Hard Choices
Page 9
A highlight of this summer 2012 trip across Asia was Mongolia, where I had paid an unforgettable first visit in 1995. That had been a difficult time for the remote nation squeezed between northern China and Siberia. Decades of Soviet domination had tried to impose Stalinist culture on the nomadic society. When the aid from Moscow stopped, the economy crumbled. But, like many visitors, I was enchanted by Mongolia’s stark beauty, with its vast wind-swept steppes, and by the energy, determination, and hospitality of its people. In a traditional tent called a ger, a family of nomads offered me a bowl of fermented mare’s milk, which tasted like warm, day-old plain yogurt. I was impressed by the students, activists, and government officials I met in the capital and their commitment to transforming a one-party Communist dictatorship into a pluralistic, democratic political system. It was not going to be an easy journey, but they were determined to try. I told them that, from then on, anytime someone expressed doubts that democracy could take root in unlikely places, I would tell them, “Let them come to Mongolia! Let them see people willing to hold demonstrations in subzero temperatures and travel long distances to cast their ballots in elections.”
When I returned seventeen years later, a lot had changed in Mongolia and its neighborhood. China’s rapid development and its insatiable demand for natural resources had created a mining boom in Mongolia, which was blessed with enormous reserves of copper and other minerals. The economy was expanding at the blistering pace of more than 17 percent in 2011, and some experts predicted faster growth in Mongolia over the next decade than in any other country on earth. Most people were still poor, and many retained their nomadic lifestyle, but the global economy that had once felt so far away had arrived in full force.
As I drove into the once sleepy capital, Ulaanbaatar, I was amazed at the transformation. Glass skyscrapers soared up from amid a jumble of traditional gers and old Soviet housing projects. In Sukhbaatar Square, soldiers in traditional Mongolian garb stood guard in the shadow of a new Louis Vuitton store. I walked into Government House, a large holdover from the Stalinist era, past an enormous statue of Genghis Khan, the 13th-century Mongolian warrior whose empire spanned a larger land mass than any other in history. The Soviets had suppressed the personality cult of Khan, but now he was back with a vengeance. Inside, I met with President Tsakhiagiin Elbegdorj in his ceremonial ger. We were sitting in a traditional nomadic tent, inside a Stalinist-era government building, discussing the future of the rapidly growing Asian economy. Talk about worlds colliding!
Since my 1995 visit, Mongolian democracy had endured. The country had held six successful Parliamentary elections. On television Mongolians from across the political spectrum openly and vigorously debated ideas. A long-awaited freedom of information law was giving citizens a clearer view into the workings of their government. Alongside this progress there was also cause for concern. The mining boom was exacerbating the problems of corruption and inequality, and China was taking a greater interest in its suddenly valuable northern neighbor. Mongolia appeared to be at a crossroads: either it was going to continue down the democratic path and use its new riches to raise the standard of living of all its people, or it was going to be pulled into Beijing’s orbit and experience the worst excesses of the “resource curse.” I hoped to encourage the former and discourage the latter.
The timing was good. The Community of Democracies, an international organization founded in 2000 under the leadership of Secretary Albright to nurture emerging democracies, especially those in the former Soviet bloc, was holding a summit in Ulaanbaatar. This would be an opportunity to reinforce Mongolia’s progress and send a message about the importance of democracy and human rights across Asia, delivered in China’s own backyard.
It’s not a secret that the epicenter of the antidemocratic movement in Asia is China. The 2010 Nobel Peace Prize had been awarded to the imprisoned Chinese human rights activist Liu Xiaobo, and the world took note of his empty chair at the ceremony in Oslo. Afterward I warned that it could become “a symbol of a great nation’s unrealized potential and unfulfilled promise.” Things had only gotten worse in 2011. In the first few months, dozens of public interest lawyers, writers, artists, intellectuals, and activists were arbitrarily detained and arrested. Among them was the prominent artist Ai Weiwei, whose cause I and others championed.
In my speech in Ulaanbaatar I explained why a democratic future for Asia was the right choice. In China and elsewhere opponents of democracy argued that it would threaten stability by unleashing chaotic popular forces. But we had plenty of evidence from around the world that democracy actually fosters stability. It is true that clamping down on political expression and maintaining a tight grip on what people read or say or see can create the illusion of security, but illusions fade, while people’s yearning for liberty does not. By contrast, democracy provides critical safety valves for societies. It allows people to select their leaders, gives those leaders legitimacy to make difficult but necessary decisions for the national good, and lets minorities express their views peacefully.
Another argument I wanted to rebut was that democracy is a privilege belonging to wealthy countries and that developing economies need to put growth first and worry about democracy later. China was often cited as the prime example of a country that had achieved economic success without meaningful political reform. But that too was a “shortsighted and ultimately unsustainable bargain,” I said. “You cannot over the long run have economic liberalization without political liberalization. Countries that want to be open for business but closed to free expression will find the approach comes with a cost.” Without the free exchange of ideas and strong rule of law, innovation and entrepreneurship wither.
