Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

a surprise parcel

Posted: April 9, 2013 in Uncategorized

This morning, I received a surprise parcel containing pancakes and a large bag of peanuts, both of which are Shandong specialties. It was sent by Lu Qiumei, a woman chaiqianhu turned activist. Chaiqianhu refer to people whose houses are demolished by the government. I met her last month when I made a trip to see Chen Guangcheng’s family in Shandong. A friend of Chen’s eldest brother Chen Guangfu, Lu made arrangement to pick me up from Linyi and then took me back. Before I boarded my bus, she had wanted to buy me some local specialties but we didn’t have time. She was impressed when Guangfu said I was an old friend of Guangcheng, who is Lu’s hero. So she wanted to show her respect.

I didn’t expect she would really take the bother to send me things. It was me who was indebted to her. And I know she is not well off. I am so touched by this gesture.

This set me in a good mood for the whole day.

Jenni Haukio, the wife of the Finnish president Sauli Vainamo Niinisto, is a poet. She has just the right qualities to be the first lady: poised, beautiful and intelligent. And I am very impressed how down-to-earth she is.

Today I was invited to have a small lunch with her at Capital Ma, together with Xichuang, a well-known Chinese poet and Barbara Demick, LA Times’ China correspondent and author of Nothing to Envy.

She had done her homework: she read my bio, obviously, and even some of the reviews of my memoir. She asked intelligent questions regarding what’s life like for a Chinese writer and poet; Chinese literary scene and publishing industries in China. She talked about the situations in Finland. Soon the atmosphere warmed up and we were joking and laughing away. She said she always feels comfortable with other writers no matter which country they are from as she can always find connections with them.

Well, literature is a world language. I very much enjoyed the occasion. Such exchanges always enrich our lives. After the long lunch, I was presented a heavy book of Kalevala, the epic poems from Finland. Something unusual to read.

Feast – Food By East

Posted: April 5, 2013 in Uncategorized

Last autumn, the new shopping mall Indigo and Hotel East emerged, right opposite my house in Jiuxianqiao 酒仙桥 in Beijing. Ever since then, the area has quickly gentrified. New offices opened up like mushrooms after a spring rain, bringing in smartly dressed young men and women. New restaurants, coffee shops and bakeries came into the scene to meet the new demand.

A little over two years ago, when I first moved to Jiuxianqiao village, it was a rather run-down but lively place populated by many migrant workers.

Overall, I am pleased with the transformation. As a foodie, I have keenly tried all the new establishments. My favorite is, by far – Feast, is the stylish restaurant on the second floor of Hotel East, a boutique hotel, a younger sister to the Opposite House. I tried it out ever since I heard the former chief chef Rob Cunningham. It didn’t disappoint. The restaurant offers a selection of Western, Asian and Chinese dishes, made from fresh ingredients and cooked in an open kitchen. All super healthy. The menu isn’t very long. Once when I half-joked and half-complained to the restaurant manager, he said they could try to make just about anything I want. Sure enough, they produced grilled vegetables to go with my scallops. Personally, I quite enjoy simple food from cheap eateries around the corner from the house. From time to time, it is fun to have fine dinning for a change and make it an occasion, dressed up and all. And my girls, who somehow got more expensive taste than myself, adore Feast, especially its semi-buffet style brunch. Partly to please them, I often take them there as a treat. At other times, when my kind friends offer to treat us, we’d go for Feast.

Tonight, I took my girls there to try out the new spring menu, focusing more on seafood and vegetables compared to the more meaty winter’s menu. I ordered Thai style grilled tiger prawns. Like many dishes here, it was richly flavoured with fresh herbs. Kirsty had veal, which was so tender that it melted in your tongue. May, who was having mild stomach problem, had creamy tomato soup, which she declared as the best soup she ever had.

We finished the satisfying meal with hot chocolate cake and Pavlova, Aussie Rob’s signature dish.

We returned home, heavier and happier. In our courtyard, we could see the Hotel’s big sign East winking at us in the darkness. We’ll surely return soon. Well, we just have an appetite for life.

Activist inspires hope even as Chinese repression grows

Calum MacLeod, USA TODAY9:17a.m. EDT March 26, 2013

Wang Jinxiang

(Photo: Calum MacLeod, USA TODAY)

DONGSHIGU, China — Wang Jinxiang, 79, the mother of blind legal activist Chen Guangcheng, may not appear to be a threat to Chinese national security.

But on Thursday, the day of her birthday lunch, eight government officials in two cars showed up to seize two grandmothers who had cited Chen as the inspiration in their fight for compensation for houses demolished by authorities. The intrusion was little better than the one on her 78th birthday, when government-hired thugs shoved her to the ground when she tried to leave her home to buy food. She hit her head on a door as she fell.

Chen’s spectacular escape in April 2012 from his village to the U.S. Embassy in Beijing began a 27-day standoff between the United States and China that ended in Chen, 41, his wife and two children being granted asylum in New York City.

Chen’s family and admirers in China are paying the price for the worldwide headlines he generated when he slipped past the illegal 24-hour surveillance he was under for exposing forced abortions in his province. Chinese authorities spend more money every year on spying on and harassing people who confront the policies of the unelected communist regime.

Such efforts are termed "maintenance stability," a euphemism for heavy-handed police work and repression that is a hallmark of the political system that locked Chen up for years. It is eating a major chunk of cash as Communist Party officials nationwide target people like Chen and those he has inspired.

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Blind Chinese activist Chen Guangcheng speaks at the Council on Foreign Relations in New York on May 31.(Photo: Seth Wenig, AP)

China spends billions of dollars each year to watch China’s citizens nationwide and stop them linking up to defend their legal rights. This month, China’s parliament, which approves all measures put before it by the top leaders, approved $124 billion for domestic security in 2013. Such security includes surveillance and harassment of activists and represents the third year that spending on perceived domestic threats has exceeded the military budget.

Chen, studying law at New York University, says it cost Beijing almost $11 million to keep only him locked up in the Chinese countryside.

"I am confident change will come to China," Chen said in a Skype interview Thursday with USA TODAY. "Not from the government but from the masses who are taking action every day to change China."

But the targeting of Chinese who stand up for themselves against the wishes of Beijing is growing rather than ebbing.

Wang Rulan, 72, and Wei Lanyue, 63, found that out when they left their village Thursday for the 30-mile trip to the home of Chen’s grandmother in Dongshigu village in Shandong province in east China. The officials who dragged them from Wang’s birthday lunch called for police to come and investigate a USA TODAY reporter interviewing the women and tried to open the doors of the reporter’s departing car and jump in.

"We’ve never met Chen Guangcheng, but he has helped us so much," says Wang, whose home was demolished in 2007 without compensation.

Chen is well known here to party bosses who, like bosses in many provinces, take actions that residents have little recourse to oppose. In the 1990s, Chen, a self-taught lawyer, petitioned Beijing to stop authorities in his village from seizing land from farmers to lease to others at high prices, which he said was illegal. He organized villagers from dozens of communities to successfully stop a paper mill from polluting waterways.

In 2004, he sued for the public release of village records on spending, and in 2005, he filed a class-action lawsuit on behalf of women from Linyi against the city’s family planning staff over forced abortions and sterilizations. In 2006, Chen was sentenced to four years and three months for "organizing a mob to disturb traffic." Upon his release, he was forced to remain in his home, surrounded by floodlighting and surveillance.

"He’s so impressive, a disabled man doing rights’ defenders work and suffering so much. He taught us to persist in safeguarding our legal rights until the end," Wang says. "Everybody knows about Chen Guangcheng in our area, but some people, to this day, still don’t dare talk about him openly."

The government officials who returned Wang and Wei to their home village Thursday accused them of "betraying China" by discussing their situation with a foreign reporter, Wang says.

Other residents of the Linyi area describe Chen’s daring and sincerity.

"For those of us living in the dark, he offers a gleam of light and some hope, although his path is more arduous than any," says Lu Qiumei, 33, whose house was demolished in Linyi city in 2010.

Five relatives, including Lu, were subsequently beaten. Lu shares information and advice over the Internet on how to petition or sue the government.

The Linyi city government claims to have stopped all petitioners in the past five years from going to Beijing to register their complaints about the government and judiciary. Officials are judged, and promoted accordingly, by their success in meeting such targets, yet both Wang and Lu have made multiple trips to Beijing in that time period and say Linyi officials pay bribes to keep their petitioning records off the books in Beijing.

