FAST FORWARD

How Chinas science renaissance has already begun

有“超級(jí)天眼”之稱的貴州FAST射電望遠(yuǎn)鏡開啟天文發(fā)現(xiàn)新時(shí)代；

“千人計(jì)劃”吸引海歸科學(xué)家；以“博物君”為代表的科普浪潮

正在大眾中興起。在中國(guó)，科技備受矚目。

“Im really not very interested in science， Im sorry to say，” claims the chief scientist and engineer of the worlds largest radio telescope， Nan Rendong. Joking or not， its probably fair to say that theres never been greater interest in science among many Chinese today. Although the government has always ostensibly promoted science， incorporating slogans such as “scientific development” into its rubric， policy and practice has not always lived up to ambition. Yet today， China may be on the cusp of a new scientific revolution， announcing fresh discoveries and plans with head-spinning regularity. And while， to be sure， not everything is likely to pan out perfectly， the sense of optimism is enough to ensure that more and more Chinese and foreign scientists are considering investing their time and research skills in mainland laboratories， rather than abroad. Over the next few pages， we examine a few of these advances， from the engineering triumph of the FAST telescope， to the scientific returnees and young people finding new interest in the natural world on Weibo， examining both the challenges and possibilities that lie ahead—in the next and possible final frontier.

STARSTRUCK

TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHY BY WU HAO （吳皓）

In Guiyang， the worlds largest radio telescope is taking astronomy—and the local economy—rapidly into the future

I

t takes at least five hours hard driving from Guiyang， plus a vehicle change if using public transport， to reach the place many now call “the future of astronomy.”

Kedu has a population of around 30，000， and around 10 percent are on the poverty line； the rest are mostly rice and corn farmers， making an average 8，000 USD per capita. It is also home to the 185 million USD， Five-hundred-meter Aperture Spherical radio Telescope—known as FAST， and nicknamed “the Eye of Heaven.” Currently the worlds largest radio telescope， FAST nestles inside a vast natural karst depression in remotest southern Guizhou province， silently searching for signs of extraterrestrial activity.

The huge diameter—200 meters wider than the previous record-holder， Puerto Ricos 300-meter Arecibo Observatory （though its maximum illuminated aperture is only 30 meters larger）—isnt simply a matter of bragging rights： The bigger the dish， the more gravitational waves it can collect； the fainter their signals， the further back in time they go： 13.7 billion light years， to be precise. FAST has 4，450 panels， double the Arecibo， and， as one scientist put it， if “filled with wine， each of the worlds seven billion inhabitants could fill about five bottles from it.” With this vast astronomical receptacle， researchers hope to explore the deepest secrets of space and， perhaps， answer the most pressing question of all： Are we alone in the universe？

As TWOC arrived in Kedu， we assuredly were not alone： Hundreds of workers were swarming over two large construction sites， from which the familiar sounds of clanking and digging emanated. In the villages of Kedu and Hanglong， a little over five kilometers from the FAST site， another equally eagerly awaited project is going on： the “Pingtang International Radio Science Tourism and Cultural Park，” which locals are calling “the future of tourism” （TWOC visited in March， 2017； the park was scheduled for completion in September， exactly a year after FAST officially went into use）.

According to a tourism brochure published by the local government， the park will include a welcome square， an astronomy education park， an “astronomical time village，” the FAST visitor service center， the Galaxy Vortex Tour Central Plaza， a delicacy street， and a four-star resort hotel—this is in addition to the 46 hotels and over 100 restaurants that have been built in the area to cater for the influx of tourism thats already begun flooding in.

If tourism and cutting-edge research seem like strange bedfellows， they arent—at least， not for China. In September 2016， when the telescope went into operation， it was hailed by President Xi Jinping as an achievement in “innovation-led development.” Articulated in Chinas 13th Five Year Plan （2016 – 2020）， the phrase summarizes a decade of effort by the Chinese leadership to move past an economy based on manufacturing and low-cost labor. Officials in Pingtang county claims that “Big Tourism，” as generated by FAST， will “push forward local economic and social development” of local villages.

