All Land Disputes In China Are Local

The South China Sea question which has dominated Chinese state-run media for months may appear to have very little to do with what happens in China’s counties and townships.

After all, the former is high politics, something of international importance, while the daily goings-on in China’s smaller cities and villages are pretty tame when compared to aircraft carriers and military overflights. 

But Beijing’s behavior concerning the South China Sea contretemps very much reflects patterns in Chinese local politics. That’s because both issues involve conflicts over land, and how they’re often resolved locally in China.

It’s impossible to overstate the importance of land to Chinese citizens. The government isn’t shy about seizing it when it deems such actions necessary, while residents (especially farmers) resist such grabs because they see their homes as China’s real currency, providing the main measure of security and financial opportunity in the country these days. Land also confers local status in China, and reflects a reputation for wielding power. Lose your land (without adequate and visible compensation), and you’re exposed as weak.

Disputes over land ownership also expose how local power is often employed in China—and why local attitudes and actions about land issues mirror what’s been transpiring in the South China Sea in recent months.

For a start, few cases of disputes over territory and property are legally arbitrated. Arguments over property or access or ownership aren’t resolved by mutual consideration or compromise between the parties; they’re decided in a zero-sum way by an individual or political network whose power is simply greater and which imposes its view.

For example, a neighbor in a local community who decides that property set aside for the common use of residents is actually and solely theirs—and proceeds to build on that section, grow crops on it, rent it out to others for their use in exchange for payment—does so because of the influence that person believes that they possess and others don’t. The person looking to grab your land might be your neighbor in a proximate sense, but they enjoy wider and deeper ties to local power than you do, and are therefore practically and politically quite different from you. That separation is sustained by what they can get away, and what you’re powerless to prevent. And rarely does anyone with power in China wait for permission.

For those foolish enough to push the issue (more on that below), local officials and their allies inherently enjoy political protection for such behavior. Law is an extension of the State, not an instrument of the citizenry except in special instances. The local judges and legal authorities that interpret the rules and determine which behavior is illegal are not independent agents, but tend to obey instructions from whoever holds greater authority.

That’s why those with political connections work hard at convincing those with influence to accept their point of view before a judgment is rendered. On the local level in China, it often involves inviting local officials and judges to banquets, offering gift cards for shopping, and attempting to strengthen existing ties through other forms--what is known here and elsewhere as graft, and in China in particular as simply being a good friend to power.

Anyone looking at the South China Sea question will note the similarities, because that’s much of what Beijing has been doing in the run-up to the decision at The Hague (without the graft part): Working the diplomatic and academic circuits, seeking to curry favor and endeavoring to make its views on the South China Sea dispute indisputable. The Chinese leadership seeks to locate friends and allies abroad, believing that the latter’s support will exert pressure on the court proceedings in much the same way that local officials in China seek to influence judges. In China, law and land are simply parts of the larger local political process.

Of course, some people in China do conceive of law as something above power, and therefore capable of restraining unilateral action or providing what they see as a just remedy. But those people don’t matter because they lack the clout to make courts play that role, or find ways to have arbitration become the most common recourse.

So submitting the issue of territory in the South China Sea to an outside body to render a judgment is contrary to the typical way matters about land are decided in China. That’s also one reason why Beijing has made it clear that it plans to ignore whatever the International Court of Justice rules: The process makes little sense to officials used to getting their own way because their capability surpasses other claimants. The argument isn’t about right, but might—which party has more power, not the better argument. There’s no need to ask for a judgment, because politics has already rendered an outcome.

Furthermore, continued resistance by residents is seen by many officials as an effort to subvert political authority. That’s why activists or local residents who mistakenly think that they can challenge power by standing up to it can end up incarcerated. In the eyes of many Chinese officials, local opposition isn’t an indication that the dispute hasn’t been resolved well, but that those resisting are refusing to accept the political reality of lacking the requisite power to alter a predetermined outcome. That goes for countries as well as Chinese citizens.

