by Han Han
Rally-race venues tend to be in fairly remote areas, so in recent years I’ve visited over a hundred county towns. None of them, I find, are particularly deprived or cut off from the world. When I talk to their residents, I find that they are not thirsting for democracy and freedom as hungrily as people in cultural circles imagine. Their resentment of authoritarian government and corruption does not lead them to ask, “How can we limit and monitor these things?” but rather “Why can’t I, or why can’t my family, have what bureaucrats have?” Only when they bear the brunt of some inequity, only when they personally feel the need to protest, will they reach for a dictionary to find those progressive concepts in an effort to protect themselves. So long as the government gives them adequate compensation they’ll be satisfied. If a social conflict can be resolved simply by some money changing hands, it’s not really much of a problem. But intellectuals tend to regard people’s ad-hoc adoption of these fashionable words as the expression of a universal demand and assume that everyone is on the same page. I don’t believe there are good prospects for a revolution in a country where there’s such a stark divide separating one group of people from another. “If those people are so docile,” you may say, “that’s just because the government trained them to think that way. So we need change at the top.” But this is the reality we’re facing, and it’s not going to change radically anytime soon. At the same time, I’m not pessimistic, because when I talk with these people’s children, the Internet and other kinds of media have broadened their outlook considerably.
The Chinese Communist Party now has eighty million members, and if you throw in all their relatives, that’s another three hundred million, so it can’t be thought of simply as a political party or a ruling elite. A lot of the time, the Party’s shortcomings are the people’s shortcomings. A powerful one-party system, it seems to me, amounts in the end to a no-party system, because once a party reaches a certain scale, it takes on the character of the people, just as the people exemplify the system, so the issue is not what we do with the Communist Party—the Communist Party is only a label, just as the system is only a label. To change the people is to change everything. So we need to focus on improvements. The legal system, education, and culture have to be the foundation.
Q. If revolution does come, what role should influential intellectual figures play?
A. They should sit on the fence, but turn their faces against the wind. Intellectuals need to have a sense of justice, but shouldn’t be wedded to a single position; the more influential they are the less they should take sides. If they see one faction getting the upper hand they should express support for some other force in society; they should keep their distance from any particular agenda, any particular faith. They need to think of all revolutionaries as potential confidence men and disbelieve all their promises, doing everything possible to ensure that no one party can eliminate others and become dominant. Thus, if China has a revolution in the future, I will stand by whoever is the weaker, and if they become strong, I’ll side with their rivals. I’m ready to sacrifice my own view in order to see that different sides coexist. Only that way can we achieve everything we’re seeking to accomplish.
Finally, just to be able to discuss these things as the year draws to a close makes for the best possible New Year. This time round, unlike in previous debates, there is no single adversary. I’m grateful to all the friends who have raised issues with me—they are all excellent points. If my answers don’t always address the questions, I hope you’ll understand.
Pressing for freedom
December 26, 2011
A couple of essays ago I said that different people want different freedoms and in my last essay I said that democracy and the rule of law involve a process of bargaining. No matter how big the markdowns in the Christmas sales, you’re not going to get something for nothing. So now I need to start doing some bargaining.
For a start, as someone involved in culture, in the coming New Year I demand a freer hand in literary creation. I’m not putting it in terms of freedom of this or freedom of that, because those two expressions will only provoke wariness and alarm in certain quarters, even if these freedoms have always been written into our constitution. In reality, they have never been well implemented. At the same time, on behalf of my colleagues in the media, I need to demand more freedom for the press, since the news is always subject to such rigid controls, and freedom also for my filmmaking friends, who have a terrible time. Working in the cultural arena is like stepping into a minefield—you have to walk slowly, and never in a straight line.
It is in the direction of freedom, after all, that our age is surely moving, and we are not asking for things the government hasn’t already promised. I know that you’ve done your research on the Soviet Union; I know you think a big reason for Communism’s collapse there was that Gorbachev relaxed press restrictions and transferred supreme power from the Communist Party to the Congress of People’s Deputies, as mandated by the constitution. So this makes you extremely circumspect about freedom of speech and constitutional government. But we live in an era where information moves so freely that trying to block it is futile, and your restrictions on culture simply mean that it is next to impossible to produce literature and cinema that will have any influence in the world. Chinese authors and directors alike are reduced to a state of perpetual embarrassment. China’s media, likewise, has no global impact, for there are lots of things that money simply cannot buy. A culture boom is actually the cheapest thing around—the less you try to control culture, the more it is going to flourish. If you continue to insist that Chinese culture is not subject to restraints, that’s just too disingenuous. So in the year to come I call upon the authorities to loosen the bonds that are stifling culture, publishing, media, and film.
If I see concessions on your side and more freedom in the cultural arena, then on my part I’ll try not to settle scores, to look to the future, to steer clear of the most sensitive issues in policy implementation, to withhold comment on high leaders’ families and their special interests, and just focus on discussions of current society. Ideally, then, cultural circles and the government can both give a little ground and so enable everyone to have a bit more space.
