The Dawn of the Dragon
How Xi Jinping Has
Transformed China
In 2012, Xi
Jinping took office as the head of the Communist Party at the same time
Bernhard Zand become DER SPIEGEL's correspondent in Beijing. Before leaving the
country, he traveled all across the nation to measure how the Chinese people
are faring today.
29.12.2020, 13.28 Uhr
The
skyline of Harbin, a city of over 10 million in northern China: The country is
more conscious of its power today than it has been since the days of the great
dynasties.
Foto: Fu
Qiang / Costfoto / Sipa USA / ddp images
Deep in Siberia, at the same
latitude as Hamburg, China begins. It only comes to an end some 4,000
kilometers away, on the beaches of the tropical island Hainan. Both are places
of great beauty.
In the north, the Heilongjiang, the
Black Dragon river, winds silently eastward. It marks the border to Russia,
where it is known as the Amur. The pine forests of the Taiga stretch out behind
it.
In the south, the surf of the South
China Sea gently rolls into Hainan’s Yalong Bay. Plane and palm trees line the
coast and children frolic on the beach. Hainan is often called "the Hawaii
of China."
In between lies a country about the
size of the United States, but with four times as many people – twice as many
as in Europe, more than in Africa.
China’s dimensions have always been
difficult to grasp, but rarely has the country's size, combined with its
growing political and economic weight, become as apparent to the world as it
has over the past eight years.
DER SPIEGEL 51/2020
The article you are reading originally appeared in
German in issue 51/2020 (December 12, 2020) of DER SPIEGEL.
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I arrived in China in fall 2012. And
just a few weeks later, in the Great Hall of the People in Beijing, a thickset
man appeared before the press. The Communist Party had just appointed him as
general secretary. The responsibility for governing China now rested on him and
his colleagues. "Our people love life and expect better education, more
stable jobs, better income ... and a more beautiful environment," he said.
"People's yearning for a good and beautiful life is the goal for us to
strive for.”
The accession of designated head of
state Xi Jinping, then 59, raised hopes in both China and the West. In the
place of his lackluster predecessor Hu Jintao, a relatively young and
self-confident politician was now taking over leadership of the rising world
power, an authoritarian country that seemed to be ready to open up. Four years
earlier, Beijing had hosted the Olympic Games, and millions of Chinese set off
abroad as tourists, business people and students. "China needs to learn
more about the world,” Xi said at the end of his inaugural speech, "and
the world also needs to learn more about China.”
Xi has fulfilled an important part
of his promise, but other hopes have been dashed. Prosperity has increased
inside the country and there is also less poverty. At the same time, the power
of the state has grown, with Xi having secured his office for life, cemented
party rule and perfected the surveillance state. In the west of the country,
hundreds of thousands of the Muslim Uighur population are in labor camps,
and critics of the regime have fled or been silenced.
Internationally, China is leveraging
its power more assertively than it has since the days of the great dynasties.
In the South China Sea, Beijing has transformed islands into military bastions;
and in Hong Kong, China has pushed aside an international agreement and imposed
a draconian security law. Spurred on by the West’s weakness, China is expanding
its influence.
The outbreak of the coronavirus and
the ensuing crisis, certainly the most momentous event of the past eight years,
has only served to accelerate this trend. Xi Jinping still speaks of the
"reform and opening-up policy” today. But it has been a long time since he
last said that China needs to learn more about or from the rest of the world.
How have the lives of the Chinese
changed in these eight years? Are things better, as Xi pledged they would be
back in 2012? And how do the Chinese think about their country, about the way
they are perceived - and how they perceive themselves?
Before my tenure as Beijing
correspondent comes to an end, my colleague Wu Dandan and I went on a trip to
investigate these questions. We traveled from the north to the south, from
Manchuria through Beijing to Shanghai, up the Yangtze River to Wuhan and Chongqing,
into the hinterlands of Guizhou Province and then south to Hainan.
We met up with people we had met
before, but we also visited towns and villages we didn’t know ourselves. The
Chinese authorities knew where we were at every turn. And it wasn’t just
security officers who shadowed us. In each of the 11 provinces we visited, an
app on our mobile phones recorded where we were going. A journey across China
in times of corona.
