Brave the enemy’s gunfire, rejuvenate!

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Defining the win in a trade war is difficult, even for a “winner” like Donald Trump. In an Apr 2018 tweet, the US President declared the trade war “already lost” with China by his foolish and incompetent predecessors. What he had been doing, first initiating a Section 301 investigation and then asking for tariffs to be imposed on roughly 150 billion USD worth of Chinese goods, appeared more like a penalty long overdue than the a strategically planned assault with clear objectives.

On the other side of the Pacific, victory was equally elusive to the Chinese government. “There is no winner in a trade war” was the official line repeated by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs(MoFA), the Ministry of Commerce(MOFCOM) and the official mouthpiece outlets such as People’s Daily. In the early days of the standoff, the message from the Chinese authorities was essentially of “peace through war”: we don’t think the war will benefit anyone, but if fighting is the only way to bring some sense back to the offender, we will retaliate with matching forcefulness.

That rhetoric escalated dramatically on Apr 6 upon Trump’s latest round of threat. In a MOFCOM statement responding to the US President’s announcement of his intention to slap penalizing tariffs on 100 billion USD worth of Chinese imports on top of earlier measures, the words used was “to fight till the end” and “at all costs”, even though, curiously, China has so far refrained from announcing its counter measures against Trump’s 100 billion “bluff”. If the country opts to follow suit in a one-eye-for-one-eye manner, it would mean a near blanket 25% tariff on all US imports (In 2017, total imports from the US amounted to 130 billion USD).In this sense, being rhetorically strong but substantively vague is all but rational.

Where official intentions remain ambivalent underneath the confrontational posture, social media is itching to offer some clarity. The trade war creates a rare spectacle of a massive Internet debate on China’s industrial and trade policies, through which one gets a glimpse of the public opinion foundation for China’s own brand of economic nationalism that is growing into an integral component of the increasingly prominent “national rejuvenation” narrative. If Donald Trump’s trade war has any effects, one of them would be uniting the Chinese internet under the flag of industrial self-armament.

Rejuvenation under threat

While the cyberspace was pretty calm about the relatively targeted tariffs on Chinese steel and aluminum announced on Mar 8, the following proposal to slap tariffs on another 50 billions worth of Chinese goods, a sure sign of a possible full-blown trade war, ignited the Chinese social media with excitement. As soon as China’s MOFCOM released its list of potential US products targeted for retaliation, online opinion leaders took note of the stark differences in the industries covered by each country’s measures. The Chinese goods and services included in Trump’s proposed levies ranged from industrial robotics to new generation information technologies, whereas China’s matching list consisted almost entirely of agricultural products: pork, fruit and nuts.

There was an almost gleeful response to the comparison. “It’s a trade war between an agricultural economy with an industrial power,” as one commentator put it. This might be a mischaracterization of both the makeup of the US economy and the nature of the trade war. The 10 categories of Chinese products selected by the Trump Administration were there not because they made up majority of Chinese exports now. They represented sectors that could challenge US industrial advantages in the future.

The message was not lost in Chinese online discussions, which seemed to be seized by a mixed sense of pride and threat. The juxtaposition of the two countries’ tariff lists quickly developed into a theory about what the trade war was really about: it was seen as an attempt to undermine China’s rise as a developed industrial power, with industries capable of competing at the highest level. “The trade war is but one interlude in China’s rise as a great power,” one commentator wrote in a long Weibo post.

Fluxing China’s engineering muscles has increasingly become part of broader patriotic propaganda in China. In 2013, a CCTV documentary series, “The Pillars of a Great Power“, amplified the “engineering equals national strength” narrative in the public’s mind. In Mao’s era, when China faced severe economic blockade from the rest of the world, developing its industrial might was often associated with achieving self-sufficiency. Today, honing China’s manufacturing capabilities has attained new significance: asserting China’s global competitiveness. The documentary, co-produced with the Ministry of Industry and Information Technology(MIIT), the government body overseeing the implementation of “Made in China 2025” strategy, was a tour de force of Chinese equipment manufacturing companies already occupying advantageous positions in their respective value chains: heavy duty bulldozers, high efficiency power generators, industrial robots. In one episode, a Chinese corporate executive recollected how, years ago, he and his colleagues got belittled by German engineers at a trade fair. By 2013 his company, a producer of cranes, was competing head to head with that German company globally. Similar accounts of an underdog fighting its way up abound in the series.

More recently, another CCTV made documentary “Amazing China“(the title is more literally translated as “Awesome, My Country!”) hit cinemas right before trade war talks began to heat up. The movie featured Chinese feats in building roads, bridges, high-speed trains, ports and networks. It was a visual manifestation of “industrial nationalism” at full play.

The propaganda shaped the national psyche when confronted with Trump’s provocation. The fact that the 10 sectors targeted by the US government were taken directly out of China’s catalogue of industries supported under the “Made in China 2025” strategy only intensified those sentiments. Zhanhao, one of the most-read grassroots nationalist accounts on social media, penned an incendiary Weibo post declaring that the trade war was the US’s desperate effort to “keep China in the bondage of low-end industries to be eternally exploited by the US hegemony, technologically and financially.”

Less melodramatic voices, which would not go so far as to brand Trump’s move as a calculated “Cold War” strategy to suffocate China, nevertheless saw it as a real trap in the way of a great national ascent. Multiple commentators pointed to Japan as a cautionary tale of the kind of unforced mistakes a country could make under the pressure of a trade war. “China is approaching the same sensitive spot where Japan was 30 years ago, in terms of population trends and economic conditions”, one observer noted. Improper response could cost China dearly, even ushering in its own version of the “lost decade”. He listed the four “wrong responses” China should absolutely avoid: restart real estate bubbling to hedge the potential loss of trade surplus; halt de-leveraging efforts due to external pressure; encourage households to take on more debt to boost consumption; reduce government support on new strategic industries to appease the US.

National strength vs. free trade

The conversation marks a notable departure from how trade issues have been discussed on the Chinese Internet. For years, online opinion leaders tend to hold the view that China should open its door wider, which would benefit consumers with cheaper and better imported goods and services, and, more importantly, exert much needed external pressure on the inert state-owned sector.

A 2015 article on FT Chinese summarized those sentiments. Two generations of Chinese leaders, from Deng Xiaoping to Zhu Rongji, had relied on a determined charge toward opening to integrate the country with the global market and inject much-needed energy and a sense of urgency into the reform process. Deng unleashed the nation’s productivity by removing shackles of the planned economy. Zhu spurred the system further by negotiating China’s way into the World Trade Organization (WTO). “Reformers have since then used China’s agreed deadline to meet its WTO commitments to accelerate domestic reforms of the state-owned sector and the expansion of the private sector.”

Those sentiments erupted at a few key moments in recent years, including when the negotiation of the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP) neared fruition in 2015, and when China’s 15-year grace period under WTO expired in 2016. Those moments invariably triggered public scrutiny of China’s fulfillment of its pledge to open up its markets, which would make desirable imported item, from cars to Hollywood films, more accessible to domestic consumers. One recurring theme in those discussions was a complaint that China never actually met its promises to the WTO, effectively taking advantage of its trading partners by winning access to their markets while restricting entrance to its own. “When China entered WTO in 2001, probably no Chinese took the 15-year deadline seriously… Nobody believed China would pay any price for violating the contract, ” a 2016 Weibo post by Huang Zhangjin, a veteran journalist and editor noted.

The pro-opening stance reemerged in the current debate in the form of support for Trump’s actions against China. A few dovish commentators said things like “Donald Trump is a godsend gift to China” and that “Chinese consumers would benefit the most from the trade war,” given the expected lowering of tariffs for imported goods and freer flow of capital and services. Some pleaded “surrender” and “compromise”, arguing that China’s unreasonable industrial policies should have been scrapped a long time ago.

But with “national rejuvenation” talks in the ascent this time around, such “capitulation-ist” voices got challenged, their core premises explicitly picked apart. “That China did not fulfill its WTO promises was a myth fabricated by the TPP camp (a trade bloc of nations excluding China),” one Weibo post stated after a Vice Minister of MOFCOM claimed that China had allowed access to 120 WTO designated business sectors, way more than the 100 it had agreed to open in 2001. In a lengthy WeChat post, Prof. Cui Fan of the University of Foreign Commerce and Trade traced the “myth” to the Information Technology and Innovation Foundation, a US think tank that produced a “misleading” list of China’s WTO entrance commitments. To the astonishment and dismay of the author, the “fabricated” list was translated and widely circulated in the Chinese cyberspace as evidence of China’s dishonest behavior. He quoted former WTO Director General Lamy as confirming, in multiple occasions, that China had fully met its commitments upon its entry into the trade club, and it was the United States whose number of violations way surpassed that of China. The issue of whether those commitments, made almost 17 years ago when the Chinese economy was way weaker than it is now, are inadequate by today’s standard, should be treated separately and “through re-negotiation.”

A telling sign of the turning tide in Chinese public opinion is social media reactions to Elon Musk’s open complaint to Donald Trump about China’s “unfair” treatment of foreign car companies.   In early March, the founder of Tesla sent out a few tweets, addressed to Trump, protesting China’s high import car tariff (25%) and coercive joint venture rules. To be clear, these restrictions, as highlighted by the above WeChat post, do not violate WTO rules, which allow developing countries to put up protection measures for their nascent industries. And Musk, despite his otherwise popularity on Chinese social media as a cultural hero, got a fair amount of ridicule for his comments. People questioned why he bellyached about the situation when other foreign car companies formed profitable joint ventures in China. Instead of supporting Musk’s plea to lower the bar for entering the Chinese market, which would potentially lower the price of imported vehicles for Chinese consumers, many opinion leaders spontaneously ran to the defense of Chinese policies nurturing its own EV industry.

ZTE complication and the “developmental state”

On Apr 10, President Xi Jinping delivered a closely watched keynote speech at the Boao Forum, re-affirming China’s commitment to global cooperation and to market openness. “Opening brings progress, while a closed door means backwardness,” the Chinese leader told his audience before announcing a series of market opening measures, including lowering import car tariffs. The second day, a MOFCOM spokesperson had to fend off interpretations of the speech as a concession to Trump’s threat, claiming that it represented a long-standing Chinese position on trade issues.

Even though it’s hard to believe that the speech was not some form of response to the trade war, there was detailed analysis showing that the high-handedness was indeed in line with earlier decisions made by the leadership, way before Trump got elected. Later developments, however, would soon put that commitment to test. 6 days after Xi’s appearance at Boao, a decision by the US Department of Commerce would send shockwaves across China and force the Chinese society into an intense round of soul-searching about its industrial ambitions.

On Apr 16, US secretary of commerce Wilbur Ross Jr. activated a “denial order” against ZTE, a Chinese telecom conglomerate, which would essentially bar any US company from exporting components and services to the Chinese company for 7 years. ZTE was accused of lying repeatedly to the US government while the denial order was in suspension after it paid a billion dollar fine and reached a deal with US authorities in Mar 2017 for violating US embargo to Iran and North Korea (it exported products containing US technology to the two countries).