“Pushing forward”， or sometimes “pulling forward”， is rural officials version of trickle-down economics： Attracting a flow of national resources and urban capital to their communities， then hoping for the best. Many of those whove lived their whole lives in Kedu do not know what the radio telescope is； nevertheless， theyre encouraged to keep up with this extraordinary pace of development by planting specialty produce， selling local handicrafts， and cooking “eco-friendly farmhouse meals” for visitors. Around town， businesses have been putting up new signage—“Astro Computer Repair，” “Milky Way Renovation Services.”

On the towns narrow main street， almost every household had new extensions like alien growths on their scrappy rural homes. In one partially completed building， 54-year-old Li Changfu ate dinner and drank homemade rice wine with his wife and three fellow construction workers. Li was born in Jinke village， three kilometers from the FAST site， and leased a 420 square-meter parcel of land in Kedu in 1994 for 6，000 RMB （905 USD）. He had since taken out a 6 million RMB loan （907， 560 USD） to convert his house into a four-story hotel with a supermarket on the ground floor. “What do you think I should call it？” he asked， his cheeks flush with excitement and alcohol. He had every reason to be pleased： The land under our feet was now worth 5，000 RMB per square meter. Less than a hundred meters away， the Astro Palace Hotel， which opened six months ago， has almost 100-percent occupancy， mostly contractors and tourists. In the lobby of the Astro， there are four clocks labeled New York， London， Paris and Beijing for “international flavor；” only the Beijing one works.

A lack of tourists is not the problem， then. Quite the opposite， in fact， as far as FASTs operators are concerned. In order to properly work， the telescope needs a unique “sound electromagnetic wave environment，” according to Guizhou official Li Yuecheng—hence its remoteness. Smartphones are not allowed on site， and a permit is required to use even digital cameras within five kilometers of the site. But with an estimated four million visitors in its first year of operation， a figure thats expected to more than double this year， many wonder how FASTs requirement for complete digital silence can be properly balanced with the economic boom the telescope is bringing to the region.

“We understand their urge to develop the economy and get rid of poverty，” a FAST researcher told the South China Morning Post， but the conflict of interests between scientific endeavor and poverty relief may come down to a matter of money， especially if some local officials have their way. The domestic tourism business is expected to bring around 4.6 billion RMB （690 million USD） to the area annually， a figure which dwarfs the daily operational costs of FAST， estimated at 400，000 RMB （or 146 million RMB a year）.

There “will be as many as the tourists to the Great Wall in Beijing，” one Pingtang county tourism official told the newspaper. “Here we have a new wonder of the world.” A monument to Chinas vision， the FAST telescope also stands in danger of becoming a victim of its own success.

The scientific side of the project is having growing pains of its own. Theres no doubt FASTs capabilities are ambitious； its superlative size allows astronomers to study fainter and more distant space objects than ever before. Currently， its aims are to observe pulsars， study interstellar molecules， and detect “interstellar communication signals”—in other words， look for extra-terrestrial life.

Despite international media interest， aliens have barely made a splash in Chinas press—for the Chinese Academy of Science （CAS）， it may be enough if the FAST can simply “pull forward” the national space program. Born in the 1960s under pragmatic circumstances， as part of a missile program to deter a possible US invasion， the space program received a boost， as well as a more comprehensive aim of national security， with the return of rocket scientist Qian Xuesen from the US in 1955 during the Second Red Scare. The blueprint for a bombastic future in space exploration was arguably set in 1957， after the USSR and US launched their first satellites. The following year， Mao Zedong announced Chinas intention to get on an equal footing with the superpowers： “We should also do artificial satellites； and if we do， we should do it big.”

China launched a space satellite in 1970， several months after NASA put the first men on the moon. Now in Beijing there is talk， sometimes feverish， of manned missions to Mars and moon bases； great leaps and astronomical revolutions， with Chinese astronauts riding “divine vessels” into space； China expects to become a great space power by 2030. This field of research， however， still struggles with “brain drain” and lack of experience among mainland scientists—leading to reports， hotly repudiated， that FAST was looking for a “foreign scientist” as its director. The problem has not been helped by China relative isolation on the international space stage， as scientists struggle to get published in international journals. Chinese astronauts are barred certain from international projects—notably the International Space Station—by a US government suspicious of its space programs military ties. CAS has variously stated the goals of FAST as “the national popularization of science，” “education of youth，” “aid in the development of Chinas western regions，” and “l(fā)etting China take greater responsibility in the worlds astronomical development.”

