There is something troubling going on in China these days, but it has nothing to do with the financial crisis or the plethora of food products that can sizzle your kidneys or give you the shakes. It is, rather, the return to the scene of one of the worst mass murderers in history.
During his rule as Chinese Community Party (CCP) leader and until his death in 1976, Mao Zedong (毛澤東) was revered as a great tactician and the father of the People’s Republic of China (PRC). Starting in the late 1970s, however, the CCP began pulling down the ubiquitous statues of Mao across the country, arguing that it encouraged, in biographer Philip Short’s words, “feudal superstition.” There was also a general agreement that his policies — epitomized by the Cultural Revolution — had been a catastrophe for the country.
His successors, especially Deng Xiaoping (鄧小平), dropped Maoist politics, embraced capitalism and opened China to the world, in the process distancing themselves as much as possible from the tyrant.
It is therefore odd that 30 years later, with China better integrated into the global capitalist system and portraying its “rise” as a friendly one, Mao’s image could be rehabilitated. On Sunday, state media reported that Chongqing Medical University had erected a 20m, 46-tonne stainless steel statue in honor of the man who established the PRC. Visible from 5km away, the statue was erected “to encourage and give confidence to our teachers and to instill national character and patriotism in our students,” a university spokesman said.
The man who masterminded the deaths of 30 million Chinese, for whom the end, or belief, justified the means, was also banalized by the CCP during the Olympic Games in Beijing, with large portraits of him looking on while the world feted the Olympic spirit, his past deeds whitewashed in the name of better relations with China.
Even more worrying is the fact that university students, those whose “character” and “patriotism” are to be awakened by the reemergence of Mao as part of the Chinese pantheon, are too young to be aware of what it meant to live under the tyranny that he imposed. Evil, in Hannah Arendt’s turn of phrase, is being made a banality, a means to an end, an acceptable cost in the pursuit of stronger nationalistic fervor.
For the rest of the world, this development cannot be comforting, especially for those who have long argued that China’s “rise” is a benevolent one and that the CCP — now a supposedly far more pragmatic party — is more concerned with national development and the economy than exporting ideology. A return to the past, brought about by renewed reverence for a mass murderer, is not an encouraging sign, especially for Taiwan.
Fueling nationalism is a dangerous strategy. While it can buy a leadership some time by distracting or energizing the masses, it can come back and bite with full force. Performing an endless balancing act to maintain its legitimacy, the CCP could come to regret instilling a Maoist fervor that elevates public expectations. It could force it to depart from its pragmatism of recent years to remain in power.
Odd as it seems, the world could soon be nostalgic for the days of Deng and his milder kind.
Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) caucus whip Fu Kun-chi (傅?萁) has caused havoc with his attempts to overturn the democratic and constitutional order in the legislature. If we look at this devolution from the context of a transition to democracy from authoritarianism in a culturally Chinese sense — that of zhonghua (中華) — then we are playing witness to a servile spirit from a millennia-old form of totalitarianism that is intent on damaging the nation’s hard-won democracy. This servile spirit is ingrained in Chinese culture. About a century ago, Chinese satirist and author Lu Xun (魯迅) saw through the servile nature of
In their New York Times bestseller How Democracies Die, Harvard political scientists Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt said that democracies today “may die at the hands not of generals but of elected leaders. Many government efforts to subvert democracy are ‘legal,’ in the sense that they are approved by the legislature or accepted by the courts. They may even be portrayed as efforts to improve democracy — making the judiciary more efficient, combating corruption, or cleaning up the electoral process.” Moreover, the two authors observe that those who denounce such legal threats to democracy are often “dismissed as exaggerating or
Monday was the 37th anniversary of former president Chiang Ching-kuo’s (蔣經國) death. Chiang — a son of former president Chiang Kai-shek (蔣介石), who had implemented party-state rule and martial law in Taiwan — has a complicated legacy. Whether one looks at his time in power in a positive or negative light depends very much on who they are, and what their relationship with the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) is. Although toward the end of his life Chiang Ching-kuo lifted martial law and steered Taiwan onto the path of democratization, these changes were forced upon him by internal and external pressures,
The Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) caucus in the Legislative Yuan has made an internal decision to freeze NT$1.8 billion (US$54.7 million) of the indigenous submarine project’s NT$2 billion budget. This means that up to 90 percent of the budget cannot be utilized. It would only be accessible if the legislature agrees to lift the freeze sometime in the future. However, for Taiwan to construct its own submarines, it must rely on foreign support for several key pieces of equipment and technology. These foreign supporters would also be forced to endure significant pressure, infiltration and influence from Beijing. In other words,
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