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CHINA:
VIEWPOINT:
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ASIA | March 30, 1998 VOL. 151 NO. 12 |
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VILLAGE VOICES China's experiment in rural elections begins to mature, in stark contrast to the rubber-stamp "democracy" of the National People's Congress By Anthony Spaeth  he big news out of china last week was that Zhu Rongji, the no-nonsense economic czar, became Premier, the second most important job in the country. But the battle to secure that position took place out of sight, in Beijing's back rooms. By the time the Communist Party nominally put Zhu up for a vote, delegates to the rubber-stamp National People's Congress dutifully did their part: Zhu, running unopposed, won 98% of the 2,950 votes cast.
Contrast that to the more rough-and-tumble political struggle that was taking place in Hengdao, a humble hamlet in hardscrabble Jilin province, 1,100 km from the capital. Jiang Ying, headman of the village for nine years, went up for re-election against an actual opponent: Chen Guo-shuang, 42, the village's vegetable-king and most dynamic entrepreneur. Chen put up a lively challenge, offering constituents business loans from his personal savings of $4,836. In the end, the incumbent Jiang, 44, managed to win, probably because the village economy is doing fine now. But the contest was no foregone conclusion. "Do even better in the next term," advised a Jilin provincial leader, "because next time there will be more Chen Guoshuangs." For two decades, China has been a nation marching in several directions at once: Deng Xiaoping Theory at the top, McDonald's on the boulevards and karaoke and go-go capitalism in the back lanes. Politically, though, there has been little change in the way power is secured-with one notable exception. In 1982, China's constitution was amended to allow "self-governance" for the nation's 930,000 villages. That touched off five years of closeted debate as to what the clause meant and how liberal Beijing could afford to be. And in 1988 direct elections were allowed in China's most basic political unit, the village. Today, some 90% of village headmen and their ruling committees are elected by the masses for three-year terms. "Villagers are enthused," says Liu Guodong, Jilin's director of local elections. "In the past, leaders were merely appointed. Now people can even toss out village heads they don't trust." That's the idea, although one that has not fully percolated down to China's vast grass roots. Each village has both an elected chief and an appointed Communist Party secretary; though the elected headmen are becoming increasingly powerful, the party bosses usually retain the greatest political clout. Many essential elements of elections, such as the secret ballot, are hard to inculcate in a populace that still remembers the Thought Police of the Cultural Revolution. Officials in Beijing are actively promoting the concept, but they are obviously less interested in elections creeping up the chain of command. Asked by Time last week whether China's provincial and national officials should also be elected, newly appointed Premier Zhu said: "Of course I'm in favor of democratic elections." But he equivocated, adding: "We still need some time to look into that." The fact is that in politically rigid China, local elections were not conceived as a liberal step in a particular direction, but as a pragmatic stopgap. The original champion was the late Peng Zhen, the conservative ex-npc chairman. Mao's China had been organized into rural communes; when they were disbanded for economic reasons in 1978, there was no local political structure in place. After the constitution was amended, many in Beijing insisted that village officials be appointed by the party, arguing that farmers were too ignorant and passive to rule themselves. The pro-elections faction won the debate, but the first votes were pallid affairs: assemblies at which locals merely raised their hands to confirm the anointment of party bosses as village leaders. That system proved unpopular, and secret ballots were eventually tried. In more recent years, economic freedoms have given local officials the opportunity to use their power to make money, often corruptly. That has produced a wave of anger in the countryside, prompting Beijing to conclude that elections could actually help solve a problem they were hard-pressed to deal with: let the people vote out corrupt leaders. "It's so obviously in the interest of the national government to have this process work," says Larry Diamond of Stanford University's Hoover Institute. "If it doesn't, frustrations with corruption and injustice and maldistribution of the new wealth are going to well up and reach very dangerous proportions." Agrees Jean C. Oi, a China scholar at Stanford: "At this point, the government sees village elections as more of an aid than a threat." In the village of Gujialingzi, a corn-growing community in Jilin, elections this month were the fourth since 1989 and the most rigorously contested, and they provided a fascinating look at a people coming to terms with the idea of democracy. Incumbent Li Honglin, 47, had been village chairman for nine years and is a member of the Communist Party. Challenger Liu Fu, 51, didn't graduate from high school and never joined the party, but he has made a humble fortune producing bean curd. "I have everything at home," boasted the ruddy-faced, energetic entrepreneur. "Television, washing machine, motorbike. If I can do it, I can lead others to do the same." Campaigning was brief. The community was invited to a schoolhouse in the middle of a cornfield, where red banners fluttered and martial music played. The local party secretary gave ballot-marking instructions and then each candidate was allowed a five-minute speech. Incumbent Li began, speaking about his past good work for the people-"You can see my sweat everywhere"-and then turned to the future. "If elected," he said, "I promise to improve our primary education because that is basic. I will improve vegetable production and transport ... I will improve commerce so that we will see the emergence of a street lined with shops and restaurants." Also on his list: more trees, shrubs and fiber optic telephone lines. His closing remarks: "Under the leadership of the party, I will correct my shortcomings. I must admit that my mind is not liberated enough. I will rectify this immediately ... This is my contract with you." Liu, as challenger, didn't have to apologize for past shortcomings. He promised to aid the old and the young, to waive tuition fees, and not to use village funds for blow-outs at local restaurants. "I will try to reduce gambling and pornography," he said. "I won't be vainglorious. I won't lie. I won't engage in empty talk." Lastly, he promised to take care of bachelors who are too poor to find wives, and to teach people how to make bean curd more profitably. "I will lead you all to the road of prosperity! Let's march together!" The pitch would have gone over well with experienced voters in, say, the American heartland-with the possible exception of the bean curd. Election officials turned ballot boxes upside down, proving they were empty, and then voting commenced in the schoolhouse. Outside, farmers compared the candidates' merits. "They both make good promises," said Wan Liwen, 46, "but I'm not sure who can really deliver." Village elder Jin Shuwen, puffing a long pipe, played the local cynic. "You can tell the officials," he groused, "by their beer bellies." But he did vote. Incumbent Li won, 864 to 655, and the defeated Liu said the result was almost inevitable considering Li's membership in the Communist Party. But that wasn't necessarily the case. In a formal primary held a few days before the election, Li had won a far larger margin of the votes, 86%: Liu's count rose dramatically during the 10-minute campaign. That suggests that across China, in a low-level and uneven way, an election sensibility is starting to germinate. -Reported by Jaime A. FlorCruz/ Gujialingzi and Hengdao
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