A Harder Rain May Fall

After weeks of wondering, Jiangsu authorities are now very worried about the rising waters in the province.

Their unease is taking two forms.

One of those is natural.

That is, water levels are already rising at a steady rate here because of increased local rainfall. Nanjing and many of its suburbs have experienced heavy if scattered thunderstorms for a number of successive days and nights. At the same time, the irregular nature of these storms is clearly confounding forecasters, who’ve been having a great deal of trouble predicting just how much rain and where it will fall in “Nanjing”, a metropolitan area that’s no longer just a large city on the banks on the Yangtze River but now encompasses townships 25-30 km in every direction.

In any event, the timing for Nanjing and its various localities is lousy, because the Yangtze River nearby is now taking on more water from flood runoff upstream. Meanwhile, the rain that’s been raging in Zhejiang province next door is affecting the delta region to the southeast of Nanjing. Lake Tai [太湖], the region’s largest fresh water lake, is now over flood stage, and the cities of Suzhou, Changzhou and Wuxi in Jiangsu have reached the warning level just below actual flooding.

Furthermore, the timing of this new round of rain is made even more challenging by the fact that it’s high tide off China’s eastern coastline at the moment, making it more difficult for water to drain into the ocean, as well as putting more pressure on the province’s dubious dike and reservoir system.

In short, there’s more water coming to Jiangsu and pretty much nowhere to put it.

This rapidly developing situation led the Jiangsu provincial government to convene a meeting here this morning of “the relevant departments and work units” [有关部门和单位]--a conference to coordinate the response to the flooding that’s happening and that yet to arrive. Officials were instructed to “do their best work, pay close attention to changes in rainfall and weather, strengthen flood control and forecasting, and provide a scientific basis for decision-making”—the latter being less an instruction than clearly a cry for help in making the right choices. This isn’t going to be easy.

The other source of worry in Jiangsu turns out to be political. That is, whether local officials are actually up to the task of meeting the floodwaters head on.

An editorial in today’s Nanjing Daily expressed some doubts. The commentary, entitled “Flood Prevention and Disaster Relief, Better To Be Late Than Never”, [防汛减灾，多未雨绸缪少亡羊补牢] admonished local officials “not to stay hidden”, to “investigate early, so as to be able to intervene early”. “Stepped-up inspections of dikes, reservoirs, hydropower stations, sluices and other flood control projects are essential”, the editorial insisted, as was follow-up work to deal with disasters because “accidents will happen”.

The commentary also warned against “formalism”—that is, cadres simply going through the motions—and argued that “with fewer slogans, there is more effectiveness.” Officials needed “to be more active on a rainy day, so that an emerging situation can be remedied.”

This editorial isn’t just a set of instructions, but an unsubtle reminder to officials of what their predecessors tended to practice in previous disasters: a propensity to wait for Beijing to issue instructions before acting, too much caution for fear of censure, an unwillingness to be inventive—all of these are part of the general critique of cadres that Party leader Xi Jinping has been making since he took office. The commentary in Nanjing Daily wouldn’t have appeared out of the grey skies unless there was genuine nervousness about how local officials will respond when the waters rise.

And that’s because political reputations are at stake.

In a meeting held 2 days ago (but only mentioned this afternoon), Jiangsu’s boss Luo Zhijun [罗志军] reminded local officials that 6 years ago the province embarked on an extensive flood control and prevention project for Lake Tai (also a major water source for cities in the eastern part of the province) and said that he therefore expected Jiangsu to “win this battle in the protracted war” against flooding in the delta region. 

Luo is clearly worried for the public welfare, and also the political: He’s giving commands to cadres to make sure that they do their jobs, so that he and others can keep theirs.

It all may turn out fine in the end, for there are many fine officials in these parts. But there are nonetheless difficult days ahead for Jiangsu, for Nanjing, for its residents and their local rulers. It’s worth pondering about the possibility that floodwaters may not be the only things rolling in Jiangsu in the coming weeks.

The Local Strains and Pains Of Some Trains

Many observers outside China—including those just visiting and impressed with all they do see in the Beijing-Shanghai corridor while remaining uninformed about the Great Remaining China that they don’t--like to talk about the major forces of modernization that mold this nation.

They’re not completely wrong, of course. But many miss that China is shaped locally, often seasonally, by events outside the window—that is, that the China they see from their seats isn’t what residents in China experience when they look at that same transport racing by them.