For Chen’s family, the hope of even a brief family reunion appears dim.

"He can’t come back to China, it’s still not safe for him," Wang says. "I want to visit him in the USA while my body is still able to take the journey, as maybe I can’t in the future, but authorities won’t issue us passports."

The refusal is a cruel but common tactic of official revenge. The Tiananmen Square student leader Wu’er Kaixi, who escaped from China and lives in Taiwan, has waited in vain since 1989 for his parents to be granted passports so they can travel from China to see him.

For four days after his dramatic, wall-climbing escape in April 2012, Wang had to act normal as if Chen was still in their house and stifle her tears.

"I was worried he would be caught and beaten to death," she says. "Now I get so anxious if he doesn’t call for two days. When I hear his voice, I am at ease."

On the night of her 78th birthday a year ago, Wang says, she cried as she argued with the guards to leave their front gate open.

"If it was shut, my son’s soul couldn’t come home to bless me," says Wang of her second son, one of five, who had recently died of illness.

This year, Wang enjoyed a happier birthday. Though she turned 79, well-wishers celebrated her 80th year, an auspicious milestone. Traditionally minded Chinese count newborns as 1-year-olds. She had Skype chat with Chen, her youngest son.

The dozens of government–paid thugs who once dominated Dongshigu left last June after years of abusing the Chen family and visitors. Some villagers who double as government spies still keep watch, says Chen Guangfu, Wang’s eldest son and Chen’s older brother.

"I don’t believe China has a law forbidding a person from going to a friend’s house for lunch," Chen Guangfu says. "This shows how China must change. It’s ridiculous that China spends so much of its capability on catching such people," when the petitioning they often perform is legal.

http://china-files.com/es/link/27433/la-flor-del-movimiento-feminista-por-fin-esta-floreciendo-en-el-duro-suelo-chino

The opened-up polystyrene apple, symbolizing vagina, was still wet from paint when I arrived at the spacious gallery in Fangcun, in the eastern outskirts of Guangzhou, earlier this month. Da Tu, a 24-year-old feminist activist, was going to finish her work entitled ‘teeth in the vagina’ with the punch line – teeth, to be presented at the ‘Feminism and Art’ exhibition scheduled to open just on the International Women’s Day. A few hours earlier, however, a call from the authorities advised them to stop: at this sensitive time – National People’s Congress, China’s parliament, was to open shortly – it was not appropriate to hold such a sensitive exhibition.

When Ke Qianting, a 41-year-old feminist academic and one of the organizers, had invited me to come along, I accepted eagerly: women’s issues have always interested me as they reveal a lot about a society. As Ms Ke gathered various props, she said in her soft voice: “No point in pressing ahead which will only make our future activities more difficult. We’ll hold the exhibition soon enough.”

When it does happen, it’ll be combined efforts from artists, academic and activists, a format that is most effective in getting the message cross as Ms Ke has discovered. Da Tu explained to me the idea behind her work. “I was inspired by a horror film I heard where a woman had teeth in her vagina which could cut off a penis that penetrated her. The message is that we women can fight back when we are violated or not treated fairly.”

Fighting back, she and other activists have done just that. In the past two years, I have witnessed, with delight, how feminist activism, often provocative or conspicuous in style, has been growing in China. To protest against domestic violence, several women went out on Beijing street last Valentine’s Day, dressed in fake blood splattered wedding gowns; last May, volunteers from several cities such as Xi’an, Nanjing and Hangzhou, staged a co-ordinated performing art, dressed up as Mulan, the ancient female warrior, to protest against gender discrimination in employment and to voice their opposition against an intrusive gynaecological examination imposed on women trying to join in the civil service, eight university students, giant paper pants wrapped around their waists, protested in front of Wuhan city government, chanting slogans.

Finally, the flower of feminist movement is blossoming in China’s harsh soil.

The seedling of the movement was planted back in 1995 when the Fourth International Women’s Conference was held in Beijing. Before that, there was no activism or NGO in China. Slowly and gingerly, NGOs fighting for women’s interests started to emerge: providing service ranging from legal aids to gender training. The deepening exchange with the outside world has also brought along feminism theories and ideas.

Da Tu recalled her journey to become a feminist. At Zhongshan University, while working for her degree in sociology, she took course in gender study, taught by Ms Ke, the director of Sex/Gender Education Forum at Sun Yat-sen University. With a few like-minded friends, Da Tu decided to take action.

Her first action was to take part in ‘occupying men’s toilets’ in protests against a lack of public female toilets in Guangzhou last February. “It was fun, exciting and it gave me a lot of satisfaction as our action made a difference.” After the protest, the municipal government promised to raise the ratio of female to male toilet to 1.5 to 1.(According to the activists’ research, the current ration was less than 1:1.) Now Da Tu runs a small volunteer group called Sinner- B Feminists, devoted to push gender equality.

These activists are most young, very brave, usually well-educated, well-aware of the gender issues and ready to express themselves. And they are all internet savvy.

Last August, four women in Guangzhou shaved off their heads in protests against some universities for setting the bar higher for accepting female students. The video of their action on Sino Weibo sparked twenty bold women in eight cities to go bald.

Although today’s society gives some breathing space for the flower of feminist movement to blossom, especially in cities such as Guangzhou, the activists have to be careful: public protests are still strictly controlled. “When taking action, we limit the number under 20 and we don’t stress too much the rights issue,” said Ms. Ke.

I understand her caution. Feminism in Chinese is nu quan, women’s rights. Anything to do with rights can qualify as ‘sensitive’ in China. Some of the activists, including 24-year-old Li Maizi, one of the ‘bloody brides’, have been invited to ‘have tea’ with the police – to be interrogated, something can easily scare off those chicken-hearts.

Carrying bags of the props, Ms Ke and I returned to the city center together by the ferry. My heart was filled with hope rather than disappointment. The journey of Chinese feminists will be a rocky one, I know. Male chauvinism is still deeply rooted. The economic reforms have brought opportunities to women but also plenty of setbacks because the government has retreated some of its responsibilities to the market.

Thinking about it, the history of feminism is the history of struggle. China will be no exception if not more. But I am confident that the fighting spirit of the Chinese women will prevail.

Will the Chinese Be Supreme?

APRIL 4, 2013

Ian Johnson

Eclipse: Living in the Shadow of China’s Economic Dominance

by Arvind Subramanian
Peterson Institute for International Economics, 216 pp., $21.95 (paper)

The Rise of China vs. the Logic of Strategy

by Edward N. Luttwak
Belknap Press/Harvard University Press, 310 pp., $26.95

Restless Empire: China and the World Since 1750

by Odd Arne Westad
Basic Books, 515 pp., $32.00

Natsuo Yamaguchi, leader of Japan’s New Komeito party, delivering a personal letter from Japan’s Prime Minister Shinzo Abe to China’s President­in­Waiting Xi Jinping at the Great Hall of the People, Beijing, January 25, 2013

During the turbulent Maoist era from the 1950s to 1970s, China clashed militarily with some of its most important neighbors—India, Vietnam, the Soviet Union—and

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embarked on disastrous interventions in Indonesia and Africa. But by the 1980s, Deng Xiaoping had put China on a development­first policy, advising the country to “hide its capacities and bide its time.” This wasn’t exactly reassuring—implying that at some point China would reveal its true intentions—but from the 1980s through the mid­2000s China had relatively few confrontations, despite its rising economic, political, and military power.

Suddenly, it seems this modesty has evaporated. China’s territorial claims to islands and waters in East Asia are long­standing but they have turned insistent, bellicose, and even provocative, causing a sharp rift between China and many of its neighbors. Most recently, the Philippines and Japan announced that they would become “strategic partners” in settling their maritime disputes with China—anathema to Beijing, which prefers to see these disputes handled separately. Regardless of the merits of China’s claims and actions, from a realpolitik standpoint these disputes and new alliances bespeak major policy blunders in China’s past.

The most serious conflict involves Japan. While China’s actions in Southeast Asia cause many angry statements, most countries there lack the capacity to prevent Chinese ships from patrolling waters they claim as their own. But in Japan, China faces one of the world’s most capable maritime powers. Unlike the Philippines, which hasn’t been able to stop Chinese ships from encroaching on its territorial waters and even dropping markers onto disputed reefs, Japan has actively defended claims to several disputed islands known as the Senkaku in Japanese, Diaoyu in Chinese, and Tiaoyutai by nearby Taiwan (which also claims them, largely based on the same historical arguments used by China).