The severity of the punishment already became clear on Apr 15, when a slew of US microchip suppliers, including Qualcomm, Intel and IBM, informed ZTE that they would terminate contracts, sending the latter’s production lines to a grinding halt. “The US denial of export could knock us into a coma,” ZTE’s President Yin Yimin told reporters at an Apr 20 press conference. An industry insider told Caixin magazine that ZTE’s microchip inventory wouldn’t last for another month.

The company’s predicament exposed just how vulnerable China’s telecom industry was to upstream supply shocks like this. Notwithstanding their reputation as pioneers of the country’s manufacturing upgrade and global competitiveness, players like ZTE and Huawei, which are able to compete head-to-head with traditional industry giants such as Cisco and Ericsson, nevertheless have to source core components of its products almost entirely from outside China. A widely shared chart showed the pathetic rate of domestic availability for a host of semiconductor chips.

Even though legally speaking the ZTE episode was a separate matter from the on-going trade war (investigation of its behavior started in Obama years), it inevitably got intertwined with trade war debates in Chinese social media. Ironically, the news made some nationalists almost ecstatic. Zhou Xiaoping, a notoriously provocative figure, openly celebrated the US ban as an “enormously positive development” that would force China to cast aside illusions about global interdependence and concentrate on creating its own microchips, “the spring has come for home-made chips!” Others even cited Mao-era philosophy to justify a return to complete industrial self-reliance. For economic nationalists, the incident only affirmed their belief that it was an all-out attack on China’s grand industrial ascendance. “This is a US plot to stave off China’s momentum of attaining dominance in 5G telecom technologies. The Americans are scared and desperate,” Global Times’s editor in chief Hu Xijin asserted as he mobilized support for ZTE on Weibo.

China’s state media, People’s Daily in particular, quickly distanced themselves from this brand of economic isolationism. It openly criticized Zhou’s view for being “extreme”, as it presented domestic R&D and international cooperation as “mutually exclusive”. On the other hand, the propaganda outlet also raised the flag of economic security by declaring that China would develop its own chip industry “at all cost”, after the painful realization that China is still very much at the mercy of a supply chain controlled by technologically more advanced countries.

“Extreme views” aside, ZTE’s troubles seemed to have pushed official stance and public opinion to converge on one key point: that China needs to build its own competitive processor industry. One Weibo user claimed that building the processor industry had become the new “political correctness” on the Chinese Internet. Public support for state nurturing of the industry was at all-time high. The difference was only on the question of how. In a long blog post, Liang Ning, a researcher who was deeply involved in China’s botched effort to develop its own CPU and operation system around 2001, advocated for massive government investment to be run in the fashion of venture capitals. The lesson she generated from the unsuccessful bid to open a new path not blocked by the Windows/Intel hegemony 17 years ago was insufficient funding into the field and the need for a domestically cultivated hardware/software ecosystem, which could only be achieved through an enhanced “natural selection” process on a massive scale.

Others did not agree. Government-run “venture capitals” are doomed to fail, as bureaucrats would certainly abuse their “permission to fail”, one commentator predicted. Only a genuinely incentivized healthy capital market can rise to the occasion of picking the right winners. Wu Jinglian, one of the most well-respected liberal economists, openly warned about the “danger of a state-led campaign to develop the semiconductor industry at all cost.” The old man was worried that corruptive administrative power would use the excuse to plug itself deeper into the economy. The alarmed voice found some resonance on social media, which was full of accounts of wasteful government R&D spending and the 2003 Hanxin scandal, where a former Motorola executive cheated the entire Chinese science and technology establishment by claiming to have developed China’s first 180nm chip, which turned out to be purchased Motorola products.

Nevertheless, advocates insisted that the Chinese state had a very big role to play, if not directly handing out cash to the industry. They pointed to China’s East Asian neighbors, Japan, South Korea and Taiwan as examples of “enlightened” industrial policies that led to the taking off of their respective semiconductor industries, with Samsung and TSMC now dominating the field. One commentator even came up with a full roadmap for how China’s weak microchip industry could catch up with its South Korean and Taiwanese competitors through strategic financial support from the government. The key, according to such views, was for government to help its high-potential corporates withstand the industry’s cruel business cycles: subsidize them to lower cost when they need to fight uphill price wars to snatch market shares from dominant players, reap benefits during high-demand booming years and patiently wait for an era-changing moment to complete a leapfrog. These once-in-a-generation moments came when email substituted fax and smartphones replaced PC. The next one, many believe, would be when custom AI chips become more widely used than generic processors.

No matter what route China takes with its chip industry, many commentators seem to share one presumption: it has to happen within the context of a global value chain, a functional capital market and strategic government intervention. In a 2016 article by Fudan University scholar Tang Shiping, he summarized the key factors contributing to a successful “developmental state”, a concept first advanced by Chalmers Johnson in the 1980s in his groundbreaking book about the “Japan Miracle”. Tang emphasized that an effective developmental state should play by the rules of a market economy, set industrial policies that take into account international division of labor, and most importantly, serve as a “helping hand” for a vigorous private sector, not a control-all planning machine.

This is the kind of thinking that Maoist isolationists don’t get, and neo-classic liberal economists, suspicious of all forms of state intervention, too readily dismiss. But increasingly, this is the message that the likes of People’s Daily send, and around which a social media consensus is growing: China needs strong state-guided industries that embrace the market and globalization.

Epilogue

On May 3, a high-level US delegation landed in Beijing. Chinese media described the visit as the “touching down of hawks”, as the team consisted of the most ardent China-bashers of the Trump administration: Robert Lighthizer, the US trade representative, White House trade and manufacturing adviser Peter Navarro, and Secretary of Commerce Wilbur Ross Jr. In a leaked “draft framework” brought to the table by the American side, the hawks demanded China to reduce its trade surplus with the United States by “at least 200 billion dollars by the end of 2020,” and “immediately cease providing market-distorting subsidies and other types of government support” to industries under the Made in China 2025 industrial plan.

The proposal was met with laughter and dismissal by Chinese netizens. “Those Americans came here just to poke fun at us,” as one financial observer quipped, “do not harbor any illusion about the intention of those American rightists.” Another Weibo user noted the short stay of the delegation, only for an afternoon, “this is not a negotiation. It’s declaration of a war using the trade dispute as harbinger.”

Trump’s negotiators might have misunderstood China’s state-directed economy. In a recent event, Lou Jiwei, a former Finance Minister said of the arbitrary surplus reduction target as “planned economy style” when China itself had all but given up on rigid GDP targets. They might have also underestimated the public support for the government’s industrial upgrade strategy, in part mobilized by US provocation. “If Made in China 2025 is negotiable, this Chinese administration might as well dress-up in Qing Dynasty costumes,” joked a Weibo commentator.

In response to the US proposal, the Chinese side, led by vice premier Liu He, suggested a list of counter-measures, which included cancelation of Trump’s proposed penalizing tariffs, adjustment of the ZTE denial order and a commitment to not initiate any future Section 301 investigation against China. The two sides held “constructive” discussions,  and agreed to disagree. No deal was reached, no victory declared by either side. The hawks left Beijing, leaving behind a nation more alerted and vigilant than ever about staying its course toward regained glory.

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Soft Power, Hard Sell

Wolf Warrior

This summer, the Chinese cinema was not short of home-made explosives. Military-themed Chinese movies marked the PLA’s 90th birthday, and thanks to the Domestic Film Protection Month, no Hollywood blockbusters or other foreign movies diverted the attention of Chinese moviegoers.

One such film, The Founding of an Army, was supposed to be the feature of the month. It is based on Party legend about the Aug 1, 1927 military uprising in Nanchang, Jiangxi province that gave birth to the Communist Party’s force which later became the People’s Liberation Army. The movie joined The Founding of a Republic (2009) and The Founding of a Party (2011) as the final piece in the Founding Trilogy dedicated to the Communist Party’s struggle to establish New China in the first half of the 20th century. Apart from its ideological purity, the movie boasts an all-star cast that includes some of the most popular names with the country’s millennials, a sign of the filmmakers’ intention to win the eyes and ears, if not already the hearts and minds, of a younger generation. In today’s China, the second largest film market in the world, the Party’s blessing alone is not sufficient guarantee of box office dominance. The majority of viewers need to be lured, rather than forced, to see a movie. In this regard, ideological purity could be a liability

The film’s embarrassing marketing blunders underscore this challenge. At one point, online promotional materials included posters that branded the Communist military heroes as Chinese Avengers, and claimed that the movie was as good as the best gangster films in Hong Kong (the director, Liu Weiqiang, happens to be famous for gangster movies). This drew wide ridicule from netizens. The film’s casting of young idols to play Communist leaders such as Ju Qiubai and Ye Ting, an apparent attempt to tap into the enormous fandom they command, also met with harsh criticism from descendants of the Founding heroes. One of them, film director Ye Daying, the grandson of Ye Ting, attacked the actor who played his grandfather as “a sissy who can’t even stand straight”.

While The Founding of an Army had to tread a precariously narrow line between the need to appeal to star-chasing millennials and to honor political orthodoxy, another movie, stripped from any obligation to historical accuracy, found a potent formula to launch itself into the stratosphere of Chinese blockbusters. Its jaw-dropping box office performance encouraged those who have long sought to shore up China’s cultural “soft power”, and alarmed critics who were sickened by its belligerent message.

Wolf Warrior II, the second installment of a commando-saves-all action movie series created and directed by Chinese Kung Fu star Wu Jing, grossed more than RMB 5 billion in box office revenue four weeks into its debut in late July (it stood at 7.3 billion by early September), becoming the highest earning Chinese movie of all time. Set in a fictional African country torn apart by a bloody civil war and a deadly contagious disease, the movie hero is retired Chinese special force soldier Leng Feng, who single-handedly crushes cold-blooded rebel forces and their even more ruthless mercenaries (who are Caucasians), and leads a band of stranded Chinese workers facing slaughter to safety.

The plot is not new. Moviegoers are well exposed to the kinds of stories that feature super soldiers neutralizing entire armies to accomplish noble goals. Many have compared the film to Hollywood action films such as First Blood and even Captain America. Some attribute its box office success to a level of professional execution that approaches Hollywood blockbusters, still a relatively rare quality in Chinese productions despite ballooning budgets in recent years. The 160 second underwater longshot at the beginning of the movie was applauded by online commentators as a cinematographic feat. Some industry insiders even celebrated it as a sign of the maturation of “mainstream value movies” as a genre. Traditionally, such movies reek of Party propaganda and yield poor box office results. This time, rather than seeing such tricks as a lack of artistic ambition, which is often with the view of propaganda or genre films, commentators were  upbeat about a Chinese movie being able to pull off the showy shots that characterize mature Hollywood productions. “Mainstream value movies make up a major genre in most mature film markets. Any genre has its raison d’etre. You don’t dismiss an entire genre, which invariably contains outstanding and mediocre productions,” says one defender of the movie on Weibo.” As reference, he lists American Sniper, Air Force One and Saving Private Ryan, among others, as standard bearers of so-called mainstream value movies. “American national flags are ubiquitous in such blockbusters.”

