I was nineteen when I first started collecting ideas for Chenxi and the Foreigner. From 1989 to 1992 I lived in China, studying traditional Chinese painting. During my first year in Shanghai, I wrote down the details of my life in journal entries and short stories, knowing that photographs could never capture the experiences and emotions in the way that words could. But it wasn’t until several years later, when I was living in France, that I began to work all these pieces into a novel.

Many of the experiences I had as an art student in Shanghai, as well as the people I met while I was studying there, inspired this story. I invented its main thread but Chenxi, in particular, is loosely based on a close friend of mine who is still a wonderful painter but now living in Europe.

I finished the manuscript in 1997 and it was eventually published in 2002, but in a different form from the book you have just read. When I recently read that edition, for the first time in years, I could see that, as a young and inexperienced writer, I had been afraid of my readership. Not so much of the young adult readers themselves, but of their parents, teachers and librarians, otherwise known as ‘the gatekeepers’ among children’s authors.

I remembered how I had cut out swear words, sex scenes and unfamiliar Chinese politics from the original manuscript for fear of being blocked by those gatekeepers and never reaching my audience. I also worried at the time that, if my novel were too obviously political, I might stir up a discussion I wasn’t brave enough to enter into at that age.

Now, I realise how compromised the first version of Chenxi and the Foreigner became through my own self-censoring, which is ironic given that this is a novel about artistic freedom. I also know, especially now that my oldest son is a teenager, that inquisitive teenage readers worldwide will always seek out for themselves those books which take risks.

It’s not often that an author gets the opportunity to rewrite a book after it has already been published. I began to revise Chenxi with excitement and trepidation. With the encouragement of my publishers, I changed the name of the main character to allow myself to see her with fresh eyes, and even changed the key decision she has to make at the end of the novel. I decided to include everything: the sex, the swear words and, in particular, the politics.

When I was first writing Chenxi I did not feel confident to include anything about the terrible massacre in Tiananmen Square in Beijing on June 4th, 1989, as it was still close to the event and, in China, still taboo. Even though I was friends with many of my fellow students, this was not something they felt comfortable discussing for fear of finding themselves in trouble with the government.

Nearly twenty years later, I decided to set my novel in the period leading up to the Tiananmen Square protests, as I had originally intended. This meant I had to change many details throughout and especially the ending, which now refers to the massacre. Hundreds, and possibly thousands, of people were killed, although, because of the government’s tight control over the media, it is unlikely a precise number will ever be known.

In researching this new ending, I was shocked to discover that, unlike the Cultural Revolution, about which information can be freely accessed, the events surrounding June 4th, 1989, have been edited from any media inside Mainland China. This includes books, magazines, newspapers and websites. The Chinese Government has declared June 4th a forbidden topic.

This doesn’t mean, however, that the massacre is forgotten. Each year, on its anniversary, the government places Tiananmen Square under tight security to make sure that there can be no public mourning. Dissidents are placed under house arrest. But in Hong Kong thousands gather for a candlelight vigil in Victoria Park to remember those killed and to demand that the families of the victims receive recognition and compensation.

This year, I returned to Shanghai with my family. In many ways, Shanghai is unrecognisable from the city I once lived in. The dusty shops on Huai Hai Lu that once sold old-fashioned polyester slacks and plastic sandals have been transformed into shining department stores with ten-metre-high television screens advertising Dior perfumes and Calvin Klein underwear. All the alleyways I used to ride along have been razed to make way for new businesses that are part of China’s booming economy. Nobody who is anybody rides a bike anymore. How is it then that this country, modern in so many ways, can still be so resistant when it comes to freedom of speech? Sadly, because of the lack of this most basic right, many young adults in China will never know the truth about June 4th.

Chenxi and the Foreigner is a tribute to the Shanghai I once knew. It is also a tribute to artists all over the world who dare to speak freely, no matter what their art form may be, and to those artists who live in places where speaking out could cost them their lives.