So while an authoritative editorial in People’s Daily today speaks quite correctly of a China that “will never agree to the national humiliation of the past produced by foreign powers,” the real lesson conveyed by Beijing in recent months is that it plans to continue to treat the dispute over territory in the South China Sea as it would any argument over land here locally. Apparently, it expects other countries to understand and respect that approach.

Responding Locally To Incidents Elsewhere

Sometime in the last few weeks, Nanjing city authorities started to put police officers on some public buses.

As with many individuals who work in local government positions, the officers one meets on these bus routes are not reticent to speak of their role, providing someone takes an interest and actually asks them about their work. Indeed, as in this instance, they’re eager to inform, and they do so with politeness and professionalism.

The police officers are working in pairs: one in front of the bus where residents board; the other is sitting in the back seat. The one in the front is meant to deter people who might have a nefarious purpose from getting on the bus in the first place. Their partner in the rear of the bus keeps their eyes on passengers who might cause trouble once they do board—for example, an argument that gets out of hand, pickpockets, and the like, or someone who manages to board with, say, hazardous materials that aren’t immediately apparent to the officer at the front of the bus. The officers aren’t present to maintain order or civility per se, but to protect passengers against possible threats.

The officers are armed—which is to say, they say that they are 配备—“equipped” or “deployed” with the means to handle problems. At the same time, they do not seem to be carrying guns (武装的), though they do have holsters, which appear to be holding mace and some sort of stun device or a short truncheon. The demeanor of these officers is by no means threatening or intimidating: They seek to convey their seriousness simply by their presence on the bus.

And they’re not on every bus route, by any means. Thus far, police officers appear to be riding only on some of the longer routes—ones that go across the city and start from the far end, making many stops at subway stations that feed in from Nanjing’s outskirts. One officer allowed that there was concern with “people coming in from the countryside who have a gripe with the government” and might wish to cause harm. There’s also a safety issue, he noted, with farmers or laborers carrying gasoline, kerosene, or other materials that they plan to use privately but which could cause a danger to bus riders or residents along the same route. By placing officers on such buses, Nanjing city authorities clearly hope to preclude such problems.

As with everything local in China, there are larger issues about this situation that deserve reflection.

For one, there hasn’t been a public announcement of this new policy. But it appears to be the result, one officer related, of incidents earlier this year in Shanghai, Shenzhen, and Chongqing, when explosions occurred on public buses. Those events occurred some months ago, however (March and April). So the decision to put officers on some bus routes in Nanjing may be a grudging response to a central directive from Beijing to do something--another example of the glacial nature of local policymaking in China when Beijing itself tends to be sluggish in making decisions. Nanjing officials might not be opposed to what Beijing wants, but they’d like to have a clear sense of what precisely that is before acting.

It’s also possible that officials here have information about discontent outside Nanjing that’s become worrisome. With Beijing more focused on protecting the political leadership from possible terrorism there, it’s been largely left to local governments to deal with indigenous disgruntlement—an approach that some officials in Nanjing prefer anyway, because they know their backyards better and the sorts of threats they face aren’t usually large-scale anyway. The fact that it’s only a few bus routes where police officers are riding—and evidently always in uniform—hints that there may well be concern with something specific to this area.

At the same time, according to Nanjing local news, there’s at least another reason for bus riders to be alert this summer: Women wear less clothes, and therefore (the story claims with dubious logic) there are increasing incidences of groping and other forms of inappropriate behavior by male riders on public transport.

Some problems, it appears, aren’t local at all.

Beijing Finally Wades In

China’s local flooding problems this summer have finally risen to national focus. 

Today’s noon national news here led with the floods now inundating Anhui province, and concentrated much of their opening coverage on the threat of rising water levels in Nanjing, showing work being done to shore up berms and dikes along the Yangtze River. The opening section of the news coverage was devoted to dangers flooding poses to cities along China’s longest tributary, and the deaths and damage so far.

That’s a change from previous national media coverage of the flooding. Local newspapers and media outlets were allowed to note the rising waters in their own specific areas, but the national news had instead been focused on the 95^th anniversary of the founding of China’s Communist party and the contretemps in the South China Sea. State media largely treated the flooding as worrisome and unfortunate, but not a large-scale emergency that should lead the news. Accomplishments and dreams, not anxiety and potential nightmares, were the top stories of the day. No longer.

