China Policy Institute: Analysis


political reform

Xi Jinping: Where Does the Power Come From?

Written by Kerry Brown.

The consensus on the history of the People’s Republic of China after its establishment in 1949 is that the last seven decades divides into two phases. The first until 1978, broadly covering the Maoist era, saw mass campaigns, Utopian visions guiding social development, and an ideology based on class struggle. After 1978, in the reform and opening up era, the focus shifted dramatically to making economic development and material improvements through marketization, privatization, and opening to the outside world. Continue reading “Xi Jinping: Where Does the Power Come From?”

Four Years On: Where is Xi Jinping’s Anti-corruption Drive Headed?

Written by Andrew Wedeman.

As the anti-corruption campaign launched by CCP General Secretary Xi Jinping approaches its fourth anniversary, the question ought to be asked: where is it going? When the drive was first announced in the winter of 2012-2014, it appeared that it would prove a repeat of crackdowns launched by Xi’s predecessors – a burst of sound and fury in which a swarm of rank and file officials – known popularly in China as “flies” – would be detained by the party’s Discipline Inspection Commission, some of whom would then end up being prosecuted by the Procuratorate, and ultimately be packed off to prison by the People’s Courts. In the processes a few senior officials – known as “tigers” – would be “bagged.” Based on past precedent, after a few months, Xi’s crackdown should have ceased being front pages news and quietly faded away – until some new scandal prodded the leadership to once again declare that the party must fight corruption to the death. Continue reading “Four Years On: Where is Xi Jinping’s Anti-corruption Drive Headed?”

The End of “Reform and Opening”?: New Political Paradigms and China’s Future.

Written by Matthew Johnson.

If the narrative of “reforming and opening” China has run its course, what new narrative will replace it? The past week has yielded several important clues in this regard, pointing to the emergence of two new frameworks that we might call “Xi-ist” China and “ideological” China.

Xi-ist China is a narrative of political power. Xi Jinping and his inner circle are alleged to dominate the key agencies and committees of party-state governance, particularly with respect to the economy, security, and the party itself. Former “kingmakers,” like former leader Zeng Qinghong, have been relegated to the sidelines and may soon be targeted by anti-corruption investigators whose work extends into picking off Xi’s remaining opponents. Xi and other “princeling faction” (太子党) members have turned against the political and economic legacies of Deng Xiaoping, and Xi is now being touted as the “core” of a new leadership configuration whose highest goal is to preserve familial power networks at any cost. One key spin-off from this scenario would include reform to the state-owned enterprise (SOE) sector of China’s economy grinding to a virtual standstill, given that SOE-created wealth remains a crucial pillar of princeling power. From a risk and access perspective, doing business at the highest levels in Xi-ist China will require the continued cultivation of relationships with princelings via “sons and daughters” hiring practices already familiar to international banks.

Ideological China is a narrative of political power as well, but also of internal fragmentation and external bellicosity. One version of the Ideological China narrative emphasizes China’s potential for pulling toward two distinct and competing poles of belief–one Confucian-conservative, and one Western-liberal–on the basis of factors such as socioeconomic status, geography, and position relative to networks of competing elite interest. While nationalism remains the common denominator of all points along the political spectrum, debates over wealth distribution and social values within China may be likely to intensify. Viewed from another perspective, battles over Mao’s legacy reflect the attempts of competing social and political groupings to secure legitimacy amidst a complex landscape of power in which the “family-run” side of the Chinese Communist Party itself is divided among various functional satrapies and must constantly renew itself through the meritocratic promotion of high-achieving, and ambitious, bureaucrats. Spin-offs from this scenario include a CCP that, either for reasons of perceived threats to its power or related concerns stemming from shaky legitimacy at home, shows no interest in accommodating itself to “Western” international norms of freedom, law, and trade-based relations. Divided power structures will make China’s internal investment and business environment increasingly unpredictable, while fears of social unrest will drive leaders to prioritize economic growth–and, more worryingly, global expansion and revisions to the international status quo–at all costs.