But if there’s no improvement after two or three years, then I will personally make an appearance at every congress of the Writers’ Association or the Federation of Literary and Art Circles, to audit the proceedings and register my protest. I know this is a bit like an ant trying to shake a tree, but given the little power I have, that’s as much as I can hope to do. Of course, it will just be me—I won’t bring anyone else or mobilize my readers to follow my example. I’m not going to use other people’s futures to doll up my own résumé. At the same time, I have faith in the character of the people of our generation, so I believe these freedoms are bound to arrive sooner or later. But I do hope they can come sooner, because I’m capable of better work and I don’t want to have to wait until I’m an old man. Give me a chance to enjoy those freedoms now.
Such, then, are my demands, reflecting my own professional background. One thing I’ve learned from our helpful to-and-fro is that formulating a conceptual model of how things should be is not as pressing a matter as thinking about what we should do. It’s said that you can only make one wish at a time, and I’ve already used up my quota. Other issues like equity, justice, law, and political reform are, of course, up for discussion too, and friends with backgrounds in those areas can focus on them, instead. Although it seems to me that freedom isn’t necessarily most people’s top priority, nobody wants to be in a constant state of fear and trepidation. It’s my hope that we can create an even playing field that will make it possible for the poor to improve their lives, and that we can revitalize our culture so that the rich won’t have to go on feeling inferior to foreigners, even when they have more money than them. And I hope that young people will be able to continue to discuss freely such topics as revolution, reform, and democracy, and can maintain the
ir passionate commitment to the nation’s future. Politics is not dirty, or pointless, or dangerous, or if it is, it’s not true politics. Herbal medicines, gunpowder, silk, and pandas are not going to win us international glory, just as for the wife of a county chief to build up a collection of a hundred Louis Vuitton handbags is not going to win respect for our people. The party in power, I hope, can put its best foot forward and win itself some fame—in more than just the history books that you yourselves write.
This last year of mine
January 8, 2012
It’s been several days since we saw the last of 2011. When I was in school, I hated having to write end-of-year reports, because—apart from the fact that I had nothing to report—I always felt there was no reason I should have to bare my soul to someone who forces you to perform a pre-appointed task, and I was sure I’d remember the things that deserved to be remembered. Later I discovered that memory isn’t actually so reliable, so these days I’m willing to write things down.
Last year my performance in motor racing wasn’t bad at all. Out of the eleven races in the national tournament, apart from the two occasions where my car broke down, I made it onto the prizewinners’ podium on nine occasions and won the first championship for the Shanghai Volkswagen 333 team and turbo race. Last year I also won the first overall champion of the year title for the Subaru China rally team. The last time I won this title was in 2009. If you add in the championships I won in 2007 and 2008, I have won four first-place finishes overall. For that I want to thank my team colleagues and technicians. It was in 1993 that I saw the Hong Kong-Beijing rally competition on TV for the first time, and that’s when I got it into my head to race for the national team when I grew up. Sitting in front of the TV that day, I had a fantasy; now, eighteen years later, I have lived up to my aspirations as an eleven year old, and I’m very pleased. This doesn’t mean that I’m urging everyone to always pursue their dream, because from 1993 to 2003 I completely forgot what I thought about that time in front of the TV. Only later, when circumstances allowed, did I consciously begin to practice driving. Maybe sometimes one clings stubbornly to something, and maybe sometimes one simply picks it up again when the moment is right—this can be true both of career goals and romantic attachments. Of course, this all depends on the individual and the situation—it’s not a universal principle, but a matter of luck. I’m not proselytizing like someone you see hawking their books on the airport television.
In 2011 my friend Liu Caodong died. As the best rally driver in China he was my greatest rival. I managed to beat him in 2009, but lost to him in 2010. And in the blink of an eye, it’s now been over three years since Xu Lang left us—in his time he was king of rally racing. I have a bone to pick with both of them, because their deaths have taken a lot of the excitement out of a victory. With them gone, even when I win it feels a bit of a shame, a bit like a monkey becoming king of the jungle because there are no more tigers. It’s much the same story in the other things I do: In the absence of a hero, the stripling makes his name. Being both a monkey and a stripling, I seem to be a Gemini this coming year. I just wish I could have another race with Liu and Xu. Of course it makes no sense to say that—they’re not going to come back to life, and I don’t plan to die just yet. I say that simply to show how I cherish their memory.
