Time For Tung To Go?

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T

ung would have done better to quit while he was ahead. Public discontent with him spiked sharply—over the economy, his administration's bungled handling of the SARS epidemic, and its attempt to bulldoze through the legislature antisubversion laws that many Hong Kongers felt could be used to stifle dissent. The discontent spilled into the streets on July 1, 2003, when half a million marched to demand that Tung go. China's leadership, which had been informed by Tung that the protest would be small and well contained, was not amused. A year later, after Beijing ruled out the direct election of Tung's successor, around the same number marched again, this time for greater democracy. Suddenly, Tung looked less an asset for Beijing than a liability—a man who had not just become deeply unpopular but seemed unable to control the territory. From being a folk who (it was condescendingly said) worried about nothing other than the state of their pocketbooks, Hong Kong people have developed a taste for public protest—over free elections, real estate schemes, the environment, even teachers' rights. That form of political expression is anathema to China's leaders. "There is a cause for concern for them if protests in Hong Kong set a precedent," says Michael Enright, a business professor at the University of Hong Kong, "or if the push for democratic elections sets a precedent."

Removing Tung could be part of a strategy to prevent that from happening. It would take away the focal point for dissent that Tung has become, and it would show that China's leaders are responsive to public opinion in Hong Kong. Both Hu and Premier Wen Jiabao have tried to convey the image of a kinder, gentler leadership that cares for the masses, even as they maintain a tight grip on power. During the SARS epidemic, for example, Wen sacked China's Health Minister for underplaying the scale of the crisis, and impressed Hong Kongers with his apparent warmth and sincerity by visiting the home of a family stricken by the disease.

Tung's departure also gives Beijing flexibility over how much electoral reform to allow in Hong Kong. The Basic Law, the territory's constitution, says that the Chief Secretary becomes acting Chief Executive if the top post is vacated in mid-term, and that a new leader has to be chosen by the Election Committee within six months. The question—now hotly discussed by Hong Kong's many lawyers—is whether the new Chief Executive merely serves out the rest of Tung's term to 2007, or whether he gets a new five-year term to 2010. If it's the latter, then the constitutional changes currently being debated to expand the Election Committee so as to include a more representative cross-section of society by 2007 could be delayed or rendered moot. Says Ronny Tong, a pro-democracy legislator: "If this is a play, then it's a very well-planned maneuver."

The plan seems likely to include inducting Chief Secretary Tsang, 60, as Tung's successor. Unlike Tung, Tsang, who is popularly known for wearing colorful bow ties, grew up in a low-income household and is respected by many Hong Kong people for making a success of his life. As a veteran civil servant, Tsang knows how Hong Kong works. And as a lifelong administrator, his instinct is to be conservative—a quality Beijing appreciates. "He's someone who is able to carry on business as usual, ensure economic growth and political stability, and who doesn't create controversy," says City University's Cheung.

Trouble is, eight years ago, precisely the same could have been said of Tung. The central truth about Hong Kong is that it has long ceased being a society that cares about nothing but business and stability. Do Tsang, Hu, and Wen understand that? And—a harder question, with more profound consequences for Hong Kong—if they do, is Beijing prepared to tolerate it?