toro, Panama” is forever memori-

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alized on a monument in Kwangchou (Guangzhou). The monument is made of stone blocks, on which the names of cities around the world are engraved, each block signifying a different community of diasporic Chinese that supported the founding of the Republic of China. Apparently, the Chinese Association of Bocas sent funds to assist the revolutionaries’ efforts to overthrow dynastic rule in China. With the slow and gradual disappearance of the Chinese community in Bocas, this remains an obscure fact of history. With its glory days long gone, the quiet and understated presence of the remaining Chinese does not reflect the vitality and dynamism that I can only imagine it once possessed. Wayne’s story, in many ways, provides a glimpse into the history of diasporic Chinese in this province. Recovering from his phone conversation, Wayne elaborated, I want to write something in the [Chinese] newspaper about [the Hong Kong handover]. I want to show the younger generation the importance of this event. . . . I feel that all are Chinese, no matter if you are from Taiwan or from China. I was born in China, and everywhere I go, I’m still Chinese. I have my home in China, but I can’t return to it. [The situation is the same for people living in Taiwan.] My intention has always been to go back to China. But the world situation did not permit it after World War II. In 1949, the communists took over. I didn’t want to take the chance with my children.

Backtracking a bit, he explained, “In 1948, I bought a house in China and everything. I had wanted my children to learn Chinese. I had wanted to leave them there with my mother and sister.” In the end, his children did not return to China for their education. Instead, with their bilingual background in Spanish and English, they went to the United States and Spain. Currently, three out of five of them live in the United States, while the other two are in Bocas del Toro and Panama City. Wayne then began to talk about all the places he had traveled, listing China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Italy, Spain, Korea, Japan, France, Canada, and the United States. He explained, Everywhere I went, people would ask me if I am Chinese and why I have a Panamanian passport. I tell them, ‘Why does it matter? I have money. I can go wherever I want. Why do you care if I am Chinese?’ You see, in 1964, I finally changed my nationality out of convenience. When I had my Chinese passport, I couldn’t go anywhere, and because all my children studied abroad, if I wanted to see them, I had to change nationality. I held on to my Chinese passport until then. Now, I have a green card [U.S. resident alien identification card] because most of my children are in the United States.

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He reaffirmed, “I am Chinese and always will be Chinese. [But] we need a strong government, so people can respect Chinese all over the world. [We should be able to travel everywhere with a Chinese passport.] The government doesn’t matter. It could be either Taiwan or China.” He concluded decisively: “They just need to do the right thing: be strong.” Before moving on to another topic, however, he added, “Taiwan has relations with Panama, but most Chinese here are from mainland China. The ambassador and the embassy can’t protect the Chinese from the mainland. They don’t say anything when the Chinese are in trouble. Instead, the Chinese Association takes care of the community.” With this comment, he subtly suggested that the government does matter. We moved on and spoke a bit more about his family, but the afternoon was winding down, and we both were quite tired from all the talking and note taking. As we said good-bye, I thanked him, and he graciously extended an open invitation to return anytime. As I walked away from his house, I looked up at the second-floor balcony, where we had sat for the past few hours, and waved good-bye one more time. From there, I could hear his radio playing, tuned to the local Chinese station as the announcer took calls on health and medical issues. Wayne’s strong insistence on celebrating the Hong Kong handover and his assertion that China, be it the PRC or the ROC, needs to be strong internationally represent the general sentiments of his immigrant generation. Like many others, he suggests that the handover has less to do with PRC–ROC politics than with a strong sense of racial-cultural nationalism. As Wayne insisted, “It is a matter of pride for all Chinese people everywhere.” Moreover, his extensive experience with international travel has underscored the salience of both nationality and racial-ethnic identity when it comes to determining how one is treated and placed in the international context. This has made him realize the advantage of having a strong government associated with one’s racial-ethnic background. In his view, he cannot choose his race or ethnicity, but he can hope for, if not help build, a strong government. My interviews with other people of this cohort generated similar comments. “I don’t think it is right for the [ROC] embassy to put so much pressure on the Chinese community not to celebrate the handover,” Raphael, an active member of the Chinese Association in his seventies, asserted. “As a Chinese, one should be proud that a piece of Chinese land is being returned to Chinese rule. Hong Kong has been under foreign

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control for so long. It’s about time that Chinese people gain back control of it. We should be celebrating it as a Chinese victory, regardless of which government is involved. This is a victory for all Chinese.” Among the early immigrant generation, Raphael is known as a scholar whose knowledge of Buddhism and ceremonial practices, not to mention Chinese literature and diasporic Chinese history, has made him a cultural consultant to the community. His short but compact stature gives him an aura of balance and stability. His words are carefully weighed, spoken slowly and thoughtfully, and his measured speech is often spiced with metaphors and allegories. He is a man of seriousness, and his movements, mannerisms, and gestures all project a groundedness that seems unshakable. When asked what his opinion was regarding the recent PRC–ROC debate in Panama, he offered, “I am Chinese, an overseas Chinese, and of course I want one united China. No Chinese want two Chinas to exist. I do not care which government represents China. I just want a strong government, a unified China.” Pausing for a moment, he added, “Since Panama recognizes the ROC and has relations with them, I also have to recognize the ROC. It is all we have to represent Chinese people here. I will follow the Panamanian government. If Panama chooses to recognize the PRC, then I will also recognize the PRC. I respect both [Chinese] governments, and it is their responsibility to straighten out that problem.” His statements seemed evenhanded. We continued in this manner for a while, and although his formality did not subside with time, his speech became more relaxed. “I don’t think the Taiwanese provide enough help for overseas Chinese here,” he said. “The fact that they can’t help immigrants get passports is a big problem. They also don’t provide enough funds for overseas Chinese. The ROC is able to give large donations to the Panamanian government, but they don’t give the community much. They don’t even provide as much as the soy sauce in which to dip the chicken.” His hand gestured as if holding a pair of chopsticks and, with one quick and precise move, dipping them in and out of a dish. I chuckled at this colorful analogy, with its exaggerated description of just how much the ROC was willing to give—or not give, in this case. Our conversation moved on to a variety of other topics, and he remained composed and poised for the most part. But there was one instance when he broke out of his usual cautiousness. We were talking about his general experience in Panama: how things had changed in the years he had been there, and what it was like being Chinese then versus now. He shook his head and without hesitation said: “Oh, it is much bet-

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ter now. The discrimination is not as bad as before. Huh! Before, they used to call us ‘monkey’ and accuse us of eating rats. That’s what they used to say, and they would do it right to your face. This was very common. Sometimes, I would get very angry, and I would fight with them.” He nudged toward the end of his chair and planted his palms firmly on his knees. His face was beaming with anger by now. He let out a sigh and shook his head again, “I could only take it for so long. They have no manners, no education, no home teaching. They do not know China’s thousands of years of history, its rich culture, its contributions. I just couldn’t endure it. I had to fight . . . to maintain a sense of dignity and personhood.” He let out another long sigh. “Those times were tough.” Over and over again, I heard it said that the Hong Kong handover was a victory for all Chinese, and that there should be one unified China, one strong government. Furthermore, these pronouncements were often accompanied by descriptions of racial violence. For both Wayne and Raphael, the handover is not about PRC–ROC politics but a kind of cultural nationalism that stems from their experience of discrimination and subordination. To them, the handover represents, first and foremost, a recuperation of dignity, pride, and humanity. Being in diaspora underscores the effects of transnational perceptions of Chineseness and the treatment of Chinese. They suggest that these perceptions are directly related to the positioning of China in the global context. In other words, for Wayne and Raphael, a strong government and a unified China would project a positive image of Chineseness, which, in turn, would help garner respect for Chinese everywhere. This is especially important for diasporic Chinese, whose racial-cultural background often excludes them from full citizenship and belonging in their nation-state of residence and who are judged and treated according to these images. The Hong Kong handover, then, represents a move in the direction of achieving respect in the global context. Taking a similar position, Arturo offered a different entry point. As we sat in his small and densely packed general store in old Chinatown, he used an analogy to make his point: “Just as the Canal is being returned to Panama, Hong Kong is going back to China, not to the ‘communists,’ but to China.” The analogy has many layers. Drawing a parallel between these two sets of relationships highlights the single most important, though unstated, factor that gives meaning to the analogy: imperialism. For Panama, the return of the Canal marked the end of direct U.S. domination, while for China, the Hong Kong handover concluded the era of

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British colonialism. The analogy emphasizes the ethical-moral dimension of global politics, and it appeals to the sentiment that imperialism must end. The critical focus is on the rightful return of formerly occupied territories, making the PRC–ROC conflict altogether irrelevant. Arturo emphasized this by saying, “Chinese culture is not communist or KMT [Kuomingtang or the Nationalist People’s Party of China now based in Taiwan], it is for everyone.” He thus suggested that the handover was beyond ideology. Rather, it was in the realm of the cultural and should be considered in the broader context of Western imperialism, under which Chinese people—in China, Taiwan, and in the diaspora—have suffered. For Arturo, as for Wayne and Raphael, the Hong Kong handover marked the end of one form of racial-cultural subordination in the global context and ushered in a new era of reconsolidation, cultural affirmation, and collective healing. While most senior immigrants were preoccupied with the Hong Kong handover, many local-born Chinese were uneasy about the rising tensions between the PRC and Taiwan. As the two polities competed for Panama’s official relations, they were also rallying support among diasporic Chinese. While tension between PRC and ROC supporters had been mounting for months, the dinner to celebrate the Hong Kong handover somehow concretized the anxieties and the ambivalence of the community. People understood that despite the immense spatial distance between them (in Latin America) and Asia, what unfolded between the PRC and the ROC governments would have enormous implications for Panama as well as for diasporic Chinese. Although a vast majority of members of the Chinese Association attended the celebration dinner, there was no consensus on whether this event was an “official” function sponsored by the Chinese Association. Calling it an “official” event would not only be a direct insult to the ROC embassy, which had provided the community with generous financial and moral support in the past decades; it would also constitute a political statement as to where the association stood in terms of Chinese politics. Regardless of how politically charged the event had become, the banquet hall was full. More than 300 people were present. At the main table sat the PRC officials, along with the president and a few key members of the Chinese Association. If it had not been for the dense air of discomfort that permeated the room, the celebration would have been like any other banquet I had attended. Although some people seemed genuinely excited to be there, many appeared ambivalent and even a bit un-

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comfortable about their attendance. I looked around the room and saw the usual participants. As expected, official representatives of the ROC embassy were absent, along with a handful of association members. Their absence spoke volumes. I was told that this was the first event in the history of the Chinese in Panama to be celebrated together by the president of the Chinese Association and representatives of the PRC government. In other words, for the first time ever, the president of the Chinese Association was showing explicit allegiance to the PRC government. Up to this point, the Chinese Association had always taken a definitive stance in support of the ROC. This was indeed indicative of a dramatic shift in the internal politics of the Chinese community, not to mention of PRC–ROC politics in Panama. The transfer of Hong Kong on July 1, 1997, resulted in as many significant changes within the Chinese Panamanian community, as it did in Panama’s international relations with the PRC. As I have discussed in previous chapters, prior to this event, the sharp delineation between the recent immigrants and the early immigrants and their descendents had dominated the discourse of difference among diasporic Chinese. By July 1997, however, the Hong Kong handover and the escalating PRC–ROC struggle for diasporic support had shifted the primary line of division, drawing supporters of the Hong Kong handover together on one side and pushing those who were less enthusiastic to the other. Many seem to think that these groupings map directly onto the existing divide between the recent immigrants and the Panamanian Chinese, but my sense is that this is not quite so. The critical difference seems to emerge between the immigrants, irrespective of when they arrived, and the Panamanian-born Chinese. Of course, in addition to these two groups, there is a large nonpartisan group that remains indifferent to homeland-diaspora politics. L o c a l B o n d s B e t w e e n Ta i w a n a n d the Diasporic Chinese The central issue for Taiwan supporters is, quite simply, the future of the ROC in Panama. They were not so interested in the Hong Kong handover, though they were aware that it represented more a step toward cultural annihilation than cultural nationalism for the Taiwanese. To them, the handover foreshadowed mainland China’s eventual takeover of Taiwan. They anticipated that once Hong Kong had been successfully incorporated into China, Macau would be next, 6 and Taiwan would follow. “It is only a matter of time,” the more pessimistic ones lamented.

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Rather than celebrating the transfer as “a victory for Chinese everywhere,” Taiwan supporters were worried about the uncertain future that lay ahead. Many expressed a sense of connection with the Taiwanese government based on memories of their family’s experience with communist China. Others feel a deep indebtedness to the Taiwanese for their many years of support and collaboration. I must emphasize, however, that their concern lay not in what would happen to Taiwan per se, but rather in what would happen to Chinese state representation in Panama, which inevitably would affect their own future. A change in representation would result in major shifts for diasporic Chinese. It would require a reimagining and retooling of practices and modes of operation in both local and transnational contexts. Not only might the current architecture of the community and its institutions be restructured, but a new set of dynamics, leadership, and sociopolitical practices might evolve. In short, a shift in representation would alter the design as well as the overall texture and fabric of the community as they know it now and as they have known it for as long as they can remember. What came across most strongly, then, was their sense of anxiety and uncertainty about the future of Chinese Panama. Esteban and his wife, Sophie, were baby-sitting their grandchildren when I stopped by their house in the middle of the afternoon. Now in their mid sixties, they are retired, and their children are taking care of the family business while Esteban and Sophie look after the kids. Both of them are descendents of some of the earliest Chinese families in Panama. Their parents had immigrated in the 1910s and 1920s and started their businesses in the old Chinatown. With extensive social and kinship networks, they seem to be related to most Panamanian Chinese by no more than three degrees of separation. Both Esteban and Sophie are active in the community. He is a member of the Chinese Association, and she is a co-founder of another association that organizes social activities for youth. Given their level of involvement, it was no wonder that I saw them at almost every community event I attended during my stay in Panama. Both Esteban and Sophie are from the generation of people who went to American Methodist schools where English was taught. The two speak Spanish and English, while Esteban also speaks Cantonese because he had spent a few years in China during his late teens. His fluency in three languages gives him entry to all sorts of social spaces and conversations within the diaspora. He moves with equal ease between the different circles of the immigrant and the Panamanian-born generations, though he

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seems more connected with and sympathetic to the concerns of Panamanian-born Chinese. The question of Hong Kong never came up in our discussion, unlike in my conversations with immigrants. Esteban, however, commented on the China-Taiwan conflict as it relates to diasporic Chinese, saying: People of my parents’ generation are anti-communist because many of them had to flee China under the communist siege. The Chinese who are born here have their roots in these old Chinese, and they too are anti-communist and pro-democracy. The ones who are born here, educated here, are not concerned with Chinese politics in Asia. The immigration issue is what concerns Panamanian-born Chinese [the] most. Our reputation is at stake. There is more crime. These things directly affect us. . . . In terms of the China-Taiwan conflict, business will go on as usual. It’s a political issue. . . . For me, home is Panama. I feel very uneasy about what is happening here between China and Taiwan. I have no relations with China, not even in business. . . . Anyway, there is a saying, “It’s better to keep the old, the thing you know, than to try the new, the thing you don’t know.” That’s how I feel about the Chinese governments in Panama.