While other disputes have ended after a few days or weeks, this one has continued now for months. In February, Japan claimed that a Chinese frigate had locked weapons­targeting radar on a Japanese destroyer and helicopter. Almost every few days, Japanese media report on Chinese ships—especially China Marine Surveillance survey ships—sailing without permission inside Japan’s territorial waters around the islands. (At least twenty­eight such violations have been reported since the issue heated up last autumn.) Last year, these tensions helped prepare the way for the election of a nationalistic Japanese prime minister.

It would be easy to blame China’s current leaders for all these problems, but their origins predate the People’s Republic of China and unite many ethnic Chinese from around the world. Although historical records are sketchy, many Chinese are convinced that old maps and mentions of the islands in imperial records imply historical Chinese control. In 1895, China and Japan fought a war and Japan
annexed the islands, having declared them uninhabited and belonging to no one. Part

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of the Ryukyu chain, the islands were administered by the United States after World War II. In 1972, Washington returned the Ryukyus to Tokyo, including the Diaoyu/Senkaku islands.

It was this act that angered many Chinese people, who thought Washington should have returned the islands to a Chinese government. Taiwanese Chinese were especially angry; back then the island saw itself as China’s legal government in exile, and the islands lie quite close by. Also possibly a factor was a 1969 UN survey that suggested vast petroleum reserves under the islands. In the 1970s, Taiwanese civilians made several forays to the islands. Later, Hong Kong residents with no ties to Beijing followed suit.

The most recent wave of activism began in 2006, when private citizens in Hong Kong grew impatient and sent ships to the islands. Over the past year or two, however, the Chinese government seems to have more actively joined in the competition to control the islands, sending government­controlled fishing boats into the islands’ waters. They have now been joined by the survey ships and, outside the territorial waters, the Chinese navy. Many commentators in the Chinese blogosphere note that China’s economy has now surpassed that of Japan and that Japan needs China’s market more than China needs Japan’s products or technology. Whether this sense of superiority has a part in the recent maneuvers is unclear; but the two countries are somewhat suddenly locked in their most sustained and bitter dispute since the war, one that doesn’t have an easy way out for either side.

How all this has come to pass is drawn out in several important new books. They come at the Chinese puzzle from very different perspectives and at times are in sharp disagreement. But at heart they share a common idea: China is burdened with historical baggage that makes its rise less linear than many imagine. By extension the authors imply that the current troubles aren’t inevitable and may be more manageable than some would believe.

Many writers have made the case that China’s rise is imminent and unstoppable. The most famous is probably the columnist Martin Jacques’s When China Rules the World (2009), which has spawned a mini­industry of writing by those who agree or disagree with his op­ed­style take on China’s industrialization and its consequences. The most recent to join the debate is Arvind Subramanian of the Washington­based Peterson Institute for International Economics. In Subramanian’s book Eclipse, China is all but unstoppable—even if its growth slows from the 10 percent it has averaged over the past three decades to, say, a more reasonable 6 percent.

Subramanian argues persuasively that China will eclipse the United States even if

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Washington pulls off an increasingly improbable 1990s­style turnaround—balancing the budget and getting growth back on track. Thus the common view in Washington is wrong—the game isn’t America’s to lose; barring some sort of catastrophic meltdown, China will win. Within the foreseeable future it will surpass the United States as the world’s biggest economy and, if Washington continues the economic policies that the fiscally conservative author considers suicidal, China will be in a position to dominate it politically as well. The best Washington can do is prepare for relative decline.

This economic point serves a broader foreign­policy argument. To make this, he begins and ends the book with a startling analogy to the 1956 Suez Crisis. Britain had previously won control of the canal at the apogee of its power when it was able to force a debtor state—Egypt—to hand over control. But not too many decades later, in the mid­twentieth century, Britain lost control when it became a debtor country and the rising power, the United States, told it to pull out its troops or face bankruptcy.

Could China do the same? Right now that might seem far­fetched, but Subramanian points out that the United States regularly uses its economic muscle to achieve foreign policy goals. Since World War II, he says, the United States has accounted for 70 percent of economic sanctions imposed around the world; it’s not unimaginable for China to do the same within a few decades. And if the United States remains in huge debt to China, what can Americans do? Could the Senkaku/Diaoyu dispute be determined this way? Or China’s claims over Taiwan?

Fortunately, we have some non­economists in the room who make more soothing cases based on the rules of other games. Subramanian argues essentially that economic growth will lead to political dominance. The others concede China’s economic advances but say that supremacy is less likely. They do this from two radically different viewpoints.

The most entertaining and provocative is Edward Luttwak’s The Rise of China vs. the Logic of Strategy, a bold book that flatly predicts that China won’t successfully rise as a superpower, indeed that it cannot in its current incarnation. This isn’t due to growth rates or debt ratios—Luttwak concedes the force of both with a wave of the hand—but because of what he sees as the iron law of strategy, which he says “applies in perfect equality to every culture in every age.”

Luttwak says observers like Subramanian look at China’s economic growth and the rate of military spending and, even allowing for recessions or depressions, project into the future the day that China rules the waves. “Yet that must be the least likely of

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outcomes, because it would collide with the very logic of strategy in a world of diverse states, each jealous of its autonomy.”

Luttwak argues that China’s growth will cause countries to band together and stymie its rise. Just as nineteenth­century Germany’s economic and military growth caused one­time enemies like France and England to ally with each other (and England to swallow its disgust over tsarist Russia’s primitive repression of human rights and make friends with it), China’s beeline to the top is already causing a reaction, as we see with Japan and the Philippines, not to mention the new welcome being shown to the United States in the region.

Why doesn’t China change course? Here is one of Luttwak’s most interesting ideas, which he calls “great­state autism”—the failure of powers to break free of ways of acting and behaving. Just as Wilhelminian Germany should surely have seen that building a blue­water navy would cause Britain to form alliances against it, so too should China understand that demanding control over islands far from its shores but close to its neighbors’ would cause a backlash. (Here one thinks not so much of the Senkaku/Diaoyus but of the shoals, reefs, and islets in the South China Sea.) Even the battle for the Senkaku/Diaoyus seems to have no satisfactory endgame for China except a permanent state of tension with its most important neighbor.

China’s blindered approach to international affairs leads Luttwak to a humorous discussion of many Chinese people’s conviction that they are heirs to a tactically clever and sophisticated civilization. The Chinese, Luttwak notes, often assume that foreigners are stupid or naive—certainly not up to the wiles of the people who begatThe Art of War. In 2011, Luttwak writes, Wang Qishan, a Chinese official who is a head of the Strategic and Economic Dialogue with the United States (and currently a member of the powerful seven­man Standing Committee of the Politburo), said of Americans and Chinese: “It is not easy to really know China because China is an ancient civilization…[whereas] the American people, they’re very simple.”

And yet Luttwak points out that these assumptions haven’t served China well historically or today. Two of China’s last three dynasties were controlled by tiny nomadic groups who outmaneuvered the Chinese, while today the country’s tactics have left it surrounded by suspicious and increasingly hostile countries; indeed, it’s probably no exaggeration to say that China has no real allies. The reason is that Chinese thinking about diplomacy originated in an era when relations were between Chinese states—the Qin, Chu, Lu, Qi, and the others that populated Sun Tzu’s classic work. Almost all were essentially Chinese, facilitating practices like espionage, subversion, and quickly changing sides to cut a quick deal. “Chinese foreign policy evidently presumes that foreign states can be just as practical and opportunistic in

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their dealings with China.”

And yet this repeatedly fails, as Luttwak
demonstrates, because other countries emphasize
other practices. In 2007, for example, India was to
send 107 young elite civil servants to China as part of a goodwill tour. But China refused to grant a visa to one, saying that because he was from a part of India claimed by China, he didn’t need a visa. Luttwak sees this as part of China’s strategy of manufacturing crises in hopes of obtaining a favorable solution.

