The Muddle That Is The BBC’s “Murder in the Lucky Holiday Hotel”

Reporting on Chinese politics is challenging, whether it’s by examining Chinese media or interviewing the odd if often unwilling official. But it’s crucial to look at how political events happen here and why--especially by seeing matters as Chinese officials see them, and thereby avoid the simplifications that usually plague understanding of politics in China.

A recent BBC podcast series, Murder in the Lucky Holiday Hotel, is being praised by many as a riveting inside examination of Chinese politics gone wrong—the story of Bo Xilai, “China’s most charismatic politician”, according to Carrie Gracie, the podcast’s narrator and the BBC’s China news editor in Beijing. The series looks at the killing of British expatriate Neil Heywood in Chongqing in 2011--“the murder which changed the course of Chinese politics,” according to Gracie.

But the podcast isn’t enthralling or insightful. Instead of being a sophisticated re-examination of a major event, the listener receives a grotesque rendering of Chinese politics, replete with stereotypes and suppositions. This is a podcast that isn’t meant to inform so much as arouse—China analysis at its worst. 

There’s so much that’s wrong with this retelling that it’s difficult to know where to start.

One problem is that Bo’s fall isn’t a new story by any means, having been exhaustively reported as it happened, and since. Indeed, the title of the podcast is very nearly a direct copy of the name of a 2013 book by two Hong Kong analysts, A Death in the Lucky Holiday Hotel. It’s not at all clear why the BBC is revisiting the story, especially since no sudden insights are provided that weren’t speculated about before, and the story itself is years old. Apart from some new information about the actions of Bo’s wife, Gu Kaili in England, and further conjecture that Neil Haywood gave information to British intelligence, what’s presented is what’s already been known for years by those who followed the case then.

The major reason for the retelling may well be that the BBC wants to make the mundane melodramatic. We’re continually informed by Gracie that this is “the story that changed China,” that “it changed history.” At the same time, the listener is advised that:

“There are so many things we don’t know about it, and that’s because there are no heroes in it, only victims and villains. And it’s a descent into the dark heart of Chinese politics which is dangerous, and that being the case, most of the people know the story—dead, in jail, or unwilling to talk.”

That theme—that this was a daring story to report—recurs throughout the podcast:

“The Communist party doesn’t want us to report this story and it’s done it’s best to scare us off.”

“Like almost everyone else, [British officials] don’t want me asking questions.”

“We were followed; our phone calls were bugged; our emails were hacked; and the Communist party propaganda department[1] got to everyone, including our one and only interviewee, before we did.”

In other words, the Chinese government is engaged in a conspiracy to stop someone reporting a story that was told and concluded half a decade ago. But what Gracie presents isn’t news because it ceased to be new long ago. And there’s nothing very daring about reporting it, because China has moved on, even if some at the BBC haven’t.

A second issue plaguing the podcast is its depiction of Chinese elites. Gracie doesn’t characterize Chinese officials; she caricatures them.

For example, Gracie claims that Gu Kaili, Bo’s wife, used family connections to gains admission into Peking University. There’s no evidence how Gu got in, because no one has access to that sort of information. It's speculation presented as solid fact. And the claim fits into Gracie’s narrative that Gu “wasn’t just a survivor, she was a striver.”

In the same vein, Gracie makes much of Gu’s personal life, citing people who say that Gu was “petite, elegant, expensively dressed and always willing to please” and that she also had a “long list of lovers”, referring to Gu as a “red apricot [红杏出墙]—Chinese slang for an adulteress. Gu’s political views aren’t discussed, and her highly successful law practice is referred to only very briefly. Gu becomes the femme fatale in this telling, someone who not only murdered Neil Heywood but, Gracie implies, also very possibly took him as her lover.

Salacious? Sure, for some. Adding insight to how China actually operates? Hardly, especially when the evidence for such claims is so thin and the re-telling smacks of sexism.

