By
Eric Vandenbroeck and co-workers
The invention of nation-building, ethnicity, and race
in modern Chinese nationality.
As recently
exemplified by "Chinese National Identity in the Age of Globalisation" (2020) by Lu Zhouxiang
(Editor) that argued among others that Chinese nationalism is a factor that
warrants greater consideration than it had elicited before Xi Jinping’s
administration.
Also,
"Construction of Chinese Nationalism in the Early 21st Century: Domestic
Sources and International Implications (2014) by Suisheng
Zhao (Editor) already concluded that; China has one of the highest levels of
popular nationalism in
the world.
During the 1980s,
largely due to the relatively liberal political environment and reform-minded
top leadership policies, Chinese nationalism had a moderate orientation; as
pointed out, this changed following the 1989 Tiananmen crackdown when history
and memory were developed to become a new power.
Deng Xiaoping’s
strategy was to redefine the “one-hundred-year history of humiliation” as a new
source of legitimacy of the CCP’s rule and the unity of the Chinese people and
society. In turn, Xi Jinping has claimed some of the most popular moves by Deng
Xiaoping as his own. While not always referring this to Deng, as the Xinhua
news reported as recent as 14 October, Xi laid flowers at the feet of a Deng
statue as part of the recent Shenzhen
Special Economic Zone festivities while urging a deeper integration among young
people" to strengthen their sense of belonging to the motherland."
Thus Chinese nationalism is also rooted in the imagined multi-ethnic community
designed by the communist party.
And although Mao
Zedong in March 1953 still referred to "Han chauvinism" to criticize
his rival Kuomintang party, this drastically changed following the 1989
Tiananmen crackdown when history and memory were developed to become a new
nationalistic power.
Thus the ruling
political party of the People's Republic of China's current allegiance to the
unchanging never-never land of a timeless past is clear in its delineation of
China’s borders, based on the furthest reaches of a Manchu-led empire, the
Qing, but claimed to be eternal and perpetually “Chinese.”
But it is the Maoist
period that largely shaped China’s contemporary boundaries and geopolitical
landscape. The Qing Dynasty's internal weakening in the 18th and 19th centuries
provided ample opportunities for imperial exploitation of China by Europe and
later Japan.
One of Beijing’s
greatest fears about the buffer regions stems from how China assimilated them
into the country. Unlike the Soviets, who moved non-Russian ethnic groups
around to avoid contiguous ethnicities across borders, China moved Han Chinese
into the buffer regions, slowly diluting the local populations. China still
fears Pan-Turkic movements spreading through Central Asia into Xinjiang; large,
organized ethnic Tibetan populations in India; Inner Mongolian herdsmen
potentially seeking reunification with Mongolia; ethnic Koreans on the Chinese
side of the Yalu River forging ties with a future unified Korea, and numerous
ethnic minority and even militant groups moving along the borders of Southeast
Asia.
The Manchu Qing court, inheritors of Inner Asian
traditions of rule, had known how to play this game. They had relations with
other Inner Asian peoples stretching back generations. The new Republic,
however, was attempting to impose a completely different political order based
upon a Western template of sovereignty and hard borders. Its leaders were
obliged to find an answer for the bianjiang wenti – the border
question. How were they to ‘fix’ the national territory when the state was
in the process of falling apart? But there was also a bigger question: how
could the new state make its citizens feel loyal to each other and places that
they had never seen would almost certainly never visit and yet assumed to be
vital for national survival? Both of these missions, as we have seen in part
one of this two-part investigation, were given to a new class of special
agents, the geographers.
The China that didn't exist
It was 26 April 2019,
the opening banquet of the Second Belt and Road
Forum in Beijing. As well as offering fine words about regional cooperation, Xi
wanted to talk about history. ‘For millennia, the Silk Road had witnessed how
countries achieved development and prosperity through commerce and enriched
their cultures through exchanges,’ he told the delegations. ‘Facing the myriad
challenges of today, we can draw wisdom from the history of the Silk Road, find
strength in win-win cooperation in the present day and build partnerships
across the globe to jointly usher in a brighter future where development is
shared by all.’1
History, or rather a
particular version of history, underpins events such as this. Through staging
and rhetoric, Xi Jinping presents China as the natural leader of East Asia and
perhaps beyond. The metaphor of the Silk Road is deployed as a diplomatic tool:
ultimately, all its roads lead to Beijing. The tool, ironically, is a European
invention. The name ‘Silk Road’ was probably first coined by an early German
geographer, Carl Ritter, in 1838, originally a European one, imposing an
imagined order on a far more complex and chaotic history, so the very name
‘China’ was adopted by Westerners and given new meanings which were then
transmitted back to East Asia. Over centuries, Europeans had developed a vision
of a place they called ‘China’ based upon scraps of information sent home by
explorers and priests and subsequently amplified by storytellers and
orientalists. In European minds, ‘China’ became an ancient, independent,
continuous state occupying a defined portion of continental East Asia.