There is overlap between the two narratives and here we must assume that the evidence is sending a clear message. First, and as is confirmed by the CCP’s own efforts to push forward the study of Xi Jinping’s thought, there is a clear agenda of re-building and re-legitimizing the party through the figure of Xi. Second, this movement parallels ongoing efforts to keep party ideology at the forefront of the military, centralize and rationalize Chinese society through the CCP-directed legal system, and further push back against Western norms and the “channels”through which these norms are believed to spread–primarily the media and NGOs.

Where the narratives differ is in their assessment of causes. For those supporting the Xi-ist China thesis, the prime mover is Xi’s own personal power and boldness in consolidating princeling power in the face of potentially adverse political and economic forces. For those supporting the Ideological China thesis, these developments instead represent the beginnings of an increasingly volatile process through which the CCP’s power is maintained only through periodic, quasi-Maoist campaigns hitting out at internal and external enemies while, at the same time, preserving minimal ideological cohesion through policy measures aimed at further de-Westernizing Chinese society, including its political and economic systems.

The difference, ultimately, can be expressed as one of direction. Xi-ist China remains basically frozen at the current point in the reform and opening process, whereas Ideological China is likely to move backwards. Neither are particularly appealing scenarios for firms and investors, as both invoke limited opportunities and, particularly in the latter case, the very real possibility of increased volatility and protectionism.

Largely absent from both narratives is consideration of how exogenous conditions will continue to shape China’s futures. Here we briefly propose two further pathways for consideration, which represent potential thought leadership opportunities for researchers, analysts, and executives:

  1. The impact of slowing growth on elite coalition-building. Despite loud proclamations from China’s government that SOEs in outmoded and overcapacity-burdened sectors of the economy will be allowed to fail, leaders have shown little appetite for tackling SOE entrenchment, and inefficiency, head-on. However, should economic conditions worsen, political stability may be affected in one of two ways:
    • Popular outcry will create opportunities for ambitious political figures to disrupt, both publicly and behind the scenes, the existing status quo (the “Bo Xilai effect”).
    • Those at the very top of the political-economic pyramid may be forced to choose between winners and losers amidst SOE fallout, thus creating and/or exacerbating intra-elite tensions.
  2. The impact of “new Asia’s” rise on China’s growth and expansion prospects. By this we mean the impact of countries not confined to the industrial Northeast core represented by China-Japan-Korea: India, in particular, seems poised to immediately challenge China’s bid for influence in the Himalayas, Indian Ocean, and East Africa. Morover, China’s rise continues to run the risk of pushback from more traditional hemispheric players should PRC irridentism run unchecked: Russia in Central Asia and along the continental corridor of China’s “new Silk Road” expansion plan, and Japan and the United States in maritime eastern (Northeast, East, Southeast) Asia. Here, consequences may range from adventurism to a crisis of legitimacy for the CCP stemming from its leaders’ perceived mishandling of China’s foreign affairs.

Seen from this perspective, assessment of China’s political economy from the hybrid approach advocated here thus requires toggling not between Xi-ist and Ideological narratives, but between domestic and global frames. Moreover, the question is no longer, “Is China reforming?” but rather “To what degree will China in 2020 resemble China today?”–which is to say, it now appears that the possible scenarios for China’s futures have become increasingly dissimilar.

Matthew D. Johnson is assistant professor of East Asian history and chair of East Asian Studies at Grinnell College, and a co-founder of The PRC History Group (, H-PRC). His most recent publication is the co-edited volume _Maoism at the Grassroots: Everyday Life in China’s Era of High Socialism_ (Harvard UP). His research and analysis on topics related to China’s political economy appears at (Twitter: @corintconsult) and on Medium and LinkedIn. Image credit: CC by Global Panorama/Flickr. This post originally appeared at

Taiwan: A Great Choosing Day is Coming (pt II)

Written by John Keane.

As recently as two decades ago, free and fair elections were unimaginable for most citizens of Taiwan. Ground down by martial law, public conformity ran deep. Those who refused the ruling power were punished, often harshly. Heads-down cynicism flourished. The regime had mastered the dark arts of rigging elections. State-sanctioned factions, connections and local gangsters (hēi dào) transferred resources to the people that mattered. And the Leader, despite his death in April 1975, seemed immortal. Chiang Kai-shek lived on everywhere, in official portraits, songs, documentaries, busts and statues, some of them so large that public spaces had to be redesigned. Against great odds, a miracle transformation nevertheless happened. Political arrangements presumed to be permanent began to feel contingent, temporary and alterable. Political choice, great choosing days, like the one happening this coming Saturday in Taiwan, no longer seemed a wild fantasy.

