27

Feb

In one week, two wildly different perspectives on Chinese social media giant

Sina Weibo, the Chinese equivalent of Twitter, announced on February 20 that it had surpassed half a billion users — more people than live in South America, and approximately the population of North America. Thickly-settled Europe edges out Weibo by about 230,000, but the micro-blogging platform blows away Australia in this  regard. In any event, we are talking about a membership on the order of continents — a remarkable fact, given that, unlike Facebook, its usership is almost exclusively Chinese.

As many readers will be aware, Facebook and Twitter are among the Western platforms inaccessible in China, thanks to the government’s so-called Great Firewall. Internet blocks create a vacuum that domestic entrepreneurs have rushed to fill. In China, chat client QQ provides a service comparable to the west’s AIM or Windows Live Messenger. Then there are the ailing Facebook imitators — Ren Ren, Pengyou, Kaixin001 — which have struggled to sustain their respective user bases in recent years. Weibo, meanwhile, has steamrolled competitors to become the social networking service (SNS)  of choice for China’s growing bourgeoisie. It is now, as the Death Star’s commanding officer would say, the ultimate power in the universe.

Sort of.

On the heels of Sina Weibo’s announcement comes speculation that its achievement may be a hollow one. According to TechinAsia, Sina admitted in its 2013 post-report earnings call that only 46.3 million (about ten percent) of its virtual content of Weibo users log on every day. This lack of fervor could be forgiven if Weibo users maintained a steady pitter-patter of activity, logging on, say, a few times a week. Alas, on that same earnings call, the micro-blogging platform said that roughly the same nine to ten percent of its users are active over the course of a year. What’s going on?

The discrepancy between membership and active users may be due, in part, to the “zombie” phenomenon. With the rise of social media, China has seen an outbreak of cowboy enterprises that generate online accounts for money. These accounts are not tied to any real person; they post no content of their own. Rather, these “zombies” can be automatically deployed to follow a particular user, re-post that user’s comments, and generally create “buzz.” In effect, wealthy individuals or organizations can parlay financial resources into instant “popularity.”

To further explicate the gap between counted and active users — and to add another supernatural metaphor — Weibo also features an untold number of “reincarnated” users. Per government censorship policies, employees at Sina Weibo regulate users’ conversations. If a user posts something controversial, he risks having his post deleted — or, in an extreme case, losing his account altogether. This user may “give up the ghost,” only to come back as another user with a slightly different handle (often the same name with “Life2” [ 二世] or “Life3” [ 三世] appended). Reincarnation buys him a period of anonymity to speak more freely — until censors catch on again. It also means Weibo may be counting users more than once.

There are other, more banal possibilities, of course. It could be that real, flesh-and-blood people join Weibo, participate for a time, then simply lose interest, deciding they have better things to do than “follow” and be followed.  Maybe they reach a point of exhaustion with Sina Weibo’s interface or functionality. Users may be lured away by sexy up-and-comers like WeChat, which many believe will eventually overtake Weibo in popularity. Or maybe Chinese netizens are inherently fickle, and no amount of clever web-design can hold their attention for long. No one seems to know for certain. But, from a developer’s point of view, these possibilities are all equally discouraging.

Compare Sina Weibo’s numbers to Facebook’s user activity stats. As a truly global site, Facebook squashes its Chinese counterpart with an estimated 1.06 billion users. But, more importantly, Facebook reports, 50 percent of its users log on every day. Among the key 18-34 year old demographic, nearly half do so within minutes of waking up, 28 percent before they even get out of bed. These mind-boggling statistics hint at a sort of addiction, which may set off alarm bells for some.  But they also constitute resounding proof that the fuss about Facebook is genuine. When Facebook went public last year, Mark Zuckerberg had money — not zombies — on the brain.

Western nations are not necessarily above e-necromancy. In early 2011, it surfaced that the U.S. government engaged private intelligence firms to create zombies on Facebook, Twitter, and anachronistically, MySpace in a covert effort to influence public opinion. Still, the “genuine article” is perhaps harder to find in China than anywhere else: the country has graduated from counterfeit designer goods to whole retail operations, from fake Apple and Ikea stores to a knock-off Disney World outside Beijing. As such, it is hardly surprising that the latest milestone from China’s social media giant may be more sizzle than substance.

82 days ago Short URL Comments

China/Technology/Uncategorized

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31

Jan

Forgotten in the center of China

The geographic center of the world’s most populous country sounds like a busy place.  But if you stabbed a finger at the middle of a map of China, you would most likely find yourself pointing at a sparsely-populated region once known as Tibet.  Today, Tibet lingers on officially only as the TAR (“Tibet Administrative Region”), while the rest is divided into the Chinese provinces of Qinghai, Sichuan, Gansu, and Yunnan.  While urbanites in these provinces are, to some extent, riding the wave of China’s newfound affluence, farmers and nomads of the Tibetan Plateau, just a few kilometers away, inhabit a different world.

There, yak-herders eke out a living as they have for millennia, returning at night to mud huts with the approximate proportions of a walk-in closet.  There is little infrastructure:  the lone paved road, winding thousands of meters up and down mountains, inevitably gives way to rutted byways that connect three- and four-building “townships.”  The region’s dismal schools are scattered at great intervals, and teachers have been known to show up drunk.

I recently visited the Amdo region of the Tibetan Plateau as part of my fellowship with the Shambala Foundation, an NGO that has been working to alleviate poverty in the region since 2006.  At the Foundation’s modest headquarters in Xining, the capital of Qinghai Province, I met Chosyang Gorje and Choba Jeb, ethnic Tibetans who would be my drivers and guides.

“Craig” and “Ricky,” as they prefer to be called, braved the school system and emerged at the top of their respective classes.  Their performance earned them free English training from ETP, another fixture of Qinghai’s NGO community.  After six years’ study, the pair graduated in 2009.  Within a few weeks, they had joined the Shambala Foundation as social workers.  Today, at the age of twenty-two, they each earn 3,000 RMB per month.

Craig and Ricky are modest about what is, in point of fact, an enormous accomplishment: by finishing school, developing job skills, and landing stable, salaried positions with an international NGO, both young men have effectively lifted their families out of the poverty that gripped them for generations.  At the same time, they signal to Amdo’s youngest generation that the obstacles arrayed against them can be overcome.  In short, they represent the success story that the Shambala Foundation wants for each of its current 650 orphans.

* * * * *

L1010869After a lunch of noodles, we piled into a van and began the four-hour drive to Seku County, where a handful of the Foundation’s orphans live with foster families.  At first, the land sloped up and away from us on both sides, dotted with clusters of Han-Chinese graves and colossal electrical installations.  But, as we drove further, the graves and electrical towers fell away, and the landscape became desolate, almost lunar.  I thought of the badlands of Nevada.

My guides cranked up the CD that was to be our soundtrack for the next four-and-a-half hours:  Credence Clearwater Revival.  Craig kept the mood up, flitting from one topic to another.  “Movies,” he prompted.  “I like ‘Forrest Gump.’  ‘Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re going to get’.”  Words I never expected to hear on the Tibetan Plateau.  Next, the inquisitive pair asked me to tell them “everything [I] know about the Holocaust” (another surprise), then, what I liked best about America.  Sick of censorship after 14 months in China, I said freedom of speech, and returned the question.

Craig and Ricky professed strong attachment to Tibet’s traditional beliefs:  reincarnation; wandering ghosts who possess if they aren’t trapped.  I looked around:  stuppas loomed over every hill, their tethers of bright prayer flags pinwheeling in all directions; the smoke- and dust-filled air of Xining behind us, the peaks on all sides were outlined in brilliant blue.  It was easy to imagine spirits in the vicinity.

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Our route took us up, then down into the Yellow River Valley, then precipitously up again onto the Plateau.  In the relative comfort of the heated van, I was struck by the sheer distances in play.  Townships were spaced thirty or forty minutes apart, with literally nothing in between.  At last, with the sunlight slipping away, we entered Seku County and stopped in a puny township for more noodles and a Tibetan staple, mutton.  Once outside the van, it was hard to notice anything but the searing cold air thick with smoke.

