(LI SHIGONG)

While living in Beijing I had the great privilege of living in one of the city's most beautiful hutong neighborhoods. It was the house my ex-boyfriend grew up in, and his parents were glad to rent it to me during my stay. I loved my home. I loved the sounds of the various hawkers who would roam the narrow streets in the morning—the tea lady, the soymilk man, the scissor sharpener. I grew used to chucking my garbage into the street for the morning pick-up. I became ayi, or auntie, to my neighbors' children. I watched cricket fights and complemented old men on their songbirds in the park. I shivered through the cold winter with a coal-fired water heater. I stacked piles of cabbage and strings of garlic outside my door. I sidestepped the parade of bell-ringing bicycle rickshaws carrying slack-jawed tourists. I loved every minute of it.

My little street was in the neighborhood of Gulou (drum tower) and the beautiful lakes of Houhai. When I moved to the neighborhood in 2001, the lakes were a peaceful place. There were only a few restaurants and only one bar. Boats would sail the lake after dark, leaving a trail of floating candles behind. A lone erhu, a traditional Chinese two-stringed fiddle, would serenade the stillness. Such a treasure in the heart of Beijing couldn't last long in the sweeping changes taking place in the city and new bars and nightlife soon peppered the shores.

A couple of years after I moved into the neighborhood, we started to hear rumors that our little hutong would be torn down to make room for a commercial street of bars and high-rise apartments. It was happening all over the city. The real estate was too valuable. Nobody wanted to protect a dirty little alley with poor plumbing and heat. There was seemingly nothing we could do to stop the endless modernization encroaching on our neighborhood.

Then, in 2003, SARS hit the city and the plans to tear down my neighborhood were put on pause. Preservationist groups jumped on the chance to convince the city that Gulou must be saved. They succeeded, and the hutong was safe for a time. That's the way I left it when I returned to the United States.

As the years passed I heard rumors of continuing threats to the hutong. My home is apparently a hair salon now. A mass relocation plan to move residents to Chaoyang and Tongzhou surfaced. Efforts to apply for UNESCO World Heritage status began. The Beijing Cultural Heritage Protection Center fought against the proposed Beijing Time Cultural City project. The $73-million project would raze the single-story homes and create a massive underground complex of shops covered by a public square. I have no idea what happened to my old neighbors.

Over the last few years, a large proportion of Beijing's traditional hutongs have been demolished. Gulou has been fortunate to escape the wrecking ball, thanks to the efforts of preservation groups and residents. The threat is far from over, however. Every few years a developer eyes the valuable real estate and convinces district officials that shiny malls for tourists and high-rises would be better than dusty old courtyards.

It would be a tragedy to see the destruction of the neighborhood. Beijing should not sell its thousands of years of history and culture so cheaply. Preserving the hutongs, and the old Beijing way of life, will attract tourists and tax revenue. Visitors don't want to see a Chinese theme park when they come to Gulou; they want to see the real heart of Beijing.

Hutongs are more than buildings and alleyways. They are living, breathing historical treasures. Centuries from now you may have to visit a museum to learn about the tea lady, the soymilk man and the scissor sharpener. Garbage will not be tossed out on the street, the heat will be hot and toilets will flush—but the old men with their songbirds and crickets will be gone. The treasure of Beijing will have been sold for pennies and what will be left is another mall, another bar or another high-rise.

The author is an American who once lived in China

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