They are objectives that have required vast mobilizations of people and resources. In order to ensure the least electromagnetic interference， 9，110 people had to move out of the five-kilometer range that FAST needed for optimum performance. Though some younger villagers were pleased to leave when construction began in 2009； others were not. “The government only compensated us for our housing space，” Yang Tianming， 54， complained. “Farmland was not included.” He wasnt done： “They promised me for a job in Kedu， in order to make us sign the relocation agreement， but nobody cares about us anymore now. Now Im a farmer， without land！” Yang sighed and smoked. He has a hard time getting excited about a telescope that can discover mega-masers， measure their radial velocities with higher precision， detect pulsars， and work as a ground station for future missions to Mars， but cant provide him with work for his growing family.

An eight-lane motorway and two expressways are now being built to connect Guiyang， the provincial capital， and its airport with Pingtang， where entire districts are already on the rise. In FASTs “core area，” where a relocation office is situated， a blueprint for development can be found the form of a table model displaying shopping centers and dozens of residential and commercial projects； outside， trucks and cranes are putting parts of it into reality with huge quantities of sand and cement. There was more building going on in the hills around Kedu， as farmers frantically erected temporary housing in order to qualify for more compensation.

Cheng Zeyong is one resident still holding out for a handout. Chen said the deal he was offered for his 70-year-old family home， now the sole remaining “nail house” in the three-square-kilometer redevelopment area for the culture park， was less than half the national standard. “The government offered us 1，000 RMB per square meter，” he said. “It costs nearly 3，000 [per square meter] for a new house in town. Ill need to pay hundred of thousands even if I get the compensation.”

He has mixed feelings about the project. “Im proud and happy to see the telescope being built in my hometown， even though I dont really know what its used for… its good for Kedu and villagers， but I dont think we should pay the price. We are just hardworking farmers.”

Past 11 p.m.， most Kedu people are heading to bed， but the parks construction site a few kilometers away is still brightly lit， with vehicles and machinery rumbling through the night. Meanwhile， researchers and astronomers are quietly getting on with their work. In October， they made their first proper discovery， a pair of pulsars thousands of light years away， spinning stars that create an electromagnetic radiation beam （“pulse”） that like a lighthouse in space. The discoveries “symbolize the dawn of a new era of systematic discoveries by Chinese radio telescopes，” said Yan Jun， director of the National Astronomical Observatories of China， at a press conference in October. Perhaps the future of humanity lies in looking to the stars—for those on the ground， though， the skys the limit.

- ADDITIONAL REPORTING BY HATTY LIU AND HAN RUBO （韓儒博）

ASTRONOMY DOMINE

WHEN CIVILIZATIONS COLLIDE OVER THE STARS， THERE IS NOTHING LEFT TO DO BUT DECLARE BATTLE…TO THE DEATH！

W

ho knew that astronomy could be so dangerous？

In the winter of 1668 to 1669， four European priests sat in a cold， prison cell in the imperial capital in Peking. The eldest， a German called Johann Adam Schall von Bell （湯若望）， was unwell， having suffered a stroke after being sentenced to execution by slow slicing. His Flemish protégé， Ferdinand Verbiest （南懷仁）， attended to the stricken Schall， while their two companions， Italian Jesuit Ludovico Buglio and Portuguese priest Gabriel de Magalh?es， consoled themselves by writing letters they hoped would exonerate them and their Chinese colleagues， and spare them a gruesome fate.

For over 20 years， Schall had served as the Director of the Calendar Bureau—ever since he had refused to flee the capital during the Manchu invasion. Schall had updated an imperial calendar， which had not seen major revision in over 250 years， impressing the new Qing regent Dorgon （多爾袞） with his mathematical prowess. Over time， Schall became a favorite of Dorgons nephew， the young Shunzhi Emperor （順治皇帝）， who saw Schall as both teacher and friend， bestowing imperial titles and ranks on the foreign missionary and even， according to some sources， referring to Schall affectionately as “Grandpa.”