To understand this uneasiness about the possible change in Chinese state representation, one must have some sense of the extent of involvement and the nature of the relationship between diasporic Chinese and the ROC government. Diasporic Chinese have maintained good relations with the ROC embassy ever since the beginning of official Chinese representation in Panama. Over the decades, they have formed a symbiotic relationship based on mutual assistance, respect, and cooperation. Theirs is an extraordinary case of homeland state and diaspora partnership. The Taiwanese government is well aware of the exceptional character of this partnership, inasmuch as it has openly proclaimed this relationship to be its model for building relations with the rest of the diaspora. Stories circulate about the historical give-and-take between the embassy and the community, weaving a tale of mutual support and friendship between equals rather than between a state and its subjects. One of my informants recalled a time when Taiwan was just beginning to rebuild itself, a time when its resources were limited. “Yes, back then, the Taiwanese didn’t have any money. The ambassador didn’t even have a car. It was so embarrassing that the community got together and collected funds. We purchased a car for him.” The storyteller chuckled, revealing the irony of history and a sense of mutual support. Another story illustrated the important influence of diasporic Chinese in shaping Panamanian foreign relations with the ROC. A respected leader of the community remem-

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bered, “In the late 1970s, General Omar Torrijos came to me to ask if Panama should establish relations with mainland China, and I told him that the Chinese community are pro-ROC and would not support it. And in the end, he decided not to switch relations.” A more recent example was the ROC embassy’s public response to the 1990s anti-Chinese immigrant incident and the police raiding of Chinese homes. The ambassador issued a statement on behalf of diasporic Chinese urging the Panamanian government to give fair treatment to the recent immigrants. Aside from these testimonies and events, a number of structures and institutions attest to the ongoing collaboration between the ROC embassy and the diaspora. The Centro Cultural Chino-Panameño (Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center) and the Sun Yat-Sen School are two examples of their long-term partnership. Throughout my field research, everyone I spoke with at one point or another directed me to the Centro Cultural Chino-Panameño, which represents the “heart” of the Chinese community for most Chinese and nonChinese Panamanians alike. “It is the place where you can get help, get information, find people, etc,” explained Roberto. He continued, “When people talk about the Chinese community in Panama, they are referring to el Centro, not the Chinese Association. El Centro holds the leadership position in the eyes of Panama. Most people are unaware of the Chinese Association.” Roberto, who is in his fifties, comes from a prominent Panamanian Chinese family. His father, who is recognized as a significant patriarch of the Chinese community, was an astute businessman and an even more savvy community leader, whose impeccable reputation garners respect among not only diasporic Chinese but also the Panamanian elite. Roberto’s father was instrumental in designing the cultural-political architecture of the community and shaping the developmental trajectory of diasporic Chinese in Panama. The family’s social and political networks are vast, and they are connected to some of the most influential politicians and businessmen in Panama. Roberto’s father immigrated to Panama in the 1920s and built his business empire around clothing manufacturing. Roberto, who was born in Panama and educated in the United States, is now running the family business. Continuing the work that his father started, Roberto is very much involved in community activities. He had served as president of the Chinese Panamanian Professionals Association for many years and is currently on the board of directors of the Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center.

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As discussed in the Introduction, the Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center houses the administrative headquarters and functions as the cultural and political center of the community. It provides a meeting space for all the community organizations and hosts educational lectures, karaoke performances, and lunches and dinners, as well as fund-raising activities. It also sponsors classes in Chinese dance, kung fu, and Chinese cooking. The Sun Yat-Sen School is part of the center and operates under its leadership. Both are located on the same premises in El Dorado, a neighborhood in Panama City that is now popularly referred to as the “new Chinatown.” Roberto’s positioning as a second-generation Panamanian Chinese who plays a leadership role in local affairs illuminates a different perspective on Chinese politics in Panama. I quote him at length here in order to situate his point of view: El Centro has united the community. The success of el Centro makes people want to be involved and thereby brings the community together. It promotes pride in our ancestry. Its prestige in Panama is high, and it is in much demand. The Sun Yat-Sen School nurtures generations of [Chinese] kids. It provides opportunities for them to travel to Taiwan, it teaches them Chinese customs and traditions. It also provides a place for kids with similar ancestry to spend time together. It helps build relations among the community. We also try to enlist non-Chinese students, but we want to maintain the student body to be about 70 percent students of Chinese ancestry and 30 percent students of other backgrounds. We want to create a community in which people know one another. Overall, the school has united families as well as kids. My hope is that the children will be proud of their ancestry, like I am. And hopefully, they will give something back to the community. As you know, the Chinese community has changed over the past fifteen years. There are really two different groups of Chinese. You have one group of people who come from respected families, and you can trace their history in Panama. Then, you have another group of Chinese who came during the Noriega years. . . . They now make up about half of the Chinese population. . . . The transition period for these new immigrants has passed. They have been absorbed, so to speak, into the community. Most of their kids are in el Centro, and this will help smooth out the differences between the two groups. The Chinese community had always been pro-Taiwan because most of the people ran away from the communist regime. Now, with the new influx of immigrants, there are people who play ball with both sides. Among [Panamanian-born Chinese], they also have a split opinion. Mostly there is indifference, and many of them don’t think of the China-Taiwan conflict as their problem. Those who are involved in el Centro are the ones who have thought about the situation more and who have analyzed why their parents came to Panama and how the Taiwanese have helped Panama. . . . The group that ran away from

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China and the group that works with Taiwan are connected. They would be ingrates if they did not support Taiwan. Taiwan has done so much for Panama. For me, home is Panama. . . . Basically, I am Panamanian, the only difference is that the Chinese features remain. I have values that are very important Chinese values, and I am culturally mixed. My responsibility is to Panama, and I will promote and help the Chinese community as much as I can. My father suffered and fled from communist China. He has dedicated his time, money, and effort to help build this overseas Chinese community. . . . I don’t feel the same kind of pressure that my father did. That stage of history has passed. The community has matured. His era was the transition from being secluded to being involved in the Panamanian community . . . the integration of the community . . . that transition has already been made. My responsibility now is to help people I know to get involved. Panamanians of Chinese descent need to be more involved [in El Centro].

Identifying strongly as Panamanian of Chinese descent, Roberto is committed to Panama and to strengthening the Chinese community there. Whereas he characterizes national integration as the biggest challenge that faced his father’s generation, Roberto’s primary concern now is to nurture an active and self-consciously Chinese-identified community that is both proud of being culturally Chinese and yet involved in all aspects of Panamanian life. The Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center, as he has suggested, serves that purpose. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine diasporic Chinese cultural and political life in Panama without the center. And yet, it would be equally difficult to think of the center without also acknowledging the involvement of the ROC government in it. The interconnections are so deeply entrenched that the official and institutionalized versions of Chinese Panamanian identity and community cannot be easily unraveled from the center and thereby also from the influence of the ROC state. Th e C h i n e s e Pa n a m a n i a n C u l t u r a l C e n t e r : I n s t i t u t i o n a l i z i n g Ta i w a n - D i a s p o r a Ti e s “El Centro Cultural Chino-Panameño, por favor,” I told the taxi driver as I slammed the door shut behind me. The driver looked at me in his rear view mirror and nodded, affirming that he knew where it was, and we were off. Two stone lions, one on each side of the door, guard the front entrance. From the outside, the building looks quite new and well maintained. On entering the air-conditioned building, I encountered the bust of Dr. Sun Yat-Sen that sits in the middle of the foyer, as if greeting visi-

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tors as they enter the school that is named after him. I walked into the reception area and introduced myself. As I was a bit early for my appointment, I was sent with a secretary to get a tour of the entire campus. Class was still in session, so it was the perfect time to walk around without fear of being hit by a ball or some other flying object. The building closest to the road, the one I had just been in, houses the administrative offices and the library on the first floor and classrooms on the second and third floors. As we exited the main building, we walked right into the schoolyard, on the other side of which are more classroom buildings. As we walked from building to building, I noticed that some of the rooms had names next to them. The secretary explained that they were names of donors. Farther away, another statue could be seen. This time it was a full-body statue of Chiang Kai-Shek, the Nationalist leader exiled to Taiwan in 1949, standing in front of the gymnasium named after him. The gymnasium is huge, with stadium seating along the sides of the building. At the end of the gymnasium is a stage, where dance, kung fu, and other performances take place. We walked back toward the main building, and the secretary pointed to the empty lot across the street from the campus. She told me that the center was in the process of building a park, which would provide additional recreational area for the children and the community. An overhead bridge would connect the school to the park, so students could get across safely. Complete with all the basic facilities and more, the entire campus looked impressive. The design of the buildings, accented with Chinese architectural details, is tastefully done. The blueprint of the park reflects the continuation of the Chinese motif, featuring a pagoda, water fountain, and a Chinese-style gate. After the tour, I met with Mr. Lee, a highly educated Hong Kong immigrant who speaks English, Spanish, Cantonese, and Mandarin. Dressed in his suit and tie, and wearing thick glasses, with hair neatly parted on the side and gelled in place, he stood up to shake my hand as I walked into his office. Wasting no time, he asked, in English, “What can I do for you, Miss Siu?” I told him a little bit about my research and asked for more information about the center. “The center was founded in 1980, but the school did not start functioning until 1986,” he answered matter-of-factly. “It started with 115 students who were transferred from the Chinese school in the old Chinatown. Now, there are over 1,500 students, and our enrollment is growing.” “How was the school started? Whose idea was it?” I asked. “The community wanted to have their children learn basic knowledge

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about Chinese culture, Chinese ‘roots,’ ” he replied. “The [Taiwanese] embassy and government wanted to help them achieve this goal. And the Center was founded as a result of their collaboration.” He went on to explain that the center had been built with donations from the community and the Taiwanese embassy and government, which initiated the project with $2 million. Most of the teachers are locals, although several are recruited from Taiwan to teach Mandarin and Chinese dance. I asked him how the center worked in conjunction with the community and the embassy, and he elaborated: “The center provides all sorts of services that the community needs, especially cultural services, such as promoting the image of Chinese in Panama and bettering the social position of Chinese through education and dispersal of information. The founding members of the center, the donors, and representatives from the Chinese Association and the [ROC] embassy elect the center’s board of directors every two years. The center communicates with the community through all the Chinese organizations.” As I had discovered during my field research, the founding of the center represented the conscious effort of diasporic Chinese to develop a cultural-political apparatus for the community. It clearly illustrates the political agency of diasporic Chinese. More important, it illustrates the particularly transnational manner in which this political agency was exercised. Since its inception, the center has always been conceptualized and developed as a sustained collaboration between the ROC government and diasporic Chinese. This homeland state-diaspora relationship is forged out of mutual support and understanding of each other’s specific predicaments. At the very least, the popular perception of their assumed relations has bound them closer together. Although Panamanian-born Chinese have achieved a certain level of acceptance in Panama, dominant constructions of national belonging continue to associate ethnic groups with their “place of origin,” thus preventing them from attaining full citizenship in Panama. The newspaper articles discussed in this chapter are examples of this marginalizing process at work. No matter how many generations they have been in Panama, diasporic Chinese are nonetheless associated with the Chinese homeland. It is not surprising, then, that diasporic Chinese continue to stress the need for a positive and strong representation of the Chinese state in Panama and that they have worked closely with the ROC government toward that end. Aside from this explicit political agenda, diasporic Chinese also have looked to the ROC government for cultural resources and knowledge of Chineseness. For ex-

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ample, Chinese language and dance teachers are recruited from Taiwan, and the embassy also organizes regular visits and performances by Taiwan-based dance and opera troops. In this manner, the ROC government has played an active role in shaping notions of Chinese tradition, history, and culture. The ROC government, on the other hand, appreciates the support of diasporic Chinese, who both directly and indirectly mediate its relationship with the Panamanian nation-state. Understanding the significance of diasporic Chinese allegiance, the ROC government actively nurtures the continuation of good relations and the reproduction of homeland-diaspora ties. The two parties are, hence, wedded together by their mutual need of cultural-political support, the conflation of ethnicity and national belonging, and the shared effort to create and reproduce a diasporic Chinese consciousness. As a joint project of both diasporic Chinese and the ROC government, the center is perhaps the single most important local apparatus that productively sustains their transnational relationship through time and across geographical space. While the center represents “the heart of the community,” the school helps socialize generations of children who will maintain a sense of Chineseness and an affiliation with the ROC government. By sponsoring language and arts classes, cultural performances, community activities, and youth programs to Taiwan, the center and its Sun Yat-Sen School inspire both the formation of a dual consciousness— of being Chinese and Panamanian simultaneously—and a dual connection with both Taiwan and Panama. It is this emphasis on sustaining a binational and bicultural identification that forms the basis for their continued relations. Part of the question of what will happen with Chinese state representation concerns the future of collaborative ROC-diaspora projects such as the center. Indeed, so many of the community’s programs, activities, and celebrations are co-sponsored by the ROC embassy, and so much of their identification with Chineseness is tied to these cultural practices and social engagements. Hence, the change in Chinese state representation is not merely a question of ideological difference, but one that is closely linked to established ways of being diasporic Chinese, both in terms of the social organization of the diaspora and the meanings and practices of Chineseness. It is not surprising, then, that many diasporic Chinese would agree with Esteban: “It is better to keep the old, the thing you know, than to try the new, the thing you don’t know.”