Likewise in 2010, China responded to the arrest of a Chinese fishing captain who had violated Japanese territorial waters by issuing inflammatory statements, arresting Japanese businessmen, and effectively suspending rare earth shipments to Japan. Then it did an about­face and sought to make a deal with Japan. But the Japanese were shocked and frightened by China’s actions and this led directly to the 2012 crisis, with an emboldened nationalist governor of Tokyo threatening to buy the lands claimed by China and assert Japanese sovereignty, which forced the national government to step in to buy the land. This purchase was then the basis for Beijing permitting yet more protests against Japan last autumn that lasted the requisite week before being shut down.

This sounds like bad leadership but Luttwak says that even Bismarck couldn’t fix China’s problem. All rising powers cause a reaction, he says, and rarely gain hegemony unless they create or take advantage of a historic turning point, such as a war. The United States used Japan’s defeat and the decline of Britain and France after World War II to move decisively into the Pacific. Even so, the United States didn’t enter the region making loud demands for territory but as a donor of economic aid. This helped soften America’s rise in the Pacific, even though it was still accompanied by much bitterness—consider how it lost its air and sea bases in the Philippines. By contrast, China is already seen as a predator and has achieved almost nothing.

If accurate, Luttwak’s theory means Americans don’t have to worry too much. China will essentially self­destruct, at least diplomatically. And the list of problems facing China make it seem that this could well be happening right now.

Odd Arne Westad isn’t quite as sure. The Norwegian historian at the London School of Economics believes that China’s history is a burden but it also shows an underestimated ability to adapt and change. A Sinologist who has written widely and lucidly on the cold war, Westad’s Restless Empire is a rich history of the past 250 years of Chinese foreign policy. Like Luttwak, Westad has a revisionist streak in him but this leads him to more optimistic conclusions.

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Mike King

3/17/13 Will the Chinese Be Supreme? by Ian Johnson | The New York Review of Books

Westad shows how the current crises are in part due to idealism—a belief that the international system has some sort of justice that China can appeal to. In China’s mind, it was humiliated in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and some of its territory, including the Senkaku/Diaoyu islands, was stolen. It doesn’t demand that all this land be returned—no one in Beijing wants control of Mongolia, now an independent country that used to be part of the empire—but it has linked some of its maritime claims to this narrative of humiliation and justice. This isn’t the view of a rogue power but one that has a self­interested and one­sided view of justice and history, which is probably how most countries view the world and their past.

Westad is also convinced that the Chinese have been very willing to adapt. One popular view of China is that it didn’t embrace change fast enough, but Westad shows that this really isn’t true. It raced to build railroads, shipyards, and factories in the nineteenth century—as early as in his native Norway, he writes—and the Qing dynasty might have succeeded if it hadn’t been afflicted by a particularly bad run of luck: famines and uprisings, not to mention being invaded and carved up by foreign powers. He also makes a good case for the adaptive abilities of Chiang Kai­shek’s much­maligned Republic of China. Were it not for Japan’s invasion in 1937, the republic probably would have survived. 1

“Chinese who embraced the new—when given a chance to do so—always far outnumbered those who did not,” Westad writes, making another important point: the current era of “opening up” isn’t new but the norm. Instead, it was Mao’s thirty years of being cut off that were the anomaly. The reason for this interlude, he says, was World War II. It fatally weakened the republican government—and here he gives a good corrective to the view that the Nationalists didn’t fight, showing how Chiang threw his best troops into battle while the Communists killed more Chinese during the war with their purges and backstabbing than they did Japanese. In addition, foreign powers failed to support China during the war, with the United States giving just 1 percent of its aid to China until 1945. This made people willing to hear Mao’s message that it didn’t need the outside world, leading to the tragedy of his rule. Had history played out otherwise, Mao would have remained a guerrilla and China’s modernization would have continued after the war.

Likewise, Westad gives an important corrective to the facile view that Mao’s destruction opened the way for its capitalistic revival:

China in the 1970s could have gone in many different directions—from genocidal terrorism of the Cambodian kind to democratic development such as on Taiwan. The potential for market developments was there, not because of the destructiveness of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), but despite it, since

www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2013/apr/04/will-chinese-be-supreme/?pagination=false&printpage=true 7/10

3/17/13 Will the Chinese Be Supreme? by Ian Johnson | The New York Review of Books

China had experimented with integrated markets for a long time before the Communists attempted to destroy them.

Like Luttwak, Westad paints a bleak picture of the Communists’ foreign policy. In the 1960s, China had gained some prestige in the developing world for having shunned the United States and, eventually, also spurning the Soviet Union. But it lost this goodwill through Mao’s erratic policies. By blocking aid for Vietnam during its struggle with the United States, Mao ruined the once­close ties between the two and set up China’s humiliatingly inept invasion of Vietnam in 1979. China also had won points for aiding African countries but then frittered this away by supporting Maoist insurgencies, for example in Ghana. One wonders if China’s current forays into Africa aren’t similarly narcissistic; many Africans are amazed at China’s economic successes and investment muscle, but also realize that China operates without even the minimal altruism offered by Western countries.

Relations with the United States likewise haven’t gone how Chinese leaders envisioned. Mao was so out of touch that he believed that Nixon faced an imminent revolution at home and thus had come from a position of weakness to meet the Great Helmsman—after all, in the Chinese Weltbild, what leader comes to the Chinese capital unless to pay tribute? Later, Deng allied China with the United States against the Soviet Union but was essentially just helping the stronger superpower defeat the weaker one, helping set up the past quarter­century of US global hegemony. It’s hard to know what China should have done differently, but Westad is right to poke fun at Westerners’ infatuation with Chinese leaders’ foreign policy savvy.

The Chinese leaders’ gnomic statements on international strategy were taken as ultimate examples of the realist wisdom of an ancient civilization, instead of the ignorance about the world that they really represented.

And yet for all its missteps, China remains the biggest challenge facing not only its neighbors but the United States as well. One of the deans of US–China studies, David Shambaugh, writes of this in the introductory essay to Tangled Titans, an edited volume he put together to try to explain how relations between the two countries had become so bad. “Mutual distrust is pervasive in both governments, and one now finds few bureaucratic actors in either government with a strong mission to cooperate.” 2Shambaugh’s book doesn’t answer exactly how things got this bad but he makes an implicit case that both countries are suffering from Luttwak’s “great­ power autism”—set in their ways and unable to change the dynamics.

The dilemma facing American policy makers is well summarized in the forthcoming book by Vali Nasr, a former State Department adviser on Afghanistan and Pakistan.

www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2013/apr/04/will-chinese-be-supreme/?pagination=false&printpage=true 8/10

3/17/13 Will the Chinese Be Supreme? by Ian Johnson | The New York Review of Books

Although his interest is the Muslim world and not so much the territories of East Asia, Nasr describes China and its foreign interventions as at the center of US concerns even in those parts of the world. 3 China’s thirst for oil and willingness to pay big for exploration rights is one reason; so is its desire to bring that oil home, either through shipping routes—which necessitate its naval buildup—or pipelines that run through the fragile states of Central Asia.

How optimistic should one be about a changed China being less of a strategic threat? Toward the end of his book, Westad basically assumes that China will rise. As China emerges as “the master player of international capitalism, it is also obvious that the rules of the game are being remade in China,” he writes: a statement that seems to reflect the post­crash period when the West seemed doomed and China’s rise assured. He also writes somewhat implausibly that the Communist Party has “taken over many of the management methods of foreign enterprises”—perhaps, but surely only the worst. Still, his optimism is supported by China’s ability to adapt over the past centuries. Luttwak doesn’t rule out China’s ability to change but puts it another way: only by changing in a way that it has so far resisted, can China rise:

Only a fully democratic China could advance unimpeded to global hegemony, but then the governments of a full democratic China would undoubtedly seek to pursue quite other aims.

  1. 1
    One annoying exception to Westad’s exemplary fairness toward the republican era is his decision to use the mainland pinyin form of rendering Chinese characters for places and groups in Taiwan. Thus the island’s capital is written in the non­standard form “Taibei” instead of “Taipei” and the “Kuomintang” is written “Guomindang” and abbreviated as GMD instead of KMT. Self­determination should apply to spelling too, and outsiders should not choose sides by imposing Communist orthography. ↩
  2. 2
    Tangled Titans: The United States and China, edited by David Shambaugh (Rowman and Littlefield, 2013), p. 5. ↩
  3. 3
    Vali Nasr, The Dispensable Nation: American Foreign Policy in Retreat (to be published by Doubleday this month). ↩

Last week, I was interviewed by Germany’s Stern magazine about my hope for the new Pope. I am not sure how much they used it, if at all, here’s my view.

