Now Executive Director of the China Media Project, leading the project’s research and partnerships, David originally joined the project in Hong Kong in 2004. He is the author of Dragons in Diamond Village (Penguin), a book of reportage about urbanization and social activism in China, and co-editor of Investigative Journalism in China (HKU Press).
Li Ka-shing has fled, but how can mainland businesspeople flee? Can they leave behind their factory equipment, their family, their thousands of workers? Actually, mobs are not so frightening. What is truly frightening is a mob government!
Two people go out to sea in a single boat, battered and tossed by the wind and waves. Despite the treacherous shoals beneath, they bicker about who bears responsibility for their mutual hardship. All at once, a violent storm rises. Waves tower overhead. If they cannot lower the sails quickly, their boat is sure to capsize. But survival demands the unified strength of both. Finally, in the face of common peril, they decide to work together. They lower the sails and pilot ahead, until at last they come to calmer shores.
Speaking at an industry forum in Seattle last week, China’s cyber-security chief, Lu Wei, shared the above parable drawing on ancient Chinese wisdom to explain how, in the face of “a cyberspace as vast as the sea,” the United States and China must work together toward a “shared destiny.” “We are in the same boat,” he said. And where the Internet is concerned, we have in our sights the same “shore of happiness.”
But do we indeed?
In fact, the U.S.-China Internet Industry Forum— which reportedly “[rankled] the Obama administration by veering off the script agreed to for Mr. Xi’s carefully stage-managed visit” — exposes deep and abiding differences between China and the United States over the integrity and future of the global Internet. Lu Wei’s promised shore of “cooperative cyberspace” is a distraction from the more pressing matter at hand: China’s effort to remake the sea of cyberspace itself, with the acquiescence of American tech firms.
China is by no means the only party pushing for the balkanisation of the global Internet, and mounting threats to “net neutrality” have been the subject of debate for years. But no nation has so energetically promoted, in word and deed, the vision of national “Internet sovereignty” without the most basic respect for information freedoms.
The concept of “Internet sovereignty” first entered the stage in China with the publication in June 2010 of a State Council Information Office white paper on “The Internet in China,” coming just months after Google’s rancorous exit from the country. (At the time, Columbia professor and net neutrality expert Tim Wu said the steps laid out in the white paper went “way beyond the rules of any major country.”)
Under Xi Jinping, who in 2014 became head of a new Central Leading Group for Cybersecurity and Informatization (with Lu Wei as chief of its General Office), “Internet sovereignty” has enjoyed a much stronger profile. The CLGCI held its first session in February 2014, and it is after this point that we see a rather dramatic rise in occurrence of the term “Internet sovereignty,” or wangluo zhuquan (网络主权), in China’s media.
Occurrences of the term “Internet sovereignty” in the Chinese media since 2010. Source: WiseNews Database, for all mainland Chinese news sources.
The dramatic peak in use of the term “Internet sovereignty” above, occurring during the fourth quarter of 2014, is what we might call the “Wuzhen peak,” corresponding to China’s first World Internet Conference, held in November 2014 in the Zhejiang water town of Wuzhen (and nicknamed the “Wuzhen Summit”). This event, which Chinese leaders said at the time they hoped to fashion as the “Davos of the East” (东方达沃斯), promises to become an annual international forum at which China can showcase the strength of its domestic Internet industry and publicise the government’s vision of an international (as opposed to global) Internet comprising internally “secure” national Internets.
In a prepared statement for the “Wuzhen Summit,” read out by vice-premier Ma Kai (马凯), Xi Jinping urged the creation of a “multifaceted, democratic and transparent governance system for the international Internet.” The leadership’s underlying political objectives became more explicit when the hosts of the conference tried to get attendees to sign on to a draft declaration on Internet governance by slipping it under their hotel room doors at 11PM on November 20, right at the tail end of the conference.
One portion of the draft declaration, which was later hastily withdrawn, read:
While enjoying rapid development, the Internet has posed new challenges to national sovereignty, security and development interests, which requires the international community to meet urgently and seriously expand consensus and strengthen cooperation.
We call on the international community to work together to build an international Internet governance system of multilateralism, democracy and transparency and a cyberspace of peace, security, openness and cooperation.
“Democracy” and “openness” sound wonderful, until you realise that in this instance China is talking not about the principles adhering the fabric of cyberspace, but rather about pulling rank in the system of international governance. A “democratic” system, in other words, would be one in which China’s domestic political controls on information are legitimised and respected as a matter of inviolable national sovereignty. And we must remember that in the borderless space of the Internet, such restrictions can and do have ramifications for all users anywhere.
Lu Wei, the cyber chief, expressed the leadership’s vision of Internet sovereignty more distinctly during a Chinese New Year banquet hosted in February this year by the Cyberspace Administration of China — and attended by many foreign dignitaries. “We live in a common online space,” Lu Wei told his guests. “This online space is made up of the internets of various countries, and each country has its own independent and autonomous interest in Internet sovereignty, Internet security and Internet development. Only through my own proper management of my own internet, [and] your proper management of your own internet . . . can the online space be truly safe, more orderly and more beautiful.”
Inside China, “sovereignty” has equalled repression. It was Lu Wei who piloted the broad campaign against the influential “Big V” (or “verified”) users of the Sina Weibo platform in 2013, followed by harsh penalties threatened against Internet users who propagated “irresponsible rumours.”
On July 1 this year, China’s legislature passed a new national security law stating explicitly that national sovereignty extended to the Internet. The law laid out rigid security requirements for networks across a range of “critical industries,” stoking fears that it could even put the commercial secrets of foreign companies operating in China at risk.
Are the United States and China indeed, as Lu Wei suggested last week, “two sharing a boat”?
Certainly, there are shared agendas — such as, for example, cyber espionage. But as for shared values on information freedoms and Internet governance, this is a much stickier issue. In fact, the U.S.-China Internet Industry Forum, of which the conference in Seattle last week was the eighth edition, has over the years served only to sharpen the gap, despite the Chinese Communist Party’s hope it might become a vehicle through which to reach greater consensus along lines it finds acceptable.
For their part, international media have been somewhat confused over the nature of the forum itself. Earlier this month, the Chinese-language service of Germany’s Deutsche Welle wrote that President Xi Jinping would attend a technology forum “sponsored by Beijing.” Over at Fortune.com, the forum was apparently all the doing of China’s president, who was “making the most of his time [in the United States] by organising a high-profile tech gathering.” The New York Times anonymously quoted “another person with knowledge of the matter” to report that the forum “is being co-hosted by Microsoft.”
It should be no secret at all that, yes, the forum is co-hosted by Microsoft, as it has been since first convened in 2007 as a joint initiative of software giant and the Internet Society of China (ISC), an ostensible industry association formed in 2001 to “promote development of Internet in China and make efforts to construct an advanced information society.”
It so happens that Microsoft China is also a member of the ISC, whose deputy directors (25 in all) are a list of who’s-who in China’s tech industry. They include Jack Ma (马云), the chairman of Alibaba Group, Pony Ma (马化腾), the founder of Tencent Inc., Ding Lei (丁磊), founder and CEO of Netease, and Wang Gaofei (王高飞), the CEO of Weibo Corporation. The current chairman of the ISC is Wu Hequan (邬贺铨), an engineer who said last year that China’s “cyberpower” was an essential part of Xi Jinping’s “China Dream,” and who was present in Seattle for Lu Wei’s address.
For Microsoft, the U.S.-China Internet Industry Forum has always been about the company’s engagement with China. As vice-president for Global Corporate Affairs, Pamela Passman, wrote of the forum in 2010, the two sides had “discovered a structure and rhythm for productive discussions on Internet policy.”
Inside China, the importance of the U.S.-China Internet Industry Forum is professed with much more clarity. It is accorded a level of bi-lateral significance that is not reciprocated — far from it — by the United States government.
The 21st Century Business Herald wrote recently that “the U.S.-China Internet Industry Forum was created . . . . with the goal of promoting dialogue and cooperation between the Internet industries of China and the United States.” In Chinese, the above language is indefinite — zhongmei liangguo (中美两国) — possibly suggesting the event is a more formal state-to-state arrangement. In an interview with the same paper, Wang Yukai (汪玉凯), deputy director of the E-Government Committee of China’s National Academy of Governance, said of the forum that “this institution is the most important mechanism for coordination of national information and its management.”
On the sidelines of the forum last week, Zhou Hongyi (周鸿祎), the CEO of Internet security firm Qihoo 360 Technology, told Guangzhou’s Southern Metropolis Daily that “the main purpose and aim of this forum was to serve as a platform for mutual understanding and communication between the governments and industries of China and the United States.” Here again, was the ambiguous zhongmei liangguo, possibly insinuating a state-to-state interaction.