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Cultural, Not Political, Identification Among another group of Panamanian-born Chinese, the China-Taiwan question seemed irrelevant. It was Wednesday night, and a group of seven professionals in their thirties were getting together for dinner at Lung Fung Restaurant. A good friend of mine had organized this gathering to provide me with an opportunity to get to know this generation a little better. I knew most of them already, so we began our conversation with a quick survey of family histories. With the exception of one Euro-American male who was married to a Panamanian Chinese woman, all of them were second- and third-generation Panamanian-born Chinese. There were three married couples and one single male. All spoke English and Spanish fluently, and only one of them spoke Cantonese. The six Panamanian Chinese grew up together. They went to the same schools, and many of their parents were friends. They noted that most of their friends now were Panamanian Chinese. They attended activities sponsored by Agrupación, or Agrupa, an association that organizes social activities primarily for Panamanian-born Chinese, including community plays, Mother’s Day celebrations, semi-formal dances, and debutante balls. They said that attending these activities helped them maintain their circle of friends and also provided opportunities for their children to intermingle. When asked about their sense of identity, they all agreed that they felt “very Chinese . . . actually very Panamanian Chinese.” Juliana elaborated, “More than in any other place, I feel most Chinese in Panama. Most of my friends in Panama are Chinese. It was not that way in the [United] States. There, my friends were more heterogeneous. Here, I tend to be around Chinese people more. I feel more Chinese, and yet when I travel to China and Hong Kong, I don’t feel like I belong there. I feel like an overseas Chinese, a Panamanian Chinese. . . . I really don’t practice Chinese traditions, except for eating Chinese food, giving and receiving lai see (red envelopes of money), and worshipping ancestors with my parents. Keeping ‘Chinese values’ is what makes me feel Chinese.” The group nodded in agreement. “What kind of values?” I asked. “Values like family closeness, respect for elders, working hard, honesty, things like that . . .” All of them nodded again in agreement, repeating, “Yes, it’s these values that make us feel Chinese.” Yet what seemed more significant in shaping their sense of Chinese-

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ness were their interactions with other Panamanian Chinese and their continuation of various Chinese practices. As Juliana herself had pointed out, “I feel most Chinese in Panama. . . . Most of my friends in Panama are Chinese. . . . Here I tend to be around Chinese people more.” And without recognizing it, the simple acts of eating Chinese food, giving and receiving lai see, and ancestor worship all provide them with a set of shared cultural practices and knowledge that distinguish them from nonChinese. In fact, these are the very living traditions they perform in their everyday lives that reproduce their sense of Chineseness. I shifted the topic of discussion and asked about their opinion of the China-Taiwan debate that is unfolding in Panama. There was a pause, and they looked at one other curiously, as if waiting for someone to say something. Juliana began, “We should support Taiwan because it is a democratic and capitalist country. China is communist.” Carolina jumped in, “But China is more open than before. It has developed quite a bit. It is not as bad as you think it is. To me, the Taiwan-China dilemma is like the Chiriqui-Panama issue. Chiriqui wants to secede from Panama. How ridiculous is that? It’s a province of Panama, and it wants to secede. Taiwan wants to do the same thing.” Rodolfo, Juliana’s husband, interjected, “But actually, Taiwan is the original China. It is the real China.” A few of them shifted in their seats, looking around once again, and Luis, Carolina’s husband, asserted, “The bottom line is . . . we don’t care. No matter what happens, it is business as usual.” They chuckled and smiled at his comment. Nodding in agreement, they seemed relieved. I was uncertain if the conversation ended here because they did not have anything further to add or whether they did not want to offend anyone with their different viewpoints. The abrupt ending of this discussion suggested that there was little consensus on this issue, even among this group, whose members had little, if any, personal experience with China and Taiwan politics. They had few attachments to either the PRC or the ROC, and their support for one or the other was evidently informed by other ideological sources. Some statements resonated with U.S.-biased Cold War rhetoric, as exemplified by the strict delineation between democracy/capitalism and communism. Unlike the previous two groups of people mentioned earlier in this chapter, this cohort seemed less affected by the geopolitical events of the time and less invested in the China-Taiwan debate. Without any meaningful connection to either China or Taiwan, most of them appear unaware and uncertain about the histories of the two Chinas. The distance and non-involvement expressed

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by this cohort suggest not only their sense of disconnection from Chinese homeland politics but also their deep rootedness in defining home and belonging in Panama.

Conclusion By the end of 1997, Panama had struck a perfect compromise: it would maintain official relations with Taiwan while allowing the PRC to establish a commercial office in Panama. Though this decision settles the issue temporarily, the struggle is far from being over, for as long as the ChinaTaiwan conflict continues, so will the struggle for official relations with Panama. I end this chapter with a truncated scenario, for its outcome is yet to be determined. In early January 1997, I was at the airport, saying goodbye to some friends who had visited for the holidays. There, I noticed a group of Chinese families standing around. From afar I recognized a few people, so I walked over to say hello. Pedro (whose migration story is discussed in chapter 3) noticed me as I approached the group. With his usual soft-spoken voice, he greeted me, “What a surprise to see you here.” “Yes. I was just dropping off a friend. Are you taking a trip?” “No . . . me . . . no. I am dropping off my son who is going to spend a few months in Taiwan.” He pointed to a youth of apparently about fifteen, dressed in a white polo shirt and shorts, who was surrounded by about ten similarly dressed youngsters. “Wow. How exciting. What is he going to do in Taiwan?” From previous interviews, I knew that Pedro did not have family in Taiwan, so I eliminated a family visit as a possibility. “Oh, well, he won a scholarship in Panama through El Centro, and the Taiwanese government is sponsoring this program for him and the others to learn Chinese. It’s sort of a cultural exchange program. He’ll be there for about two months.” “That’s wonderful. Congratulations! I’m sure he’ll enjoy it very much.” “Yes, thank you. I am very proud of him.” Noticing that the leader of the group was motioning them toward the gate, I quickly said good-bye so as to give them more time to bid each other farewell. This conversation marked the first time I had heard about this pro-

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gram for diasporic Chinese youth in Panama. I knew that the Taiwanese government offered a couple of individual scholarships per year for study abroad in Taiwan, but this group language-cultural program for youth was something new. It sounded similar to the Chinese American version of the youth program, popularly known as the “love boat,” that is also sponsored by the Taiwanese government. As I reflected on this, I wondered what would become of this new generation of youth who are “rediscovering” Chineseness through Taiwanese lenses. I suspect that the Taiwanese government will continue to nurture close ties with diasporic Chinese through the Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center and programs such as these, and I would be curious to learn about the long-term effects of these efforts for the emerging generations of diasporic Chinese youth. As fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-generation Panamanian-born Chinese, how will they construct and practice Chineseness? How will they define home and belonging?

 Conclusion Toward a Framework for the Study of Asians in the Americas

Since my first visit to Panama, now over ten years ago, I have been captivated by the dynamism of the Chinese community there. In this book, I offer a glimpse into the social world of Panamanian Chinese, conveying what I had learned, seen, and heard, and what I had come to understand about this incredibly diverse and vibrant community. The question that motivated my research concerned a seemingly basic concept, that of belonging. But as we know, the things we consider to be the most basic are often also the most difficult to unravel. As I discovered, the question of belonging for diasporic Chinese in Panama is no simple matter. My aim in this book, then, has been to illustrate the various dimensions that shape the context of their belonging, the sociocultural practices they adopted in building a “home” in diaspora, and their entangled sentiments as they engage in the process of homemaking and the struggle for full belonging. As I have suggested in the introduction, the concept of diasporic citizenship offers a useful device to understand the politics of belonging in a diasporic context. While the concept itself emerged from my work with Panamanian Chinese, it also helped push me toward greater clarity. I used diasporic citizenship to illuminate the epistemology of Panamanian Chinese and to map the shifting context of their belonging. As I came to realize, belonging for Panamanian Chinese is about inhabiting the cultural-political intersection of Panama, China/Taiwan, and the United States. It is about how they position themselves in relation to all these places, negotiate the cultural flows that emanate from them, and deal with the political frictions that emerge between them. It is also about how they create new social practices and cultural expressions that reflect the complexities of living at that intersectional space or, put more simply, living in diaspora. In studying the diasporic citizenship of Chinese in

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Panama, I raise several key issues that current discussions of diaspora have not addressed adequately. I draw from their experience new theoretical insights that extend and deepen our understanding of what it means not just to live in diaspora but to construct a specific way of belonging to it. First, although geopolitics was not the research question I started with, I soon realized in the course of conducting fieldwork that it was impossible to ignore. Its presence permeated all aspects of Panamanian Chinese life. By geopolitics, I am referring to the cultural and political-economic conditions generated by relations between nation-states. The crucial point I want to underscore here is that geopolitical relations––especially those involving Panama, China/Taiwan, and the United States––have direct effect on debates of Chinese belonging in Panama. Although the general phenomenon is not a new observation1 (Enloe 1989), the ethnographic material provided here offers a situated and nuanced look at how this particular configuration of geopolitical links have shaped the citizenship experience of Panamanian Chinese. Recall, for instance, how the U.S. invasion of Panama and the removal of Noriega’s regime opened the possibility for accusations of human trafficking and the mass arrest of undocumented Chinese. Also, notice how constructions of Chinese belonging shifted in the late 1990s when China and Taiwan became Panama’s major economic and political allies: diasporic Chinese were refashioned into cultural bridge builders. These shifting notions of Chinese belonging in Panama not only point to the contingent nature of their national incorporation but also highlight the ongoing link between definitions of Chinese citizenship in Panama and the larger geopolitical context in which Chinese subjects are continually remade. Moreover, while the triangulation between Panama, China/Taiwan, and the United States contributes to the contingent nature of Chinese belonging, it paradoxically also generates the cultural resources for diasporic identity formation and expands their possibilities of belonging beyond the parameters of a single nation-state. Capturing this double-edged process, diasporic citizenship demonstrates how the intersection of these three entities forms the terrain on which Panamanian Chinese interpret their past, construct their present, and imagine their future, bound by historical interdependencies, social networks, and cultural memory. Second, for Panamanian Chinese, the question of Chinese homeland cannot be separated from the China-Taiwan conflict. There is not one but two competing homeland states claiming allegiance from diasporic Chi-

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nese, and nowhere is this made more vividly clear than in countries that maintain formal relations with Taiwan. As mentioned earlier, Taiwan’s struggle for sovereignty is directly related to its effort to strengthen ties with the diaspora. In Panama, it is impossible to speak about the diasporic Chinese without discussing the role of the Taiwanese government. From social institutions such as the Sun Yat-Sen Institute to transnational networks like the Federation of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama, the Taiwanese state is deeply embedded in the cultural and social life of diasporic Chinese. Since the late 1990s, with increased PRC–Hong Kong investments and escalating pressure from the PRC government to end official relations with Taiwan, the China-Taiwan conflict has erupted in Panama with full force. On one level, this has challenged Panamanians at large to rework their conceptions of China, Taiwan, and the Chinese, both in Asia and abroad. On another level, it has engendered heated debate among diasporic Chinese about who they are, where their allegiances lie, and where they belong. Indeed, the case of Panamanian Chinese has made explicitly clear that the China-Taiwan conflict is still very much alive, and its power reaches beyond the Taiwan Straits into the intimate realm of diasporic Chinese identity and community formation. Third, American colonialism has also left its mark on the cultural and social formation of Panamanian Chinese. The American Canal Zone not only provided an alternative route for Chinese integration in Panama but also offered alternative cultural resources for imagining and practicing belonging in diaspora. Through their colonial ties and economic relationship, diasporic Chinese found an ally in the American administration in Panama, and slowly that relationship led to a more profound incorporation of “America” into the lives and imaginaries of diasporic Chinese. We see the actualization of these imaginaries in their pursuit of American cultural capital. Their acquisition of English, sojourns at American universities, and sometimes even migration to the United States all indicate the extent to which American culture and the United States have become a part of diasporic Chinese reality. Fourth, far from treating diasporic citizenship as a homogenizing process, my research has shown that Chinese belonging is shot through with difference and disjuncture. Differences in immigration cohort, class, nationality, racial mixture, and gender all result in divergent experiences and conceptions of what it means to be Chinese in the diaspora. By focusing on how these differences inform the struggles of belonging on var-

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ious scales of community formation, I have underscored not only people’s various—and sometimes contradictory—commitments, but also the contingency of community formation. The mobilization of Panamanian Chinese to challenge the mass arrest of recent Chinese immigrants, hence, must be considered alongside the antagonism between them caused by their unequal class position and contrasting expectations of one another. On the regional level, the tension between difference and sameness––recast along the lines of nation, ethnicity, and race––is actively performed and contested in the beauty contest of Chinese in Central America and Panama. In these scenarios, Stuart Hall’s evocation of the dual vectors of continuity/sameness and rupture/difference appropriately captures the tensions and the ongoing negotiations within diasporic Chinese (1990). Fifth, my research has underscored the role of migration in constructing cultural identity and notions of home. Diasporic Chinese identity, as I have shown, cannot be reduced to the influences of a single nation or ethnicity but is very much shaped by memories and the continued practice of border crossing. Rather than treating migration as a backdrop to cultural change, I suggest we approach it as both a process of meaning production and a key element to cultural syncretism. Doing so emphasizes the generative and transformative nature of migration and highlights the role of place in the production of identity. This approach resonates with James Clifford’s suggestion that we study more closely the various forms of travel (a term he prefers over migration) undertaken by differently positioned subjects in order to examine the array of experiences produced in that process (1997). Indeed, my interviews with Panamanian Chinese have shown that not only have past migrations played a significant role in their subject formation but their understanding of who they are reflects the intermingling of those cultural encounters. Migration––in fact, serial migration—has been and will continue to be an important aspect of diasporic Chinese life. I point to the next generation of serial migrants, such as the Chinese Panamanians now living in the United States, as a case in point. How do these Chinese Panamanian Americans articulate their identity? Do they experience a process of sinification or hispanicization once they have arrived in the United States? Alternatively, do they hold on to their Chinese Panamanian identity or simply become “American”? Parallel questions could be asked of Indian Tanzanians who fled from Africa to Britain and Canada, as well as Japanese Brazilians and Korean Argentines who have settled in the United States (Park 2002; Joseph 1999; Ropp 2000). Their identifications may

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not be based solely on ethnic origin, racial identity, and/or national citizenship. How, in fact, do multiple migrations shape their construction of identity and community?

