Despite the fact that I am generally quite busy, I find a bit of time every day to go online.

An article from General Liu Yazhou (刘亚洲) of the National Defense University has appeared online and drawn a great deal of attention. The first section of this article is about how China should place high priority on its strategy for development of China’s western regions. The second section discusses the relationship between our social and political systems and our rise as a nation.
“The secret to America’s success does not lie with Wall Street,” Liu Yazhou writes, “nor does it lie with Silicon Valley. The real secret lies in its unfailing system of rule of law and the mechanisms that lie behind this rule of law.”
Readers of Liu’s article have been picking and choosing, some talking about westward progress, others about systems and institutions. Few people seem to have noticed, however, that there is a clear disjointedness between these two parts, and that there are also points of contradiction.
One journalist who called to interview me already had picked up on this fact. Why, she asked me, did there seem to be such a huge leap between the first and second sections of Liu’s essay. It was as though at one moment we were on westward development, and the next on to a totally different conclusion.
In fact, the root of this issue lies in General Liu Yazhou’s shifting identity and perspective as he explores different problems. When he launches into a major discussion of western development, he is an unparalleled military strategist, showing great acumen and breadth of vision (he pointed out the importance of westward development more than a decade ago, in fact). But after this he changes identities, and becomes an even more masterful political thinker.
As a military strategist, General Liu considers the significance of westward progress in opposing China’s containment by the world, and there’s not a soul who could argue this point with greater perspicacity. But when, out of concern for his country and his people, he is driven onto a completely different stage — becoming a thinker on China and the world, on China’s rise — he starts advocating “progress inward” (内进), which is about resolving the problems that exist within our system, and about considering our values and “what, other than money, is important.”
This post isn’t about assessing the General’s article, or discussing the strategy of westward progress with him. He understands these issues far better than I do. Nor is it my intention to discuss the second portion on institutions and China’s rise, because these are irrefutable things about which we are already in complete agreement.
Still, there are a number of sentences in the piece that kindled my intellect, and I want to take this opportunity to talk about why we should need westward progress.
So why? Why must China “drive westward”?
Let’s look first at one of Liu Yazhou’s sections where he talks about China’s need for a drive westward:

“Today, Xinjiang stands as more than a buffer zone. It has a key natural resources role, with great strategic importance for China’s energy security. And particularly, Xinjiang is an important strategic springboard: Xinjiang’s western overland routes connect it to the Middle East, and south through Pakistan one can reach the Indian Ocean and the Strait of Hormuz.” “Aside from its importance in geopolitics, Xinjiang also supports China’s sustainable development in the 21st century as a place of alternative resources.” “China’s west is a vast region. To the west lies not only our strategic orientation, but also our hope, or even the destiny of our generation. Its excellent geographic position (right at the center of the world) gives us great motive power. We should see our western regions as the interior of our progress and advancement, not as the margins.”

The first feeling these words gave me was of a mass of Chinese living at the center and planning to drive boldly ahead into a region critically important to their survival and development, for the sake of the nation’s strength and rise, and opposing containment by the world . . .
My second feeling was that China’s west does not belong to China, or it’s a region of minimal importance that is very far from China. Over there (in the west, or Xinjiang) there is no one at all to speak of — or at least none of us “Chinese” (people of the “middle kingdom”). But now, for the sake of the stability of our nation’s center, we should take a fresh look at this region. Maybe it really is a good springboard . . .
My third feeling is one that stuck. And I would ask everyone to please recall with me how, in the early 1990s, an old retired man, just like a God, marked out a line near the South China Sea, and thereupon was Shenzhen. Before long, leaders emerging from Shanghai and marked out a map there too, and thence, in the east of China, emerged the world’s most rapidly developing city.
So now, it has come to the west?
Just to be clear, please note that for General Liu to employ such words in a discussion of military strategy and a westward push is beyond reproach. I’m simply seizing on this as an opportunity, because I want to talk a bit about our country’s mode of development, about my own perspective on our country and its people, and about the strange circle from which we seem unable, as a collective nation capable of “gathering forces to achieve great things”, to find any escape.
I had the good fortune of working in Hainan Province for several years. Like Xinjiang, Hainan should be regarded as the periphery. During that time I felt a deep sense that we were waiting for “China” (for the Central Party) to announce a new policy for the development of Hainan. Also waiting, of course, were the local leaders — who were being changed out like children on a merry-go-round — and roughly six million Hainan residents who had no way of getting off. It seems almost comical, looking back now.
As to what kind of place Hainan is, and how it should be developed, the local people — and remember, they too are “Chinese” — should make their own determination based on their actual circumstances. Instead, leaders came and went, nothing special happened to the Hainan Special Zone, and the policy favors went instead to Shenzhen and Shanghai.
Ah, poor Hainan. For two decades it waited. And during these 20 years, the dust gathered over the “Hawaii of the East,” over “China’s Bali” and other such branding efforts. Could it be a Hawaii? It could never become Hawaii, because Hawaii is the American interior, don’t you know? This Hainan Island of yours is just a chicken dropping under the ass of the great miser. [NOTE: The word “miser” in Chinese is literally “iron rooster,” and Yang is using this as a reference also to China’s land mass, which is said to resemble a rooster. The suggestion is that the central government has been miserly in withholding beneficial development policies from Hainan.]