A case in point is what’s been happening in Nanjing in the past few weeks where the railroads are concerned.

In more than one sense, China’s railway system is a class system. Not just its seating based on price, but the division between high-speed [高铁] rail and the remaining express trains that can run travel as far, but at a slower pace and for lower prices. The latter route is how many migrant workers travel--passengers who are closed out of the high-speed train option and flying from one city to another.

For most long-time residents of Nanjing, the transformation in train ticketing and travel options is nothing short of astonishing. 20 years ago, residents and visitors would camp outside stations overnight and often longer to try to get seats on a train. They’d often end up disappointed, discovering that many tickets had already been distributed to officials, state work-units, local military personnel—or sold to middlemen who would scalp them to customers who had played by the public rules but were foiled by the hidden ones.

Almost nothing of the sort happens now. Residents here in Nanjing, as everywhere else in China, mostly reserve tickets online using apps on their cellphones, or queue up at ticket windows beneath large tote boards telling them the number of seats actually available for that day and the next 5. The service at those windows can get a bit surly as shifts are approaching an end, for it’s something of a thankless job for those trying to cope with customers. But apart from holidays, finding train transport in and out of Nanjing is no longer the heroic, often martyr-like mission it had been for most people. This is now a rail system that works—and works very well—for nearly everyone. 

Still, if you’re a laborer looking for work, a farmer seeking to sell this season’s sweet melons, or a family eager to reconnect with cousins for a wedding, this modernization has largely left you on the wrong side of the tracks. Many of those workers on the move in China aren’t aware that options other than lining up outside a ticket window at a train station are available; they have cellphone but not the link to an account to draw from. And more than a few would-be passengers opt for the only train they know, one they’ve traveled on before—trains that race through crossings very much like this one, which carries passengers on, among other routes, runs from Beijing to Fuzhou, the capital of Fujian province:

Seeing and hearing these trains is nostalgic for many in Nanjing, even if some local car owners bemoan the irregular closing of crossings that lead to traffic buildups in a city that already sees enough of them. They offer a glimpse at a past that’s speeding away, as well as a fairly reliable route for those fortunate enough to score seats or sleepers on these trains.  

But one problem is that these types of trains are slowly being decommissioned across China. It’s true that, at various places in Nanjing and in adjoining counties and townships, local residents continue to hear the strains of trains racing through their area in the late evening and very early morning hours. But that’s because an increasing amount of rail equipment has been converted to use as freight transport to move goods bought online—which is largely good for the economy, local and otherwise. The mothballing and diversion of slower trains for the movement of goods instead of people means that many migrant workers, laborers, and contractors looking for work across provinces have to take a long-distance bus—a less certain and sometimes more dangerous transport. Their train—the one they had been relying on to contribute to China’s economy—has left the station, or at least, it’s not stopping for them.   

What’s made matters even more challenging this year is the massive flooding in south China—flooding that hasn't reached Nanjing and may not, but which has nonetheless disrupted rail traffic on the main north-south line shown above. The non-high speed trains continue to run, but not nearly as regularly as a few weeks ago, because many trains are being shunted into waiting yards. Delivery times of goods are being delayed; laborers find themselves stranded in places where work has been halted; and soon, with the school year winding down, students will have a tougher time making their way back home. The transport disparities that China’s type of modernization has generated--very good for many, not as beneficial for others--look to be even starker this season.

The national dynamics that help drive China impress many passing through, and they should. But these forces vary by place, and officials and residents living here—or just trying to get through--will be focused in the days ahead about how their local lives will be affected by the local elsewhere.

The Passing Of A Man And An Era

Wu Jianmin, former Chinese ambassador to France, the Netherlands and the United Nations in Geneva, died in a traffic accident in Wuhan yesterday. Wu was also a translator for Mao Zedong and Zhou Enlai and later served as President of Foreign Affairs College--China’s main school for the Foreign Service.

Wu was from Jiangsu, and many official accounts list his birthplace as Nanjing, though when asked some years ago, he didn’t refer to himself as a 南京人, and said that he was born in Chongqing. Probably Wu's parents were from Nanjing; apparently they were diplomatic staff members themselves, ultimately relocated to Chongqing as part of the Nationalist government's move there in December 1938; and that was where Wu was born. Nanjing’s South Railway Station, on the other hand, has a continuous video extolling the city’s accomplishments, and claims Wu as one of its favourite sons.