Heilongjiang
A large red star with a yellow
hammer and sickle marks China's northernmost point in Heilongjiang. Beyond
their symbols, the two countries that share a border here had very little in
common when the Soviet Union disintegrated almost 30 years ago. Beijing and
Moscow had spent most of the Cold War as rivals.
Since then, their relationship has
improved, while many in the West now see China as having succeeded the Soviet
Union as their main rival. But what differentiates China from the U.S.S.R. and
Russia is its economic strength.
A group of Chinese tourists arrives
to visit the border monument – women in beautiful dresses and men with
expensive cameras. A modern coach has brought them to this remote place,
traveling along a perfectly constructed highway leading 100 kilometers through
deserted birch forests. A bit upstream, a holiday town has sprung up, complete
with a wide waterfront and chalets that could just as easily be located in
Switzerland or the Rocky Mountains. The tourists look inquisitively across to
the Russian shore, where the few structures that can be seen sink into darkness
at night. Colorful lanterns shine on the Chinese side.
As great as the contrast to Russia
may seem, China’s northeast is poor when measured against the rest of the
country. Manchuria, with a population of 110 million, was once home to heavy
industry: coal mines and cement works, steel mills and arms factories. But
China’s economic miracle began elsewhere in the early 1980s, on the Yangtze
River and in the Pearl River Delta, in the east and in the south.
The north still hasn’t managed to
make sufficient progress on structural change, despite billions in investments.
Baoyu, our first driver on the trip, makes a good living from the tourists he
drives through the greenery in summer and the snow in winter. He just bought
himself a big SUV. But his wife and daughter have moved to Zhengzhou, a city of
10 million inhabitants located around 2,000 kilometers further south. "Our
parents and I will follow them,” says Baoyu. "Life is just better there.
More education, more jobs and a better future.”
His colleague Wang Bo in the
provincial capital Harbin, famous for its annual ice festival, tried in vain to
persuade his daughter to stay with him. "Dad,” she said, "I earn four
times as much in Beijing as I do here. What did I go to university for?"
Yusheng
Around 50 kilometers south of Harbin
-- past a train station from the time of Japanese occupation, an abandoned
factory and a few provisional-looking concrete structures housing car repair
shops -- a gravel road turns off into a cornfield. It leads to Yusheng, one of
the 600,000 villages in China that you only notice when you zoom in on Google
Earth between the country's 113 cities of over a million inhabitants. The dense
symmetry of these settlements can be seen from above: houses lined up next to
each other, with small backyards behind them.
Bruce’s family of farm workers lives
in one of these homes. He's been calling himself "Bruce" since he
became the first from his village to study English in Beijing. Later, he
changed his major and wrote his doctoral dissertation on the literature of the
ethnic minority to which he belongs, the Manchu, which gave Manchuria its name
and China its last dynasty.
Communist
Party leader Xi Jinping at the party congress in Beijing in May: "China needs to
learn more about the world."
Foto: Li
Gang / Xinhua / eyevine / laif
A 35-year-old man with thick hair
and the soft hands of a bookworm, Bruce reports with satisfaction on the
interest scholars at Harvard and Oxford have shown in him, his research and the
10 million-strong ethnic group to which he belongs. The same cannot be said for
modern China, which looks with suspicion toward anything having to do with the
Manchu. The Qing Dynasty emerged from their midst before it disappeared in 1911,
taking feudal China along with it -- and the Communist Party continues to treat
the dynasty with contempt to this day.
Bruce chooses his words carefully
and doesn’t want to be quoted too extensively. He’s not a dissident, not even
remotely. But it bothers him to see the degree to which the official history
marginalizes the achievements of minorities like the Manchu. "But there
are professorships within my field," he says. His career is precisely
planned, like that of many young Chinese: He left Beijing in the summer because
his chances of advancement are better in the provinces. He is now taking up a
lecturing position in Harbin, where he hopes to marry before one day returning
to Beijing as a professor. He spends most of the day in his room. At night, he
sleeps on a brick bed, which, like all the others in the house, is connected to
the kitchen stove and is therefore well heated in the winter. The toilet is in
an outhouse in the backyard -- like most homes in the village, the house has no
running water. Many of his peers grew up in the same way, as will have many of
his students.