From 1644 until 1912,
‘China’ was, in effect, a colony of an Inner Asian empire: the Qing
Great-State. The Qing had created a multi-ethnic realm, of which ‘China proper’
– the fifteen provinces of the defeated Ming Dynasty
– was just one part. The previous Ming state lasted for almost 300 years, but
it had not used China's name, either. Before the Ming, those territories had
been part of a Mongol Great-State that had stretched as far as the
Mediterranean: East Asia was just one part of its domain. Before the Mongols,
they were controlled by the rival Song, Xia, and Liao states. These had
occupied various parts of the territory we now call China and they, in turn,
were different from the fragmented states that existed before them.
Each state was
different from its territorial extent and its ethnic composition, but each
needed to present itself as the legitimate successor to its predecessor.
Therefore, to retain the loyalty of officials and the wider population, each
new governing elite needed to claim continuity with tradition. To receive the
necessary ‘mandate of heaven,’ it
had to speak in certain ways and perform the rituals expected of a ruling
class. In certain eras, this may have been a genuine belief; in others, it
became a political theatre, but it became outright deception in some. The
Mongols and Qing elites inwardly retained their Inner Asian cultures while
externally presenting themselves – at least to a portion of their subjects – as
heirs to the rule's Sinitic traditions.
Western thinkers
privileged their ‘China’ over other political formations in the region and
promoted it, conceptually, above its hinterland. In their minds ‘China’ was the
region’s dynamic engine while Inner Asia only mattered when its horse-borne
hordes streamed into China to rape and pillage. In European eyes, ‘China’ was a
constant presence on the historical stage while Inner Asians were reduced to
playing repeated ‘ride-on’ parts before retreating to the dustbin of history.
Hence the ‘Silk Road’. China was regarded as the driver of trade and Inner
Asian states merely as the corridors through which it passed. In the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, this idea of a pre-eminent ‘China’
traveled from Europe to East and Southeast Asia and found a new home in the
private discussions and public journals of Qing intellectuals. These were
mainly people who had traveled abroad (as exemplified above) and were able to
look back on their homeland from afar.
According to Naomi
Standen and other specialist historians, the earliest recorded inhabitants of
this part of East Asia arrived elsewhere. The Xia people were southerners,
perhaps originally from Southeast Asia, who settled the southern and eastern
coastal plains. The Shang and Zhou peoples, on the other hand, seem to have
been nomads who arrived from north Asia. The highland Man people formed the
state of Chu in the early eighth century BCE. In the conventional telling,
these groups were the barbarians, separate from the ‘Chinese.’ Yet according to
the opposite: these ‘barbarians’ were the original inhabitants who adopted a
settled, urban lifestyle and thereby made themselves different from their
wilder relatives – they lived in towns. They were led by an emperor who ruled
through a written language. These were the three markers of early civilization,
not ethnicity. Cities were composed of many ethnic groups members, but by
adopting an urban culture, the ‘citizens’ reinvented themselves as a new group.
Around 100 BCE, the court official, Sima Qian, concocted a revised version of
history to please his imperial master. He traced the origin of his emperor’s
Han dynasty back to ‘ancient times,’ making sure to obscure its heterogenous
roots. Sima Qian was a propagandist as much as a historian and a remarkably
successful one. The tale he wove is still recycled two millennia later.1
The Han state began
to disintegrate around 184 CE with the beginning of an uprising by the ‘Yellow
Turbans’ religious sect.
The fighting, and the
famine that ensued, killed almost 90 percent of the population, reducing it
from 50 million to just 5 million. The remnants of the last Han state then fled
south to the Yangtze valley. More migrants from North Asia then filled the land
it had left behind. They created a new northern state with a new, ‘northernised,’ form of language. This north-south divide
lasted for around 200 years until, in 589 CE, the northern Sui state, founded
by the Xianbei people
of central Asia, defeated the southerners.
The Sui were
overthrown by what became the Tang Dynasty in
618. They, too, were part of Xianbei descent. That
empire began to fragment in the ninth century and finally collapsed in 907.
Several smaller rival states took its place, and the following century was
characterized by upheaval and war with the northern area once again ruled by
Turkic peoples. The Shatuo were replaced by the Khitan (from whom we get the archaic name for China:
Cathay), who founded the Liao Dynasty until they were conquered by the Jurchen,
who ruled until 1234. None of these peoples saw themselves as ruling the Zhong
Guo. They were Inner Asians for whom China was an imperial appendage. Beijing
became the Jurchens’ winter capital, away from Siberia's extreme cold, and
doubled as an administrative capital for their subject people. This period is
almost entirely glossed over in the ‘national history’ narrative, which prefers
to concentrate on a rival state's existence, under the Song Dynasty, which
controlled the southern part of what is now China, although its territory
steadily shrank under pressure from the north.
