We Have Been Harmonised

by Kai Strittmatter

  In the pre-schools of Urumqi, all children under the age of six receive a free carton of milk, courtesy of the Party, every day. On the back of the carton are printed the verses of the song ‘Oh, Party, my beloved mother’. At the same time, thousands of children are being placed in ‘welfare centres’ because the state has put their parents in a camp: they are the re-education orphans.122

  The first green shoots of a debate around risks and ethical implications have begun to appear. One chapter in a book published by Tencent’s research institute, Artificial Intelligence: A national strategic initiative for AI123 discusses the question and calls for ‘strict rules’. The State Council’s plan has promised to introduce these rules in 2025, but as always in China, it is safe to assume that they won’t stand in the way of the Party’s need for control.

  Public debate on state surveillance is taboo. Xu Bing’s video surveillance montage Dragonfly Eyes makes a strong statement – but the artist ducks further questions, instead speaking in philosophical terms of a Buddhist-inspired dissolution of identities (‘Am I really me? And isn’t everyone connected to everyone else?’) or of his ideas about a ‘post-surveillance society’. Orwell’s dystopian vision? ‘Uninteresting. Everyone is familiar with that, anyway,’ says Xu Bing – who, incidentally, went to a great deal of effort to track down all the people who were recognisable in the images he used and asked permission to use them.

  Industry executives like to argue that Chinese culture makes the country’s citizens indifferent to data protection worries. ‘The Chinese are more open and less sensitive about data protection,’ claimed Baidu boss Robin Li at a forum in Beijing. ‘If people are prepared to exchange their privacy for efficiency – and people here often are – then we can make even more use of the data.’124 But is it really the case that the concept of ‘privacy’ is alien to Chinese culture? Or is the disappearance of the term from public debate the result of Chinese politics? In any event, Robin Li’s words triggered a surprisingly heated debate online. One of the most-shared comments called the Baidu boss ‘shameless and pathetic’, and many others simply wrote: ‘I am not prepared!’ In Hong Kong and Taiwan – which are also home to Chinese people – the topic of data protection and privacy regularly sparks flare-ups no less passionate than they are in Europe and the USA – and recently, tentative discussions have been on the rise in mainland China, too.

  China’s new cyber security law forbids private companies from misusing the data entrusted to them, though the same law places no such limitations on government authorities. Criticism of the state’s frenetic data-gathering remains taboo, and online commenters almost always restrict themsevles to criticism of companies and their excesses.

  The cyber-security firm Qihoo 360, for example, streamed the video footage from surveillance cameras it had sold to individuals and companies straight onto the internet, including live-streams from nurseries and school classrooms. The company said in its defence that it wanted to allow parents to check up on their children. After a tremendous online outcry, Qihoo 360 took the website down (it was one of the sites from which Xu Bing had taken footage for his film). And a survey conducted at the start of 2018 by the state broadcaster CCTV and the National Statistics Office – which questioned people between the ages of 16 and 60 in 100,000 households, including those in smaller provincial towns – found that more than 76 per cent of those surveyed felt artificial intelligence was a threat to their privacy.125

  Nevertheless, the authorities do not look kindly on attempts to draw attention to the issue. When an artist in Wuhan went online and purchased the data of 346,000 citizens for the equivalent of a few hundred pounds – name, sex, age, telephone number, address, travel plans, online shopping – and then put them in an exhibition, calling it ‘The Secrets of 346,000 Wuhaners’, the police closed the exhibition down and launched an investigation against him for data theft. And when someone dares to write a few words online about ‘mind control through artificial intelligence’ as the essayist YouShanDaBu did on WeChat, the censors will delete it at once. ‘The investigation of the entire population has become a reality,’ the essay said. ‘No one has a single corner left in which to hide. This is a beautiful era. Our only option now is to all think the same thought. Please give up all other thinking.’