"He was always the best in
school,” Bruce’s mother says proudly. "Ah, mom,” he replies, sheepishly.
The parents' recognition is still an obligation for young Chinese, especially
for the successful ones. The expectation is that they will one day provide for
the rest of the family. China’s pension and welfare systems are rudimentary
compared to those in Europe, especially in rural areas.
In Manchuria, China doesn't look
like the power and money machine that the West perceives it to be. It's an
emerging country -- ambitious, but far from reaching its goal, a state that
doesn't succeed in everything it sets out to do. China’s massive export figures
obscure the fact that per capita wealth in China is only about a quarter of
that in Europe and America. Perhaps this is one of the reasons the leadership
doesn’t trust its people.
Shortly after we leave, Bruce gets
paid a visit by the local public security bureau. Who were those people, the
officials ask, and what did they want?
Hearing that news worries us, but
it's not surprising. Already back in Harbin, four men wearing sunglasses had
been following us around - on foot in the center, and in two alternating cars
further out. The state doesn’t trust us, either.
Jinzhou
In Jinzhou, a steel town around 700
kilometers further south on the Yellow Sea, they’re already waiting for us.
Again, there are four of them, and again, they're wearing sunglasses and
avoiding eye contact as they sit in the lobby of our hotel in the morning.
But it appears that we briefly gave
them the slip on the previous evening. Immediately after our arrival in the
city the day before, we visited Li Tianyou, 29-year-old, fallen superstar of
the Chinese live streaming scene, who we had met three years earlier at the
peak of his career.
MC Tianyou, as he was known at the
time, coined a new rap genre called hanmai, meaning
literally: "shouting at a microphone.” The rap style, rooted in the
northern Chinese working class, may be harmless by Western standards, but it is
salacious and crude to many Chinese. "Listen Up, Girls,” was the name of
Tianyou's biggest hit.
His success was phenomenal. He had
22 million followers, and on one evening, he attracted more than a million of
them to his chat room and earned the equivalent of 200,000 euros. A fashion
label in London even booked him for an ad campaign and he says almost all young
people still recognize him on the street today.
But this success was followed by a
deep fall for Tianyou and for many of his imitators. His streaming platform
terminated his account in early 2018 under government orders and banned three
of his hits. Chinese state broadcaster CCTV portrayed the hanmai culture as a dark cloud that rained down
filth, weapons, panties and whips on the country’s youth. Bloggers loyal to the
state welcomed Tianyou’s ban, saying he lacked "positive energy.”
Two years later, the once
well-traveled Tianyou is back in Jinzhou, the city where he grew up. He’s an
athletic young man with a gladiator haircut. His headquarters are a mixture of
office, gym and motorcycle museum. Ten employees sit on the first floor and
manage other live streamers that Tianyou now has under contract. "I
wouldn’t even want to be online anymore,” he says. "I was an entertainer.
I talked and rapped. Live streaming in China today has more to do with selling
things, like beer or shampoo. 'Hey, why don't you order a few more bottles?'
That's not my world anymore."
Outside his door are two classic
cars, an Austin Mini and a vintage Mercedes, and he has built a big toy
racetrack for himself inside the office. The internet rebel who tested the
boundaries of Chinese taste has retreated back to his comfort zone, the small
area where the regime lets its citizens do business in peace. Tianyou doesn’t
mention a word about the crisis caused by the coronavirus or the details
surrounding the ban on his work. "I can’t talk about that,” he says.
Tianyou’s rise and fall is a
testament to how obsessive the Chinese state has once again become. It may not
be fundamentally opposed to its citizens embracing new technologies and
cultures, but it can be relentless when it believes red lines are being
crossed. A decade or so after it seemed like social media was nudging the door
open in China, the party has returned to the total control that it exercised
when it first came to power a hundred years ago.