Citizen Protests

Which forces lay behind this miracle transformation? The geopolitical weakening of the Chiang Kai-shek regime, for instance the downgrading of the Republic of China within the United Nations, was surely a decisive factor. But, as in all democratic upheavals, a key driver of the change was a change of public heart: the spread of the conviction among citizens that they could take things into their own hands. Local Presbyterians were among the first citizens to resist the regime. They called upon the military government several times to respect human rights, freedom of religion and the entitlement to social justice. They urged full re-election of the national legislature and recognition of ‘the right of the people’ to determine their own future in ‘a new and independent country’.

These were brave words, which brought the secret police flocking to their chapels, but to no avail. Bit by bit, month by month, citizens’ resistance during the late 1970s began to cut the claws of the KMT state. A tattered string of open protests against election fraud led (in November 1977) to violent scenes at Chungli, where a flamboyant opposition candidate for county magistrate, Hsu Hsin-liang, was declared winner, denied victory by the government, then – after rioters wrecked a local police station – declared the winner. At Kaohsiung, a city on the southern coast of the main island, a large demonstration on International Human Rights Day (December 10th, 1979) produced martyrs when the city was shelled and its police rioted, killing and injuring scores of young civilian men and women.

Troubles doubled and began to spread, to the point where, by the mid-1980s, the KMT regime grew nervous, especially with the founding of the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP). It was soon to score the first of a string of electoral victories, by capturing the post of mayor of the capital city, Taipei. The party used well-targeted, witty, state-of-the-art campaigning methods, such as huge billboards featuring a smiling Mona Lisa and nativist themes (‘patching the broken fishing net’, ‘humble administration’, ‘have confidence in Taiwan’) that meant different things to different voters, especially when expressed in Taiwanese dialects, rather than the Mandarin used by the KMT authorities.

The founding of Taiwan’s first genuinely oppositional political party was fuelled by a deepening sense among citizens that public protests were now legitimate, and that they could achieve important results. The peaceful and self-disciplined qualities of the protests were remarkable. They displayed deep respect for the rule of law and they harboured a strongly experimental air, for example in the way they made use of temples as places of refuge, as public spaces where citizens could gather in safety, to feel stronger by getting to know each other better. A memorable example in the mid-1980s was the staging of unofficial election rallies by supporters of the ‘dăng wài’ (‘Outside the Party’) opposition movement. In west Taipei, they chose as their venue the wonderfully ornate, early nineteenth-century Buddhist temple at Longshan. It was a safe haven where the riot police did not dare show their face, for fear of upsetting the calm routines of local people gently chanting from scripts and praying for the health and well-being of their children, their families and loved ones. No one knew what the local goddess Guan Yin thought of the rallies that took shelter there, in her presence. Just one fact was plain: when ten thousand citizens huddled in solidarity in the temple courtyard, protected from water cannon and tear gas by bright flowers and sweet fruits, gongs and drums, candles and smouldering incense, they quickly learned the arts of citizen politics. They spoke a new political language, telling journalists, for instance, that what they wanted was a ‘civil society’ (gong min shehui) and a ‘democracy’ (minzhu) that enabled citizens (gongmin) to cast a free and fair vote – to throw a ticket (tou piao) as the Taiwanese like to say.


The new political language was incomprehensible to the ruling authorities. The KMT state tried to remain tough, like a bully losing his grip. Its thuggery served only to steel the resolve of many citizens, who were cheered by the growing visibility and numbers of supporters outside Taiwan. One very interesting thing about its democratisation is the way it could not have happened without long-distance, external support, from both governmental and civil society organisations. The active human rights diplomacy directed by the Carter administration against the KMT regime really mattered. So did the non-governmental overseas rescue network, as it came to be called. Bound together across borders by information that travelled through disguised ‘underground railroads’, the rescue network included many hundreds of initiatives, led by church groups, university links, Amnesty International letters and reports, press and media coverage, visits by lawyers to monitor political trials, as well as efforts by groups of exiles like the Formosan Association for Human Rights (based in New York) and the Taiwan Political Prisoner Rescue Association (based in Tokyo).