I had been warned about the cold at this altitude.  While Xining is perched 2200 meters above sea level, this part of the Tibetan Plateau is closer to 4000.  It’s enough to trigger headaches, nausea, and vomiting in some visitors.  I had taken the precaution of wearing two pairs of long underwear, supplemented by a thermal top, sweater, overcoat, and hat and gloves that never came off.  I needn’t have bothered.  Even with the wind down, the cold cut right through my layers, leaving me shivering within seconds.

The smokiness, of course, is a simple consequence of people trying to survive here.  Locals burn coal at a prodigious rate:  when we finally reached the frigid guest house, an ayi promptly shuffled into our room with a big bucket of the stuff and began shoveling it into the small stove by the door.  A fair amount of smoke trickled out of the vent pipe to hang heavily in our room.  The poorest families rely on a free and abundant resource for heat:  yak dung.  It has the caloric content to keep a blaze going—but only if fed into the caste-iron stove non-stop.  Essentially, families have to choose between sleeping or staying warm.  As I lay in the guest house, fully clothed inside a sleeping bag and thick blankets, the Plateau struck me as a tough place to survive.

* * * * *

Apparently, famers and nomads agree with my assessment:  an alarming proportion of Amdo children drop out of primary or middle school to support their families in any way they can—taking construction jobs, in the case of boys, or scavenging for “caterpillar fungus” prized by CTM practitioners.  At high school age, dropout rates spike as new, higher school fees kick in.

This was the fate of Lhamo Tso, a twelve-year-old girl from Qinghai’s Gonghe County.  Lhamo’s parents divorced when she was small and, starting new families, left her in her grandparents’ care.  At the time, the elderly pair was living on less than 1000 RMB ($150) per year, much of it donated by neighbors.  In theory, the government assists people like Lhamo’s grandparents through the Di Bao (public support) system—one “need” tier provides about 400 RMB / year; another provides 800.  In reality, however, funds are released to often-unscrupulous village leaders, who divert them toward their own kin.

Lhamo’s grandparents tried their best to put her through school, where she showed tremendous promise.  By some metrics, she was the top student in a school of three hundred.  But the financial strain proved too great:  the nearest school was kilometers away, which meant Lhamo would have to board; it closed for six days every month, which meant she would need transport there and back.  Finally, although they are fully-funded and should be free, many schools in the area demand additional fees for books, meals, etc.  In Lhamo’s case, these fees totaled 500 RMB—roughly half of her family’s yearly income.  These factors alone would have spelled the end of Lhamo’s education.  Then her grandfather fell ill, and his treatments plunged the family into debt.  He passed away a few months later.

The Shambala Foundation was keen to help.  Then came a report from one of its Gonghe social workers:  unable to pay her creditors, Lhamo’s grandmother had reluctantly committed the little girl to an orphanage.  She soon learned it was less of an orphanage and more of a cash cow:  ownership uses its population of orphans to requisition ever-greater sums of government money, pocketing the majority while cutting corners on food, clothing, and care.  Education is out of the question.  When Lhamo’s grandmother, horrified, tried to get her back, she was referred to the contract she had signed; Lhamo will remain at the orphanage for three years, barring a 10,000 RMB contract “buy out.”

uxG7xgqdksca11tlvm4nONpE-ikskAtL7ehWhP4T6M8The Communist Party, seeking to regulate life in these heretofore “Wild West” regions, is unwittingly making education even more unattainable for Tibetan children.  The CCP is boarding up township schools and opening new ones far away in urban centers.  Massive subsidized housing projects spring up around these urban schools, intended to lure farmers and nomads down from the Plateau.  With greater resources and trained teachers, there is no question that the quality of education would be a step up.  But no one has yet proposed a viable means for illiterate farmers and nomads to earn a living in an urban setting.   Forced to choose between surviving on the Plateau and starving in the city, locals are staying put.  Their children forego even the most basic education.

In the farming and nomadic communities of Amdo, I gathered, education is viewed as a luxury.  The trouble is, it’s not.  Chinese society as a whole is surging ahead, while Amdo’s inhabitants—poorly positioned to begin with—fall further and further behind.

* * * * *

Morning brought with it the same astonishing cold.  Outside our guest house Craig and Ricky, clad in ludicrously inadequate windbreakers, conferred in the white billow of their breath.  To maximize time with the orphans, they agreed to split up.  I would go with Ricky, in the van, in search of a little girl and her nomadic family a few miles to the north.  As we drove, I quizzed Ricky on their background.

Tsomo never knew her father, who was what Tibetans call a “night visitor.”  Her mother suffered from mental illness, leaving the child in the care of her octogenarian grandmother.  When the Shambala Foundation learned of her case, in 2010, the family was living on about 800 RMB per year (just over $100).  On his first visit, former SF social worker Sanggji Drolma found Tsomo filthy, malnourished, and sick.  Without treatment, she was unlikely to live.  Delicately, with what soothing words he could find, Sanggji had pried the little girl away from her grandmother and brought her to Xining for medical attention.  With a healthy diet and supplements, the little girl recovered.  She returned to the Plateau, and to school.  With the Foundation’s support, Tsomo is alive and well—and about to finish 4th grade.  If she keeps up her grades, she will receive Foundation scholarships to attend high school, vocational school, or even university.

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The nomadic community was located several kilometers off the paved road.  We moved at a snail’s pace, the van bucking and listing crazily to one side or the other as we traversed the wagon-way.  Every few minutes, Ricky leapt from the van to peer at the scant offering of landmarks—a township; a stuppa; a solitary Tibetan burning incense—and beg his nomad contact for fresh directions.  After an hour of off-roading, we came upon the red-faced nomad with the cell phone.  We had arrived.

The place was familiar from the photos I had seen.  Here was the grandmother, her face as brown and deeply-lined as a walnut, her storm-gray hair in wild tangles.  She moved with the slowness of age, but the fretful twisting of her hands and mouth betrayed that responsibility weighed on her also.  Suddenly, from behind her, a pink blur:  Tsomo, in matching boots and jacket, came running from the hut, grinning, and bearing a quart of yak’s milk her family had set aside to say thank you.

Please support the Foundation by visiting Tom Stevenson’s fundraising page. L1010946

109 days ago Short URL Comments

China/Culture/Human rights & political reform

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16

Jan

Yang yang: China’s wildly imbalanced gender dynamic

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In June, I found myself placing a call to the Shanghai police.  My twenty-year old friend, Lily, slumped on a nearby couch with her face in her hands.  She would not call herself, she said, because “The police will not do anything.”  Given her ex-boyfriend’s abusive past, and his incessant calling, texting, and stalking, I insisted that the authorities would have no choice.

I had met this young woman and her Shanghai-nese boyfriend, Adam, a few months earlier.  Though more than ten years her senior, he seemed decent enough:  the three of us played cards together and even went out on a few occasions.  But, as Lily and I got closer, she confided her misgivings about the relationship.  As Adam’s parents aged, she said, there was mounting pressure for her to marry him and start a family.  She wasn’t ready for the commitment.  “And besides,” she added, “sometimes we fight.”  “Every couple fights,” I told her.  “Well…” she continued, sensing I had not understood, “sometimes he hits me.”  And then added, hastily, “But he is a good man.”

As time wore on, her assessment of Adam’s character rang increasingly false.  On a visit to the apartment she and Adam shared, she pointed out a shattered pane in the glass divide between the living room and the balcony.  “I broke that,” she said with self-reproach, “when he locked me out there for a day.”  On another occasion, when we went to the park, a heavy layer of foundation, a silk scarf, and sleeves could not hide the cuts and contusions on her lips, neck, and arms.  When she finally fled his apartment one summer evening, she arrived at my place bearing a tiny, immobilized terrier, its hind leg broken when the boyfriend flung it against a wall.  The more I learned about their relationship, the more it seemed like a nightmare, rather than a marriage waiting to happen.

