By Eric Vandenbroeck and co-workers
The Chinese Nationalist Kuomintang
and its relation to Communism part two
The new alliance was sealed
at the first Congress of the Kuomintang, which opened in Canton on 20 January
1924. Although the official tally of the Chinese Communist Party members
amounted to less than 10 percent of the Kuomintang, they provided twenty-three
of the 165 delegates who attended the sessions. Borodin had been part of the
commission that had drawn up its program between late October and mid-January.
This was seen as a major statement of intent: an attempt to shift the party
away from the personal forms of authority which characterized Sun’s leadership
to a more formal, statist administration.1 The meeting exposed cleavages within
the Kuomintang. These came to be understood in terms of the Kuomintang ‘right’
and the Kuomintang ‘left,’ labels which were in many ways adopted by outsiders
to make sense of a very fluid situation and complex moral and intellectual
journeys.2 But they were also taken up as cudgels by the main protagonists
themselves. In the center of the Kuomintang ‘left’ was Wang Jingwei.
On the first scrutiny, his revolutionary credentials were unimpeachable: he had
been an adjutant to Sun Yat-sen during his years in
Southeast Asia after 1905. He had attempted by his own hand to assassinate the
Qing prince regent in 1910. During a second sojourn overseas after 1912, Wang
was active in France's anarchist work-study movement, although he himself did
not live as a worker. His experience of the Great War left him with a deep
mistrust of militarism and a belief in ‘human co-existence.’ Wang was naturally
inclined to scholarship more than politics but was pulled into the latter’s
epicenter by Sun Yat-sen on his return to China in
1919.3 In his stay overseas; he had married the daughter of a wealthy merchant
of Penang, Chen Bijun, who bore him six children, the
eldest two having been born in France. It was said in Canton that everyone in
the city walked on rubber soles from her trees, and many mistrusted his
professed ‘socialist credentials.’4 But Borodin and his allies now relied on
them for the success of their strategy.
Tensions surfaced at
a celebratory banquet on the very first evening of the Congress, when a
Kuomintang delegate demanded that if the communists were sincere, they should
leave their party. Li Dazhao attempted to reassure
the conference that ‘we join this party as individuals, not as a body. We may
be said to have dual party membership.5 But they were largely seen as
subordinates, and in an early session, when Mao Zedong and Li Lisan began to speak, many Kuomintang veterans ‘looked
askance … as if to ask: “where did these two young unknowns come from? How is
it they have so much to say?”6
On 25 January, Sun Yat-sen, again with Borodin (Mikhail Markovich
Gruzenberg) at his side, dramatically took
to the Congress stage to announce that Lenin had died on 21 January. Sun
delivered an emotional eulogy. The conference was adjourned for three days, and
the city was decked in mourning. A wave of grief swept through Asia. Moscow's
affiliates were not brought into being but was something spontaneous, embraced
by declared communists and non-communists alike. Across India, newspapers
repeated the refrain, in the words of a Hindi paper of Allahabad, that the
‘world’s greatest man of the age has passed away from this world.’ M. Singaravelu, who formed the Labour
Kisan Party in India, led a week of mourning: ‘by his death workers of the
world lost their great Teacher and Redeemer.’ It also revived the comparison
with Gandhi, who was still in a British prison, and the question of violence.
For some, the contrast had diminished, as one Kannada-language account put it:
‘Lenin hated violence as much as Gandhiji. But he did not believe in licking
the hand that holds the sword like a coward.’ For others, Lenin had died a true
sanyasi.7
n Moscow, Nguyen
Ai Quoc queued for hours in Red Square finally to see the great man; Quoc’s
toes, it was said, were permanently blackened by frostbite. In December 1923,
he had settled into the Hotel Lux. He was becoming better known in Comintern circles but complained of sharing a small room
with four or five others and campaigned for separate quarters for Asia's
leaders. But nearly four years from the first debates on the ‘National and
Colonial Questions’, there was impatience at the lack of progress made in communicating
with the human masses of Asia. As Quoc told the Fifth Congress: ‘I am here to
continuously remind the International of the colonies and to point out that the
revolution faces a colonial danger as well as a great future in the colonies.’