In a way the sentiment reflects the harsh reality of the Chinese movie theatre, which is filled with exploitative B movies pretending to be high-budget blockbusters (伪大片). Even the above critics rate Wolf Warrior as a 7 out of 10, a nonetheless decent score given the low average standard. the score is considered particularly hard won for a film that tries to promote a patriotic message, which, as the Founding of an Army shows, isn’t an easy sell for the majority of cinema goers who seek an escapist experience free of clumsy political indoctrination.

One aspect of the Wolf Warrior franchise’s commercial success that’s easily overlooked is its connection with a thriving online military subculture. The movie’s chief screenwriter Fenwuyaorao is one of the most popular authors on qidian.com, a portal for online pop fiction that has generated a sophisticated web of genres and sub-genres. Wolf Warrior has its roots in Bullet Holes (2006), an online novel that tells the story of a young man growing from an army rookie into a super commando. As a genre, such works are often valued for the authenticity in their description of weaponry and battlefield tactics, a major attraction for a predominantly male readership. The author’s ID on qidian.com invokes a sense of awe among his followers, for his grasp of military knowledge. For some of these fans, the author’s name alone is sufficient reason for purchasing a ticket. A manager at Yuewen Group, which owns Qidian.com, proudly declared on Weibo that their authors were among the savviest in terms of “reading” the commercial entertainment market, which is likely true given their close interactions with their reader community compared to more conventional authors of fictional works. As soon as Wolf Warrior II was released, military fans on social media circulated video clips detailing weapons featured in the film, which included Chinese-made submachine guns, tanks, destroyers and the Liaoning Aircraft Carrier. There were also lively discussions about the difference between Chinese and US special forces in terms of their underlying organizing principles, inspired by scenes in the movie.

Clearly the movie’s impact goes way beyond the subcultural community and resonates with a much larger audience. It’s that broader resonance that raises expectations, questions, and eyebrows. “Wu Jing did what the Great Wall failed to do,” declared the Beijing Daily, an ideologically rigid mouthpiece run by the Beijing Municipal Party Committee. (The Great Wall, a 2016 man vs. monster Chinese big budget movie that cast Hollywood stars such as Matt Damon, was an embarrassing box office fiasco both domestically and abroad.) Wolf Warrior II is praised for its “sophisticated commercial storytelling and heroism-centered core values.” The protagonist, an underdog character (he was dismissed from the special force for breaking the law) in search of his beloved girlfriend, is considered “sufficiently sympathetic” for viewers. The up and downs of his adventure follow a tightly woven, Hollywood style heroism narrative that appeals widely. Meanwhile, his embodiment of China’s commitment to peace and to protecting the safety of its citizens globally, advances the values of a rising superpower. All in all, the movie contributes to the “going global of Chinese culture,” said the Beijing Daily commentary. Discussions about the movie convey the idea that “Hollywood production”, once mastered, can be an effective vehicle for the spread of Chinese values, which harkens back to the notion of “Western learning as an application, Chinese learning as a foundation” (中学为体,西学为用) at the beginning of China’s modernization efforts 150 years ago.

The question is whether core Chinese values are really universally appealing, as suggested by the overtly optimistic Beijing Daily. The movie’s actual overseas earnings may tell a different story (it grossed just under 3 million USD in the US market, for example). In the movie, there are multiple scenes that deliberately highlight the exceptional status of the Chinese nationality, which can be off-putting from a non-Chinese point of view. One of the more memorable scenes is when a bus full of Chinese citizens, organized by the Chinese embassy in the fictional African country, cruises through the war-torn capital city late at night towards the port where Chinese naval battleships are waiting. In the darkness, people inside the bus, with tired, solemn faces, watch silently out of the window, where the streets are still burning, and broken dead bodies of African people lie everywhere. The intended contrast between the spaces in and outside the bus cannot be less subtle. Lucky you are Chinese, the message says loud and clear. As if this alone won’t drive the point home, in another scene, the heroine of the film, a Chinese-American doctor, gets frustrated with the US government, which, together with the United Nations, has pulled out of the African country leaving its people behind. Turns out only China stays to take care of its citizens. That theme gets blown up to almost bizarre proportions in a scene where the Chinese manager of a Chinese-owned factory insists on a Chinese-only policy before evacuation, to the outrage of African workers. That’s when Leng Feng, the hero of the movie, declares that everybody should go together, effectively pulling the plot back from the brink of moral disaster.

The message is repeatedly reinforced by the movie’s director and lead actor Wu Jing, who, in numerous appearances and interviews, emphasizes that there is nothing wrong with being patriotic. “The patriotic firewood in the chests of the Chinese audience has been fully dried. All I need to do is to light it up with a match,” he famously told a journalist. He also recounted his humiliating experience in the 1980s when he applied for a visa to visit a foreign country, an inspiration for him to show the cover of a Chinese passport at the end of the movie that says every Chinese should rest assured that your country will come to your protection whenever you are in danger overseas.

The strong message is hard to swallow even for those who otherwise like the movie. “The quality of the production has basically reached 21st century level, but the patriotic part seems to stay in the 1980s. No wonder some viewers feel awkward,” comments the CEO of Sina Weibo. The “Chinese exceptionalism” depicted in the movie, the idea that Chinese citizens somehow enjoy better protection overseas due to their nationality, also runs counter to the real experience of many who actually went through wars and conflicts in Africa. “The Embassy would ask if you held an official passport (for government employees and state-owned companies mainly) or a private one. If it’s the latter, which applies to 99% of Chinese overseas, then it would tell you that you are on your own,” writes a Weibo user who have spent four years in Africa.

Some critics go much further in their critique of what they see as the Wolf Warrior’s value system. “A burning piece of war declaration against the world”, as one unforgiving Weibo post labels it. It argues that the main message of the movie is bare and simple: I’m finally strong enough so I may beat you up if you piss me off. The author calls it a gangster mentality, a brand of justice that belongs to street corners (“Whoever pledge allegiance under my flag is protected by me”). He contrasts it with a more “universal” value embedded in the works of “mainstream art works”, including Saving Private Ryan and Assembly by Chinese director Feng Xiaogang, which uphold human dignity against the violence of war. Viewers are reminded of the suffering of armed conflicts and the preciousness of peace. Such movies should invoke compassion for fellow human beings, not “hot-blooded impulses to fight”.

Views like this are common among social media critics of the film, who consider its mindset too narrowly Chinese (us vs. anyone not us). To be fair to Wolf Warrior II, the movie does demonstrate an unusually “globalist” commitment to international affairs, although it is handled deliberately and a bit clumsily. There are multiple places in the movie where characters emphasize the importance of UN authorization before any Chinese military intervention, setting the stage for a one-man rescue mission detached from the Chinese authority. Apparently such little details easily get drowned in a sea of blood and violence.

Speaking of violence, the loudest and most scathing criticism of Wolf Warrior II centers on its display of brutality. The critique comes from a viral video produced by Cai Yinshanshan, a veteran movie critic online and lecturer at China’s Central Academy of Drama. Claiming that she otherwise would love to see Chinese patriotic films prosper as a category, Cai objects to Wu Jing’s “senseless” use of naked violence, which she regards as a reflection of the director’s “sadistic” inclinations. She is particularly uncomfortable with a multi-minute scene where Wu punches his already defeated mercenary rival to death in front of a group of captive women and children, seeing it as unnecessarily bloody. She also picks issue with the characterization of villains in the film, who seem to possess no purpose but to slaughter for sport. “Even villains need a value system to be plausible in the movie,” argues Cai, otherwise they become a mere excuse to show off killing as “spectacles” from which the audience generates no meaningful reflection.

If the Hollywood standard still applies, the violence on display in Wolf Warrior II, intensive as it is, is not exceptionally gruesome (Sin City watchers should know what I mean). But Cai’s larger point may be valid. To some extent, the whole movie can be seen as a convenient set-up to show off the might of a rising superpower: the African nation that embodies all the stereotypes of a chaotic, infernal continent; the rebels and mercenary soldiers who are evil to their core (and harbor racist hostility toward the Chinese people), plus the entire disappearance of the Americans and Europeans from the scene, all seemingly put together so that Leng Feng can ruthlessly land his vengeful fists on a white mercenary and the Chinese navy can resolutely launch its cruise missiles onto the rebels.

Unfortunately, by implying that a national hero like Wu Jing might be a blood-thirsty “psychopath”, Cai has crossed the line for some people. She soon tasted the wrath of Wolf Warrior II fans who harassed her through phone calls and pressured the Academy to dismiss her as a teacher. As in so many previous incidents, the first to experience the country’s patriotic muscle is not some gun-wielding rebel in remote Africa, but rather the rebels within China who dare to label patriots as gangsters.

Knock Out: a thuggish MMA fighter demystifies Chinese Kung Fu

2017-06-07 (8)

Tai Chi is the art of circles. From the body’s smooth spins come strength, energy and an entire cosmology of balance and harmony. But for Lei Lei, a self-professed Tai Chi master, the circles have only generated defeat and humiliation. On Apr 27, at a boxing gym in Chengdu, he entered into a duel with Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) enthusiast Xu Xiaodong. In front of dozens of whistling and cheering spectators, the two men circled cautiously around each other in their distinctive poses for a few intense seconds: Lei lifted up his arms like the mantis in Kung fu Panda, and Xu held up his fists like a boxer. Then the circle shrank. The two men collided. Xu made a decisive advance at the master, forcing Lei to step back in a panicky manner until collapsing on the ground. Xu sat on Lei and punched him mercilessly on the head until the referee intervened. Later, photos showing Lei’s bloodstained head became the symbol of this notorious fight, and the video was among the most watched on the Chinese internet in the past month.

Weeks earlier, Lei Lei had been a relatively obscure figure on Weibo whose posts were mainly videos of himself practicing Tai Chi in Chinese cultural settings such as Daoist temples. What stood out from those posts, however, was his particular interest in Tai Chi’s combat potential. Running against the common impression of the ancient martial art as merely an exercise for elders or a form of meditation, he presented Tai Chi as of practical value in physical confrontation by demonstrating act-by-act moves with a sparring partner. Sometimes the demonstration went a bit too far. Once he went on TV to show quebufei, a legendary Tai Chi move wherein a bird was unable to fly away from his hand as he had supposedly “neutralized” its forces. Most people would consider this physics-defying move a literary invention that should only exist in novels. But what ultimately got him the attention of the MMA community was his assertion that he could counter and neutralize the “rear naked choke”, a deadly move of Brazilian jujitsu, with only one hand. The chokehold was often regarded as a kind of check-mate in MMA competitions. His bragging kicked off an extended round of bickering online. MMA practitioners and fans ridiculed him. Lei shot back with dismissive and sneering posts. It went on for several months until on Apr 18, Xu Xiaodong made a proposal to take it off-line, by actually fighting it out. Lei did not back down. The duel was set.