There’s also Wang Lijun, the Chongqing police chief who answered to Bo Xilai and whose attempted defection kicked off a chain of events that helped produce Bo’s downfall. Wang is described as “the gun-toting narcissist who fled to the Americans disguised as an old woman”. Never mind that Wang went to the British consulate first and was turned away—a fascinating and unexplained part of the saga that Gracie doesn't bother to mention. Nor does the podcast note Wang’s demotion by Bo days before he tried to flee. For Gracie, it’s apparently crucial for the podcast to present Wang simply as someone with a personality problem.

And then there’s Bo Xilai, a complex politician as there ever was in China. In the podcast he’s described as “tall”, “handsome”, “charismatic”, and spending much of his time engaged in sexual affairs and picking up supermodels—a “sex machine”, according to Gracie. She does admit that when Bo ran Chongqing (a city that Gracie says featured “mobsters, money, guns, gambling, prostitutes, and corruption”) “his charisma and personality somehow connect[ed] to the common man.” But apart from the discussion of his tenure in Chongqing, Bo is presented in the podcast mostly as a phallic symbol instead of a political official.

Interestingly (perhaps tellingly), Neil Heywood is pretty much the only person in the story who isn’t portrayed as exotic in some way. Instead, he’s presented as “tall, elegant…[someone who] reinvented himself as a business consultant”, the British fixer who made things happen for Bo and Gu—an astonishing statement given that Bo was a major political force for decades and Gu by many accounts a brilliant and powerful lawyer. Heywood may have offered Bo and Gu companionship or friendship or even amusement, but the notion that they needed him to make things happen for them is nonsense. Gracie says that Heywood got their son into Harrow, where evidently there aren't any admission procedures, just back doors for British expat business consultants. And that Heywood is cast as Gu’s victim--poisoned after he allegedly threatened to reveal information about her activities--allows the podcast to avoid any discussion of Heywood’s own personality and motivations. Apparently, it’s only the Chinese in this story who are different and act strangely.

There’s another shortcoming in the podcast:  How Chinese politics itself is portrayed. That’s the topic for the next post.

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[1] This is a strange statement. Is Gracie confused? It’s the Ministry of State Security that oversees the comings and goings of foreign journalists on the ground, often in coordination with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the nominal body of oversight. The Department of Propaganda has nothing to do with the surveillance of journalists or potential interviewees here in China.
Also, every reporter in China encounters this attention from authorities. Gracie tries to hype these efforts at interference in her story, but it's standard fare for journalists operating in China, no matter what the subject.

There Is A Tide In The City Affairs Of Shared Bikes

Nanjing received a considerable amount of rain this past weekend, which is normal for this time of year and nothing to get too worried about.

According to the Wednesday edition of Nanjing Daily though, the city is getting swamped.

Swamped, that is, by shared bikes.

Calling the bike-sharing phenomenon a “tidal wave” [潮汐式], the local Communist Party newspaper states that since the beginning of the calendar year, possibly 200,000 shared bicycles have hit the streets of Nanjing. “Sharing bicycles has become an important part of the city's green travel,” the article concedes. And while other cities in China have seen criticisms that bike-sharing blocks sidewalks, hinders pedestrian traffic, and conveys a sense of disorder, Nanjing officials seemed to have kept the problem largely under control.

But here the local government goes again--asking, as the article notes, “How many bicycles can Nanjing accommodate? Are shared bicycles already in oversupply?”

The problem isn’t the bikes but the patterns of their usage—indeed, the reference to “tides” is as much about morning and evening surges in shared-bike usage in Nanjing as it is to a flood of share-bikes generally.

It’s a confluence of two problems.

For some, there still aren’t enough bikes to share: More need to be made available where they’re more likely to be used.

For example, according to the article, “Mr. Sun of Guanghua Road [光华路] who wants to cycle to work finds that every morning at 8:30 it’s difficult to find a bike, and downstairs from his workplace after an afternoon that was full of them, after 6 o'clock, bikes disappeared downstairs without a trace.”

But for many others, the challenge is not getting shared-bikes, but being able to get by them. The plethora of bicycles at some spots impeding traffic of all types (pedestrian, car, and bicycle) has led some in Nanjing to characterize the shared-bike situation as creating “a city under siege” [围城]—strong terms, to be sure.