Someone at the police station answered.  I asked for an English speaker, and was heartened to hear a woman’s voice on the line.  I endeavored to explain the extent of the abuse, and how Lily’s ex-boyfriend was, as we spoke, putting the screws to every one of their mutual friends in an effort to discover her new address.  The policewoman listened for a minute or two, then asked if she could speak to my friend.  I passed the phone.  I must have turned my own face to the floor, because I was startled moments later by Lily’s shriek and the sound of her cell phone shattering against the wall.

Lily took a few minutes to calm down.  Apparently, the officer had explained that the calls, texts, and stalking were all ways of showing love.  “He obviously cares about you and wants to be with you,” the policewoman reasoned.  “You should go back to him.”

My friend Lindsey also acquired an admirer at the age of twenty.  As he was a complete stranger, she did not accept his letters or little gifts of flowers and chocolate.  Undeterred, he started throwing them through her open window.  The gesture lost some of its romance over the months that followed—especially after Lindsey learned the man had been watching her shower from the building opposite.

Throughout this one-way romance, she told me, her message was clear:  “I am not interested in you.  Please leave me alone.”  But, rather than leaving her alone, the young man became more and more obsessed.  He started showing up at her apartment and pounding on the door.  Lindsey ignored him.  One muggy afternoon, when she propped the door to get some air, her suitor crept inside.  When Lindsey caught him rummaging through her things, he started; wild-eyed, he snatched up a knife and started slashing her chairs, pillows, and bedclothes.  Lindsey said she ran down the hall, banging on her neighbors’ doors until one finally opened.  She hid inside.  Moments later, her suitor arrived and threatened to stab the bewildered neighbor if he protected her again.

At this point, Lindsey, like my Shanghainese friend, called a Hail Mary:  she went to the police.  “Flowers and chocolates?” came the response.  “This guy must really like you!  Don’t you think you should give him a chance?”  When Lindsey insisted she had no interest in the man—and, at this point, had good reason to fear him—the police dug themselves deeper:  “Well, if this has continued over time, you must have given him some encouragement.”  In the end, Lindsey had to threaten a lawsuit to get the police’s cooperation.  Her stalker was instructed to stay off the floor where she lived.  She continued to see him around the housing complex.

Two accounts can only carry so much weight.  Yet the striking similarities between them suggest something disturbing about gender dynamics in China.

Firstly, these accounts reveal a reluctance to label any behavior, however heinous, “harassment” or “abuse.”  Lindsey endured months of unwanted attention, involving the police only when her stalker ransacked her apartment.  Lily was battered, physically and emotionally, all the while insisting her boyfriend was “a good man.”  As with many victims of abuse, naïveté played a role.  But she did not arrive at this character assessment alone.  She had plenty people around her—people she considered friends—who knew of Adam’s violent episodes and yet urged her to marry him.  After all, didn’t he keep a roof over her head?  In China, the “normal-ness” of violence toward women caused Lindsey and Lily to set their respective thresholds for “harassment” and “abuse” far too high.

Then, when they found the strength to call “abuse” by its proper name, the badge-wearing mandarins of China’s “Harmonious Society” took no heed.  In both cases, they dismissed, de-legitimized, and otherwise explained away my friends’ trepidation and terror.  Shouldn’t the cops have shown a little more concern—if not out of human decency, then out of professional obligation?

But the cognitive process behind their indifference may be most alarming of all. Though fundamentally about abuse, my friends’ accounts also contained details which, if taken out of context, reflect well on their respective tormentors (e.g. chocolates; love letters). When one officer after another urged these women to give their abusive partners “a chance,” it was as if they had only registered these endearing sidenotes.  They weren’t willfully ignoring everything else—the savage beatings, the stalking. These things simply made no impression, like a footprint in the sea.  Both male and female officers evinced a profound misogyny, like a filter, through which only certain information could pass.

In the past month, gruesome violence against women in India has exploded into international news.  Messily, in the streets of New Delhi, that society has been forced to grapple with its eons-old favoritism of one gender over the other. Meanwhile, China serves as an uncomfortable reminder that a lower-level, smoldering violence, when coupled with institutional indifference, is more than enough to keep millions of women living in fear.

Note: All names in this article have been changed

124 days ago Short URL Comments

China/Culture/Human rights & political reform/Love & relationships

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10

Jan

Three years after her mother’s murder, Li Ning’s quest for justice is moving forward

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March marks the start of the National People’s Congress in Beijing, one of the Communist Party’s most important annual events.  On March 5, 2012, a twenty-year-old college student named Li Ning caused uproar on Weibo, China’s Twitter, when she strode into Beijing’s Tiananmen Square, removed all her clothes, and knelt on the cold paving stones.  She was promptly arrested.

Before her March 5 statement, Li Ning had spent two years trying to tell her mother’s story.  Her mother, Li Shulian had owned a pair of profitable clothing stores in Jinan, the capital of Shandong Province—so profitable, in fact, that they became targets for official graft.  Mrs. Li resolved to expose this corruption.  Knowing that Shandong officials would cover for each other, she made the 200-mile trip to the central government in Beijing in June of 2009.  Jiefang agents followed.  They apprehended her in the capital, stripped her naked as punishment, and transported her back to Jinan.  Undeterred, Mrs. Li made a second pilgrimage to the seat of the Party in September of 2009.  Once again, she was followed; this time, she did not return.  On October 3, 2009, Li Ning received word that her mother had hung herself while in custody.

Li Ning was incredulous:  her mother would not do such a thing.  A perfunctory viewing of the body did little to put her mind at rest, especially when officials declined to release the autopsy results.  Li Ning began to suspect that, in fact, her mother’s tenacity had spooked security agents to the point where they beat her to death.  Then, in a shocking case of institutional “crossed wires,” Jinan officials admitted as much:  three security personnel, they said, had been prosecuted for the death of Mrs. Li.  Li Ning has received neither names of these agents nor any evidence of their prosecution.

Li Ning was enrolled at Renmin University of China when her mother died.  Grief-stricken, she visited every government office she could find, pleading for answers.  Each time, she was flatly informed that the case was “closed.”

At last, her Tiananmen Square statement had the desired effect.  Moved by her story, rights lawyer Zhou Minghai penned a Weibo post that drew 30,000 hits (it was hastily removed by government censors).  It also captured the attention of Li Zhuang, the renowned rights lawyer barred from practicing after he defended Chongqing-nese accused of organized crime.  Unable to take the case himself, Li Zhuang reached out to fellow rights lawyers.  So it was that, on December 26, I met Li Ning and her aunt in the Beijing offices of lawyer Li Jinxing.

Li Ning is a tall, slim, serious young woman possessed of a bright, if occasional, smile.  On the day we met, she wore block heels, black jeans, and a discolored white parka to ward off the cold.  Her maternal aunt, a tight-lipped Shandong native with penciled-on eyebrows, dressed in shades of lavender.  They tell me the pain Mrs. Li’s death, three years earlier, has been compounded by the callousness of people around them.  At the time of the murder, Li Ning was working for Vanke, China’s largest real estate developer, to support her studies.  When he learned of the incident, her boss tried to cut her loose.  Li Ning refused, citing the three-year contract she had just signed.  The company relented; Vanke waited until her contract expired, then let her go.  Meanwhile, her aunt, furious about Mrs. Li’s fate, began seeking legal recourse.  Afraid of repercussions, her husband filed for divorce.  The authorities have twice rejected his divorce petition, Li Ning’s aunt said, hoping to leverage his fear to secure her silence.

Having finished some other business, the attorney Li Jinxing joins us around the long mahogany table that serves as his desk.  Mr. Li is a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties with hair cropped close in the Chinese style.  His hospitable nature is often in evidence:  since I arrived a day earlier, he has gamely tried to engage me in English, inevitably turning to an assistant for help midway through his first sentence.  As he picks up steam in his native Mandarin, his right hand hovers like a hummingbird with an earthenware teapot, topping off everyone’s tea.  With a wave, he directs Li Ning’s attention toward a wall covered in photos.  In each, he poses with another famous Chinese lawyer:  Li Zhuang; Mai Li; Zhou Ze.  His message is clear:  you are in good hands.