The Mongols took
Beijing in 1215 before extinguishing the Jurchen Jin Dynasty in 1234. Over the
following half-century, the Mongols pushed ever further south, squeezing the
Song state right back to the coast before finishing it off in a naval battle
near Guangdong in 1279. The Mongols named their Chinese administration the
‘Yuan Dynasty’ to make it more culturally acceptable, but it was not a
‘Chinese’ state so much as an Inner Asian great-state. Although Kublai Khan
moved his capital to Beijing in 1271, ‘China’ was simply one part of a khanate
that, in 1279, stretched from the Korean peninsula to the Hungarian plains.
This united Mongol
realm lasted just less than a century before local insurrection pulled it
apart. A great-state based upon continuous expansion was unable to cope with
the demands of settled administration. The early fourteenth century was a time
of centrifugal chaos, and in several places, local warlords claimed the mantle
of pre-existing empires. Zhu Yuanzhang established a new southern capital (nan-jing) in Nanjing and declared himself the leader of a new
dynasty, the Ming (meaning ‘brilliant’), in 1368. Although ‘national history’
writers portrayed the Ming as an authentically Chinese dynasty, they played
down how much the Ming rulers consciously emulated the Mongols. Indeed, their
government's basic bureaucratic structure, with a Secretariat, Censorate, and
Bureau of Military Affairs, was borrowed from Kublai Khan’s court.
The same was true of
the regional government. The Mongols had parcelled out
the country into personal fiefs: each locality leader was the tribal chief who
had conquered it. The Ming copied the principle, but when their scholars came
to write the previous dynasty's history, they erased the details and made the
system sound more centrally organized. In the interests of the Ming
scholar-officials to present themselves as the core of a Confucian state but
the real authority lay with the ‘military aristocracy’ – the descendants of the
generals who had supported Zhu Yuanzhang. This, again,
was a pattern directly borrowed from the Mongols. The Ming organized the
population along Mongol lines, too. Military families were organized as
‘centuries,’ who were grouped into ‘thousands’ and then into ‘guards.’
Surviving census registers indicate that the leaders of the ‘guards’ were
generally of Mongol heritage.
The second Ming
emperor did not build a northern capital (bei-jing)
in Beijing because he preferred the climate there. The location – at the
gateway to Mongolia – was deliberate and strategic. He wished to be both
emperors of the Ming and khan of the Mongols. By assuming the Yuan's mantle,
the Ming also extended their control into two areas that had been conquered by
the Mongols: the old Tai kingdom of Yunnan and the Korean-populated Liao River
basin. In Liang Qichao’s version of history, the invading northerners had been
‘civilized’ and ‘Sinicised’ by the superior culture
of the Hua people that they encountered in the Zhong Guo. The Ming's basic
structure (and later the Qing) states tell us that culture flowed both ways.
The Hua were hybrids.
For the Ming, the
‘natural boundaries’ of the great-state stretched from Yunnan's mountains,
northwards and eastwards through the mountains of Sichuan, the Altun, the Min,
and Qilian ranges before joining the less natural frontier of the Great Wall.
These boundaries were specifically designed to keep out Tibetans, Turks,
Mongols, and Manchus – physically but also psychologically. These boundaries
lasted for 300 years until the Manchu Qing breached the wall in 1644. As heirs
to the Khitan, Jurchen, and Mongol civilizations, Zhongguo was only a waypoint on the road to regional
supremacy. Qing military campaigns would triple the amount of territory ruled
by Beijing. If the Mongols created China, as nationalist Chinese historian/politician Liang Qichao asserted, the Manchus
created ‘greater China’.
Once we understand
the ‘messiness’ of these twenty centuries, we can see that it takes
considerable imagination, of the kind that can only be provided by nationalism,
to discern within them an essential ‘Chinese’ nation that endured throughout.
At best, this version of history is really only an account of several urban
populations who recognized an emperor and wrote with a particular set of
characters.
As Tim Barrett,
professor at the School of Oriental and African Studies in London has argued,
‘The urge to reconstruct could incorporate without strain considerable
intellectual innovation.’2 He notes how the writing of ‘histories’ during each
time period involved considerable manipulation of evidence to present a version
of the past accorded with the needs of the present. The invention of paper and
scissors allowed for narratives to be cut and pasted at will. In this, the
current work of the National Qing Dynasty History Compilation Committee is
entirely within precedent. Its job is to edit and re-present the previous
dynasty's history to legitimize the current regime and delegitimize its critics
through allegations of ‘historical nihilism.’