My hope for the new pope is just like ordinary Chinese people’s hope for our new leader – that he will introduce genuine reforms.

One can easily draw comparison between Catholic establishment and Chinese Communist Party, except that the latter has proved itself to be more flexible and adaptable.

The world has changed so much but not the Catholic establishment. I hope the new Pope will inject new blood and more vitality into it by modernizing it, making it more open, transparent and more relevant to the people. I hope he’ll consider the ordination of women and give women more leadership roles and bigger voice. And contraception and abortion shouldn’t be issues – this is 21st century.

I hope he’ll pay more attention to China, one of the fastest growing regions in the world. I wrote an op-ed for the Guardian about why so many migrant workers are turning to house churches (mostly Protestants’) as they offer the emotional and physically displaced people some support and infrastructure. If not for the issue of lack of diplomatic relationship with Vatican, Catholicism would have grown as rapidly as Protestant. I hope the new Pope will tactfully mend the relationship with China without kowtowing to the authorities too much.

He’ll have to be a remarkably strong man who can withstand mounting expectations and oppositions – making real changes in any old establishment takes real courage.

I am glad that the new Pope is from Argentina: it makes sense. Like Africa and China where the societies are experiencing drastic social and political changes and uncertainty, Christianity is expanding.

Like the change of the leadership in China, the change of the Pope can at least bring about some fresh hopes.

http://www.scmp.com/comment/insight-opinion/article/1182306/india-through-eyes-chinese-students

India through the eyes of Chinese students
Wednesday, 06 March, 2013, 4:34pm
Yuan Lei and Guimei Feng

“Why do so many people pee in public?”

“Madam, they have freedom. They can’t wait.”

This was a conversation we had with an Indian tour guide during our two-week trip in Northern India. We are journalism students from Shantou University, in southern China’s Guangdong province. Last month, we had the opportunity to travel to and report on India, our largest Asian neighbour and competitor, yet a country few of us knew much about except from Bollywood films and Life of Pi.

It was an eye-opening experience. Looking back on the trip, three major impressions pop up in our minds – a half-finished democracy, a harmonious co-existence between past and present, and Indians who are good at thinking.

India is the largest democracy in the world. It achieved universal suffrage at the same time as independence in August 1947. A local campaign event happened when we were in Jaipur. Political ads with candidates’ photos were everywhere, on leaflets scattered on the roads, plastered over walls, cars and on bridges. Even elephants joined the campaign, with huge photos hanging from their backs. Young people standing on top of cars enthusiastically cheered for a handsome candidate. It was exciting to see a large democracy at work.

However, the clamour and excitement aside, India’s democracy still seemed messy and unfinished. It seems that the highly diverse population, divided by so many languages, religions and sub-cultures, makes it difficult for the Indian government to develop unified social rules.

To maintain the pro-forma democracy, the Indian government has to guarantee various kinds of freedoms, which leads to an inefficient and somewhat disordered democracy. People have the freedom to choose their leaders, yet we saw some people being offered refrigerators and TV sets in order to get their votes. The Indian press enjoys the freedom of speech, but they cannot report any scandals involving the Nehru–Gandhi family, a political dynasty that has ruled India more than 40 years since independence. Many Indians we interviewed said corruption was a big problem. One retired businessman said people could not do business without committing bribery.

In democratic India, people from the lower castes still cannot enjoy equal opportunities like people from higher castes. Gender inequality was also very severe and visible. Most interesting, almost every Indian we met was extremely proud that India was a democratic country. They believed democracy would serve India in the long-term and eventually India’s national power would overtake China’s. Not only does democracy seem to be the best excuse for the fact India is still far from being an effecient or just society, it is also Indians’ hope for a better future.

Although India’s democracy is far from satisfactory, widespread political suffrage is truly a remarkable achievement from a Chinese point of view, given that many Chinese have never voted or stood as deputies to the National People’s Congress. Like China, India has a long history of feudal autocracy and hierarchy. Nurturing the spirit of democracy and removing the deep-rooted autocratic culture from such a large population is never an easy job. Adapting to democracy in countries like ours is even more difficult. There is no question that both countries have a long, long way to go.

While Indians strive to reduce the side effects of democracy such as inefficient governance. China badly needs to maintain its efficiency and order while laying down roots for a democratic framework. In addition, to achieving more democracy, the two countries should focus on eliminating illiteracy, promoting universal education and, on top of that, cultivating people’s ability to participate in politics.

We are not sure whether India will outpace China because of its democracy, but we did observe two positive things there.

When travelling in India, one is amazed at how people and animals harmoniously co-exist. Buffalos, monkeys, camels, elephants and other animals have their places on the road. And there are so many pigeons in squares, at crossings, on wires. Although their droppings are said to cause respiratory diseases in humans, people still voluntarily feed them. Some may regard these as symbols of a primitive society, but we prefer to believe it is a special gift for India, where people enjoy getting along well with the natural world.

When we asked for an interview in India, we seldom got turned down, even when we touched on sensitive topics like corruption, the caste system and the wealth gap. People did not feel nervous or
uncomfortable discussing these topics. Under most circumstances, our interviewees were willing to give us their full names and contact information, whereas in China, it is very hard to get someone in the street to talk about controversial issues on camera, let alone giving their names. Many Chinese are still not comfortable expressing opinions in public.

In fact, we believe this has led to an unexpected aftermath: Chinese people’s thinking ability is declining. In comparison, we were surprised to hear ordinary Indians explaining some social issues in articulate and scientific language, for example: “About 30 per cent of Indians live below the poverty line, and 60 per cent have basic literacy skills.” “There are eight companies providing online service nationwide.” It seemed they had done some preparation before expressing their opinions.

On the other hand, we could feel the creeping influence of the caste system on Indians’ thinking and behaviour. Different groups of Indians know full well their status, consciously obeying the lifestyle ordered by the caste system. Indians carry this kind of label while making life-changing choices from education to marriage. Some seem to take the caste system for granted as a part of reasonable explanation for some social problems.

After the trip, we finally understood why Indians chose “Incredible India” as their tourism promotion slogan. It sums up the whole picture of India: marvellous scenery, unique cultural traditions, a seemingly disorderly and messy society, ruled by a feeble government. We admire Indians’ confidence and enthusiasm in describing their country. How would we Chinese describe our nation to the world, when given the opportunity?

• See below an outstanding piece by my writer friend James Palmer. I can’t imagine there’s a wider generation gap between today’s young Chinese and their parents generation. Come to think about it, the same can be said about the gap between myself and my mother who doesn’t even know how to use a mobile phone.

• back on the article, I only thing I wouldn’t agree is to state that the unbalanced sex ration placed women in a favorable situation. the only women who may benefit from the situation are rural girls from poor villages where the sex ration is most unbalanced.

still, a good piece that covers a lot of ground.

Lijia




The balinghou
Chinese parents bemoan their children’s laziness and greed, but this generation of young people has had enough
by James Palmer