For a few minutes, the trio discuss the latest news out of Shandong, the province all three call home.  Then, Mr. Li circles back to the murder.  It turns out Li Ning and her aunt have already petitioned courts at both the county and provincial levels to take their case.  They have asked for 5,000,000 RMB in damages, a sum which will help pay for Li Ning’s studies and support her after graduation.  Thus far, they have nothing to show for their efforts.  Mr. Li shows little emotion and no surprise as they speak, only nodding at intervals to show he is listening.  “I will take the case,” he says when they finish.

He outlines his plan:  round up a team of rights lawyers, travel to Shandong Province, set up an office.  In order to keep expenses to a minimum, the team will eat, sleep, and conduct legal research there.  More comfortable accommodation is out of the question:  as with roughly half his legal work, Mr. Li will not receive a fee.  However, he urges Li Ning and her aunt to find what money they can to cover the cost of the lawyers’ travel and food.  If they cannot raise enough for these necessities, Mr. Li says, they will ask the community for donations.

After ninety minutes or so, the meeting comes to a close.  As she rises to leave, Li Ning’s face shines with gratitude.  For almost three years, her mother’s body has lain in a Jinan morgue.  At last, a qualified team will delve into the specific circumstances of her death.  Once the truth is out, Li Ning and her family will be able to decide their next move.

Even if the investigation ends with a wrongful death suit, Li Jinxing knows he is not likely to win.  The Communist Party controls the courts, and no amount of evidence or legal argument can guarantee a just verdict.  Yet he does not fixate on this fact.  No one can restore Li Shulian to life.  But, by taking her case as far as possible, Mr. Li can keep her story alive in the public consciousness.  “Whatever the outcome,” he tells Li Ning as they make for the door, “our struggle will be a victory.”

130 days ago Short URL Comments

China/Human rights & political reform/Uncategorized

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06

Dec

Dirty secrets: How China manages perception, not pollution

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In March of 2008, the New York Times announced that marathoner Haile Gebrselassie would skip his signature event in the Beijing Olympics.  After the news leaked, the world-record holder told reporters bluntly, “The pollution in China is a threat to my health.”  Organizers countered that they had halted production at Beijing’s dirtiest factories and pressured neighboring provinces to reduce the airborne particulate count.  From one perspective, their efforts paid off:  most of the Olympic hold-outs eventually crossed the picket line; international observers deemed the Games a success.  But, from another, the damage was done:  China’s record of environmental abuse was broadcast to the world.

For all its tough talk and posturing, China cares desperately what the world thinks of it.

Four years and 700 miles removed from the Beijing Olympics, in Shanghai, efforts to massage international opinion are ongoing.  As recently as twenty years ago, the east bank of the Huangpu River was a patchwork of fields dotted with oxen.  Then canny city planners realized that, to be considered a world-class city, Shanghai would need a world-class skyline–something that could be plastered in silhouette on T-shirts, coffee mugs, and key chains.  And so Pudong was born.  At breakneck speed (remember the plywood Rockridge replica in “Blazing Saddles”?), a welter of daring new structures sprung up opposite the Bund’s Baroque grandeur.  The message was clear:  forget the fields full of coolies, the wandering livestock; forget everything you thought you knew about Shanghai.  This is a modern city:  prosperous, cosmopolitan, striding confidently toward the future.

There is still a fly in the People’s Ointment.  For days or even weeks at a time, the iconic skyline is barely visible behind a blanket of smog.  At such times, Shanghai’s best impression of a western metropolis wears a little thin; the plywood cutouts crash to the ground.  This is simply not a problem in New York or Paris.  The Golden Gate Bridge has been known to vanish–but only because of natural mists rolling in from the bay.  And so, with every tour group that visits the Bund, only to return “tsk tsk”-ing with photos of formless blobs, officials at the Shanghai Tourism Bureau grind their teeth a little lower.  Those tourists will return home, as tourists are wont to do.  And, when friends and neighbors ask about China, “pollution so bad you can’t see” will surely get a mention.

Luckily for the CCP, what “worked” four years ago in Beijing has the potential to “work” better in Shanghai.  That is, without an international sporting even to attract media attention, it can be done inconspicuously.  As I write, Shanghai is carrying out a plan conceived a decade ago, when the 25 heaviest polluters along Xinghua Road were shuttered, their production shifted to Anhui, Henan, Hubei, and beyond.  Since that time, nearly 100 facilities per year have vanished from Shanghai’s outskirts, only to pop up like mushrooms in occidental townships that attract fewer visitors.  Thus situated, they resume poisoning everything that lives, out of sight and out of mind. 

Such is the case in Xinglong, Yunnan, one of China’s estimated 400 “cancer villages.”  The once-idyllic farming community was designated a site for industrial relocation in 2003.  Shortly thereafter, residents noticed the rivers running red and yellow, crops withering, and cattle dropping dead.  Still, without any alternatives, villagers continued to drink the water and walk in their fields.  Finally, in 2011, the staggering incidence of lung, liver, and stomach cancer attracted the attention of environmental NGOs, both international (Greenpeace) and domestic (Friends of Nature).  They found that, rather than driving to a processing plant in neighboring Guizhou, employees at Yunnan Luliang Peace Technology Company had dumped an estimated 5,000 tons of chromium-6—one of the substances most harmful to human health—all over the region.  Over time, most of it leached into the reservoir.  When Greenpeace rapid response personnel tested the drinking water, chromium-6 levels were too high for their instruments to measure.

The media firestorm drew a grudging response from the Communist Party.  Local authorities fenced off the worst pollution and rounded up a few scapegoats at Luliang.  But, when villagers tried to protest the continued operation of the Luliang City Industrial Park, they were waved away because “the factories contribute to the local economy.”  Xinhua News Agency conveyed the government’s official position:  “No human deaths have been attributed to the chromium pollution.”

Back in Shanghai, industrial relocation proceeds according to the Party’s plans.  Tourists a few years hence will stroll euphorically through the tree-lined streets of Shanghai’s French Concession, bathed in dappled sunlight.  On the Bund, they will marvel at modern architecture sharply outlined in cerulean blue.  “I feel like I’m in Paris,” they will murmur, and Party members’ chests will swell with pride.

Hundreds of miles to the west, chests draped thinly with threadbare garments will swell with the natural motion of respiration, then contract in violent paroxysms of coughing.

There is a heart-breaking truth to 21st century China:  reality always comes second to perception.  The masterminds behind industrial relocation have no intention of reducing overall pollution or improving public health.  They know their toxic game of musical chairs is creating new Xinglongs all the time.  But how many tourists, investors–even journalists–make Xinglong a stop on their tour of China? 

Too few to influence international opinion.  In other words, too few to matter.  This is the callous calculus that powers modern China.

165 days ago Short URL Comments

China/Human rights & political reform

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21

Nov

On the one-year anniversary of his arrival in China, P.W. remains stuck for an answer to the 100,000RMB question: “Why did you come here?”

Most foreigners do not fall in love with China.  That is a fact.

They find it loud and dirty, populated by people who belch and spit as they go about their (often baffling) lives.  I catch expats with just a few months under their belts using “Chinese” as a pejorative, as in, “The staff at that place were pretty damned Chinese!”  The steady turnover in my friend group speaks to a kind of expat revolving door.  My Facebook homefeed is cluttered with people planning their escapes:  “I want to move to Moscow/Buenos Aires/other,” their statuses read.  “Russian friends/Brazilian friends/other friends, please help with job search!”  Those who remain do so restlessly; when prompted, they give their timetable for departure in months, not years.

Clearly, day-to-day life is not what draws foreigners to China.  Rather, I’m inclined to believe, they are enticed by its arcane traditions–wǔshù (popularly known in the West as “kung fu”), Chinese Traditional Medicine, calligraphy–all of which remain shrouded in mystery like the limestone karsts of Yangshuo.