And then there’s Xinjiang. But what we see isn’t Xinjiang, nor is it the Chinese people who live there. What we see are the resources. What we see is the positioning toward the Middle East. What we see is the world decades from now and China’s position in it. What we see is where America, Russia and Turkey are likely to compete for dominance. What we see is the threat instability there poses to stability at the “center” . . . So thereupon, we must push into and develop and advance Xinjiang — we must see it as an “interior,” as our own homeland . . .
Can you glimpse yet the silly and regrettable aspects of this logic?
Since ancient times, have the people who have lived in Xinjiang, or the people who have lived in Hainan, ever been Chinese, or people living in the “middle country”? Why is it that only when the nation has a need do we decide to go and develop these areas? Or that we finally introduce policies allowing them to develop themselves? Why is it that hitherto we have only recognized the existence of these places under the slogan of “preserving the territorial integrity of our nation”?
The theory behind this logic is the idea of “the state as the base” (以国为本). The state has become the center leading 1.4 billion people. Or the state, you can say, has been abstracted, so that all “regions” and all people become vassals of the state, and exist for its purpose. Development serves the state, as do sacrifice and backwardness . . . As to which areas should be developed, and what kind of lives the people should live, these are questions of whether or not it ultimately serves the interests of the state, whether it serves the great plan of “the whole country” (全国一盘棋).
This is a unique characteristic of ours as Chinese. Go to the U.S. State of Hawaii and ask people, and they will definitely tell you that they are the American interior. Go to the State of Alaska and ask around, and you’ll find that local oil resources have, first and foremost, brought riches to the local people.
President Hu Jintao’s slogan of “people as the base” (以人为本) is meant to correct the concept of “the state as the base,” but of course the road is still long.
Even Liu Yazhou, excellent thinker though he is, has not leapt beyond this strange circle of thinking. When he discusses national strategy, westward development and ethnic policies, he persists in seeing Xinjiang as a “springboard,” as an interior into which we must advance.
What Liu overlooks is that, for those who live there, Xinjiang is already their “interior,” and the leap that needs to be made from this springboard is the economic development of their western region, the improvement of the lives of those living in the west. It’s not about some “national rise” . . .
Naturally, when General Liu Yazhou later examines his own westward strategy in terms of political thought and institutional rethinking, he comes to a conclusion that may feel to us to be a bit out of joint.
So the center of China is . . . ?
What do we mean when we say “people are the base”? If you look at our mode of economic development you’ll discover that “people as the base” is a long way from becoming a working part of our governing mentality. It is even farther from becoming part of our values as a population. We’ve always taken the state as our base.
And when the state has become the center, you’ll discover that the state stands in for all individuals. Moreover, all provinces become “peripheral regions” (边疆).
People as the base means the people of Hainan as the base, the people of Wuhan as the base, the people of Xinjiang as the base, the people of Hong Kong as the base. It’s not about those who deign to represent the people and the nation gazing down from the heights and saying, “You are the base.” Rather, everyone is their own base. Only when we have achieved this “people as the base” will we be able to realize the greatness of China and the beauty of China. Only then will we be able to answer the question: where is China’s center?
Is it Beijing, or Shanghai? Is it Wuhan, or Nanjing?
Having had the opportunity to live in both America and Europe for more the a decade all told, I am struck by the degree of autonomy and self-governance shown by their states (which are like our Chinese provinces). As migrants, we flock to our country’s largest cities, because we feel that they are somehow China’s “center”? As time went on, though, I really felt how much, in these other countries, there was a high degree of regional autonomy, and how every person was so conscious of “people as the base” (and the individual as the base), not as an abstract concept but as a concrete way of life.
As a result, as most Europeans and Americans will tell you, the place where they live is the “center.” Or, you might say, they completely don’t buy the notion of a “center.” You won’t find anyone who will say that Washington, D.C., or Canberra is the center of the United States or Australia. Nor will you find anyone in the northwestern American city of Seattle waiting anxiously for the government to come and develop this “peripheral region.”
Well then, where is China’s center?
What we can all anticipate is this sort of answer . . . China’s center is where you are standing right now. It’s in Qiqiha’er, where you are now, and in Hothot, and Haikou and Hong Kong and Urumqi and Nanning and Qinghai and Taipei . . .
When Xinjiang, Haikou, Hong Kong, Wuhan and such places become China’s “center” . . . [NOTE: Yang purposely leaves this thought unfinished.]
China is a big place, and you’ll often hear people say it’s very difficult to manage as a result. But having developed to this point, shouldn’t China change out its way of thinking and allow local governments and populations to manage their own affairs?
Hong Kong and the Chinese mainland are very different in this respect. I was fortunate also to have had the opportunity to work in Hong Kong for several years. When I was there I had contact with many mainland officials and cadres (some of whom even had the power to affect policy decisions concerning Hong Kong). When I look back now, I shiver all over at the thought of how few actually understood Hong Kong and the Hong Kong people. What gave them the right to determine Hong Kong policy?