  No need to worry, insists the Party paper People’s Daily: ‘While some feel threatened by a technology that puts almost everyone under the spotlight, many more feel safer when such technology is in good hands.’126

  No need to worry, Xie Yinan from Megvii told me: ‘The data is all stored with the police. It’s quite safe there.’ When he saw my sceptical expression, he added: ‘You want to talk about privacy? Do you have a smartphone? Well, then you’ve lost already. Your whole life is in there.’

  So, privacy isn’t under threat, it’s dead and buried – no point making a fuss about it.

  THE NEW MAN

  How Big Data and a Social Credit System are Meant to Turn People into Good Subjects

  ‘The trustworthy will be allowed to roam everywhere under heaven, but the discredited will find it hard to take a single step.’

  From the State Council’s plan for setting up a system of social trustworthiness

  China is once again focusing on the New Man. The good man. The honest man. ‘We want to civilise people’, I was told by an official in the small city of Rongcheng, in eastern China. ‘Our aim is to normalise their behaviour. When everyone behaves according to the norms, society is automatically stable and harmonious.’ The official beamed: ‘Then my work is a lot easier.’ The honest man is a trustworthy man. And trust might just be the scarcest resource in China.

  China is experiencing a crisis of trust. No one trusts anyone. ‘Our society is still immature, and our markets are chaotic,’ says the Beijing professor Zhang Zheng. He points to the rural exodus and rapid urbanization of recent decades, which have been accompanied by huge social and economic transformations. ‘An honest man is a stupid man,’ said Wang Junxiu, describing China’s social climate. He co-authored a report by the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences in Beijing, published in 2013, entitled ‘The Mental State of Chinese Society’. In a survey by the Shanghai branch of CASS, 90 per cent of those questioned said that anyone who was honest and trustworthy in today’s China was automatically at a disadvantage.

  Some people see the roots of the current climate of distrust in the political campaigns of the past, especially in the Cultural Revolution, when children betrayed their parents and wives betrayed their husbands in the name of their messiah, Mao Zedong. But Wang Junxiu also points a finger of blame at the present: ‘Fraudsters aren’t being brought to justice, and the state itself is damaging the common good.’ In 2013, it was still possible to say this openly. That year, an essay written by the well-known Beijing sociologist Sun Liping made the rounds on the internet. It argued that ‘a country where even teachers and monks are corrupt is rotten to the core.’

  But 2013 was also the year in which Xi Jinping began his term as head of the Communist Party and the state. Xi recognized the challenge: a complete breakdown of trust was threatening to undermine the power of the Party, and at the same time it posed an obstacle to the long-term expansion of the Chinese market and continued economic growth. From toxic foods and environmental degradation to shoddy building work: for many entrepreneurs involved in the unbridled wild-west capitalism that dominates China, the pursuit of profit still justifies the most reprehensible practices. The CASS report came to the conclusion that society needed some kind of referee to ensure fairness. It recommended enhancing and reforming the rule of law; but the Party had other ideas. Instead it was going to do something the world had never seen before, and set up a ‘system of social trustworthiness’. The Social Credit System.

  I have come to meet Professor Zhang Zheng at Peking University. He is the dean of the Faculty of Economics, but more significantly, he’s an important advisor for the new system. It’s quite simple, says the professor. ‘There are tw
o kinds of people: good and bad. Now imagine a world in which the good ones are rewarded and the bad ones are punished’. A world in which those who respect their parents, never jaywalk, and pay all their bills on time are rewarded for good behaviour. A world where these people are allowed to buy ‘soft sleeper’ train tickets or given easy access to bank loans – and others aren’t. Like the guy next door who cheated on a university admissions test, who downloads films illegally, or whose wife has just had one more baby than the state allows. It’s a world in which an all-seeing, all-knowing digital machine knows more about you than you do. This machine can help you improve yourself by telling you, in real time, exactly what you can do to become a more honest and trustworthy person. Doesn’t that sound like a fairer – a more harmonious – world?