Just a year after its
victory in the civil war, the Communist Party leadership called on its
university to write a history of the Qing Dynasty.3 As one of the leading
American historians of the Qing period, Pamela Kyle Crossley, has pointed out,
the instruction would ‘complete the traditional arc in which each imperial
dynasty declared its legitimacy by writing the history of its predecessor.’4
The party’s directive led to the Institute of Qing History's formal creation in
1978 and then, in 2002, to something far bigger. Following a proposal from
Professor Li Wenhai, formerly the president of Renmin
University – and also the secretary of its Communist Party Committee, director
of the China Society of History and director of the History Teaching Guidance
Committee of the Ministry of Education – the State Council approved the
establishment of the ‘National Qing Dynasty History Compilation Committee.’ The
project enjoys the kind of government financial support that makes other
historians weep with envy. It has now digitized nearly 2 million pages, and
images translated tens of thousands of foreign studies into Chinese, published
multi-volume collections of documents, and held dozens of academic
conferences.5
From the outset, the
Qing Dynasty History Compilation Committee has been a vehicle for the Communist
Party to direct how the Qing Dynasty is remembered. Following Xi Jinping’s
ascent to the apex of power in 2012, however, the party’s hand has gripped ever
more tightly around the project’s throat. There are increasingly strict limits
on what can, and more importantly, cannot be said about the seventeenth,
eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries. The reason is obvious: facing demands for
independence in Taiwan and separatist feeling in Tibet and Xinjiang, nothing
can be allowed to upset the official national narrative that these places were
smoothly, peacefully, and organically incorporated into the motherland and that
they are therefore integral parts of a nation-state with ancient roots.
Since 2013 foreign
historians such as Crossley, Evelyn Rawski, James Millward,
Mark Elliott, and the many others who tell a different story about the Qing
Great-State – that it was a Manchu dynasty and expanded its realm through
conquest, violence, and oppression – have been denigrated in China, denounced
as imperialists and denied access to archives. The same fight has also been
taken to independent-minded Chinese historians. In early 2019 the Communist
Party’s own ‘Chinese History Research Committee’ warned that, ‘A minimal number
of scholars lack the proper vigilance against Western academic thoughts, and
introduce theoretical variants of foreign historical nihilism into the field of
Qing historical research.’ The phrase ‘historical nihilism’ has become
increasingly common in recent years: Communist Party-speak for research does
not support the party’s own view of history. The article, by Zhou Qun, deputy
editor of the committee’s own journal, Lishi yanjiu (‘Historical Research’), was republished in the People’s
Daily to make sure the message was widely received. Under the headline ‘Firmly
Grasp the Right of Discourse of the History of the Qing Dynasty,’ it helpfully
reminded readers that, ‘Studying history, and learning from history is a
valuable experience of the Chinese nation for 5,000 years, and it is also an
important magic weapon for the Chinese Communist Party to lead the Chinese
people to win one victory after another.’6.
Another example is
the Chinese Ministry of Education agency charged with promoting the Chinese
language and culture worldwide. Generously backed by government resources, Hanban now directs more than 500 ‘Confucius Institutes’ in
over 140 countries worldwide.7 The institutes' work is mostly focused on
language learning, but a particular view on history and culture is also part of
the package. The only book on history that Hanban
recommends to its students is entitled Common Knowledge About Chinese History.
Together with its companion volumes about geography, the series is available in
at least twelve languages: from English to Norwegian to Mongolian. This is the
official ‘national history’ – guoshi – packaged up
for consumption by foreigners. And the history that the Confucius Institute
chooses to tell still follows the model laid down by Liang Qichao, albeit with
a few communists. The theme of the first half of the book is China's primordial
existence and a people called the Chinese who have existed across millennia.
Even when it wasn’t called ‘China’ or was divided between rival states, it was
still somehow ‘China.’ The underlying premise is continuity. We are told, ‘Many
institutions initiated in the Qin and Han dynasties [over 2,000 years ago] were
inherited continuously by later dynasties.’ The three centuries from the end of
the Tang state in 907 to the arrival of the Mongols in 1260 are described as a
‘chaotic period,’ but ‘China’ was there throughout. When the Mongols invade
China, they miraculously become a Chinese dynasty: ‘In 1279...China has unified
into one nation once again.’ Even more ridiculously, the Qing Dynasty's
founders are described as ‘Manchu tribes of northeast China,’ and their
takeover is not even acknowledged to be an invasion.8
The book’s biases are
particularly pronounced when, on rare occasions, it is obliged to deal with
‘non-Han’ peoples, especially when they invade and rule ‘China.’ The Xianbei people, who founded the Wei state across what is
now northern China and Mongolia, apparently discovered that, ‘The key to
consolidating their ruling was to...learn from the Han people.’ We’re told how
the Tibetans used to live in tents but admired the Tang Dynasty culture. They
received the gifts of Chinese culture through their emperor’s marriage to
Princess Wencheng. Liang Qichao’s concept of ‘assimilative power’ is still
going strong. Unless they learn from the Han or fight against them, the other
peoples of northeast Asia are generally absent from the book, as they are from
national history.