After the problems in Xinjiang last year, the statement that most saddened me was: “They are seeking to . . . ” Well, who are “they”? In the hearts of many of us, “they” are those Chinese who are different from us, or perhaps even are no longer “Chinese.” They want to splinter China, and to destroy our harmonious environment. “They” think nothing of overall priorities, and even deign to think that they are the masters of that region.
I have appreciation, of course, for the CCP policy toward Hong Kong, which shows some respect for the views of Hong Kongers and allows for self-governance. But I am even more appreciative for pending changes in our policies toward Xinjiang. These policies aren’t actually difficult to rework. It requires only getting out of the office, stepping out of one’s element, and really moving among the Chinese people of Xinjiang — living, working and thinking among them. Then you will know how they think, what they want, and what they despise.
When you understand this, you realize that like us they are all Chinese. However, they too believe that Xinjiang is the center of China, so naturally they are the bosses there! But you have no need to fear. Because when they proudly believe that the places where they live — Xinjiang (or Haikou, Hong Kong, Wuhan, Shanghai) — are the “center” of China, you’ll have no need to go and open things up, to develop the periphery.
And then too, harmony will truly come.
This essay appeared originally in Chinese at Yang Hengjun’s Blog.

So I have to confess. Why concern myself with the fact that it’s impossible to be three different things at once? After all, I do have a wife and a child! So I hereby solemnly confess: I am vulgar; and my son, who I brought into this world, he is cheap; and for my wife to have married me, well that was just tasteless!

In the most recent edition of Guangzhou’s Southern Weekend, CMP fellow Wang Keqin (王克勤) is interviewed about his thoughts and experiences as an investigative reporter in China. Wang speaks principally about the need for more professional and ethical conduct by journalists.
The interview is part of the newspaper’s “Chinese Dream” series.
Southern Weekend‘s interview with economist Wu Jinglian (吴敬琏) on China’s future economic development is also well worth a read:

Southern Weekend: You are perhaps the oldest of China’s investigative reporters. Moreover, you are the most enthusiastic and vigorous of investigative reporters. Judging from your writings, I would say that you see journalism not just as a profession but as a religion.
Wang Keqin: Some have asked me whether if I saw someone fall into the water, my first reaction would be to save them or to photograph the scene. My answer is that the choice is simple. You save the person first. They say, well aren’t you a journalist? And I say, look, I’m sorry, when my mother gave birth to me, I was a human being first and foremost, then a citizen of this society of ours. It was only later that I became a journalist.
Southern Weekend: So you’re not reporting for the sake of reporting?
Wang Keqin: That’s right. If you want to talk about reporting for the sake of reporting, I could list of so many examples [of other’s work]. There was one report in 2004 by a media outfit in Jilin Province about a migrant worker who had leapt out of a window and died. The report’s headline was, “High altitude flight staged last night” (昨夜上演高空飞人). In September of that same year, a newspaper in Jiangsu Province reported how an agricultural transport vehicle struck a bicyclist in the head, killing them. The headline of that report was: “Bicyclist hit right in the head, dies vicious death” (骑车人中头彩：惨死). From these headlines you can glimpse their cold and cynical view of life.
But examples of this kind appear not just in local media. On September 6, 2004, there was a television station that, reporting on a human tragedy in Russia, invited viewers to participate in a contest, guessing the number of children who had been brutally murdered and sending in their answers by instant message [CMP Note: this “television station” was China Central Television, reporting on the Beslan school hostage crisis.]
Now I would ask, if it was your child who was senselessly murdered, would you want the audience playing lottery over it? So, I often discuss this with people. What does it mean to do journalism?
The most elementary goal is to transmit information and report the facts. But journalism has another ultimate goal and end. What is that? It is about protecting the rights of individuals.
On this note, we can look carefully at a case that happened in 2007. After suggestions surfaced of an outbreak of swine flu in eastern Sichuan that year, a Hong Kong television station went to the area to report, as was their duty I guess you can say. But what they did afterward was shockingly unbelievable. They hired a local peasant to dig three meters down and unearth the carcass of an infected pig so that they could film it.
This coverage drew huge audiences in Hong Kong, and the reporters benefitted greatly as a result. But there are at least three basic problems here. First, it deviates from the ultimate value of journalism in that this behavior might conceivably endanger the very life of another person. All of our work in society should be conducted with the idea of making people’s individual lives safer, healthier, freer and more prosperous. This is an ultimate human value, and it is the basic starting point of journalism.
Second, their conduct was fraught with discrimination. This is a problem from which many journalist suffer. We have these prejudices tucked away. The prejudice of the journalist toward the ordinary individual. The prejudice of the city resident toward the rural peasant. I once saw a news report from a major media outfit in China about a migrant worker’s death by high-voltage electricity. Do you know how they described it? It was like roasted duck. That’s how they described it with deep-laden prejudice to their readers. And many readers no doubt were influenced subconsciously by this prejudice.
Third, this conduct by the Hong Kong journalist was illegal. According to our laws on the prevention of communicable diseases, human conduct resulting in second-hand transmission of disease is a criminal offense.