He laid out figures to convey its scale, for populations, investments, acres of
lands in North Africa, equatorial Africa, Madagascar. He lambasted the European
parties for their lack of action on the colonial question: comrades who ‘give
me the impression that they wish to kill a snake by stepping on its tail.’8 He
was increasingly impatient: he had, he said, been nine months in Moscow and six
of them waiting. Then he was told to join Borodin, who was ‘an old Bolshevik
versed in the ways of the underground’.9
The expected next world conflict
Ten years after the
war outbreak in Europe, there were many signs that the next world conflict was
coming. But it was to be unleashed at a moment when the revolutionary tide in
the west was ebbing, and its field would be Asia. At the anniversary of the
February revolution, Zinoviev reminded his audience that: The revolution will
turn from a European revolution into a world revolution only in the measure
that the hundred million human masses of the East will rise. The East is the main
reserve of a world revolution … The proletarian revolution is aiming first of
all at English imperialism.10
He returned to this
theme throughout the year. At the Fifth Comintern
Congress in July 1924, he stated that the Treaty of Versailles and the last
imperialist war was pregnant with a new imperialist war’.11 The bunds and
bridges that marked the limits of extraterritorial privileges for foreigners in
China had become the front line for the assault on the empire. When, on 19 June
1924, Pham Hong Thai threw his bomb into the Hotel Victoria's dining room in Shamian, the city of Canton came out on strike against the
entire European community. Perhaps it could have happened anywhere, but in
these months, it was Canton that took on a special band of revolutionaries from
all nations. One of them was a Korean former anarchist known as Kim San, who
had embraced communism during a sojourn in Beijing. To Kim, the veteran
Bolshevik was ‘a rock in a wild sea of inexperienced youth and enthusiasm’.12
The frenzy of life in the city was fuelled by the
expectation that Sun Yat-sen would commit to the
launching of a great northern expedition, to cut his way out of the southern
enclave and reunite China.
It was, in the words
of one Indian writer, an ‘ecliptic time.’13 A foretaste of this came with
the arrival, in April 1924, of the poet and sage Rabindranath Tagore. He had
been invited by the Beijing Lecture Society, presided over by the reformer and
intellectual Liang Qichao, following its earlier hosting of the philosopher's
John Dewey and Bertrand Russell. Tagore’s pan-Asian, spiritual cosmopolitanism
was confronted with a new mood and by a new generation. Many Chinese
intellectuals of the reform and May Fourth eras had drawn inspiration from
Tagore at some point in their lives. Chen Duxiu, for
instance, had translated some of his verse. But the protests were led by a
younger group of intellectuals, many recently returned from Japan and exposed
to anarchist thought there, for whom the generation of May Fourth already seemed
distant and aloof. Guo Moruo was a returnee who had
studied for many years in Japan in the Medical School of Kyushu Imperial
University and married a Japanese woman. An avid reader of Spinoza, Goethe, and
Tagore, he had abandoned medicine for literature and, on his return to
Shanghai, had, with kindred spirits, formed a ‘Creation Society.’ It challenged
the older generation’s near-monopoly on the printing presses – the influential
Commercial Press controlled 30–40 percent of the city’s literary output at the
time – and championed a new, socially engaged, internationalist style. ‘If you
are sympathetic with revolution,’ Guo wrote, ‘the works you create or
appreciate will be revolutionary literature, speaking in the name of the
oppressed class.’14 Guo Moruo had devoured and
translated Tagore as a student in Japan, but now, as he told it, his evolving
responses to Tagore were stations on his journey towards materialism: ‘My
spiritual ties with Tagore were snapped … I thought Tagore was a nobleman, a
sage, and I was an ordinary mortal of little worth. His world was different
from mine. I had no right to be there.’ With Tagore’s presence in China, there
was a danger that the youth might be similarly seduced by his reification of