The morning after our meeting with
Tianyou, as we check out and drive to the train station, the four agents get
out of their seats and follow us in a black Toyota. At the station, three of
them jump out of the car and follow us to the ticket office. One of them stays at
the security gates long enough that he can be sure we're not coming back.
Beijing
In Beijing a few days later, we have
a meeting arranged with Liu Chengcheng, 31, a startup founder we first met six
years ago. Liu, known as CC for short, started a blog as a student that became
one of the most successful Chinese tech websites, showcasing new apps and
inventions and bringing together startups and investors.
Our first meeting took place in an
office in Beijing's University District, back when Liu had 50 employees. In
2018, he welcomed us for a visit at the company's new headquarters on Chang'an
Boulevard, not far from the Great Hall of the People. By that point, he had 700
employees and had founded two other companies.
Once again, two years have passed
and Liu invites us for a meal at a Japanese restaurant that’s even a little
closer to the city center. He now has 1,000 employees and one of his companies
is listed on the NASDAQ technology exchange in New York.
Liu, who hasn’t totally shaken his
student habits, arrives late, although a few pounds heavier this time. That
morning, he was in Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan, meeting with the leadership
of a province that has about as many inhabitants as Germany. He was accompanied
by an employee of his who is working on a major project: an all-Chinese
operating system that could make computers and mobile phones in China
independent of U.S. market leaders Microsoft and Android.
Startup
founder Liu in 2018: "Anything but a Mercedes."
Foto: Gilles
Sabrié
"Technically, it's not a big
problem," Liu says. What will be more difficult is building up an
"ecosystem” connecting the software and hardware. But the political
situation makes it increasingly likely that the digital world will fragment –
not just in an American and Chinese one, but into many national and regional
spheres, including a European one, a Russian one and an Indian one.
The amiable nerd we met six years
ago has since become a CEO, a man who thinks in global terms and routinely
avoids any questions that could potentially land him in hot water with the
financial regulators. He soon plans to take the second of his three companies
public, but this time he will do so in Shanghai rather than New York.
Liu says the corona crisis is
accelerating trends that emerged before the pandemic, some of which are
beneficial to China. "Between March and June 2020,” he says, checking the
numbers on his mobile phone, "China’s gross domestic product was only 5
percent below that of the U.S. The mood is good for tech companies in
China." This is in large part due to the fact that Beijing wants to become
technologically self-sufficient. "It wouldn’t be this way if relations
with Washington were better."
Entrepreneurs still have more
freedom to talk about sensitive issues than scientists, lawyers or even human
rights activists. The state praises and encourages young founders like Liu,
hoping to profit from their entrepreneurial spirit. But there are red lines
that apply for them as well. The party’s primacy has once again become
sacrosanct under Xi Jinping. It’s easier to talk about private matters than
about the party.
Shortly before our first meeting in
2014, Liu had just got his driver’s license. When asked what car he wanted to
buy at the time, he answered: "A blue one." Which brand?
"Anything but a Mercedes. That's what businessmen drive around in.” Six
years later, he calls his driver during lunch. Liu has a hunch what our last
question might be and laughs. "OK, he’s coming in a Mercedes. But that's
just my company car."
Shanghai
It's 1,318 kilometers by train from
Beijing to Shanghai, about as far as from Hamburg to Bologna. A flight takes
just under two hours, a train journey takes more than four and a half hours,
hardly a minute of which passes without a city, a factory or at least a
skyscraper being visible when looking out the window. Travelers from Beijing
typically arrive in the Hongqiao transportation hub in western Shanghai, a
massive concrete structure that connects Asia’s largest train station with the
city’s domestic airport.
Less than a year after the outbreak
of the coronavirus, the halls and corridors of Hongqiao are as crowded as ever
before, perhaps even fuller, whereas emptiness reigns at Pudong Airport’s
international terminal. China has isolated itself, and travel to foreign
countries has almost completely ground to a halt.