So on the one hand, Chinese journalists face the dilemma of receiving no protection under the law; and on the other hand, Chinese journalists, like the rest of us, operate in an environment that is essentially lawless. This is a monstrous situation.
Southern Weekend: The proper respect for life isn’t just an issue for journalism.
Wang Keqin: Yes. I’ve always said that I’m a human being first, a citizen second and a journalist last. I’ve often had people say that I do too many things that don’t fall in a journalist’s purview. They say that I step over the bounds. I say, look, I’m sorry, in my reports I follow the rules of professional reporting and conduct very strictly. But after I’m done reporting, as a citizen, I can seek to do more for the rights and interests of the weak with whom I am faced. In such cases I must act as a citizen.
As an individual, when I see others in pain I feel pain with them, and the solution to this pain is action. What is humanity? It is about feeling pain in your heart of hearts when you see others who are suffering pain. If what you feel at seeing others suffer is excitement, this indicates that your humanity has already been distorted.

Journalists have recently been the target of attack and ridicule, not just from the authorities, who, true to form, have sought reporters across provinces, but also from celebrities, who have dropped all good form to heap bile on the press.
After real-estate mogul Yu Jinyong (禹晋永) was accused of cheating and fakery, he called a press conference to issue his flat denials. He said: “If I want to close the door and beat the dogs, I have to first let them into the house. So there are a lot of media with us today.” After the pupil and relative of crosstalk performer Guo Degang (郭德纲) struck a reporter from Beijing TV, he continued to pile on the verbal abuse, saying that “Beijing TV is a filthy outfit” and that “journalists are no better than whores.”
Film director Feng Xiaogang, for whom scolding reporters has become something of a sport, responded that journalists “have no humanity” when he was asked an uncomfortable question about product placement while promoting his new film Aftershock.
I understand that I live in a coarse and vulgar society, but for these holders of public, economic and cultural power to conduct themselves in such a way, showing such poor judgment and character — this fills me with astonishment.
The Czech writer Vaclav Havel once advocated “eight principles of dialogue.” Two of these principles were: do not issue personal attacks, and do not persist in defending one’s errors. In China, these two principles have been turned on their heads, and [these upside-down principles of dialogue] have become part of the playbook of success for officials and other personalities.
Yu Jinyong has even shamelessly declared that, “Integrity doesn’t need to be expressed in words, and even less so in our actions,” but is evinced rather in “persistence in one’s heart.”
In each of these recent examples, personalities have blown their lids over journalists, voicing their utter disdain for the press.
A rather pure hearted colleague of mine, who has a great deal of respect for our profession, asked me how I viewed our work in light of these recent blow-ups. It was my view that even as we angrily defend ourselves against these attacks, we must seize this opportunity to ask ourselves tough questions.
Why can’t we garner even the most basic level of respect? Aside from the aggressiveness of those in positions of influence, are there reasons for how we are treated that lie with our own conduct? Aside from those honest, brave and professional top journalists who command respect, what is the situation for our media at large?
In modern societies, the press has a pivotal role, and has been called the “fourth estate” after the legislative, judicial and executive branches of government. The press serves three principal roles. First, to provide information for the convenience of citizens in their daily lives, seeking out the facts and helping them distinguish between truth and falsehood. Second, to monitor power, preventing its abuse by fulfilling the public’s right to know. Third, to serve as a platform for free opinion, so that differing views can be expressed.
The second of these tasks can easily turn journalists into heroes opposing power. And journalists who actually serve this role might be accorded great respect.
Many journalists in China today invoke the words of Joseph Pulitzer, who once said: “A journalist is the lookout on the bridge of the ship of state.” They believe it is a journalist’s duty to survey the seas, watching out for rough waters ahead and issuing timely warnings. And they know the words of Thomas Jefferson, who said: “Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter.”
There are many journalists in China who goad themselves on with sentiments like these. And when they’ve chanted them often enough, they begin to actually believe their work embodies the noble mission set down in the words of Pulitzer and Jefferson. But in fact, even Western media, working in much freer environments, cannot fully live up to these expectations — and in the age of new media things have even perhaps slid backwards.
Admittedly, Chinese media have experienced major change over the past 20-30 years, and have begun now to have a greater sense of independence and professionalism. The problem is that as they have been squeezed between government restrictions and the market, Chinese media have been seduced to the filthy road of temptation before they’ve even had an opportunity to find the true road to professionalism.
I remember a discussion journalists had last month during a “China-Europe Social Forum” I attended in Chengdu about the taking of “red envelopes” (or cash payments). “Red envelopes” are extremely common in China’s media, and have become a primary source of income for some journalists. Professor Zhan Jiang of the Foreign Languages University and other communications experts in attendance characterized the practice as abhorrent. After all, no one can reasonably suppose that a journalists who accepts cash gifts will maintain independence in their reporting — and even supposing they could, this is still a harmful practice.
But many Chinese journalists at the forum were wearied of this discussion. They grumbled that every time this sort of forum is arranged, the intractable issue of “red envelopes” comes up. They made the point that as nearly every newspaper maintains lists of advertisers who have to be protected from negative coverage, so even if journalists don’t accept cash gifts the integrity of their work is compromised.