The deluge has become disabling for some. Shared-bike companies have been made responsible for relocating bikes from heavily trafficked streets and sidewalks, but usually it’s been the parking attendants and city workers at subway stations and tourist sites that end up doing the repositioning and rearranging, sometimes late at night, the piece notes. Already April has seen record number of users especially during the Qingming [清明] holiday and on the weekends, the article notes, with too many bikes, much of the time with too many at the wrong locations.

No one seems quite sure how to best deal with these unintended consequences of what’s being characterized as a tidal event worth talking about—both the technical issue of how to calculate ridership and the surge of share-bikes generally. Indeed, Wednesday’s article is slated to be the first in a series about the challenges that bike-sharing continues to pose to Nanjing, in the hope that contributions to solving the problem can be solicited.

That’s a common problem in Chinese society: Everyone wants to complain, few wish to actually participate in finding a solution, especially one that involves self-sacrifice. Public policy in local China rarely ever involves the actual public. Officials here are quick to say that one good reason for the latter is because of the former.

Nonetheless, Nanjing has a problem--one that government officials maintain is not necessarily theirs alone to address. Unsurprisingly, the article reflects that line, insisting “the effective planning and standardized management of the sharing of bicycles is the primary problem that management and cycling companies need to solve.”

That is, it’s the share-bike firms that need to confront and fix this issue—or at least propose some way to deal with the tide.

Until then, Nanjing government and its residents may have to be satisfied with just treading water. 

Do Banners in Local China Flutter and Fall or Fly High?

The raising of an anti-gay banner at a university in Wuhan by members of a women’s basketball team there is already receiving news coverage, as well as condemnation by more than a few commentators on social media.

As it should, of course--and not only because students here in China are almost always presented as liberal and pluralist in orientation, when many harbor very conservative social attitudes.

But it’s doubtful that it was only students behind this event.

Students hardly ever protest in China these days, especially on campuses. They know that unauthorised demonstrations of any sort are forbidden, especially because there’s too much at stake where their study plans and careers are concerned. Moreover, knowledge and interest in social and political issues at universities are often minimal, or at least moribund and easily managed by the authorities.

Demonstrations at universities these days usually occur when there’s a local issue that angers students (food quality in the cafeteria, being misled about a university degree) or because they are directed to do so and protected after the fact. Rallies large and small are organized (or at least cleared) by university administrators in conjunction with party cadres to reflect official policy--pro-China, anti-foreign--and employed to get students to stand up and support the main political line lest they become victims of those wishing to harm China. Not every participant buys into these campaigns (though more than a few do); but protests at universities or by students happen only with permission at some level. (Exceptions are very rare, and need to be seen as such, not harbingers of a social movement.)

That’s what likely occurred in Wuhan.

The banner in question urged onlookers to “protect Chinese traditional principles, defend core socialist values, resist the corruption of decadent Western thought, keep homosexuality far from the university campus.” 

That’s not a message exclusively devoted to anti-gay rhetoric, but vintage Party-speak, especially at the local level.

It’s very possible that the reports stating that the coach and various players on the women’s squad at Huazhong University of Science and Technology became nervous about what they saw as rampant lesbianism in their ranks and decided to take action are accurate. But the banner-raising, the subsequent social media posts (some of which are now unavailable), and the references to outside influences being corrosive echo statements that can be found in some Party editorials. Wuhan itself has a long history of leftism (in the Chinese context), and universities there aren’t known for liberalism the way that some in say Jiangsu are. And Huazhong University of Science and Technology is one of the few colleges in China that retains a large statue of the Great Helmsman on its grounds. Leftism lurks and looms at schools like this one.

Some students may well have had a preexisting problem with gay classmates and athletes. Given the uneven quality of teaching here in China and the dearth of engagement by instructors, that wouldn't be surprising. But hardliners in the local Party branch probably looked to leverage whatever anxiety there was for a larger political purpose.

It will be worth paying careful attention to the aftermath of this event more than the event itself, dismaying as it is. The banner-raising could be just local fear being given voice, or it might signal the start of an intensified campaign to attack unwelcome social influences at universities. Perhaps some people in Wuhan know which way the wind is about to blow. 

