Underground Identity

When Wang Wei first heard his passport had been "buried," he thought it was a bad joke, or perhaps a mistranslation. He was standing outside the leaky tent at the temporary settlement, trying to glean some news about returning home from the official distributing relief supplies. The earthquake in Myanmar had struck without warning, collapsing buildings and shattering the already fragile lives of many.

"Buried?" Wang Wei repeated, his voice dry.

The uniformed, weary-faced local official nodded, explaining in broken Chinese, "Yes, buried. With... many other people's passports. Found at a construction site... after an... aftershock or something."

A construction site? Which one? Why a construction site? Who buried them? Countless questions, like the dust after an earthquake, instantly filled Wang Wei's mind, nearly suffocating him. But he couldn't ask; the official had already turned to the next anxious person waiting, leaving Wang Wei alone to confront this absurd reality.

His identity, the small booklet marking his name, place of origin, date of birth, proving "who he was," now lay beneath the cold, damp earth of a foreign land. The feeling was more dizzying than the collapse of a house. A house destroyed could be rebuilt, or one could leave. But a passport lost, especially "lost" in this manner, made him feel uprooted, yet with nowhere to be replanted.

In the following days, Wang Wei and his compatriots who had similarly suffered "buried passports" began a long and futile ordeal. They first went to the so-called "construction site," a chaotic ruin where several excavators stood like skeletons of prehistoric beasts. The person in charge said a batch of passports had indeed been dug up, mixed with dirt and rubble, but whose they were, or how many, couldn't be confirmed yet. It required "reporting," "registering," and "verifying." How long would this process take? Nobody knew. The person in charge shrugged, handing them a form. The letterhead bore the name of a blurry, indistinct agency.

The form requested name, original passport number, ID card number, contact information in China, and even "speculation on the possible reason for the passport being buried." Wang Wei stared at the last blank space, the tip of his pen hovering. What could he write? A jest of tectonic plates? The somnambulism of bureaucracy? Or some kind of malice from a higher level that he couldn't comprehend? He ultimately left it blank and submitted the form, feeling like he was participating in a meticulously designed farce.

They then sought help from the embassy. The embassy staff were polite, stated they were "aware of the matter," and were "currently coordinating with the local government." They issued an official response, carefully worded, expressing concern and providing a contact number. Wang Wei called the number. It was perpetually busy, or diverted to an unanswered voicemail repeating in a standard female voice: "Your information has been recorded, please wait patiently."

Waiting. It became the only thing they could, and had to, do. Amidst the waiting, time lost its measure. Days unfolded like an endless conveyor belt, transporting them from one temporary office to another, from one evasive promise to another vague assurance. They filled out more forms, some with contradictory information, as if originating from different universes. In one office, they were told the passports might have been collectively destroyed; in another, that efforts were underway to "repair" the documents contaminated by soil.

Wang Wei began observing the others who had also lost their passports. Their faces were etched with anxiety, exhaustion, and a peculiar sort of bewilderment. They gathered, talking in low voices, exchanging hearsay, each rumor grasped like a life-saving straw, only to quickly sink. Some whispered it was a conspiracy to prevent them from leaving; others believed it was divine punishment. And some, like Wang Wei, simply felt a profound, bone-deep absurdity.

One night, Wang Wei had a dream. He was in a colossal library, with bookshelves soaring into the clouds, stretching beyond sight. There were no books, only endless rows of drawers, each labeled. He ran frantically through the labyrinthine aisles, searching for the drawer bearing his name. He knew his passport was in one of them. But there were too many drawers, the labels were blurred, some even written in symbols he couldn't decipher. As he ran, he suddenly realized everyone around him had turned into reflections of himself, all searching fruitlessly among the infinite drawers. He woke with a start, the slight tremor of an aftershock outside the tent blurring the line between dream and reality.

He started to wonder if the "buried passport" had ever truly existed. Perhaps his identity had been fictional from the start, a fragile concept susceptible to being buried by earth at any moment. He touched his own face; it felt unfamiliar. Without that little booklet, was he still Wang Wei? Or was he just a blank symbol awaiting redefinition?

The embassy issued another notice, responding that "most passport information has been verified, and the issuance of relevant documents is being expedited." The news was like a pebble dropped into a stagnant pond, creating a ripple, but the water quickly returned to stillness. Because "most" didn't mean all, and "being expedited" offered no definite timeline. Wang Wei stood in the crowd, listening to the mixed excitement and unease in the surrounding chatter, yet felt no stir within him.

He walked to the edge of the settlement, gazing towards the patch of land said to hold their identities buried beneath. The land looked unremarkable, no different from any other piece of post-disaster ground. Beneath the soil, perhaps his passport truly lay, the booklet chronicling his past, defining his present. But he also knew, even if it were unearthed one day, cleaned, and handed back to him, something else had been buried forever. That sense of powerlessness, of being arbitrarily manipulated by a vast, invisible system, that profound doubt about his own existence – it had taken root in his heart like a seed.

He thought of the labyrinths and cycles in Borges' writings. Perhaps he wasn't waiting for the passport to be unearthed, but for this absurd drama to conclude, or perhaps, to simply grow accustomed to this state of suspension, to being an "unidentified" person, continuing this journey of unknown destination along the borderline between reality and nothingness. The distant sky was overcast, resembling a colossal form filled with countless pending tasks, yet handled by no one.