Western journalists in attendance couldn’t get a word in edgewise on this topic. I think they just couldn’t understand this point of view. Fishing desperately for common ground, some recalled how Hollywood corporations would invite European reporters to attend film screenings, and there was a debate over whether it was OK for journalists to accept plane tickets to these events. But the idea that journalists would accept money directly from those they were reporting on, regardless of the industry, surpassed their imagination.
Alain Frachon, the editor in chief of France’s Le Monde newspaper said that when he was a deputy editor he did everything possible to avoid dinners with political leaders in order to avoid emotional interference, even if dinner parties were of a personal nature.
I have to say quite honestly that not only would the vast majority of Chinese editors — no matter how big or small their publications — not dare to spurn an invitation from a government leader if it happened to come, but in fact they would feel a deep sense of honor, to the point that they would write it directly into their advertising brochures and even report the meeting as news.
Given the way our media operate as a general rule, is it any wonder personalities like Guo Degang and Feng Xiaogang have expressed such disdain for the press?
Responding to questions from young reporters, Feng Xiaogang often refers to them as “little sisters.” You’re too young, he suggests, and you don’t understand things. You’re all little children. You don’t know your manners. But while Feng’s harsh response to reporter’s questions about product placements in his latest film may expose his agism and sexism, they also reflect his legitimate doubts about the character of journalists generally. After all, Feng understands that the product placements in his latest film have a corollary in the soft content that is so ubiquitous in China’s media.
There are indeed journalists in China who can be admired and respected for challenging the forces of power and money and bravely providing facts to the public. But while such professional conduct should be the norm for Chinese journalism, I often find myself saddened by the extent to which it is not.
So perhaps, when we’re speaking about our press as a whole, the contempt others feel for us is not such a grave injustice.
A version of this article appeared originally in Chinese at Southern Metropolis Daily.

If I want to close the door and beat the dogs, I have to first let them into the house. So there are a lot of media with us today.

I’ve said before that online writing is the power of the powerless. When you’ve written for a period of time and have a definite readership, you develop a degree, albeit a small degree, of power as a result.
Of course, all power must be kept in check. Well then, what is it that keeps me in check once I possess this sort of power as a writer? Do I rely on my knowledge and my conscience? Do I rely on the readers who thoroughly enjoy what I write? No, that’s not enough to keep me in check. And if I operated that way, how would I be any different from those I criticize? No matter how much I might believe in my own rightness and perspicacity, and even if my readers are scrupulous beyond comparison and stand on the right side of history — power relies nevertheless on opposition to keep itself in check.
It’s true that website editors and managers already serve to a large extent as checks on my work. They can choose not to promote my writings, and they have the power to remove them altogether. But this is insufficient, at least as far as I’m concerned. After all, I have many platforms for posting my work, overseas as well as domestic.
It was by mulling over this question that I came to alter my attitude toward criticism of my own work online. Before this, I outright ignored those criticisms that bore an aggressive and confrontational attitude. Web users who helped me manage my blog would tell me what sort of irrational or boisterous comments were being made (because I decided from the beginning that I would not delete any comments whatsoever), but I would never myself thumb through the comments attacking me.
Why didn’t I bother to read these criticisms? Actually, my motives were selfish and pragmatic. Before my attitude toward criticism changed, comments attacking me had the power to affect my mood to the extent that I was unable to “forge courageously ahead” with my writing.
After my attitude adjustment, I would set aside a bit of time to browse through the critical posts, and when I really didn’t have the time I’d ask friends to put together brief summaries of the attacks and share them with me. Gradually, I came to realize that all of these criticisms, even those that many web users identified as posts made by [government] posters for hire, or “50 Cent Party” folk, touched me in some way or another, inspiring or helping me.
Today I’d like to share not those constructive and well-meant criticisms of my work, but only those posts that web users characterize as poisonous attacks and share my views about them.
Shortly after I started blogging, a number of weblogs appeared that were especially devoted to criticizing my writings. There were also blogs opened to support my writings, but I’ll focus on those launched with the express purpose of making attacks against me more convenient.
At Netease, for example, there is a well-known web user called Zhou Xiaomi (周小米) who has had a blog devoted to criticizing me for more than a year now. As soon as I make a new post, there is a flurry of activity at this blog. That nickname of mine, the “democracy huckster” (民主小贩), is a favorite target of their ridicule.
For this blogger nothing about me is spared criticism and ridicule — my appearance, my wardrobe choices. Judging from his language, he not only fails to recognize me, but has not even bothered to carefully read my work.
However, it’s exactly this sort of blog that, once I changed my attitude to criticism, provided me with a great deal of help. He often poked fun at my appearance, and very eloquently. And perhaps no one out there realized that this cut me where it really hurt, because I’ve always lacked confidence about my appearance.
I’ve always felt my eyes are too small. I’m not even quite 1.75 meters tall. My waist is too thick, my legs too thin, and my neck too short. (^_^) . . . When I first launched my blog I posted a photo that looked really bookish. I didn’t think too many people would read the blog, but later when more and more came, I took the photo down.