Of course, many more
history books are published in China and many historians with a far more
sophisticated understanding of the past. But this book is the one chosen by the
Chinese government to represent its national history abroad. Its narrative is
found in Chinese school books and forms the foundation of Chinese leaders’
frequent references to historical precedents. This is the narrative to which
organizations such as the Institute of Qing History are working. Since Xi
Jinping's coming to power, the political space for dissenting views on history
– never large to begin with – has been shrunk even further. National history is
reduced to a story about the expansion of a superior culture over its
inferiors.
Not surprisingly, the
Confucius Institutes became heavily involved in anti-Hong Kong protests where
they were trying to intimidate, including when a pro-Beijing demonstrator
attacked an ABC reporter.
China's new
nationalism as exemplified by Confucius Institutes is the particular view of
language ethnicity, and history endorsed by the Chinese leadership, which sees
the history of China from the mid-nineteenth century to the Communists’ coming
to power in 1949 as an endless series of humiliations at the hands of foreign
powers.
The language wars
A year after the
handover, the Hong Kong government decided that the official mainland version
of Chinese, Putonghua, would become a compulsory subject for primary and
junior-secondary schoolchildren. However, it was taught as a ‘foreign’
language, with perhaps just an hour of class time per week. Ten years later,
the city authorities began to incentivize schools to make Putonghua the
language of instruction. From 2008, schools were given extra funding if they
agreed to teach all their subjects through Putonghua. Increasingly, Hong Kong
parents started to choose these schools for their children, expecting that
Putonghua's fluency would help them obtain better jobs. This seems to have
amplified the generation gap between parents and their offspring, with younger
Hong Kongers resenting having to learn in Putonghua.
For some, it seems to have had the opposite effect to the one intended: setting
them on a path towards resistance rather than integration with the mainland as
particularly seen this past year.
At around the same
time, fears for the future of Cantonese also emerged on the mainland. The city of
Guangzhou (the ‘Canton’ in ‘Cantonese’) was due to host the Asian Games in
November 2010. In July of that year, the city committee of the Chinese People’s
Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC – the body that brings together the
Communist Party and other local organizations in a ‘united front’) recommended
that the province’s main television stations should change their broadcasting
from Cantonese to Putonghua in time for the games.
On 25 July, the
protests moved offline, into the real streets of Guangzhou. At least 2,000
people (some say as many as 10,000) gathered outside Jiangnanxi
metro station to voice their anger. Another protest involving hundreds of
people was held a week later in the city’s People’s Park, and a solidarity
rally was held in Hong Kong at the same time.9 A pan-Cantonese movement
appeared to be taking shape. In response, the Guangzhou authorities
backpedaled. The television station rejected the committee’s Putonghua
proposal. The channel was kept off the satellite network, and the athletes and
spectators of the Asian Games were obliged to receive their news in Cantonese.
It was only a
tactical retreat, however. On 30 June 2014, Guangzhou TV’s hourly news bulletin
switched from Cantonese to Putonghua.10.
In April 2017, the
Chinese Ministry of Education and its agency, known in English as the State
Language Commission11 (officially the National Committee for Language and
Script Work),12 set a target for 80 percent of the PRC’s citizens to speak
Putonghua by 2020. It was absurd: the chances of reaching 140 million people to
speak a new language in three years were minimal, but it was an indication of
the urgency with which the Communist Party views the work of nation-building.
Way back in 1982, a new clause had been inserted into the national constitution
mandating the state to ‘promote the nationwide use of Putonghua.’ More than a
quarter of a century later, the Ministry of Education’s announcement was an
admission that the change had had little effect: almost a third of the
population, around 400 million people, did not speak the national language. As
Hong Kong and Guangzhou (not to mention the far more serious resistance in
Tibet and Xinjiang) demonstrate, the idea of a national language has not been
nationally welcomed.