Take the practice of acupuncture, which originated in China thousands of years ago.  Having undergone a course of treatment myself, with encouraging results, I can offer no explanation that will not incur the wrath of the Church.  We must treat trapezius pain with needles in the calf???  That’s witchcraft and no mistake.  The placebo effect is only a partial explanation, as a recent studyby the Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center found subjects who received genuine acupuncture–as opposed to arbitrarily placed needles–reported the greatest improvement in their symptoms.  Acupuncture’s effectiveness may rely heavily on psychology and suggestion–but there’s something else going on, too, and western PhDs cannot say precisely what.

Take the wǔshù sub-discipline of nèijiāquán, intended to cultivate one’s qì.  How can a regimen of tensing and relaxing muscles, of positioning one’s body just-so, enable one to sustain a direct blow to the head from a sturdy wooden chair without flinching (an anecdote lifted from Mark Salzman’s Iron and Silk)?

In short, China seduces foreigners with its promise of ancient wisdom, which transcends reason and logic and western medical science.  Perhaps the right word is “magic.”  Yet, in the “foreign-friendly” hubs of Shanghai, Beijing, Chongqing, etc., it is little in evidence.  Where is the wisdom in hurtling against the flow of traffic on one’s heavily-duct-taped motor-scooter?  Where is the enlightenment in posting fabricated photos on realty sites, so every apartment visit is a guaranteed disappointment and waste of time?  Chucking cans and carry-out boxes at one’s backside?  Certainly the erstwhile purveyors of China’s ancient wisdom–the Confuscist sages and Taoist scribes–are long gone.  As my edition of the Lonely Planet says of Shanghai:  “this is China, just not the China you were looking for.”

By contrast, Mark Salzman found “the China [he] was looking for” in a big way.  The vignettes collected in Iron and Silk are not to be believed.  I have already mentioned a private exhibition in which a nèijiāquán (soft martial arts) master shatters a chair over his head.  Salzman forms a chance friendship with a family of Changsha “boat people,” who eventually plead with him to join their floating community, offering to add a boat or two just to house his library.  He receives intensive wǔshù instruction from a renowned master and former national champion known as “Pan.”  The snarling, wild-eyed warrior is like something out of Chinese legend.  During one demonstration, Pan swings a sword so close to a student’s braids that he clips them clean off.  When asked what would happen if he should miss, Pan retorts, “I never miss.”  Naturally, Salzman’s final meeting with Pan takes place atop a remote Ming dynasty tomb, where master and apprentice spar with long swords against the backdrop of the full moon.

See what I mean?  I doubt if there’s another westerner alive who had such experiences.  On the cover of my copy of Iron and Silk, the L.A. Times commends Salzman for the “charmingly unpretentious manner in which [the book] penetrates a China inaccessible to other foreigners.”  In light of the experiences described above, I would argue “inaccessible” is a serious understatement.

As a foreigner who has now spent almost exactly one year in China, Salzman’s accounts are both enchanting and infuriating.  “There is the China I was looking for! …So what am I doing wrong?”  I have not built a wall of western culture around myself:  I lived for three months in the profoundly Chinese metropolis of Wuhan; I have dated a handful of Chinese women; despite zero formal training, I have picked up enough Chinese to fend for myself.  Yet my experience has overwhelmingly been that of the foreigners around me:  turning to local friends to avoid the 500% white-skin markup at markets; steered towards overpriced eateries that offer English/picture menus; hustled into taxis as the only antidote to becoming hopelessly lost–in short, very much barred from full participaton in “real” China.

What’s Salzman’s secret?

First of all, as a classical Chinese major at Yale, he arrived in Changsha speaking fluent Mandarin.  Thus equipped, he began to meet people through work and serendipity, building relationships based on cultural exchange, then meeting friends of friends until he developed an impressive network of locals.  The advantage of fluency cannot be overstated.  Second, Salzman took an interest in martial arts as a kid.  He arrived in China the ultra-rare westerner with a pre-existing, detailed knowledge of Chinese traditional culture.  However–and this is to take nothing away from Salzman’s accomplishments–perhaps his biggest advantage was quite beyond his control:  he lived in China between 1982 and 1984.

The well-documented changes that have transpired in the thirty years since then are sweeping.  At the time of Salzman’s trip, Shanghai’s showcase of Pudong district was literally a field.  But perhaps more telling than urban infrastructure is the reaction of Chinese people to westerners in their midst.  Salzman describes the usual reaction as “paralysis.”  Recently, I visited the Guilin region of the south Chinese province of Guangxi, the anointed ”most beautiful place in China.”  The place was the inspiration for many ink-and-water paintings of traditional Chinese masters, who depicted its craggy, pine-dotted peaks rising dramatically from the shores of the River Li.  In Guilin, 1,000-year-old settlements remain largely unchanged, only grainy TV-sets hinting at the 21st century.  And yet, a far cry from paralysis, ethnic-Yao villagers pursued me along the narrow paths of the Longji rice terraces offering refreshments, lodging, or to relieve me of my backpack’s weight.

Such seismic shifts beg the question, does “the China [we foreigners] are looking for” still exist?  After about a year in the Middle Kingdom, I’m starting to have my doubts.

Maybe that’s why I can’t answer a simple question.

180 days ago Short URL Comments

China/Culture

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08

Nov

Caution is for the mainstream media: Predicting the demise of the Republican Party–or at least its Reagan-era base

Those who know me can attest that I am not a bleeding-heart liberal.  I do not have a sunny disposition.  In fact, I don’t even believe people are inherently good.  Yet I do believe the world is slowly treading a path toward democracy, transparency, and widespread realization of human rights.   I don’t know that we’ll ever truly get there–we are human, after all–but the proportion of states on the “losing side” will eventually shrivel to an inglorious asymptote.

Last year’s Arab Spring would seem to support this theory.  In Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Syria, and others, organizers used social media to channel the public’s outrage with their unscrupulous, decades-old regimes.  Mubarak stepped down, Gaddafi was torn down, and Assad is hanging by a thread.  And, even if some of those dictators are replaced by Muslim fundamentalists, they, too, will trend progressive or perish next time around.  The Doctrine of Inevitable Progress will be apparent in the long run.

Living in China, it can sometimes be hard to see past backwardness and puerile superstitions.  But members of the older generation, like blind, “barefoot” activist Chen Guangcheng, always pop up to provide much needed perspective (“You think this is bad?  You should have seen it 20 years ago!”).  When asked in October 2012 about China’s long-term prospects for democracy and human rights, Mr. Chen called these developments “inevitable.”  “From the perspective of civil society,” he said through a translator, “we have been witnessing a rising awareness by the Chinese people of the rule of law, of their rights, and of rights-consciousness.  All of those are on the rise, and it is an accelerating process.”

But forget for a moment countries bringing up the rear in the progressivism derby.  The Doctrine of Inevitable Progress is at work in middle-of-the-pack democracies like the U.S., too.  Besides bestowing another term upon Obama, the 2012 election sent a shiver of progressivism down America’s spine.  For the first time, Massachusetts sent a woman to the Senate.  Wisconsin sent a gay woman, also making history.  Hawaii sent Mazie K. Hirono, an Asian-American.  Women now hold 20 seats in the senate.  Maryland and Maine legalized gay marriage, while other states overturned their bans.

All this begs the question, where does this leave the Republican Party?

In the wee hours of November 7 (EST), a political commentator on WBUR described the Republican Party as “monochromatic and old.”  “Monochromatic” is code for racist (as in, “Arizona’s immigration policy appeases a monochromatic constituency”).  “Old” is code for old (as in, “The dinosaur was old”), which is itself code for a constellation of less-than-progressive views:  opposition to gay marriage, opposition to a woman’s right to choose, and so on.  Yet, up through the 2012 election, GOP strategists wagered that “monochromatic and old” was still a recipe for success.  Hours after the polls closed, Fox News’ professional prognosticator Dick Morris grappled with where his party went wrong:  “The key reason for my [incorrect prediction of a Romney victory] is that I mistakenly believed that the 2008 surge in black, Latino, and young voter turnout would recede in 2012 to ‘normal’ levels.  Didn’t happen.  These high levels of minority and young voter participation are here to stay.  And, with them, a permanent reshaping of our nation’s politics.”