The effectiveness of these initiatives blessed the new democracy of Taiwan with cosmopolitan virtues. The strong sense among citizens that what was happening inside Taiwan was being co-determined by outside developments worked to neutralise moves to popularise simple-minded beliefs in ‘the nation’ and its right to a ‘sovereign state’. Nationalist rhetoric was conspicuous by its absence in the Taiwan transition. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising, given the way (say) the Japanese conquerors of the past had unwittingly taught locals to suspect or detest talk of Nations and Enemies of the Nation. There was also the historical fact that prior to the arrival of Japanese colonisers, at the end of the nineteenth century, the ‘Ilha Formosa’, or ‘Beautiful Island’, as Europeans called it, had been settled successively by Dutch, Spanish and Chinese forces. Hence the almost comical sequence of official and unofficial Chinese and English names given to the archipelago: province, nation, prefecture, China, Formosa, Free China, Nationalist China, Chinese Taipei and (most recently) the Republic of China.

Given this complex history, more than a few Taiwanese citizens clearly grasped their own fuzzy identity. Easy definitions of the Nation felt strange. It was as if they rejected the old European habit of worshipping and dying for their Country. Questions about who rightfully belonged to Taiwan, and why, were felt to be open questions, with no straightforward answers. Doctrines of racial or ethnic ‘purity’ – like that promoted by KMT rule, or by Beijing’s talk of One China – were to be doubted, feared and resisted. From the point of view of the democratic opposition, there was to be no ‘true’ Taiwan, simply because ‘Taiwan’ and ‘Taiwanese’ identity were felt to be power-ridden rhetorical terms.

There was a positive sided of this equation. ‘Taiwan’ was to be a place where many different ethno-national identities should freely live side by side. That point was courageously driven home, at the end of December 1984, during the last years of the KMT regime, by the formation of the Taiwan Association for the Promotion of Aboriginal Rights. It was a civil society network that agitated for the right of the descendants of Taiwan’s earliest inhabitants to be publicly visible – to enjoy greater control over their lands and to be called by their tribal (non-Chinese) names. Respect for difference was also the theme of actions by the Malayo-Polynesian Tao people of Orchid Island, who on more than one occasion dressed up as ‘radioactive people’ to protest against the KMT decision to dump nuclear waste on an island famed for its natural scenery and butterfly orchids.

The right to be different equally motivated protests by Hakka people against the suppression of their language and culture, a right formally confirmed in 2003, when the first television channel broadcasting in Hakka came on stream. The general pattern was clear in the particulars: Hakka citizens were prepared to identify politically with ‘Taiwan’, a word despised by the KMT regime, but only on condition that it be used as an open signifier, a symbol and vision and reality whose meaning was to be kept incomplete, and not monopolised by any particular power group.

The overall point is worth underscoring: the historic significance of the Taiwanese people’s struggle for free elections against KMT rule was that it stood beyond the world of narrow-minded nationalism. It wasn’t a repeat performance of the old play called the Third World struggle for ‘national independence’. To the contrary: the resistance to cruel power in Taiwan was fuelled by a new form of ultra-modern or ‘outward-looking’ patriotism that favoured mutual respect and solidarity among the different settlers of the archipelago. The formula required and implied political innovations (reserved seats for indigenous peoples, for instance). It also required a civil society comprising many different senses of the meaning of being Taiwanese. It implied citizens’ right to live their differences within a polity that had room for newcomers, such as migrant workers from south-east Asia, well over a quarter of a million of whom landed on the shores of Taiwan after the defeat of the KMT dictatorship. In a phrase, Taiwan was to be a fire dragon fruit democracy: a self-governing polity whose colourful civil society resembled the huǒ lóng guǒ fruit, the fish-shaped melon with white flesh and black seeds and pink, green and yellow skin that grows in abundance on its soils.