About halfway between Hongqiao and
Pudong, financial broker Zhang Jiahua, 30, works in a skyscraper. He’s wearing
a green t-shirt, track pants and athletic shoes, the "Shanghai financial
look,” he says. The Chinese may have adopted Western financial capitalism, but
they have ignored its dress code.
Zhang is upbeat about his day-to-day
business. He manages the fortunes of entrepreneurs and investors on China’s
east coast and he recently took on a prominent author and a race car driver as
clients. That kind of thing counts among Chinese investment bankers.
But Zhang doesn’t trust the stock
market boom that has swept China in the wake of the pandemic. In the large,
industrial provinces along the Yangtze River where most of his clients live,
the mood remains cautious. Some companies that manufacture products largely for
export are suffering from weaker demand from certain countries.
Like Beijing founder Liu, Zhang is
also worried about relations between China and the U.S. and believes the
situation is even more fraught than Liu does. "I don’t fear a major war,”
he says, "but I do anticipate a regional conflict in which China and the U.S.
could get entangled.” The crisis scenarios he discusses with his colleagues
focus on the island of Taiwan, which Beijing considers to be an
"inalienable part of China.”
It is true that the majority of
mainland Chinese consider Taiwan to be a part of China. But with the pandemic,
nationalist sentiments have increased dramatically and are being promoted by
state propaganda – to make people forget China’s failures at the beginning of
the crisis, on the one hand, and to distinguish themselves from Western governments
that are perceived as incompetent, on the other. By cutting itself off from the
rest of the world, the feeling of superiority is being reinforced from the
inside.
Stock broker Zhang is betting on the
"Fear Index.” He advises his clients to buy gold and real estate,
investments that may retain their value even after a severe political crisis.
Wuhan
Wuhan, the central Chinese city of
11 million where the coronavirus first appeared, is located 1,000 kilometers up
the Yangtze River from Shanghai. In the West, its name has become synonymous
with disaster. But for most Chinese, Wuhan is a city of heroes.
On Chezhan Street, which leads up to
the old colonial railway station, parking spaces grow scarce in the evening.
The tables in front of restaurants fill up, guests laugh and glasses are
clinked. It must have looked something like this last autumn -- before, a few
kilometers away, the first people began falling ill with a mysterious form of
pneumonia at the now infamous Huanan seafood market.
"If I didn’t know what
happened, I wouldn’t believe it,” says Yang Xiu. She has run a restaurant with
frog hotpot specialties on Chezhan Street for more than 20 years.
We first met Ms. Yang in April, when
she returned to her restaurant for the first time after more than two months of
lockdown, opened the windows, emptied the refrigerators and started all over
again.
Initially, her fears were confirmed.
It took another two months for enough guests to return to enable her to rehire
her first employees. She estimates today that she lost the equivalent of 30,000
euros.
Now, though, she says business is
"tebie hao,” extraordinarily good. "We are now
allowed to put the tables on the street in the evening, which had been strictly
prohibited before. But it’s true: It’s good for business but bad for the
epidemic if people are eating and drinking outside. Sometimes, it seems like
people are taking their revenge on the virus by going out to eat even more
often in the evening.” On a good night, she has revenues of around 10,000 yuan,
about 1,300 euros.
Unlike in Europe and the United
States, Wuhan was the only city in China that suffered thousands of deaths,
likely many times the official figure of 3,869 victims – because the numbers
were initially manipulated and many sick people couldn't get tested during the
first few weeks.
The government, which initially
dragged its feet before then crushing the virus with severe lockdowns, has
rewritten the story of the past 11 months into a heroic saga. And Wuhan plays a
leading role: Its residents are portrayed as having made a great sacrifice to
save the motherland. This grand narrative is celebrated in paintings,
documentary films and TV shows. Wuhan for all, all for Wuhan.
But that myth has never been very
perceptible in the city itself. When the sirens wailed shortly after Wuhan's
opening in April, only those people stopped who didn't realize it was a signal
for reflection and commemoration. The rest just carried on with their shopping
and errands. They hadn’t been allowed to do so for a long time.