Shanghai, July 2012. All photos by Bruno Barbey/Magnum
James Palmer is a British writer and editor who works closely with Chinese journalists. His latest book is The Death of Mao (2012). He lives in Beijing.
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In 2004, fresh off the plane in Beijing, I was asked to judge an English competition for high-school seniors. My two co-judges were pleasantly cynical middle-aged sociologists, both professors at Tsinghua University. After listening to the umpteenth speech about how China used to be poor, but was now rich and powerful, I remarked to one of them that the students seemed a little sheltered.
‘They don’t know anything!’ she spat. ‘They don’t have any idea about how people live. None of this generation do. They’re all so spoilt.’ It’s a view I’ve heard time and again over the past eight years, and one of which the Chinese media never tire. The young get it from left and right. This January alone, the jingoistic Major General and media commentator Luo Yuan condemned the young for being physically and mentally unfit, ranting: ‘Femininity is on the rise, and masculinity is on the decline. With such a lack of character and determination and such physical weakness, how can they shoulder the heavy
responsibility?’ Meanwhile the writer and social critic Murong Xuecun blasted them in the US magazine Foreign Policy because ‘fattened to the point of obesity with Coca-Cola and hamburgers [ ...] the young generation only believes official pronouncements; some even think contradicting the official line is heretical. They do not bother to check the details’.
There’s a measure of truth in these criticisms. The year I arrived, when I was going through the near-obligatory expat period as a teacher before becoming a full-time writer and editor, I had to forcibly drag a 19-year-old out of a classroom after he threw a temper tantrum, drummed the floor and refused to leave. Murong’s claim that the young unwittingly swallow government statements doesn’t stand up in an era where official credibility has been shattered by social media tools, but one can see where Luo’s claims are coming from. Ironically, the children of army officers seem especially pudgy. The teachers at a senior academy attached to an army base described their bullet-headed charges to me as looking like ‘stubby wobbling penises,’ and held private competitions as to which student was the most ‘sausagey’. Food metaphors are telling — older Chinese want to know: ‘Why do they have it so easy, when we had it so hard?’ The main target of this slating has been what the Chinese call the balinghou — young people who were born after 1980, who never knew food rationing and were raised after China’s ‘reform and opening’ began. I’m talking here of the urban middle class, who dominate Chinese media both as purchasers and consumers. The raft of criticisms being levelled has very little to do with the actual failings of the young, but is a symptom of the yawning, and unprecedented gulf between young urban Chinese and their parents.
Zhang Jun, a 26-year-old PhD student, described the situation: ‘It’s not just a generation gap. It’s a values gap, a wealth gap, an education gap, a relationships gap, an information gap.’ Lin Meilian, 30, and a journalist, bluntly stated: ‘I have nothing in common with my mother. We can’t talk about anything. She doesn’t understand how I choose to live my life.’
Parents who spent their own twenties labouring on remote farms have children who measure their world in malls, iPhones, and casual dates This kind of distance is not unique to China. But most other countries can claim far greater continuity between generations. My adolescence in Manchester in the 1990s was different in degree, not in kind, from that of my parents in Bristol and Sydney in the 1960s. But the parents of China’s post-1980 generation (themselves born between 1950 and 1965) grew up in a rural, Maoist world utterly different from that of their children. In their adolescence, there was one phone per village, the universities were closed and jobs were assigned from above. If you imagine the disorientation and confusion of many parents in the West when it comes to the internet and its role in their children’s lives, and then add to that dating, university life and career choices, you come close to the generational dilemma. Parents who spent their own early twenties labouring on remote farms have to deal with children who measure their world in malls, iPhones and casual dates.
Older Chinese, especially those now in their fifties or sixties, often seem like immigrants in their own country. They have that same sense of disorientation, of struggling with societal norms and mores they don’t quite grasp, and of clinging to little alcoves of their own kind. In their relationships with their children, they remind me of the parents of the Indian and Bangladeshi kids I grew up with, struggling to advise their children about choices they never had to make. Yet for all the dissonance that geographical dislocation creates, the distance between a Bangladeshi village and a Manchester suburb is, if anything, smaller than that between rural China in the 1970s and modern Beijing.
Immigrants often have a stable set of values from their home culture from which to draw sustenance, whether religious or cultural. But for the children of the Cultural Revolution in China, there’s been no such continuity. They were raised to believe in the revolutionary Maoism of the 1960s and ‘70s, and then told as young adults in the late 1970s that everything drilled into them in their adolescence had been a terrible mistake. Then they were fed a trickle of socialism, rapidly belied by the rush to get rich, and finally offered the hint of a liberal counter-culture in the 1980s before Tiananmen snatched it away. In the meantime, traditional values condemned as
‘counter-revolutionary’ in their youth are being given a quick polish and propped up as the new backbone of society by the authorities. The young get slammed for their supposed materialism, but it’s a set of values their parents hold more dearly still, since the one constant source of security for their generation has been money. Money — at least the fantasy of it — has never abandoned them. ‘The Chinese love money,’ the PhD student Zhang told me, ‘because it has no history’. Having gone through the gangster capitalism of China’s rush to wealth, the older generation’s bleakly amoral attitude toward how to get by can shock their children. Huang Nubo, a poet, rock-climber and billionaire property developer, now in his fifties, has been one of the few people to talk about this openly, speaking of the ‘devastated social ecology’ in an interview with the Chinese magazine Caixin. But Huang is a rarity, and cushioned by his own wealth; far more parents are concerned that their children aren’t doing enough to get on. While immigrants dream of their children becoming doctors, lawyers, or professors, domestic Chinese ambitions mostly lie elsewhere. Doctors are poorly paid, overworked, and unpopular, thanks to a flailing and corruption-ridden medical system. Lawyers are bound to the vagaries of the ever-shifting judicial system. Professors earn marginal incomes and rely on outside work to get by. The priority for Chinese parents isn’t professional standing or public achievement, but money and security, regardless of what the job involves.
Old makes way for new in Shanghai
Zhang is a fast-tracked young academic who regularly attends high-level diplomatic and security conferences. (She was the only person I talked to who asked to use a pseudonym, conscious of her own Google sensitivity.) She said: ‘My mother can’t understand anything of what I do, especially since it doesn’t come with any “perks”. Last new year, I was home and my cousin was there too. He’s a pharmaceutical rep. What that means is that he sells fake or overpriced drugs to hospitals, with the collusion of the doctors, and they split the profits. And my mom kept saying: “Oh, why don’t you go into business with your cousin! He makes so much money!” She knows what his job involves but she never thinks of it as wrong.’
Chinese parents pour money into their children’s education, but they also spend on short cuts. Most can’t afford to do what one
acquaintance’s billionaire mining family did when he failed to get into Tsinghua University: buy him citizenship in the Dominican Republic so that he could attend Tsinghua as a ‘foreign student’, with cash as his only qualification. But they could do as Zhang’s mother did, and bribe her teachers every term to sit her at the front of the class, so that she wouldn’t be lost among the other 50 or 60 students. It’s still possible to forge a career in China based on merit, though that’s becoming harder as the rich and well-connected pull the ladders away. Take the arts, where just participating in a national-level dance competition requires a minimum payment of 20,000 or 30,000 yuan (approximately $3,000 to $5,000, in a country where average incomes for urban residents are around $500 per month).
‘The actual winner is chosen by talent. But you need to fork over the money to the judges to be in the running. So the girls either have to rely on their daddies, or they have to find new “daddies”,’ a 21-year-old dancer told me. In music, one of the country’s top conservatories, once an incubator for greatness, now requires students to buy private classes from the director at 5,000 yuan ($800) a time. If everyone else is playing dirty, even the most honest parents are left with little choice for their children’s future, and some rue their own idealism. Han Suzhen, 57, a retired schoolteacher, commented: ‘We didn’t raise them in a way that adapts well to this world. We taught them ideals that were instilled in us, a kind of innocence. But today everybody is chasing the things we were taught not to value: we were taught to give to society, now they’re taught to get for themselves in any way possible. It’s the exact opposite. There’s nobody talking about ideas or freedom.’
As has been the case for much of China’s history, the most attractive prospect is an official job. On paper the salaries are low, but even an unimportant job in the extended hierarchies of officialdom comes with guaranteed benefits and security for life, known as the ‘iron rice bowl’. A midlevel position is a licence for extortion and string-pulling. Zhang told me: ‘My cousin, the drug dealer, keeps pestering me. “Why don’t you become an official? Then I can tell my business partners I have a relative who’s an official, and we can both make money.”’