Martial arts (wushu), or more popularly gongfu, “kung fu”, have always been an important part of Chinese identity. Their practice is also closely intertwined with the rise of nationalist sentiments. Throughout the late 19th and early 20th century, a period when China underwent something close to an existential crisis caused by defeat after defeat in its encounter with Western powers, martial arts became a national obsession that offered the hurt nation a source of dignity and escape. Legends of kung fu masters such as the famed Huo Yuanjia beating Western musclemen or Japanese fighters were an important part of a popular narrative that refuted the racist notion that Chinese were physically inferior. In its extreme version, the kung fu fantasy developed into a kind of hallucination that misguided the Boxer Movement in the late 19th century into confronting firearm-bearing Western troops with bare fists. In its milder forms, it gave rise to a wonderful line of pop culture which included the novels of Louis Cha and films of Bruce Lee.

Lei Lei clearly lives in the tradition that romanticizes Chinese martial arts, though it is hard to say whether he is closer to the hallucination end or to the entertainment one. In contrast, Xu Xiaodong not only rejects that tradition, but actively seeks to smash it. A spitting, cursing man with the body of a fitness instructor who goes overweight and the demeanor of a Beijing thug, Xu self-branded as “the earliest promoter of MMA in China”. According to CCTV journalist Wang Zhi’an, who has done in-depth profiles of both Lei and Xu, Xu Xiaodong used to be a professional sanshou player, a Chinese form of full-contact freestyle kickboxing that also involves throws, sweeps and takedowns. He was unsuccessful in this early career and looked at MMA, at that time still non-existent in China, for other opportunities. He got some initial training in boxing clubs in Guangzhou and fought in a bunch of unprofessional underground matches during this period, which is where his “first MMA promoter” claim comes from.

He later set up his own boxing club in Beijing, which held weekly amateur fighting events. “There are blood stains left in the ring every Friday.  Our Ayi has to clean them up the next morning. We are accustomed to it,” Xu told Wang Zhi’an. He also started a talk show on a livestream platform, which often featured him ranting about the uselessness of traditional Chinese martial arts. It is unclear whether Xu was genuinely offended by what he saw as fraudulent claims of kung fu’s combat capabilities, or was more driven by the need to expand his business through public stunts. In any case, Xu enjoyed instant fame, or notoriety, depending on where you stand. And with the newfound popularity, his feud with traditional Chinese Wushu escalated.

Lei Lei’s humiliating, widely-publicized defeat exposed the soft underbelly of Chinese kung fu. The questioning that ensued was fierce and unforgiving. Is the power of Chinese martial arts a carefully guarded myth unable to withstand the test of modern combat? Is kung fu closer to gymnastics or dancing than it is to boxing? Wang Zhi’an, the CCTV journalist, wrote a scathing post on WeChat after interviewing both sides in the fight. He believed that kung fu’s absence in international arenas such as the Ultimate Fighting Championship, where jujitsu and wrestling thrive, was an indicator of its limited combative power. And he attributed that to China’s lack of a “warrior class” in its long history. Others were more specific in their diagnosis. The lack of real combat training in the routines of Chinese martial arts, their intrinsic conservatism rejecting change, and the communist state’s intentional disarmament of the practice were factors that blunted wushu’s sharp edge.

The most eloquent critique was offered by someone who had long passed away. An interview with Mr. Zhao Daoxin in the 1980s was widely circulated in the aftermath of the Xu-Lei fight. Born in 1908, Zhao was well trained in xngyiquan and baguazhang, two established schools of Chinese martial arts. The interview happened a few years before his death, and his comments were pessimistic and harsh. “Chinese martial arts have no future,” He told his interviewer. This was not meant to be a cheap shot like the ranting of Xu Xiaodong. His conclusion was based on lifelong observing and practicing. In its long history, Chinese martial arts, according to Zhao, had gotten lost in a few meaningless fixations. One such fixation was the need to develop unique, “niche” moves that defined a school or a clan, moves that only had ritualistic value but very little practical use during combat. Practitioners were also obsessed with not falling in a fight, a psychology that gave rise to all sorts of postures that tried to stabilize the body at all cost, sacrificing agility and a range of combative possibilities of high kicks and ground level maneuvers. Zhao also criticized the long tradition in kung fu that shied away from actual combat in its day-to-day exercises. Its routine-based approach to practice, where practitioners repeated sets of predesigned moves, was considered “backward” compared to the systematic training regimes of modern combat techniques. Moreover, quite counter-intuitively, practitioners were often asked to practice in solitude. And combat was often considered a privilege that only “well-prepared” practitioners could aspire to, as the final step after their purgatory.

The right reflexes did not get sufficiently trained for real fights, Zhao asserted. But instead of confronting these real insufficiencies, Chinese martial arts chose to hide behind dubious theories that ostensibly derived from traditional culture. “Generations of baguazhang trainers spoke of mimicking the Eight Trigrams out of the Yi Jing, but nobody could establish any practical linkage between that beautiful philosophy and actual fighting.”  The resurfaced interview of Zhao provided ammunition to those who always had trouble with traditional Chinese culture. For them, the self-hypnotizing mystification of Chinese kung fu was a shared symptom of cultural relics, from Chinese medicine to Confucian ethics, preventing them from advancing into the modern age.

The one-minute fight between Xu and Lei had the effect of a public verdict  on Chinese martial arts. It fit the psychological need for a definitive settlement of a century-old dispute, despite the poor organization of the event and the fact that Lei Lei is hardly a proper representative of Tai Chi. Wang Zhi’an’s profile of Lei depicts him as an amateur who barely makes ends meet by teaching Tai Chi at the margin of a community gym. But that does not stop netizens from irritating the open wound inflicted on kung fu. Old videos of ridiculous, fraudulent performances by so-called “masters” have become laughingstocks on Weibo.

The public reception emboldened Xu and alarmed China’s wushu establishment. While the former prepared to take on the entire martial arts community, which he declared a hoax, the latter readied its response. At first, it looked like Xu might have the upper hand. Winning the match gave him  credibility, and the national press was more than willing to give the outspoken athlete the microphone to continue undermining the reputation of traditional martial arts. Within days Xu was calling out well-known, lucrative Chinese commercial fighting competitions as “frauds”.

The threatened community scrambled to respond. Individual “masters” emerged to challenge Xu for a second match. Some even put their career on the line, vowing to quit martial arts entirely if they lost. At first, Xu happily accepted those challenges, raising anticipation that more high-profile matches would happen. But on May 3, the Chinese Wushu Association, the community’s supreme supervisory body, called off any future privately arranged fights, claiming that they violated “the ethics of martial arts”.

Xu’s crusade against what he saw as bogus wushu ran into a wall. His instant success had threatened something much larger than a few fake masters. A Beijing News report revealed just how big an industry Tai Chi had become. In Wenxian County, Henan province, the place where the Chen School of Tai Chi originated, the local government had incorporated Tai Chi into its 13th Five Year Plan. During the past twenty years, Tai Chi had transformed the place into a bustling town of Tai Chi schools, hotels, resorts and Tai Chi-themed museums. People came from all over the country and abroad to learn Tai Chi. The place created millionaire trainers who “drove Audis and smoked Chunghwa cigarettes”. The controversy put Wenxian under a spotlight and jeopardized the carefully cultivated image of the town. The Association’s statement also implied what was actually at stake: “Martial arts play a unique role in extending Chinese traditions, enhancing national confidence, promoting the export of Chinese culture and increasing the soft power of China.” In other words kung fu is the country’s name card and a cultural asset too precious to be discredited.

In a later livestream video clip, Xu broke into tears in front of the camera:his alma mata, the famed Shichahai School of Martial Arts, cradle of many a kung fu star, had disavowed him. He no longer could claim that he had graduated.

The nationalist undertone of the backlash against Xu became more obvious when a host of longtime conservative accounts on Chinese social media began to publish dirt on him, not his boxing skills but his political views. Xu turned out to be a “reverse racist”, they discovered, meaning that he hated his own country and race. Not only did he believe that the Diaoyu Islands belonged to Japan, he also mocked patriotic Chinese protestors against South Korea’s deployment of the anti-missile system THAAD. Most of his Weibo posts before the controversy were the lonesome rantings of a loose cannon, with barely a repost or two. But that did not stop the conservatives from comprehensively cataloging his social media utterances, which at times contained anti-Party curses and blasphemous comments about the PLA. Within a day, Xu had deleted a large number of his Weibo posts.

This wasn’t the end of Xu’s troubles. A day after the Association’s statement on the 3rd, Xu had to cancel a pre-announced press conference, where he was expected to unveil even bigger challenges to the Wushu community. Two days later, his Weibo account was deleted completely, supposedly by the authorities. For many, his fate was not at all surprising. “Xu touched the rice bowl of hundreds of thousands of people. Sooner or later someone would shut him up.” Said one Weibo commentator. Wang Zhi’an thought that Xu made a few rookie mistakes that made himself vulnerable to counter-attacks online. One of thesewastrying to drag Chinese Olympics boxing champion Zou Shiming into a fight, a perplexing move as Zou did not practice Wushu and enjoyed a stellar reputation worldwide. His impulsive way of handling social media cost him the precious momentum he had built.

Xu was greeted with bitter irony on May 4th, when seven men confronted him at his boxing gym, claiming to be from Wenxian, the town of Tai Chi. They provoked him for a fist fight, which had clearly been banned by the Association the day before. He refused, saying it was illegal. They chased and pestered him, until he called the police. After the police officer turned away the men, he turned down Xu’s plea for continued protection. “Aren’t you an MMA fighter?” the policeman snapped, “You can fight better than I can!”

The River

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A great river flows, its waves wide and calm
Wind blows through rice flowers, bearing fragrance to both shores
My family lives right there by the water
I am used to hearing the punters’ call
And seeing the white sails on the boats

This is the beautiful Motherland
This is the place where I grew up
On this expansive stretch of land
Everywhere there is wonderful scenery to behold 

How flower-like are the young ladies
How big and determined are the hearts of the young men
In order to usher in a new era
They’ve woken the sleeping mountains
And changed the face of the river

This is the heroic Motherland
This is the place where I grew up
On this stretch of ancient land
There is youthful vigor everywhere

Great mountains, great rivers, a great land
Every road is broad and wide
If friends come, there is fine wine
But if the wolves come
Those who greet them have hunting guns

This is the mighty Motherland
This is the place where I grew up
On this stretch of warm and friendly land
There is peaceful sunshine everywhere

(Translation from Wikipedia)

In a University of Hong Kong (HKU) auditorium full of attentive listeners, a question was asked about “the first song in your life that inspires you”.  “Frank Sinatra’s My Way,” answered one man sitting in the front row. “What about you?” “It should be a song that senior students taught me in college, My Motherland,” said the man next to him.

The one asking the question was Lung Ying-tai, one of the best-known Taiwanese intellectuals of today and a former Culture Minister. The occasion was a “Hall of Wisdom” lecture she was giving about the power of songs in transcending time and history. The second respondent was Dr. Albert Chau, Vice President of Hong Kong Baptist University, a scholar who attended HKU in the 1970s. The song he mentioned was from the soundtrack of a 1956 Chinese movie that portrayed the China’s heroic efforts at the Battle of Triangle Hill in the Korean War.