Bijie
On the evening of that November day
in 2012 when Xi Jinping introduced himself as the new leader of the Communist
Party in Beijing, a tragedy took place in the city of Bijie in the poor,
southwestern province of Guizhou. Five boys, left behind by their parents, who
were migrant workers, shut themselves in a large dumpster and lit a fire to
warm up. They suffocated from the carbon monoxide poisoning. The country was
shocked. Where was the state? Where were the teachers? Where was the care?
Four weeks later, we traveled to
Bijie to report on the case.
It was raining, and the drive from the provincial capital of Guiyang to Bijie
took five hours. Today, Bijie is connected to the Chinese high-speed rail
network. The train ride from Guiyang now takes just 48 minutes.
Eight years ago, the road to the
village of Caqiangyan, where the five boys grew up, led up into the mountains
over muddy dirt roads with knee-deep potholes. In the end, a four-wheel drive
vehicle had to be called to get us back. Today, the road is paved all the way
to the village. The house from which three of the boys had run away looks
deserted. Two wild turkeys are running around in front of it and there are
children’s shoes on a window sill. Then a boy comes out, 12 years old. He
shares the same last name as his cousins, with whom he had played as a toddler.
His parents are also migrant workers, who left him behind to stay with his
grandfather.
In the regional capital down in the
valley, Mr. Li sits in the municipal office, which is responsible for the
villages in the mountains. It consists of a single large room, the walls of
which are papered with huge charts. On them, line by line, are the names of all
the families living on the brink of poverty. The aid they are currently
receiving is listed in the columns next to them. "We help them buy things
like food, heating oil, electricity and health insurance,” says Mr. Li. He said
steps were taken to address poverty before the deaths of the five children, but
the program was improved afterward.
Li Yuanlong is the man who first
reported the 2012 tragedy in Bijie -- on the internet, because the state media
initially declined to cover the story. He had been fired years earlier from
the Bijie Newspaper and imprisoned for taking on the
powers-that-be in the city. When the authorities requested that he cease with
his reports after the deaths of the five children, he refused -- whereupon
officials took him and his wife, a teacher named Yang Xiumin, into custody.
When they returned home, Li helped
us with our reporting, which first created problems for him, and then for us.
Just before we left Guizhou, our hotel rooms were broken into. The intruders
deleted our hard drives and destroyed our equipment.
Eight years later, we called Li
again. He has since changed jobs and works for a company far outside of town.
He said he would like to see us again but asked if he could have a night to
think it over. The next day, he said: "I think it would cause too much
trouble for you and for me. But please visit my wife. She would be pleased to
see you."
In 2012, Li and Yang Xiumin lived in
an unplastered house on the outskirts of the city, only one room of the small
apartment was heated. Today, they have an apartment on the 28th floor of a
modern residential tower. The view from the elevator looks down on a futuristic
new museum and the riverfront park promenade. It’s an impressive panorama.
But as we step out of the elevator,
three men from the public security bureau are standing outside the door to Li’s
apartment. "Who are you?" they ask. "What do you want here?”
Before we can answer, Mrs. Yang opens the door, looks past the officials and
invites us in. The men force their way in behind us as a dog yaps at them. An
absurd situation ensues, and even the officials seem confused for a time. Yang
Xiumin simply ignores them and starts talking about her son, who lives in the
U.S., but whom they are not allowed to visit because of the ban on leaving the
country.
Then she takes us to the building’s
rooftop terrace, with the public security officials and the yapping dog in tow.
"My husband relaxes up here during the weekends,” Mrs. Yang says,
"writing poetry and watering the plants.”
At some point, the presence of the
public security officers grows unbearable. Yang Xiumin apologizes, but it is
actually us who should apologize. We bid a resigned farewell. The men keep
following us, first to the elevator, then in a white car back to the hotel and
in a Volvo to the train station.
Hainan
Haikou, the capital of the island
province of Hainan, is a city of 2 million people that’s just like dozens of
others in China: monotonous apartment blocks, wide urban highways and office
towers in Chinese neo-brutalism. If you didn't see the ocean on the approach,
you might never realize that Haikou is located on a tropical holiday island.