But after this Zhou Xiaomi began heaping ridicule on my appearance, I began to reflect more about how I am who I am. My parents gave me this appearance. Why had I, just like this cynical person who attacks me, been so unsatisfied with my natural appearance?
Everyone can go and see for themselves that ever since I had this epiphany I’ve posted all sorts of photographs, because suddenly I have self-confidence. This homely fellow, this is me, the “democracy huckster,” Old Yang. And thanks to Zhou Xiaomi’s back-handed support, I am now recognized by my readers when I go out in public.
On my Sohu blog, which has already been shut down, there was a reader who would throw the Eight-Power Allied Forces [if the West] into any discussion, and would ask me accusingly how much money I had received from the Americans, what exactly my connection was to the Eight-Power Allied Forces, how much money I received from them for each piece I wrote, etcetera . . .
Any rational person might suppose that this reader is still a child, mentally challenged, or suffers from acute paranoia. But the lessons I took away from this reader’s barrage of attacks and accusations will probably have significance for me throughout my life.
His constant reversion to the Eight-Power Allied Forces was wearying. But then again, so many of my own blog entries dwelt on America and democracy, and wouldn’t people find that wearying too? Everyday he accused me of taking money from Americans (or Westerners), but then again, should I not ask myself: have you taken money or not? Has money on any level influenced your blog writing?
Given my qualifications and experiences over the years, I have to be honest with myself. If I wanted to apply for funding from Western countries or government-financed programs, it might be easier for me than almost anyone. Moreover, a number of programs have sought me out in the past. To be honest, these programs don’t apply restrictive conditions, and its not a bad thing to participate in them (please note, I don’t oppose to other people taking advantage of them).
But I want to tell everyone — I have never in my life taken a cent of financial support from Westerners, and I have never taken part in any program or event financed by Western governments. I have never had so much as a cup of coffee on the tab of Western governments . . .
These are just two more extreme examples. But criticisms and attacks of this kind all became useful to me once I changed my attitude toward them, and my critics became my teachers and friends, goading me to greater purity and simplicity.
As an online writer, my greatest hope is that when you enter my name into Baidu or Google, what comes up are the articles I’ve worked so hard to write. But still I have a special place in my heart for the words that are critical of me, and many times I’ve asked those web users who help me manage my sites to aggregate posts criticizing me so that they’re not lost. And if we have to, we’ll set up our own platform for this purpose.
If I can continue to write I’ll write several hundred thousand words a year. This is something I’ve demanded of myself. But without the strict oversight of editors, how can I guarantee I don’t commit major errors?
It’s because of this problem that I’ve come to look on those posts and blogs that criticize and attack me as beneficial to me. I believe that if my work continues to improve, this owes a great deal to the readers who support me, but also to those who attack and berate me.
Now, to return to the subject of my title. In the eyes of those anonymous web users, I’m definitely a person of some “power.” But for all of us Internet users, the government is not just powerful, but has a complete grip on real power.
So what attitude should the government have toward web users who criticize (and even attack) it? They too can choose two responses. The first is to feel “wronged and angered” and to act accordingly. That means not just attacking back online as I might, but really striking back, going across provinces if necessary to hold them criminally responsible.
The other possibility is receptiveness and acceptance, correcting your errors if you’ve made them or guarding against them if you’re not in the wrong. By taking this second approach, the government might win the understanding of the people, and even their support and regard. And general social progress will be faster.
Everyone knows about the open letter I wrote to Hubei’s party secretary, Yu Zhengsheng (俞正声). At the time my mother had just passed away, and her work unit had pocketed a portion of the government required funeral allowance. Just imagine them delinquent in paying her wages going back more than a decade.
With a mix of grief and anger, I wielded my pen with feeling. My letter was full of hot satire and cold irony toward the party secretary. Not long after, the provincial authorities sent an investigative team to my home town to resolve the issue, and later I learned that not only had Yu Zhengsheng not suppressed the letter, but in fact had passed it on to a number of local leaders.
Afterwards my father and I discussed the matter, and once we had gotten my mother’s funeral allowance back we agreed to drop our campaign for her unpaid wages. This was around 80,000 yuan, no meager sum as far as my father is concerned.
Our reasoning was simple. In our situation, if we continued to make a fuss it might be possible to get mother’s wages back. But in Suizhou City (随州市), my hometown, there are thousands upon thousands of old people who like my father and mother are owed back wages. Because I was able to write an open letter, I drew the attention of provincial leaders and was able to get a portion of our own money back.
But what about the rest of the old people in Suizhou who are owed money? Considering Yu Zhengsheng’s attitude toward resolving this issue (some things take time to resolve), we cut our losses and stopped seeking the rest of mother’s back wages. Of course, in my writings afterwards I never stopped helping out the rest of those people in a weak position who seek the money they deserve.
I believe other government leaders should learn from Yu Zhengsheng’s attitude toward my critical open letter. And could the government not, in the same way, benefit from my own “bitter experiences” online?
A version of this post appeared originally in Chinese at Yang Hengjun’s blog.