  Honesty. In Shanghai, they’ve got an app for that: it’s called ‘Honest Shanghai’. You just download it and register yourself. The app scans your face, recognises you – and then brings up your life. As I learned when I visited the Shanghai Municipal Commission of Economy and Informatization, the app can currently access 5,198 separate pieces of information per citizen from a total of 97 public authorities. The Commission is where this information converges, and it is the Commission that is behind the app. Have you paid your electricity bill? Donated blood? Are you behind with your taxes? Did you travel on the metro without buying a ticket? The app stores your behaviour and calculates whether the sum of all input is ‘good’, ‘bad’ or ‘neutral’. Good Shanghai residents are currently allowed, for instance, to borrow books from the public library without paying the mandatory 100-yuan (about £10) deposit.

  While the app is a gimmick to which people can sign up voluntarily, the system behind it certainly isn’t. Officially, it is called the ‘Social Credit System’; the Chinese title also translates as ‘system for social trustworthiness’. And it is set to become a reality for every single person in China by 2020.127 It already collects data on all residents of Shanghai. Shao Zhiqing of the Municipal Commission of Economy and Informatization takes pains to point out that his office doesn’t evaluate people. In Shanghai, he says, this job is done by third-party service providers; the authorities merely forward the data to them. Their algorithms analyse and rate behaviour as good or bad. Without doubt though, says Shao, the Social Credit System will change the face of China. ‘First of all, it will allow us to answer the question: are you a trustworthy person? It’s all about bringing order to the market. We want everyone to stay within the law and abide by the contracts he has signed. The market economy is based on trust. And ultimately, what’s at stake here is the ability to maintain order in society.’

  In Beijing, Professor Zhang Zheng is in good spirits – excited, even. Why don’t we just get to know people better? We shouldn’t be satisfied with just knowing about their past and their present, he says. ‘Looking at their future is more important.’ In Professor Zhang’s words, the system aims to identify the bad people, companies, and civil servants. It refers to them as ‘the discredited’, or ‘trust-breakers’.

  The goal is to find them out, at all times and in all places. With the help of big data, every citizen will get an evaluation stamp that will become their new identity, and which will ultimately determine how they live their life and what access they have to social resources.

  Zhang Zheng isn’t just a professor; he is also the faculty’s Party Secretary – but that doesn’t mean he’s a fossilized ideologue. Zhang Zheng travels a lot: he’s been to Japan and the United States. He’s seen the world; he is inquisitive, clever, and at times also critical. We meet in a seminar room at the university. It’s New Year’s Day in the Chinese lunar calendar, the country’s most important holiday. ‘Just listen,’ the professor says with a smile on his lips. ‘It’s so quiet.’ It’s perfectly possible that at that moment, we are the only two people having a meeting on the large campus. You can see that Zhang Zheng is passionate about his subject. ‘So, you’re from Germany?’ In Germany, he tells me, they also have an information system that allows banks and companies to check an applicant’s creditworthiness. Does he mean Schufa, the German equivalent to the UK’s Experian? Yes, Schufa and Experian, he says. Like them, but bigger. Much bigger. All-encompassing, in fact. ‘It goes without saying’, the professor says, ‘that how you handle your finances is important. Whether you pay your debts on time.’ He looks me in the eye. ‘But let’s also consider how you treat your parents and your partner, let’s look at all your social behaviour, whether you have a moral code. Doesn’t that also provide crucial information about your trustworthiness?’

  Then the professor mentions Rongcheng. ‘Go and take a look at what they’re doing there. They’re pioneers, no one else in China has got as far as they have.’ With a population of 670,000, Rongcheng is a small city on China’s east coast. It boasts a swan reserve, a nuclear power plant, and an Office of Honesty. ‘The people at the chengxinban, the Office of Honesty, are doing fabulous work,’ says the professor.

  China’s future is already being rehearsed here. Rongcheng is one of more than three dozen pilot projects in China. Each is taking its own path, but they are all trying to create honest men. ‘First, we need to let what we’re doing here sink in with people,’ says Huang Chunhui, the head of the Office in Rongcheng. The Office of Honesty goes by another name these days, he explains, because ‘we realised the name was a little too vague’. They are now the ‘Office of Creditworthiness’. Huang takes a sheet of paper and draws an egg, slicing off the top and bottom sections with a stroke of his pen. This is society, he says. At the top, you’ve got model citizens. ‘And at the bottom, you’ll find the people we need to educate.’