Some leave us, and others join us. This last year I became a father. I love my daughter of course, but—more importantly—she loves me. As I expected, Daddy was her first word. A reporter asked me my preference: boy or girl. My answer was along these lines: I just hope that my daughter will be happy, and I am not concerned whether or not she is successful in the Chinese sense. Just so long as she has a good character I’m willing to create the best possible environment for her, sheltered from the pressures of this ruthless and unscrupulous society. Of course, she should do just what she wants to do, and she can try anything she fancies—all I am is a safety net when she takes a risk in climbing high. If in the future I suffer some setback that makes it difficult to support my daughter, then I’ve got no problem being a chauffeur for Robin Li, grinding ink for Bai Ye, or holding up a light for Chen Kaige.44 Naturally I want to have a bigger family, and if I have a son then he’s going to have to put up with things as they are, find a foothold in this reality, and pull out the stops to support himself and change society for the better.
2011 saw a big change in my own essays, but the shift actually began earlier. In my posts of 2009 and 2010 I would seize on the problems of the day and criticize the government, moved by a sense of disgust at things that were happening. Though I hate restrictions, I am also public-spirited enough to warn people about a hole in the road if I see one when I’m out driving at night. Every day I was looking forward to the time when China would suddenly turn into a society like the United States or Taiwan. I even felt that Hong Kong or Singapore are both imperfect, that the system is the root of all evil, that the system inevitably generates enormous abuses. For these criticisms I earned a lot of compliments, and I began to revel in all this appreciation and even subconsciously tried to cater to it. By 2010, many of my critiques hinged on assumptions of guilt and represented only variations on the same theme: The system is bad, the government is corrupt, tragedies are happening, and the people need help. In any society, I think, this kind of criticism is bound to be welcomed by readers at large: If the rulers are greedy and corrupt, there is bound to be serious antagonism between officials and the population. Anywhere you go, people like it when you say: “We’re really in bad shape here! Your boss is a complete jerk—he’s made a mess of so many things, but still he gets driven around in a smart car and has a mistress on the side. With all your talents, you deserve a lot more than you have—and what qualifies that asshole to be your boss, anyway? Everyone has the right to be boss or to change the boss, and the things he’s got should be yours.” With the exception of the boss, who won’t be pleased to hear this, everyone else will feel you’ve expressed their thoughts exactly. If I write that kind of essay, and throw in a few little jokes for good measure, everyone’s bound to agree that I’ve put things very well, and those who disagree with me will be written off as Fifty-centers, as the running dogs of the powerful, as enemies of the people. Even if someone wants to criticize me, they will first have to write a couple of pages that sing my praises before they can raise a couple of mild objections, otherwise they will easily provoke dissatisfaction and get branded with one negative label or another, in much the same way as the targets of my criticism like to pin labels on their opponents, with no room for consultation and compromise. When I discovered that people critical of me were getting fewer and fewer (or were becoming more and more cautious), I naturally was happy for a while, but later I came to feel uncomfortable with the whole scene, for I knew that no matter how right I was, I had to be wrong somewhere.
So, with time, I gradually reached the conclusion that a good writer shouldn’t just train his sights on the high and mighty, he should also be ready to clip the wings of the masses. I began to make some changes early in 2011, with essays like the one about Village Chief Qian Yunhui, “Do we need the truth, or just the truth that fits our needs?” Of course, if both the mighty and the weak come in for criticism, I’ll give priority to criticizing the former, for the simple reason that they’re the ones who’ve got it easy, and ordinary citizens have got the raw end of the deal. But that’s not to say that a good writer should suck up to the common people unconditionally, without a bottom line. If you say the people are so good and so right, so warm-hearted and so civilized, that they should have this and that and enjoy such-and-such and so-and-so, that the people have all kinds of God-given rights, that the people’s eyes are not only gleaming with intelligence but are perfectly proportioned, as well . . . these phrases actually are no different for the kinds of insane flattery that Mao Zedong heaped on the masses before he took control, when they were just gambling chips in his effort to achieve power and prestige.
Some years ago, I was a comm
itted revolutionary, believing that all one-party dictatorships had to be overthrown, that there had to be a multiparty democracy, direct elections, a tripartite division of power, and a nationalization of the armed forces. Friends would take issue with me then, arguing that a lot of people would get killed, that there’d be chaos, and that things would only get worse. My view at the time was: “Not necessarily—if we don’t try it, how will we ever know? What you’re telling me is just the ruling class’s rationale for doing nothing, and besides, there’s a price to pay whatever you do—if you don’t take more extreme, more radical action, how are you going to eradicate the disease? It takes a big upheaval to create the conditions for excellent government. Besides, if the country ends up in chaos, it might give me the chance to be a warlord.”
But gradually I have realized that this attitude doesn’t differ very much in its emotional tenor from a dictator’s offhand attitude: “Once I’m dead, the whole roof can come down, as far as I’m concerned.” Extreme idealists who have lost connection with reality aren’t necessarily the temperamental opposites of those who in reality are extreme authoritarians, and they may actually be sentimental bedfellows, although the banners they brandish may say completely different things. There’s a good chance you’ll end up as precisely the kind of person you once detested.