Illusions and Confusions of Corruption in China

There are new allegations about corruption in parts of China’s central leadership, involving the family of retired Politburo member He Guoqiang, who, among other responsibilities, ran China’s anti-graft operations from 2007-2012.

The question isn’t whether those accusations are true, but how much it really matters even if they turn out to be.

The claims about the He family’s ties to at least one major financial Chinese firm with international connections aren’t entirely new, as the article itself notes. Rumors about He have been around for years, mostly in Hong Kong media circles, which don't have the most reliable track-record when it comes to political reporting. Many of the more recent accusations—and the crux of this new recounting--come from Guo Wengui, a real estate mogul who alleges that He Jintao, the son of the ex-Politburo member, caused him financial harm by intervening in a business deal. Guo has also claimed to have knowledge of money-laundering by some inside or at least connected to leadership circles in China.

But of course he would.

These sorts of accusations of wrongdoing are only too common in China. Often the purported victim says that someone with political protection victimized them. The aggrieved then reaches out to foreign journalists to plead their case, sometimes with the hilarious result that the recipient of such revelations sees them as a sign of change in China—that is, that people here actually complain about injustice (which they do all the time and have done for centuries actually).

There’s no particular reason to think that the case being discussed is any different. Even The New York Times article admits that “Mr. Guo…did not offer any proof of wrongdoing by the He family.” There’s no exploration of motives, or what the He family would have stood to gain from the son’s machinations. Perhaps a lot; perhaps nothing at all. We don’t know, and we’re not told.

So it’s difficult to know what to do with such reports, especially as He Guoqiang has retired, though surely retains significant influence. If He ends up under investigation, would his takedown mean anything in present Chinese politics? Maybe that Beijing’s anti-corruption crusade has claimed another “tiger”? But how specifically that development would help President Xi Jinping (or harm him) isn’t at all apparent. Chinese officials already know that the anticorruption campaign is real and that it’s been targeting every level of officialdom. Local officials in particular spend almost as much time looking over their shoulders for inspection teams as they do trying to make policy. Taking down He and his clan wouldn’t prove much more than what’s already accepted practice. No big deal here then.

Would investigating He or his family supply further proof that some high-level elites and family members have benefitted enormously from their political position? 

Really, is any more evidence required to convince officials or citizens here? If anyone in authority or attendance thinks that Beijing’s crusade is just some ploy only targeting political enemies, they’re delusional—and maybe next on the hit list because they’re not reading the tea leaves correctly. Every official is vulnerable, and every official knows that.

Or maybe an inquiry into He and his son would signal the beginning of an assault on He’s former employee, President Hu Jintao?

That’s actually a slightly more interesting question, though not for the reasons one might think, especially as the Xi-Hu relationship is rather complicated.

Assuming that Hu Jintao is the real target here presumes that Xi hasn’t “consolidated his power” and needs to do so. But the phrase--the concept, if that's what it is--is as undefined as it is commonly employed: No one ever says what precisely Xi needs to do to accomplish that goal of consolidation. One day Xi’s cast as approaching Strongman status; the next he’s seen as encountering enormous resistance and needs to replace recalcitrant officials before they become a unified political threat. Indeed, one of the great absurdities of much of China Watching these days is why opaqueness in the political system here isn’t a check on audacity when it comes to broad conclusions. 

So here’s another possibility.

That Guo Wengui is just another tycoon who lost out on a deal where he was trying to punch above his political weight, and having fled to the United States to avoid retaliation for his missteps, is desperate enough to believe that talking to journalists and publishers and agreeing to the odd video interview will somehow get him back into the ring and reclaim his status. Talk about delusional.

Fortunately for Guo, there’s an audience for these sorts of allegations, even if he hasn't yet provided direct evidence for any of the ones he's peddling.  Unfortunately, at least for now, the lack of corroboration doesn't seem to matter very much, even though it really should.

Beijing Has Met The Enemy, But Maybe Not

Beijing is after foreign spies in its streets and hallways, and, just like last year, April 15^th in China will be National Security Day.