Jobs in one of the giant state-owned enterprises, such as the oil behemoth Sinopec or the ‘big four’ banks, are the next best thing. These state-backed jobs are also tizhinei, ‘inside the system’, with all the attendant perks of generous expense accounts, strong social security and, at the right level, regular pay-offs. That’s why they come with a price tag, whether in cash or in guanxi, an everyday Chinese term for influence, favour-trading and nepotism. Getting an initial opening requires parental backing. When a list of candidates for an entry-level job in a provincial state-owned enterprise was leaked online in December, it included the most influential relatives of each applicant.
Not every post can be bought. Li Xiang, a handsomely fey 25-year-old, is in the middle of the examination and interview process to become a central government official. ‘But it’s frustrating for me because my parents both work for the central government,’ he said. ‘There’s a rule that you can’t be in the same department as your immediate relation. The central government application system is much cleaner than the local government or the state-owned enterprises; you can’t buy or influence your way in.’
He outlined the pros and cons of his move as we ate a pricey 400-yuan steak meal. ‘It means a significant pay cut for me, from 10,000 in my current job to maybe 6,000 yuan, after tax. The first year or two is on probation, at 70 per cent of that. But the hospitals designated for officials are the best, especially the central government. The job is safe. Social security is strong. And I really do want to serve the people. That’s why I applied for an advisory post to the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference [China’s largely
rubber-stamp parliament]. My parents were mad at me! They yelled at me for going for a position without any power.’
Like Li, many of the post-1980 generation — contrary to their reputation for greedy materialism — want to help others. Levels of volunteering are higher than ever, though still significantly lower than in the West, and college students or young white-collar workers are the primary founders of NGOs. But to their parents, charity can be a dirty word. ‘One of my friends has a sick wife, and very little money,’ said Zhang, the PhD student. ‘I wanted to give him 500 yuan to help him, but while I was waiting to meet him, I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, telling me I was a fool. Every time I give money to someone, I feel like I’m being cheated somehow.’ Another person I interviewed said: ‘If I tell my mum I gave money, she berates me because I don’t even have an apartment of my own yet.’
Failing to support your elderly parents can get you a jail term And for parents whose own dreams were frustrated by history, the temptation to force their children into the path they wanted for themselves is even stronger. When I first met Luo Jingqing, with her confidence and air of slight world-weariness, I assumed she was older than her real age of 24. We talked over lunch in Element Fresh, an upmarket Shanghai-based chain popular with young professionals like her.
‘My mom wanted to be a professional woman,’ she told me. ‘She went to a foreign languages high school to avoid having to be sent down to the countryside [a Maoist policy of the 1950s to ‘70s whereby ‘educated youth’ from the cities were sent to live among farmers]. It was that or join the army. From there she was able to get herself into the university, when it reopened, then after graduating she was assigned a job at the Japanese embassy. She met my dad there later, when she was 27. They got married because he knocked her up, at least that’s what my dad says. They’re divorced now.’
‘She always told me I ruined her life,’ Luo continued. ‘She’d tell me never to have children, because they spoilt everything. She told me that getting pregnant had wrecked her career, that it was my fault her life had stalled and she had ended up trapped by my father. She started telling me from as early as I can remember. Isn’t it ridiculous?’ She laughed, as people sometimes will when telling you about terrors long left behind. ‘But, really, she just wants me to be her, the person she never managed to become. She wanted to be a doctor, so she really wanted me to become one. I remember yelling at her, “I’m not what you want me to be, and I never will be.”’ But trying to resist parental directives is tough. Ironically, one of the few consistent ideas to survive all of China’s years of chaos has been the extreme debt owed by children to parents, most clearly articulated in Confucian philosophy but drummed in by a thousand aphorisms and pious tales. ‘Filial piety is the root of all virtues,’ as the saying goes. ‘Love what your parents love, respect what they respect,’ instructs another. This burden weighs particularly hard upon daughters. One typical morality manual issued by a Confucian nationalist organisation in 1935 taught that ‘women are born with filial famine and ethical debt. So the purpose of their lives is to clear that debt.’
No culture values the serpent’s tooth of a thankless child, but it’s hard to imagine, in the modern West, a college dean getting front-page media coverage for returning to his village to wash the feet of his mother, or schoolchildren being made to practise kneeling to thank their parents. Even the law backs this generational fealty; failing to support your elderly parents can get you a jail term, though this, like most Chinese laws that don’t directly benefit the government, is vanishingly rarely enforced. There was even an attempt to make visiting elderly parents mandatory.
These Confucian ideals have never matched reality. Chinese also has its share of idioms about filial impiety, like the description of a hypocrite as someone who ‘neglects his parents and gives them a rich funeral’. And indeed, the old are frequently abandoned or neglected. Next door, in prosperous South Korea, with the longest unbroken Confucian culture in the world, the elderly are poorer, more likely to still be working, and four times more likely to kill themselves than the already suicide-prone Korean young. The suicide rate among older Chinese lags just behind Korea’s, and has tripled in the past decade. But in Korea and China alike, disobedience to parents is theoretically held up as the worst of all possible sins.
Mah-jong, Shanghai 2012
Parental authority over children is often enforced with the crack of a stick. One of the standard imprecations to small children is ‘I’ll beat you to death!’ The concept of ‘Tiger mothers’ might have caused a fuss in the West, prompted by Amy Chua’s notorious 2011 book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. But in response, much of the Chinese media feted ‘wolf dad’ Xiao Baiyou, a Guangzhou businessman who wrote a book, originally called Beat Them into Peking University (2011), in which he smugly boasted of the atmosphere of totalitarian sadism he imposed on his four children, including beating them for arbitrary offences and denying them friends or play. In a French restaurant in Beijing, Zhang, the fast-tracked PhD student, showed me her calves, pitted with long white marks visible through her stockings. ‘They’re from when my mother used to cane me when I was little,’ she said. Family pressure is exacerbated by demographics. In the past, the burden of parental expectations was spread between several siblings. Today, the one-child policy has left the post-1980 generation at the bottom of a suddenly inverted pyramid. This has hit the marginally prosperous urban middle class the worst. In the countryside, family planning was lax enough that most twentysomethings have one or two siblings, while the rich were able to afford the fines to have a second or third child, although sometimes widely spaced apart. But among young white-collar workers, each couple has to bear the burden of two sets of ageing parents, plus any grandparents tough enough to still be around. And with social security shaky at best, parents look to their children for security in old age.
Not surprisingly, the most visible manifestation of this is in buying property. Only a minority can afford to buy property, but they buy it young — at a median age of 27. The rural migrant workers who built China’s new compounds will never be able to afford to live in their own constructions, but most of the twentysomething white-collar workers I know own their own Beijing apartments, usually costing somewhere between 1 and 3 million yuan, and bought on incomes of anywhere between 5,000 and 10,000 yuan a month.
‘I’d rather cry in a BMW than laugh on a bicycle’
The money comes from parents, who often pour their entire savings, combined with cash borrowed from friends, other relatives, and sometimes even illegal banks, into their child’s property in the capital. The pooling process was given a boost after the financial crisis of 2008, when the stock market plummeted while property remained white-hot. The house ownership obsession has gripped both generations: it’s virtually impossible, among the urban
middle-classes, to get married without one family providing a new flat for the couple.
‘Look at these,’ exclaimed a friend as we visited a book shop, gesturing at the racks directed toward advice for the young. ‘All of them say the same thing; marry and get an apartment by 27, settle down, have kids. They’re a trap laid by our parents to get us to do what they want.’ Chen Chenchen, a canny newspaper colleague of mine, didn’t see it in such conspiratorial terms: ‘We’re becoming closer and closer to our parents because we’re bound together by property, and we’re getting more conservative as a result. At first, we thought we could afford to have values. But then we realised our parents were right, and the iron rice bowl is the golden rule. I resisted my parents pressuring me to buy a Beijing apartment in 2008 [when she was 24] but succumbed in 2010, and I’m glad I got it in time. Now we know that money is the most important thing.’ Liu Juncheng, now 60 and a retired taxi driver, echoes this sense of drifting towards a kind of parity. ‘It seems like our children, like us, had a lot of hope for society, but that their views changed real fast because of society; they got lost.’
But parental expectations can fray relationships further, too. ‘I have a friend the same age as me,’ Luo the young professional said, ‘whose parents just paid the down-payment on her apartment. But her mom has been staying with her since November, and she wants to stay on. It’s a one-bedroom flat.’ Buying their children apartments isn’t just a simple investment for parents, but a guarantee, at least in their minds, of an old age spent in their children’s house. This was once an expected social norm, eased by large households and communal families, but with an increasing number of the elderly living alone, a financial bond to their children’s property provides extra leverage.