The Sacred

Taiwanese citizens managed to build something else that was rather special in the history of democracy: a polity in which many people felt a common dependence upon the sacred yet refused a single organised religion. Something like a spiritually secular democracy resulted. Local democrats used methods – flowers, temples, processions, smiling Mona Lisas – that served to sanctify democracy. There was respect for people’s different personal senses of the sacred (shén shèng). In search of the Way, many citizens visited temples and frequented worship circles (jì sì quān) to expiate their wrongdoings, and to nourish their vital powers. Some citizens even liked to call on the gods and goddesses to help them out of a tight spot. For instance, citizens active in environmental politics referred often to the sea goddess of mercy, Mazu; and among more than a few citizens, there were plenty of lingering beliefs in ‘small ghosts’ (xiăo gŭi) and magic (wū shù).

The new Taiwanese democracy nevertheless dispensed with serious talk of trusting in God, or in goddesses and gods. It proved that a secular, this-worldly democracy – a shì sú xìng democracy – was possible. It was felt by millions of spiritually savvy Taiwanese that their country should be bound together not by a common religion, but by something much more tangible: suspicion of unaccountable power and deep respect for the practice and principles of human rights, including the right to free and fair elections.

Chen Shui-Bian, and Beyond

That at least was the way things were put by the politician Chen Shui-bian shortly after his successful presidential bid in mid-March 2000 – in a fierce but fair election that signalled the end of the KMT regime’s 55-year monopoly on governmental power. In his inauguration speech, the son of a poor tenant farmer and illiterate day labourer, dressed in a grey suit with a red tie, his wife Wu Shu-jen (disabled by an opposition assassination attempt in 1985) seated beside him in a wheelchair, pledged allegiance not to the flag, or to a God, but to the adherence of the Taiwanese government and its people to ‘rule by the clean and upright’, and to a peaceful way of life in which vote-buying, corrupt business and other ‘black gold’ practices would not be tolerated. Taiwan, he said, would commit itself to the vision of a multicultural archipelago. ‘We must open our hearts with tolerance and respect, so that our diverse ethnic groups and different regional cultures communicate with each other, and so that Taiwan’s local cultures connect with the cultures of Chinese-speaking communities and other world cultures.’ Chen Shui-bian went on to say that his country would support the best global trends of the twenty-first century. It would adhere to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, incorporate international human rights covenants into domestic law, and establish – with the help of Amnesty International and the International Commission of Jurists – a National Human Rights Commission.

Such talk would later (in May 2006) skewer Chen Shui-bian. Both his political career and second term as president were ruined after he and his wife came under intense media and judicial scrutiny for their operation of a discretionary ‘state affairs’ fund used to conduct secret diplomacy. Chen Shui-bian was forced to resign from office, enveloped in allegations of money laundering and abuse of presidential authority. He ended up behind bars, where he remains until this day.

At the time of his inaugural speech, citizens’ reactions to his talk of a ‘human rights nation’ were divided and suitably ambiguous – as one would have expected of a democratic country that was not a country in any conventional sense. The majority of voters seemed to accept the many anomalies associated with some loosely defined, de facto ‘independent sovereignty’. They sided with the principles of human rights, and accepted (as Taiwan’s leading campaign strategist Luo Wen-chia put it to me several years later) that ‘although democracy may not always be the most efficient way of making decisions, it is a way of dividing and controlling power that helpfully prevents mistakes from being made while positively encouraging respect for human beings, their choices, beliefs and different ways of living, such as same-sex partnerships.’

The majority of voters embraced the fact that the shrinking army of Taiwan was dependent ultimately for its survival on American naval and air power. But they also expressed approval of another fact: that in the year 2000, around 50% of Taiwanese trade and investment was with China (according to local black humour, Taiwanese businessmen favouring unification with China supported the policy of ‘one country, two wives’). Only around a quarter of the voting population (the figure depended on the wording of opinion poll questions) favoured an outright declaration of independence; that figure dropped to around one-sixth of voters when it came to a formal change of the name ‘Republic of China’.