The Question of Area Studies On a different level, this book contributes to the ongoing debate over Area Studies. At the time I began this project, in the mid 1990s, the field of Anthropology was already embroiled in discussions about the future of Area Studies. In many ways, diasporas intrinsically challenge the conflation of race with nation or region that Area Studies often took for granted. Indeed, not only did the experiences of Panamanian Chinese (and Asians in Latin America more generally) refused to be contained in any one area of study, but to interpret their experience, I had to draw upon several areas of study, namely Latin American and Asian American studies. In effect, the nature of my project necessitated that I think outside of the Area Studies box. It seems appropriate, then, to revisit this question of Area Studies at the end of this project. Over the years, I have come to realize that the silence of Asians in Latin America as a subject of analysis is symptomatic of how Area Studies, in general, has constructed its object of study. Here, I refer to both the manner in which Area Studies carved up the world into bounded units of specialized research and its creation of theoretical metonyms that attached gatekeeping concepts to specific areas––such as hierarchy in India, filial piety in China, and lineage and segment in Africa (Guyer 2004; Appadurai 1986). While the former elided the interconnections between regions and the global history of imperialism, the latter restricted the possibility of research topics to a handful of themes that were taken to represent an entire area. In Latin American studies, the dominant themes have formed around political economic concerns, state/capital interventions, indigenous struggles, and identity-based political movements (Warren 1998; Tausssig 1980; Hale 1997). Recently, however, heightened interest in race and ethnicity has led to new research on Afro-Latin Americans, and Asians in this region are slowly gaining more attention (Gordon 1998; Wade 1997; Torres and Whitten 1998; Lesser 1999; Banco Interamericano de Desarrollo 2004; Rustomji-Kerns 1999). Indeed, one only needs to point to former Peruvian President Alberto Fujimori, the Mexican legend of La China Poblana, and the vibrant barrios chinos throughout Latin America

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to illustrate the disjunction between the extensive presence of Asians and the lack of general knowledge about them. If there is any doubt that Asians will continue to be part of Latin America, let me call attention to the New York Times article (November 25, 2004) summarizing Chinese President Hu Jintao’s visit to the region which suggests otherwise: Hu announced more than $30 billion in new Chinese investments and signed a number of long-term supply contracts to fuel Beijing’s expanding economy. This growing relationship between China and various countries in Latin America will most certainly not be confined to the economic sphere. History has shown that when there is international trade, people follow, and so does cultural exchange and social transformation. Given this current context, it seems timely to develop more research on Asians in Latin America. In Asian American studies, early efforts to claim America have focused the field’s attention on migration, exclusion, and cultural assimilation (Yanagisako 1995; Takaki 1989; Chan 1991). Since the 1990s, however, the field has expanded in various directions, taking on more critical approaches to address gender, sexuality, media, and diaspora (Parreñas 2001; Eng 2001; Manalansan 2003; Shimakawa 2001; Feng 2002). Not immune to the intellectual concerns of the time, the field––along with American and other Ethnic studies––also became enmeshed in internal debate about its nation-bound, U.S.-centric approach. While some American studies scholars have argued for more engaged scholarship on the question of American imperialism (Kaplan and Pease 1993; Shukla and Tinsman 2004), Asian American and Latino studies have debated the pros and cons of adopting a more transnational and diasporic approach. Within Asian American studies, Sau-Ling Wong has alerted us to the political implications in shifting from a cross-ethnic and nation-specific approach to a cross-national and ethnic-specific focus (1995). While the former constructs politics based on place, the latter formulates politics based on ethnicity. Wong is concerned that the panethnic consciousness that has been so critical to Asian American political struggles and fundamental to Asian American studies would be lost in the move toward “denationalization” and the assertion of ethnic distinction over panethnicity (see also Dirlik 1999). Yet, as Sylvia Yanagisako has pointed out, the nation-based Asian American studies framework also has its faults: it has foreclosed gender analysis by ignoring the transnational dimensions of Asian American family formation (1995). Together, these critiques remind us that there are always gains and limits in every approach.

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Responding to these critiques, scholars have proposed at least two ways of extending the purview of Asian American studies. The most obvious has been to examine the Asia–Asian America connection, but I caution, along with a number of other scholars, that we not lose sight of the hemispheric “Asians in the Americas” perspective.2 Aside from offering a transnational and comparative analysis of Asian diasporas in the Americas, pursuing this line of inquiry actually leads to a fundamental and radical re-vision of Asian American history and culture. In expanding our scope of analysis in this direction, we begin to realize that Asians have been in the Americas since at least the 1600s. And as soon as they arrived, they circulated throughout different parts of the Americas and maintained transnational ties with one another. Indeed, Asians continue to migrate between Asia, Latin America, the Caribbean, and North America. Exploring these links and movements will lead us to a very different picture and understanding of Asian American life, past and present. Chinese Cubans in New York and Miami, Chinese Jamaicans and Indian Trinidadians in New York and Toronto, and Korean Argentines in Los Angeles are contemporary examples of these multiple migrations and their complex relationship to the Americas. Once we recognize the constraints of the nation-based framework, nothing short of a new hemispheric historiography of Asian America will do. By broadening our analysis into these realms and expanding our vision of who and what is Asian America, we in fact are practicing and developing a politics of inclusion and a framework of transnational intersectionality. Inevitably, these extensions will bring Asian American studies into dialogue with Latino and Latin American studies (as they already have begun to do). And from these conversations, we can begin to explore the entwined histories and experiences of the different populations in the Americas. Only through this active process of exchange and dialogue can we begin to envision and build a truly cross-ethnic, cross-racial, and transnational politics.3

A Hemispheric Approach to the Study of Asians in the Americas I end this conclusion with some preliminary though concrete notes toward a framework to study Asians in the Americas. Incorporating an analysis of Asians in other parts of the Americas into the existing field of Asian American studies is not a simple process of adding case studies to

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the mix, although that is a necessary step. To take seriously the task of reframing, we must fundamentally revise our current U.S.-centric approach and begin to develop a different set of analytical questions and methods that can lead us toward reformulating Asian American studies from the standpoint of the “Americas.” Here I outline four broad organizing themes, or lines of inquiry, to establish a transnational and comparative approach to the study of Asians in the Americas. Th e P o l i t i c s o f N a t i o n a l I n t e g r a t i o n The cultural politics of national integration is critical to understanding the uneven and divergent ways in which different ethnic Asian groups have become part of the nation-state. As national ideologies (such as multiculturalism, mestizaje, and creolization) vary throughout the region, it may be useful to explore how Asians become differently constructed as racial, ethnic, gender, and class subjects in different contexts. For instance, while the term “Asian American” represents a panethnic collective identity encompassing all the different ethnic groups from Asia in the United States (Espiritu 1992), it is not well known, much less used, elsewhere in the Americas. The term derived from the history of the 1960s grassroots Asian American movement, and because no similar social movement took place elsewhere in the Americas, ethnicity remains the most salient form of self-identification (besides national identity) among Asians in Latin America. Nevertheless, the tendency for panethnic racialization by the dominant society still exists. In many Latin American countries, with the exception of Brazil, the terms chino and china are often used broadly by non-Asians to refer to all people with an East Asian phenotype. For instance, when the former Peruvian President Alberto Fujimori was running for reelection, he was commonly called “El Chino,” even though it was well known that he is of Japanese, not Chinese, descent. “El Chino,” in this sense, references a racial category rather than the specific ethnic Chinese identity. Historically, debates around immigration have been the central site where racial and ethnic arguments about Asians were launched. In many cases, class played an important role. It is important to recall that most early Asian migration to Latin America was based on labor demands, and in fact, Asian labor was used to replace the labor of enslaved Africans after the end of the slave trade. Indeed, the coolie status of Chinese migrants made them more akin to enslaved blacks, and racial arguments regarding their inferiority vis-à-vis whites were used to restrict

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their immigration. One example is the reaction by abolitionists to the proposal to import Chinese coolies into Brazil in 1879. “Joaquim Nabuco, the leading abolitionist politician of the day, vigorously opposed the coolie proposal on the grounds that Brazil already had enough trouble balancing off its African Blood without importing Asian Blood” (Skidmore 1990, 9). Blacks remained an unwanted element in Brazil as late as 1923, Thomas Skidmore notes, and Asians were regarded as “almost as great a menace because their alleged failure to assimilate would guarantee the presence of ‘yellow cysts in the national organism’ ” (ibid., 24). Invoking the language of blood, degeneracy, and the inability to assimilate, these parallels drawn between blacks and Asians along racial difference vis-à-vis the idealized white nation were used to justify Asian exclusion, just as it was for blacks. These types of discourses existed throughout Latin America from the mid nineteenth to the early twentieth century, as many of the countries faced the conflict between increasing labor needs, to which Asians provided the solution, and heightened nationalist efforts to homogenize and “whiten” the nation. Certainly, while similarities in the reception of ethnic Asians can be drawn, there are also differences in their national integration. For instance, the case of Asian Indians in the Caribbean underscores the role of religion (Khan 2004). Other questions might explore the extent to which cultural stereotypes, such as the model minority, translate across the Americas. Overall, it would be fruitful to examine cross-nationally and over time how Asians have integrated into the Americas. D i a s p o r a - H o m e l a n d Ti e s The evolving relationship between diasporic Asians and their respective homelands or homeland states is also an important comparative dimension. For instance, the Japanese government played an active role in facilitating and regulating Japanese migration to Latin America. Japanese migrations were organized by international agreements, and Japanese immigrants were granted certain amounts of land and various resources to help jumpstart their settlement. Also, Japanese diplomats in Latin America served as legal representatives of diasporic Japanese and were often called upon to resolve interethnic and intraethnic disputes. The Chinese government, on the other hand, was less involved, especially in the early periods of Chinese migration. Moreover, homeland states often provide cultural and economic resources for developing communitywide projects in the nation of resi-

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dence. In the case of Chinese in Panama and Central America, the ROC embassy not only sponsors various cultural activities, such as national holiday celebrations, but also provides material support for developing cultural and educational institutions. Also, the ROC government cosponsors transnational conventions that bring together diasporic Chinese on the regional, hemispheric, and global levels. Similar transnational organizations exist for diasporic Japanese as well. The Pan-American Nikkei Association consists of Nikkei (people of Japanese descent) living in Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Canada, Chile, Columbia, the U.S., Mexico, Paraguay, Peru, the Dominican Republic, and Uruguay. With co-sponsorship from the Japanese embassy and civic and private organizations, they convene biennially in different cities throughout the Americas to discuss collective concerns and to celebrate their shared cultural heritage (Hirabayshi and Kikumura-Yano 2002). In the past few decades, the PRC, ROC, Japan, and India have increased their efforts in reaching out to the diaspora. India, for instance, has established a special legal category of “non-resident Indians,” or NRI, to encourage economic remittances and diasporic investments in India (Raj 2003; Shukla 2001). Since the late 1980s, Japan has recruited thousands of Japanese Latin Americans to fill the labor needs of its growing economy (Roth 2002; Tsuda 2003, Linger 2001). Meanwhile, the PRC looks to diasporic Chinese for economic investments in homeland projects such as schools and hospitals, and Taiwan is seeking their political support in gaining sovereignty. With the push toward globalization, Asian states are using discourses of ethnicity, cultural connectedness, and belonging to mobilize their overseas diasporas to fulfill domestic needs for labor, capital, and political influence. In most Asian communities throughout Latin America, the role of the homeland state is noticeable, and in many cases, the two have established strong social and cultural ties. American Imperialism and Hegemony Since the establishment of the Monroe doctrine in 1823, the United States has made itself the policeman of the New World. It seems important, then, to examine the varying degrees to which American imperialism and hegemony has influenced the experiences of Asians throughout the Americas. While U.S. political influence in Latin America and, by extension, among Asians in this region has varied widely, it has certainly been a force to be reckoned with. For the Chinese in Panama, the role of the United States in the country’s overall cultural, economic, and political

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formation has been critical. Another notable example is the American policy of Japanese internment during World War II, which had varying degrees of influence on Japanese communities throughout the Americas.4 In Latin America, thirteen countries—including Bolivia, Colombia, Costa Rica, the Dominican Republic, Ecuador, El Salvador, Guatemala, Haiti, Honduras, Mexico, Nicaragua, Panama, and Peru—deported a total of 2,264 Japanese Latin Americans in 1945 and sent them to internment camps in the United States (Hagihara and Shimizu 2002). Japanese Peruvians, consisting of 1,800 persons, were among the largest group deported. While these numbers were quite small in comparison to the American and Canadian cases, they nonetheless illustrate the extent to which American hegemony influenced the treatment of diasporic Japanese in Latin America. The United States also looms large in another way. It has become the primary destination for Asian remigrants from Latin America. Certainly, this is the case for diasporic Chinese from Panama, Cuba, and Peru, as well as for diasporic Koreans from Brazil and Argentina (Park 2002). Difference Within and Between Diasporas Lastly, the question of links and differences within and between diasporic Asian communities deserves close analysis. By this, I mean the internal differences within a local community (such as the recent immigrants and Panamanian Chinese), the links and differences among dispersed communities of one ethnic group (such as the Chinese in Central America and Panama), and the links and differences between different diasporic groups (such as Japanese and Chinese in Peru), especially those outside the United States. In contrast to early U.S. policies of anti-miscegenation, Latin America’s dominant ideology of mestizaje has encouraged interracial mixing. Differentiation along notions of purity and mixedness has generated internal tensions and hierarchies among various Asian communities across this region. Hence, not only do ideas of what it means to be “Chinese,” “Japanese,” “Korean,” or “Hindu” vary from place to place but they also are subject to intense debate and contest. Varying flows of migration have also contributed to shifting dynamics within the community. As in the case of Chinese in Panama, contrasting ideas of what it means to be Chinese racially and how to behave culturally have generated enormous internal conflict between recently arrived immigrants and Panamanianborn Chinese. Also, like the Convention of Chinese Associations in Central America

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and Panama, the Pan-American Nikkei Convention may serve as an excellent site to examine the links, continuities, and disruptions among diasporic Japanese in the Americas. Finally, given the coexistence of multiple ethnic Asian groups in various countries throughout the hemisphere, it would be tremendously productive to explore their interactions and fractures, as well as to compare their experiences within and across local contexts. For instance, how are Japanese Peruvians constructed differently from Chinese Peruvians, and how does this difference allow one ethnic subject to be elected to the presidency while the other is an impossible scenario? Certainly, a number of studies have begun to explore some of these issues (Rustomji-Kerns 1999; Park 2002; Leonard 1992; Lesser 2003; Hirabayashi et al. 2002). What we need now is more historical and ethnographic research in this area, and more importantly, a sustained critical discussion that examines their overlaps, intersections, and disjunctures.