But aside from the meeting’s reported “rankling” of the Obama administration ahead of Xi Jinping’s state visit, what can we say about how the U.S.-China Internet Industry Forum has been regarded by the United States?
Addressing the forum on December 10, 2009 — when the third edition was held in San Francisco — Under Secretary for Economic Growth, Energy, and the Environment Robert D. Hormats struck a positive note, praising China for its progress on the provision of internet services and stressing the importance of international cooperation. “I applaud China similarly for its commitment to foster its ever-expanding communications network,” he said
At the same time, Hormats stressed that information freedoms were key, not just for the United States but for the world:
“The right to freedom of expression and the importance of the free flow of information over the Internet were affirmed by all participating governments at both phases of the World Summit on the Information Society in 2003 and 2005, including the Tunis Commitment, and continue to form the foundation of U.S. Government efforts on Internet freedom around the world.”
By April 2013, when the forum was back in Beijing, the tone had soured considerably. At that session, Hormats chastened his hosts, affirming the importance of the “existing multi-stakeholder arrangement of Internet governance,” against which China’s leaders were by this time actively positing a more state-centred approach the under secretary referred to as “information nationalism.”
The openness and flexibility of these [international governance] institutions have allowed the Internet to adapt and grow into the world’s most compelling platform for information exchange . . . .
That is why the United States remains committed to strengthening this multi-stakeholder system.
We were concerned that the document [introduced at the WCIT in 2012] could have been used in future attempts to erode international multi-stakeholder Internet governance and with it to strengthen those who believe in various types of “information nationalism.”
This is one area where the United States and Chinese officials have significant differences. We believe a top-down, government-led approach to guiding the future of the Internet would be fundamentally flawed.
These “significant differences” persist today. Reporting on the forum last week, the Seattle Times noted that there was, despite “occasionally upbeat commentary,” “significant tension between U.S. and Chinese business and government interests.” The most fundamental tension concerns the question of governance — a “multi-stakeholder Internet governance” system versus a network of state-centred Internet sovereignties.
The Chinese Communist Party recognises — as Lu Wei said last week — that the Internet has “greatly pushed forward the progress of human society.” It dreams, as Wu Hequan said, of “cyberpower.” But the Party’s extreme mistrust of the forces a freer cyberspace might unleash on its political monopoly has become a central, defining animus now best manifested in the notion of Internet sovereignty.
It is no wonder, in this light, that “hostile forces,” the Party’s favoured epithet for unspecified threats to its leadership, is now used routinely to refer to perceived threats in cyberspace.
The Party understands that it must shape the future of the Internet if it is to maintain its rule, and so it is determined to remake cyberspace as a sovereign space. It believes the sheer size of China’s market — “a paradise for U.S. hi-tech companies,” according to Lu Wei — will empower it to accomplish this objective.
It is a dangerous bargain Lu Wei is offering for the treasures of China’s cyber shores. But have no illusions: In the realm of cyberspace, sharing a boat with China will mean acknowledging its claims of sovereignty over the sea itself.
The following is a translation of a piece from the Chinese-language service of France’s RFI about the long and painful saga Chinese journalist Liu Hu has faced since his detention in August 2013 for blowing the whistle on official corruption. The original interview was by RFI’s Shanghai correspondent, Cao Guoxing (曹国星).
On September 10, journalist Liu Hu (刘虎) received a document from the hand of a prosecutor from the Dongcheng District Procuratorate in Beijing: “Decision on Non-Prosecution.” As Liu Hu tells it, after reciting the contents of the Decision, the prosecutor said he hoped Liu Hu could continue making contributions to society through his professional work.
An incurable user of the internet, [Liu Hu] quickly posted a photo [of the Decision] to Sina Weibo, and shared it with his friends on WeChat. Words of congratulation came just as quickly from every direction imaginable.
By the time this news [of the Decision] came it had already been two years since Liu Hu was taken from his home in Chongqing on August 23, 2013, and held in Beijing. From his placement under formal criminal custody early morning on August 24, 2013, to his release on bail on August 3, 2014, Liu Hu had spent 346 days under police detention.
Some of Liu Hu’s colleagues have praised him, saying true gold fears not the fire. But the idea that one can spend a year behind bars simply for making a single post on Sina Weibo still rattles the nerves.
Liu Hu recalled to this reporter: “It was after 11AM on August 23, 2013, that someone knocked on my door and said there was a water leak and they wanted to have a look. I opened the door and 14 or 15 of them came in. Once they were in they restrained me and showed me a document for mandatory summons (强制传唤). I was led away in handcuffs and taken directly to the interrogation room of a relevant department in the Northern New District of Chongqing City.”
“They began interrogating me after I was taken to the Public Security Bureau, asking me mostly about the complaint I had submitted about certain officials. They mentioned the names of Ma Zhengqi (马正其), Song Lin (宋林), Du Hangwei (杜航伟), Cui Yadong (崔亚东) and others. They asked why I had made the post on Weibo, and what was the source of my information. I responded truthfully, but they insisted I admit to my guilt and error. If I refused, they said, they would have to take me back [to Beijing].”
Liu Hu insisted there was no crime to which he could confess, and the interrogation carried on until deep into the night.
Early in the morning on August 24, 2013, a police official came from Beijing and announced that Liu Hu’s mandatory summons had officially become a criminal detention (刑事拘留). He replaced the local investigating officer and the interrogation continued.
Liu Hu was by this time exhausted, but the police official prodded him with a bottle of water and the questioning continued. At the time he was taken from his home, Liu Hu had been wearing only a short-sleeved casual shirt. The police official turned the temperature on the air-conditioning unit down to 21 degrees Celsius, and at one point Liu Hu dozed off to sleep for about an hour before the extreme cold woke him and the interrogation continued.
The next day, Liu Hu was taken by train to Beijing. For this purpose the police arranged for a sleeper car. The officer on the case took along his notebook computer and a portable printer, and for much of the journey Liu Hu was again subjected to interrogation.
Looking back, it seems the likely goal of the police was to obtain a confession in the case before Liu Hu had an opportunity to meet with his a lawyer. But things were not so smooth.
Once they reached Beijing, Liu Hu was sent off to the Beijing No. 1 Detention Centre, a city-level facility generally used for repeat offenders.
Liu Hu’s prison room was a so-called “Civilised Unit” (文明号) that police had arranged ahead of time. In the room were two prisoners . . . the police had entrusted to supervise Liu Hu.
The prison room was very crowded. At times there were 12 or 13 prisoners in the room, but at peak times there could be as many as 28. Everyone was to sleep on cots, but during crowded times some had to sleep on the floor.
Liu Hu recalls that although some of the prisoners with whom he shared a room were hardened criminals, including murderers, they were all quite respectful toward him. The two “monitors” (牢头) would always sleep in the best position, cots No. 1 and No. 2 closest to the door. Liu Hu was allowed to sleep on cot No. 3, and never once was he made to sleep on the floor. Nor was he ever beaten.
In order to exert greater pressure on Liu Hu to give up his sources, the broadcasts of the official “Nightly Newscast” on China Central Television typically arranged for his prison room were suspended for the first few months, and the usual copy of Beijing Daily was similarly prohibited.
These deprivations were a source of bitterness for his cellmates, who constantly gnashed their teeth and hoped he would be able to leave soon.
As Liu Hu remained in the detention centre, there were quite a number of solidarity actions on the outside. Many people traveled to Beijing hoping to be able to visit him, or deposited money into his prison account so he might be able to buy extra snacks. As was routine at the detention centre, Liu Hu would receive notice of these [visits and deposits].
Knowing that people, some of whom didn’t even know him, were depositing money on his behalf, further steeled Liu Hu’s resolve. But the authorities began to feel that he was under insufficient pressure — so they arbitrarily changed the rules, no longer permitting deposits from those who were not Liu’s relatives. When his lawyer, Zhou Ze (周泽), tried to deposit funds, even he was not allowed to do so.
The food in Beijing No. 1 Detention Centre was terrible. The standard was eight yuan a day, and so for meals every day there were only vegetables with no oil at all, served with rice or a single dumpling.
There were muslims in the Beijing facility too, but the management was neglectful in its preparation for halal meals, so every prisoner inside Beijing No. 1 Detention Centre was essentially halal-ed — deprived of any pork whatsoever. Only every 10 days or so would there be some potato and maybe a spot of beef or fish.