the ‘oriental’ and distracted by his spiritualism.15
Tagore reached Hong
Kong in early April 1924. Sun Yat-sen invited him to
Canton through a messenger, but Tagore, traveling behind schedule, pressed on
to Shanghai and Beijing. Few questioned Tagore’s anti-colonial credentials. In
Shanghai, he criticized Britain’s continued deployment of troops from India in
China.16 But Tagore’s visit to the last emperor, Puyi, further antagonized his
critics in the Forbidden City. There was growing mistrust of the motives of his
hosts. Lu Xun, who heard him speak in Beijing,
satirized their wearing of ‘Indian caps’ on the stage: they treated Tagore as
if he was a living god.’17 In Hankou, Tagore was met with shouts and placards
at a lecture outside the Supporting Virtue Middle School: ‘Go back, a slave
from a lost country!’ ‘We don’t want philosophy; we want materialism!’ He left
acknowledging that the gulf between him and his audience was unbridgeable.18
The worries that Tagore’s spiritual passivity would seduce a new generation in
China proved unfounded. An opinion poll was commissioned of students at Beijing
University, and 1,007 responded, 725 of whom favored ‘people’s
revolution’:
Which country is
China’s true friend? Russia: 497; United States: 107; Neither of the two: 226;
Both: 12; No opinion: 253. What political party or system do you favor?
Socialism: 191; Sun Yat-sen’s party: 153;
Democracy: 69;
Federal Republic: 40; ‘Good government’: 14; Revolutionary party: 13. Who is
the greatest man in the world [outside China]? Lenin: 227; Wilson: 51; Bertrand
Russell: 24; Tagore: 17; Einstein: 16; Trotsky: 12; Kaiser Wilhelm II: 12;
Washington: 11; Harding: 10; Lincoln: 9; John Dewey: 9; Bismarck: 9; Gandhi: 9;
Tolstoy: 7; Marx: 6, etc.19
In the coming months,
many of these university students made their way to Canton.
At the center of this
was the foundation, with Soviet money, of a military academy at Whampoa, some
miles south of the city. It was to provide an independent military cadre for
the Kuomintang, as had been urged by Sneevliet and
others from the outset. Still, it also became a means for its commandant,
Chiang Kai-shek, to cultivate his leadership style, as he emerged as the
leading force within what was an increasingly militarized regime. Chiang was a
strong believer in the discipline and rigidity that military training provided.
But physical resilience was insufficient, and an important function of Whampoa
was political education. It was a measure of the ideological fluidity when the
first classes began in June 1924; one of the commissar-instructors in political
economy was Zhou Enlai, who had returned from the communist organization in
France. Soviet advisers also led classes. These included around twenty-five
Koreans and between ten and fifteen Vietnamese, and recruits also came from the
Chinese night schools in Malaya and Singapore. The academy was a forcing-house
for bodily discipline, revolutionary élan, and personal networks: the
‘Intimacy, Fraternity, Dexterity, Sincerity’ of its motto. Chiang Kai-shek took
his maxim – ‘the lives of all the cadets at Whampoa are ultimately one life’ –
as a license to cultivate men whose loyalty would be to him. A high number of
the first cohort of recruits came from Shanghai, through Chiang’s connections
with the city’s business elite and the criminal underworld.20 Meanwhile, Zhou
Enlai created a caucus of military officers loyal to the Chinese Communist
Party. This emphasis on leadership training went further than previous
experiments in Asia, such as the Tan Malaka schools.
A Peasant Movement Training Institute was also set up in July in Canton in an
old Confucian temple with thirty-eight students, mostly from Guangdong, and led
by Peng Pai. Over the next two years, this Institute would educate over 800
peasants from increasingly further afield, many coming from the mines of Anyuan, and they gained practical experience in the
Guangdong countryside.21
Tan Malaka had arrived in Canton in December 1923, after a
long, clandestine journey that sowed the seeds of a vision of the unity of the
maritime world of Asia. On his journey into European exile, bullied by drunken
Dutchmen, the Chinese sailors on board his ship had stepped in to protect him.