The July 28 explosion in Nanjing rocked the city, injuring at least a hundred people and destroying streets and buildings. The explosion was of an intensity and dimension rarely seen. After a meeting of the city’s top party leadership, which had been interrupted by the explosion, was recalled to session, local leaders demanded that lessons be drawn from this painful and bloody experience, that it serve as an impetus to create a safe and civilized city to the satisfaction of its citizens.
In line with this directive, the city government in Nanjing announced plans for a disaster memorial (or museum) for the July 28 tragedy, incorporating ruins and fragments left behind by the explosion, including burned out buses and destroyed pipes. Local media in Nanjing, citing statements from experts, have said that the purpose of the memorial will be to draw lessons from the tragedy and to honor life, and at the same time to serve as a special cultural marker.
The rapid progress toward planning of a 7.28 memorial has drawn a great deal of public attention. The situation naturally calls to mind for people how local governments are often in the habit of inventing catchphrases and breaking construction ground to deal with public opinion flash points.
Building this or that memorial or “cultural marker” has become a habit with local leaders in China, to the point where people are left somewhat disgusted that such things are being done in the name of bitter tragedies. Opinion online suggests most people believe there is no need whatsoever for these memorials.
If memorials can be constructed in a frugal and serious manner, to stand as testament to such tragedies, that’s something I can approve of. But these memorials must be done with sincerity, and more importantly must be done in an attitude of reflection and regard. And such reflection and regard seems woefully absent from these recent preparations for a memorial to the July 28 explosion in Nanjing.
I’ve noticed that when local media report on this news, they still resort to such words of praise as, “transforming a bad thing into a good thing” — and of course, Nanjing’s leaders are giving this top priority, the government doing everything in its power, repairs going forward night and day, the injured recovering. The reports even go into such concrete details as how officials’ “eyes are brimming with hot tears.”
But there seems to be no reporting whatsoever about the basic situations facing the injured and their family members. Instead, we get tricky language like: “Of the 14 people seriously injured, 5 have improved for the better, and the number of seriously injured has been reduced to just 9 people.”
Nothing at all is said about the number of those killed, which remains in question. Apparently, those who cannot be transformed into stories of achievement and success can be erased entirely.
Permitting the media to go deeply into the facts of the story, and seek out its causes — this must for the foundation of our memory and of reflecting back. Unless this can be done, there is no need at all to build a memorial, and efforts at commemoration will have exactly the opposite effect.
On the day the disaster occurred in Nanjing, local leaders left behind there own official words for our memories — “No direct broadcasting.”
The next day, if you go back and analyze media coverage, you find that aside from Modern Express, published by Xinhua News Agency’s Jiangsu bureau, which included coverage of the tragedy, other papers were all still reporting on the “grand gathering [of party leaders]”, the [upcoming] Mid-Autumn Festival and National Day holidays, and the success of a local award ceremony. The most eye-catching photographs in the news that day were of the air crash in Pakistan, or of normal, everyday Nanjing streets . . .
What’s more, after the local government officially circulated the number of dead, the media cast doubt on these figures in quite a detailed manner, and yet to this day there has been no response by the Nanjing government.
The staggering statement from Nanjing officials preventing “direct broadcasting,” the toning down of local media coverage, and the lingering doubts about the number of people who died — will these be incorporated in plans for the 7.28 memorial? If they cannot be, then what will this memorial stand for?
We can actually glean an inkling from the name of the memorial (or museum) bandied about by officials. Plans are to call it “Disaster Reduction Memorial” (减灾纪念馆). So the actions of the local government in “mitigating” the tragedy are the lesson left to us from the 7.28 explosion? Is that right? What the government wishes to memorialize is the idea that after the tragedy occurred, leaders prioritized it, the government applied resources to it — they want to remember how quickly they responded, how stable society remained, and how moved the people were . . .
I hope that local leaders understand that regardless of whether a memorial is erected or not, any major incident will leave behind its own lessons and memories. Everything that you do, including timely response and handling of the tragedy, and including official acts depriving the public of their right to know, will all be recorded in the history of this event.
These lessons will not take shape through official memorials, and perhaps will linger only in the hearts of the public, in online forums or spoken conversations. But they will have a much deeper place in the hearts of the people, and they will weather the test of history.
This article originally appeared in China at the Shanghai Morning Post.
[See Shanghai Morning Post on CMP’s media map]

If someone achieves fame in China, they become a personality, and once they’ve become a personality they simply can’t make errors in judgement. If they do happen to make errors in judgement, all they have to do is raise their chins and tough it out, going straight into denial mode.
This is true of those in academia and the government, and even for personalities in the business world. Big shots in academia, if they are found to have plagiarized the work of others, must definitely stick to their guns and, whatever happens, refuse to admit wrongdoing. If the attacks are too hard, you exit through the backdoor and prepare your lawsuit. If the attacks are soft, you respond by playing dead, issuing not so much as a whisper.
In sum, whatever happens you don’t ever admit you were wrong — and you definitely don’t apologize.
From time to time our government officials admit error, but this stems from institutional pressure and is done in a bid for leniency. Interview these characters once the storm has passed and they’ll all, to a man, act as though nothing ever happened. It’s only too clear now, as this ethos of stubborn denial infects our business leaders, that a culture of denial (死撑的文化) has become deep rooted in our society.