In the early years of the 21st century, and still today, not everyone agreed with the tricky geopolitical compromises of the new democracy. While many people seemed to accept that Taiwanese democracy resembled an evening television soap series, with constant script changes and everything shot at the last minute, some citizens bitterly disagreed and, accordingly, scrambled to scupper government plans that tried to preserve the status quo. Hard-core recidivists within the KMT, now forced to play the role of opposition or governing party in what had become basically a two-party system divided between ‘blues’ (the KMT and a splinter party or two) and ‘greens’ (the DPP and the pro-independence party TSU, led by a former KMT president, Lee Teng-hui), attacked Chen’s vision as a long-winded diversion from the immediate goal, the ‘return’ of Taiwan to its rightful owners, the regime run by the Chinese Communist Party. In response to ‘one-China’ talk, some Taiwanese politicians, government officials, businesses and citizens meanwhile thought of themselves as engaged in a struggle for ‘independence’. In the face of opposition from the government of China, some even dared to talk defiantly of ‘sovereign independence’.

The two apparently contradictory viewpoints were in fact cut from the same cloth. Both indulged the originally European, early modern belief that democracy can only survive in territorial states that are ‘sovereign’, in the sense that those who govern a population within a given territory have the ultimate say, backed up by their monopoly over guns, police and the army. Both positions failed to grasp the historical novelty of the new Taiwanese democracy. By the early years of the 21st century, Taiwan was a post-nationalist, spiritually secular democracy blessed with both free elections and a lively mix of different identities that managed to survive its transition, all of this within a region brimming with armed states hungry for territory and resources.

Democracy and Security

But (many asked) what would protect democracy made in Taiwan from local predators? It is important to recall when answering this question that democracies survive and best thrive within what Karl Deutsch and others long ago called a ‘security community’. In other words, democracies require a like-minded group of democracies that share some sense of community and sets of overlapping institutions. These mechanisms must be sufficiently strong to withstand internal and external ‘shocks’, so guaranteeing with a fair measure of probability, over a fairly long period of time, that peaceful co-ordination and change can take place among the members of the group, who can settle their differences without sabotage and war.

Only a handful of democracies have escaped this ‘security community’ rule. One of them was the new American republic, which managed to democratise itself during the first half of the nineteenth century, thanks to loose and shifting military alliances and the protection afforded by two oceans in the age of muskets and wind-powered ships. Taiwan was different. It was not describable in terms of the American or any other pathway to ‘sovereignty’. It was an entirely new democracy, with post-sovereign features.

Born of struggles to shake off two imperial powers (Japan and China), Taiwan was a democratic orphan with diverse parents. Enjoying free and fair elections, it was the resultant of many intersecting forces, both at the level of government and civil society. The upshot was that its identity as a political unit remained permanently controversial. That also made it unique. Thanks to such forces as the American 7th Fleet, doing business with China, diplomatic recognition by several handfuls of states and vigorous ‘soft power’ efforts to make its presence felt in the affairs of the world, Asia’s orphan managed to do more than survive. It came to thrive, as a new type of democracy determined to show the wider region, and the whole world, that great choosing days still really matter.

John Keane is Professor at the University of Sydney. This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

How Strong is the Public Demand for Political Reform: data from where Xi Jiping used to work

By Dragan Pavlicevic.

“While Xi Jinping’s earlier tenure in Zhejiang Province may lead people to see him as a liberal, whether he is ready to introduce political reform once in the country’s top office is far from clear. In fact, in Zhejiang, where many local government innovations are taking place to allow more citizen participation in politics, the public demand for political reform appears to be quite lukewarm.”

Some observers are putting their faith in Xi Jinping as someone who would likely push forward political reforms after becoming China’s top leader at the forthcoming Party Congress. In this regard, much has been read into his tenure as the party secretary of Zhejiang Province, where I am currently conducting field research.

During his five years in office here, several localities have implemented some forms of political reforms, opening space for higher degree of popular participation in decision-making and improving extra-party supervisory mechanisms. He has reportedly endorsed and praised these experiments.

But whether Xi is willing to push forward political reform at the national level is far from clear. More importantly, paying attention only to the “supply” side of equation – that is, the preferences of top leader(s) regarding political (and any other kind of) reform – could be misleading.

The “demand” side – the public opinion – needs to be seriously taken into account as well.

The growing mood and the intensity of popular protests may be taken as signaling a widespread sense of dissatisfaction with the ruling party, and demanding a rapid opening for citizens fuller participation in politics.