They were followers of Sun Yat-sen; they knew his
situation and shared his views. These solidarities now helped him move freely
across Asia. They were also at the heart of the sojourns of his own people, the
Minangkabau, in the largeness of the world, across the Indian Ocean, to Ceylon
and Madagascar: ‘Guided by the moon and the stars, sailing in their tiny boats,
they were protected by their wits, and their spirit of community and mutual
co-operation in both good times and bad. And even the ocean became only a lake
in their eyes.’22 Now he gave the vision a name, ‘Aslia’:
a nation for the peoples without a country, within a new socialist world
system. In Canton, he was put to work with the seafarers. Reasonably fluent in
the lingua franca of the Comintern in Europe, German,
he possessed neither of the common tongues of radicalism in Asia, Chinese and
English. For his propaganda work, he adopted a kind of ‘basic English’ with a
limited vocabulary of some 800 or so words, which he later conflated with the
pacifist C. K. Ogden’s global interlanguage, which was to be brought to China
by I. A. Richards, a fellow of Magdalene College, Cambridge, in 1929.23 His
journal, The Dawn, was produced by a Chinese printer with no knowledge of
western languages and, Tan Malaka complained, with
insufficient Latin type for the task. Despite his work with the seafarers, he
was out of touch with events in Indonesia, and, in the relative extremes of the
climate in southern China, his tuberculosis worsened. An Indonesian visitor,
his only contact with home for an entire year, found him bedridden in an
‘outlying quarter’ of the city.24 But his major achievement came in June 1924,
in the first Pan-Pacific Labour Congress in Canton.
For the first time, it brought together Asia’s global waterfront, sailors and
dockers fanning out from China, Japan, Singapore, Malaya, Indonesia, Siam, the
Philippines, and India in intricate cross-cutting webs, re-energizing links
that stretched across the Pacific.25
he entire
seaboard of Asia seemed about to catch fire. In the middle of 1924, a reported
twenty-eight pirate gunboats were roaming the water approaches to Canton, and
most of the tow-boats to delta ports such as Dongguan and Xiangshan
had stopped sailing.26 To the north, fighting threatened the river and rail
connections of Shanghai: the ultimate prize of the north's warlords, not least
because of the profits of the drugs trade. In August 1924, the Huangpu River
was vulnerable, and the foreign powers determined to bring in their own
warships. A flotilla of several nations anchored off the bund and a military
cordon was thrown around the city beyond its treaty borders. Fighting itself –
and the press-ganging of labor – reached the Chinese city, and by the end of
September there were perhaps half a million Chinese refugees in the
International Settlement; masterless men and women roamed the surrounding
countryside and spilled into the city, 8,000 or so of them occupying the
railway carriages and waiting rooms of the Northern Station. In December,
fighting erupted again; much of the country around Shanghai was ransacked, and
violence and looting once more spread into the suburbs. Like the bomb thrown at
M. Merlin, it brought the brutal reality of war to the doorsteps of the
privileged foreigners.27
On 12 November 1924,
a flurry of letters from Canton to Moscow announced another new arrival. He
wrote to apologize for his sudden departure from Moscow and gave his new
address as the Soviet news agency's office, ROSTA. He swiftly ensconced himself
in the Borodin House. He used the identity of Ly Thuy, feigned a Chinese
ethnicity, and sometimes wrote under the pseudonym of a woman, but concerned
himself principally with the Vietnamese communities in the city. ‘I haven’t
seen anyone yet,’ he complained. ‘Everyone here is busy about Dr. Sun going
north.’28 It took a couple of months before the French Sûreté
confirmed that Ly Thuy was indeed their old quarry, Nguyen Ai Quoc.