Liu Hu was released from jail after 346 days. His body weight had dropped from 160 pounds to just 126 pounds, a loss of almost 40 pounds. Liu Hu’s year in custody had consisted mostly of lengthy interrogations.
After entering Beijing No. 1 Detention Centre, he was subjected to a tight schedule of questioning sessions, numbering more than 70 in total, the longest lasting around 11 hours. Many of these were arranged for late at night, and only after repeated complaints had been lodged were arrangements made for daytime interrogations.
The Beijing police had brought along from Liu Hu’s Chongqing home all of his reporting notebooks spanning his more than ten-year journalism career. It is rumoured they assembled a special case team of around 100 members. The agents were dispatched all over the country, seeking out people Liu Hu had interviewed over the years — their chief question being whether or not these contacts had made any payments to Liu Hu. Their hope, clearly, was to achieve any sort of breakthrough that might establish Liu’s guilt.
The charges police eventually presented to prosecutors alleged that Liu Hu was guilty of the crimes of libel and blackmail, as well as “picking quarrels and causing trouble.”
Liu Hu recalls that the police on the case, “in order to chat with him, would brush up their knowledge of journalists, getting to know the industry, and would talk with me about the actor KK, the [deceased] journalist Mu Qing and other people like that, hoping I would follow their examples.”
The police officials said they hoped that Liu Hu would “do things that were meaningful for the people, but [stressed that] I should not have shared information the way I had.”
Liu Hu recalls that the police interrogators gave him strong assurances that if he admitted his guilt he would get a lighter sentence, probation or perhaps even walk free. But never once did he admit any guilt.
Each time he was questioned, and even when police barged into his home, the entire proceedings were captured on video. Judging from the situation [in recent months and years], it seems [to Liu Hu’s mind] that if he had admitted guilt, this would have been quickly edited into a news item and broadcast on China Central Television.
Of course, police told him this video material would be provided instead to “leaders” who after quick deliberation were sure to demand leniency.
Liu Hu recalls how police warned him that if he did not confess his guilt, his sentence would be harsh and he could expect to spend many years in jail — so that when he was finally released he would have nothing, and his family would all by that time have “departed.”
“It was at such times,” Liu Hu told this reporter, “that I would feel at my weakest and most helpless.”
IT has now been eight days since state media in China reported that Caijing magazine journalist Wang Xiaolu (王晓璐) had been subjected to “criminal compulsory measures” stemming from a report on the stock market he wrote back on July 20, 2015. In a graphic illustration of just how sensitive this story is for China’s leadership, only one mention of Wang has been made in the domestic press since September 1, the day after the reporter’s so-called “confession” was aired on China Central Television.
According to my search of the WiseNews database, 17 newspapers in China ran the news of Wang Xiaolu’s “confession” on September 1, all using the official release from Xinhua News Agency.
The Shanghai Stock Exchange Composite Index over the past year, with selection of July 20, 2015, the day Wang Xiaolu’s report ran in Caijing magazine. The market improved for three days after, surpassing the 4,000 mark, then eventually plunged again. Source: Bloomberg.
The next day, September 2, the Global Timesoffered what so far has been the final word, with a piece headlined, “Caijing Journalist Arrested on Suspicion of Fabricating Information.”
Thankfully, I suppose, these final words were measured — by the standards, at least, of the hard-fisted newspaper. The article noted that “a number of Western human rights organisations” had issued statements “insisting Wang Xiaolu was a scapegoat,” and it acknowledged also that “some people on the domestic internet had voiced their dissatisfaction over the criminal investigation into Wang Xiaolu.”
Wang Xiaolu appears on CCTV13’s Morning News program on August 31, 2015. Here he begins to say: “I should not, at such a sensitive time, have released a report with such a major impact on the markets.”
The Global Times article then sought to “clarify” a few points about Wang’s arrest:
First, it is already the general consensus that the reasons for the recent turbulence in the stock markets are multi-layered and complex. The impact created by Wang Xiaolu’s report should have been limited. As for the casting of Wang Xiaolu as the “scapegoat” for the stock market slide, or using him as to score points with public opinion, I am confident that the government isn’t of this mind. Because clearly he cannot bear all of the blame. Conversely, if we suggest that the government is using his case to send a strong message to those who spread untruthful information, “executing one as a warning to others, this conjecture at least makes logical sense.
It is hardly reassuring to tell ourselves that Wang Xiaolu is not a scapegoat, but rather the chicken of Chinese proverb, murdered to frighten the monkeys. But I think, unfortunately, that the writer of the Global Times article is making a valid point here.
As the newspaper is careful to remind us, we still do not have all of the facts in Wang’s case, and “the court will need to obtain evidence of his guilt before it can ultimately convict him.” (Apparently, the Global Times cannot imagine his innocence). But I have little doubt that Wang’s predicament will send a very strong message to Chinese journalists. And that is troubling news indeed, particularly given the already overbearing climate for media under Xi Jinping.
Let’s not forget that in his televised “confession” on China Central Television — itself a chilling instance of flouted due process — Wang Xiaolu admits not to explicit illegalities, but rather to conduct befitting a news journalist. Here is what he says:
Through a personal source, this abnormal channel, I gained news materials, then I added my own views, subjective views. And then I wrote this news report. I should not, at such a sensitive time, have issued a report that had such a major negative impact on the markets.
His timing was poorly chosen politically. He considered his scoop over broader issues of “sensitivity.” And he has clearly also been coerced — despite the fact that his “subjective views” are ostensibly at issue — into making a highly subjective judgement about the impact his report might have had on the markets.
And where is the proof of that impact?
This is a story we will have to continue watching. But for now, it seems, we have only silence.
As a large-scale military parade filed through the centre of Beijing last week, showcasing state-of-the-art weapons technology, audiences around the region debated the celebration’s significance. Was this really a commemoration of the 70th anniversary of China’s victory over Japan in the Second World War? Was this display of military might “anti-fascist,” as China’s state media loudly claimed? Or was it, as some suggested, sending exactly the opposite message — that China is ready to rumble?
Whatever China hoped to show the world, it is quite clear from the domestic framing of this story in the Chinese media that the leadership was sending a clear message to people at home: be proud of our nation’s newfound strength, and be positive about its future.
The front page of the CCP’s official People’s Daily on September 4, 2015.
Stay positive. This has been one of President Xi Jinping’s most consistent messages over the past three years, whether he is encouraging people to embrace the “Chinese Dream” or to brace themselves for the “new normal.” Since Xi came to office, positivity has even entered the news control lexicon. “Positive energy,” or the longer phrase “transmitting positive energy to society” (传播社会正能量), has become an important Xi-era concept for propaganda officials.
The frame of positivity in the face of hardship is perhaps the best way to understand the recent military parade in Beijing as a domestic strategy. What better message at a time when China indeed faces a range of knotty problems? Remaining positive means remaining cohesive, and that right now is chief concern of the Chinese Communist Party.
It is not at all surprising, then, to see the rhetoric of “positive energy” creeping into the discussion in China’s state media of the military parade and its significance. The following piece, which appeared in the September 3 edition of the official People’s Daily, is an interview with two military experts, Shao Weizheng (邵维正) of PLA’s Logistics Command Academy, and Gong Fangbin (公方彬) of China’s National Defence University.
Professor Gong’s final words encapsulate it best: “In order to seize these opportunities and overcome these challenges, we must cohere the positive energy of our people — and a military parade is an important way to stimulate national self-confidence and pride.”
What is the chief significance in glancing back at the history of Chinese resistance against the Japanese invasion, and at China’s victory in the war against Japan? Why have we chosen the form of a military parade to commemorate this victory? With these questions, our reporter interviewed Shao Weizheng (邵维正), a professor at the Logistics Command Academy of the People’s Liberation Army, and National Defence University professor Gong Fangbin (公方彬). Making the Greatest Sacrifice, Offering the Most Resistance to the Japanese Army Reporter: The Chinese people’s war of resistance against Japan continued for a long time, and the war was of a severity rarely seen. Could you sum up its principal characteristics for us? Shao Weizheng: When you sum it up, the Chinese people’s war of resistance against Japan had four clear characteristics. First, China was the earliest to engage in a war against Japanese invasion. Second, China’s war against Japan was the longest. Third, the price paid by Chinese soldiers was greatest. Fourth, China offered the greatest resistance, with the greatest cost to the Japanese army. Gong Fangbin: We can see this kind of sacrifice in an interview a journalist did with an ordinary soldier during the war of resistance. “Do you think China’s war of resistance can be won?” [the reporter asked]. “It certainly can,” [the soldier said]. “What will you do after the victory is won?” “When victory comes I will be dead.” This is a spirit of sacrifice that arises from a national spirit. With this kind of great spirit, with this sort of perseverance and sacrifice, the destruction of the Chinese people was avoided. Justice and Evil Lock Horns in the Primary Theatre of the East Reporter: China’s war of resistance was an irreplaceable achievement contributing to the global war against fascism, but in what specific areas was this the case? Shao Weizheng: First, it prevented the advancement of Japanese troops from the north [CHECK]. Second, it delayed the invasion of Japanese troops in the south. Third, it supported actions in the Pacific War. Fourth, it destroyed plans the Japanese had to push their invasion westward.
