Taking A Stand — page 3

Li isn't always so successful. Three years ago he sent copies of his book on grassroots elections, Innovation and Development, to every one of the mainland's 3,000 county-level Communist Party chiefs. Few responded. But 10 months later, a low-ranking Party official in a remote, mountainous area of central China ran across Li's work sitting unread on his superior's bookshelf and acted on the ancient saying, "To steal a book is an elegant offense." After reading the 275-page tome, the official, Wei Shengduo, called Li with an unexpected request. Wei wanted to organize an election not just of his town's mayorship but also of its Party leadership—something that had never been attempted anywhere in China. Li cautioned that the plan would be illegal and dangerous. Wei said, "Let's do it."

With Li's help, Wei scheduled the election for last August. Li spent 10 days in Pingba, a township of 10,000 people that lies a jarring seven-hour drive from the Yangtze River metropolis of Chongqing. The township is not far from where rioting peasants burned police cars 10 years ago to protest corruption, and Wei wanted to give peasants angry at paying what they considered to be illegal fees more say in choosing their leaders. Amid piles of documents in Wei's cramped office, the two men discussed candidates, hunted for a printer to publish campaign posters and arranged for a dozen teachers to fan through nearby villages urging peasants to vote. Li and Wei also organized the area's first campaign speeches and designed its first secret ballots.

A day before the Aug. 29 election, however, county officials canceled it. Party disciplinarians detained Wei for two weeks, then stripped him of his job before releasing him without charges. Shortly after, when the government shut down Li's website, he knew the investigation had turned to him. Officials questioned his contacts and, Li suspects, tapped his phones. Afraid he had finally overstepped, Li opened what he calls his "protective umbrella"—his network of family friends in high places. One comrade even worked a letter onto President Hu's desk, Li claims, although he can't guess as to its impact. In January, his website reopened as suddenly as it had closed. "I knew I was clear," Li says.

Even without their own "protective umbrellas," Li's zeal has motivated a growing group of activists. Among them is Xu Zhiyong, a 31-year-old law professor at Beijing's Posts and Telecommunications University who had volunteered for several months at Li's institute as a student in 1998. That marked Xu's first exposure to activism, and he learned well. He shot to prominence last year when police in the southern city of Guangzhou detained a college graduate, Sun Zhigang, for not carrying his ID card. After Sun was beaten to death in custody, Xu organized a public letter condemning the practice of arbitrary detention. Editorial pages soon filled with criticism of the police. Presumably with the approval of President Hu, China's Cabinet abolished the regulations that had allowed for Sun's arrest. It was a quick, stunning and entirely unexpected victory.

Energized, Xu has formed an organization called Open Constitution Initiative to demand an amendment stating that "no laws restrict freedom of expression." His website posts 10 widely circulated petitions for reform—one typical example, written by another Beijing-based scholar, urges an end to labor camps by declaring "the issue is whether we will have a civilized China or a barbarian China." Xu has even issued appeals to limit the use of the death penalty in the mainland. People like him, he says, "are not talkers. We're like Li Fan. We do things—but we'll do even more."

But gauging the limits of what can be done in China is tricky. Six years ago, a man named Yao Lifa became the first independently nominated candidate to win a seat on the People's Congress in Qianjiang, a city in Hubei province. Sensing a mandate, he railed against the detention of peasants who refused to pay illegal fees, collected more than 10,000 signatures criticizing a Party official, and denounced the wasting of public money on marble street curbs, tiled sidewalks and a new city hall. Last November, when Yao came up for re-election, 31 other independent candidates in Qianjiang joined him to run for seats. Every single one of them, including Yao, lost in the balloting, which they claim was rigged. "Letting the government oversee voting," says a disgusted Yao, "is like letting criminals teach justice."

Li Fan remains confident that Beijing is willing to permit reform, even if it's less rapid than some activists might hope for. On a recent Saturday he visited the southern town of Shenzhen to meet his favorite protégé, Wu Haining, who helped lead the 1989 student uprising in his hometown of Nanjing, then gave up politics to create a successful company making industrial valves. As an officer in the mainland's only branch of the Lion's Club, the U.S.-based association of business leaders, he organizes charity drives for blind Tibetans. Last year he re-entered politics, plastering his Shenzhen neighborhood with posters promising that as a member of the local People's Congress, he would protect homeowner rights and "democratically supervise" the Communist Party. Wu ended up losing the election to the local Party chiefs' handpicked candidate. Now, on Li's advice, Wu is trying to impeach the victor, claiming the election was rigged. He'll need 30 signatures from voters to start the process. "Wu is young, rich and determined," Li says. "He's a future leader of China."

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