  Then he explains the system. It will cover every company and individual in China. Everyone will be continuously assessed at all times. In Rongcheng, each participant starts with 1,000 points, and their score can either improve or worsen. You can be a triple-A citizen (a ‘Role Model of Honesty’, with more than 1050 points), or a double-A (‘Outstanding Honesty’, 1030-1049 points). But you can also slip down to a C, with fewer than 849 points (‘Warning Level’), or even a D (‘Dishonest’) with under 599 points. And if that happens, your name is added to a blacklist, the general public is informed, and you become an ‘object of significant surveillance’. This is how the Rongcheng municipality’s handbook ‘Administrative Measures for the Trustworthiness of Natural Persons’ describes it.

  The ‘system of social responsibility’ combines moral education and surveillance. With the help of big data, in the future both will happen in real time. According to a paper written in 2014, it is designed to eradicate ‘lies and deception’; it will ‘raise the honesty and quality of the nation’ and promote a ‘harmonious society’. And not least, it should also – in theory – make it possible for the general public to monitor the lower levels of government.

  In Rongcheng, Huang Chunhui maintains that the system works, citing traffic lights as an example. In the past, he says, many drivers just didn’t care: they would shrug and drive right through a red light, and then shrug again when they paid their fine. ‘No one dares to do that anymore, because they’d have points taken off their score.’ The first couple of residents whom I later approach on the street have never heard of ‘social trustworthiness’. ‘What’s that?’ they ask me. A third seems unaware of the fact that the system is already recording and evaluating his entire life. ‘But actually, now you mention it, traffic rules are being more strictly monitored. That’s why I drive so slowly. I think it’s a good thing. A trustworthy society is a good thing, isn’t it?’

  The ‘First Morning Light’ neighbourhood is a stone’s throw from the Office for Creditworthiness. There are neat lawns and new apartment buildings designed to house 5,000 families. The area has a total of 12,000 inhabitants. The streets are lined with VWs, Toyotas, and a few BMWs. This is how China’s new middle classes live. ‘In the past, people knew no limits,’ Party Secretary Dong Jiangang explains. ‘Now, we’re seeing the return of morality
’. As Party Secretary, he probably has to say this: after all, he is responsible for it. ‘We’re building an honest neighbourhood,’ he continues, pointing to a large board on the street outside his office, which everyone has to walk past. ‘We list the trust-breakers right here.’

  Ms. Wang let her dog do his business on the lawn and failed to remove it: a five-point penalty. Mr Sun poured water onto the ground outside his building’s door in winter, creating a patch of ice. He was also docked five points. ‘I’m sure they’re ashamed of themselves’, says Party Secretary Dong. ‘But that’s just the way it is. Look at this.’ Now he’s smiling. Mr Zhou helped an elderly couple move house; he earned five points. Mr Li gave a calligraphy class: five points. The Yu family offered the community its basement for a singalong of Communist songs from the Revolution: five points. People in this neighbourhood can also earn points by shovelling snow, taking elderly people to doctor’s appointments, or helping children with their homework.

  Dong Jiangang then points out his star residents, those with more than 1,000 points. They have received ‘Honest Family Role Model’ awards for their good behaviour. Qin Zhiye is one of these model citizens. The retired 64-year-old is a Party member. Visitors to his new apartment are invited to sit on the sofa, which he has neatly covered with a pink rose-patterned quilt. Qin has lived in the ‘First Morning Light’ community for seven years: ‘I’ve developed feelings for every blade of grass and every tree here.’ And of course, he says, the system has improved community life. ‘If you lose a lot of points, people start whispering about you: “Look at him, he’s a B. Or a C.” That’s a shameful thing. Sometimes they just have to warn somebody: “Hey, we’re downgrading you.” Then people get scared.’