In sum, the protracted war in the China had a major strategic role in forestalling [the Japanese] and [enabling] coordination in all fields, north, south, east and west. And the sacrifice of the people determined China’s great nation status, and made the great world victory over fascism possible. Reporter: Why is it that scholars in different countries have different understandings [about this history]? Where is the significance in holding a military parade to commemorate the anniversary? Shao Weizheng: For a long time in the West they have promoted a theory centred on Europe and the United States, and prejudice has stood in the way of fairness. The trend has been to “emphasise Europe and minimise Asia,” and to “emphasise America and minimise China.” There has been a belittling of the important role and status of the Chinese War of Resistance within the story of the Second World War, and now is the time for a truer history of that time.
There is still some debate about this test between justice and evil. The British historian Rana Mitter has written Forgotten Ally: China’s War with Japan, 1937-45, in which he points out that China was one of the earliest countries to resist the Axis powers, that the extended resistance hampered the efforts of the Japanese forces. But still, some countries seem incapable of giving China its proper due. Gong Fangbin: As for using a large-scale military parade to commemorate the 70th anniversary of the victory in the War of Resistance, this is the first time this has happened in our country. Today, the world has yet to totally eradicate the soil in which fascism might thrive. We must ensure the world does not again suffer the tragedy and pain it suffered during the Second World War. We must ensure that the Chinese people avoid having ever again to suffer the pain of outside invasion. And this means spread the force of justice needed to curb fascism, in order to deter those who act against the world. To Win Peace, We Must Have the Capability to Deter War Reporter: So is the point of a military parade to commemorate the anniversary of the victory in the War of Resistance principally to show our strength, determination and vision for peace? Gong Fangbin: China has emphasised again and again that this military parade is not directed toward any one country. The continued strengthening of the Chinese military is destined to become an indispensable force in the protection of world peace, because the Chinese army is carrying out a mission entrusted to it by the people — and the Chinese people are peace-loving, going forth into the world as builders of attitudes and values. Reporter: History teaches us that the ability to deter war is a prerequisite for winning peace. What use does a military parade have in raising the army’s ability to win? Gong Fangbin: Beating swords into ploughshares has always been a dream for humankind, and the force of justice has always dwelt deep within the hearts of the people. There needs to be a way to trigger the release of these forces. Holding a military parade is best way to direct the progress of justice forward.
Today, China is at an important stage of development, in which, as they say, “the opportunities are immense, but the challenges unprecedented.” In order to seize these opportunities and overcome these challenges, we must cohere the positive energy of our people — and a military parade is an important way to stimulate national self-confidence and pride.
On the night of August 12, 2015, a series of major explosions swept across the Binhai New Area, a busy port just 40 kilometres east of the northern Chinese city of Tianjin. The explosions occurred less than one kilometre from several high-density residential areas, and damage extended as far as two kilometres from the blast site. It has now been a little over a week since this major sudden-breaking story unfolded. Looking back, how do we assess the performance of domestic Chinese media, which in recent years have suffered under a steadily worsening climate — and have answered other tragedies this year with almost deafening silence? A Footrace Between Bans and the Facts
As in the case of the high-speed rail crash outside the city of Wenzhou on July 23, 2011, the first information available about the Tianjin explosions came from social media in China. At 11:29PM on August 12, web user “@Ada DouDouDou” (@Ada豆豆豆) posted photographs of fires in Tianjin, along with mobile video, in her WeChat group. This was, as far as we know, the earliest report on social media of events unfolding in Tianjin. The post was made five minutes before the first major explosion, which the China Earthquake Networks Networks Centre would eventually report as having occurred at 11:34PM.
At 11:37PM, users “@Xiao Kim” (@潇Kim) and “@Pang Zhe Long” (@龐哲龍) simultaneously posted videos of explosions in Tianjin. These were the first videos available of the explosions. The video from “@Pang Zhe Long,” just two seconds in length, showed a column of fire rising up into the sky. “Does anyone know what’s up?” one of the posts asked.
Early posts to social media of explosions in the Tianjin Port on August 12.
The photos and videos first shared by these and other mobile users close to the scene in Tianjin became the first-hand materials on which media, both inside and outside China, initially relied. The Paper (澎湃新聞), a largely mobile new media site launched by Shanghai’s Oriental Press Group, was one of the quickest to share videos taken in Tianjin, reporting simply: “A video from the scene of an explosion occurring late at night in Tianjin’s Binhai New Area development zone.”
Early coverage of the Tianjin explosions on Chinese social media.
At 11:49PM, Tencent, one of China’s largest internet portal sites, became the first to provide news in headline fashion: “A mushroom cloud rises from the scene of an explosion in Tianjin, shocks are felt scores of kilometres away.” This was nearly an hour ahead of the official People’s Daily, which sent out short news items at 12:43AM and 1:11AM via its official Weibo account.
Breaking news reports from Chinese media came well in advance of official releases from government agencies. The first post, for example, from “Peaceful Tianjin” (@平安天津), the official Weibo account of the Tianjin Public Security Bureau, did not come until 2:44AM on August 13, almost three hours after Tencent’s initial post. The release from Tianjin police confirmed the basics, saying explosions had occurred at “the container yard of the warehouse of Rui Hai International Logistics.” Early coverage of the Tianjin explosions by The Paper, a site in Shanghai.
This early detail would quickly become one of the core threads Chinese media would pull with relish, loosening the hem of a complex and revealing story.
We saw a rapid response from Chinese media of all kinds in the immediate wake of the explosions—including websites, newspapers, radio and television. Prominent newspapers and magazines, including The Beijing News, Caixin Media, The Paper, Caijing, Jiemian and China Youth Daily, all dispatched journalists to the scene, as did China Central Television’s News Channel. On August 13, the day immediately after the explosions, morning editions of The Beijing News, Beijing Youth Daily and others carried news of the explosions. Page one of The Beijing News featured a large photograph of the fire-cloud rising above the scene of the explosion. The Beijing News, a prominent commercial newspaper, runs a large photo of the Tianjin explosions on its front page on August 13, 2015.
Aside from this front-page coverage, the newspaper included further coverage on page 6.
In sudden-breaking stories in the past, such as the high-speed rail crash in Wenzhou, domestic Chinese media have done strong reporting despite strong and directed media controls. This generally means taking advantage of confusing situations and gaps in the government response, leaping into action before coverage of the story can be fully constrained.
There is no doubt, however, that in recent years media have been under intensified pressure across the board, and hard-won space for good reporting — even of a fleeting nature — has diminished. In the case of two major stories this year, the January stampede on the Bund in Shanghai and the capsizing in June of a cruise ship on the Yangtze River, the Chinese media were subjected to controls to an extent perhaps not seen in the past two decades of media under transition. Page 6 of the August 13 edition of The Beijing News, with special coverage of the Tianjin disaster.
In sudden-breaking stories in the past, such as the high-speed rail crash in Wenzhou, domestic Chinese media have done strong reporting despite strong and directed media controls. This generally means taking advantage of confusing situations and gaps in the government response, leaping into action before coverage of the story can be fully constrained.
But soon after the explosions in Tianjin, we heard one Chinese journalist saying: “The restrictions will come sooner or later, so we have to get a move on! Let the bans race against the truth!”
Some media, we know, had already received directives on August 13, and again on August 17 there were explicit directives demanding all journalists on the scene in Tianjin be pulled back by their respective news media, and that only “authoritative information” (meaning that issued by state media or government authorities) be used in reporting.
But propaganda restrictions were in fact limited in their effectiveness. As Qian Gang, the director of the China Media Project, observes, this crisis unfolded in an area close to the capital where media are highly concentrated, with substantial ongoing impact on the public. As large numbers of journalists quickly reached the area, the local government was powerless to control their activities. Perhaps even more importantly, in his official statement on the disaster response, published on page one of the People’s Daily on August 14, Premier Li Keqiang clearly underscored the need to “release information to society in an open and transparent manner.”
