It might seem strange that the leader of the world’s most powerful authoritarian regime would simply hand over the keys to the kingdom. Many may see this as welcome progress: for the first time since the communists came to power, one Chinese leader will pass power to another without the shadow of a deathbed looming in the background. But look behind the curtain of court politics, and the principle for managing this succession is the same as those which came before it: a great Chinese leader always picks the successor. The man who chose Hu Jintao, who is expected to rise to the pinnacle of Chinese power at next month’s 16th Party Congress, was none other than Deng Xiaoping. Ten years ago, just a couple of years after Deng lifted Jiang out of obscurity to become the country’s next statesman, he sanctioned a second heir–in effect, Jiang’s replacement–by permitting Hu to become the youngest new member of the seven-man Politburo Standing Committee, China’s most powerful decision-making body. Jiang’s reign was, in a sense, term-limited from the beginning. So now, with the transfer of power from Jiang to Hu, one of Deng’s last power plays will come to pass. China has a “succession system that is still working from the grave,” says Roderick MacFarquhar, a professor of Chinese politics at Harvard University.
Why would Jiang Zemin allow the wishes of a man who’s been dead for five years to control his political fate? The short answer is that he has no choice. Power in today’s China is wielded by consensus, not by a single man’s diktat. Moreover, by Chinese standards, Jiang is a relatively weak leader. “He is a first among equals. Jiang must make deals, and his interests will only be protected if he scratches other people’s backs,” says Minxin Pei, a China analyst at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. Jiang’s face already joins those of Mao and Deng on billboards and in portraits of the pantheon of Chinese leaders. But no member of his generation, including him, really commands that type of political clout, and it has long been assumed by his peers that Jiang would step down at this year’s Party Congress. If Jiang were to try to defy these expectations, it would have “serious consequences” for him and the party, says Pei.
But the most doggedly persistent characteristic of China’s leadership succession is the opaque nature of the process itself. Don’t try to find a rule that says what should happen. There’s no procedure that can be looked up, no clause in the Constitution that explains how things will unfold. Rather than any formal rules and procedures, China–or more precisely, China’s senior party leaders–choose their head of state through behind-the-scenes political horse trading, which seems to be governed by little beyond malleable norms and historical precedent. Safe from the spotlight and beginning months before any party congress opens its doors, leading candidates for top spots make compromises, offer favors and generally line up the allies and coalitions they need to propel themselves into the upper echelons of power. The lead-up to party congresses can therefore be freewheeling and unpredictable moments in Chinese politics, and almost any principle or alliance can be up for negotiation.
The last Party Congress in 1997 was such a moment for Jiang. In the 1990s, with the clear support of Deng Xiaoping, the party began to develop the notion that no politico should enter a new term of office after his 70th birthday. It was with this principle, in a backstage showdown against his rival, Qiao Shi, who was then a member of the Politburo Standing Committee, that Jiang forced Qiao into retirement. The problem for Jiang was that he, too, was already past the retirement age. But in the jockeying of the Party Congress, Jiang wrangled himself a five-year extension to this year’s session. His victory, with the support of Bo Yibo, a party elder, came at a high price: he promised that next time around he would step down from all his leadership positions.
So today, Jiang, 76, faces tremendous pressure to relinquish all three of his top positions. He is concurrently head of the party, state president and chairman of the party’s influential Central Military Commission (CMC). (He has a lesser position as head of the state’s Central Military Commission as well.) A number of analysts now expect Jiang will step down as party chief in November and from his other posts next March, when the state positions expire. Jiang’s upcoming summit with U.S. President George W. Bush in Crawford, Texas, in late October is seen as his farewell turn on the world stage, underscoring the relatively chummy state of Sino-U.S. relations, which meant so much to Jiang. “There’s nothing we’ve seen to indicate Jiang might be staying on, or that Hu is being undermined,” says a Western diplomat in Beijing. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”
But in the lead-up to the party’s closed-door meeting next month, little has been certain. Western media and experts, both inside the country and abroad, have been speculating on who would rise and fall, trying as best they can to read the tea leaves of state propaganda, party directives and bureaucratic reshuffling. For years Sinologists have bet that Jiang would strive to remain as chairman of the CMC–much the way Deng did–for a transitional period. That “decent interval” could range from a year and a half to two or even three, says Carnegie’s Pei. As a gauge of the continuing opacity of Chinese politics, even today many China experts say they don’t know whether Jiang will give up the military post; many put the odds at 50-50.