Some time back, Jun Tang (唐骏), the CEO of New Huadu Industrial Group and former chairman of Microsoft China, was accused by certain parties of having falsified his academic credentials. There was a lot of shoving back and forth, and the question of whether Tang had actually faked his credentials or not remained unclear until finally a diploma was produced from America’s Pacific Western University.
Who could have guessed that once a quick Internet search was done on this institution it would turn out to be just another so-called “wild chicken university” (野鸡大学) selling off diplomas?
Search a bunch of Jun Tang’s Chinese classmates and you’ll find that they’re all leaders in various fields. Among these, one of his classmates, Yu Jinyong (禹晋永), who is listed by some sources as chairman of the board at the so-called Generation Investment Group (中国世代投资集团) — perhaps because he feels he’s not famous enough, or because he feels a strong sense of fraternity — saw the need to step out and run defense for Jun Tang.
In the end, they’ve run a brave defense, but [Jun Tang’s] degree is still a wild chicken degree all the same, and the human flesh search has heaped all sorts of other scandals on his head. While Yu Jinyong has loudly proclaimed that he intends to sue in order to bring all of these accusers to justice, it’s easy to see that the case isn’t so simple after all. It’s already too late for Yu to shake himself off and come out clean.
Historically, the business world has paid little attention to academic credentials. Even in cases like that of nineteenth century textile giant Zhang Jian (张謇), who was a top scorer on the imperial examinations, people wouldn’t have factored his academic achievements into their business dealings with him. Zhang Jian wasn’t the only literatus of his time to dive into the private sector. But the old man’s successes owed to his business acumen, not to his book smarts.
In the period after economic reforms began, China’s new generation of businesspeople were principally farmers who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps. Not only were they uneducated, but many in fact were functionally illiterate. They might only have had primary school educations, but they could pride themselves on the fact that they had graduates of Peking University and Tsinghua University working under them.
In recent years, however, businesspeople have begun, and I’m not quite sure why, to pay a great deal of attention to academic credentials (perhaps this has something to do with the ease with which degrees can now be purchased?). If you’ve got some pull, you fork out cash and go earn your EMBA at an elite university. And there are those too who, unable to satisfy their craving for diplomas, go out and get a fake ones. So this Pacific Western University is no doubt making money hand over fist.
A politician using a fake diploma to grab a leadership position, and a scholar finagling his way into a teaching position are fundamentally different matters. And while fake diplomas may be all the rage in the business world, when you’re really sitting down to do business, no fool is going to buy this degree of yours, regardless of whether it’s real or not. For someone like Tang Jun to have several bogus PhDs might deceive young and impressional students if he publishes a book or speaks at a university. But the rest is just narcissism.
If you’re unfortunate enough to be exposed, coming clean at the first available moment is best. If that doesn’t happen, you can still stand up and apologize, saying, look, it was just vanity on my part. I’ll bet most Internet users would then lower their banners and silence their drums. Few people would then be interested in pursuing the matter to its death.
But instead these guys go into denial mode. It’s not just Jun Tang who denies everything. His former classmates step up to help him deny everything. The more they issue denials, the more holes open up, and the more holes open up the more determinedly they issue denials. They’ve denied this whole matter from a tragedy to a comedy.
Just look. Now Yu Jinyong only has to utter a word on his microblog to draw peals of laughter and scorn from the stands. Regardless of whether or not all of the revelations about business trickery appearing online are true, I’m quite sure these men never imagined that they would be reduced so quickly from business success stories to national buffoons.
At one time our nation’s scholars all held the conviction that our neighbor Japan is a culture of shame, a culture where people were unwilling to admit they were wrong. When people refuse to believe there is shame in doing something wrong, coming clean becomes the only indignity. And in the end, it’s us who have become a culture of shame, where no one has compunctions about doing wrong, and where everyone regards compunction as a mark of shame.
This is even truer if you believe you’re a personality. If you’re found to have done wrong, it’s as though the sky is collapsing on your head. In fact, these people see things the other way around — it’s they who have been wronged. After all, they are surrounded by cheats — in fact, everyone’s a cheat — so why must they singled out for censure?
We might even say that our melodic culture has changed into a culture of shame, and the reason for this transformation is our increasingly serious climate of fakery. When people have become entirely desensitized to fakery, the natural response of those who get caught out is to resort to still more acts of fakery, glossing over the original act of fakery.
Even if things get a bit hot on the Internet, how long can the heat really last, after all? Within a few years, they’ll be squeaky clean again. At the very worst, the Internet can only pile up scorn and ridicule. And anyone, theoretically at least, can slide right past [the scandal] — whether they are politicians, academics or businesspeople. Once they’re past it, there’s no need even to remake themselves. They just wipe their faces clean and go right on being the bigwigs they always were.
This editorial appeared originally in Chinese at Southern Metropolis Daily.
Further Reading:
“The Ruminations Of A Reporter Who Once Covered Jun Tang,” ESWN, August 6, 2010
“Chinese Debate Allegations of Fraudulent Credentials,” Wall Street Journal, July 18, 2010
“Former Microsoft chief Tang Jun fights back,” People’s Daily Online (English), July 7, 2010