The answer acted like an electric current that electrified the air in the room. The chemistry in the atmosphere suddenly became interesting. There was giggling in the audience. Lung, seemingly unaware of the song, asked how it sounded like. After a brief, awkward moment of silence, a few in the audience began to sing, in a hesitant, humming voice. “A great river flows, its waves wide and calm…” More people joined in and in no time it became a resounding chorus. “This is the beautiful Motherland. This is the place where I grew up.” On the stage, Lung watched the scene with curiosity. She laughed profusely, and then encouraged everyone to clap for those who were singing. The episode ended in a largely friendly atmosphere.

Two months later, when video clips of this exchange emerged on the Internet, those involved, particularly Lung Ying-tai, found themselves in a much less congenial environment.

“A mysterious embarrassment”(谜之尴尬), as nationalist outlets such as Guancha described the incident. Other outlets were even more blatant: “a slap on the face.”(打脸) They presented Lung’s response as a sign of humiliation rather than just humorous play-along, implying that Chau’s choice of the song served as a direct refute of Lung’s preaching.

In recent years, some people on the mainland have grown increasingly critical of Lung’s signature message of a liberal humanism, the elevation of fundamental human values ABOVE political disputes. Her declaration of “a disinterest in the rise of a great nation but a deep concern for the dignity of its small civilians” once won her applause across the Taiwan Strait, but has since met with ever stronger pushback. The occasion provides those who detest Lung an opportunity to get it even.

1949: River and Strait

Year 1949 was a defining watershed of Chinese history and of the fate of millions of Chinese families. As the People’s Liberation Army crossed the majestic Yangtze River with thousands of hired junks and pressed against Kuomintang’s last strongholds south of the river bank, Nanjing (the capital) and Shanghai, millions started their humiliating retreat across the Taiwan Strait. The Republic of China, which endured years of gruesome war against the Japanese fascists, was driven to exile not only by the militarily more capable Communists, but more importantly, by the infinite appeal of a People’s Republic serving the starved and embittered mass fed up with Kuomintang’s corrupt rule.

The river of history has diverged, irreversibly, since then. And it became a theme that writers such as Lung, herself the offspring of a Kuomintang official displaced to Taiwan, explore. In her Hong Kong lecture, she mentioned the ancient tunes of Silangtanmu (“The fourth son visiting his mother”) and the tender love songs written by Chen Gexin, a songwriter who earned his reputation in Shanghai in the 1930s. For the generation of Lung’s parents, the songs represented a past and a home that were forever gone. They exposed the wounds of those severed from homeland, and through their soothing tunes, healed the homesick souls.

Lung also touched on other types of songs. Those are songs with an overt political message. Jokingly, she referred to the kind of Kuomintang propaganda songs that she as kid was taught to sing: “Fight the communists! Eradicate Zhu (De) and Mao (Zedong)! Kill the collaborationists!”

There was no ambiguity as to what kind of songs Lung held to be superior. Those that appeal to the fundamental human emotions: the connection between mother and song, the love of men and women, are especially powerful when they imply a kind of subtle protest against the dehumanizing force of politics. It is in this line of thinking that she brought up the tragic fate of Chen Gexin, the songwriter whose songs warmed the tortured hearts of so many drifters in Taiwan, who himself remained in the mainland and was later sent to a labor camp like many of his peers in art and literary circles. It is seen as a case of politics devouring those who were simply being human, which for an intellectual like Long, represents what’s fundamentally wrong about political struggles.(Though there is evidence of Chen collaborating with the Japanese during the war.)

Her most famous book in the Chinese-speaking world, Great River and Sea: 1949, expands on essentially the same theme. By recreating the separations and suffering caused by the turmoil of the last year of the Chinese civil war, she tries to transcend party politics that have defined the dynamics between both sides of the Taiwan Strait by appealing to the shared values of family, filial piety and love. “Is there really a winner of the civil war? Everyone is a loser in that war. And I’m proud of being a loser’s daughter,” she writes in the preface of the book.

This intellectual tendency may explain why, at that very moment, Lung was caught a bit off guard. “My motherland” surely doesn’t fit into her category of humanizing songs above politics. But she might have also underestimated the song’s transcending power, a different kind. In her written response to the controversy, published by Southern Weekly, she admitted that her first reaction when hearing Chau’s answer was that “this was a Red Song (红歌)”, which implies cheap communist propaganda. Even though she maintained that she immediately understood what Chau meant by bringing up the song, a reminiscence of a special period in contemporary Hong Kong history, when young students looked at socialist China as an inspiring alternative to corrupt colonial rule, she somewhat downplayed the significance of the spontaneous chorus in the auditorium, suggesting that it would be a mistake to try and derive too much from that moment: “The river was just a river.”

The mother nation complex

For Lung’s more serious critics on the mainland, who are willing to give her the credit of handling the situation with grace, her major problem is the almost blind universalism that wipes out any meaning in the country’s historical struggles of the early 20th century. As scholar Liu Yang puts it in his piercing criticism, Lung’s attempt to depoliticize those songs she mentioned in her lecture erases the clear moral values originally imbued in them. “(For something as universal as “death”, there is a difference between the death of a murderer and that of a martyr… Without the sacrifice of the men and women that defend the nation, the tranquility of the river would not have be cherished this much.”

A similar critique can be found about her book on the civil war. It argues that her emphasis of the suffering and the “human cost” of the civil war blurs the historical responsibility of the Kuomintang government and belittles the sacrifice of those who fought in the Chinese revolution, as if it was a value-free natural disaster.

Liu attributes Lung’s intellectual leaning to her “confused” identity: the lack of a fully-grounded national affiliation pushed Taiwanese intellectuals such as Lung to embrace a “supra-national” set of universal values, which allows them to declare themselves “world citizens” and build their cultural confidence around the assumed “end of history”: they are on the right side of a lineal progression towards a liberal end-state. But the “return of history” in recent years and the reemergence of religious, racial and class strife globally make her ahistorical treatment of themes such as human suffering “embarrassingly inadequate.”

World citizen or not, it is pretty clear that at the very moment, there was a discernible disconnection between Lung Ying-tai and Albert Chau. The song got lost in the narrative that Lung painstakingly constructed at the lecture and became a disruptive outlier. And Lung’s dismissal of its significance not only met with criticism from the mainland, but also invited a pushback from within Hong Kong.

Even though Prof. Chau himself never came out to explain his choice of the song, those who are familiar with the Hong Kong of his student years provided their interpretation of what happened. They believe that by invoking the song, Chau was paying tribute to the “Fiery Red years” of the 1970s, where young students of Hong Kong, disappointed by the corrupt colonial rule of the British, turned to the Motherland for inspiration. The northward affection was a combination of a successful “united front” campaign waged by the communist government on the mainland and a genuine longing for a national identity that brought pride and dignity. Commentators brought up almost forgotten historical events such as the 1971 Hong Kong student protest against the United States for attempting to “return” the Diaoyu Island to Japan along with Okinawa and the subsequent tour of a Hong Kong student delegation in the mainland, carefully organized by the Chinese government to impress them with the achievements of the socialist state (in the middle of the Cultural Revolution). The tour successfully ignited the imagination of Hong Kong’s youth, still under the influence of leftist student movements everywhere in the world, about the possibilities of a socialist alternative to capitalist colonialism. In its aftermath, the Hong Kong student movement decisively oriented itself to the motherland, and one of its major achievements was the establishment of Chinese as official language in the British colony.

As a University of Hong Kong student of the class of 1979, Chow was possibly involved in the last wave of student activism of that era. Later on, a booming local economy and the mainland’s abandonment of a revolutionary position by itself would mute much of the movement’s core appeal.

Almost 40 years later, the buried memory of that decade surfaced again on the Chinese Internet with a new found relevance. When Luwei Rose Luqiu, a well-known former TV journalist from Hong Kong, cited those events in a Weibo post, she clearly took aim at a more recent sentiment on the mainland: “Some of those students were disheartened after what happened in 1989. The rest of them were considered ‘unpatriotic’ for their participation in the Umbrella Movement. But they continued to love the country by their own principles.” There is bitterness in such response: when netizens and media on the mainland hailed Chau’s act of national solidarity, they were probably unaware of where his national imagination came from and whether it’s identical with what’s broadly understood as patriotism by the mainlanders, just as the democratic ideals manifested in Hong Kong’s Umbrella Movement were widely perceived as separatist impulses on the mainland. Other commentators built on Luqiu’s historical recollection and recounted the continued tradition of Hong Kong’s college students to orient themselves toward the motherland in the 1990s. At that time, students organized reading groups that brought in high school students to discuss the future of Hong Kong and of the motherland, “reading for the progress of history and the rise of China.”

This is a kind of complex that Lung Ying-tai probably didn’t fully grasp. The moment she branded “My Motherland” a “red song”, she underestimated the emotional appeal of those simple lyrics. As people pointed out, “red songs” typically referred to those created during the Communist Party’s Yan’an years (when it was a rebel government conducting socialist experiments in a mountainous enclave) and later during the Cultural Revolution. In both periods, songs were often overtly propagandist, unabashedly praising the Party or Mao himself. But “My Motherland” is different. Written in year 1956 as an interlude in a Korean War themed movie, its expansive lyrics transcend the war and the politics of its time. Rather, it speaks to the very fundamental aspiration of the Chinese people, who at that time, had barely emerged from the decades of turmoil and humiliation that preceded the founding of the People’s Republic. The folk song style (which the song writer borrowed from popular tunes of the early 1950s), the idyllic image of the scenery along the “big river” (which was based on the Yangtze River) and the overall mood of confidence and pride expressed in the song reflect the Zeitgeist of a newly built country finally able to defend itself. Despite the disastrous years that followed, the spirit of the song never stopped inspiring those who believe in national rejuvenation.

On Weibo, people also reflected on the ironic fate of the song in China, further complicating the categorization of this communist era oeuvre as pure propaganda. As one commentator recalled, the song, along with others that were not blatantly “revolutionary” in their messages, were banned during the Culture Revolution. Its creators, including the director of the Korean War movie, were persecuted as “Rightist elements”.

 

All those nuances were either lost or muted in that October encounter in Hong Kong. Lung Ying-tai could not immediately “get” Albert Chau’s spontaneous expression of his affection for the “motherland”. Nor was the complexity of a Hong Kong professor’s national aspirations fully understood by a mainland audience who hailed it as a rejection of Lung’s universalist message. Rather unfortunately, Luqiu’s account was met with another round of bickering about the legitimacy of the Umbrella Movement, a sign of deep-rooted division between today’s Hong Kong and the Mainland. The situation made some lament the “lack of shared assumptions for dialogue”.

If history is indeed a river, it seems that the people of Hong Kong, Taiwan and mainland China have each drifted on different rivers for too long. Even with the best intention and an openness for conversation, they find themselves unable to step into the same river anymore.

