Zhang Hua is a slim and vivacious 37-year-old with long hair, a bright enquiring look and loads of determination. She is a resilient woman with grit and patience, who has pursued the extraordinary opportunities that exist in today's China.

This March she was voted Chinese Documentary Director of the Year by China Radio and TV Society and Shanghai Media Group, an honor that many documentary makers would covet.

Yet eight years ago, Zhang was immersed in a world of shampoo and gossip in Shenzhen of South China's Guangdong Province where she ran a small hair salon. Today she is a renowned documentary director able to give voice to the lives of common Chinese women caught up in a rapidly changing society.

The turning point in Zhang's life came one autumn day in 1999 when a plump man with long hair pushed open the door of the hair salon and placed a small DVD camera on the counter. The man was Li Jinghong and Zhang Hua's life was about to be transformed.

At the time, Zhang had broken up with her boyfriend who had taken their daughter away.

As Zhang refused to provide "additional service" to some nasty clients, her business was dwindling. The small money she made could only maintain the daily operation.

Li's luck wasn't much better either because his Beijing-based company had just gone bankrupt. But he told Zhang that he was making a documentary portraying the real lives of hair salon workers.

"I didn't believe he could really do it," she recalls. Still, Zhang didn't refuse Li when he zoomed in on her daily life.

Li's documentary The Sisters tells the story of five women hairdressers, including Zhang. All of them came from poor rural families, and they struggle hard in a job that commands little respect in China. One of them suffered from domestic violence, another was dumped after giving birth to a son with a businessman.

In 2004, the documentary was screened by more than 60 TV stations across the country and the truthful account of these women living at the bottom peg of the society ladder became a hit with audiences.

Thousands of people contacted Zhang, telling her their sad and bitter stories, and asking for help.

Realizing that other people needed her and feeling it was her responsibility to do something, Zhang closed the hair salon and set off for Beijing, joining Li's studio.

"I know what people at the lower levels of society feel and I want to help them express themselves," Zhang says.

Zhang had learned about the camera as Li asked her for help to record the hairdressers' lives at home. It was difficult for Zhang, who's only a junior middle school graduate, to learn to use the DV. Her own interest and Li's encouragement helped greatly.

Today, Zhang and Li work as partners in a rented studio in a residential building behind the Shangri-La Hotel in Beijing. They are working on the follow-up documentary, Sisters II, but need to move to cheaper accommodation when the lease expires in August. The rent is 5,500 yuan (US$715) a month.

"We can't afford it. We have to save money for the documentary," she says.

Sisters II extends beyond the hair salon into the families of common women from wider spheres. Zhang's documentary career could not have succeeded if she didn't have a special gift for getting close to the people she films.

"They are totally relaxed with my camera," Zhang says. For three quarters of the year, Zhang and Li are on the road collecting material for Sisters II. They have visited 19 provinces and regions to cover more than 50 women's stories.

"Cameramen from TV stations get what they need in two to three days, but it takes us several months for each story. I must live with them to record the truth of their lives," Zhang said.

In Wuhan, Central China's Hubei Province, Zhang covered the story of Zhou Bo, a 27-year-old primary school teacher, who had breast cancer and lived in a poor family that was constantly struggling.

Zhou's younger sister Zhou Fan was over-reacting to the family's misfortunes. She often condemned and even beat their father as she thought he had shifted the responsibility of supporting the family to her elder sister.

"It's a strange family, each member has his or her own problem, physically or psychologically," Zhang says.

Zhang was invited to stay with them for two months over a period of two years. She accompanied Zhou Bo to hospital for treatment, helped the family send Zhou Fan to a psychological center and persuaded the father to get along with his daughters.

At the end of the documentary, Zhou Bo survives cancer and sees her life getting better. "I'm feeling like I'm in the paradise," she says.

The documentary, Road to Paradise, will be included in Sisters II.

Zhang's common touch has been a huge asset to the documentary team. "People trust me," says Zhang, who seems gifted in making the camera unobtrusive. "It's like my eyes, like a part of my body," Zhang says. Li Jinghong says people open up to Zhang as if she were a family member.

"One moment they are quarreling and the next moment they make up, they are completely natural in her presence," he says. "They never did that when I was around."

After watching Road to Paradise, Claas Danielen, director of the International Leipzig Festival for Documentary and Animated Film, said it was a "mission impossible" achieved against all odds.

The plucky and idealistic Zhang is not satisfied. She wants her documentaries to be screened by TV stations, which have tremendous social influence. "I want to help people tell their stories to the public," she says.

Chen Changfeng, professor with the School of Journalism and Communication of Peking University, says that while people from the lower strata of society are establishing more of a presence in the media, it is still the authoritative TV stations and big companies that have the final say.

"Ordinary people still find it difficult to make themselves heard," Chen says.

Zhang says her team has invested some 2.7 million yuan (US$350,000) in Sisters II. The money came from sales of Sisters, and remuneration from other short films played by TV stations.

As well as shooting new documentaries, Zhang says they also donated to poor families. "People may think I'm rich, but in fact I've got nothing in my personal account," Zhang says. "Am I successful? I don't think so."

Zhang is also hesitant about regaining custody of her 13-year-old daughter.

"I feel that there is nothing I can give her," she says, sighing. "My personal life is a mess. But I haven't got time to think about it," she says with a forced smile.
 
(Xinhua News Agency June 16, 2007)