In statements following previous incidents, including the Shanghai stampede and the Yangtze River cruise ship sinking, Li Keqiang did not use similar language. And while the statement did not formally give Chinese media license to report openly—let’s not forget those directives—it did allow domestic media to push the envelope to a limited but important extent. Front pages of the official People’s Daily following several major sudden-breaking incidents occurring under the leadership of Xi Jinping and Li Keqiang.
In the case of The Beijing News, we have a major commercial newspaper that between August 13 and 19 consistently ran reports on the Tianjin explosions and their aftermath on its front page, and over these news days ran 43 full pages of coverage. The newspaper’s reporting dealt with the human cost of the tragedy, with the facts on the ground, but also with the timely pursuit of the deeper causes, and the much more sensitive question of responsibility. Media Ask the Tough Questions
Many of the initial questions were obvious. The extent of the damage on the scene was vast. So what were the hazardous materials that had caused the explosion? Were there still hazardous materials onsite, and to what extent? Was there a possibility they might set off further explosions? What were the risks of secondary contamination? Beyond these immediate questions, what sort of company was this Rui Hai International Logistics mentioned in the release from the Tianjin Public Security Bureau? Where were the environmental assessments it would necessarily have needed to operate? Why hadn’t they been made available? Also, what could account for the high level of casualties among firefighters?
As early as midday on August 13, The Beijing News issued a report through its public WeChat account dealing with this last question. But the report—“8 Questions: Why Are Rescue Workers Missing and Injured?”—was quickly removed by the authorities. It can still be found archived in other locations, including at Tencent News, where it is attributed to “The Beijing News new media.”
Shortly after, the newspaper posted another: “1 Question: How Could Rui Hai International Logistics’ Container Yard Restructuring Project Pass Environmental Inspection?” The article, also now apparently unavailable, questioned whether the official inspection so necessary in the case of the handling of hazardous materials had been handled properly. It also asked whether Rui Hai International Logistics might have violated environmental and safety regulations. Early coverage of the Tianjin explosions at the National Business Daily now brings up a “404 Not Found” message.
Another question was quickly raised by the National Business Daily: “How can such a dangerous facility be placed so near residential areas?” The paper’s report focused on the fact that the Rui Hai Logistics facility had in fact been built after nearby residential housing. So how had the project managed to get approval in the first place? The National Business Daily piece has since been removed, leaving this 404 error in its place.
Tencent Finance ran a report called, “Behind the Tianjin Explosions: How Could Rui Hai’s Dangerous Warehouse Cross the 1,000-meter Safety Line?” Highlighting national regulations, which clearly state that warehouse facilities for hazardous materials must be placed at least 1,000 meters away from other neighbouring structures, roads and transportation, the report again asked how Rui Hai had managed to build its facility in such a location. A report from Tencent Finance on safety issues behind the storing of hazardous materials so close to residential areas.
On August 13, the second morning after the disaster, The Beijing News ran a report called, “8 Questions Unanswered 24 Hours After the Explosions: Let Us Answer Them.” The report dealt with several core issues, including the nature of the explosive materials and their destructive power, the role of environmental and safety assessments, planning considerations (including proximity to residential areas), and how the question of responsibility would be dealt with. The report was shared widely through WeChat groups, clocking more than 100,000 views and 1,000 likes within a short period of time. As of August 20, the report, again by “The Beijing News new media,” remains available.
On August 14, four full pages of coverage in China Youth Daily grappled with four key questions: 1) Had the company in question, Rui Hai, actually met environmental standards?; 2) Why had a hazardous materials depot been so close to residential areas?; 3) Are there loopholes in the process of licensing for the handling of hazardous materials?; 4) Were fire safety procedures and their execution correct and sufficient? August 14, 2015, coverage from the China Youth Daily.
At 8PM on August 14, Caixin Media ran an exclusive report called, “Auxiliary Firefighters First to the Scene, Number of Casualties Unclear.” The piece dealt with the management, politics and economics of firefighting in China, an important yet obscure piece of the puzzle—exposing a system that relied on informal, or bianwai (编外), hires who did much of the hard work of firefighting without sufficient training or pay. This piece remains available at Caixin, but has been scrubbed from Tencent News, which had posted it for a time.
At 8PM the next day, August 15, authorities in Tianjin held their fourth press conference following the explosions. Many people claiming to be the relatives of firefighters who had responded on the night of August 12 pounded on the doors of the conference room, shouting that they could not reach their loved ones, and that they had seen no information about them in official notices.
That same afternoon, China Newsweekly had posted a report through its official WeChat public account called, “Not Just Firefighters, But Many Police at the Public Security Office of the Tianjin Port Are Also Not Public Servants.” (非公务员). The piece, which remains available on the China Newsweekly website as of August 20, confirmed that the first to arrive at the scene on August 12 had been a firefighting squad belonging to the Public Security Office of the Tianjin Port, but that they were not official hires (不属公务员编制). From this point on, the question of missing firefighters turned also to the deeper question of how China’s firefighting system was structured and managed. China Newsweekly reporting on the Tianjin explosions.
On August 16, Caixin Media came out with another report, “Mystery of Materials at Rui Hai Warehouse, Fire Response Handling of Hazardous Materials at Root of the Chaos,” which pointed out that Rui Hai had been unable still to provide a clear account of what sort of hazardous materials had been stored at the facility in what amounts, and that there were major discrepancies between numbers provided by customs officials and responsible persons at the company. The article remains available as of August 20.
When the high-speed rail crash occurred in China four years ago, Sina Weibo became the primary platform through which information was transmitted inside China. In the case of Tianjin, we see WeChat now playing a primary role. According to preliminary statistics provided by the WeChat public account “Xin Bang” (新榜), there were 1,674 articles dealing with the Tianjin explosions on the public accounts of Chinese media organisations on August 13, of which 55 articles were read 100,000 times or more (including quite a few read more than 1 million times).
One such post was “6 Major Questions About the Tianjin Explosions: What Exactly Are These Hazardous Materials (Drone Video Included?” The post, which as promised included footage over the scene of devastation taken with a drone, asked why — 19 hours after the explosions — it had still not been determined exactly what explosive materials had been? Further, it asked whether the decision to locate a hazardous materials depot had been properly handled, and why casualties among firefighters were so high. The post quickly reached more than 100,000 views. Screen capture from a drone video provided via WeChat by The Paper.
Thanks largely to the mobile internet as a real-time information sharing platform, questions about the disaster surfaced quickly. Within 48 hours, media had already honed in on a number of core points for investigation. These included: The cause of the explosions (and whether inadequate firefighting methods contributed); the problem presented by 700 tonnes of sodium cynanide (obviously directly concerning public health and safety); the facts about Rui Hai International Logistics and its connections; loopholes in the government’s system of oversight. Investigative Reporting in the Age of New Media
In handling information surrounding major disasters, Chinese authorities do their utmost to emphasise natural or inevitable causes, restraining discussions of human error that might touch on the question of the government’s own responsibility or negligence. By August 15, however, Chinese media were probing more deeply into the people and decisions behind the Tianjin explosions.
Among the first was the China Times, which on August 15 ran a report called, “No Permit for Handling Hazardous Materials, With Backing from High-level Officials and Others.” At just before 8AM the same day, Southern Metropolis Daily made a post to its mobile app called, “Sodium Cyanide Stocks Seriously in Excess of Standards.” The report, seen below, said that while the environmental assessment from Rui Hai International Logistics claimed that at most 10 tonnes of sodium cyanide would be stored at the depot, estimates now suggested as many as 700 tonnes had been on site. A report released by the Southern Metropolis Daily through its mobile app on August 15, 2015.
The Southern Metropolis Daily promoted the report, which remains available online as of August 20, through other channels as well, including its official Weibo account, where a post linking to the report again included a video from the scene of devastation on August 12.
That day, the print edition of the China Youth Daily carried a report on its front page called, “Depot Site of Explosions Had Constant Accidents in the Past.” The report can be seen just below the main photograph in the image below. China Youth Daily’s front page on August 15, 2015.
On the night of August 15, Caijing magazine ran a special feature called, “Rui Hai Logistics, Site of Tianjin Port Explosions, in Violation of Numerous Regulations.” The report said the question of whether Rui Hai had been properly qualified to handle hazardous materials was at the heart of the disaster, and probable negligence on this count had sown the seeds of tragedy. The online version of the report at Caijingwas still available as of August 20.
All of these reports made it painfully clear that in the case of the Tianjin explosions it was more than fair to apply those two words Chinese officials least like to see in cases such as this. This was most certainly a “human disaster,” or renhuo (人祸).