Still, as our driver points out,
there are "serious bars” in the city. He means nightclubs, maybe even
illegal ones, but when asked about it, he says: "I can’t say it quite like
that. Conversations in taxis are recorded these days.”
A grandiose Palace Hotel, the guest
house for the government of the People’s Republic, is located in the center of
the city. Here we meet Victor Gao, who was the interpreter in the 1980s for
Deng Xiaoping, the reformist politician who opened China up economically after
Mao’s death and had the Tiananmen Square uprising smashed in 1989. Today, Gao
is a member of the board at a government-affiliated think tank and, by virtue
of his convictions and polished English, serves as a kind of unofficial
government spokesman.
Over the years, Gao has accompanied
many delegations to Hainan and has a surprisingly sober view of the island’s
development. Hainan was elevated to the rank of a province in 1988, with the declared
intent of developing the same economic dynamism here as in Taiwan, a democracy
that is roughly twice the size.
That goal still hasn’t been
achieved, despite 30 years of effort. "Hainan is beautiful. But I know
many people who have made a fortune here and lost it again,” says Gao. The
first era of "exuberance” was followed by disappointment.
Like Manchuria, which remains
underdeveloped to this day, Hainan is an example of how a seemingly omnipotent
Beijing is far from reaching all of its goals. Hainan was also covered with
airports, roads and railways; and in the south, a huge cruise terminal was
built, modeled on Miami. But none of these projects has really taken off yet.
Instead, Hainan is today one of the most indebted provinces in the country.
This spring, the government decided
to turn the whole island into what would become the world’s largest free trade
zone. Since then, some in nearby Hong Kong have feared that Hainan could one
day overtake Asia’s most important financial center. Gao doesn’t think that's
very likely.
He says that Beijing has another
role for Hainan, one that goes beyond making it a profitable tourism center.
The island, he says, is located on the "front line of a major geopolitical
confrontation,” the conflict between China and the United States. From
Beijing’s point of view, Hainan Province also includes islands in the South
China Sea - islands that have been developed into military fortresses despite
the fact that they are claimed by other countries. "The South China Sea is
fully, comprehensively and seamlessly monitored by the Chinese defenses,” says
Gao. "Every ship, every submarine, every hostile object is accounted for.
War should not be an option, but if one broke out between China and the U.S.,
the South China Sea will become a graveyard for America’s ships. The Chinese
never bluff.”
Gao is no radical – he represents
the more moderate wing of the Beijing establishment. The fact that he can speak
about the beauty and investment opportunities on a tropical island and then
about a "graveyard” for the U.S. Navy shows two of the many faces of
modern China: a soft civilian one and a hard military one.
At Yalong Bay in southern Hainan, a
three-hour drive from Haikou, this contradiction is repeated, but it's barely
noticeable initially. A long sandy beach stretches along the western side of
the bay, with a dozen large hotels lined up behind it. Swimsuits hang to dry on
the balconies, the first joggers set off in the morning and employees carry
fresh hotel towels down to the beach.
On the eastern side, an
inconspicuous, verdant forested mountain rises out of the sea. There is hardly
any other place on China's coast that militaries in the West are keeping such a
close eye on. The bunker where China’s navy stations its fleet of nuclear
submarines is hidden inside the mountain. It’s the place from which Beijing
symbolically asserts its claim to power over the South China Sea, the Western
Pacific and, more recently, far beyond.
China has risen to become a world
power for the second time in recent decades, an unprecedented comeback. One
reason is China’s sheer size, its vastness, its density and the deep roots of
its culture. The other, which is even more important, is the diligence,
creativity and patience of its people.
There’s an unwritten contract
between the Chinese and their leadership that still binds them today: You stay
quiet and we will set the course for growth, success and China's path to the
top. It's a tough, unambiguous contract. Way up in the north, by the Black
Dragon River, where our journey began, there was a red banner: "Violate
the laws of this boundary," it read, "and you will be caught and
crushed like a worm."
Bernhard Zand has since moved to Hong Kong
as DER SPIEGEL's correspondent there.
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