Up to a few years ago, following his retirement from the Foreign Affairs College, Wu served as the central government’s unofficial liaison and staunch defender to many in the foreign press corps, sometimes presenting possibilities as forthcoming policy, such as the lifting of the one-child restriction--years before that actually happened. Under President Hu Jintao, Wu was eager to defend China’s foreign policies and was often generous with his time to visiting dignitaries and scholars. While Wu never had the access to policymaking he clearly hoped to have when he returned to Beijing full-time (more on that below), many foreign scholars and commentators nonetheless took him as a conduit to the Hu leadership—which Wu never quite was.

However, Wu’s stance changed under the present leadership. He insisted that the new hardline from Beijing was potentially dangerous to China’s interests, creating more adversaries than allies. After years of upholding Chinese policies abroad, Wu became more critical at home, unafraid to debate hawks and saber-rattlers (especially Hu Xijin, the editor of the nationalist tabloid Global Times)--who are far more numerous now than they had been under Hu—in an effort to damp down the growing enthusiasm here for a more muscular and militaristic strategy. As the brilliant Shi Yinhong of Renmin University rightly noted, Wu “had moral courage” to speak out in an environment where criticism is not always warmly welcomed. 

Wu’s return to Beijing in 2003 to run the Foreign Affairs College (the name in Chinese is 外交学院, though the English name is often intentionally though mistakenly rendered as “China Foreign Affairs University”) was perhaps less successful than some had hoped. The College was a moribund institution, full of students from influential families whose interest in a career abroad was often minimal at best. Faculty at the Foreign Affairs College thought that Wu would come in and reform the curriculum, encourage more research, and start to clean up what many saw as uncommitted and possibly even corrupt departments.

Wu apparently saw his mandate differently. For him, diplomacy was language, posture, and presentation. He encouraged students to learn how to act in a diplomatic setting, instead of studying to think like diplomats and strategists. With his extensive contacts in government, Wu was able to bring in a whole host of high-profile speakers--some of them still active in foreign affairs, many more retired. Faculty and students who liked more of a focus on social events than education, on language training instead of policymaking, were pleased with these changes; others, not so much, and more than a few, not at all.

Wu also had far less impact on Hu Jintao’s foreign policy than clearly he had anticipated. Chinese government advisers had insisted that Beijing would pivot away from US and focus more on Europe; Wu was expected to be part of the “brain trust” of Hu’s inner circle helping him do that. But neither happened: “Europe” as a monolithic entity didn’t exist to start with, and it was the national security establishment and the military which began to push the Foreign Ministry away from the table and out of the conference room. As Hu’s term wore on, it became increasingly apparent that both politicians and the public wanted a harder line abroad.

Interestingly enough, Wu’s impact on Chinese foreign policy grew in retirement, as his commentary began to be more widely disseminated on social media and he actively sought to compel hardliners to defend their positions. Chinese foreign policy was far better for his service and for his continued presence as he dispensed hard-won wisdom and nuance.

The days when diplomats like Wu could dominate the foreign policy debates are surely done with. For Wu to hold the line as long as he did took bravery and a belief in a different sort of greatness for China, one where power is built not on bluster, but on dialogue and engagement. The tragic death of Wu Jianmin marks not only a sad end to a complex and good man, but the passing of an era.

  

Filling In Some Empty Spaces

Management of a large Chinese city such as Nanjing isn’t easy.

There’s the growing population---fueled in large measure by the influx of countryside residents—putting an enormous strain on infrastructure and social services. There’s also a sputtering national economy, which means that tax revenue is at risk as jobs disappear; plus, Beijing becomes reluctant to part with monies that would usually be allocated to assist urban areas because it has fewer funds to disburse. The summer season, which always brings additional challenges to Nanjing because of the heat and demands on the electrical grid, is complicated this year because of increased flooding upriver from the city.

And then there’s the local military to deal with.

Nanjing is home to what had been for decades the largest and most influential military district headquarters in China. The command here has been responsible for, among other matters, the armed forces end of Taiwan affairs, and it was an incubator for a number of high-ranking military officers.

That often meant that the Nanjing military leadership was able to call on Beijing’s support, especially when its commercial and land holdings in the city and the adjoining suburbs were set to be affected by the city’s urban development, arguing that its daily operations or housing situation shouldn’t be disrupted. When Nanjing political authorities wanted access or egress to military properties for new roads or subways, the military resisted; it’s literally never been known for yielding ground locally. In that respect at least, Nanjing can sometimes be seen not so much of a metropolis that houses major military bases as a set of armed forces establishments interrupted by a city.