Patriotic July

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Celebrity actress/director Zhao Wei, the South China Sea, Kentucky Fried Chicken. In what kind of a mental universe can those three be organized into a recognizable constellation with meaning and significance? The answer seems to be the Chinese patriotic mind. In the past month, the cyberspace witnessed how patriotic sentiments built up with a grassroots campaign against Zhao Wei, climaxed with the vehement attack on the South China Sea ruling handed out by the Permanent Court of Arbitration (PCA) in The Hague, and subsided with offline protests against KFC in a bunch of Chinese cities.

The key to understanding this rather bizarre pathway of mobilization-escalation-demobilization is a close look at the interconnection between the patriotic discourse and its class struggle “sister”. While the latter adds fuel to the flame of the former, its destructive potency that threatens to tear society apart induces an uneasy response from the conservative establishment originally set to benefit the most from a nationalist uproar.

At first, the campaign against Zhao Wei looked like old news. Once again, netizens attacked celebrities who carried political values deemed problematic and demanded redress from whoever hired them. Zhao Wei’s new film (which she directs) features Taiwanese actor Dai Liren, who has been active in the social movement scene of Taiwan. Though Dai himself firmly declined, political vigilantes in the mainland branded him a Taiwan independence advocate and pressured the film to either have him “declare himself a Chinese” or drop him as a lead actor. The film originally resisted, but caved in at last.

If the campaign had stayed at that level, it probably would not move beyond the premise of a self-sufficient community of Neo-Maoists, establishment leftists and youth patriots. The increasingly belligerent alliance reaffirms its relevance each time through virtually lynching celebrities on politically charged issues such as Taiwan independence or Hongkong’s democratic movement. Most of their aggressions do not surface in mainstream media but occasionally they catch a big fish. Over the course of the past 6 months, at least two stars have fallen spectacularly to such attacks, Taiwanese actress Chou Tzu-Yu (whom this blog has featured), and Hong Kong singer Ho Wan See, whose appearance at a concert sponsored by French cosmetic brand Lancome was cancelled after mainland “patriots” went after her involvement in the Occupy Central movement. Successful mobilization injects refreshed energy into the cause, which seems to rely on such vitriolic cycles to keep itself activated.

Dai Liren might have been just another poor game that the hungry beast prey on, repeating the somewhat banal cycle of denounce-denial-escalation-apology. But this time development took an unexpected turn that fundamentally altered the nature of the whole affair.

On July 6, a Communist Youth League Weibo post reviewing the Zhao Wei/Dai Liren episode was temporarily deleted for unknown reasons. The abnormality stirred up more than just suspicion. A major paranoia attack clenched a segment of the campaign, which, all of a sudden, became super concerned with freedom of expression on the Internet. They believed Zhao Wei was somehow involved in getting that post deleted, through her well known connections in the top echelon of the Chinese business circle, particularly with e-commerce tycoon, Alibaba Group president Jack Ma. The accusation is far-fetched at best. But it grabbed the imagination of the sensitively-minded. If an actress could ask her boss friends to censor the Communist Youth League, what else could they not do? “Capital manipulates public opinion” became a hashtag on Weibo, and a cyber warfare would sweep through the Internet, making one feel as if millions of Chinese had converted to Michael Moore overnight.

 

On Jul 12, the Permanent Court of Arbitration at The Hague released its much anticipated ruling on the dispute between China and Philippines over the former’s claims in the South China Sea. It was a landslide win for Philippines, legally speaking. But Beijing refused to accept it, calling the decision void and null. As if on a cue, state media went on an all-out push to delegitimize the arbitration and the entire process.

The tone of the coordinated condemnation was vituperative and absolutist, leaving no space for negotiation. For a contemporary Chinese ear, the underlying message was familiar and clear: it’s a politically high-voltage line that one must not cross, no questions, no argument. It was in the same line as the response to the 1999 NATO bombing of the Chinese embassy in Belgrade and to the 2001 collision of US and Chinese military aircrafts near the Hainan island that killed a Chinese pilot. In both earlier cases, the government flooded the public space with its strong-worded position through the propaganda machinery and tried to unify public perception around that. This time, social media turned out to be the new territory that the state needed to occupy. People’s Daily put up on Weibo a poster declaring that “not a single (island) should be taken away“. Global Times editor-in-chief Hu Xijin called the ruling “terrible as hell.” On WeChat, people posted the same set of slogans – the three “Nots”(not recognize, not participate, and not accept) – to flag their alignment with the state.

The high-pitched broadcasting of indignant denunciation, proud declaration and defiant sneer from the Chinese state media almost defined the tone of July. Everywhere on the Internet, people were condemning the United States, ridiculing Philippines and cursing Japan. At certain point, the collective glare turned toward the whole institution of the Law of the Sea itself. High level officials slighted the Arbitral Tribunal as a cheap, non-official body that would accept any case as long as someone paid for it. They questioned the composition of the panel, criticizing the five panelists for acting as puppets of Japan and not understanding Asia at all. They also picked on the location of the PCA, sarcastic about the fact that even if it sat at The Hague, it had nothing to do with the International Court of Justice (even though there was no sign that the PCA itself pretended to be the ICJ). At one point, the United Nations official Weibo account joined the chorus, implying that the Tribunal was just a “tenant” of the Peace Palace building, where both the PCA and the ICJ were stationed, and had nothing to do with the UN. A naughty “bye-bye” emoji was added at the end of that post.

The ideological hawks, who were busy attacking Zhao Wei at the time of the ruling, were briefly drawn into this national symphony of condemnation. But their attention quickly swayed back. After all, shouting at the United States or Philippines does not bring any visible “victories” or even response. But to keep a movement energized you always need vindication.

When observers look back at the whole Zhao Wei affair, they see what Philip Alden Kuhn described in his Soulstealers: the Chinese sorcery scare of 1768. In this bloody event that was the Qing Dynasty’s rough equivalence of the Salem witch-hunt, the country was caught in a panic attack of some weird rumors that sorcerers were stealing people’s souls by cutting off their pigtails, the long braid that Chinese people wore at that time. After Emperor Qianlong became concerned with the situation, heads started to get rolling, literally. Lower level officials needed convicts to fulfill their duty. And people turned against each other. As Kuhn puts it, the Emperor’s legitimizing of the scare was like “loaded guns left on the street”. People picked them up and started shooting at their own enemies.

The patriotism that saturated the air after the South China Sea ruling was that loaded gun. And the idea of an ideological “struggle” on the Internet, something President Xi suggested in a 2013 speech and the conservative Beijing Daily articulated in a follow-up editorial, provides politico-theoretical backing. In the much discussed editorial, the Internet is declared the “main battleground” of ideological struggle today. It is a “war without smoke” and its consequence is “either you live or they die”. The target: Western values dressed as “universal”.

The “struggle” approach redefines online debates, and for that matter, the expression of patriotism, which turns increasingly inward, in search of enemies to be crushed within the country. There should be no dialogue or conversation, only defeat, humiliation and subjugation. Life and death.

The escalation of the anti-Zhao-Wei campaign into a struggle against “capitalist control of media” means an enlarged hunting ground. Patriotic netizens cast their searchlight toward Zhao Wei’s web of connections, and big name institutions including Jack Ma’s Alibaba Group and Jet Lee’s One Foundation were dragged into the controversy. Both Ma and Lee, a legendary kung-fu-star-turned-philanthropist, were believed to be close friends of Zhao. Within days, both groups were alarmed to the extent that they issued official statements denouncing unspecified “online rumors” about their political associations. Alibaba had to explain that its donation to the Clinton Global Initiative, which netizens revealed amid the email leak of the Democratic National Committee, was purely philanthropic and not in any way political contributions to the Clintons or the United States. The One Foundation had to fend off more serious accusations that it served as a capitalist “Trojan horse” with the ulterior motive of overthrowing the regime through the gradual corrosion of the credibility of official institutions. Besides its founder Jet Lee, many of the foundation’s board members are business tycoons (i.e. capitalists) including Jack Ma and China Vanke President Wang Shi. Observers see the carefully worded response from Alibaba and One Foundation as an ominous sign of a fringe phenomenon collecting menacing power.

 

On July 17 a bunch of men and women showed up at the front door of a KFC restaurant in Laoting, Hebei province, with a banner that says “You eat KFC, our ancestors lose face”. The picketers tried to dissuade customers from dining at the restaurant, which had to close for that afternoon. This was one of the dozen small-scale KFC protests that happened in the aftermath of the South China Sea ruling, mostly in second and third-tier cities. For those familiar with Chinese patriotic “tradition”, American and Japanese restaurant chains are the usual vehicles for such expressions. Peter Hessler documented in his book Oracle Bones how students in Nanjing pelted and vandalized KFC and McDonald’s after the NATO bombing, which was probably the modern origin of this tradition.

What’s interesting this time is how swiftly state media came to disavow the protests, calling them irrational and stupid. The Weibo account of People’s Daily, which, only days earlier, was full of strong-worded denunciations of the ruling, turned around and lectured its audience why, in an era of interconnected international commerce, boycotts did not work. The 2012 tragedy where a poor Xi’an Toyota owner got his head smashed open by an anti-Japan protester seems to have permanently tarnished the image of such “acts of patriotism” from which state media are now eager to distance themselves. “Turning on each other only makes your enemy laugh,” as they would propagate. Hu Xijin, the Global Times editor, posted a photo of KFC chickens on his table as a gesture of him not buying into the KFC bullshit. He added one more twist: critics should never attribute such naïveté to proper patriotism.

As critics would argue, the official attempt to sever “patriotism” from unpopular offline activities and to confine the concept in a realm of noble civility is disingenuous at best, given the government’s promotion of an overall belligerent message through state media. But the distancing did create a tricky problem for the grassroots patriots who were still busying chasing Zhao Wei and her friends. And that tension reached to a flash point when two social media outlets openly clashed.

The day when protesters blocked the entrance to the KFC in Laoting, one of the People’s Daily’s offspring social media accounts, the influential Xiakedao, posted a scathing piece about the stupidity of the whole Zhao Wei affair and implied criticism of its source, Thought Torch, a weibo account that served as a center of ideological warfare on the Internet. It declared the campaign nothing but groundless conspiracy theory that took advantage of the nationalist nerve. “It’s the same nerve that directed ‘hot-blooded’ young men to vandalize Japanese cars owned by their fellow Chinese.”

Being scolded by a politically orthodox source did not silence the grassroots but piqued them. Their response was to incorporate the behavior of Xiakedao into their narrative: yet another dominant outlet being corrupted and compromised by capital. They sneered at Xiakedao as a sell-out that published for the money, a usurper of the People’s Daily’s red credential as the Party’s mouthpiece.

The open fight briefly caught the attention of Weibo’s top management, who implied suspicion of the Thought Torch’s claimed affiliation with the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. But a shrewd commentator pointed out, half sarcastically, that such suspicion was probably ill-informed: the head of today’s CASS was among the first modern day intellectuals who advocate the resurrection of class struggle in social science studies.  It’s the kind of perplexing irony that will linger even after the patriotic fire of July gradually died down following coordinated official efforts to cool things down. In the interval, the ideological volcano of China awaits its next eruption.

Subculture Hegemony

diba

Try to think of great subcultures worldwide, those surrounding Japanese anime and Norwegian black metal might come to mind.  After January 21, 2016, you might as well put Chinese online forum in that pantheon.