The same evening
there was a military parade to bid farewell to Sun Yat-sen,
as he left Canton to resolve the Chinese revolution's fate. He went at the
northern warlord's invitation, Feng Yuxiang, whose forces
had seized Beijing the previous month. One of Feng’s first acts was to remove
the titles and privileges of the imperial families, of the last Qing emperor,
eighteen-year-old Puyi, and to evict him from the Forbidden City, where he had
lived in seclusion with a diminishing retinue of eunuchs and tutors since the
fall of the dynasty in 1912.29 For Sun, this seemed to open a path for him to
regain the national pre-eminence he had lost in his wilderness years of exile
and isolation in the south. Of late, he had become impatient with the ‘radical
drift’ of Canton politics, and his mind turned towards the higher arena. In
September, he left Canton for Shaoguan, on the border
with Hunan province, to prepare for a new expedition to the north to unify
China. His plans stalled when his commanders were slow to rally to him. Chiang
Kai-shek believed the position in Canton itself was not secure enough to allow
this. Now, Sun stopped only briefly back in Canton as he left to achieve by
diplomacy the ‘great central revolution’ that he had failed to achieve by
arms.30 As Sun passed through Shanghai, the local leaders
of the Kuomintang organized clamorous civic receptions. His insistent
anti-imperialist message and his call for a new national assembly caught the
popular mood. It seemed that he might regain the momentum to restore past
glories and the presidency of the republic.31
The predestination
air intensified when, between Shanghai and Tianjin, Sun made a short visit to
Japan. In a speech at a girls’ school in Kobe on 28 November, he invoked the
vision of pan-Asianism first raised by the exiles in
Japan twenty years earlier: the call for solidarity between peoples suffering
the same sickness of imperial domination. Those who had taken a stand against
the empire during the world war – men such as Rash Behari Bose and Prince Cuong De – still lived in exile in Japan, awaiting their
hour. The horrors of the Great War had undermined faith in western
‘civilization’ and its claims to universal standards among European and Asian
intellectuals. ‘Asianism’ revived as a counterweight
to its materialism and rapacious violence.32 But Sun Yat-sen
had always put the struggle for China first. In his Three Principles of the
People, written after the first Kuomintang Congress in 1924, Sun warned that
‘the European idea of cosmopolitanism is but the doctrine of “might is right”
in disguise,’ and therefore ‘unless the spirit of nationalism is
well-developed, the spirit of cosmopolitanism is perilous.’33 He seemed
to place his faith in the ‘universalism’ of Chinese thought – its historical
traditions of peaceful reciprocity – and distance himself from his earlier
declared affinity for western socialism.34 His attacks on British imperialism
electrified his Japanese audience. But in Kobe, in his peroration, Sun also
questioned his hosts' motives: ‘Will Japan become the hunting dog of the
Western Rule of Might or the bulwark of the Eastern Rule of Right?’ These last
words were redacted in many Japanese newspapers, as Sun’s ideological legacy
became contested on all sides.35
For months there had
been rumors of Sun’s failing health. Many of his key aides, including his de
facto deputy in the south, Hu Hanmin, counseled
against Beijing's journey. They feared it was a trap to confer recognition on
his northern warlord rivals at the expense of Sun’s own claims to lead China.
Many of his allies on the left were opposed to negotiating with warlords,
however patriotic or progressive their professed intentions. Sun’s generals had
yet to achieve a monopoly of force within Guangdong’s own borders. There was a
long and bitter standoff in Canton itself between government forces and the
so-called ‘paper tigers,’ the mercenary militias employed by the city merchants
to protect their fortified warehouses and break strikes. When their ability to
import arms was obstructed on 10 October 1924, fighting broke out, and some
3,000 houses and shops – according to the Electric Company's estimate – in the
traders’ district to the west of the old walled city were left in flames.