Morris’ concluding statements certainly sound like an affirmation of the Doctrine.  And, if he and I are right, then the Republican Party’s base will continue to erode, washed away like Jimi’s castles made of sand.  If the GOP couldn’t win against a president dogged by 8 percent unemployment and perceptions of ineffectiveness, how the heck will they fare in 2016?  If they drop that one (Biden v. Ryan, anyone?), how will they rally in 2020?  Will they ever win again?

Of course.  But maybe not as the GOP we know and love.  In order to become relevant again, they may have to cut loose some of the raving gun-hoarders, xenophobes, and evangelicals and try to co-opt some of the women, Latinos, and young people who, inconveniently, are also American.

What will become of the ballast?  If they no longer identify as “Republicans,” they may congregate under the banner of the Tea Party, or some other slightly unhinged political entity.  Then again, after its embarrassing moment in the sun, the Tea Party itself may be on the fast-track to irrelevance.

Is there a chance we could end up with (forgive me) no country for old men?  Yes.  Assuming the GOP’s implicit definition of “old men”–that is, intolerant Americans afraid of change–it is a distinct possibility.  And I’m kind of o.k. with that.

193 days ago Short URL Comments

American politics

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07

Nov

Four more years

I want to commend my countrymen for electing President Barack Obama to a second term.

In 2008, he ran on a platform of hope and change.  Over the course of his trying first term, Obama delivered on some promises and defaulted on others.  But, as time wore on, the consensus seemed to be that anemic job growth and a mounting deficit did not represent the kind of change his supporters had had in mind.  Personally, I believe Obama’s underwhelming performance can be almost entirely explained by America’s sclerotic two-party system, which empowers the opposition to obstruct, obstruct, obstruct, rather than governing in good faith (see Mitch McConnell’s October 2010 interview).  But this conversation could fill books, and I don’t mean to delve into it now.

Whatever the reason, then, Obama’s first term did not live up to expectations.  But, on election day 2012, the majority did not resort to petty vindictiveness.  Rather, they recognized Obama as a man of ability, integrity, and sincerity; a man who, unlike his challenger, has made his personal convictions clear.  And they said “Let’s give him a second shot.  Let’s see what he can do in the next four years, with experience under his belt, and (crucially) without having to maneuver for reelection.”

In short, they looked within themselves and found hope again.  A lot of things may have suffered during Obama’s first term: supporters’ confidence in the system, for example, or their confidence in the man himself.  But not hope.  Hope does not evaporate when things don’t go according to plan.  Hope looks ahead instead of looking back.  Hope sees something ephemeral in the distance, knows it may not materialize, but reaches for it anyway.

Mr. President, not everyone expects great things this time around.  But we hope for them.

194 days ago Short URL Comments

American politics

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31

Oct

“Finding Neverland”: Vindication

Initially, I thought to post this link as a comment under my Diaoyu Island piece, because Murong Xuecun (alias of renowned Chinese author Hao Qun) makes so many of the same points.  But I have thought better of it.  His essay deserves pride of place; in fact, it’s required reading for anyone who would offer an opinion on the Middle Kingdom.

http://tealeafnation.com/2012/07/translation-one-authors-plea-for-a-gentler-china/

In my Diaoyu post, I accused the Chinese of being childish.  In protected posts, I have gone farther (although my every argument is precisely worded and backed up by evidence, I do not think it wise to remove password protection in an era when small people patrol the internet, less interested in truth than in tearing others down).  Yet I have never gone as far as Murong did when he posted what Tea Leaf Nation called a “Plea for a Gentler China” to Sina Weibo on July 25th.

The plea itself does not get off to a gentle start.  Despite being born in the Northeastern Chinese province of Jilin, Murong is clearly a man in the grip of what an expat acquaintance dubbed “China rage.”  I recognize the symptoms.  His opening salvo:

Over the past few years, every time I’ve gone to Hong Kong, I’ll buy a few magazines about politics to see what observations and analyses political observers have to offer about China’s future. In my opinion, these analyses and predictions have ignored a very important point, which is that years of living under authoritarian rule and being brainwashed by the educational system have made residents of Mainland China into a special people. These people have not only influenced China’s present, but also will undoubtedly influence its future as well. They have made Chinese society barbaric, violent, incredibly unsafe, and they have also made it slow and stupid, unlikely to force a change of the present system of government.

From here, he embarks on a detailed typology of the puzzling, often contradictory creature known as the Chinese.  At times, it is difficult to tell whether Murong lays responsibility for Sino-society’s disgraceful state at the feet of the people themselves–as I do in my Diaoyu piece–or the Communist Party.  But, as I understand him, it hardly matters:  the Chinese and their government are locked like Yin and Yang in a mutually destructive–yet somehow comfortable and familiar–cycle of dominating and being dominated.

The third type of personality is called the “slave” personality. Like Lu Xun described, China has only had two [alternating] eras: Temporary stable periods during which people are slaves, and periods when people want to be slaves but can’t. In ancient times, slaves were loyal to the emperor and the dynasty. Today, most of them do not believe themselves to be slaves, but think they are the masters of their country. They have been taught since they were small to be loyal to the collective group, to the country, and to the Party. The only thing they are not to be loyal, is to themselves.

…

The first kind of [social malady] is a “numb personality.” In a totalitarian society, people have already had most of their rights and privileges taken away from them, and any rights remaining are seen as a gracious gift from the rulers. Because of the simple fact of entropy, this state of affairs has become the new normal. Even in cases of extreme violence, the people are not able to protest, they have no way to protest, so they willingly accept this state of misery, this life of toil, this tragic fate. As time passes, they don’t even consider whether or not this should be their fate, whether or not it’s fair. When their food is robbed they just go hungry; when they’re slapped in the face, they just take it; when their homes are destroyed, they just watch it; when their wives are abducted and forced to abort their babies, they just cry.

In the next section, Murong’s piece and mine finally converge.  For, although his Sina Weibo post predates the Diaoyu drama by more than a month, his observations proved prescient.  Since the days of dynasty, Murong argues, the Chinese people have had no control of their lives, and so became fertile ground for hatred and resentment.  People full of hate indulge fantasies of cartoon violence that are beyond sick; they will take any excuse to lash out–but they are too brainwashed to choose their own targets.  Instead, they direct their hate as their overlords instruct.

After Diaoyu, my analysis was almost exactly the same.

Becoming numb is often an act of malice and cruelty towards others. If you could quantify empathy, it might sadden you to discover that residents of Mainland China rank very low. In the famous Wang Yue incident, a two-year-old girl died in the middle of the road, and 18 people walked by without helping. These 18 people represent a greater number, a very unkind number of people that will yell at beggars, ignore victims of distant disasters, and even lack empathy for their own relatives.

This is the late stage of numbness. In this stage, the numb personality has become an antisocial personality. People will hate everything good, and harbor suspicion of all kinds of language and action. They will carry hatred in their bones. In this stage, they are no longer numb, but easily angered, easily provoked to violence. The smallest thing will set them off, and then they will stop at nothing to indiscriminately lash out in revenge.

…

This type of person believes the government is above all else, and anyone who criticizes the government is their enemy. They believe they are patriots, and everything must be somehow “patriotic” to have any meaning at all. Studying is for the good of the country, and so is work, exercise, protecting one’s eyesight, even sex. The “national interests” that they speak of are actually mostly the interests of the government, the Party, the small minority of the people. Because of these so-called “national interests,” they’ll hate whomever the higher-ups tell them to hate. In a normal country, freedom, equality, and human rights are good words, but in the eyes of these slaves, they are all imperialist conspiracies.

This kind of slave, when subject to a long period of education in hatred, will become strange and easily angered, in its final stage becoming a “violent slave” personality. In the eyes of this type of person, most media in the world is anti-Chinese, all human rights organizations are anti-Chinese forces, all dissidents are filthy traitors and slaves to Western powers.  If a Chinese woman marries a foreign man, then it’s a national shame; on the other hand, if a Chinese man seeks out a foreign prostitute, then that’s just China getting its revenge on everyone else. I’ve heard–and not just once–“patriotic” angry youth describing their ideals: They want to go to Japan after they get rich to find a Japanese prostitute, and then have their vengeance for a hundred hears of oppression on their bodies, until they are fully sated and she is dead. They openly call for war, and often say that China and Japan, or China and the U.S., will inevitably be at war with each other. The implication behind these lines is clear: Even if you don’t come after me, I’m still going to go after you. Some people even openly discuss putting bombs on commercial planes and setting them off on Japanese soil.

