BEIJING – The other day, in the heart of China’s bustling southern manufacturing belt, a small girl called Yueyue, only 2 years old, was struck by two vehicles after she had wandered away from home. Hit-and-run incidents, however tragic, happen almost everywhere there are automobiles. But what was unusually appalling about this one is that as many as 18 pedestrians and bicyclists passed by Yueyue without stopping to lend a hand, or to contact the authorities. A woman in her late 50s was the first to intervene, but by then the child’s chances of survival were slim. Within days, the child had died.
The story went viral. Sina Weibo, China’s answer to Twitter, was abuzz with discussion, most of it anguished, about what the death of Yueyue said about the country. One common view is that in China’s headlong rush to develop its economy, there has been a hardening of the national spirit. Generosity toward others has little place in a society in which the state sees any efforts at collective self-help as a challenge to its authority. So the Chinese have turned inward. For the passers-by who saw Yueyue lying on the street, the relevant fact was that she was not their child. Her terrible ordeal was someone else’s problem.
The death of Yueyue has particular resonance now because China is in the middle of what some call its primary season. The questions it raises about the Chinese soul have inevitably raised questions about whether or not the Chinese Communist Party is leading the country in the right direction.
The so-called Fourth Generation leadership of the Party, under President Hu Jintao, is preparing to make way for the Fifth Generation. While it is widely understood that China’s next leader will be Xi Jinping, the rest of the membership of the next Politburo Standing Committee — China’s supreme ruling authority — hasn’t been settled. That means that rival factions are jockeying for position.
Ever since the death of Mao Zedong, leader of the CCP’s First Generation, political transitions have been very fraught. Older Chinese remember the chaos of the Cultural Revolution, and they are desperate to avoid a violent struggle for power. Indeed, that is the chief reason the CCP has had such remarkable staying power. To many if not most Chinese, it is seen as bulwark of stability. But the potential for instability lies beneath its surface.
Though the CCP presents a united front, it is divided in all kinds of ways. Cheng Li of the Brookings Institution has argued that its biggest internal divide is between elitists and populists. The elitists care primarily about maintaining high levels of economic growth, even if it means letting rich coastal regions pull further ahead of the impoverished interior. The populists, in contrast, emphasize the need for rural economic development, even if it means shifting resources away from the booming cities.
While this might sound like a right-left split, there’s a bit more to it than that. The party’s elitists want to keep a tight rein on power, while its populists are more inclined to loosen the party’s grip. During the 1980s, China’s rural areas flourished as so-called township and village enterprises — for the most part indigenous private firms — took off. Yet during the 1990s, Beijing curbed the township and village enterprises in favor of state-owned enterprises in the big cities and manufacturing establishments bankrolled by foreigners. The stark and growing divide between coastal China and the hinterlands wasn’t the product of a market economy at work. It reflected a deliberate government decision to curb entrepreneurial growth that might represent a threat to the CCP’s unchallenged dominance.
We’re already seeing the elitist and populist visions at work in China’s provinces. To a surprising extent, China gives party leaders in the provinces a great deal of room to experiment. Chongqing, a sprawling city of 28 million led by the charismatic elitist Bo Xilai, has become the poster child for manufacturing-led urban growth. The local authorities have poured vast sums into fueling the city’s automotive industry and building new public housing to accommodate migrants from declining rural areas. Chengdu, the picturesque capital of Sichuan Province, has taken a more populist approach, centered on equalizing the treatment of urban and rural citizens. Farmers who had once struggled to make a living have been given the opportunity to launch small business enterprises, which has led to a new rural prosperity. This in turn has stemmed the tide of migrants to the urban heart of Sichuan and to points beyond.
One way or another, China is about to undergo a deep and profound shift. Real multiparty elections are definitely not on the table. Yet China’s leaders know that the economic and political status quo is no longer acceptable. The death of Yueyue seems to have angered and inspired hundreds of millions of Chinese, who are demanding more from their leaders. Indeed, we might one day remember this sorrowful event as the birth of a more open and democratic China.
The story went viral. Sina Weibo, China’s answer to Twitter, was abuzz with discussion, most of it anguished, about what the death of Yueyue said about the country. One common view is that in China’s headlong rush to develop its economy, there has been a hardening of the national spirit. Generosity toward others has little place in a society in which the state sees any efforts at collective self-help as a challenge to its authority. So the Chinese have turned inward. For the passers-by who saw Yueyue lying on the street, the relevant fact was that she was not their child. Her terrible ordeal was someone else’s problem.
The death of Yueyue has particular resonance now because China is in the middle of what some call its primary season. The questions it raises about the Chinese soul have inevitably raised questions about whether or not the Chinese Communist Party is leading the country in the right direction.
The so-called Fourth Generation leadership of the Party, under President Hu Jintao, is preparing to make way for the Fifth Generation. While it is widely understood that China’s next leader will be Xi Jinping, the rest of the membership of the next Politburo Standing Committee — China’s supreme ruling authority — hasn’t been settled. That means that rival factions are jockeying for position.
Ever since the death of Mao Zedong, leader of the CCP’s First Generation, political transitions have been very fraught. Older Chinese remember the chaos of the Cultural Revolution, and they are desperate to avoid a violent struggle for power. Indeed, that is the chief reason the CCP has had such remarkable staying power. To many if not most Chinese, it is seen as bulwark of stability. But the potential for instability lies beneath its surface.
Though the CCP presents a united front, it is divided in all kinds of ways. Cheng Li of the Brookings Institution has argued that its biggest internal divide is between elitists and populists. The elitists care primarily about maintaining high levels of economic growth, even if it means letting rich coastal regions pull further ahead of the impoverished interior. The populists, in contrast, emphasize the need for rural economic development, even if it means shifting resources away from the booming cities.
While this might sound like a right-left split, there’s a bit more to it than that. The party’s elitists want to keep a tight rein on power, while its populists are more inclined to loosen the party’s grip. During the 1980s, China’s rural areas flourished as so-called township and village enterprises — for the most part indigenous private firms — took off. Yet during the 1990s, Beijing curbed the township and village enterprises in favor of state-owned enterprises in the big cities and manufacturing establishments bankrolled by foreigners. The stark and growing divide between coastal China and the hinterlands wasn’t the product of a market economy at work. It reflected a deliberate government decision to curb entrepreneurial growth that might represent a threat to the CCP’s unchallenged dominance.
We’re already seeing the elitist and populist visions at work in China’s provinces. To a surprising extent, China gives party leaders in the provinces a great deal of room to experiment. Chongqing, a sprawling city of 28 million led by the charismatic elitist Bo Xilai, has become the poster child for manufacturing-led urban growth. The local authorities have poured vast sums into fueling the city’s automotive industry and building new public housing to accommodate migrants from declining rural areas. Chengdu, the picturesque capital of Sichuan Province, has taken a more populist approach, centered on equalizing the treatment of urban and rural citizens. Farmers who had once struggled to make a living have been given the opportunity to launch small business enterprises, which has led to a new rural prosperity. This in turn has stemmed the tide of migrants to the urban heart of Sichuan and to points beyond.
One way or another, China is about to undergo a deep and profound shift. Real multiparty elections are definitely not on the table. Yet China’s leaders know that the economic and political status quo is no longer acceptable. The death of Yueyue seems to have angered and inspired hundreds of millions of Chinese, who are demanding more from their leaders. Indeed, we might one day remember this sorrowful event as the birth of a more open and democratic China.