I pledged that the United States would be a strong partner to all those across Asia and the world who were dedicated to human rights and fundamental freedoms. I had been saying “Let them come to Mongolia!” for years, and I was delighted that so many democracy activists finally had. Back home a Washington Post editorial declared that my speech had offered “hope that the U.S. pivot to Asia will go beyond simple muscle-flexing and become a multi-layered approach to match the complexity of China’s rise as a modern superpower.” In China, however, censors went right to work erasing mentions of my message from the internet.
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China: Uncharted Waters
Like many Americans, my first real look at China came in 1972, when President Richard Nixon made his historic trip across the Pacific. Bill and I were law students without a television, so we went out and rented a portable set with rabbit ears. We lugged it back to our apartment and tuned in every night to watch scenes of a country that had been blocked from view for our entire lives. I was riveted and proud of what America accomplished during what President Nixon called “the week that changed the world.”
Looking back, it’s clear that both sides had taken enormous risks. They were venturing into the unknown, during the height of the Cold War no less. There could be serious political consequences at home for leaders on both sides for appearing weak or, in our case, “soft on Communism.” But the men who negotiated the trip, Henry Kissinger for the United States and Zhou Enlai for China, and the leaders they represented, calculated that the potential benefits outweighed the risks. (I have joked with Henry that he was lucky there were no smartphones or social media when he made his first secret trip to Beijing. Imagine if a Secretary tried to do that today.) We do similar calculations today when we deal with nations whose policies we disagree with but whose cooperation we need, or when we want to avoid letting disagreements and competition slip into conflict.
The U.S.-China relationship is still full of challenges. We are two large, complex nations with profoundly different histories, political systems, and outlooks, whose economies and futures have become deeply entwined. This isn’t a relationship that fits neatly into categories like friend or rival, and it may never. We are sailing in uncharted waters. Staying on course and avoi
ding the shoals and whirlpools requires both a true compass and the flexibility to make frequent course corrections, including sometimes painful trade-offs. If we push too hard on one front, we may jeopardize another. By the same token, if we are too quick to compromise or accommodate, we may invite aggression. With all these elements to consider, it can be easy to lose sight of the fact that, across the divide, our counterparts have their own pressures and imperatives. The more both sides follow the example of those intrepid early diplomats to bridge the gaps in understanding and interests, the better chance we will have of making progress.
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My first trip to China, in 1995, was among the most memorable of my life. The Fourth World Conference on Women, at which I declared, “Human rights are women’s rights and women’s rights are human rights,” was a profound experience for me. I felt the heavy hand of Chinese censorship when the government blocked the broadcast of my speech, both throughout the conference center and on official television and radio. Most of my speech was about women’s rights, but I also sent a message to the Chinese authorities, who had banished the events for civil society activists to a separate site in Huairou, a full hour’s drive outside Beijing, and barred women from Tibet and Taiwan from attending at all. “Freedom means the right of people to assemble, organize, and debate openly,” I declared from the podium. “It means respecting the views of those who may disagree with the views of their governments. It means not taking citizens away from their loved ones and jailing them, mistreating them or denying them their freedom or dignity because of the peaceful expression of their ideas and opinions.” Those were more pointed words than American diplomats usually used, especially on Chinese soil, and some in the U.S. government had urged me to give a different speech or not speak at all. But I thought it was important to stand up for democratic values and human rights in a place where they were seriously threatened.
In June 1998, I returned to China for a longer stay. Chelsea and my mom accompanied Bill and me on an official state visit. The Chinese requested a formal arrival ceremony in Tiananmen Square, where tanks had crushed pro-democracy demonstrations in June 1989. Bill thought about refusing the request, so as not to appear to endorse or ignore that ugly history, but in the end he decided that his human rights message might get through more in China if he acted like a respectful guest. The Chinese, in turn, surprised us by permitting the uncensored broadcast of Bill’s news conference with President Jiang Zemin, during which they had an extended exchange about human rights, including the taboo topic of Tibet. They also broadcast Bill’s speech to students at Beijing University as well, in which he stressed that “true freedom includes more than economic freedom.”
I came home from the trip convinced that if China over time embraces reform and modernization, it could become a constructive world power and an important partner for the United States. But it was not going to be easy, and America would have to be smart and vigilant in how we engaged this growing nation.
I returned to China as Secretary in February 2009 with the goal of building a relationship durable enough to weather the inevitable disputes and crises that would arise. I also wanted to embed the China relationship in our broader Asia strategy, engaging Beijing in the region’s multilateral institutions in ways that would encourage it to work with its neighbors according to agreed-upon rules. At the same time, I wanted China to know that it was not the sole focus of our attention in Asia. We would not sacrifice our values or our traditional allies in order to win better terms with China. Despite its impressive economic growth and advances in military capacity, it had not yet come close to surpassing the United States as the most powerful nation in the Asia-Pacific. We were prepared to engage from a position of strength.
