Beijing ‘nail house’ falls under the wrecking ball

At dawn on Thursday, backhoes tore apart the remainder of what had been a family home for three generations - a Beijing nail-house the Financial Times had visited several times over the course of May, charting its demise.

A.“nail house” is Chinese slang for the last house left standing amid the demolition that is transforming the country’s cities.

Nail houses are the scars of progress. China’s rapid industrialisation and urbanisation has razed homes in the countryside, villages and cities.

Even Beijing’s unique architecture of siheyuan courtyard houses – generally single-storey grey-brick buildings, arranged around flagstone courtyards – has not been spared. Traditionally home to one wealthy family, most siheyuan were repeatedly subdivided after the Communist victory in 1949. Some property owners had their homes restored in the 1980s only to lose them again to bulldozers in recent years.

The resilient stub visited by the FT was located in what was once a historic area of narrow lanes and courtyard homes, northeast of Beijing’s Temple of Heaven. Peeled apart like an onion, the remaining rooms of the house are home to 29-year-old Liu Yunge, his mother, brother and several tenants.

Mr Liu and his family have waged a 10-year battle with New World, one of Hong Kong’s largest property developers, as their neighbourhood and home vanished, brick by brick.

Tuesday, May 6: A pneumatic drill pounded, rattling walls and sending dust swirling. Cranes loomed over the eaves; an earth-mover scraped against sheet metal fencing. Men with crewcuts hung around while Mr Liu prowled the rubble-strewn yard inside the fence, wielding a handheld camera. His mother, Li Xiuyun, stood guard alongside half a dozen small dogs. A former neighbour dropped by to offer moral support.

The family have the deeds to the home purchased by Mr Liu’s grandfather. A court rescinded a demolition order sought by New World after the family refused to move. And yet the house – once 35 rooms – has been reduced to 10.

“The court has said so. The deeds, the blueprints, all prove it is ours,” said Mr Liu in an interview in the dark bedroom where his father and grandparents lived and died; it is now piled high with art books, shoes and dusty beer bottles. “We don’t want to leave.”

In 2001, New World’s Chongwen district subsidiary paid Rmb590m (then $71m) to develop a kilometre-long stretch just east of the Temple of Heaven. Most residents took payouts and left. Mrs Li, her husband and his extended family turned down an offer of Rmb1.06m and in 2003 took their case to court after the demolition crews arrived.

“New World’s Beijing branch holds a demolition certificate legally from Chongwen district housing bureau and has entrusted legal demolition companies to conduct demolition work of decrepit buildings whose owners have reached compensation deals,” said Canny Yan, media officer at New World’s Chongwen subsidiary.

“Our company has not conducted any demolition and inflicted any damage” to the eight and a half rooms given by deed to Mrs Li’s husband, she added. Mr Liu says the property was never legally divided among the extended family.

As cousins gave up and signed, the rooms they occupied were pulled down.

In early May, the pneumatic drill started up a few feet from the fence, pounding a metal sheet, day and night. Mr Liu worried the shaking would make the house collapse. His nerves are fraying. “I feel like I am living in darkness.”

Wednesday, May 7: One of Mr Liu’s few remaining tenants approached apologetically. Men with crewcuts threatened him: leave within three days, or else. A brick was thrown, just missing his four-year-old son. “It’s OK, tell them you’re leaving,” Mr Liu said softly. “I understand.”

The tenant, a migrant from central China, had rented rooms for 10 years and did not want to leave. But, he said, he worried about the boy and his tiny grandmother. “If one of us is hurt, we cannot go to the police. We are no one in Beijing. We have no legal status here to make a complaint.”

Mrs Li has complained, often and loudly. In 2002 a demolition crew dismantled buildings around her protesting husband, leaving only the tile floors. A retired judge helped him to take a government bureau to court and rescind New World’s demolition order.

The demolition men returned in 2007. Put in hospital by the shock, her husband died soon after. Police blockaded the lane to prevent his funeral from turning into a civil-rights protest.

In 2012, police failed to intervene when members of the demolition crew beat up Mr Liu and his sister, said Mrs Li. Their autistic brother ran away through a breach in his bedroom wall. Frantic, Mr Liu appealed for help on Weibo, China’s version of Twitter. Late at night, a stranger emailed to say he had spotted the fleeing brother.

Mr Liu’s Weibo followers are his main contact with the outside world. “We share the same misery.”

Thursday May 8: Mrs Li called police to evict a tall man in glasses who was laying fresh red bricks by the rubble. Unexpectedly, the police escorted him away. Mrs Li slept soundly for the first time in days.

In the afternoon, the man returned. A squad of plainclothes city law enforcers parked a van nearby.

Sunday, May 18: Someone cut the power line. Fists banged the doors in the darkness.

In the week previously, Mr Liu’s security camera overlooking the house was smashed. Dawn raiders removed the chain-link fence delineating a former courtyard. The man in glasses could be seen holding court from his new red brick guardhouse, complete with tea table and armchair.

Since 2003, Mrs Li has not returned to court because there is no one to sue. The government demolition bureau referred FT queries to New World. Police will not comment.

“The Beijing branch of the New World China Property has entrusted the demolition company to drop by Liu Fengchi’s house and negotiate with his wife Li Xiuyun and son,” said Ms Yan, of New World’s Chongwen subsidiary. “Our company always respects lawful verdicts and conducts our commercial activities in accordance with Chinese laws and regulations.”

Tuesday, May 20: Exhausted, Mrs Li hired a lawyer to negotiate with New World.

Monday May 26: The pneumatic drill continued to pound. The sheet metal fence was just a few feet away from the remaining structures. The old lane was bricked up, the metal gate locked. Access was via a steep climb to a gap in the brick wall shielding the site from the street.

The bedroom walls were covered in cracks and roof tiles missing. The autistic son moved to the one remaining solid room left: the former ancestral shrine.

The first of Beijing’s hard summer rainstorms battered the house. Mr Liu said he was worried another storm could take it down. Only eight and a half rooms were left.

Additional reporting by Ben Marino

Editor’s note: On the morning of June 18, the remainder of Mrs Li’s home was demolished.