 The four themes I have outlined above suggest some possible directions for future research. This is by no means a definitive statement but a work-in-progress that inevitably grows and transforms with time and new information. In proposing this preliminary framework, my main goal is to establish some common ground from which we can begin to think more systematically about the connective tissues––the linkages, tensions, and dissonance––that allow for an imagining of “Asians in the Americas.” Indeed, what would this revised history of Asian America look like? And how would this hemispheric approach rework our understanding of Asian American culture, racialization, migration, and community? The concept of diasporic citizenship, the main contribution of this book, is intended to provide a way of understanding transnational processes in community and subject formation. If the patterns of the last few decades are any indication, international migration will continue to increase, and advancing technologies will make transnational interactions and communication faster and easier. Old assumptions that one’s country of residence is one’s only site of affiliation and allegiance may not hold true anymore. For some people, this may come as a harsh awakening; for a number of migrants and their descendants, however, it is simply an intensification or modification of how things have been for generations. The fact that citizenship, belonging, and transnational migration have

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become central concerns of our time suggests that these issues no longer pertain to a select group of people. Rather, they reflect a more profound and widespread transformation that is redefining our ideas and relationships to place, home, and community. Indeed, we live in a time when what we call “home,” our cultural-ethnic affiliation(s), and our political commitments may not be congruently located all in one place. And conventional understandings of how migrants integrate into nation-states, such as concepts of assimilation and cultural succession, actually obscure more than they clarify. Our increasingly interconnected world is changing the way we think, feel, act, and imagine ourselves in relation to home and community: diasporic citizenship offers one approach to understanding this new reality.

 Epilogue “The Chinese Century”: Redefining Panamanian National Identity

In April 2000, two Panamanian Chinese friends contacted me about the Gran Feria de la China Milenaria (Chinese Millennium Fair) that would take place in Panama City in July that same year. They urged me to visit and document the event, stressing that this is the first Chinese fair ever. One wrote in an e-mail, “It’s a big deal for the Chinese community. There are lots of sponsors, and it is going to take place at the Convention Center. You should try to come down if you can.” Almost three years had passed since I left Panama; I was curious to see what had changed. Arriving in Panama in July 2000, just a week before the Chinese Millennium Fair, I immediately noticed the enormous media coverage surrounding the event. Announcements were aired frequently on the radio and television throughout the days preceding the fair. And plenty of people—Chinese and non-Chinese alike—showed genuine interest in attending the event. In fact, on my way over to the opening ceremony, my nonChinese taxi driver, looking at me in his rear view mirror, commented, “The fair should be a lot of fun. I hear there will be lots of performances—Chinese acrobatics, dragon dances, and kung fu. This Sunday, when I am off from work, I am going to bring my son there. I want him to see this Chinese fair. I want him to learn about Chinese culture, Chinese ways.” He paused and continued, “The Chinese are incredible. I admire you. You people work hard, very hard. I see the shopkeepers. They work fourteen hours a day, every day of the week. And they don’t complain. They just keep on working. Now, that’s a work ethic. It must be the Chinese culture, Chinese values. I admire that. I really do.” Having been away from Panama since 1997, I was surprised to hear his comments. I remembered so clearly my experiences of being disdainfully called chinita or china as I walked down the streets of Panama City. There was something in the voices back then that bore traces of contempt

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and hatred. By July 2000, however, a drastic shift had clearly taken place. My conversation with the taxi driver was only one example indexing that shift. The fair was organized by the Chinese Association and the Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center with support from the Taiwanese embassy and the International Commercial Bank of China (headquartered in Taiwan), and, indeed, their combined cultural, political, and commercial interests were present throughout the room. Near the entrance of the convention center, three brightly lit glass cabinets showcased Chinese dynastic clothing, as if announcing the grandeur of Chinese cultural history. These replicas of delicately woven silk robes not only conveyed an image of China as an ancient civilization that had once amassed tremendous power and wealth, but, more subtly, they also suggested that that glorious past, preserved with meticulous care, might also be its destiny. Just behind the showcases, aisles of small booths lined the room. These booths had been rented by different interest groups and served a variety of purposes. Some were being used to sell off-the-rack Chinese gowns and robes, others served merely as advertisements, and one particular booth showcased a photographic reconstruction of various Chinese Panamanian genealogies. Its uniqueness set it apart from all the others. It was the only one dedicated to presenting the history of Chinese in Panama. Organized by the Asociación China de Mujeres Ejecutivas y de Negocias de Panama (Chinese Association of Executive and Business Women of Panama), the booth provided an intimate portrayal of the Panamanian Chinese community throughout the twentieth century. Displaying enlarged reproductions of rare photos from personal collections, the booth captivated the attention of its visitors. Community members were eager to examine the photos, pointing out the individuals they recognized and verifying them by reading the captions. Histories of particular families were documented with pictures from beauty contests, carnival parades, and family gatherings. By presenting the faces, names, and stories of diasporic Chinese, the booth added an important human element to the fair and made concrete and tangible the history of Chinese in Panama. Together, the photos depicted the community’s development through time and its ongoing engagement with Panamanian society. In short, the exhibit claimed diasporic Chinese belonging in Panama. At the present historical moment, when recently arrived transnational Chinese were dominating the sociopolitical scene, this booth offered a strong reminder that

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diasporic Chinese have been an integral part of Panama for over 150 years. The booth’s representation of historical continuity provided an alternative narrative to the reductive construction of diasporic Chinese as new agents of global economic power. In addition to these booths, lectures and workshops on Chinese medicine, Chinese cooking, and feng shui were offered to the public. To my surprise, the people teaching these courses were not necessarily Panamanian Chinese or Chinese at all, and the participants came from various ethnic backgrounds. Clearly, one did not have to be Chinese to be an expert in, much less a practitioner of, these Chinese practices. Throughout the three-day event, performances of all kinds were scheduled around the clock. The opening night featured a spectacular combination that included a variety of Chinese folk dances and kung fu performances. Quite appropriately, the concluding act featured a 120-foot-long dragon dance that swirled around the room, incorporating various performative acts as it spiraled around the audience. Growing bigger and bigger, the dragon dance finally came to an end when Panamanian carnival music and dance were added for the last stretch of the grand finale. Indeed, this spectacular blending of Chinese and Panamanian cultural elements conveyed the ultimate consummation of the two cultures, nations, and peoples. As I watched intently, mesmerized by the beauty and agility of the dragon spinning around the room, I was struck again by the incredible diversity of the audience. This was the first national event celebrating Chinese culture, arts, and commerce in Panama. Given the current circumstances, it was rather telling that it had been called the Chinese Millennium Fair. Was this a sign that Panamanians were embracing the next millennium as the Chinese millennium? Had Panama finally come to accept Chineseness as its own? If so, will diasporic Chinese finally achieve full citizenship? Without question, the Chinese Millennium Fair marked a sharp departure in how dominant Panamanian society perceived Chineseness, interacted with the Chinese community, and understood the place of diasporic Chinese in Panama. The Fair was not only a celebration of Chineseness but clearly an effort to bring Chineseness into Panamanian cultural and social life. Indeed, the day before I left Panama, when I went to bid farewell to friends at the Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center, I came across a young mestizo boy and his father in the lobby. In my effort to start a friendly conversation, I asked, “What brings you here to the cultural center?” The proud father tapped his son on the head, and re-

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sponded: “My boy is going to enroll in [the Sun Yat-Sen] school. He’s going to learn Mandarin and Chinese culture. The next century is the Chinese century. That is the future of Panama and of the world, and I want him to be well prepared for it. As his father, I just want what is best for my child, to give him the skills and education he needs for his future. Learning Mandarin, learning the Chinese way. . . . that will be his key to success.” I nodded, thinking how drastically the perception of Chineseness had changed in such a short period of time. Was this indeed the beginning of a new relationship or was it a temporary romance fated to turn sour? Mainland China’s recent promise of $30 billion in new investments in Latin America reflects the general trend of increasing economic interaction. As long as these relations persist, I suspect that Panamanians, along with other Latin Americans, may well continue to turn their attention toward China, and Chineseness may become a more central and valued part of Latin America.

 Notes

 Notes

Introduction 1. Senate Majority leader Trent Lott was one of the most outspoken of those who called for an investigation. At the behest of six senators, the Federal Maritime Commission reviewed the bidding process for the two seaports, Balboa and Cristóbal, and found no procedural irregularities or discrimination against U.S. companies. 2. Feminist and critical race scholars have shown that claims to universalism have masked unequal power relations and that, in fact, citizenship has never been granted universally nor been instituted in the same way for everyone. For more detail, see Lister 1998; Young 1990; Yuval-Davis 1995; Williams 1991. 3. Other writers whose work explores the relationship between culture and citizenship include Will Kymlicka, who suggests that the formal institutionalization of multiculturalism can resolve the tensions between minority rights and nation-building (Kymlicka 1995), and Toby Miller, who examines the process by which cultural policies shape citizens (Miller 1993). 4. I thank Nira Yuval-Davis for bringing this to my attention at the Gender and Cultural Citizenship Working Group Conference at UCSC. 5. This is so because their aggressions abroad often did not have an immediate impact on domestic citizenship. In contrast, it is impossible for formerly colonized nations to ignore the manner in which colonizers have dictated their domestic affairs. 6. Diaspora has been criticized for its tendency to homogenize groups of people based on ethnicity, thereby deemphasizing differences of location, class, and generation. See, e.g., Dirlik 1993. 7. While the two concepts of “immigrant” and “diasporic” are not mutually exclusive and may, in fact, point to different kinds of coexisting relations, they nonetheless carry vastly different assumptions and invoke distinct characterizations and trajectories. The trope of the immigrant in the United States goes something like this: the immigrant arrives in the newly adopted country, loses her cultural identity by acquiring the behaviors, practices, and values of the dominant culture, and gradually assimilates into society. This trope is problematic on many levels. It assumes the disappearance of one’s cultural identity, the severing of ties with the “place of origin,” and a smooth unidirectional movement from foreigner

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to assimilated citizen. The notion of being diasporic contradicts all these points: cultural identity does not disappear, ties to the “homeland” are sustained, and experiences of both foreignness and familiarity coexist simultaneously. 8. The concept of diaspora has been elaborated in a number of ways by different scholars. For a stricter definition, see Safran 1991. Clifford 1997; Lavie and Swedenburg 1996; Tölöyan 1991; Hall 1990; and Gilroy 1993 provide more expansive definitions, and Cohen 1997 offers a typology of diasporas. 9. I agree with Diane Nelson’s suggestion that jokes reveal people’s fantasies and anxieties (Nelson 1999). In this case, Panamanian police jokes index people’s anxiety about illegitimate law enforcement. 10. Mestizaje has been a central site of debate in Latin America. It has also served as the primary discourse and ideology through which many Latin American nations are formed. José Vasconcelos’s La raza cósmica: Misión de la raza iberoamericana (1925) provides a brilliant example of this nationalist ideology. For critiques of mestizaje, see Cadena 2000; Gould 1998; Torres and Whitten 1998. 11. Though indigenous groups do not fit into the Mestizaje framework, their assertion as the “original” occupants of Panama makes them undeniably part of the Panamanian nation-state. 12. For Mary Louise Pratt, a contact zone is both a location and a theory of thinking about power asymmetries in colonized/colonizer spaces. It is a hybridized space in which subjects are constituted in and by their relations to one another. It treats relations among colonizer/colonized or travelers/dwellers in terms of constant interaction, exchange, and coexistence within a web of asymmetrical power relations (1992). 13. Since 1949, the People’s Republic of China has controlled mainland China while the Republic of China has ruled on the island of Taiwan. The two states compete in claiming sovereignty over territorial China, which includes both the mainland and Taiwan. In the past ten years, the Taiwan-based government has shifted its strategy away from reclaiming power over the mainland and toward establishing sovereignty of the island. Mainland China, however, still claims Taiwan to be a renegade province of China, thereby rejecting Taiwan’s gestures toward independence. The two are still contesting the nature of their relationship, the governance of Taiwan, and claims over the Chinese nation, including the diaspora. While their conflict is considered to be a domestic national affair, its struggle is played out in the international arena, both within the global community of diasporic Chinese and in the realm of interstate relations. 14. In Spanish, the name of the association is Asociación de Profesionales Chino-Panameños (APROCHIPA). 15. This number does not include the Vatican City and Taiwan. 16. This “commercial” office functions much like an embassy. While the title is different, the responsibilities of this office resemble those of other embassies. It issues travel visas, passports, and other official documents, as well as managing relations between Panama and the PRC. 17. My discussion builds on the work done by scholars of cultural citizenship, who have made similar arguments against assimilation. For more details, see Flores and Benmayor 1997.

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18. This idea of social rupture is informed by E. P. Thompson’s notion of “historical conjuncture” (1966) and Laura Nader’s discussion of “aperture” (lecture 1990). 19. Community is not some romanticized notion of a stable, harmonious, and homogenous unit of people bound by geographical space or by some list of common traits and characteristics. Rather, it is embedded in a web of power relations where inequalities, differences, and tensions are constantly negotiated, debated, and transformed.

