Hong Kong Gridlock

The

people took to the streets of Hong Kong again last week, eight days after the half-million-person rally that rattled the ruling structure of the Chinese territory. This time they held a nighttime "vigil" outside the colonial landmark that houses the Legislative Council (Legco), Hong Kong's quasi-representative parliament. As solons debated a soccer-gambling bill inside, protesters carpeted the surrounding streets, waving Glowsticks, chanting slogans and singing We Shall Overcome in Cantonese and English. A Christian procession carried candles. Yellow-shirted devotees of the Falun Gong mystical movement—still legal in Hong Kong despite its Public Enemy No. 1 status on the mainland—struck eerie, twisted meditation poses and hoisted notices accusing Beijing of "genocide" against their fellow members. As a whole, the rally gave off a confusion of messages. Some placards condemned the National Security Bill that Chief Executive Tung Chee-hwa was forced to modify, and then shelve temporarily, after the huge protest the week before. Others quoted Abraham Lincoln—"Government of the people" and so on—to demand major democratic reforms for Hong Kong. A popular T shirt had a more pointed, but still polite, directive:

MR. C.H. TUNG
STEP DOWN
PLEASE.

It's a tribute to China's most unique and evolved city that even during a political crisis Hong Kongers remain cool, practical and mannerly. But history isn't filled with precedents in which populations achieve political change by asking for it politely, and that's the protesters' problem: What do they want, and how do they hope to achieve it? They've all but won the battle over the subversion and treason legislation informally known as Article 23. Tung agreed to amend or delete the most invidious clauses (which even Beijing didn't particularly seem to want). When the bill comes before Legco again, he'll almost certainly have to allow the kind of reasonable debate that he waved away in the past, thereby precipitating the current crisis.

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But in their bid to clinch further concessions, wager-crazy Hong Kongers now face very high odds. The swiftest way for Tung to ease public fury would be to shuffle his Cabinet, obscuring a handful of lieutenants who have become walking voodoo dolls around town. He's adamantly refused to take that step and is even less likely to retire himself. The loftiest aspiration of the marchers—speeding up democratic reforms to allow a directly elected Chief Executive and legislature by 2007 at the earliest—requires a big, generous and highly uncharacteristic nod from Beijing. In the Chinese-fire-drill events of two weeks back, it seemed that Beijing, or some leadership faction there, might have been supporting the democracy movement in Hong Kong and undercutting Tung. As days went by, those signals proved wrong, and Beijing has come out sternly in favor of the status quo. A Foreign Ministry spokesman said he was sure that most people in Hong Kong "will support the government." A harsher editorial in the Hong Kong edition of the state-run China Daily said people opposed to the Article 23 legislation were responsible for "a treacherous act against their motherland."

Tung is digging in; Beijing is being Beijing (i.e. opaque), and the only thing that's changed is the large number of Hong Kongers periodically flooding the streets on their own time. The vigil last week drew far more people than expected: some 30,000-50,000 souls willing to sacrifice their dinners or mah-jongg dates. "Beijing scares me," admitted Lance Tai, 26, who works in a financial firm, "but we have to demonstrate our determination and let them know that 'one country, two systems' is not working. And neither is Tung Chee-hwa." In other words, Hong Kong has a standoff. Something's got to give.

Perhaps it will be Hong Kong's rigid ruling system. The Chief Executive is technically chosen by an 800-member Election Committee comprising some of Hong Kong's most prominent businessfolk, executives and professionals. But you can't be a part of the committee unless you are an F.O.B. (friend of Beijing), so essentially the Chief Executive is handpicked by the central government. In fact, for Tung's second term, once China's leaders had clearly signaled that he was again their man, he turned out to be the only candidate.

Tung governs with Legco, however, and that body is as bipolar as an oxygen molecule. In one bubble are legislators from parties that are openly pro-Beijing or pro-business. They usually join forces with Legco members who aren't directly elected by the people but instead represent industry groups, such as bankers or landowners. That combine is pro-status quo, pro-Tung and pro-Beijing. In the other bubble are the so-called democrats, populist politicians who aren't necessarily anti-China but desire things that Beijing deplores, such as more democracy in Hong Kong and even on the mainland. Given the arcane way Legco votes are tallied, the democrats are dwarfed by Tung's allies; and in the past, just about every major issue became a zero-sum game that Tung's side simply had to win in order to maintain China's confidence.

Since July 1, those fixed goalposts have shifted somewhat. The rallies have made the democrats more popular—and may also have modified their reputation in Beijing. None of the protests have been even remotely anti-China. That's walking—or marching—proof that Hong Kongers accept—perhaps even embrace—Chinese rule and the "one country, two systems" formula but see some ways their system could or should be improved. "People used to ask us, what is democracy for?" notes legislator Emily Lau. "We would say, it's for our freedoms. They would respond, we have all the freedoms we need. Now they realize that they don't."