Before arriving in Beijing from South Korea, I sat down to talk with our traveling press corps. I told them I would emphasize cooperation on the global economic crisis, climate change, and security issues, such as North Korea and Afghanistan. After listing the agenda highlights, I mentioned that the sensitive issues of Taiwan, Tibet, and human rights would also be on the table and said, “We pretty much know what they’re going to say.”
It was true, of course. American diplomats had been raising these issues for years, and the Chinese were quite predictable in their responses. I remembered a heated discussion I had with former President Jiang about China’s treatment of Tibet during the state dinner Bill and I hosted for him at the White House in October 1997. I had met previously with the Dalai Lama to discuss the Tibetans’ plight, and I asked President Jiang to explain China’s repression. “The Chinese are the liberators of the Tibetan people. I have read the histories in our libraries, and I know Tibetans are better off now than they were before,” he replied. “But what about their traditions and the right to practice their religion as they choose?” I persisted. He forcefully insisted that Tibet was a part of China and demanded to know why Americans advocated for those “necromancers.” Tibetans “were victims of religion. They are now freed from feudalism,” he declared.
So I had no illusions about what Chinese officials would be saying to me when I raised these issues again. I also made the obvious point that, given the breadth and complexity of our relationship with China, our profound differences on human rights could not exclude engagement on all other issues. We had to be able to stand up forcefully for dissidents while also seeking cooperation on the economy, climate change, and nuclear proliferation. This had been our approach since Nixon went to China. Nonetheless my comments were widely interpreted to mean that human rights would not be a priority for the Obama Administration and that the Chinese could safely ignore them. Nothing could have been further from reality, as future events showed. Still, it was a valuable lesson: now that I was America’s chief diplomat, every utterance would be subjected to a whole new level of scrutiny, and even seemingly self-evident observations could set off a feeding frenzy in the media.
It had been more than a decade since my previous visit, and driving through Beijing was like watching a movie in fast-forward. Where once only a handful of high-rise buildings were visible, now the sky was dominated by the gleaming new Olympic complex and endless corporate towers. Streets that had once been full of Flying Pigeon bicycles were now jammed with cars.
While in Beijing I met with a group of women activists, some of whom I had gotten to know in 1998. At that time Secretary Albright and I had crowded into a cramped legal aid office to hear about their efforts to win rights for women to own property, have a say in marriage and divorce, and be treated as equal citizens. More than ten years later the size of the group and the scope of their collective efforts had grown. Now there were activists working not just for women’s legal rights but for their environmental, health, and economic rights as well.
One of them was Dr. Gao Yaojie, a diminutive eighty-two-year-old who had been harassed by the government for speaking out about AIDS in China and exposing a tainted blood scandal. When we first met I noticed her tiny feet—they had been bound—and was amazed by her story. She had persevered through civil war, the Cultural Revolution, house arrest, and forced family separation, and she never shied away from her commitment to help as many of her fellow citizens as possible protect themselves against AIDS.
In 2007, I interceded with President Hu Jintao to allow Dr. Gao to come to Washington to receive an award after local officials tried to prevent her from traveling. Here we were two years later, and she was still facing government pressure. Nonetheless she told me she planned to continue advocating for transparency and accountability. “I am already 82. I am not going to live that much longer,” she said. “This is an important issue. I am not afraid.” Not long after my visit, Dr. Gao was forced to leave China. She now lives in New York City, where she continues to write and speak out about AIDS in China.
Much of my time on this first visit to Beijing as Secretary was filled with get-to-know-you sessions with senior Chinese officials. I met for lunch with State Councilor Dai
Bingguo at the serene and traditional Diaoyutai State Guesthouse, where President Nixon stayed on his famous visit and where we had stayed during our 1998 trip. Dai, along with Foreign Minister Yang Jiechi, would become my primary counterparts in the Chinese government. (In the Chinese system, a State Councilor is more senior than a Minister, ranking just below a Vice Premier in the hierarchy.)
A career diplomat, Dai was close to President Hu and adept at maneuvering the internal politics of the Chinese power structure. He was proud of his reputation as a man from the provinces who had risen to prominence. Small and compact, he stayed vigorous and healthy despite his advancing years by doing regular exercise and taking long walks, which he highly recommended to me. He was comfortable discussing history and philosophy as well as current events. Henry Kissinger had told me how highly he valued his relationship with Dai, whom he found to be one of the most fascinating and open-minded Chinese officials he had ever encountered. Dai thought about the grand sweep of history, and he approvingly repeated the proverb I had used in my Asia Society speech: “When you are in a common boat, cross the river peacefully together.” When I told him that I thought the United States and China had to write a new answer to the age-old question of what happens when an established power and a rising power meet, he enthusiastically agreed, and frequently repeated my formulation. Throughout history, that scenario had often led to conflict, so it was our job to chart a course that avoided that end by keeping competition within acceptable boundaries and promoting as much cooperation as possible.