1. Prohibited Race / Ideal Citizens 1. I use the terms “Panamanian Chinese,” “ethnic Chinese,” “Chinese,” and “diasporic Chinese” interchangeably in this book. While these terms connote different ways of identifying and positioning oneself, they are not exclusive of one another. They represent more the range of identifications that the Chinese in Panama take up than objective categories of identity. 2. This is a conservative estimate provided by the Chinese Association of Panama. On the other hand, the Commission of Overseas Chinese Affairs estimated 103,500 Chinese in Panama (1997). Population estimates range depending on how Chinese ethnicity is defined, and numbers can span anywhere between 100,000 and 250,000. The Chinese Association estimated 175,000 based on information collected by native place associations. It does not include those who fall outside of these associations, including many racially mixed Chinese and some recent immigrants. Moreover, the category of ethnic Chinese is a contested one, and estimates of the “Chinese” population vary depending on how ethnic Chineseness is defined. In the recent years, with changing constructions of Chinese ethnicity, more and more racially mixed Chinese who previously did not identify Chinese are beginning to reclaim their ethnic roots. If ethnicity is based on self-identification, the numbers surely will fluctuate over time and depend on social context. 3. American University 1962. 4. Wolf 1982. 5. Wong Kong Yee, who was killed in his sleep by the shell, was the only human casualty of Panama’s Independence war. McCullough 1977. 6. U.S. Senate, Committee on Foreign Relations, Hearings on the Panama Canal Treaties, 95th Cong., 1st sess., September 1977, pt. 1, p. 588. 7. Barry 1990, 23. 8. For more details on Panamanian political history, see Ropp 1982. 9. See ibid.; Priestley 1986; and LaFeber 1989 for excellent discussions of Panamanian political history. 10. Barry 1990, 49. 11. For list of banks, see Jones 1997, 152–58. 12. Many of them are “paper” companies that do not operate their businesses in Panama. The nation’s lax incorporation laws allow these companies to avoid taxation in their countries of operation. 13. The trope of Panama as bridge and passageway also rings true in its academic “area studies” location. One of the questions I confront over and over

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again is: where does Panama belong? Is it part of Central America, South America, or the Caribbean? It occupies an ambiguous position, for while Panama was part of Colombia (South America) until 1903, the country’s history of American colonialism makes it more akin to Central American countries. Still, with its strong connections with the Caribbean, it also shares many similarities with the islands. Perhaps it is telling that one can locate more materials on Panama in the library section of U.S. government documents than anywhere else, further substantiating Panama’s ambiguity as neither being an official U.S. protectorate nor having full control over its national destiny. So, the question of where Panama belongs, both geographically and conceptually, remains open-ended. It may be most accurate to call it a central node where all these regions intersect. For Panama, as it is for diasporic Chinese living there, intersectionality is a key theme in its formation. 14. For a more detailed discussion of the West Indian population in Panama, please see Laporte (1998) and Conniff (1983), Barrow (2001). 15. The four major populations of Native Americans are largely distributed in three geographical regions of Panama. The Emberá and the Waunaan, formerly grouped together as Chocó Indians, occupy Darién Province (Kane 1994). The Ngobé-Buglé, formerly called the Guaymí, live in the northeastern region of Panama, in the provinces of Chiriquí, Veraguas, and Bocas del Toro (Gjording 1991; Bourgois 1989). The Kuna, considered to be the most politically organized indigenous group in Panama, occupy the San Blas Islands (Tice 1995; Salvador 1988; Howe 1986). 16. For instance, please see Stanley Heckadon-Moreno 1994. 17. The U.S. ambassador, William Hughes, had written a letter to Panama’s minister of commerce and industry, Raúl Gasteazoro Arango, urging him to address these complaints filed by U.S. investors, which was published in La Prensa on March 8, 1997. 18. Contrary to some recent literature that suggests globalization has diminished the role of the state, the Panamanian government has in fact been extremely involved in setting its own course. I therefore join scholars like Saskia Sassen (1995) and Aihwa Ong (1999), among others, in recognizing the critical role of the state in facilitating globalization. It seems that with increased economic competition on the global scale, states are taking more active roles in fostering interstate relations and participating in global policymaking. 19. Hu-Dehart 1998a. 20. When abolitionists in Britain gained momentum in the late 1700s, plantation owners searched for other forms of cheap labor. Their solution was the “coolie trade,” which involved the importation of Asian laborers from primarily India and China. The 1802 Trinidad experiment with Chinese labor was one of the earliest efforts in establishing this trade. 21. While this is the earliest documentation of Chinese immigration to Panama, some of my interviewees suspect that their Chinese ancestors already were in Panama before then. 22. See Cohen 1971; Mon 1981; Chong Ruiz 1992. 23. See Lucy Cohen 1971 for further details on this group of laborers.

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24. The local historian Ramón Mon suspects that many of these immigrants came to Panama after the passage of the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act in the United States. 25. In the U.S., these policies included the Page Act of 1875 and the series of Chinese exclusion acts in 1882. 26. Acción Communal was formed by a class of urban professionals whose nationalism, though focused primarily on an expanded job base, had strong racial and cultural undertones. In particular, it perceived foreign groups in Panama as denying native Panamanians their rightful opportunities and economic status. For more detail, see Ropp 1982. 27. See, e.g., Hu-Dehart 1989 and Lai 1993. 28. For further details, see Kwong 1999. 29. See Ong 1999; Mitchell 2004. 30. While much scholarship has documented the circular migrations between China and the United States (for instance, Hsu 2000), migrations within the Americas and the Caribbean are less known (with the exception of works by Evelyn Hu-Dehart and Walter Look Lai). For Chinese in Panama, both sets of movements and relations have been common and equally important in shaping their sense of identity and community. 31. Rouse 1991; Gilroy 1993; Basch et al. 1994. 32. Maintaining transnational split households was common practice throughout the Americas. See, e.g., Hsu 2000; Nakano-Glenn 1988. 33. The names of these native place associations are translated from Cantonese, the dominant Chinese dialect spoken by Chinese in Panama. 34. Several Chinese families were able to establish compadrazgo ties with important Panamanian political figures and have benefited from these relationships in times of adversity. 35. Mexico offers a comparable example. Most Chinese in northern Mexico in the early twentieth century were merchants. When the anti-Chinese movement led to mass riots, neither China nor the United States was able to intervene, and the Chinese had no protection. A number of them were killed, their properties were destroyed, and many of the survivors fled from Mexico. Today, very few traces of this early Chinese settlement remain. For more details, see Hu-Dehart 1989. 36. Luis Chen, deputy of the National Assembly; Jorge Federico Lee, minister of government and justice and director of the Colon Free Trade Zone; Julio Mock, minister of public works; Zialena Lee, minister of public works; Bertha Alicia Chen, director of customs; Edith Loa de Barahona, vice mayor of Panama City; José Chen Barría, minister of immigration; Gloria Young, legislator; Dorothy de Sing, vice minister of commerce and industry.

2. The Queen of the Chinese Colony 1. The “national” dresses that the contestants wore and the “national” dances that they performed are often drawn from indigenous dress and dance forms that have been popularized as representative of the nation. For instance,

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Miss Guatemala would perform her nationality through Mayan dress and dance forms. 2. The term “Colonia China,” employed not only in Panama but throughout Central America since the late nineteenth century, gives the connotation that diasporic Chinese are a satellite community of China, rather than being part of Panamanian society. It remains widely used today. 3. To a large extent, the ROC relies on diasporic Chinese to legitimate its claims to being the Chinese state. Conversely, the Chinese in Central America and Panama benefit from the financial and moral support of the ROC. 4. Throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Chinese communities in the diaspora have been subjected to varying degrees of persecution. Anti-Chinese movements have at one time or another been rampant in the United States, Mexico, Jamaica, Panama, Philippines, Indonesia, and Australia. Many of these movements led not only to mass destruction of property but also to intense physical violence and death. In some of these countries, communities of Chinese have emigrated, leaving few traces of their historical presence. 5. Different types of Chinese organizations are present in diasporic communities. The most prevalent ones include: surname or clan associations, locality or native place associations, dialect group associations, consolidated benevolent associations, chambers of commerce, secret societies, and religious associations. For a more detailed discussion of this subject, see Lai 1998; Sinn 1998; Wickberg 1998; King 1994. 6. This subject has been well documented by Chinese diaspora scholars. In this chapter, I restrict my discussion of locality associations to gender and kinship. 7. I am translating native place-names from Cantonese. 8. Their long-standing differences have been further complicated by current political struggles within Taiwan over whether it should continue to seek reunification with the mainland or work toward independence. In the past ten years, the Beijing government has issued numerous warnings against Taiwanese independence. It has made official statements and even fired missiles across the straits as a show of non-tolerance. On Taiwan’s side, internal debates indicate that some support the “one China” principle (the idea that the two territories will reunify in the future), advocating for “status quo” or not changing the island’s geopolitical status, while others support total independence from the PRC and official recognition as a nation. Despite their differences in strategy, most Taiwanese agree that neither China nor Taiwan is ready for reunification. The China-Taiwan issue is also debated among diasporic Chinese. For Chinese in Panama, the eventual reunification of the PRC and ROC has been a central impetus for their participation in specific diasporic organizations and their support of the ROC is premised on that principle. With intensification of the China-Taiwan conflict, the ROC is more anxious than ever to recruit the support of diasporic Chinese, and this has aroused even more active and vocal participation among diasporic Chinese. 9. After losing relations with South Africa, the ROC has placed its priority on maintaining relations with Panama, its most important and influential supporter at the moment. 10. Panama’s national dress is distinctly different from the other countries’

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national dresses because it is heavily influenced by Spanish colonial style. All the other Central American countries use indigenous dress forms to represent the nation. 11. At first, the masters of ceremony appeared uncertain about which languages to use, and after a few tries, they finally settled on speaking Spanish and Mandarin, with occasional interjections in Cantonese. 12. About twelve judges are selected every year. Some are local representatives of diasporic Chinese communities, some are local embassy people, and some are diplomatic visitors from the ROC. 13. The exceptions include Paul Gilroy and Jacqueline Brown, who explore connections amongst diasporic communities. 14. Manalansan 2003 explores the role of language among diasporic Filipinos in New York City. Besnier 2002 examines language use in beauty contests.

3. Migration Stories 1. My definition and use of the term “serial migration” developed out of my research with Chinese in Panama. See Siu 2004b. While it is similar to Susan Ossman’s definition, I had actually developed this concept before reading her article “Emergent Research: Studies in Serial Migration” (2004). 2. Movement from less developed countries to more developed ones is inherent in the concept of step migration, but not in that of serial migration. 3. The term “Greater China” signifies a social formation and geographical area that includes China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macao. 4. The key places my interviewees indicated included Jamaica, British Guiana, Nicaragua, Peru, and the United States. 5. While mestizaje refers generally to racial-cultural mixing, it is also associated with the ideology of racial whitening. For detailed discussion of mestizaje, see Cadena 2000; Torres and Whitten 1998. 6. For a more detailed discussion, see Said 1983; Kaplan 1996. 7. “Paper Sons” came to the United States bearing papers documenting them as sons of Chinese who had returned to China to marry and produce children. The Great Earthquake of 1906 in San Francisco had destroyed immigration records, along with other official records of the U.S. government. In the process of redocumentation, some Chinese immigrants falsely reported the number of children they had in China in order to get papers for others to immigrate. 8. It was my uncle Armando in Nicaragua who had first mentioned this quarantine station in Panama. He called it the “wooden house” in Cantonese and compared it to the immigration station on Angel Island in San Francisco Bay, California. When Pedro mentioned the quarantine station again, I decided to go look for it. After a thorough search in the former U.S. Canal Zone, I was unable to locate the actual structure of the station or find any documentation connecting it to Chinese immigration to Latin America. Nonetheless, several of my interviewees who immigrated to Latin American before World War II vividly remember this “wooden house,” the quarantine station that served as an immigration processing point for Chinese going to various destinations in Latin America.

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9. Pedro refers here to the first Chinese school that was established in the 1930s, which has since been destroyed. It was a primary school that taught Cantonese in addition to the regular Panamanian curriculum and was attended mostly by children of Chinese descent living in the Chinatown area. 10. La Chorrera is a suburb West of Panama City, across the Bridge of the Americas. Since the 1980s, La Chorrera has become the city with the largest percentage of Chinese immigrants in Panama. Most of the Chinese there are Hakka speakers from Canton and immigrated to Panama during the Manuel Noriega military regime. The Chinese living in La Chorrera are primarily involved in distribution, small retail businesses, and restaurants. As the next largest city west of Panama City, it serves as a major transit point between the capital and the smaller towns in the interior of Panama (the provinces of Coclé, Herrera, Los Santos, and Veraguas). Due to its central location, La Chorrera has become a central distribution center for produce and commercial products to both Panama City and the interior. 11. The term “Asian American” emerged during the 1960s in order to mobilize a political coalition of the different ethnic Asian groups in the United States. By asserting a collective identity, it helped articulate shared experiences of racial oppression. Since such a movement did not take place in Panama, a collective “Asian Panamanian” consciousness was never achieved. Indeed, ethnicity and nationality remain the central frameworks in which Panamanians categorize difference.

4. Home at the Intersection of Nations 1. While scholars have studied how the ideology of mestizaje has excluded blacks and indigenous populations from becoming full citizens (legal and cultural) of Latin American countries, there has not been substantial research examining the relationship between mestizaje and Asians in this region. One objective of this chapter is to draw connections between the mestizaje ideology, which forms the basis of Panama’s nationalist movement, and the exclusionary practices against the ethnic Chinese in Panama. 2. In Panama, the term mestizo is traditionally used to refer to people of mixed white and indigenous origins. As the dominant ideology of Latin America, mestizaje is not an inclusive term that embraces people of all racial and cultural backgrounds. Instead, mestizos are defined against indígenas (indigenous people), negros (blacks), Chinos (Chinese), Hindus (East Indians), etc. For further discussion of mestizaje, see Torres and Whitten 1998; Pitt-Rivers 1967; Stutzman 1981. 3. For an excellent discussion of its effects on the West Indian community, see Conniff 1985. 4. For more details on the 1941 Constitution, see Picardi de Illueca 1995. 5. Generally speaking, Arias was mostly concerned with the growing population of non-Hispanic minorities such as the Chinese and West Indian blacks, who were quickly rising to the middle class via employment by the American administration or their own entrepreneurship. He wanted to empower Hispanic Panamanians, and he believed that, with limited resources and job opportunities in

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Panama, these immigrants were taking away what should be rightfully reserved for “Panamanians.” 6. Quoted in Mon 1992, 16. National Archives, Documents of the Colombian Period 1808–1903, Panama. 7. U.S. protection of Chinese in Panama was first established in 1885 and renewed in 1902 (Foreign Relations of the United States 1903, Document Number 262, 318–19). A Chinese consulate was finally established in 1912. I thank Adam McKeown for sharing his notes with me. 8. In California, violence against the Chinese surfaced as early as the 1850s. Though accurate numbers of total injured and killed have not been well documented, we know that in 1862, a list of eighty-eight Chinese murders were presented to the California State legislature. Riots against the Chinese began to intensify in the late 1800s. A riot in Los Angeles killed nineteen Chinese in 1871; another in Chico, California in 1877 killed four Chinese and burned several of their properties. In 1885, the violence spread to Rock Springs, Wyoming, and Seattle, Washington (Chan 1990, 45–62). For more detailed historical analysis of anti-Chinese movements in the United States, see Coolidge 1909; Sanmeyer 1939; Saxton 1971. For discussion of anti-Chinese riots in Jamaica, see Johnson 1983. 9. The term Hindu is used in Panama to refer to all people from the Indian subcontinent. 10. See Nakano-Glenn 1986 and Liu 1992 for more in-depth discussion of the transpacific family. 11. Colón, the terminal city of the Panama Canal on the Caribbean side, was once the cosmopolitan center of Panama, although now economically impoverished and much neglected. Colón’s “Chinatown” used to be the biggest and most vibrant in Panama, but since the 1940s, it has gradually deteriorated, and many ethnic Chinese have relocated to Panama City. 12. The term “picture bride” refers to the process by which she and her husband arranged their marriage. Basically, given the distance and the lack of easy, inexpensive modes of transportation between China and Panama, the men residing in Panama were shown pictures of potential marriage partners. Based on these pictures, a man chose his bride-to-be, who then came to Panama to marry him. In most cases, the women met their husbands for the first time when they arrived in Panama. This was a common practice among Chinese (as well as other Asian) immigrants during the late 1800s and early 1900s. 13. Bocas del Toro is the capital city of the province by the same name. It is located on Isla Colon, also known as Isla Bocas, located off the northwestern coast of Panama. 14. This organization had specific names in Spanish, English and Chinese. In referring to the association here, I use its official English name, Chinese Association in Panama. 15. As the first Panamanian Chinese to receive a law degree in Panama, Luis Chen served as an alternate to the principal legislator from 1960 to 1964. In 1964, he ran for the office of principal legislator and won. He was reelected in 1968, but Arnulfo Arias came into power once again, so he was never officially recognized as legislator following this election. Interviews, 1996–97.