But the Shunzhi Emperor died of smallpox in 1661. His son， the Kangxi Emperor （康熙皇帝）， was still only a boy and his regent， Oboi （鰲拜）， dominated the court much as Dorgon had done in Shunzhis early years. Oboi was suspicious of Schalls influence and sympathetic to officials who were concerned about having a foreigner in charge of something as important as the calendar. Sure， Schall was good with mathematical tricks， but how could he understand the ritual and cultural significance of auspicious dates for important events like weddings and funerals？ Moreover， Schall and his assistants were Christians.

Schall also had his own troll： Yang Guangxian （楊光先）， who was a scholar of sorts， a former guardsman and self-taught astrologer with aspirations of serving at the Qing court. He wrote several memorials to the throne accusing Schall of high treason， of being the leader of a heterodox cult， and of making critical errors in selecting auspicious dates. Yang and his supporters charged that Schall had chosen an inauspicious occasion for the burial of an infant prince who had died in 1658. This lapse in astronomical judgment was then blamed for the untimely death， two years later， of the childs mother， the Consort Donggo， who had been a favorite of the Shunzhi Emperor.

In November 1664， Oboi ordered Schall removed from his post， stripped of all titles， and imprisoned， along with his three fellow Jesuits and their staff， to await execution. After a lengthy winter incarceration， the court took mercy and commuted their punishment to banishment. Oboi， in the market for a new astronomical bureau chief， appointed Yang Guangxian to take the place of the disgraced Schall， who died soon after.

But it didnt take long for Yangs incompetence to catch up with him. In 1667， Yang brought back a flawed traditional calendar for what would be the Roman year 1668 and made revisions that even the 13-year-old Kangxi Emperor could see were a bit off. The Emperor defied Oboi， and invited Verbiest， Schalls principal assistant， to the court to inspect the calendar. The Kangxi Emperor subjected Verbiest and Yang to a series of tests over who could produce the most accurate calendar for the coming year. Ultimately， Verbiests calculations were chosen and promulgated throughout the empire. Yang was removed from office and condemned to face his own grisly execution. Eventually， the emperor settled for dismissing Yang and sending him home in disgrace， though he died enroute.

Verbiest was appointed to the Calendar Bureau， although at a lower rank than Schall once held， continuing a tradition of Jesuit astronomers serving the Qing court that would last until 1805. - JEREMIAH JENNE

THE NATURAL HISTORY BOY

BY SUN JIAHUI（孫佳慧）

The phenologist on a one-man mission to popularize science

H

e knows everything， people say—you only have to ask. “Is this fungus edible？” “Whats the name of that insect？” “Are these fish male or female？” Whether the subject is entomology， zoology， botany， or even epigraphy （the study of inscriptions）， Weibo users have been saying it for years： “Bowu Jun （博物君） has the answers.”

Bowu Jun， or “Man of Natural History，” is the nickname given to “Natural History Magazine，” a social-media account that has probably done more to help popularize science education than a dozen state-sponsored exhibitions， documentaries， or publications. With over eight million followers， Bowu Jun cuts a scientific swath through the usual clutter of Meitu-enhanced selfies， self-conscious jokes， and celebrity sponsored content that populates Weibo， Chinas blend of Twitter and Instagram.

To many， Bowu Jun is a walking encyclopedia， an omniscient “god.” On Chinas most popular Q&A; platform Zhihu， the question “How does Bowu Jun know everything？” has triggered heated discussion， with over 180，000 views. Some claim with certainty that there is no Natural History Man， and the account is run by the entire staff at Natural History magazine.

But Bowu Jun is， in fact， one man： Zhang Chenliang， a 29-year-old editor at Natural History. “Except for an intern who helps me to collect the questions， the account is just run by me，” says Zhang， who holds a masters degree in agricultural entomology （he adds that a friend occasionally takes over the account when hes away on business）.