For now, the story that’s attracting a great deal of attention abroad is the announcement that China’s capital city is seeking to encourage its residents to look more carefully for espionage by offering substantial cash awards—up to 50,000 RMB for leads that end up thwarting foreign spies, and up to 10 times that amount for actions that “make an especially major or special contribution” [贡献特别突出的线索] to stopping intelligence operations against China. 

Lost amidst all the outrage and accusations of paranoia by some over this announcement is why Beijing is doing that and what it says about policy challenges for some here in China.

In fact, the article in Beijing Daily that carried the news of the reward system presents a lengthy explanation of the reasons behind this move to get residents involved. The logic that's presented actually makes a lot of sense, which isn't surprising since their ranks tend to be composed of some of the best and brightest officials.

Beijing, the piece contends, is “the national political center, cultural center, science and technology innovation center, and center for communication with the outside world—the first choice of foreign intelligence agencies for subversion, suborning, and theft.” Security officials there argue that “it is because of the special status and characteristics of Beijing that the task of safeguarding national security and the social and political stability of the capital is more arduous”, and assistance from the public is needed. With so many potential targets for intelligence-gathering (as well as a large if dwindling foreign presence in China’s capitol), offering cash incentives to Beijing’s residents is thought to be an encouragement for them to stay alert against anyone looking to steal secrets, especially foreigners.

That the State Security people have had to justify this move is itself interesting, if only because it’s rare for them to do so publicly. More on that below.

It’s also important to note that it’s only Beijing and its particular State Security branch that’s thus far offering these economic incentives to spy-stoppers—not the Chinese government as a whole nor the entire State Security apparatus, nor other departments, bureaus and agencies, all of which have officers looking out for leaks and espionage. There's a National Security Day, but the reward system isn't national.

The new reward system is likely being put into operation because Beijing’s residents are usually either too busy working or commuting to spend time watching for foreign agents. The huge number of migrants who toil in China’s capitol aren’t interested in their surroundings so much as making a living for themselves and family members back home. Like so many policy announcements here, the effort isn’t to alarm citizens but to rouse them from their apolitical slumber. And the way to do that in Beijing at least, in the eyes of authorities there, is to offer the possibility of money.

But that's Beijing: It's the Sun in the Chinese political universe, with the provinces treated as mere planets in various orbits. Still, it’s also only one place. Other officials are preparing for National Security Day differently.

For example, a university in Jiangsu has been employing posters to alert staff and students to help safeguard China’s secrets from outsiders, using examples of what they need to keep a look out for.

In one sense, this poster campaign is another attempt by Chinese officials to mobilize the masses [“一切为了群众，一切依靠群众”]--to get them interested in the affairs of State. People—in this instance, students and others on university campuses—are needed to watch out for foreigners who some authorities are convinced wish to do China harm.

But this campaign is also a case-study of what seems to be bothering at least some people in Chinese leadership circles. China’s National Security Day reflects the view of many here that there are real enemies abroad and at home. At the same time, the campaign hints that at least some in Beijing think that the security services aren’t doing as good of a job as they should be in protecting the country’s secrets. After all, there was never a need for a special day or for special payouts until rather recently. As Beijing Daily duly notes, even China’s State Security admits that it needs citizens to assist them in stopping foreign intelligence agents from “exploiting existing loopholes” [无隙可乘] and acquire information. This strategy doesn't demonstrate that the security mob is dominating Chinese decisions, but that it's having trouble implementing them. 

Is the threat from foreign spies growing then? Perhaps it really is. Are Chinese security officials concerned about their own capability to counter that threat? It appears very much so.

Securing the borders, guarding cyberspace, shielding the nation's secrets--these are all tough tasks in the post-modern world for any government, even as one as focused as China's. But that Beijing itself thinks it needs to pay residents to be alert patriots--and that both national and local authorities continues to employ posters to get others to simply pay attention—probably aren’t good signs for anyone—for foreigners, or for the officials in charge of security work here. You have to wonder who the real enemy here may turn out to be.

