Hong Kong Gridlock

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he public mood has altered so sharply in just the past few weeks that even those who want to maintain the status quo have had to adjust their positions. Consider the change in fortune for the ill-named Democratic Alliance for Betterment of Hong Kong (DAB), the biggest pro-China political party in Hong Kong. People voted for them in the 1995 Legco elections because the handover was about to happen—ever-practical Hong Kongers didn't want to elect a combative legislature that was sure to invite a crackdown from Beijing. But these days, the people are watching what the politicians say and get mighty angry if they don't like what they hear. dab chairman Tsang Yok-sing made a blunder two weeks ago by saying the protesters had been "misled" into taking to the streets. As political rhetoric goes, that hardly seemed inflammatory. But to an individualistic population that is not easily led—and whose core beef was misleadership on the part of Tung—it was a major insult. Tsang quickly apologized. The dab is now split between stubborn stalwarts and more-flexible members who fear losing Legco elections scheduled for next year. That faction openly admits that Tung blew the Article 23 debate.

Other establishment types are appearing more liberal than ever before. Gordon Wu, one of the territory's biggest builders, recently supported a shuffle of Tung's Cabinet to bring in "new blood." Allen Lee, a former chairman of the pro-business Liberal Party, lost a Legco race a few years back and, surprisingly, was thus converted to the virtues of democracy. "No one can accept the fallacy anymore that Hong Kong people are apolitical and that we don't care who our leader is," he says. "The only thing to do to move on toward democracy is to keep protesting." (Although Lee no longer sits in Legco, he is a delegate to the National People's Congress, China's parliament.)

The biggest transformation has come from current Liberal Party leader James Tien. A well-heeled son of a textile tycoon, he had been appointed a member of Tung's Cabinet. It was Tien who raced to Beijing after the huge rally on July 1 and, on his return, made the stunning announcement that Beijing wasn't fully aboard Tung's Article 23 plan. Specifically, he said that the director of the Hong Kong and Macau Affairs Office in Beijing, Liao Hui, felt it wasn't necessary to push the bill through last week, as Tung was demanding. Tien then said the Liberal Party's key eight votes on the bill were in danger, forcing Tung to amend the bill. When Tien quit the Cabinet, Tung realized he had, at least temporarily, lost the match. He deferred the bill—and had to wonder why Beijing was trying to undercut him.

Those events suggested that Tien hadn't merely glimpsed some wider goalposts but had ripped off his jersey, with Beijing's encouragement no less. But last week, Tien told a slightly different story. He says he went to Beijing to warn of a "big crisis" if the Article 23 bill was pushed through: in other words, another huge public protest. Tien says Liao reminded him that the Article 23 legislation was required of Hong Kong but that the details were up to Legco—that was the whole point of the "one country, two systems" philosophy. On timing, according to Tien, Liao said that Beijing wanted the legislation passed "as soon as possible," which he interpreted as a sign of flexibility.

In fact, Time has learned that Liao did indeed want the bill passed last week and was saying so after Tien's visit. Tien cheerfully admits he may have misinterpreted Liao's advice. If anyone was winking and nodding to him two weeks ago, they have apparently stopped. "Beijing is so mad at me," he laughs. "I wouldn't dare to go to Beijing right now." Tien has become an unexpected hero of democracy among the Hong Kong masses, although he's clearly unused to the role. He doesn't want a change in government, although he admits that the protesters do. "My heart is still with Mr. Tung," he says. But when asked if Tung is merely badly advised or a lousy leader, Tien replies: "Both."

Even Beijing seems confused. President Hu Jintao and Premier Wen Jiabao have tried to color themselves as more responsive to the masses than their imperious predecessor Jiang Zemin, the man who anointed Tung. But at the same time, they've been careful not to cede too much authority. Hong Kong threatens to undo that careful balance between listening to what people want and caving in to their demands. Caught flat-footed by the scope of the protests and the discontent in Hong Kong, Beijing has blacked out on the mainland all news in local Chinese-language media of the historic demonstrations as it works out a strategy to deal with the territory's new fervor for democracy. Hong Kong TV stations whose signals are available in neighboring Guangdong province had their news programs censored. Chinese media did report that Tung was further consulting the public over the Article 23 legislation, and the mainland edition of the China Daily ran the headline TUNG URGES CALM, SOLIDARITY IN HONG KONG and reported Chief Secretary Donald Tsang saying, "The main purpose of the postponement is to allow Hong Kong people more time to consider the bill with a cool head"—but not why they needed more time.

Informed opinion in both Hong Kong and Beijing holds that China's leaders are frustrated, even angry, with Tung for not addressing the territory's growing disillusionment over his leadership and for now sucking Beijing into the mess. Says political scientist Joseph Cheng of City University of Hong Kong: "The Tung Administration has become a political liability for China." One sign of Beijing's displeasure: pro-China newspapers in the territory have now been allowed to report and comment—albeit in subdued tones—on the shortcomings of Tung and his government. In the past week, too, China's leadership has recalled members of the Beijing Liaison Office in Hong Kong for briefings and has dispatched a slew of other officials to the territory to gauge for itself the local mood.

But it's unlikely that China will unseat Tung anytime soon. That would be too radical a move and would be seen as an indirect attack on Jiang, Tung's sponsor. Indeed, the old boys' club that is the core of Hong Kong's government isn't disbanding yet, nor have all its members gone into overdrive to clean up their acts. In the middle of last week's demonstration, pro-Tung legislators leaving the Legco building used a bus to get through the crowds of protesters; news photographers snapped one politician, Philip Wong, flashing his middle finger at the people outside. He candidly explained the following day that he had drunk too much during Legco debates the previous night. Then, with remarkable insouciance, he fell asleep during that day's session.

Tung, the son of a shipping magnate, is the biggest old boy, but even he now appears to realize that he cannot remain aloof from the public. Last Thursday, a double-decker bus plunged off an elevated highway, killing 21 people; the Chief Executive rushed to the accident scene and then visited the injured in hospital. It was the kind of P.R. Tung had eschewed in the past, even during the SARS crisis. But Tung's heartstrings these days may well be more attuned to the victims and survivors of a crash: his Administration is in the middle of one.