People who tried to escape were shot at from the rooftops. Refugees fled into
the western concessions on Shamian Island. From
behind its defenses, the cries of those caught in the flames could be heard
through the night. Perhaps 200–300 merchant volunteers were killed and 100
soldiers, many shot for looting. The civilian death toll was unclear. The city
merchants never forgave Sun. He was, one Chinese newspaper cried, ‘bringing us
all to our destruction.’ As a foreigner who witnessed it commented, ‘I am
convinced that it will be impossible for Sun Yat-sen
ever to return here.’36
In Sun’s absence,
Canton was threatened by a fresh offensive by Chen Jiongming
from the east. Sun ascribed both crises to the machinations of the foreign
powers. His government survived in no small part under its ability to mobilize
the cadets training at Whampoa Military Academy. In 1925, around 2,500
graduates passed through its gates, many of them to fight alongside Soviet
advisers in the breakout spring ‘eastern expedition’ against Chen Jiongming. These cadets gathered valuable war booty and
vital experience of using political propaganda to enlist farmers and laborers
as guides, spies, and porters.37 The Soviet advisers, of whom there were around
forty by this time, we're transfixed by a looming power struggle within the
Kuomintang. They complained of Chiang’s increasing hauteur, his temper,
procrastination, and evasiveness. But they had little reason to doubt his
commitment to revolution. When Mikhail Borodin was asked by one of his
subordinates, ‘How far will Chiang Kai-shek go with us?’, he replied: ‘Why
shouldn’t he go with us?’38
On Sun Yat-sen’s arrival in Beijing on 31 December 1924, his old
friend, Beijing University president, Cai Yuanpei, turned
out the student cadets to escort him in triumph from the railway station,
attended by the representatives of some 500 civic associations. But, in a twist
of fate, Sun was taken seriously ill in Tianjin. His condition worsened a few
days after he arrived in Beijing, and he moved from the Hôtel de Pékin to the Rockefeller-funded Peking Union Medical
College Hospital. A small circle of advisers closed around him, led by Wang Jingwei, who traveled as his secretary, Borodin, who had
journeyed separately to join him in Beijing. The communist's Li Dazhao and Zhang Guotao. As Sun
ebbed in late February 1925, a political will was drafted by Wang Jingwei, with a ‘letter of farewell’ to the Soviet
leadership pledging alliance, approved by Borodin. They were the only two aides
allowed at his bedside. With the help of Sun’s wife, Soong Ching-ling, the
letters were signed by Sun on 11 March, together with a will bequeathing his
property to her. Sun died the next day. The documents named no successor. Sun
was not a ‘party’ leader in any conventional sense, but the embodiment of a
revolution; nor, despite Borodin’s best efforts, was the Kuomintang yet a fully
formed ‘political party’ in the Bolshevik image.39
Sun’s prestige soared
on his passing: there were solemn vigils in cities across China in which
emotions blended with rituals from Lenin's new cult.40 Sun asked to be buried,
like Lenin, close to the people, and a bronze and crystal glass-fronted coffin
was ordered from Russia. A plan to requisition the Hall of Supreme Harmony
within the Forbidden City was quietly dropped. Instead, Sun lay for three weeks
in Beijing’s Central Park, adjacent to Tiananmen Square. When the coffin
arrived, it proved to be inadequate manufacture of tin and glass, and Sun’s
embalmed body was laid to rest in a simple wooden casket. The private funeral
ceremony – amid further controversy – was a Christian service, insisted on by
the American-educated Soong Ching-ling, and featuring Sun’s favorite hymn:
‘Abide With Me.’41 His body was then laid in the Temple of the Azure Clouds in
the Western Hills, along with the empty tin casket. As with Lenin, news of
Sun’s death was a catalyst to grief across the globe: he was the ‘father of the
nation,’ and, together with Gandhi, the best-known face of Asia. As Tan Malaka, a witness to this in Canton, observed, before Sun’s
passing, many in the city had called him an ‘empty cannon’: ‘it was really only
after he had died that I saw respect and even praise given to Dr. Sun.’ Tan Malaka had met Sun when he first arrived in the city. He
could not subscribe completely to Sun’s vision, especially his Marxism
critiques and his lifelong faith in Japan as the ‘light of Asia.’ But he
admired Sun for his perseverance, the awareness that there would be constant
reversals on the path to revolution, and, above all, as a fugitive who had many
“strategies” and who had friends everywhere’.42 In the Netherlands Indies,
there were memorial services in Semarang, Surabaya, and Bandung, attended by
Javanese and Chinese. After speeches celebrating Sun and Lenin's friendship,
the government forbade a similar demonstration of solidarity in the capital,
Batavia.43 In Singapore, mourners converged on the ‘Happy Valley’ amusement
park in Tanjong Pagar, where the Prince of Wales had
opened the Malaya-Borneo exhibition three years earlier. Over two days, an
estimated 100,000 people filed past 2,000 commemorative scrolls and a
life-sized portrait of Sun. This was almost on the scale of the crowds in
Beijing itself. The British saw this as an insidious challenge to their
authority.44 Even the quietest corners of colonial Asia felt the impact of
these events.
