In 2019, I boarded a plane to Hangzhou, diving headfirst into the beating heart of Alibaba, one of the most formidable tech giants on the planet. As the first Filipina content strategist on their design team, I plunged into an alien world where technology reigned supreme, yet behind it all was the relentless engine of humans who kept everything running.
Alibaba had already mastered the art of selling to the masses. In the year I came on board, they boasted a staggering GMV of $38.4 billion during 11.11, or Singles Day. One sale had the ability to move that much money. Driven by algorithmic wizardry, Alibaba had developed an uncanny understanding of their customers, enabling them to sell with pinpoint accuracy. My role, as a “Western expert,” was to craft content that resonated with a global audience, ensuring that the international e-commerce platform AliExpress reflected global sensibilities.
Alibaba felt like an organism more than an organization. Many functions were automated, and even back then, they were beginning to use AI—from generating the vast swathes of text needed to describe products to creating the models needed to showcase them. Everything happened at breakneck speed, and as the English language expert, oftentimes it felt as though I needed to give my stamp of approval at the end. Whether or not that approval was attained, the jobs rolled on. Nothing, not wrong grammar or incorrect usage was going to stop sales machines from churning.
I had honed my skills in content marketing for more than a decade in advertising and social media. Yet, my abilities were constantly under scrutiny, caught in the clash between Western and Chinese standards. Imagine comparing an Amazon homepage with a Taobao homepage: we lean towards clean lines and white spaces, while China embraces loud, popping colors and a riot of images and text. Convincing stakeholders to value great content my way was an ongoing battle. Sometimes I won them over, sometimes I didn’t, no matter how compelling my arguments. The role was fraught with frustrations, a constant push-and-pull that tested my resolve daily.
When I needed to de-stress, I would bike through our sprawling campus, one of six at the time. It felt like a giant school—modest in architecture but brimming with new technologies and daily innovations. Amidst thousands of employees, I was the lone Filipina, a distinction that felt both empowering and isolating. Despite years of working abroad, this was the first place where I couldn’t sense the warmth of my people. The cultural shock hit me hardest during my first bar outing in the city. Expecting to find a Filipino cover band, as is common in Hong Kong, Singapore, Japan, and on cruise ships worldwide, I was stunned to encounter an African band with a Russian vocalist. Even among the waitstaff, there wasn’t a single Filipino in sight. On campus and throughout Hangzhou, I longed to communicate in Filipino, but I knew my greetings of “Kamusta?” would echo into nothingness.
I acclimated to solitude, made international friends, and immersed myself in the abundance of work and new technology. Working at Alibaba felt like a leap into the future. Everything could be done on my phone—from reading Chinese street signs to buying snacks from a street vendor. My phone became my constant companion, tracking my safety on every Didi ride (the local Uber) and getting me a bottle of wine in the middle of the night. This technological convenience extended to my work, where instant translation features facilitated communication with my Chinese colleagues despite the language barrier.
My colleagues’ dedication was staggering, with lights burning late into the night and the campus buzzing with activity well past conventional working hours. Sleeping cots lined up beside work desks were a common sight. At that time, China was deeply entrenched in the 9-9-6 culture—working from 9 am to 9 pm, six days a week—a grueling schedule championed by Alibaba’s founder, Jack Ma, who viewed it as a privilege, having grown up before China’s economic rise. Many Alibaba employees sacrificed family time due to the Hukou system, which tied social benefits to one’s hometown, forcing families to live far apart for better opportunities.
When I asked a colleague what drove this intense devotion, he said he felt an obligation to give back. As the only child, he carried his family’s hopes, dreams, and resources on his shoulders. He had to succeed not just for himself, but for his parents and grandparents as well. Watching the Chinese work left me in awe and also fearful for the rest of the world, because one thing I am certain of: the Chinese can outwork everyone.
I dare not delve into the pandemic—that’s a book in itself. But as seasons changed and months turned into years, my work-life became a work-work-work situation, leading to predictable burnout. My colleagues toiled on tirelessly, sacrificing the most productive years of their lives, while I found myself yearning for slower, more human moments that technology couldn’t replicate. Despite my admiration for Chinese efficiency and technological prowess, the biggest lesson I will take away is that I can’t robotically chase a goal for the sake of success. I am human, and I need family, friends, and a sense of belonging to feel happy.
Leaving Alibaba, I felt a mix of gratitude and relief—gratitude for the opportunity to witness and be part of such a groundbreaking environment, and relief that my stint was temporary. I returned home with a renewed perspective. Technology can make life infinitely more convenient, make shopping more accessible and enjoyable, but it can’t replace the richness of human connection, the joy of unhurried conversations with loved ones, or the simple pleasure of being physically present. In the pursuit of wealth and progress, it’s crucial to define what makes life truly rich for you.