Also, in May 2018, an
article written by a Chinese University consultant, Song Xinqiao,
on the implementation of Mandarin education in Hong Kong and uploaded onto the
website of the Education Bureau reignited
a firestorm on the status of Cantonese as the mother tongue of Cantonese
people in Hong Kong. In his article, Professor Song argued that “mother tongue”
should be defined as the language of the Han (Chinese) race. By that token, the
mother tongue of the Chinese people, including Cantonese in Hong Kong, should
be Hanyu, taught in modern China as Mandarin, but also known as Putonghua in
Hong Kong.
Song’s thesis was
premised on his vision of a hierarchy of languages in China, with Mandarin, the
lingua franca, at the pinnacle and superior to all dialects.
This view runs
counter to linguists’ definition of “language.” Under their definition,
Cantonese would be regarded as a separate language because it is not mutually
intelligible with Mandarin or other dialects of China. However, while
technically justifiable, such a view would no doubt be deemed unacceptable by
those cagey about the advocacy
of Hong Kong as a separate political entity.
Similar to what
happened with the
aborted effort in Guangzhou to launch a Mandarin promotion campaign, Song’s
nationalist model reopened old wounds about the rising dominance of Mandarin in
Hong Kong. At the root of the resentment lies deep-seated fears about the
displacement of Cantonese – both the language and the people – by the mighty
mainland.
In both Shanghai and
Guangzhou, it was also regional prosperity that created the problems for
national language policy. Both became economically strong and, therefore, able
to assert a degree of autonomy from the central government. Simultaneously,
both attracted large numbers of migrants from other parts of the country,
unable to speak the local topolect. The central government urged the cities to
integrate the new arrivals through Putonghua's promotion, thereby
simultaneously integrating the city with the nation. However, in both cities,
this created a backlash among local people resentful at the loss of regional
distinctiveness. This caused local authorities to take steps to protect
regional identity, bringing the city governments into collision with national
instructions.
China’s national
language policy appears to be simultaneously succeeding and failing. While
Putonghua is the national language of schooling, and the number of people able
to speak it is rising, the policy also seems to be provoking rearguard efforts
to defend the regional topolects. The battle is increasingly taking place in
life areas that the central government finds it difficult to control,
particularly the Internet. Online fora buzz with discussions about local
identity and migrants' problems in a cat-and-mouse game with the regulators. In
Shanghai in the 2010s, some local topolect speakers referred to incomers as
‘YPs,’ ying pan, meaning ‘hard disk.’ The largest local producer of computer
hard disks was a company called West Data and the initials ‘WD’ indicated the
word wai di, meaning ‘non-local.’13 In response to
examples like these, in 2014, the official communications regulator, the State
Administration of Press, Publications, Radio, Film, and Television, issued a
formal ban on puns and wordplay in broadcasts. It, too, was mocked, and
enforcement was minimal.14
Cantonese speakers
have become experts in avoiding the censors. They can use the Cantonese phrase
for ‘northern guy’ as a sound-alike for ‘northern profiteer.’ If they want to
criticize the Communist Party, they can use the phrase ‘grass mud horse’ – cao ni ma, which sounds like
‘fuck your mother’ in Cantonese. Since the party is often described as the
‘mother’ of the people, the phrase also suggests ‘fuck the party.’ If they want
to criticize party propaganda, they might sarcastically use the Cantonese pronunciation
of the name of a patriotic TV series, ‘Bravo, My Country’ – lai
hoi liu, ngo dik gwok – which was itself
derived from a phrase used by communist organizations on social media, ‘Bravo,
my brother’ – li hai le, wo de ge.
It looks as though the outlook for the topolects will depend on how
economically important they are. There are plenty of Shanghainese and Cantonese
speakers who have sufficient resources – financial and political – to organize
a defense. However, not all regional ways of speaking will so easily resist the
march of Putonghua. The coming to power of Xi Jinping and his ‘Chinese Dream’
of national unity suggests that the impetus to impose the national language
across the country will continue. The China State Language Commission sees a
direct connection between its work and the official call for ‘the great
rejuvenation of the Chinese people.’ In its ‘Outline of the National Medium and
Long-Term Plan for Language and Script Reform and Development (2012–2020)’, the
Commission asserted, ‘The comprehensive establishment of a moderately
prosperous society, the construction of a common spiritual home for the Chinese
people, the enhancement of the country’s cultural soft power, and the
acceleration of the modernization of education all put forward new requirements
for the language and script enterprise.’14
This seems to
encapsulate the twin urges that have been driving the reformers’ efforts to construct
a single national language over the course of more than a century. One desires
to make the state more effective and its people stronger through a language
that promotes literacy among the masses and communication between diverse
communities. The other is the nationalistic desire to construct a ‘common
spiritual home.’ Buried deep within the language project is the fear that China
might be too diverse to hold together. This is a fear with deep roots, yet it
remains too sensitive to be spoken out loud. We can only hear its echoes when
Xi and his fellow leaders talk about the need for a ‘culturally harmonious
country’ and constantly call for ‘unity.’ Disharmony and disunity are the
concerns-who-must-not-be-named. The idea that Hong Kong or Taiwan – or
Guangzhou or Shanghai – might have their own identities stronger than their
Chinese national identity is literally unimaginable for those who lead the
People’s Republic.