Meaning is not easily divined from the party’s rhetoric, either. To foreign observers Jiang’s murky ideological philosophy, the clumsily named “Three Represents,” may seem like political trivia. But in China its public treatment–and the way it’s discussed by party elites–is the stuff of power politics. Why? Because if Jiang could get the theory entered into a revised party constitution, which can occur at party congresses, it might elevate him into a position to serve as an interpreter of future party principles. Read: influence in retirement. As recently as last month some Western China watchers pointed to a high-profile Chinese media campaign trumpeting Jiang’s new theory, citing it as proof that Jiang would refuse to step down. Others disagreed. China specialist Andrew Nathan believes the sycophantic media blitz over the Three Represents was a “sendoff” for Jiang, a face-saving fare-thee-well gesture “misread” by journalists in the West. Another possible reading offered by Western analysts is that Jiang’s theory has already been co-opted by his political opponents. Recent party material tends to downplay Jiang’s involvement in the theory, if it mentions his name at all, said a Western diplomatic source in Beijing. “That is something of a political blow to Jiang.”
As confused as the political scene may be, it’s clear that backroom machinations have been as fierce during this transition as in previous ones. Last year Jiang reshuffled almost the entire provincial leadership–from governors to party secretaries–in what many analysts believe was a clear move to ensure their continued loyalty. While a good number of the far-flung regions saw the appointment of Hu supporters, key party positions in the pillar provinces stayed in the hands of Jiang loyalists.
Even those who remained in the same post were put through a reappointment process as a helpful reminder of the man to whom they owe their political fortunes in Beijing. The architect of this reorganization was Zeng Qinghong, described by Harvard scholar MacFarquhar as a “consummate Machiavellian politician.” Zeng, 63, is a former rocket scientist and has operated as Jiang’s chief adviser and hatchet man for nearly two decades. In Beijing circles, he is sometimes referred to as “the Eunuch,” a nickname he’s earned from so many years of dedicated service and loyalty to his political mentor. It was his backroom power-brokering that ensured that Jiang triumphed over Qiao Shi at the Party Congress in 1997. And it’s widely believed that Jiang may return the favor this time around: there is little question that Jiang is trying mightily to elevate Zeng to the Politburo Standing Committee. Of course, it’s not a purely selfless act. Jiang’s future political influence may be determined as much by whether he can catapult Zeng into the Politburo Standing Committee as hold on to any of his current titles.
But Jiang’s political foes have not been idle, either. Over the past year a fierce political debate has raged within the party over Jiang’s decision to open membership –rolls to entrepreneurs and latte-sipping Yuppies. Almost immediately after its unveiling last year, the campaign attracted virulent criticism from reform-minded liberals and archconservatives alike. In August liberal spokesman Bao Tong–once a top aide to purged former party chief Zhao Ziyang–circulated an essay alleging the communists had become “China’s party for the rich, the noble and the powerful.” He went on to compare the party to “a dying crow on the dry branches of an old tree.”
Not to be outdone, the regime’s old guard, offended by Jiang’s perceived pandering to capitalists at the expense of the working classes, chimed in with their criticism of his stewardship. Several impassioned petitions circulated by hand and on the Internet, featuring the signatures of party conservatives, retired generals and nearly two dozen widows of revolutionary figures. In particular the “widow’s letter,” as it’s been dubbed, singled out Jiang’s effort to induct private entrepreneurs into the party. “The petition said, ‘We sacrificed our lives for the revolution, for New China. And now Jiang wants to change the party’s orientation and allow capitalists into the party’,” a Chinese source privy to the document and its origin told NEWSWEEK. “The letter called Jiang ‘a traitor’.” As if the sharp tone weren’t bad enough, one of the signatures was reportedly none other than Zeng Qinghong’s highly respected, nonagenarian mother, Deng Liujin, the widow of veteran revolutionary Zeng Shan. “Zeng was deeply embarrassed by this, but he couldn’t control his mother,” says the source.