There was an awkward moment at the start of the live portion of the noon broadcast when the military personnel were seen waiting for the filming to begin before actually starting to fill and toss sandbags. Both they and the on-site reporter deserved better treatment. But the blunder does reveal that Beijing wants the main storyline to be about it rescuing the provinces, a stirring struggle against nature that China will win because of the central leadership.

As predicted, the situation locally is deteriorating. The sun made a brief appearance in the late afternoon here in Nanjing today, but it may turn out to be the only bright spot for a while. Residents are becoming increasingly disgruntled about the rain and the possibility of large-scale flooding. Nanjing and adjoining townships are seeing much higher water levels, as the rain continues and thunderstorms become more regular, especially during the overnight hours. There’s even talk of a typhoon hitting Jiangsu by the late weekend.

There’s been substantial urbanization in and around Nanjing in the last few years, and what had been watershed and farmland that served to absorb heavy rain during previous floods is largely no longer available for that task. Nanjing isn’t overbuilt, but there are more than a few housing projects that are close to the Yangtze and the lower floors of those structures are certainly vulnerable, as are the various stores and other services that are part of those developments. For many locals in the latter category, their inventory represents their lives.

Some urban residents voice concern that plans they made to vacation this month in China or elsewhere will be disrupted; others already note the jump in food prices and the disappearance of certain seasonal staples. For other residents, their vehicles are already vulnerable because many parking lots were hastily constructed to meet the demand for space for cars (and the fees that could be collected) and drainage an afterthought.

All that may seem like minor issues when people’s lives and livelihood are at stake, but these are the sorts of matters that matter to many locals. Residents now at least are seeing military personnel marching off to do battle with the water, winds and waves, and that’s heartening.

At the same time, it’s questionable whether the forces available this time around will actually turn out to be adequate. So much of southern China is already flooded, and with east China now under the same threat with more rain on the way, military relief is already hard-pressed. Compared to the floods of 1998 where soldiers performed heroically to save many cities and citizens, Beijing is going to have a tougher time this summer, if only because China’s armed forces has gotten smaller since then, and the shift to a more mobile military have emphasized the Navy and Air Force at the expense of the ground troops, who did the bulk of the work nearly twenty years ago. The broadcast at noon today showed 武警, troops of the People’s Armed Police (which answer to the  central military command and are usually responsible for social order); many of the news photos appearing in today’s newspapers and local coverage are of the People’s Armed Police as well. That’s because they’re readily available--though they’re unlikely to be local, as the heightened tensions in the South China Sea have meant that certain garrisons (such as Nanjing’s) are gearing up for next week’s scheduled military exercises there. It’s not at clear where Beijing (or provincial governments) will turn if manpower starts to run short, or how what is available will get here if the flooding gets worse.

China’s Premier Li Keqiang flew into Anhui today to inspect the situation, and provide instructions to local officials. News coverage showed him giving orders, meeting with locals to receive their thanks for his attention to the flooding, and surveying the state of the regional waterways. In short, the standard political script many have come to expect from Beijing. Li’s local appearances are always presented as welcome occasions, though some cadres might wonder just how much when the Premier arrives to deliver directives and lecture subordinates about their purported shortcomings.

Natural crises and the deployment of relief forces (including the military) are the responsibility of China’s State Council that Li chairs as Premier, so it’s only appropriate that he should take the lead in looking into the crisis. Still, Li’s reputation will be on the line, at a time when his stewardship of China’s national economy and his authority continue to be called into question by some. If Li does more than wade into the rising local waters to assist others and bolster himself, he’ll need to be careful that he’s not pulled under by the politics back in Beijing.

Trying To Keep One’s Head Above Water

The short-term and long-range weather forecasts for southern Jiangsu—and Nanjing in particular—predict rain every day. 

A more complete index would show pain for local officials on the same timeline.

Nanjing and its bordering low-lying townships are now facing the threat of severe flooding in a number of areas, with water levels in some cases suddenly running 10 meters or more above flood stage, according to local reports. That Jiangsu would have to confront flooding isn’t shocking and officials here were making preparations. But the rapid rate of the rise in water levels in the past few days is alarming.