Re-writing Chinese History, Nation, Language, and
Territory, makes it easier to get around the fact that the Communists had
inherited an empire and have been desperate not only to hold onto it but
strengthen their grip on the non-Han regions in a way which the non-Han Manchus
had not found necessary. The focus on Han identity, on genes and lineage, also
explains why China acts as though entitled to assume that “overseas Chinese”
whatever their nationality owe a degree of allegiance to the “motherland” whether
they want to or not.
The party and state
however remain insecure as they attempt to re-write history which was apparent
in 2014 German Chancellor Merkel presented to President
Xi an 18th-century German map of China based on a famous 1718 Qing
“Overview of the Imperial realm.” It only showed “Sinae Propriae”
(China Proper) not the other Qing territories, or Taiwan. State media reported
the gift of a map but instead pictured an 1844 British map which included the
whole Qing empire. Such have been the almost childish efforts of Beijing to
change the record of history, nation, language, and territory.
The globe that was not to be
Tuesday 26 March 2019
was a proud day for the director and staff of the London School of Economics. A
new sculpture by the Turner Prize-winning artist Mark Wallinger was being
unveiled right outside the recently completed student center. Wallinger’s work
was entitled The World Turned Upside Down, a literal description of the piece.
It featured a globe, about four meters high, resting on the North Pole, with
Antarctica nearest the sky. The title was a reference to England’s
seventeenth-century Civil War, and the upending of an old order. In Wallinger’s
words: ‘This is the world, as we know it from a different viewpoint. Familiar,
strange, and subject to change.’ Wallinger’s work has often addressed
nationalism. His 2001 commission at the Venice Biennale, Oxymoron, included
British flags with the usual red, white and blue replaced by the green, white
and orange of the Irish tricolor. The LSE’s director, Minouche
Shafik, told journalists covering the launch of the globe sculpture that the
work reflected the mission of academia, where research and teaching ‘often
means seeing the world from different and unfamiliar points of view’.
But one group of
students was not prepared to see the world from a different point of view. Within hours of the
unveiling, a few students from the People’s Republic of China noticed that
Taiwan had been colored pink while the PRC had been colored yellow and that
Taipei had been marked with a red square, indicating a national capital, rather
than the black dot used for provincial cities. They protested to the director
and demanded that the work be changed. In their view, the artist’s intent was
irrelevant: Taiwan should be just as yellow as the mainland. The LSE was facing
a ‘Gap moment’. Students from the PRC make up 13 percent of the total student
body at the LSE,85 so a boycott could have been ruinous. At the same time, the
school’s Taiwanese students and their supporters also rallied. They pointed out
that Taiwan’s president, Tsai Ing-wen, was a graduate of the LSE, a fact that
had been trumpeted by the school when she was elected. Two days later, the
artwork had expanded to include a notice stating, ‘The LSE is committed to . .
. ensuring that everyone in our community is treated with equal dignity and
respect.’15
A crisis meeting was
called, chaired by Shafik and including representatives from the school’s
Directorate, Internal Communication Office and Faith Centre, plus two Chinese
students, one Taiwanese, as well as an Israeli and a Palestinian (who were
upset about the depiction of the Middle East). The Chinese students then tried
to broaden the discussion, saying they were also upset about the depiction of
the Chinese-Indian border. According to the Taiwanese student present, Shafik
apparently ‘took out her notebook’ at this point.87
Wallinger himself
avoided media comment except for one interview with the LSE student newspaper,
The Beaver, in which he said, ‘There are a lot of contested regions in the
world, that’s just a fact.’ The arguments continued for several months until,
in July 2019, the LSE and Wallinger made a minor concession. They added an
asterisk next to the name ‘Rep. China (Taiwan)’ on the work and also a sign
below it stating ‘There are many disputed borders and the artist has indicated
some of these with an asterisk.’88 But Taiwan remained a separate color: the
LSE and the artist held their nerve. They did not ‘do a Gap’ and the sculpture
continues to represent political reality rather than an idealized version of
‘maximum China’ imagined by its patriots online and offline.