On that date, tens of thousands of users from mainland China logged onto Facebook and “occupied” the comment sections of the pages of major Taiwanese news organizations and politicians to express their disapproval of Taiwan independence.

If as a non-Chinese speaker you are confused by references to “Diba”, “D8” or “Tieba” in news reports about this incident, it means you are normal. By definition, a subculture tries to construct an alternative identity that differentiates itself from the one bestowed by the parent culture. It often has its own language, symbols and rituals that may be unintelligible to an outsider. Not surprisingly, it took many usually Internet-savvy Chinese observers some time to figure out what was going on. Equally dazzled were the Taiwanese targets of this campaign.

Getting some basic understanding of that subculture has become somewhat imperative not just because it injects itself so forcefully into the high politics of the Taiwan Strait this time. Its permeation into the daily discourse of Chinese society and the favorable attention it gets from China’s propaganda machine warrant a deeper look into its root and temperaments.

Our protagonist this time is called “Diba”, a keyword-based online forum (or “Tieba” as they are known in Chinese) hosted by China’s largest search engine Baidu. It was at first just a regular Tieba dedicated to a mediocre Chinese soccer player, set up in 2004. Over the years, it has gone through major transformations that make it outstanding among the hundreds of thousands of Tiebas that exist, boasting a membership of 20 million, which easily dwarfs any other such forums in the Chinese cyberspace.

One of such transformations is to go beyond its designated “keyword”, “Li Yi”, the soccer player who said stupid things such as “my skills resemble those of Henry”, the French superstar. Since Henry was fondly referred to by fans as Henry the Great (Henri le Grand), members of the Tieba jokingly dubbed Li “the Emperor”, hence the forum’s nickname “Diba” (“Di” means emperor in Chinese). Participants of the forum initially gathered to make fun of Li Yi, but then quickly extended their sarcastic talents to whatever issues that attracted their attention.

As a recent analysis of the Diba phenomenon puts it, the forum gradually transcends its namesake and is increasingly organized around a unique discursive strategy: a veiled, satirical way of badmouthing someone that disguises itself as compliments. It’s the Chinese equivalent of singing hymn to Justin Bieber. The strategy also has a class signature to it: members of the group self-deprecatingly refer to themselves as “Diaosi” (another play with the pronunciation of “Di” but has the meaning of pubic hair), which is considered a label of those from a lower social class. Rather than avoiding a label like this, participants, mainly young males, embrace it proudly. Furthermore, they invented a host of terms applying to the opposite social class, such as “Gaofushuai” (“tall, rich, good-looking”), with very little resentment embedded in them. Instead, self-branded “Diaosis” use them with humorous resignation, adopting a posture of self-disarming capitulation. Both “Diaosi” and “Gaofushuai”, among other Diba-originated words, have find their place in modern Chinese language, a sign of the subculture’s ability to reciprocate its influence to the parent culture.

Why would a loosely organized online community so self-involved in constructing subtle jokes suddenly wake up to a nationalist call to confront the so-called Taiwan independence force?

Events in January alone could not fully explain such an eruption of enthusiasm, although they do serve as a trigger. Prior to the presidential election in Taiwan on January 16, public sentiments on the mainland were influenced by an agitator coming, ironically, from Taiwan. Since late 2015, a third-tier Taiwanese singer and former TV show host, Huang An, had been running a personal campaign against “Taiwan independence” by crucifying fellow Taiwanese celebrities in front of the mainland authority and public. His approach was clumsy and tacky, at one point involving holding a banner in front of the mainland’s Taiwan affairs office with anti-independence slogans. Yet it was also effective in its own way. Many Taiwanese pop stars named and shamed by Huang saw their business plans in the mainland disrupted for appearing to be sympathetic to the independence cause. Huang’s motivation for such uncalled-for agitation is unclear, as his behavior alienates the Taiwanese society, effectively burning the bridge back to his home market. Some conjectured that he was just trying to camouflage his practice of advertising for dubious health products in the mainland with disingenuous patriotic posturing. What’s more interesting is the mainland authority’s willingness to entertain such behavior and watch Huang lynch Taiwanese public figures with the mainland’s ultra-sensitive political taboo as a weapon.

Things got a bit heated up when in November 2015 Huang set his eyes on Chou Tzu-yu, a young Taiwanese pop star who had barely started her performing career in South Korea. Huang regards some of her acts in public, such as waving the Taiwanese flag in a video clip, as reflecting an “independence tendency”. But what finally agitated Huang into a full attack mode, as he later claimed, was Taiwan’s pro-independence media, which used Chou as an upholder of the Taiwanese identity and crowned her “the light of Taiwan”. The unfortunate 16-year-old saw herself sucked into a nasty swirl propelled by two mutually reinforcing forces: one that sees Taiwanese independence as an absolute, non-negotiable taboo and would err on the side of caution by eliminating any possible association with it, and the other that amplifies any conscious or unconscious expression of one’s own identity as a political statement. The result is a string of cancellations of her appearance in mainland TV shows.

Apparently under tremendous pressure, Chou released a pre-recorded apology on the Internet on January 15. In the VCR, people saw a pale, distressed girl wearing a black turtleneck. She read from a piece of paper with a blank face, saying she “felt proud being a Chinese” and expressing her regret for irritating the public from “both sides of the Strait”. In the end, she announced that she would suspend all her activities in China to “reflect on her mistake”. She bowed to the camera.

People on both sides of the Strait were indeed irritated, but for very different reasons. For those watching in Taiwan, the VCR was an appalling scene of a 16-year-old being politically bullied and humiliated publicly. Some of them vented their anger on a mainland TV star who joked about Chou’s stuttering performance in the video by flooding his Facebook post with criticism.

This became the detonator of a massive mobilization campaign at the Diba, where its millions of members vowed to give the other side a lesson.

On Jan 20, the Long March began. According to a first-hand account from a participant, “conscription” ads started to appear on the Internet asking people to join numerous “columns” formed to execute the campaign. There were groups responsible for translating materials into foreign languages so that “foreigners can be sympathetic to the cause”. Others were in charge of all the Photoshopping and graphic design of “pic-emojis”, which became the main ammunition of the campaign. Leaders of the mission set down rules that were at once militantly disciplinary and comically naive. There were rules about not using dirty language, and also those barring participants from using images of the top leader. People were asked to differentiate separatists from “the Taiwanese people.” You can be merciless to the former, but should be friendly to the latter.

The landing was set at 19:00 sharp. Participants were asked to register at Facebook, something many of them had never done until that very moment. Together with Twitter, YouTube and Google, Facebook is blocked in mainland China by the infamous Great Firewall. To get over the wall, netizens had to use VPN services, a cumbersome undertaking. This did not stop them from parachuting into Facebook en masse. In no time, comment sections under the posts of Apple Daily, Sanli News and Taiwan’s president-elect Tsai Ing-wen were filled with seemingly mass produced contents: patriotic poems, communist party slogans, pic-emojis, and pictures of food.

Some people on the mainland were repulsed by the shallowness of the message sent by the young patriots. Others laughed at their lack of erudition. By reciting textbooks and acting as if they were “educating” the other side, theirs was essentially a message of rejection: refusing to understand the aspects of the Taiwan society that are simply alien to a mainland mind. This is not an awfully unfair characterization. The “class struggle” mark on the guiding principles of the campaign was too glaring to not notice. The idea that people can be easily identified as “separatists” and “brothers”, and should be treated in completely different ways betrays the mindset from another era, a mindset that lingers in middle school textbooks and gets passed along to the millennials. Even though “rules” bar participants from using dirty words, they found other creative ways to intimidate their perceived opponents. Calling them “independence dogs” seemed to be perfectly fine for most of the Facebook crusaders.

Among the participants of the pageant, there is a visible tendency to approach things merely from a materialistic point of view, as if the Taiwanese people could be wooed by pictures of fancy cuisines or shiny skyscrapers. To be fair, this might be just a response to the caricature of the mainland by the Taiwanese side: the Taiwan pundits’ misrepresentation of the mainland as still living in the poverty stricken era of Mao hurt the pride of many across the Strait. But the notion that economic power trumps everything, and that a superior economic position is somehow equivalent to a superior value system is not only logically flawed, but also disconcerting when a large number of Chinese youth seem to take it for granted.

When the battalions of China’s young Facebook warriors were armed, organized and aligned along such an overarching logic, it is not surprising that their narratives were full of patriarchal metaphors wherein Taiwan was the “younger brother” and the “son”, even when they were showing good will.

Military terms notwithstanding, it would be a mistake to see these youngsters as an organized force answering the call of the Party. Their tone and style set them apart from the more uptight “online patrols” the Party dispatches to enforce its political creed. This is probably the most intriguing aspect of this Facebook saga: no one, left or right, seemed to be prepared for such a massive expression of patriotism, especially from this corner of the Internet. Even though official outlets such as the People’s Daily’s WeChat account spoke highly of the newfound patriotic zeal in the Chinese millennials and the Communist Youth League came close to giving it a virtual standing ovation, their moves were more like trying to catch up to a novelty they were (pleasantly) surprised of. Conservatives were also busy helping the millennials fend off attacks from the liberals, who immediately dismissed the kids as online “Red Guards”. Unfortunately, the liberals, who are traditionally more internet savvy than their rivals on the left, seemed to be as confused this time. Red Guard is clearly a misnomer: there is no indication that those youngsters are violent fanatics. So is “little pink”, the supposedly derogatory term coined by the liberals to describe what they consider as “mildly and playfully red”. But those more attuned to online subcultures pointed out that “little pink” was an existing community with very different political leaning.

The failure of existing opinion leaders to recognize, let alone understand, the young kids who jumped over the Great Firewall to bicker with the Taiwanese, is indicative of the generational gap between the old order on the internet and the emerging new. Cautious observers took a more detached position, without cheering or condemning the episode. They considered it a rare chance for young people from across the Strait to have direct dialogue about an issue that had proved thorny for an older generation.

Interestingly, this is hardly the first time that the Diba crowd collectively expressed their political stance through post bombardment. But their previous feats were obscured by the fact that they happened largely within the underground world of subcultures. A review of the ten-plus-year history of the forum shows that at least in 11 previous cases, they “carpet bombed” other forums for views they did not approve. Nationalism, albeit an unsophisticated version,  underlines 4 (out of the 11) such campaigns. In one case, they paralyzed a Tieba dedicated to a Taiwanese pop star for her disrespect of Nanjing massacre victims; in another, they overwhelmed a Korean singer’s forum because he allegedly beat up a Chinese pregnant woman. One analysis attributes this spontaneous airing of nationalism with the forum’s soccer origin. It is said that modern sports, particularly soccer, is closely associated with nationalistic sentiments. As Orwell once famously put, “There cannot be much doubt that the whole thing is bound up with the rise of nationalism — that is, with the lunatic modern habit of identifying oneself with large power units and seeing everything in terms of competitive prestige.”