Growing up， Zhang used to catch and observe insects， and make his own specimens. “Later， I also fell in love with plants and animals，” he recalls. “I cant say when this fondness started， just like you cant tell when you first began to love music or movies.”

He considered an academic career， but felt the climate in China wasnt good enough， and the work too dry anyway. In 2011， Zhang began interning at Natural History and was assigned， in time-honored intern tradition， to run their Weibo account， which had about 20，000 followers at the time. “I was just told to post routine stuff， like promoting our new issue，” says Zhang. “But I thought that I should try to attract more followers.”

He experimented with a few ideas， but realized that in order to provoke interest in scientific knowledge， it was important to be engaging. “In many cases， even when a science writer feels what hes written is already very easy to understand， its still not approachable enough，” Zhang explains. “You need to write about things relate to people.” The late essayist and short-story writer Wang Zengqi is a figure Zhang admires， because he could make any topic seem interesting. “Wang would write about something like growing grapes，” says Zhang， “and you never felt that he was writing a ‘science article. But after you read it， youd learn something.”

Before long， Zhang figured out his approach： Solicit questions—on almost any topic related to the magazine—and publicly answer them. The first， he remembers， was about a lizard. “I didnt answer very well，” he says. “I gave the Latin name and introduced its living habits in detail. The answer was very long， leaving no space to forward. Until now， that post has not been shared or commented on much.”

Answering questions helped him shrink the distance from his audience. At first Zhang tried to appeal to “cuteness，” which helped him communicate， but also undermined his sense of authority. “So I turned to a ‘cold and elegant style，” says Zhang， “which means I just talked normally， as in daily life. Surprisingly， people liked it.”

In 2013， Zhang had a hit. A series of viral photos appeared to show small animals behaving like humans—a frog using a leaf an umbrella； a gecko seemingly dancing—and delighting many netizens， who tagged Zhangs Bowu Jun account for his opinion. Zhang quickly determined that the photographs， by photographer Shikhei Goh， were almost certainly staged using wire and photo-editing software. “It was apparent to me that those animals were forced to pose， in a cruel way，” says Zhang. He collected the pictures， and published a long-form Weibo post， revealing how the pet-store critters were mistreated and accusing the photographer of animal abuse. Titled “Indefensible Indonesian Photographer Staging Pictures，” the viral post was shared more than 500，000 times， doubling Bowu Juns following from 50，000 to 100，000.

Zhang began publishing a “Weibo phenology” series， which focused on seasonal subjects and plant life—the yellow-flowered Oriental Paperbush in February， magnolias in March， the smoke tree whose shrubs have a pink “puffball” appearance in May before turning a smoky red-orange in autumn. As Bowu Juns popularity grew， sales of Natural Magazine soared from some tens of thousands of copies in 2011 to a steady circulation of around a quarter-million. In 2016， Zhang published Notes on an Illustrated Handbook of Marine Animals， which became a bestseller.

Though Zhang has yet to acquire the reach of American popular-science celebrities like Bill Nye or Neil deGrasse Tyson， hes kept busy working as a full-time editor， writer， and proofreader for scientific papers， and has less time for being Bowu Jun than hed like. “In the past， I always tried to answer all the questions I received， like some type of OCD. But now its impossible，” Zhang says. The account receives hundreds of questions every day， so Zhang has to choose to answer what he thinks will be most relevant to readers： “It should be some common， representative species that others feel that they can encounter in real life. Also， its best to have accurate and detailed descriptions [in the question]， with photos， or I cant figure out what theyre talking about.”

Submissions can range from the mundane—“a picture of an earthworm， or a pigeon”—to the absurd. “Someone told me that he saw the Tiananmen Rostrum floating in the air，” says Zhang. “I really dont know what that was.”

Some netizens didnt really care about science： In 2013， Zhang wrote that popularizing natural science in a food-obsessed country was not for the faint of heart， because no matter how hard he tries to present knowledge in an interesting way， some people always want to know， “Can you eat it； is it tasty； how do you cook it？”—comments he summarizes by their initial characters， “能好怎” （“Can？ Tasty？ How？”）.“I dont like to see so many comments having nothing to do with science on my Weibo，” admits Zhang. But for such a popular account， “its unavoidable； just because they follow [my account] doesnt means they are really my ‘followers.”