It is easy to appreciate the viciousness of this kind of thinking. These “patriots” are not so essentially different from the Red Guards of 50 years ago or the Boxer Rebellion of 100 years past. They are just as ignorant, just as furious, just as bloodthirsty and just as unstable. In a normal society, these people would be seen as a danger; but in China, the authorities coddle and fan their anger. It’s basically playing with fire. Once the conditions are right, this irrational fire will consume everything in its path.

There may be various reasons for all the personalities I mentioned above, but the most importantly, the fault sits squarely with institutional cajoling and instigation. Having been long immersed in slavery training, party-line indoctrination, and coaching in hatred, people have lost their true heart, forgot their conscience, and even thrown out their most important identity: Humanity.

You see now why I said Murong goes farther than I ever have…

In his concluding section, Murong seems to confirm my thesis that many Chinese exist in an eternal child-like state.  Admittedly, “childish” is not his word:  he goes for the jugular with “brainwashed,” “numb,” “enslaved,” “slow and stupid,” etc.  But note Murong’s tone in the final, pleading portion of his essay!  He speaks directly to various professionals, urging them to swear off all the little, vindictive behaviors that have become second nature.  He illustrates erstwhile human compassion with a sort of Aesop’s fable.  Finally, he reduces his plea to its simplest formulation–whereupon it resembles a little something known to schoolchildren everywhere as the Golden Rule:  how would you feel if this was done to you?

Without a word changed, this could be a teacher scolding the playground bully.  Instead, it is a renowned author addressing his 1.4 billion countrymen.

Incredible.

If you are a journalist, then you shouldn’t contribute to the making of these poisons; if you are a teacher, then you shouldn’t engage in the distribution of these poisons; if you are a scholar, then you should insist on truth and reject fallacies; if you are an author, then you shouldn’t invent open-faced lies. These are not your highest callings; rather, they are the most basic demands.

If your job is to dismantle other people’s house, smash other people’s shop stalls, abort other people’s babies, and beat those who are unfortunate, then, well, I won’t expect you to go to them with an embrace, but I do hope that you can maintain some shreds of conscience. George Orwell, the author, fought in the Spanish War of 1936 as a sniper. One morning, he saw an enemy soldier coming out of his trench. He had no shirts on, and he was using his hands to hold up his pants. Orwell could’ve shot him easily, but he hesitated for a long time, and gave up eventually. He said: “How can someone whose hands are holding up his pants be a Fascist? How can you shoot someone when his hands are holding up his pants?”

This is “Orwell’s question,” and this is also where we differ from animals—our precious sympathy. Here, I would like to say this to those who work for the demolition teams, interception teams, and urban enforcement teams: I know that you have a responsibility, but I hope you can think about “Orwell’s question” occasionally. I know that your supervisors make demands on you, but I still hope that you can cherish the moments when your conscience becomes aware of itself again.

…

Or maybe you have a righteous heart, and you feel like you are fighting for the good side and protecting your country. But even beyond your country, there is a bigger good, and that is the righteousness in our heart. The figure kneeling in front of you is a person too, you know? He has emotions, feelings, parents spouse children and siblings just like you! If you yell at him, he will get scared; if you hit him, he will feel hurt; if you insult him, he will hate you. When you bury one enemy under your feet now, he will grow into two enemies next year. You are just doing a normal job; there’s no need to create so many personal enemies for yourself. You can do your job without embracing all this hatred.

201 days ago Short URL Comments

Uncategorized

19

Sep

Finding Neverland: Why the CCP’s “Diaoyu Island” statements suggest an underappreciated international relations prescription — Grow up

Several weeks ago, I contemplated a piece with the working title “Finding Neverland.”  I planned to argue that a disproportionate number of Chinese people exist in a prolonged child-like state, never cultivating the independence and self-reliance that are often named among the most admirable American qualities.

I planned to use the “one-child policy” as the centerpiece of my argument, producing as it has generations of men and women afflicted with “only-child syndrome.”  To wit:  men fulfill their obligation to provide a family home not with the proverbial sweat of their brows, but by running to Mommy and Daddy with palms upturned (a Chinese friend was dumbfounded that I was tightening my belt in order to repay a loan from my Dad.  “In China,” he confided, “you would never really pay a parent back.  We might call it “a loan,” but it is really a gift.”).  Worse, most Chinese women I’ve met seem to think preening is their purpose in life.  Once bedecked in fake nails, lashes, and porn-star heels, they feel they are entitled to whatever frivolous thing they glimpse in a shop window.

This twinkle in my mind’s eye would also include, I thought, anecdotes drawn from the real-life soap-opera of my former boss (age forty), who split from his estranged wife official after several loveless years.  No sooner were divorce papers signed than he announced he would begin the search for her replacement.  He would insist on a minimum one-year courtship period, he said, to avoid choosing poorly again.  Three months later, however, he swept a Chinese lady eleven years his junior off to the local office to re-tie the knot.  One would naturally assume such a hasty union arose from the romantic ardor of kindred spirits.  Yet, from the time he “met” her online to the time they married, I personally witnessed a score of tantrums from the blushing bride, including one that propelled her all the way to her home city, leaving behind a trail of melodramatic voicemails stating and re-stating, “We’re through” (I suspect her evanescence was the driving force behind the wedding).  Does anyone with even a modicum of maturity think that’s the way to avoid a cold, loveless marriage redux?

This was the skeleton of the essay I considered and then abandoned, wanting to probe new themes.  And wanting, if the truth be told, to find something good to say about a country that can, to one who values free speech and intellectual inquiry, seem short on redeeming values.

However, recent developments have forced my hand.

* * *

On September 10th, Chief Cabinet Secretary Osamu Fujimura announced Japan would buy the three uninhabited islands in the East China Sea— which Japan calls the Senkakus and China the Diaoyu group—from their private owner.

Any expression of designs on contested territory is bound to be incendiary.  Did Japan invite this risk to remind the world it’s still a force to be reckoned with?  Or perhaps this is the insecure “acting-out” of a power on the wane; maybe the Diaoyu incident is the international equivalent of shouting “You don’t scare me!” at the bully who scares you to death.  But China initially responded not with diplomacy, nor with the dismissive snort befitting an aspiring superpower, but by precipitously yielding the moral high ground with a series of statements at once hypocritical and propagandist.

The Communist Party promptly issued a statement through the state-controlled paper Xinhua:

Despite the repeated solemn representations of China, the Japanese government announced on Sept. 10 the so-called “purchase” of the Diaoyu Islands and the affiliated Nanxiao Dao and Beixiao Dao to “nationalize” them. This act is a severe infringement of Chinese territorial sovereignty, which gravely hurts the feelings of the 1.3 billion Chinese people and seriously tramples on historical facts and international laws. The Chinese government and people have expressed firm opposition and strong protest toward the act.

The Chinese government has solemnly stated that the Japanese government’s so-called “island purchase” is illegal, invalid and cannot in the least change the historical fact of the Japanese occupation of Chinese territory, and cannot in the least change China’s territorial sovereignty over the Diaoyu Islands and their affiliated islets. The era of the Chinese people’s humiliation has passed, not to return again. The Chinese government will not sit back as its territorial sovereignty is violated. The Chinese side strongly urges the Japanese side to immediately stop all acts that harm China’s territorial sovereignty, come back 100 percent to the consensus and understanding reached by both sides and use negotiation to resolve disputes. If the Japanese side clings obstinately to its own course, all serious consequences from this can only be borne by the Japanese side… China will never yield an inch of territory.