The danger of a local deluge isn’t only due to the heavy weather; it’s because sometime in the last week or so, Nanjing city began retaining water locally. Excess rainfall wasn’t being flushed into the Yangtze River (which is the normal approach) because provincial officials appear to have had instructions from the central government to halt that practice for the moment because of rising river levels upstream and to protect industries downstream. Likewise, townships near Nanjing seem to have been directed to open local waterways and sluices to help take the strain off the Yangtze River. So even before the heavy rains commenced in Jiangsu in the past few days, local governments in the Nanjing area were being told to play the part of urban sponge.

That puts local officials in an unenviable position—one that they’re used to, but never completely comfortable with.

Chinese decision-makers aren’t elected from below but selected from above. They don’t answer to constituents for their political authority but superiors. Chinese politics is largely about patronage, with officials disposed to gazing above and only glancing below. To make matters worse, Jiangsu is an affluent province, and Nanjing a successfully managed city—conditions that help make for local stability, but which are sometimes in other places sources of political jealousy. And because Jiangsu’s various political representatives have often been brave enough to act independently of Beijing’s directives in the past—insisting that they know local conditions better—officials here insist that they need to follow the government line even more carefully when crises that cross regions arise. In the present situation where flooding is imminent, they’ve very little leeway when it comes to local waterways.

At the same time, local officials also feel responsible for residents and their safety. In Nanjing, many lower-level Communist party cadres and government employees were born and raised in the area, and a number are second-generation officials. They may sometimes clash with the communities they supervise (especially as more migrants flow into the cities and lack even a rudimentary understanding of how to address and interact with urban authorities); but those who work in local government do feel responsible for residents, if only because many of them know each other. Neighbours here are growing anxious about the rising waters in Nanjing, and local officials aren’t far behind them.

Indeed, it’s not only the rising water that’s worrisome, for this summer’s flood threat--a natural or third force pressing officials--is also interfering with local policy-making here.

For example, Nanjing was in the middle of a project aimed at cleaning up local streams and reservoirs, and other measures designed to assist the environment. There was also an ongoing large-scale, long-term effort to dredge the Yangtze River to assist water traffic and transport of goods and materials. Those ventures are on hold now—efforts that would have been good for the city (and perhaps political promotion).

Flooding upstream from Nanjing is already affecting the availability of agriculture products, harvest schedules, livestock feeding and slaughtering, and the prices of goods in local markets. Because Nanjing is a major consumer and distribution center for farmers and their produce, rising water levels in the city and in nearby counties will only exacerbate these conditions.

And there are many migrant workers in Nanjing and its adjoining townships. Some have already left to help meet the flooding threats back in their own hometowns outside Jiangsu, but many have remained, either because they cannot find transport, or are obligated to finish construction work here. Still, if Nanjing is hit by flooding, that work will likely come to a halt, and officials here will be faced with making sure that there are housing and services available to help laborers here from afar through local government offices, or by compelling construction firms to take on additional obligations for their employees.

Local cadres looking to make these decisions and others that flow from the flooding to come in Nanjing will have to rely largely on their own capabilities and those of their local political colleagues. The current focus of the Communist party leadership is on Marxism, not local markets, on ideology and faith in the organization and its mission, not infrastructure and the availability of sandbags. The real work will, as ever, be done largely at street level here, as local officials try to stay on the high ground without losing touch with those just trying to tread water.

Stumbled, Shoved or Just Too Soft? What Happened to China’s Internet Czar Lu Wei

The announcement wasn’t at the top of the political news here, but unlike so many postings in much of Chinese social media in the past few years it went viral very quickly:  “Comrade Lu Wei will no longer serve as the Director of the General Office of the Central Leading Group in charge of network security and information technology.” [鲁炜同志不再担任中央网络安全和信息化领导小组办公室主任职务.]

Until yesterday, Lu Wei ran China’s Internet. Apart from a few years helping to manage the terribly-managed Beijing municipality, Lu’s career had been as an administrator and sometime editor at Xinhua.