Popular science has a long way to go in China before it can match the levels of enthusiasm shown elsewhere， and many believe Zhang， with his “Big V” profile and following， can do more. But the man behind Bowu Jun wants to keep his feet firmly on the ground he so enjoys examining. “Maybe even after Weibo has disappeared， when people look back， they will say ‘Bowu Jun was a good account. I learned some knowledge from it，” he says. His own goals are also modest： “to do more work， whether writing or translating. Maybe in the future when people talk about good books they read in their childhood， some will be written by me. I want to leave something to this field， and live up to my identity as a science practitioner.”

ROVERS RETURN

BY HATTY LIU

China is encouraging overseas experts to repatriate， but can it offer a truly welcoming environment for research？

L

ast February， a disbelieving US media declared scientists C. N. Yang and Andrew Yaos resumption of their Chinese citizenship—renouncing American nationality along the way—as a triumph of Beijings soft power. In China， the reception was more polarized； in between state media paeans to the pairs patriotism， a decades-old rumor reappeared on the web—that Yang， then aged 94， was out to collect Chinese retirement benefits.

“Scientist gave his best years to the US， comes home to live the high life，” began one diatribe against the Nobel laureate， whod left China to study in Chicago in 1945 and technically “returned” in 2003， when he became a full-time professor at Tsinghua University. Underlying the patriotic bluster， there was a cynicism born of insecurity. “[Its because] he can no longer hack it in the US，” stated another netizen， perhaps not realizing what this implied for the quality of academic research on the mainland. （Ironically， Yang who won the 1957 Nobel Prize for work on particle physics， has repeatedly urged Chinese academia to have greater confidence in its abilities）.

The idea of a “brain drain，” the departure of a countrys brightest and best-educated individuals for a better international market for their talent， is a familiar heartache for most developing nations. China， however， may be the most proactive nation in the world for trying to reverse this trend. At the heart of its strategies is the Thousand Talents Plan， an umbrella initiative begun in 2008 by the Communist Partys General Office to encourage universities， research institutes， and state-owned enterprises to develop recruitment programs for “high-level” foreign talent to lead Chinas high-tech industries. Offers from local governments and institutions included not only high salaries and research funding， but in some cases housing assistance and， in certain “high-tech hubs” such as Beijings Zhongguancun， expedited paths to permanent residency.

While the broader initiative does not specifically target foreign researchers of Chinese origin， there are incentives like hukou assistance in Beijing and Shanghais programs， or healthcare from Party-affiliated hospitals in Zhejiang， that seem calculated to appeal to so-called “sea turtles”—returnee Chinese nationals who have studied and worked abroad， and who may or may not have obtained foreign citizenship.

The pattern has served China well in the past. From Zhan Tianyou

（詹天佑）， the “father of the modern Chinese railway，” to “Father of Rocketry” Qian Xuesen （錢學(xué)森）， the history of Chinas modernization is dotted with luminaries who exemplified the ideal， once stated by famous Chinese educator Cai Yuanpei （蔡元培）， of “studying without forgetting to repay the country， repaying the country without forgetting to learn.” Cai himself was a jinshi-ranked Qing scholar who went to study in Leipzig at the ripe age of 40， eventually becoming the principal of Peking University， which he tried to reform into an institution “[where] students see learning as their heavenly duty， not a step toward an official position or wealth.” As his most famous saying goes， “Knowledge will save the country.”

Cais thoughts were echoed by Lin Yutang （林語堂）， his colleague， who spoke of “real education” being “the result of climate…a class of youths nurtured in a good atmosphere will all be erudite.” Atmosphere， however， appears to be Chinas sticking point. In a blog post published on Q&A; platform Zhihu in 2016， Zhejiang University biologist Liming Wang， formerly of the California Institute of Technology and UC Berkley， wrote of five factors contributing to the “research environment” preferred by younger returnees like himself： Reasonable funding to establish a lab， cooperative administrators， a fair and transparent process for research evaluation and grant application， a “natural and open” atmosphere of academic debate， and extensive opportunities for collaborative research.