Borders and formally
defined territories are a modern, European invention imposed on, and adopted
by, Asian elites over the course of a violent century. The new Chinese
nationalism that emerged from the ruins of the Qing Empire manifested itself as
a desire to be a ‘normal country’, equal to the industrial powers and part of
an international system. The nationalists made a choice without really
realizing they had done so. By choosing to exert a Chinese claim over a
multi-ethnic domain, a decision predicated upon a new Han chauvinism, they
obliged the Republic to extend its reach into the furthest, most marginal
regions. This was, in effect, new colonialism: expanding ‘Han’ Chinese rule
into places it had never reached before. The geographers’ maps and surveys led
the way and their textbooks and national humiliation maps built support for the
project back in the heartland. The geographers and the Guomindang worked
together to make the imaginary boundaries real and create a 'national
territory' a lingtu ( 領土 ), both on the ground and in the minds of the
citizens. They did so by generating a fear of loss, of humiliation, that
continues to animate Chinese policy to this day.
The Republic of China
only formally recognized the independence of Mongolia under the terms of the
1946 Sino-Soviet Treaty of Friendship and following a referendum in which the
Mongolians nominally exercised their right of self-determination. The border between
China and Russia, ostensibly agreed in 1689 with the Treaty of Nerchinsk, was
only finally settled on 14 October 2008 with a deal on islands in the Amur
River. The border between Guangxi province and Vietnam, although agreed in
1894, was only formally demarcated in 2009. Tibet was forcibly incorporated
into the People’s Republic of China in 1950, bringing a Chinese state
face-to-face with India for the first time. As the T-shirt buyers of Niagara
Falls know well, the continuing lack of agreement in the Himalayas has the
capacity to provoke full-scale war between two nuclear-armed militaries.
Taiwan’s separateness is an ongoing crisis. And then there are the maritime
boundaries. But that story will be one of the subjects we will cover in part three.
1. Naomi Standen
(ed.), Demystifying China: New Understandings of Chinese History, Lanham, MD:
Rowman & Littlefield, 2013.
2. Tim Barrett,
‘Chinese History as a Constructed Continuity: The Work of Rao Zongyi’, in Peter Lambert and Björn Weiler (eds), How the
Past was Used: Historical Cultures, c. 750–2000, Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2017, chapter 11.
3.
http://www.iqh.net.cn/english/Classlist.asp?column_id=65&column_cat_id=37
4. Pamela Kyle
Crossley, ‘Xi’s China Is Steamrolling Its Own History’, ForeignPolicy.com, 29
January 2019.
5. Zhou Ailian and Hu Zhongliang, ‘The
Project of Organizing the Qing Archives’, Chinese Studies in History, 43/2
(2009), pp. 73–84.
6.‘Firmly Grasp the
Right of Discourse of the History of the Qing Dynasty’, People’s Daily, 14
January 2019, http://opinion.people.com.cn/n1/2019/0114/c1003-30524940.html
(accessed 2 March 2020).
7. Xinhua, ‘Over 500
Confucius Institutes Founded in 142 Countries, Regions’, China Daily, 7 October
2017, http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/china/2017-10/07/content_32950016.htm
8. Office of the
Chinese Language Council International, Common Knowledge About Chinese History,
Beijing: Higher Education Press, 2006, pp. 123, 138.
9. Verna Yu and SCMP
Reporter, ‘Hundreds Defy Orders Not to Rally in Defence
of Cantonese’, South China Morning Post, 2 August 2010,
https://www.scmp.com/article/721128/hundreds-defy-orders-not-rally-defence-cantonese
10. Rona Y. Ji,
‘Preserving Cantonese Television & Film in Guangdong: Language as Cultural
Heritage in South China’s Bidialectal Landscape’, Inquiries Journal, 8/12
(2016),
http://www.inquiriesjournal.com/articles/1506/3/preserving-cantonese-television-and-film-in-guangdong-language-as-cultural-heritage-in-south-chinas-bidialectal-landscape
11. Xinhua, ‘China to Increase Mandarin Speaking
Rate to 80%’, 3 April 2017,
http://english.gov.cn/state_council/ministries/2017/04/03/content_281475615766970.htm
12. Minglang Zhou and Hongkai Sun
(eds), Language Policy in the People’s Republic of China: Theory and Practice
Since 1949, Boston; London: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2004, p. 30.
13. Qing Shao, Xuesong (Andy) Gao, Protecting language or promoting
dis-citizenship? A poststructural policy analysis of
the Shanghainese Heritage Project, International Journal of Bilingual Education
and Bilingualism Volume 22, 2019 - Issue 3: Controversies of bilingual
education in China.
14. David Moser, A
Billion Voices: China's Search for a Common Language, 2016, p. 90.
15. CNA, ‘Lúndūn zhèng jīng
xuéyuàn gōnggòng yìshù jiāng bǎ
táiwān huà wéi zhōngguó wàijiāo
bù kàngyì’, 7 April
2019, https://www.cna.com.tw/news/firstnews/201904040021.aspx
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