The notion that Jiang might cling to power appears to have kicked up equally powerful opposition from both ends of the political spectrum. Sinologist Pei, who has met with many Chinese officials, believes that the resistance has been so great that Jiang might be more harmed by keeping his posts than letting them go. “He might be weaker because he would create resentment among his colleagues,” says Pei. “These other officials, retired or not, still have political capital, and they’d be sure to use it against him.”
So will this changing of the guard portend a genuine shift in the way China’s leaders conduct their affairs? The first question is whether a new round of political tussling will erupt at the top. Some China hands believe that stability in Chinese politics over the next year or two may depend on how Hu gets along with Zeng. The other live question is whether Jiang will truly recede from political life. “I would expect Jiang, at a minimum, to seek to become a respected elder whose ideas continue to be sought,” says Kenneth Lieberthal, a University of Michigan China expert and member of former president Clinton’s National Security Council. From this informal position Jiang might be able to head committees or working groups related to Taiwan or foreign affairs, areas that Jiang sees as his strong suit. Others believe Jiang may be barred even from playing this diminished role. “The one norm that Jiang and his colleagues can be credited with creating in the 1990s is that retirement means real retirement,” says David Shambaugh, director of the China Policy Program at George Washington University. “For him to end up meddling from behind the scenes would not only usurp his own legacy but probably prompt others to meddle, too.”
Since China’s economic reforms were first launched more than two decades ago, it’s remarkable how quickly the state’s economics have modernized, while its politics remain a throwback to some earlier, darker time. It is odd, even eerie, that a country with such teeming energy and entrepreneurial spirit still has its political leaders selected by such a distant and removed handful of party officials. The party’s insistence on a mandatory retirement age for its top leaders suggests that they wish to avoid the political uncertainty and risk that comes when men with power get too close to “meeting Marx,” as Deng used to say. It’s perhaps a recognition that the leadership is willing to be ruled by internal regulation, if not by law. But it’s still a far cry from relying on institutions instead of party elites. China’s leadership seems to be intent on making the system more sturdy, not opening it up to the people.
So how might the Chinese people ever gain the right to play a more active role–or any role–in choosing their leader? MacFarquhar says, “This kind of system changes because a man at the top–a Mao, a Gorbachev, maybe a Hu Jintao–starts to tinker with it.” But the problem is that an authoritarian political system like China’s tends to promote the rise of a Brezhnev, not a Gorbachev. Those who are most likely to succeed and move up the rungs of power are “cautious, risk-averse officials, whose sole modus operandi is not making mistakes,” says Pei. They are “bureaucratic survivors, not entrepreneurs.”
That certainly describes Hu Jintao. Little is known about China’s next likely leader. He has been so cautious and low-key over the course of his career, China hands can only guess whether he and Jiang are separated by policy differences. “Hu has the requisite background. He’s served in the provinces, including some of the poorest, and he has served at the center,” says Lieberthal. But aside from his resume, no one knows Hu’s thoughts on China’s future. The one thing that can be said about him is that he’s probably a good student of Chinese history. That would explain his political discretion, never giving Jiang a reasonable excuse to overturn Deng’s wishes.
But China’s leadership could use more mavericks than mandarins. The most important work for the next generation of leaders is facing up to the anachronisms of their political system, not deciding their pecking order. Some China experts believe that the Party Congress may be poised to introduce a small dose of pluralism within the party, at least in the manner that some top spots may be filled in the future. Of course, there’s no reason to believe the reforms will be dramatic or daring. But if party leaders think they can indefinitely cling to the old prerogatives of Mao and Deng, there are likely to be few survivors among them.