In the early morning hours of August 15, The Paper noted pointedly in a summary of the Tianjin story that up to that point three separate press conferences had been held and yet nothing had been revealed about what hazardous materials were actually present at the blast site. The following day, again in the early hours of morning, the Science and Technology Daily issued a special report called, “Sodium Cyanide Was Not the ‘Original Culprit’ in the Tianjin Explosions,” which continued to explore the questions of which hazardous materials had been stored at the depot. The Science and Technology Daily explores the chemicals behind the Tianjin explosions on the front page of its August 16 edition. The article is at the bottom of the page, beside the photograph.
Meanwhile, the mysterious background of the company behind the explosions, Rui Hai International Logistics, had been another focus of enterprising media investigations.
On August 13, Caixin released a preliminary report called, “The Details on Rui Hai International, the Company Involved in the Tianjin Explosions of August 12.” The report, which remains available as of August 20, revealed that Rui Hai’s background was complex, that its shareholders and executives had also invested in other companies in the same or related businesses. Caixin probes into the background of Rui Hai International Logistics, the company whose depot was the site of the explosions in the Tianjin Port on August 12.
On August 15, Jiemian, another new mobile news site based out of Shanghai, followed with a report called, “Rui Hai’s Mysterious Background: Dealings With the State-Owned Sinochem,” also available here, which reviewed information on the shareholders of Rui Hai International Logistics and found that many of its senior executives had served in posts at Sinochem Group, a Chinese state conglomerate specialising in the distribution of petrochemicals and agrochemicals, and which managed the logistics business at the Tianjin Port.
On August 16, Tencent Finance’s “Prism” (棱鏡) section reported that the second-largest shareholder in Rui Hai International Logistics had admitted to being a mere “stand-in” (替人代持) for another key player. Later that night, Caijing magazine ran its own special report, “True Shareholder of Rui Hai Logistics Comes to Light,” in which it revealed that a key shareholder was in fact the son of the former police chief of the Tianjin Port. Caijing’s report on August 16 on the mystery shareholder behind Rui Hui International Logistics.
On August 17, The Beijing Newsreported the same revelation through its WeChat public account: “The son of the former police chief of the Tianjin Port is fingered as the hidden shareholder of Rui Hai! Getting to the Bottom of Rui Hai International.” “Yesterday,” the post began, “Shu Zheng, a shareholder in Rui Jin International, the company involved in the Tianjin explosions, said that he was just holding shares for another, and that he ‘only knew that someone had used my identification card.’” August 17 coverage by The Beijing News, released through its WeChat public account.
Soon after the post from The Beijing News, China Newsweekly released its own investigation: “Dong Shexuan, Son of Former Police Chief of Tianjin Port, Revealed As Having Many Aliases.” The report was also made available on Netease and other sites.
By this point, “getting to the bottom of Rui Hai” (起底瑞海) had already become a popular meme on the mobile internet. On August 17, Jiemian (界面新聞) released an investigation called, “Behind the Rise of Rui Hai: A Case of Corruption Between Mysterious Persons and a State-Owned Enterprise,” which was subsequently picked up by many overseas websites, including Boxun. The report traced Rui Hai and the warehouse complex to its beginnings and a mysterious person by the name of Yu Xuewei (于学伟). According to reports in Hong Kong, including this excellent one from The Initium, Yu Xuewei had also registered a company of the same name in Hong Kong.
The Beijing News, China Youth Daily, The Paper, Caixin Media, Caijing and others proved quite versatile and multifaceted in their approaches to reporting on the Tianjin disaster. The 21st Century Business Herald also made its mark on the story, contributing a report called, “A Real Investigation of Sodium Cyanide Production Enterprises in Hebei,” detailing the lingering dangers of the broader industry in China. A selection of the major reports released through WeChat subscription accounts.
In the aftermath of the explosions in Tianjin, the response from the Chinese media was rapid, and breakthroughs in the investigation came quickly, helping to build momentum. The director of the Journalism & Media Studies Centre at the University of Hong Kong, Ying Chan, a long-time observer of the changes the new media age has brought to investigative reporting, says that Chinese media proved through their reporting on this story that they are capable of leveraging the strengths of new media, “getting nearer to the truth in relay fashion.”
Does This Equal Change?
Qian Gang of the China Media Project believes that the diligence and energy of the Chinese media in the first week following the Tianjin explosions is similar to what we saw in the case of the high-speed rail crash in 2011. The public opinion environment we’ve seen in the aftermath of the explosions, he says, is fascinating, with much that invites further study — not least the way in which the media’s efforts to get to the bottom of the question of responsibility coincided with the needs of the senior leadership.
For a major tragedy of this scale to occur so close to the capital city of Beijing, and so near to a military parade planned to commemorate the anniversary of the end of the Second World War, is most surely a shock for leaders in Zhongnanhai, says Qian. Already, the accident has exposed serious institutional shortcomings and vulnerabilities at a time when China is preparing to showcase its strength before the world.
Visiting the site of the Tianjin explosions on August 16, Premier Li Keqiang emphasised that “if authoritative release [of information] cannot keep up, then rumours will abound.” Air, water and soil quality and other environmental indicators should be accurately measured, he said, and the information shared in an open and transparent manner. “If something is this harmful, we must be open and transparent about it,” he said. “We cannot accept any omissions.” Holding a meeting at disaster relief headquarters, he said, “[We must] strictly seek liability, strictly seek accountability and severely mete out punishment.” The front page of the Southern Metropolis Daily on August 17, 2015.
On August 17, the Oriental Morning Post and Southern Metropolis Daily both reported Li Keqiang’s remarks on the front page with bold headlines: “Li Keqiang: [We] Must Fully Investigate Who Is Responsible.”
On the afternoon of August 18, an official announcement posted to the website of China’s Central Commission for Discipline Inspection (CCDI) said that Yang Dongliang (杨栋樑), the top official in charge of China’s State Administration of Work Safety, the very same man who three days earlier had been made leader of the State Council’s special investigative team to look into the Tianjin explosions, was now under investigation for “serious violations of law and discipline.”
The Chinese media’s own investigation into possible negligence within the State Administration of Work Safety got under way immediately. Through its news app, the Southern Metropolis Daily released a report called, “Work Safety Administration Website Posts Transport Department Document to Push Off Responsibility: Who Could Guess the Administration’s Director Would Fall the Next Day?” The report, posted on to other websites, included a screenshot of the CCDI announcement.
Against this sort of backdrop, those responsible for implementing information controls in China will find it nearly impossible to handle this as they have so many sudden-breaking incidents in the past, tightly binding the media and restricting the process of media monitoring, what is called in Chinese “supervision by public opinion,” or yulun jiandu (舆论监督).
It will also be exceptionally difficult for them to go back to resort to their old tricks on this particular story, demanding that the media “do negative stories in a positive manner,” turning a deeply troubling tragedy toward such themes as “great love” and “heroic praise” — or even, as the case with other tragedies this year, using them to stoke praise for the pro-activeness of the government. In fact, we have seen such stories in the wake of the Tianjin explosions, but so far they have not carried the day.
As for what we can expect to see from China’s media environment for the near and foreseeable future, Qian Gang says the situation remains what he has called the “Three C’s” — Control (控制), Change (变化) and Chaos (混沌). Controls on the media will continue through propaganda directives, pressure on media, the deletion of news reports and social media posts, the punishment of those said to have spread “rumours,” and other constantly adapting means as the leadership tries to maintain its mastery of information (or “guidance of public opinion”). But ongoing change — including rapid technological advancements in the media — will mean that media continue to seek new ways of being relevant. Meanwhile, continuing shifts in China (social, economic, political, technological, circumstantial) will create “chaos,” or confusion, that can provide media with gaps to be exploited.
This time, the right combination of “change” and “chaos” afforded Chinese media an opportunity they grabbed to great effect — just when a series of major stories in recent months and years had begun to make it seem they were in full professional retreat.
Will these momentary gains be in any way sustainable? Can we expect more strong reporting from Chinese media? Now, as reports from Tianjin are turning toward the question of anti-corruption, we will have to watch and see. Han Xiao is a research associate at the China Media Project. This article was translated by David Bandurski.
As I noted yesterday, there have been some exceptional examples of reporting on the Tianjin explosions in the Chinese media, despite unrelenting efforts on the part of the Chinese authorities to contain the information fallout, what official media pundits in the social media age often like to call a “public opinion crisis.”