There are others who read the Diba’s increasingly patriotic vibe as a result of the intentional guidance from its board managers, who, in interviews with the media, had indicated their interest in connecting the forum’s passive-aggressive cynical culture to the more upbeat mainstream discourse as a way to establish its legitimacy. And nationalism provides a perfect shortcut to that connection, given the forum’s largely young and male membership.

From a more macro perspective that locates the ascendence of the Diba subculture in the tectonic plate shift of China’s online opinion geology, the recent incident is a strong signal that the political pendulum of the Chinese internet is swaying momentously to the left after years of domination by liberal values. Insulated from the major battles on Weibo that decided China’s online sentiments in the past few years, the generation that has grown up chatting about ACG in obscure online communities using their own language begins to assert its own political values disregarding rules set by any established camps. The fact that they climbed over China’s notorious internet firewall to wage a patriotic campaign highlights the rebellion/allegiance contradiction in their action. The later shutdown of their VPN services reflects the authority’s uneasiness in handling this new force, and the intrinsic difficulty in co-opting it.

At this moment, it is hard to predict how this impulsive youth subculture would create any lasting political impact. The collective action might just be one of the ways a subculture reasserts and rejuvenates its own distinctive identity. Just like an active volcano, after a major eruption, the community relapsed into its everyday mode of nonsensical jokes and undecipherable jargons. Is it going to belch flames again in the future and occupy the Facebook page of Hillary Clinton, or overwhelm the Twitter account of Shinzo Abe, as some have suggested? Will it go beyond its current role of political taboo enforcer and public opinion vigilante, and adopt the more sophisticated strategies of other online subcultural communities such as Anonymous? Before anyone can clearly see the consequence, the best thing to do is to get familiar with some Diaosi vocabulary.

Further Reading on this Blog: Love Thy Country

Love Thy Country

TG

In early 2007, a chic, young CCTV news anchor called Rui Chenggang posted a blog on Sina.com titled “Why Starbucks Needs to Get Out of the Forbidden City?” In the blog, he declared the presence of a Starbucks shop in the Forbidden City “obscene” and demanded its removal. In a distinct style that later became his signature, he incidentally brought up, with apparent pride, his encounter with Starbucks CEO Jim Donald at a Yale event where he made the latter “flushed” in front of the audience with his challenging questions. The blog created a wave of support from the Chinese public, generating half a millions clicks, tons of media reports and awkward responses from both Starbucks and the Forbidden City administrator.  Six months after the blog’s appearance, the Starbucks store was closed, ending a 7 year presence in the very heart of Beijing.

The Starbucks incident in 2007 was a landmark of China’s surging nationalism at that time. And Rui stood for its new face: young, well-educated, confident and most importantly, sufficiently exposed to Western ideas and values. The last one was a defining feature of China’s new brand of nationalism: participants considered their nationalistic stance a well informed choice, rather than brainwashed parroting. The sense of agency, the feeling that “I know exactly what you Westerners are talking about yet I beg to differ”, adds to the vitality and potency of the surge, whose rising crescendo ultimately reached a peak around the 2008 Beijing Olympics. In Evan Osnos’s resounding piece (“Angry Youth”) that featured this new generation of young nationalists, his subjects were PhD students in western philosophy who took their ideas partly from the likes of Leo Strauss and Harvey Mansfield. Like Rui Chenggang’s criticism on Western businesses’ disrespectful encroaching into the sanctity of Chinese culture, these “angry youths” had their own target: the Western media’s biased portrayal of China. The “anti-CNN” website was the most well-known product that captured the Zeitgeist of the time.

Seven years have passed since the 2008 Beijing Olympics. The interval has not only seen the relative decline of nationalism in Chinese online discourse, but also its complete degeneration into something unrecognizable. The recent controversy surrounding a “patriotic youth” called Hou Jusen demonstrates how nationalism (or “patriotism” more specifically) has changed into an obscure sub-culture of young people that contains troubling elements. And increasingly, this new nationalism is used against domestic, rather than foreign targets.

On Jul 22, in what seemed to be a regular street fight among a group of adolescents in Shandong province, a high school student called Hou Jusen was injured. He posted photos of his wounds on his Weibo account and cursed the ones who attacked him. He called them “Na Qu” (纳蛆), a code name that literally means “the Na maggots”. The post quickly got the attention of the Shandong Provincial Youth League, whose official Weibo account tweeted about the incident and @ed the police. Furthermore, it added a spin to the incident: “a patriotic youth was brutally attacked by a mob for expressing patriotism on the internet.” The framing immediately raised a few eyebrows. Elevating a street fight to an assault on patriotism is to excessively politicize the incident and further polarize the society, one argument goes. And this time, unlike previous cases that involved law enforcement, the local police reacted swiftly on the internet. It declared the case a mutual provocation, where both sides agreed on a rendezvous place for a fist fight. The conclusion negated the Provincial Youth League’s framing of the incident and won the police rare compliments on the internet.

But why would a group of adolescents taunt each other to a street fight in the first place? And what does it have to do with “patriotism”? A probe into those questions leads us to the curious and troubling world of online “adolescent political rivalry” that runs almost completely outside the spotlight of the grown-up occupied media .

Our first key is “Na Qu”, the supposedly derogative term used by Hou to refer to his attackers. To understand the meaning behind the code name, people should first get to know an online animation series titled “That Year, That Rabbit, Those Things”, which is apparently a “cult animation” popular among a quite large audience (the first episode so far has collected more than a million clicks on Youku.com). Viewing the animation (which now contains 11 episodes) is an utterly weird aesthetic experience. In terms of visual style, it betrays a heavy influence of Japanese manga; in terms of language, it is filled with the puns and catchphrases of today’s Chinese internet; and yet in terms of its theme, it touches upon an essentially solemn topic: contemporary Chinese history. The hero of the animation is a bunch of white rabbits with red stars on their bellies. Without further hints you can easily figure out that these rabbits represent the Chinese Communist Party. Their opponents are also humanized animals: Japan is represented by a chicken, Russia a bear and the United States, not surprisingly, an arrogant eagle. In a worse-than-simplistic way, the first episode of the series depicts how the rabbit, after witnessing other animals humiliating his hometown, allied with a bald head (reference to the Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek) to beat the chicken (with the help of the eagle) and in turn kicked the dishonest bald head out of the country.

Why the rabbit? Some speculates that it’s a subtle reference to “TG”, a commonly used acronym on the internet that makes fun of the Party’s peasant roots (“Tu Gong”, meaning the country pumpkin communists). And in Chinese, Tu shares the same pronunciation as “rabbit”.

With the popularity of the animation also comes disparage. There are those who regard it as stupid and disgusting, who self-organized to attack fans of the animation. Their battle field is Baidu Tieba, a topic-based online forum created by China’s biggest search engine. To ridicule the Rabbit forum, netizens created the “Na Year, Na Rabbit, Na Things” forum (already banned), in which “Na” is simply a wordplay with the same pronunciation of “That”. Participants of the two forums taunt and abuse each other online. One side calls the other “Tu Za” (Rabbit Bastards) while the other refers to their enemies as “Na Qu” (Na Maggots). Their areas of dispute go way beyond the merit of the animation to touch on recurring debates that polarize Chinese cyber space constantly: Kuomintang vs. Communists; China vs. U.S./Japan; Democracy vs. Stability. Most of the time they are not real discussions but rather simple declarations, caricatures, and, worst of all, obscene personal attacks. “Bao Ba” (Burst the Forum) is a commonly used tactic which means posting tons of nonsensical shit on the other side’s forum to bury unfavorable contents.

The young Hou Jusen emerges out of such online shit fights. Materials dug up by netizens about his online track record depict a disconcerting picture. As a staunch Rabbit defender, he argues indefatigably with those who he disapproves. And this strong political leaning leads him into even weirder realms of online sub-culture: Soviet worship. He seems to be an ardent supporter of the Soviet Union and frequents the “Soviet Red Army” forum at Baidu. Participants of the forum share a common contempt for Gorbachev, referring to him as “Gorba-pig“. In one earlier exchange, Hou complained to fellow Soviet lovers that “My history teacher was again smearing the Stalinist model. I objected in class but he insisted.” Someone replied approvingly, “I recommend you to read ‘Da Guo Bei Ju’ (A Great Nation’s Tragedy). Next time you can challenge your teacher with those materials.” At one point, his allegiance to the Soviet cause even led him to question Mao directly: “If not for [Mao]’s petulance, we would not have departed with the Soviet Union!”

Online quarreling more often than not degrades into genital spattered mutual curses. And it creates enemies that transfer their online hostility off line. To intimidate each other, forum fighters deploy far more threatening tactics. “Gang search” is used to dig out one’s off-line personal information. And it is then used in many a “creative” ways. Hou has often been on the victim side of those tactics. His ID card information was leaked onto the internet. Before long, photoshopped pictures of him in shameful positions started to appear. His nemeses also posted his contact information on gay dating sites, which became an annoying intrusion of his daily life. Later on, his girlfriend was harassed, and had to put an end to their relationship. Hou claims that he only fought back verbally, often just by copy pasting the dirty language that was used against him. In Jun this year, he posted a long article on his Weibo account, lamenting his poignant experience of being a “patriot” but at the same time showing determination to persist. Weeks later, the aforementioned street fight happened.

What ultimately turned this high school kid into a national figure was the high pitched response of the country’s political establishment. Not only did the provincial Youth League tweeted about his experience, the Central Youth League also got publicly involved and tried to escalate the matter to the attention of the Ministry of Public Security. The central party organ adopted the same patriot-got-attacked narrative and made it into a hashtag. But the move backfired in a big way. Rarely do Chinese netizens side with the police on controversial issues, yet this time even some leftists criticized the Youth League for interfering with the due process of police investigation and over-politicizing an otherwise mundane case of affray. Probably emboldened by the support they enjoyed online, the local police defiantly talked back at the Central Youth League on Weibo, expressing frustration that their hard work to maintain social order was not appreciated, even though the post was later deleted.

The most urgent appeal came from Tsinghua University sociologist Sun Liping. Deeply troubled by the violent tendency of youth “patriotism”, the professor called for the stop of “any political mobilization among the juniors, especially the kind that stirs up hatred and violence.” The concern harks back at an earlier warning that China, especially its youth, is increasingly prone to the influence of militarist ideas. As a 2005 article by intellectual Wang Yi puts it, “Among all the countries, China is where military magazines are the most popular. Almost every middle school boy reads one or two military or weaponry related publications. It is probably also one of the few countries that not only do not restrict, but actually organizes children to watch war movies.”

The years in between Rui Chenggang and Hou Yusen witnessed Chinese nationalism’s metamorphosis from an expression of the young generation’s new found cultural confidence and assertiveness to an obscure sub-cultural phenomenon that is seething with anger and hatred. More importantly, the new brand of patriotism is becoming more and more introverted. Instead of bringing substantive grievances before multinational corporations, Western media and rival governments, the young patriots of today are busy chasing and intimidating Chinese “traitors”, speaking languages that only they themselves can understand.

* A side note on Rui Chenggang’s dramatic turn of fate: http://www.bbc.com/news/blogs-china-blog-28291107