Let us set aside the fact that China regularly runs afoul of international laws and standards.  Less than two weeks before the Diaoyu story broke, for example, Human Rights Watch reported that China had forced 4,000 ethnic Kachin refugees back to the Burmese conflict zone from whence they had fled.  Seeming to reference not International Law but the Law of the Jungle, China summarily declared that the Kachin were not refugees and denied them any chance to claim protected status.  In light of its own record, it is, I feel, a little brass-necked to charge the Noda government with “trampling… international laws.”

Let us set aside the unnecessary allusions to bygone Sino-Japanese clashes, scattered like Claymores throughout the statement.  In this context, I question the relevance of Japan’s 1931 invasion of Northern China—considering that the “aggressor” has long since adopted a constitutional amendment that forbids it from declaring war—that is, unless such historical artifacts are merely invoked to rile up a people whose psyche never quite recovered from the old invasion.  Could there be a connection between the Xinhua statement and slogans that appeared again and again on the signs of protestors, reading “Remember our national humiliation”?

Let us set aside the baffling conclusion that, because China disagrees with Japan on the ownership of the Diaoyu Islands, it therefore has carte blanche to act as it sees fit.  Could China declare nuclear war, waving away the objections of the international community on the grounds that Japan had been “obstinate in its course” and must bear “all serious consequences” that follow?  How wonderful!  As the only nation ever to drop the A-bomb on civilians, perhaps the U.S. will consider issuing a retroactive statement clearing Truman of wrongdoing (the Japanese of the 1940s certainly were “obstinate”!).

Let us instead focus on language of China’s political officials.

This act… gravely hurts the feelings of the 1.3 billion Chinese people…  The era of the Chinese people’s humiliation has passed, not to return again… China will never yield an inch of territory.

These are the words of a scrawny child who got bullied growing up.  Now, in the grip of a long-overdue growth spurt, he’s itching for revenge.  Save for the slightly formal (and, in translation, awkward) language, one could almost imagine this issuing from the mouth of a wispy-chinned, pock-marked teen.  Surely the relationship of Asia’s dominant economic powers cannot be reduced to the playground politics of the bully and the bullied?

Or can it?

I find it interesting that the Xinhua statements betray a bully’s insecurity, never taking ownership of any opinion.  Apparently, in everything it does, the Party has the full-throated support of that monolith known as “the people.”  Ren min are invoked every second sentence, as if all 1.3 billion were in the room when the document was drafted.  Who expressed “firm opposition”?  The Chinese government?  No!  “The Chinese government and people…”

On the other hand, large swathes of the Chinese population do seem to support the statement, offering up very believable performances of ire.  Ten thousand people turned out in the provincial capital of Xi’an, storming the locations of Japanese brands such as Sony, Ajisen Ramen, and even setting Japanese-made cars alight.

In Changhsha, the Heiwado Department Store façade was smashed as a precursor to indiscriminate looting by opportunistic “patriots.”  In Shenzhen, police resorted to tear gas to disperse the increasingly out-of-control crowd.  Elsewhere, Panasonic factories sustained costly damage to facilities and equipment.

A photo of anti-Japanese protests, taken in the northern province of Inner Mongolia, features a banner reading “哪怕华夏 遍地坟, 也要杀光日本人” : “Even if all China becomes a grave, we must kill every Japanese.”

Although Xi’an’s protests top the list, demonstrators numbered in the thousands in several of the 57 participating cities.  All told, September 15 stands as the single largest anti-Japanese demonstrations since the countries established diplomatic relations in 1972.

Widespread destruction of private property?  Factories torched?  Autos upended?  And, if some people get their way, a Passover-esque massacre of China’s neighbor and closest trading partner?  And all this over handful of unpopulated pebbles in the East China Sea?  Really?

I understand there are issues of principle at stake here:  no country can take lightly threats to its territorial sovereignty.  Perhaps, by laying claim to these islands, Japan positions itself to nationalize the surrounding waters, and the resources that lie beneath.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.  But this is far from a clear-cut issue.  If both sides voice legitimate claims to the islands, then there is diplomatic Jujitsu in the offing.  If Japan, instead, stages a “purchase” of the islands—but China does not recognize the deal—we are in exactly the same place as before.

But, more to the point, where was the reflective pause wherein rationality reasserts itself?  The deep breathes while counting to ten?  The moment when a protestor asks himself, “What do I accomplish by junking my neighbor’s Camry, besides sewing hatred and hysteria?”

Such rational thought seemed to be missing from the dialogue.  In fact, the dialogue itself was missing.  In its place, there was only a sudden convulsion of anger.  Is this how the Chinese people respond to complex events of national significance?  Well, then, it’s disgraceful.  It’s appalling.  It is, to return to the theme of this piece, almost unimaginably childish that a diplomatic tug-of-the-pony-tail should be cause for widespread rioting, looting, and assault.

Yet, in the context of China, another crucial question remains:  did “the people” feel this way before the government told them they did?  Anyone familiar with the state-run media can tell you the CCP is not above “influencing” public opinion—or, where that fails, inventing an public with more politically expedient opinions.  Personally, I find it hard to believe that far-flung pockets of disgruntled Chinese could be whipped into such a frenzy without some centralized help.

Certainly, the coverage so far seems to suggest the government wants to author a certain narrative.  A few days into the riots, the front page of the People’s Daily reported demonstrators had “kept calm” and displayed “restraint”—apparently failing to notice the upturned cars, blackened factories, and smashed storefronts across the country.  By commending Chinese “patriots” after multiple outbreaks of violence, this government mouthpiece implicitly gave its imprimatur for their actions.

The police have also responded in a manner consistent with my interpretation—that is, lethargically.  By and large, China’s state security force has stood aside and let the riots to run their course.  Rather than being dispersed, hellions all over the country found themselves allotted a time—say, fifteen or twenty minutes—in which to get their fill.  In some cities, policemen took on the role of traffic wardens, directing protestors to the heart of the action.  In only a few instances—and after violence threatened to overwhelm security forces–did police resort to crowd-control tactics.  This level of restraint is highly unusual in a country where officials take a dim view of any collective action.  It is interesting that, in this case, the authorities decided to set the acceptable amount of chaos and destruction at “some.”

No doubt government spin-doctors could explain away the Party’s one-off sanctioning of mob violence.  Perhaps herding protestors to pre-determined areas for twenty minutes apiece was not “aiding and abetting,” but the best way to control the people’s righteous anger and limit property damage.  Unfortunately, there is evidence fatal to this wide-eyed narrative of the government’s actions; evidence that the protests escalated with a little help from the top.

A few days ago, the Beijing Evening News, another government organ, posted a link on Weibo (the Chinese equivalent of Twitter).  Within minutes, thousands of Chinese were scanning a side-by-side comparison of Chinese and Japanese military capabilities.  The polemic concluded that China should use the atomic bomb in the forthcoming conflict.  To anyone possessed of their faculties, the notion of nuclear war as an appropriate response is nothing short of madness.  And, indeed, some commenters admonished the article’s author and the Beijing Evening News for war-mongering.  Unfortunately, the incendiary screed also generated over a thousand comments in support of the nuclear plan of action.

So, let us return to the question at hand:  is baying for blood the organic reaction of the Chinese people, or is it merely a response orchestrated by the Communist Party?  Let us give people the benefit of the doubt and assume the latter.  I believe it is highly plausible that the CCP is using the Diaoyu incident to fan the flames of Sino-Japanese distrust and resentment for its own purposes.  Perhaps the Party wants to retaliate with a more ambitious land-grab.  Perhaps it simply recognizes public antipathy toward Japan will be useful when and if it ever decides to deploy troops there.  Or perhaps it is just trying to drum up nationalism as Xi Jinping assumes the presidency.  Whatever the case, this is no knock on the Chinese people.  No citizen deserves direct blame for the actions of his or her government, least of all when his or her country is headed up by an unelected cartel.

However, one of the defining characteristics of adulthood is recourse to rational thought.  Adults are also assumed to have agency, so actions can be attributed to them directly.  Over the past week, thousands and thousands of Chinese failed to exercise either rational thought or agency, taking their cues uncritically from a government pushing its own opaque agenda.

Neverland exists, and it’s the most populous country on earth.

243 days ago Short URL 1 Comment

China/Japan/Political ideology

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