1. George T. Yu, Party
Politics in Republican China: The Kuomintang, 1912–1924, Berkeley, University
of California Press, 1966, pp. 171–5.
2. A point made by
Michael G. Murdock, ‘Exploiting Anti-Imperialism: Popular Forces and
Nation-State-Building During China’s Northern Expedition, 1926–1927’, Modern
China, 35/1 (2009), pp. 65–95.
3. For this see Zhiyi Yang, ‘A Humanist in Wartime France: Wang Jingwei during the First World War’, Poetica, 49 (2017/18),
pp. 163–92.
4. Vera Vladimirovna
Vishnyakova-Akimova, Two Years in Revolutionary
China, 1925–1927, Cambridge, MA, East Asian Research Center, Harvard
University, 1971, p. 206.
5. Pantsov, The Bolsheviks and the Chinese Revolution, p.
64.
6. Zhang, The Rise of
the Chinese Communist Party, p. 332.
7. Devendra Kaushik
and Leonid Mitrokhin (eds), Lenin: His Image in India, Delhi, Vikas, 1970, pp.
90, 92, 99, 105.
8. See Inprecor, 4/55, 4 August 1924, pp. 577–8.
9. Kobelev, Ho Chi Minh, p. 76.
10. David Petrie,
Communism in India 1924–1927, edited with an Introduction and Explanatory Notes
by Mahadevaprasad Saha,
Calcutta, Editions Indian, 1972, p. 3.
11. ‘For the Tenth
Anniversary of the Imperialist War’, Inprecor, 4/43,
18 July 1924.
12. Kim San and Nym Wales, The Song of Ariran:
The Life Story of a Korean Rebel, New York, John Day, 1941, pp. 79–82,
quotation at p. 86.
13. Harsha Dutt, ‘Rabindranath Tagore and China’, Indian Literature,
55/3 (263) (2011), pp. 216–22, at p. 219.
14. Yin Zhiguang, Politics of Art: The Creation Society and the
Practice of Theoretical Struggle in Revolutionary China, Leiden, Brill, 2014,
esp. pp. 56–85; Wang-chi Wong, Politics and Literature in Shanghai: The Chinese
League of Left-wing Writers, 1930–1936, Manchester, Manchester University
Press, 1991, quotation at p. 14.
15. Sisir Kumar Das,
‘The Controversial Guest: Tagore in China’, China Report, 29/3 (1993), pp.
237–73, quotation at p. 253.
16. For Tagore and
Indian troops see Sugata Bose, His Majesty’s Opponent: Subhas Chandra Bose and
India’s Struggle Against Empire, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 2011,
p. 263.
17. Das, ‘The
Controversial Guest: Tagore in China’, quotation at p. 263.
18. Stephen N. Hay,
Asian Ideas of East and West: Tagore and his Critics in Japan, China, and
India, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1970, p. 181.
19. Ibid., pp.
237–8.
20. Yan Xu, The
Soldier Image and State-building in Modern China, 1924–1945, Lexington,
University Press of Kentucky, 2019, pp. 27–52, quotation at p. 41; Lincoln Li,
Student Nationalism in China, 1924–1949, Albany, NY, State University of New
York Press, 1994, p. 28.
21. Gerald W.
Berkley, ‘The Canton Peasant Movement Training Institute’, Modern China, 1/2
(1975), pp. 161–79.
22. Tan Malaka, From Jail to Jail, vol. I, p. 41.
23. Rodney Koeneke, Empires of the Mind: I. A. Richards and Basic
English in China, 1929–1979, Stanford, CA, Stanford University Press,
2004.
