BEATING THE ODDS
No chosen successor has ever taken over the Communist Party—each fell amid purges or bloodshed or both. Hu Jintao's low profile over the past decade may help him avoid the pitfalls of the past. Here's how his predecessors crashed:
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1976 The Gang of Four, led by Mao Zedong's actress wife, Jiang Qing, attempts to rule in the name of the Great Helmsman after his death. The head of the palace guard organizes their late-night arrest.
1980 Hua Guofeng, Mao's ultra-leftist successor, tries to lead China through his own cult of personality. Deng Xiaoping initiates economic reforms and orchestrates Hua's resignation.
1987 Hu Yaobang tries to pair political reform with economic reform despite Deng Xiaoping's misgivings. When protesting students demand more freedom, Deng purges Hu, who is never seen in public again.
1989 Zhao Ziyang pushes for greater political freedoms and visits students demonstrating in Tiananmen Square. After the army shoots hundreds of protesters in Beijing, Deng places Zhao under house arrest and names a relative unknown, Jiang Zemin, to take over the party.
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Cover Story: Taking the Helm
Hu Jintao scaled China's treacherous political heights by playing it safe. Now that the presidency is in his grasp, will he reveal his true colors?
Viewpoint: Big Country, Small Changes
China's next leader may not have what it takes to effect political reform
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Do you think Hu Jintao can effect meaningful reform in China?
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Taking the Helm
His mentor back in Beijing fared less well. Hu Yaobang's liberal approach raced ahead of Deng Xiao-ping's core conservatism. Deng purged his own heir, who was never again seen in public and died two years later (students mourning his passing initiated the Tiananmen uprising). The day after his mentor fell from power, Hu Jintao cloaked himself with a tough speech against "spiritual pollution," a catchphrase for democracy, and blamed the demonstration's leaders for "opposing the socialist system." Hu had learned his lesson: for the rest of his career, he never pushed reforms faster than his bosses could stomach. "He learned to take his time and build a support base before introducing anything drastic," says an official who once worked with Hu.
Hu's ability to resolve the Guizhou crisis peacefully yet firmly may have helped him attain his most politically sensitive appointment, as party chief of the troubled region of Tibet, in 1988. For several years Beijing had allowed Tibetans more cultural freedom. But progress was too slow and a call for independence went up. Some locals speculate that Hu was sent to Lhasa to ensure stability by reviving the liberal agenda of negotiation and compromise. Hu began courting Tibet's highest-ranking religious figure, the Panchen Lama, visiting him at his home at the monastery in Shigatse and presenting him with a hata, a white scarf used in ritual greetings. Hu "listened well and promised to consider the Panchen Lama's ideas," says a Tibetan who attended the meetings.
Events overtook whatever strategy Hu may have had. On March 5, 1989, a group of monks carried hand-drawn Tibetan flags through Lhasa. Police opened fire. Beijing declared martial law two days later and by the time the shooting stopped, about 70 Tibetans had died. Hu held his post until 1992, but spent most of his remaining term in Beijing.
Outsiders aren't sure what Hu accomplished in Lhasa, but it must have pleased Deng Xiaoping. Hu in 1992 was installed in the politburo's seven-member Standing Committee as its youngest member and Jiang Zemin's heir apparent. A year later, Hu took control of the Central Party School, which was then a boot camp of Marxist orthodoxy on the outskirts of Beijing. Mid-career cadres suffered through their lessons at the school on their way to promotion. But in the clearest sign of his liberal leanings, Hu converted it into a breeding ground for experimentation with new ideas—including political reform.
The school recently created an international relations center and has a project with Harvard to research the cold war and the normalization of Sino-U.S. relations. Discourse has become increasingly progressive. One Party School professor, Wang Guixiu, urged allowing elections for party posts along Western democratic lines. The Communist Party in July followed the school's advice and opened its ranks to private entrepreneurs—a minor change but one that enraged many conservatives. Next on the liberal wish list could be genuine national polls. "There's a risk that people will push too fast," warns one professor, "so there hasn't been much discussion yet."
Yet? When he ascends to the highest office in the land, will Hu let the dogs out? To be sure, the Chinese people like their leaders to be bold, larger than life and just as coarse. "If you want to fart, fart. You'll feel better for it," Mao Zedong told his critics, and Chinese still respect his irreverence. Deng Xiaoping smoked and spat during meetings with heads of state. The top ranks have shrunk a bit in stature since then, yet Premier Zhu Rongji could famously declare that he owned a hundred bullets—99 for corrupt officials and the last for himself.
In his rise to the top, Hu has not demonstrated himself capable of even a mild belch, lest it offend a potential ally or antagonize a needed partner. He certainly is not likely to put the country in the fast lane to free and open elections. But sooner or later, someone around him will push too fast; Hu will have to decide whether to follow his predecessors and crack down hard or to ride the political tide to who knows where. When that moment comes, the world will finally learn who's Hu.
With reporting by Jiang Xueqin/Guiyang
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