Some of these reports have (or perhaps soon will) disappear from the internet or from social media platforms. But it is important to note both the willingness and the ability of Chinese journalists to do real reporting and resist control attempts where opportunity gaps appear.
Writing at the Global Investigative Journalism Network, my colleagues Ying Chan and Karen Chang have detailed some of the early efforts of Chinese media “to probe the why and how of the tragedy”:
In spite of official efforts to control news coverage of last week’s deadly explosions in the Chinese port city of Tianjin, Chinese media have responded swiftly not only to cover the fast-moving disaster, but also to probe the why and how of the tragedy.
Within hours of the blast, leading Chinese media, both traditional and online, began investigating reasons for the toxic facilities to be built next to residential developments, the ownership of the storage, the failure of government oversight, and the botched response to the disaster. CONTINUE READING >>
In our rapidly evolving global news space, content is still king. But I confess at least equal devotion to the sovereign’s hoary (and so often ignored) envoy: context.
As media reported last week, following a Public Security Bureau “work conference” in Beijing, that China would now “embed internet police in tech firms” and priority websites — underscoring yet again the deteriorating information climate under President Xi Jinping — context cowered in the shadows of the court. Everyone, as a result, got the story wrong.
In every report I could find, in either English or Chinese, these so-called “cybersecurity police units,” or wang’an jingwushi (网安警务室), were presented as new and shocking developments.
This image posted in September 2014 to 3603.com shows the websites own cybersecurity police unit along with an introduction to its on-site officer.
On August 5, the Wall Street Journal reported that China’s government “plans to embed cybersecurity police units at major Internet companies and websites.” TechSpot followed suit by warning that China’s already overbearing internet restrictions were “set to become even more extreme, as the country’s Ministry of Public Security has announced that cybersecurity police will be placed into the offices of major internet companies.”
TechSpot’s source link, which I included in the quote above, was Reuters, which referred to the wang’an jingwushi as “network security offices,” and suggested these were new things the government was “planning to set up.” As in every other report, the context was “tightening control”:
The government published a draft cybersecurity law last month consolidating its control over data, with significant potential consequences for Internet service providers and multinational firms doing business in the country.
On Aug. 4, China’s Ministry of Public Security announced that it would embed law enforcement officers at major Internet companies, which appear to include China Mobile, U.S.-listed Alibaba, and Tencent, which owns WeChat, the country’s largest social network. The online press release did not specify a time frame, but emphasized that creating rooms for “web police” in each company’s offices would aid the timely discovery and prevention of evils like terrorism, fraud, the theft of personal information, and, of course, “rumors,” meaning whatever the government decides is a speech crime.
In fact, there is a very good reason why China’s top police official, Chen Zhimin (陈智敏), did not specify a time frame, and context might have supplied the answer had everyone — including the English-language side of China News Service — not relied on a single Xinhua News Agency release. The bottom line: one need not specify a time frame for something that is already happening.
The context is coming. But first, let’s look at how the language came across on the Ministry of Public Security website:
Chen Zhimin demanded that public security organs serve as the main force in [preserving] online social security, cooperating closely with internet management agencies, and actively innovate internet security management, mutually promoting the building of rule of law in online society. [We] must fully promote website information security and other protective work, raising prevention of illegal and damaging website intrusions, and protection of the personal information of web users. [We] must fully put into effect online public inspection and law enforcement by net police . . . . actively discovering and restricting various illegal activities. [We] must deeply advance the building of “cybersecurity police units” (网安警务室) at priority websites and internet enterprises, building “cybersecurity police units,” grasping illegal offenses online at the earliest opportunity, serving and guiding websites in raising their security management and prevention capacities.
What I have translated here as “deeply advance the building of” should be properly understood as calling for the expansion and/or improvement of an existing project — though admittedly that would have sucked the wind right out of those news ledes. (No one wants the headline context would suggest: “Police Official Urges Expansion of Website Police Unit Network in Place for Years Already.”)
From the outset, respect for the most generic context might have invited more scepticism about the significance of Chen Zhimin’s remarks. Anyone with a middling knowledge of information controls in China should know that the Public Security Bureau has always played a central role in internet control. Sources abound. Try Anne-Marie Brady’s Marketing Dictatorship, or trudge through the richness of other books, papers and primers.
The obvious question arising from that context: Given the PSB’s historic involvement in information controls in China, how are these “cybersecurity police units” actually new?
And once we’ve asked that question, the answer comes back simply enough, without even the need to get insiders on the telephone. They aren’t new at all. We can find close to 50 articles on these so-called wang’an jingwushi in China’s own media over the past four years.
As far as I can ascertain from Chinese-language news databases, the first instance of “cybersecurity police units” appeared in Jinan, the capital of Shandong province, on December 31, 2010 — nearly a full two years, incidentally, before Xi Jinping became general secretary.
Jinan’s local Party mouthpiece, Jinan Daily, reported that the city’s first cybersecurity police unit had been established in the provincial headquarters of China Unicom:
From this day forward, police will be stationed at the Unicom cybersecurity police unit, engaging in onsite direction of the installation of cybersecurity technologies . . . carrying out criminal investigations and handling emergency actions to deal with computer virus transmission and other sudden-breaking issues.
Page 10 of the December 31, 2010, edition of Jinan Daily carries a small article on the establishment of the city’s first “cybersecurity police unit,” inside the local telecom provider.
The article, just to the right of the main image on page 10 of the newspaper, makes plain just how involved local police in Jinan will be in coordinating information control procedures in the city through the local telecoms provider. They will be present on the ground, directing the installation of hardware as well as dealing with “sudden-breaking issues.”
Can we suppose, then, that the installation of these cybersecurity police units began in 2010?
In the world of daily news, 2010 may be ancient history. But if it’s context that interests us, 2010 is an important year for the internet in China. Remember Google’s high-profile exit from China? Yeah, that was 2010. And China made the point in 2010 more emphatically than ever before that internet companies were welcome to do business in China, on condition that they operate “according to the law,” opening up their services to government and police scrutiny.
Crucially, it was also in April 2010 that China revised its Law on the Guarding of State Secrets, establishing must stricter standards for internet companies and telecom firms in abetting censorship and surveillance. In the context of that revision, the establishment of a cybersecurity police unit inside the Jinan operations of China Unicom makes perfectly devilish sense. We can also safely suppose Jinan was an isolated case of media reporting, not an isolated case of application of these “units.” A report, bottom-left of the page, in the official Nanfang Daily newspaper in Guangdong details Public Security Bureau involvement in the policing of the internet.
On October 13, 2011, a report from Guangdong’s official Party mouthpiece, Nanfang Daily, offered a picture of the online enforcement activities of police in another major city, Guangzhou:
Recently, in the ‘virtual world’ of the internet, there are also ‘virtual police,’ and ‘virtual [police] kiosks’ . . . . According to statistical data, since Guangzhou’s ‘virtual police’ were established, they have responded to more than 8,600 cases, and have handled more than 3,000 instances of criminal activity online. Aside from this, ‘cybersecurity police units’ have been set up at a number of priority portal sites, directing information security personnel at these sites in handling harmful online information, carrying out information security prevention and treatment programs, and strengthening the practical management of the virtual online space.
This nearly three year-old passage from Nanfang Daily paints quite a vivid picture of the sort of direct police involvement on internet and information policy that the spate of news reports last week warned us to anticipate.
Fast forward to August 28, 2013. The official China News Service reports that authorities in Hebei province are making progress in “cleansing the online environment.” They have shut down 9 websites for “illegalities and violations,” have issued warnings to 75 websites, and have removed 14,435 items of “illegal information.” The news item makes special note of the establishment of cybersecurity police units:
Hebei province’s “cleansing the online environment” campaign has operated in concert with the Public Security Bureau’s special campaign of “concentrated strike and purge of online criminality” . . . with interactive and e－commerce websites as the focus . . . employing methods of self-cleansing and self-investigation, with police working 24 hours a day to conduct inspections . . . establishing cybersecurity police units at internet service providers and data centers, and building emergency management mechanisms at priority websites. . .
Fast forward again to September 28, 2013. Jiangnan Metropolis Daily, a major commercial newspaper in China’s southern Jiangxi province, reports plans by local authorities to establish cybersecurity police units in “priority internet service providers and priority websites, striking out in accord with the law against such illegal criminal activities as [spreading] online rumors, online fraud, online direct selling, online pornography, online gambling and infringement on the personal information of citizens.”