At Home and Abroad, Chinese Leaders Lead The Discussion And Show The Way

There’s no way of knowing just what the talks between Chinese President Xi Jinping and American President Donald Trump in the past couple of days will produce in terms of the China-US strategic relationship—whether they’ll lean more towards competition or collaboration in the coming months and beyond.

But citizens and officials in China know that Xi was in charge of those talks. All they need do is look at the pictures about the summit run by the State media.

The photo run on the front page of Nanjing Daily on Saturday—and that of every other newspaper in Jiangsu and other provinces--shows Trump The Avid Listener, as Xi expounds and explains something that needs to be heard.

Readers don't need to know what Xi’s actual subject is, because it doesn't matter: what’s important is that Xi is imparting, “issuing important instructions” (重要指示 in the Chinese political lexicon), explaining to his American counterpart what’s going on. Nothing in China is ever a conference between equals: Everything is a seminar in which someone with more power and insight provides an “objective understanding” [客观理解] which the listener—the lower official, the foreigner, the recipient of such wisdom—is seen as respecting and responding to. Chinese politics and society works that way: It’s about patrons, patronage, and it’s almost always patronizing when it comes to relationships because in China everything is unequal in some important way. When Chinese leaders speak of partnerships, they really mean submitting to hierarchy. Someone wise has to be in charge, lest things fall apart.

One sees this sort of behavior from officials often here in China. Whether it’s during inspection trips to a province or at a time of local crisis, leaders in China lead by looking like leaders, and to look that way means being seen telling others what to do. It’s not dialogue so much as direction. And this is Trump being directed—being led--by Xi. Once Trump hears that Xi has to say, he’ll understand and go along, because that’s the only way to get along.

Speaking of direction, Chinese readers received more of the same on Sunday when Chinese State media, particularly the party newspapers, ran a second major photo of Xi and Trump.

This photo is the more extraordinary of the two. Here is Xi, a visitor to Trump’s estate, guiding the American President as a guest, showing him something, rather than the other way around. Xi’s pointing—or at least gesturing—and getting Trump to look where Xi wants him to look. Trump's moving in one direction and Xi is presented as signalling him to move in a different one. It’s Trump paying attention and therefore being portrayed as at least acquiescent.

Chinese leaders can do that sort of thing. On one memorable occasion, in 2007, then-President Hu Jintao, on a trip to Australia, visited an agricultural station in Canberra and was portrayed in State media (including the front page of People’s Daily, the Party’s flagship newspaper) as pointing out something or another. More than a few readers saw Hu’s gestures as the usual imparting of insights and suggestions from the Person In Charge—even if there wasn’t a lot of evidence that his audience of agricultural experts and practitioners would actually benefit from the comments of a former geologist (though they may well have, given Hu’s work in dry climates). It was the gesture that mattered—the Chinese leader as lecturer.[1]

Here in China, readers, watchers, and listeners are being told that Xi in charge of the Beijing-Washington relationship, and that he is tutoring Trump. That’s what Chinese citizens are meant to see from photos, and what Chinese local officials here also grasp.

That message is both understandable and crucial for readers and residents here.

It’s understandable because Xi is so much more savvy and experienced than Trump when it comes to navigating and negotiating politics. Xi had to deal with the soil, and he knew hardship. Trump dealt with deals, and focused on skyscrapers; it’s difficult to discover anything in Trump's past that involved personal struggle. Xi has political training, spent time in the military establishment, ran government offices, and has surmounted all sorts of challenges--experiences that are foreign to Trump in so many ways. Xi does in fact have a lot to teach Trump.

And it’s crucial because Trump continues to make many people here anxious, if only because China’s political system and society isn’t built for the unpredictable and that's precisely what Trump is. But now the domestic audience here in China, in the Beijing-Shanghai Beltway and beyond, is being told not to worry, that Xi’s in charge of the relationship, as he's in command at home. Just by looking at Xi’s hands, they can see who’s handling whom.

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[1] There will be some observers who may find these observations as the sort of Pekingology that relies on reading tea-leaves. Usually those criticisms come from people who don’t survey the Chinese language media, or don't bother to try to see matters as audiences in China see them. It's not easy, but few things in analysing China are.