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5. Immigrant Dreams and Nightmares 1. I would also add that passports alone do not fully determine the final judgment of one’s national belonging or the right to travel freely. Racial phenotype plays a significant role. For example, the following year when I traveled to Panama with my U.S. passport, I was neither questioned nor detained. However, while waiting in the airport at San José, Costa Rica, in transit to Panama, I was the only one approached by an immigration officer to show proof of identity. My point here is that while passports often serve as proof of national citizenship, race informs perceptions of national belonging via the logic of ethnic origins. While legal citizenship gives one certain entitlements and rights, one of which is the moral claim to national belonging, constructions of nationhood based on race determine one’s relative success not only in making these claims but, more important, in having them accepted as true and legitimate. Depending on context, it is not always certain which of the two, if they point in different directions, would win in establishing one to be a legitimate citizen of a particular nation-state. 2. See also Mon 1998. 3. The refugee camp at Albrook Field was set up for people whose homes were destroyed during the U.S. invasion of Panama. 4. José Quintero de Leon, La Prensa, July 6, 1990: 28A. 5. Manuel Álvarez Cedeño, La Prensa, July 12, 1990: 24A. 6. Manuel Álvarez Cedeño, La Prensa, July 9 1990: 1. 7. “Snakeheads” is a literal translation that refers to those directly involved in setting up clandestine border crossings at both ends of Chinese immigration. 8. These organizations included the Asociación de Jóvenes Chinos (Chinese Youth Association), Agrupación (a social organization), the Asociación de Profesionales Chinos Panameños (Chinese Panamanian Professionals Association), and all the native place organizations. 9. Manuel Álvarez Cedeño, La Prensa, July 12, 1990, 24A; Vilma Figueroa, ibid., July 28, 1990, 12A. 10. José Quintero de Leon, ibid., July 17, 1990, 1. 11. Admiral Soong referred to the community as “la Colonia China,” the Chinese colony. 12. José Quintero de Leon, La Prensa, July 17, 1990, 1. 13. Immigrants must first apply for “white” cards, which are 30-day tourist visas that need to be renewed every month for up to three months. After three months and with proof of a clean criminal record, they can then apply for a “yellow” card, which allows one to reside in Panama for up to one year. As “yellow” card holders, people must apply separately for a work permit that gives them access to either an “A” license, which allows them to engage in wholesale business, or an “I” license, which is for industry-related businesses. They are altogether prohibited from applying for a “B” license, which allows them to establish a retail business. Only after five years of reapplication for the “yellow” card can they apply for citizenship, and then only after three years of being a lawful citizen can they apply for a new ID, which finally allows them to get access to a “B” license and to own a retail business. The naturalization process can be shortened if one marries a Panamanian citizen, which would cut the “yellow” residence card pe-

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riod to three years instead of five years before being eligible to apply for Panamanian citizenship. 14. Vilma Figueroa, La Prensa, April 15, 1993, 6A. 15. Ibid. When he learned this, John Hoger, the medical director of San Miguelito, a suburb of Panama City, denounced the “Chinese slavery situations in Panama” and called for an end to the violation of the human rights of Chinese immigrants. 16. Aihwa Ong’s work on Hong Kong elites captures this portrayal of people who use migration and citizenship for the purpose of maximizing economic accumulation while minimizing political risk (1999). See also Ong 1992, 1993. 17. A thorough analysis of this comparison is beyond the scope of this book. Religious differences and economic tensions play important roles in shaping this perception of Jewish Panamanians, who are reputed to be extremely wealthy, culturally reclusive, and socially exclusive with their networks. Collectively, they also control a large sector of the retail economy, especially in the area of La Central in Panama City. They are also accused of not “mixing,” both socially and in terms of intermarriage, with non-Jewish Panamanians. I mention this comparison in order to show the significance of “mixing” in determining acceptability into Panamanian society. See also Heckadon-Moreno 1994.

6. “Good-bye, Uncle Sam, Hello, Uncle Chang” 1. This notion that “the Chinese were taking over the Canal” became so widespread that even John Boorman’s 2001 film The Tailor of Panama included a brief mention of it. U.S. Senator Trent Lott alleged that the Hutchinson Port Holdings Group posed as a security threat to the canal because of its connections to “Communist China.” 2. See also Gupta and Ferguson 1992; Hall 1991. 3. Butler 2001 and Basch et al. 1994 discuss differences between these categories. 4. The term guanxi describes Chinese cultural practices of exchange. 5. England, France, Germany, the United States, and Costa Rica had their consulates in Bocas del Toro, and three newspapers, The Telegraph, The Citizen, and The Central American Express, were all published in Bocas. 6. Portugal officially handed over Macau to the PRC in December 1999.

Conclusion 1. Here I am building on Said 1979; Enloe 1989; and Friedman 1998, among others. 2. A number of Asian American scholars have called for this approach, including Roshni Rustomji-Kerns (1999) and Lane Hirabayashi (2002). 3. My proposal is very much in line with Kaplan and Grewal’s discussion of transnational feminism (1991). 4. I thank Lane Hirabayashi for pointing this out.

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 Index

abolitionists, 203 Acción Communal (Community Act), 40, 219n26 African slaves, 202, 203 Agrupación (Agrupa), 46, 92, 190 Álvarez, Rubén, 143 American imperialism, 17–20, 35–36, 197, 204–5; and anticommunist rhetoric, 81; canal treaty, 35; Chinese influence compared to, 167–70; departure of U.S., 37, 165, 167–68, 179–80; invasion of Panama, 142; military expansion during WWII, 114–15, 126–29; and politics of belonging, 13. See also Canal Zone; English language; United States Americas, collective identification with, 111–12 Anderson, Benedict, 59, 64 Ang, Ien, 6, 78 Anti-China Society, 40 anti-Chinese movements, 39–40, 119, 220n4, 223n8 APROCHIPA (Asociación de Profesionales Chino Panameños), 46, 216n14 area studies, xvi, 199–201, 217n13 Arias Madrid, Arnulfo, 36, 40, 101, 109, 135, 223n15; nationalistic policies of, 114, 115–21, 122, 135 Arnulfista political party, 116 Asian American studies, 200–202 “Asian” and “Asian American,” 107, 202, 222n11 Asians in the Americas, study of, 201–6 Asociación Católica China-Panameña, 46 Asociación China de Panamá, see Chinese Association of Panama Asociación de Jóvenes Chinos, see Chinese Youth Association Asociación de Profesionales Chino Panameños (APROCHIPA), 46, 216n14

assimilation vs. contingency, 26–27 Asociación China de Mujeres Ejecutivas y de Negocias de Panamá, see Chinese Association of Executive and Business Women of Panama Association of Chinese in the Americas, 24 Balboa, Panama (port), 38, 165, 215n1 banking, 36 Barrio Chino (Sal Si Puedes) neighborhood, 34, 100, 131 Basch, Linda, 64 Basso, Keith, 90 beauty, standards of, 82–83 beauty contests, 55 beauty pageant (Queen of the Chinese Colony), 69 (fig.); disputed result in, 54–55, 83; and gendered reproduction, 58–63; and immigrant community divisions, 79–80, 82–83; and meaning production, 55–56; national differences in, 77–79; and nation vs. diaspora, 68–75; and transnational networks, 56–57 Bechtel Corporation, 38 belonging and unbelonging, 10, 28, 141 bilingualism, 49, 66, 132. See also languages Black Atlantic, The (Gilroy), 88, 98 blacks and Asians, parallels between, 202–3 Bocas del Toro, Panama, 20–21, 128, 175–76, 223n13, 225n5 Bogotá (ship), 35 border studies, 25 Brazil, 106–7 Brown, Jacqueline, 221n13 Buddhism, 46, 48 Bunau-Varilla, 35 business ownership, 50–51, 117–21, 146–47 business work permits, 148

242 Canal, history of, 35, 39 Canal Administration, 18–19, 39 canal treaty, 35 Canal Zone, 18, 25, 50, 127–29; return of, 37, 165, 167, 179–80. See also American imperialism Canton (Guangdong), China, 20–21, 46, 175–76 Cantonese language, 49, 71, 72–73, 78–79 cartoon series (“De tío Sam a tío Chang”), xxii (fig.), 1–2, 4, 27, 164, 167–73, 171 (fig.) Catholicism, 19, 46, 48 Central America, national differences within, 77–79. See also Federation of Chinese in Central America and Panama Centro Cultural Chino-Panameño, see Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center Chamber of Commerce, Chinese, 46 Chen, Luis, 223n15 Chen Barriá, José, 142, 146 Cheng, Jorge, 146 Chiang Kai-shek, 121, 187 China, Greater, 89, 221n3 China, People’s Republic of (PRC): communist revolution, 122–25; fleeing from, 104; as homeland, 23; Panama’s relations with, 37, 167–70, 181, 192, 216n16; repression of dissidents in, 147; Taiwan vs., 20–23, 63, 165–66, 178–81, 183, 216n13, 220n8; and transnational family formations, 44–45; and Uncle Chang cartoon, xxii (fig.), 2, 4, 27, 164, 167–73. See also homeland; Hong Kong China, Republic of, see Taiwan (Republic of China) Chinatowns, 21, 34, 100, 131, 185 Chinese Association of Executive and Business Women of Panama, 210 Chinese Association of Panama, 46–47, 129–31; demographic changes and, 81; diaspora politics and, 63–66; fair and celebrations hosted by, 180–81, 210; patrilineality and, 61; police raids, response to, 145. see also Convention of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama Chinese Carnival Queen Pageant, 130 Chinese Chamber of Commerce, 46 Chinese Colony (La Colonia China), 16, 80–82, 220n2 Chinese exclusion laws, 39–40, 219n24 Chinese folk religion, 48 Chinese language, 49–50, 71, 72–73, 78–79. See also languages Chinese Millennium Fair, 209–12 Chineseness: and beauty pageant, 71–73, 74–75; and cultural identification, 189–91; and de-

Index mographics, 81–82, 217n2; and diasporahomeland tensions, 76–77, 189; and globalization, 42; Hakka vs. Punti, 156–57, 162–63; in La Prensa cartoon, 171–72, 173; and Millennium Fair, 211–12; and Taiwan vs. PRC, 166, 178–81. See also racial purity discourses Chinese Panamanian Catholic Association, 46 Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center, 21–22, 131, 184–89 Chinese Panamanian Professionals Association (APROCHIPA), 46, 216n14 “Chinese presence,” 168–69 Chinese studies, 12–13 Chinese Youth Association, 46, 81 chino and china, as terms, 107, 202 Chinspanglish, 20 Chiquita Brands, 175. See also United Fruit Company Christmas holidays, 133 Chu, Arturo, 145, 158 Chung San Association, 46 citizenship: and American affiliation, 18; contingency of, 27; flexible, 102; immigration and naturalization procedures, 148, 224n13; and prohibited immigrants policy, 115–17 class, 44–45, 50, 103, 108, 155 Clifford, James, 87, 198 Cohen, Colleen Ballerino, 55 college degrees, 50, 106, 132–33 Colón, Panama, 93–94, 223n11 Colón Free Trade Zone, 36 Colonia China, La (Chinese Colony), 16, 80–82, 220n2 colonialism, 9, 216n12. See also American imperialism Columbia, 18, 172 Commercial Carnet law (1941), 117 communist China, see China, People’s Republic of (PRC) “communist Chinese” immigrants, 80–81 communist revolution, Chinese, 122–25 community, 28, 92–93, 141, 217n19 Community Act (Acción Communal), 40, 219n26 compadrazgo, 48, 219n34 constitution, Panamanian, 35, 116, 127 consulate, American, 19, 118 contact zones, 216n12 contingency of diasporic citizenship, 26–27, 28, 113 contract laborers, 154–55 Convention of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama, 54, 64–66, 66–68;

Index business meetings of, 61–62, 64, 73, 78. See also beauty pageant (Queen of the Chinese Colony) coolie status, 202–3 cosmopolitanism, 87 Costa Rica, 66 criminalization of immigrants, 80, 143–44 Cristóbal, Panama (port), 38, 165, 215n1 cultural assimilation vs. contingency, 26–27 cultural capital, 44–45, 109, 124–25, 132, 197 Cultural Center, Chinese Panamanian, 21–22, 131, 184–89 cultural citizenship studies, 7–10 cultural knowledge, and education in China, 44 cultural mediation, 27 dance, 70, 211, 219n1 Deleuze, Gilles, 152 demographics, 33, 37, 81, 156, 217n2. See also immigration demonstrations, 119, 146–47 desire, imaginaries of, 152–53 deterritorialized nation-states, 64 “De tío Sam a tío Chang” (La Prensa), xiii, 1–2, 4, 27, 164, 167–73, 171 (fig.) development vs. contingency, 28 diaspora, defined, 10–11, 76 “diasporic,” as term, 11 difference, 12, 26, 171, 197–98, 205–6; class, 44–45, 50, 103, 108, 155; racial purity discourses, 44–45, 58–59, 82–83, 205. See also gender disidentification, 70 displacement, see migration; ruptures, social diversity, demographic, 33, 37 dragon dance, 211 dress, national, 69–70, 219n1, 220n10 Du Bois, W. E. B., 161 economic activity, restrictions on, 117–21 education, 19, 49–50, 192–93; abroad, 44, 45, 50, 94, 109, 124; Sun Yat-Sen Institute, 21, 49, 121, 189, 211–12 El Centro, see Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center El Dorado (neighborhood), 21–22, 34, 185 El Panamá América (newspaper), xviii employment, 51, 127–29; labor migration, 17, 38–39, 118, 154–55, 202–3 Endara, Guillermo, 143, 146, 148 endogamy, 58–59 English language, 19–20, 49, 73–74, 94, 99