Such moods can also easily be detected in casual conversations with many Chinese, amongst whom are the online masses of so-called “netizens” as well as those in university classrooms. The numbers are clearly growing stronger, according to my own experience and observation.

But, it is still very important to ask the question how strong is the demand for reform on the ground? In this regard, a recent and yet unpublished study assessing the state of local-level governance in Zhejiang may be instructive.

Citizen surveys conducted for this study suggest that political participation has still not gained paramount importance for the majority of Chinese.

The highest citizen satisfaction scores were awarded to those local governments that have focused on addressing issues such as those related to migration, urbanization of rural areas, transparent mechanisms for land expropriation etc., while the lowest went to governments that are known for a lack of initiatives related to improvements in delivery of public goods and services in their portfolio.

Interestingly, localities that have been known for advancing experiments in participatory politics mostly hovered in the middle of the rankings. Generally, scores on indicators measuring the scope and strength of state-society interaction did not have a significant impact on the citizens’ overall evaluation of the quality of a local government.

In that light, the new leadership may not feel enough pressure to push forward political reform. In the short run, it may be more reasonable to expect further measures aiming to address the gap between rich and poor, city and countryside, eastern and western China, new initiatives to tackle corruption and improving the party’s image as well as having a strong focus on managing the economy. Significant political reform steps may not be forthcoming presently.

Dragan Pavlicevic is a PhD candidate at the School of Contempoary Chinese Studies.

Opinions expressed in the CPI blog do not represent the views of the China Policy Institute or the School of Contemporary Chinese Studies at the University of Nottingham. They are the personal views of the bloggers/authors

The capacity of the incoming leadership to advance political reform

By Anastas Vangeli.

Concerning China’s new leaders, one particularly intriguing question is how they will continue to sustain the Party’s legitimacy through political reform. Political reform is something that has been discussed a lot, but acted little upon.

In order to discuss the prospects of political reform, one has to look at the generational features and peculiarities of the incoming leadership, and the characteristics that will greatly inform their thinking and decision-making.

The fifth generation of leaders is comprised of individuals who were born and bred in the People’s Republic of China. Their life experiences are extremely dense and diverse – however, a  common trait is that they had a firsthand account of the Cultural Revolution during their youth; they matured in an era of Reform and Opening Up.

Their political careers began to unveil during the 1980s and the 1990s, and often included a post in a coastal province or around the Bohai rim; that is to say their job was to design, implement or supervise the reform process at a lower level during the peak of the reform period.

They came to the point of maturity in an era of complex, professionalized policy-making. Many of them are in fact known for being keen on political reform – the name that stands out the most being Wang Yang.

Aside from being experienced practitioners, many of them are intellectuals (there is a record number of PhD holders among the new CCP elite – including both Xi Jinping and Li Keqiang) who are also much more international compared to their predecessors (with Li Yuanchao for instance, being a former fellow at the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard).

Finally, what defines this group of leaders as a “generation” is that they are free of the burden of the past, and especially of the decision-making that caused tectonic shifts in the political landscape of China (such as the events of 1989) – at the same time, they face the challenge of making their own contribution to history.

During the National People’s Congress earlier this year, Wen Jiabao stressed that his generation did not manage to make more significant steps towards political reform, and that political reform is something that remains as a task for the next generation. Wen used the case of Bo Xilai as a pretext to warn of another Cultural Revolution, and stressed the “urgency” of the need for political reform. Given their portfolios, Xi, Li and the rest certainly have the potential to live up to this challenge.

The latest scandal about Wen’s alleged “hidden riches” presented another illustration of the urgent need for political reform. The Party must introduce transparency and accountability to its top leadership, in order to sustain a certain level of public trust in the regime. 

Hong Kong press has reported that Wen suggested to the Party Centre that he would take the lead to make public his personal and family income and wealth.  Whether this will materialize anytime soon remains to be seen. But if it does indeed happens, it will mark a major step of meaningful political reforms.

Anastas Angeli is a freelance writer on Chinese politics and Sino-EU relations based in Beijing.

Opinions expressed in the CPI blog do not represent the views of the China Policy Institute or the School of Contemporary Chinese Studies at the University of Nottingham. They are the personal views of the bloggers/authors.

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