Apartments are also an inextricable part of the dating game, especially as people move into their mid-twenties. Among the middle class, the parents of the groom are expected to provide an apartment for the new couple to live in if one hasn’t become available already. Like many renters, I’ve had more than one lease broken after my landlord’s son set a wedding date. ‘We call boys “China Construction Bank”, because you have to build for them, and girls “China Merchant Bank” because you can sell them,’ commented my friend Min.
The media often deplore the commercialised nature of young love, exemplified in 2010 by Ma Nuo, a contestant on a dating show; when asked by an unemployed contender if she would ride with him on his bike, she replied: ‘I’d rather cry in a BMW than laugh on a bicycle.’ It’s true that the bling-laden snapshots of triumphant gold-diggers on dating sites and boastful blogs are deeply off-putting. But the criteria that parents give matchmakers, or advertise on placards that some of them carry around parks at the weekend while looking for suitable spouses for their unmarried offspring, are just as centred around salary, car and apartment.
The love life of another friend, who uses the English name of Sally, demonstrates the commercial and class realities of today’s dating scene. Like many stories in China, hers sounds like a didactic Marxist fable of the 1930s, except without the happy ending where the now liberated woman joins the Communist Party. At university, Sally dated a rural boy who was a student representative and, highly unusually, a sincere believer in Communism. ‘He was so honest,’ she told me, ruefully. ‘He wouldn’t even take pencils from the student council room to use for himself.’
But he couldn’t live up to the standards that Sally and her parents expected. She wanted a boyfriend who could buy her the phones and handbags she aspired to, while her parents wanted someone from a wealthy or well-connected family who could walk into a guaranteed career after university. She soon dumped him and, helped by a new nose paid for by her mother, snared a wealthy boy on campus.
A couple of years into the new relationship, however, she found the positions reversed. After being introduced to her boyfriend’s parents, his news was grim. ‘I can’t marry you,’ he told her bluntly. ‘My parents expect me to marry a girl of my own class.’ But, he reassured her, he was quite happy for her to be his mistress, and his
multimillionaire father had agreed to put aside the funds he would need to support her.
From a purely economic perspective, it was a deal that made sense. Yet as well as security and comfort, Sally also wanted at least the illusion of romance, not a nakedly commercial deal. So she broke off the relationship and began looking again. ‘But I’ll be honest,’ she said bleakly, ‘my mother told me: “Don’t think you can get that kind of boy again, because you’re not a virgin any more.” I sold myself without getting the best deal possible.’
Women are in an ambiguous position in the marriage market. The gender imbalance caused by the one-child policy and gender-selective abortion, resulting in 120 boys to 100 girls in some areas, favours them. But they also face the barrier of being labelled ‘leftover women’ at 27, an arbitrarily fixed target rigorously enforced by the older generation.
Even the All-China Women’s Federation, a supposedly feminist organisation run largely by female officials aged over 50, publishes articles on its website warning against the social dangers of unmarried women and the terrible fate that awaits the 28-year-old singleton. ‘My mother keeps calling me and reminding me I only have a couple more years to find someone,’ commented a weary 25-year-old friend. ‘Of course, she wants me to pick one of the boring losers she keeps trying to set me up with.’
As soon as the sought-after wedding ring is in place, parental pressure switches to the production of grandchildren. A wonderfully cynical flowchart was circulated this Chinese New Year, showing the barrage of demands and criticisms from relatives aimed at young people returning home for the holiday. If you’re single, why aren’t you dating? If you’re dating, why aren’t you married? If you’re married, why don’t you have children? And if you have children, why aren’t they putting on a show for us? When the child arrives, however, so do the in-laws, producing even more friction as parents, baby, and
grandparents cram into a one-bedroom apartment.
Chinese expectations of marriage are often described as ‘traditional’ by the media, but they’re an odd mix of the post-Maoist quest for security and the trappings of Western commercial romance — the diamond ring, the white wedding dress. In response to social and parental prodding toward placing material concerns first, some young Chinese have invented a new term, ‘naked marriage,’ meaning getting wed purely for love, without house, ring, ceremony or car. The idea promises romance, but opinion is decidedly mixed, even from the young. A 2010 poll on sohu.com found that the majority of young women opposed the idea, seeing it as a way for men to dodge their responsibilities. Tellingly, the majority of young men supported it.
‘My grandmother grew up in the 1930s and ‘40s, when China was much closer to the world, and so she understood how I see things’ It takes a certain grit to dodge convention altogether. Luo, the young professional, saw no need to play the dating game at all, instead living with a moderately impoverished foreigner in his mid-thirties. ‘My mother has stopped pestering me about it, but I know she’d rather I was looking for a conventional Chinese guy, with an apartment and a career. My father says it’s OK because my boyfriend is English, not a Yankee or a Jap. But I witnessed their whole miserable marriage, so I’m pessimistic about men. I gave up any ambition for a family. I don’t have the ability to give happiness to a kid. I can’t even take it on myself. And I don’t want to have to think about how many houses to leave the next generation.’
However, while the relationships between the post-1980 generation and their parents are fraught with bitterness — whether over careers, houses or marriage — the distance between them and their grandparents is, curiously, much smaller. ‘My grandmother took my ambitions to be a journalist seriously,’ said Lin Meilian. ‘And she was the first person to teach me English, from when I was very small. I had so much more in common with her than my mother.’
Lin continued: ‘My grandmother grew up in the 1930s and ‘40s, when China was much closer to the world, and so she understood how I see things.’ It was a sentiment widely echoed, and not just because of the usual grandparental affections. The cosmopolitanism and potential of a time before China closed its gates bridged generations, but so did the willingness of grandparents to talk about their past.
Zhang told me how her grandfather had gone mad from persecution, leaving her grandmother to raise four children by herself. ‘My grandmother was a factory boss,’ Luo the young professional said, ‘so she suffered during the Cultural Revolution. It’s funny, because actually my grandfather was a landlord’s kid. He was carried to school on the neck of a servant. He became a mid-ranking officer in the army, but when the crowds came for my grandmother, he just blended into them. Then they dragged her away and locked her in a “cowshed” [an improvised prison] for the next few years.’
‘So your mother saw her own mother dragged away and betrayed by her husband when she was five or six?’ I asked.
‘I suppose she did. My grandfather just disappeared for years. There were three children, and the oldest sister had to look after them all. She was 14.’
This information had not come from Luo’s mother, who, like most of her generation, had kept silent about her own suffering as a child. During the Cultural Revolution, having the bad blood of intellectuals or landlords meant schoolyard persecution, improvised beatings, less rations, and being blocked from every opportunity. Turning in your parents was never quite as fetishised as in the Soviet Union, with its cult of the martyred schoolchild Pavlik Morozov, supposedly murdered by his family in 1932 for denouncing his own father. But it happened. A Chinese acquaintance of mine, now in his fifties, once described having to kill his own brother to stop him turning in their parents for owning banned books. Even if others might denounce them, children were made to sign condemnations — ‘Even though she gave birth to me and is my mother, she is a counterrevolutionary and is my enemy.’ Tens of millions witnessed their parents being harassed, humiliated, beaten, imprisoned or killed.
Li, the aspiring official, had a closer and healthier relationship with his parents than anyone else I talked to, in part because he had made the effort to understand them. ‘They struggled when they were my age. They worked hard to become someone I [might later] respect. My mum is from a really ordinary family, just workers, so she fought hard to get into university. And my grandmother didn’t think she was good enough for my dad. She really thought in class terms, even though she changed her own name and moved north so as not to be persecuted in the Cultural Revolution. She was the child of intellectuals, and her whole family was in Shanghai. When she went back to try and find them, there was no trace, all gone: parents, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews.’
The worst story of parental abuse I heard came from a young woman who asked for anonymity. I’ll call her Lily. Smart, successful, and pretty in a fragile way, her relationship with her mother had been one of constant maternal disdain or insult — she’d been called ugly, lazy, stupid — culminating in an incident when she was 24. Lily received a long letter from her mother which told her she was adopted, that her various flaws proved that she wasn’t her mother’s child, and that this was why her mother had been unable to love her, and never would. In tears, Lily called her father and demanded to know why he had never told her. ‘What are you talking about?’ he said, confused, ‘I was there when you were born.’
Eventually. Lily’s mother half-admitted that the letter was a lie, concocted in another fit of hatred and bitterness. But a seed of doubt remained. The most convincing evidence of her real parentage, Lily thought, was her curly hair. It came from her mother who was born in the early 1960s to a widow who had a brief fling with a visiting Italian Communist with an eye for opportunity.
‘So your mother grew up half-foreign and illegitimate, in the middle of a witch-hunt for all things foreign,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for her.’
‘Maybe,’ Lily said. ‘We never talked about it.’
Correction: We printed the following in error ‘This information had come from Zhang’s mother’. As of 8th March it correctly reads ‘Luo’s mother’.
Published on 7 March 2013