Over the past year however, as President Xi Jinping has pressed the Chinese military to accept far-reaching reforms—the local political authority of the Nanjing military seems to have started to erode. Whereas Nanjing had been at the core of the military system, now it is simply an important part of a more integrated command and control system that doesn’t revolve around regions, but “battle areas”. Consequently, the power of Nanjing’s military leadership to petition Beijing in matters of contention with the local authorities is much less than it had been.

One example of this development is in the area of civil defense—or more broadly, what officials call “civil air defense affairs” [人防工作]—that is, work involving the administration of facilities built to shield residents against attack from the air.

These sorts of facilities in many Chinese cities, including Beijing, were built in response to Mao’s call in the 1960s for regional governments to protect the population in the event of a nuclear attack from abroad. Nanjing is something of an exception because the shelters constructed here include an extensive underground system of bomb shelters, military bunkers, underground storage spaces for arms caches, and a subterranean transport system. Because Nanjing’s arrangements were also designed to protect command centers, troops, and military equipment, they are usually far larger than the standard city.

A recurring question for Nanjing has been what to do with these facilities. Beginning in the late 1980s, a few shelters were opened to the public, converted to dance halls, roller-skating rinks, karaoke, small establishments selling fruit juices and soda—especially popular in Nanjing’s sweltering summer, given the lack of air conditioning. In the 1990s, as the city followed Beijing’s instruction to build a market-based economy, some of the civil defense sites in Nanjing featured year-round restaurants and arcades, but they turned out to be less inviting as they were often damp and dark during other seasons; residents also had greater choices as reform took a firmer hold, and the novelty of accessing previously restricted military shelters had largely worn off. In any event, only a dozen or so of these underground facilities were made public.

Moreover, as Nanjing grew in these decades and both broader and taller buildings began to dominate the urban landscape, there was a need for deeper pilings and foundations to be sunk into what is a rather wet substratum (due to the city’s proximity to the Yangtze River). Often, construction firms would spend months pumping out tens of thousands of liters of water, only to expose sections of these underground shelters, many of which turned out to be filled with military equipment that had to be removed with construction halted for weeks or more. Some of the larger construction firms in Nanjing became military-owned, in part to deal with these special circumstances.

Now the situation is even more complicated, a collision of national initiatives and the local conditions.

The National Development and Reform Commission (NDRC, or 发改委)—China’s central economic planning body whose influence is enormous—has given clear instructions (reiterated last month) that a new period of civil defense has arrived—something which actually began to be discussed in Nanjing at least 4 years ago. That’s because Beijing wants the military to get smaller and more mobile, and divest itself of old, static, and now useless forms of defense.

On the one hand, the various underground shelters shouldn’t be converted wholly to commercial ends, the NDRC admonishes, but coordinated in such a way so that national and local emergency services can still access them for their own use (largely unspecified, though likely as temporary shelter and storing supplies) without the military necessarily having priority, and educate residents about their utility if a civilian disaster should strike.

On the other hand, this decision also means that facilities previously devoted to protection in the event of a military attack are best used for other purposes.

The question is, what purposes?  And that’s where the local angle comes in.

Nanjing, like many cities, has a problem with cars: in particular, with parking, more than traffic. Local media reports that many of the existing civilian defense shelters can be used for parking—possibly as many as 5000 spaces---thereby easing some of the urban congestion.

Not surprisingly, the Nanjing military isn’t quite as enthused, pointing out that “in this new situation, the issue of civil air defense itself has yet to be resolved.” Which is to say, what happens to the requirement that the military is supposed to provide some sort of defense or recovery from air attack?

Meanwhile, on the local government side, the issue of how to manage the new spaces when they are provided is still being debated. 

Should the parking slots be sold for purchase? No, say the apparent majority.

Should the spaces be distributed in a permit system, or have regular renewal? Not decided. But as of yesterday it’s at the top of the priority list for the Nanjing government.

In China’s provinces, policy battles aren’t about accruing authority; they’re about not losing too much of it when Beijing makes a major decision and officials below have to adapt. To those looking for high-level power plays or political combat, how to best utilize some soon-to-be empty spaces may not seem very important. But from the standpoint of local governance, these are the sorts of struggles that fill the day.