On the first three counts， Wang， himself a Thousand Talents returnee， characterizes China as a crapshoot； resources and administrative support vary widely between localities and institutions. “In many， many places…your funding could be withdrawn at any time， [and] you have to run a gauntlet getting expenses reimbursed or purchasing equipment.” In 2014， the International Labor Organization reported that some scholars did not receive their promised housing benefits after coming to China， or did not receive a job at all despite sending CVs and participating in interviews.

Regarding his last two points， both addressing the culture within Chinese research institutions， Wang gives the verdict of “needs improvement，” generalizing American PhD students as “those who are passionate about research and want to make it a career…pushing the boundaries of human knowledge，” whereas， for many Chinese， an advanced degree is simply “more advanced and prestigious…making it easier to get rich or get a job.”

There are practical challenges that come with such an atmosphere： Wang writes of immense pressure for early-career scholars to publish， leading to squabbles among colleagues over the “first author” title on joint publications. Other Thousand Talents scholars and their students responding on Zhihu complained of getting bogged down with non-academic duties like administrative meetings and mandatory “social activities，” as well as the pressure to make “utilitarian” or small-scale， feasible contributions instead of groundbreaking research， and—a gripe from every respondent—constant overwork.

On the other hand， there are returnees who work in the private sector， or came through less prestigious sponsorship， or no official channels at all， who relish the freedom they found in the experience. Fang Tao， a scientist at Beijing AR technology start-up Futurus， had chosen to return to China to escape the pressure and what he called the “closed-off” atmosphere of another countrys research environment—in this case Japan， where he did his post-doc. “I chose to go to [where] they study the most groundbreaking topics in my field， computational chemistry，” Fang told TWOC. “But the academic field in Japan was very conservative； to get a position there you need a Japanese or perhaps a US degree， and many researchers ideas…are rather risk-averse.”

Thousand Talents returnee Shi Yigong， the former Princeton University molecular biologist who turned down a 10 million USD research grant in 2008 to become Tsinghuas dean of life sciences， told The New York Times that Asians are still confronted with a “bamboo ceiling” when seeking career advancement in the US. Indeed， “push factors” could play a greater role at least for returnees from the US， as theres evidence that the working environment is increasingly hostile to researchers of Chinese origin， as policymakers become more hawkish about the threat of a rising China. An ongoing lawsuit against the FBI by Temple University physicist Xiaoxing Xi， who was wrongfully indicted in 2015 for “unlawfully transferring technology to China，” cites a pattern of ethnic profiling and prejudice against American scientists of Chinese origin， stretching from the case of Sherry Chen of the National Weather Service， Guoqing Cao and Shuyu Li of pharmaceutical company Eli Lilly （charges against all of these individuals were later dropped.

A 2016 study by legal scholar Andrew Kim noted that the number of Chinese-heritage individuals charged under the federal Economic Espionage Act （EEA） tripled between 2009 and 2015， making up over half of all EEA defendants， and that Asian defendants received sentences twice as severe as other ethnic groups. Kim and a scientist from the US both declined to comment for this story， citing concerns for their career.

Wang cites family and cultural familiarity as other factors playing into his return， but stresses that what matters is finding the right environment for oneself regardless of the country. “Choosing a reliable ‘employer is the most important…China is too complicated， China has too many faces， many points of access， and its important to choose wisely，” he writes. Fang characterizes his own choices as “opportune.” “After I returned to China， I met up with a college classmate who started a company，” he said， “I wanted to find the right atmosphere， where theres funding and people searching for new ideas， and this case， that was China.”

The personal and emotional pull factors also cant to be underestimated. “In the United States， everything is more or less set up. Whatever I do [in China]， the impact is probably tenfold， or a hundredfold，” Shi told The New York Times. Wang was more direct. Describing the Shanghai subway on his first day of work， he writes， “crushed by the crowd and sweating all over， I actually smiled…my first thought was， after staying abroad so long， Ive finally come back to build the motherf-cking country！”