Two decades ago, there was little to indicate that Lu Wei would be China’s social media czar. At that time, Lu was in charge of superintending news coverage in Nanning, the capital of Guangxi province. Then, after less than a decade doing that job, he was suddenly helicoptered to Beijing. Lu’s promotion to Beijing’s inner circles was probably due to the fact that he wasn’t a major political striver from a large city, but someone from far and away, who came to the attention of visiting dignitaries by the way he made sure that reports of deeply entrenched political corruption in Guangxi were relayed to officials but not part of the regular local news cycle. It also didn't hurt Lu’s career that he reportedly organized a special news team to trumpet then-Premier Wen Jiabao’s efforts to reach out to the poor and downtrodden there and elsewhere in China—or at least got credit for doing so.

Lu’s overall job in Nanning was to regulate what was reported, and he did so with a clear zest for control then, and since—on the one hand, insisting that control of the Internet was China’s sovereign right and on the other, seeking to export China’s model of social media management to other countries.

Lu Wei is one of those cadres who many foreigners find impressively urbane, and mistake for one of the faces of The Newest Version Of New China. He wasn’t one of the faces so much as the force—the fulcrum really—by which the current leadership seeks to supervise society by looking to supplant dynamism with stability. Lu didn't attain his position and his power because he was open to the outside; he achieved influence and authority because his vision of a tightly-controlled cyberspace was what Beijing believes to be the best way to run China’s post-modern state. He mastered his masters’ voice.

Much of the follow-up reporting has speculated about why Lu Wei is no longer in charge of China’s Internet.

Some think that Lu Wei was pushed out because the agencies he managed may have been riddled with corruption; the Central Committee’s Discipline Inspection Commission recently concluded an inspection tour that, among other targets, investigated some of the departments that Lu oversaw. Government bureaus that have something to do with media—presenting the Party line, placing statements in cyberspace, regulating resistance to what Beijing wants--has long been a place where at least the scent of sleaze lingers. That’s not to assume that Lu succumbed; only that he had already been rebuked for not doing the best job delivering Xi’s message, and perhaps the Commission’s report showed Lu as better at deleting posts than promoting the Party and expunging corruption at the same time.

The fact that the announcement of Lu’s removal occurred on the very eve of the 95^th anniversary of the founding of China’s Communist party is also noteworthy. His exit is major news, and signals dissatisfaction at a moment when there should be back-slapping.  

Others have wondered if Lu’s departure heralds a change of policy by President Xi Jinping, to something of a less draconian oversight of the media. From what we know about Lu's successor, that's unlikely. Indeed, given Xi’s attitude on such matters, Chinese society can expect to see more control of social media in the coming months, leaving some of Lu’s would-be mates still stuck running in circles.

But how Lu Wei’s departure plays out locally will be very interesting to watch. Even in Beijing, he wasn’t universally popular: one of the new offices of Party’s flagship newspaper People’s Daily was said to have had a whiteboard with a picture of Lu on it that some used to toss magnetic darts at. (True or not, the tale speaks loudly as to how some in the state media resented Lu’s oversight.)

Likewise, some local officials weren’t pleased with the autonomy that Lu and his allies erased where their own oversight of the Internet was concerned. The political recentralization that has been the hallmark of the Xi leadership hasn’t sat well with provinces and cities looking to tackle unemployment through innovation and other start-up initiatives. Policies that compel potential foreign investors to look outside of China’s provinces because their best hope of a reliable Internet connection is a VPN through Bulgaria also don’t help localities that look for new ways of economic growth. At least one middle-ranking cadre in Jiangsu was stunned to find after an official trip abroad that other nations’ regulation of cyberspace was almost nonexistent compared to China’s. He’s probably more hopeful today than he might have been the day before yesterday--and he and his like-minded comrades surely must have made their unhappiness known in the past months.

The circumstances that led to Lu Wei’s exit aren’t clear in these early days. Some local governments will see Lu’s removal as a temporary victory that they hope will lead to less supervision of cyberspace, but the central leadership may well be hoping for even more oversight. That disconnect at least doesn’t seem to be going away.