243 Enloe, Cynthia, 170 Erbaugh, Mary, 156–57 ethnic succession, 26–27 exclusion, 15–16, 19, 78; immigration restrictions, 39–40, 96, 115–16, 219n24 exogamy, 58 families: gender discrimination in, 105–6; interracial, 91–92; transnational formations of, 43–45, 102, 103, 123–25, 219n32 family feuds, as metaphor, 172 family gatherings and reunions, 24 Fa Yin Association, 46 Federación de Asociaciones Chinas de Centroamérica y Panamá, see Federation of Chinese Associations in Central America and Panama Federal Maritime Commission (U.S.), 215n1 Federation of Chinese Associations in Central America and Panama, 24, 47, 52, 60–61, 77–79; and Taiwan, 56–57, 63–66, 131. See also beauty pageant (Queen of the Chinese Colony); Convention of Chinese Associations of Central America and Panama female kinship networks, 62–63 Ferguson, James, 20 fieldwork and research, xvi–xviii flexible citizenship, 102 Fouron, Georges, 6–7, 64 French Canal, 35, 39 Friendship Park, 21 Fujimori, Alberto, 202 galleon trade, 35, 38 Gasteazoro Arango, Raúl, 218n17 gender: and “Chinese presence,” 169; female networks, 62–63; and immigration, 92, 102–3, 152–54; masculinity, constructions of, 102–3, 170–72, 173; and native place associations, 60; parental discrimination, 105–6; patrilineality, 59–62; and transnational split households, 43–44, 123–24 genealogy, 46, 86, 110 geopolitical relationships, 8–9, 196. See also specific nation-states Gilroy, Paul, 24, 88, 98, 161, 221n13 Glick Schiller, Nina, 6–7, 64 Global Association of Cantonese, 24, 47, 64, 131 global diaspora and supranational organizations, 24–25 globalization, 218n18; and China’s influence in Panama, 167–68; and diasporic citizenship, 3–4, 204; and flexible citizenship, 102;

244 Panama as nexus in, 34–38; role of Chinese in Panama, 33, 42 Golden Venture (ship), 41 Gou Kong Chow (Say Yap) Association, 46 government, involvement in, 51–52 Gran Feria de la China Milenaria, see Chinese Millennium Fair Greater China, 89, 221n3 Guangdong (Canton), China, 20–21, 46, 175–76 Guatarri, Félix, 152 Guatemala, 101 Gupta, Akhil, 20 Hakka Chinese, 156–57, 162 Hall, Stuart, 12, 92–93, 113, 198 hemispheric approach, 201–6 Hoger, John, 225n15 Hok San Association, 46 “home,” 109–10, 134 home decor, 105 homeland: and diasporic Chinese consciousness, 13, 196–97; impossibility of return, 121–25; “long-distance nationalism,” 64, 65; and racialization of diaspora, 173–74; state mediation of relations with, 21; and tensions in diaspora, 76–77; transnational perspective on, 203–4; tree and rhizome metaphors, 88. See also China, People’s Republic of (PRC); Taiwan (Republic of China) Hong Kong, 149; cultural influence from, 81, 85, 125; handover of, 163, 165, 174, 176–82 horizontal comradeship, 59–60 Hu Jintao, xiv, 200 Hu-Dehart, Evelyn, 119 Hughes, William, 218n17 human trafficking, 15, 41 Hutchinson Port Holdings Group, 38, 165, 225n1 identity and identities: Americas, collective identification with, 111–12; and beauty pageant, 63, 74–75; and diaspora-homeland tensions, 76–77; diasporic, 12; disidentification, 70; double identities, 161; and migration, 198–99; as process, 92–93; self-identification, 91. See also Chineseness imaginaries of desire, 152–53 immigration: Central American patterns of, 77–78; by contract laborers, 154–55, 202–3; discursive constructions and divisions, 79–83, 155–59, 202–3; history of, 38–43; Japanese, 203, 204; labor migration, 17, 38–39, 118, 154–55, 202–3; motivations and desires

Index for, 149–54; naturalization process, 148, 224n13; and patrilineality, 60–61; police raids and responses, 42, 143–49, 159–60, 184; recent immigrants vs. Panamanian Chinese, 138–39, 155, 162–63, 185–86; restrictions on, 39–40, 96, 115–16, 219n24; and retail-market sector, 118–19; reuse of identity papers, 96, 160–61; trope of immigrant in U.S., 215n7; undocumented or “illegal,” 15, 80, 96, 130–31, 142–45. See also migration immigration packages, 149–50 incorporation, 36–37, 217n12 India, 204 integration, 40–41, 130, 158, 202–3 International Commercial Bank of China, 210 intersectionality, 14, 23, 25–26, 134, 201 Isla Colón (Isla Bocas), 175, 223n13 Jamaica, 93, 94 Japanese internment in World War II, 9, 205 Japanese migration to Latin America, 203, 204 Jewish Panamanians, 225n17 jokes, 216n9 Jones, Geomara de, 148 karaoke, Chinese, 81 kinship networks, 59–62, 62–63, 110. See also families Kuomintang (KMT), 64, 68, 121–22 Kymlicka, Will, 215n3 labor migration, 17, 38–39, 118, 154–55, 202–3. See also immigration La Chorrera, Panama, 222n10 Laguerre, Michel, 5 languages, 48–49; at beauty pageant, 71–74, 221n11; bilingualism and trilingualism, 49, 66, 78, 97, 132; hybridized, 20; in migration narratives, 95, 97–98; naming, politics of, 93, 96, 160–61; and power asymmetries, 78–79; switching among, 126–27, 182–83; and U.S. administration, 19–20 Lao de Barahona, Edith, 148 La Prensa (newspaper), xviii, 154–55; cartoon and article series, xiii, 1–2, 4, 27, 164, 167–73, 171 (fig.) Latin American studies, 199–200, 201 Latino studies, 201 La Zona, see Canal Zone Lee, Alberto, 57, 58, 59 Lee, Horacio, 156 Lee, Jorge Federico, 148 Lee, Wen Ho, xiv

Index Leonard, Karen, 162 Lima, Ramón, 143 long-distance nationalism, 64, 65 Lott, Trent, 215n1, 225n1 Lowe, Lisa, 10 Macau, 181, 225n6 ma fa, 33 mafia, Chinese, 143 Making Ethnic Choices (Leonard), 162 Mandarin language, 49–50, 71, 72–73, 78–79 Manila-Acapulco galleon trade, 35, 38 mapping, cultural, 90 marriage: businesses saved by, 120–21; endogamy and exogamy, 58–59; interracial, 91–92; as metaphor for international relations, 167, 172; picture brides, 223n12 masculinity, constructions of, 102–3, 170–72, 173. See also gender; patrilineality mediation and diasporic citizenship, 27 memory, 93, 146, 159, 161 men, see gender merchants, Panamanian Chinese, 50–51, 117–21, 146–47 mestizaje paradigm, 13, 75, 91–92, 205, 216n10–11, 221n5; as nationalist ideology, 15–16, 40, 116, 222n1–2 Methodist schools, 19 Mexico, 108, 119–20, 218n20, 219n35 Mexico City, 38 migrant circuits, transnational, 87–88 migration: history of, 38–43; and identity construction, 198; interview narratives of, 91–108, 139–40; labor migration, 17, 38–39; serial, 86–91, 108–12, 198–99; and transnational split households, 43–45, 102, 103, 123–25, 132–34, 219n32; unidirectional assumption about, 94–95. See also immigration Miller, Toby, 215n3 mixing and self-identification, 91. see also mestizaje paradigm Mon, Ramón, 144, 219n24 Monroe Doctrine, 204 Muñoz, José, 70 music, 81, 85, 97–98, 133 Nabuco, Joaquim, 203 Nader, Laura, 217n18 naming, politics of, 93, 96, 160–61 ñapa, 33–34 narratives and meaning construction, 89–90, 111

245 national integration, cultural politics of, 202–3 nationalism: Chinese racial-cultural, 177, 179; long-distance, 64, 65; Panamanian, 15–16, 18, 40, 116–17 nationality, 77, 169 nation-states: complexity of diaspora relations with, 57; deterritorialized, 64; and transnational forces, 9; violence and persecution by, 109. See also geopolitical relationships; specific countries Native Americans in Panama, 218n15 native place associations, 46, 60–61 Naturalization of Commerce law (1941), 117 naturalization process, 148, 224n13 New York Railway Company, 17 Nicaragua, xiii, 57, 78 Nonini, Donald, 109, 152 Noriega, Manuel, 36, 41, 80, 142, 144, 147 occupation, 50–51, 131–32; small business ownership, 50, 117–21, 146–47 Odd Couple, The (Simon), 95 Ong, Aihwa, 7–8, 102, 109, 225n16 Opium Wars, 39 oral histories, 111. see also narratives and meaning construction; serial migration organizations, local, 46–47 organizations, transnational, 13, 24, 47, 220n5. See also specific organizations organized crime, 143 Ossa de la Cruz, Raúl, 130, 142–43, 148 Overseas Chinese Affairs office (ROC), 66–68, 131 Panama: as American protectorate, 35, 217n13; as global nexus, 34–38; political history and context, 14–17, 36; relations with PRC, 37, 167–70, 181, 192, 216n16; relations with Taiwan, 21–22, 37, 52, 63–66, 178, 192. See also American imperialism; Canal Zone Panamá América, El (newspaper), xviii Panama Canal, see entries at Canal Panama City, 21–22, 34, 100, 185, 209–12 Panama Railway Company, 38 Panameñista movement, 116–17 Pan-American Nikkei Association, 204 Paper Sons, 93, 221n7 passports, 136–38, 224n1 patrilineality, 59–62. See also masculinity, constructions of People’s Republic of China, see China, People’s Republic of (PRC) Peru, 96

246 picture brides, 223n12 police raids, 42, 143–44, 184 political history of Panama, 36. See also American imperialism political involvement, 51–52, 130 political persecution, 109 population estimates, 33, 217n2. see also demographics ports, 38, 165, 215n1 power relations, 78–79, 216n12, 217n19 Pratt, Mary Louise, 20, 216n12 PRC, see China, People’s Republic of Prensa, La, see La Prensa (newspaper) presidency, Panamanian, 36 professional fields, 131–32 Professionals Association, Chinese Panamanian (APROCHIPA), 46, 216n14 prohibited roots policy, 116–21, 122 Protestantism, 19, 48 Punjabi Mexican Americans, 162 Punti Chinese, 156 purity, racial, 44–45, 58–59, 82–83, 205 quarantine station, 99, 221 Queen of the Chinese Colony, see beauty pageant racialization, panethnic, 202 racial purity discourses, 44–45, 58–59, 82–83, 205. see also Chineseness raíces prohibidas policy, 116–21, 122 raids by police, 42, 143–44, 184 railroad, transisthmian, 35, 38 religion, 19, 48, 225n17 religious organizations, 46 Republic of China, see Taiwan (Republic of China) retail businesses, 50–51, 117–21, 146–47 rhizome metaphor, 88 ROC, see Taiwan (Republic of China) Rosaldo, Renato, 7–8 Rouse, Roger, 87 ruptures, social, xvii, 28; normalization of, 86–87, 90, 110–11 Sal Si Puedes (Barrio Chino) neighborhood, 34, 100, 131 Sam Yap Association, 46, 174 Sandanista Revolution (Nicaragua), 57 Say Yap (Gou Kong Chow) Association, 46 scholarships, Taiwanese, 192–93 schooling, see education seaports, 38, 165, 215n1

Index security, international, 172 self-identification, 91 self-introductions (at beauty pageant), 71 separateness of Chinese in Panama, 16 serial migration, 86–91, 108–12, 198–99. See also immigration; migration ship registration, Panamanian, 36–37 shopkeepers, Panamanian Chinese, 50–51, 117–21, 146–47 Skidmore, Thomas, 203 “slavery,” Chinese, 154–55 slaves, African, 202, 203 small businesses, 50–51, 117–21, 146–47 snakeheads, 41, 144–45, 224n1 social mobility and American occupation, 18 Sociedad Anti-China, 40 sojourners, 157 Soong Chang-Chih, 147 Spain, 34–35 Spanglish, 20 Spanish language, 48–49, 71 special commission on immigrants, 148–49 stereotypes, 171 Stoeltje, Beverly, 55 subjectivity, 11, 87, 196 succession, ethnic, 26–27 Sun Yat-Sen Institute, 21, 49, 121, 189, 211–12. See also Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center Szanton Blanc, Cristina, 64 Tailor of Panama (film), 225n1 Taiwan (Republic of China): bond with diasporic Chinese, 181–86, 197, 204; and Chinese Panamanian Cultural Center, 21–22, 131, 187–89; embassy in Panama, 147, 183–84, 187, 210; and Mandarin language use, 50; Overseas Chinese Affairs office, 66–68, 131; Panama’s relations with, 21–22, 37, 52, 63–66, 178, 192; PRC vs., 20–23, 63, 165–66, 178–81, 183, 216n13, 220n8; scholarships offered by, 192–93; transnational organizations sponsored by, 24, 47, 56–57. See also homeland Thompson, E. P., 217n18 tiendas, 34 Torrijos, Omar, 184 tourism, 62, 67 tourist visas, 142, 145, 149–50, 224n1 trade by galleon, 35, 38 trafficking in immigrants, 15, 41, 144–45, 224n1. See also immigration transnational context of citizenship, 3–4, 7–10 transnational family formations, 43–45, 102, 103, 123–25, 132–34, 219n32

Index transnational migrant circuits, 87–88 transnational organizations, 13, 24, 47, 220n5. See also specific organizations transnational politics, 51–52. See also globalization; specific countries travel vs. serial migration, 87 treaty, canal, 35 trilingualism, 49, 78, 97. See also languages Trinidad, 38 Troya, Mary, 148 “Uncle Sam to Uncle Chang” (La Prensa), xxii (fig.), 1–2, 4, 27, 164, 167–73 United Fruit Company, 17, 19, 175 United States: consulate, assistance from, 19, 118; education in, 45, 50, 109, 132–33; and Uncle Sam cartoon, xxii (fig.), 2, 4, 27, 164, 167–73; violence against Chinese in, 223n8. See also American imperialism university degrees, 50, 106, 132–33 University of Panama, 50, 106 University of Santa María la Antigua, 50, 106

247 values, Chinese, 190, 209 Vasconcelos, José, 216n10 violence and anti-Chinese movements, 39–40, 119, 220n4, 223n8 visas and passports, 136–38, 142, 145, 149–50, 224n1 Way On Association, 46 Wilk, Richard, 55 women, see gender Wong, Sau-Ling, 200 work ethic, 209 work permits, 148 World War II, 175; American military expansion during, 114–15, 126–29; Japanese internment in, 9, 205 Yanagisako, Sylvia, 200 Yan Wo Association, 46 Yee, Wong Kee, 217n5 Yin, Eduardo, 148 youth, 46, 58–59, 81 Yuval-Davis, Nira, 8