24. TNA, FO
371/11084, J. Crosby, ‘Notes on the national movement and on the political
situation in the Netherlands East Indies generally’, 30 April 1925.
25. Josephine Fowler,
‘From East to West and West to East: Ties of Solidarity in the Pan-Pacific
Revolutionary Trade Union Movement, 1923–1934’, International Labor and
Working-Class History, 66/1 (2004), pp. 99–117.
26. ‘Kuangtung’s unsettled state’, North China Herald, 5 July
1924.
27. The classic study
of these wars is Arthur Waldron, From War to Nationalism: China’s Turning
Point, 1924–1925, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1995.
28. Ho Chi Minh Museum,
Hanoi, Nguyen Ai Quoc to Comintern, dated Canton, 12
November 1924.
29. James E.
Sheridan, Chinese Warlord: The Career of Feng Yü-Hsiang,
Stanford, CA, Stanford University Press, 1966, pp. 136–7, 146.
30. Marie-Claire
Bergère, Sun Yat-sen, Stanford, CA, Stanford
University Press, 2000, pp. 339, 350, 395–8.
31. Arthur Waldron,
From War to Nationalism: China’s Turning Point, 1924–1925, Cambridge, Cambridge
University Press, 1995, pp. 223–6.
32. Prasenjit Duara, ‘The Discourse of Civilization and Pan-Asianism’,
Journal of World History, 12/1 (2001), pp. 99–130.
33. Leonard Shihlien Hsü, Sun Yat-Sen: His Political and Social Ideals, Los Angeles,
University of Southern California Press, 1933, p. 225.
34. Bergère, Sun Yat-sen, pp. 369–70.
35. Torsten Weber, Embracing ‘Asia’ in China and Japan: Asianism Discourse and the Contest for Hegemony, 1912–1933,
Basingstoke, Palgrave Macmillan, 2017, quotation at p. 206. See also Craig A.
Smith, ‘Chinese Asianism in the Early Republic:
Guomindang Intellectuals and the Brief Internationalist Turn’, Modern Asian
Studies, 53/2 (2019), pp. 582–605.
36. Shuntian Shibao, 23 November
1924, quoted in Leslie H. Dingyan Chen, Chen Jiongming and the Federalist Movement: Regional Leadership
and Nation Building in Early Republican China, Ann Arbor, University of
Michigan Press, 1999, pp. 227–8, quotation at p. 245. Chen also cites the Hong
Kong Telegraph, 17 October 1924; I quote its reportage more fully here.
37. Aleksandr Ivanovich Cherepanov, As Military
Adviser in China, Moscow, Progress, 1982, p. 83; C. Martin Wilbur and Julie
Lien-ying How (eds), Missionaries of Revolution:
Soviet Advisers and Nationalist China, 1920–1927, Cambridge, MA, Harvard
University Press, 1989, pp. 144–5.
38. Cherepanov, As Military Adviser in China, p. 211.
39. James R. Shirley,
‘Control of the Kuomintang after Sun Yat-Sen’s
Death’, The Journal of Asian Studies, 25/1 (1965), pp. 69–82.
40. Suggested by
David Strand, An Unfinished Republic: Leading by Word and Deed in Modern China,
Berkeley, University of California Press, 2011, pp. 283–4.
41. Henrietta
Harrison, The Making of the Republican Citizen: Political Ceremonies and
Symbols in China 1911–1929, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 2000, pp. 133–46; Bergère,
Sun Yat-sen, pp. 395–407; Lian Xi, ‘Western
Protestant Missions and Modern Chinese Nationalist Dreams’, East Asian History,
32/33 (2006/7), pp. 199–216, at p. 211.
42. Tan Malaka, From Jail to Jail, pp. 100–103.
43. TNA, FO
371/11084, J. Crosby, ‘Notes on the national movement and on the political
situation in the Netherlands East Indies generally’, 30 April 1925.
44. C. F. Yong and R.
B. McKenna, Kuomintang Movement in British Malaya, 1912–1949, Singapore, NUS
Press, 1990, pp. 40–41.
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