I could go on like this, fast-forwarding through 20 or so other articles. Until, for example, we reached the January 21, 2014, edition of the official Ningxia Daily, which noted the establishment of a cybersecurity police unit inside a middle school as part of its push for a “peaceful Ningxia.” Or to the July 11, 2015, edition of Guangxi Daily, the official Party mouthpiece of the Guangxi provincial leadership, which announced the establishment of a cybersecurity police unit in Pingnan County (surely not an isolated example) in order to “create a harmonious and secure internet environment in Pingnan.”
The upshot — aside from the editorial point that we should expect better context (which isn’t difficult or expensive) from our reporters — is that we need not wait for a “time frame” on China’s cybersecurity police units. They are already here, they have been for some time, and they are far more ubiquitous and intrusive than last week’s Xinhua report would have led anyone to imagine.
While it doesn’t quite have the newsy new-thing pop of reporting a fresh abuse, we can probably also suppose that the high-level mention of these “units” from Chen Zhimin signals that police are serious about using and expanding them — and that, of course, is not good news.
The China Media Project and the Journalism & Media Studies Centre at the University of Hong Kong are pleased to announce the publication of a new book collecting the defence arguments of former CMP fellow Pu Zhiqiang (浦志强), a popular lawyer and public intellectual who has been held by Chinese authorities since May 2014 in the midst of a broad political campaign against rights defence lawyers.
Pu was indicted earlier this year on charges of “inciting ethnic hatred” and “picking quarrels and provoking trouble,” the latter a charge frequently levelled in recent years against rights defenders in China.
The newly-released JMSC publication, A Collection of Defence Arguments By Pu Zhiqiang (浦志强律师辩词集), is a Chinese-language compilation of many of the most important legal cases in which Pu Zhiqiang has been involved over the past decade. The cases are organised into several categories, including “Defamation Cases” (Section 1), “Administrative Proceedings” (Section 2), “Political and Human Rights Cases” (Section 3), and “Due Process” (Section 4). The book’s fifth section gathers together a number of Pu Zhiqiang’s shorter commentaries and blog entries over the years.
In a blog entry written on March 29, 2004, ten years before his sudden arrest presaged an aggressive official campaign against rights lawyers and civil society in China, Pu Zhiqiang wrote hopefully (p. 363):
And so I have found that the awakening of civic consciousness and the rise of the rights defence movement might possibly provide an outlet, a way at least by which we might reach a point of well-being. If each person does their own business properly, bringing their own rights to a point of actualisation, if when they are cheated they do a bit more than lick their own wounds, if they bow their heads to nothing unless in death, then perhaps this society will slowly grow a bit better.
On July 21, The Paper, an online news site based in Shanghai, ran a series of reports on the Three Gorges Dam, taking a comprehensive look at the social and environmental impact of this massive engineering project. The process of investigation for the series alone was the work of at least a full year, but after just seven hours online the series was pulled down by the authorities. As an official news outfit, The Paper certainly must have considered the challenges of managing political risk for such a topic. And yet, however that risk was calculated, there was no escaping the ultimate sensitivity of this issue.
The Three Gorges Dam is the biggest engineering project of its kind in China, and indeed in the world. The source of constant, yet mostly hidden, controversy at home, it is probably also the world’s most controversial dam project. Through much of the history of modern China, the project held attraction and courted controversy. One of the earliest advocates of the proposed dam project was the first president of the Republic of China, Sun Yat-sen. In the next generation, Mao Zedong was similarly a great advocate. Neither leader actually attempted the project, however. Not just because China had limited national resources at the time, but because the associated risks were difficult to fully assess.
Three Gorges Dam, photo by Michael Gwyther-Jones available at Flickr.com under Creative Commons attribution license.
The Three Gorges Dam finally made it onto the agenda in the 1980s, when it met with staunch opposition. Therefore, it was not until 1992, with Li Peng serving as Premier of the State Council, that the project was finally given the green light by the National People’s Congress.
China’s leadership made many beautiful promises in order to convince the Chinese people of the wisdom and necessity of the Three Gorges Dam. They insisted the project would bring vast improvements to flood control, hydroelectric capacity and shipping. Today, years after the project’s completion, these pledges remain largely unrealised. The promise that 10,000-ton vessels would be able to travel upstream from Wuhan to Chongqing, or that national power shortages would be a thing of the past, have proven little more than wishful fictions. In these later years, managing expectations, the government has suggested that the principal goal of the project was always flood control. And yet this too is a distraction from the facts. In 1998, the year after completion of the first phase, there were massive floods along the Yangtze. Again in June 2011, one month after the State Council formally announced the completion of the Three Gorges Dam, there was serious flooding along the downstream reaches of the river.
Alongside these failed promises has come greater and greater recognition of the (greater and greater) destructiveness of the dam itself — its ongoing impact on the climate, on the geological integrity of the area, and on the natural ecology, to say nothing of the relocation of millions of people and the destruction of countless historical sites. In recent years, the project has also been touched by scandal, including the exposure in February 2014 of corruption within the China Three Gorges Corporation.
For all of these reasons, the controversy surrounding the Three Gorges Dam has never rested. Certainly, controls on the media have ensured that voices of criticism are a raging undercurrent. But from time to time, these voices have surfaced, giving us a glimpse of the very real concerns involved. In 2011, for example, the Transition Institute, a Beijing-based independent think tank that has since been targeted by the authorities, ran a report by its founder, Guo Yushan, under the headline: “The Three Gorges Dam Will Very Possibly Come to Constitute a Major Disaster.”
The recent series from The Paper was quite possibly attempted because editors felt confident that the destructiveness of the Three Gorges Dam was a topic on which there was some level of consensus both inside and outside the system — and that the political risk, therefore, was minimal.
The facts now suggest The Paper miscalculated the risks. There is, without a doubt, some level of broader consensus over the destructiveness of the Three Gorges Dam. But The Paper‘s practical error was to underestimate the real political interests that remain behind the dam, and consensus does not necessarily translate into the level of political power needed to balance against these interests. You might say that the very existence of the Three Gorges Dam depends on the current political system, and while there is plenty of consensus too on the destructiveness of the system, this consensus does not prevent it from standing tall.
In fact, to a great extent the Three Gorges Dam is the most apt metaphor for China’s political system. The project is a product of systemic logic of the Chinese political system. It is a logic of supreme human dominance, in which nature exists only to be mastered by the directed wills of men. Put another way, the Chinese system is itself a kind of political Three Gorges Dam. Just as the dam stands in the face of nature, seeking only to constrain it, the political system fails to recognise society as another form of nature, requiring self-organisation, self-regulation, self-adjustment and self-improvement, as opposed to forceful, active shaping by political men.
Just as the success of the Three Gorges Dam is judged on the basis of how effective it is in taming nature, so is the success of China’s political system judged on the basis of how effectively it masters and contains society. This is not just about the containment and control of material interests, but also of social rights, moral resources and social credit. This system, a colossus of highly centralised control, is like the Leviathan about which Thomas Hobbes wrote in the 17th century. But today, as openness, diversity, self-reliance and open collaboration and sharing increasingly become the defining global values, this Leviathan looks more and more like those dinosaurs of old — a creature unseemly and absurd.
Our system is so rife with problems. And yet, and this is the most absurd thing of all, we are all uniformly helpless to deal with it. Sure, all systems in autocratic and authoritarian countries are Leviathans in their own ways. But just as none of these countries has ever managed a colossus to match the Three Gorges Dam, so have none ever managed to create a system as colossal as China’s, a system so massive it cannot be toppled. Just as the Three Gorges Dam is unique to China, China’s political system is unique.
The Three Gorges Dam must be dismantled, and China’s political system must be changed. That these days will come is beyond question, and the sooner the better. But the tougher question is how they are to be dismantled.
China’s political system is a monster on which a crucial number people in China have come to depend. According to official statistics, an estimated 57 million people in China were provided for by state finances in 2009 alone. Today, of course, that number would be even higher. National membership in the Chinese Communist Party now stands at around 87 million. And these numbers give us only a bare estimate of those benefitting directly from the patronage of the system. Meanwhile, those who do not enjoy the system’s patronage live under constant threat from the system, which legitimises the violent repression necessary to its self-preservation.
Herein lies the true complexity of China’s problems, the real conundrum facing meaningful transition, and also the true nature of so-called “Chinese characteristics.” The dismantling of the Three Gorges Dam would require relocation of tens of millions of people along the lower and middle reaches of the Yangtze River. The dismantling of the current political system would similarly require an appropriate action plan making arrangements for further tens of millions.
The dismantling of these leviathans will require not just ingenuity, expertise or scientific know-how, but a great reserve of human spirit. Both will be matters, sooner or later, of global urgency. This article was translated from the Chinese original, first published at Storm Media on July 28.
