The Chinese government, with its liking for scapegoats (so much more economical than a full-scale witch-hunt), blamed one man for the country-wide outbreak. This was Dr. Fang Lizhi, an astrophysicist and vice president of the National Science and Technical University in Hefei. He had been very busy. He had written articles in China Youth News criticizing students for having "low democratic consciousness." He lectured his own students at Hefei, and just a month before the demonstrations he had addressed students at Jiaotong University in Shanghai.
Dr. Fang's message was a mixture of noble sentiments and platitudes. Among other things, he said, "Men are born with rights—to live, to marry, to think, to receive an education," and that the only way for China "to transform the feudalistic ideas and gradually approach modern standards in thinking" was for its intellectuals "to demonstrate the strength they possess." He replied that government leaders were not above criticism.
"Democracy can be achieved only gradually through consistent effort," he said. "There is nothing to be afraid of. Criticizing government leaders is a symbol of democracy. I hold the view that we may criticize leaders."
The abusive term for such sentiments is "bourgeois liberalism"—a sort of selfish and privileged complaining. Soon after Dr. Fang gave the speech, the People's Daily attacked "the trend towards bourgeois liberalization." In the Chinese mind a person who holds liberal views is a rightist and a person who toes the Party line most strictly is a leftist.
Dr. Fang was vilified. Taiwan was blamed for fomenting trouble. The government papers said it was partly the work of "professional hooligans." In Shanghai a worker at a lacquerware factory was arrested as a counterrevolutionary for establishing his own political party, the Weimin (Defend the People) Patty. He was the only member of this party, but still it was no joke. Starting your own party meant that you intended to overthrow the Chinese Communist Party. That was treason, and the penalty for it was a bullet in the neck.
The very fact that the demonstrations were mentioned in the news was a sign that the government was alarmed. It was fairly well known that one of the demands of the Peking students was that the demonstrations would be reported in the newspapers. Disturbances of any kind had been hushed up in the past. At first, the government sent water trucks to Peking's Tiananmen Square at four in the morning. The paving stones were drenched, and the ice that resulted seemed like a guarantee that the students would fall down when they tried to march. But 3000 students appeared later that morning and kept their footing, and when 34 were arrested and hauled off to be interrogated another demonstration was mounted; more signs, more slogans, and the 34 were released.
The most worrying thing for the government was that in Shanghai both factory workers and students—not natural allies—had come together and marched in the same parade. To ingratiate themselves with the factory workers, the government blamed the students. The mayor of Shanghai addressed a large gathering of students and was heckled. "Who elected you?" a student called out. That was regarded as very shocking, because it is a total lapse of taste to suggest that someone like the mayor (who is appointed by the Central Government) is a Party hack.
The demonstrations were peaceful. Furthermore, they were essentially supporting Deng's policies of reform. "Bourgeois liberalization" was just what the government had been encouraging. But the government did not want to be seen this way, permitting arch-unrepentent capitalist-roaders, behind-the-scenes reactionaries, harbingers of feudalism, running dogs, those left in form but right in essence and promoters of the right-deviationist wing—to use the convenient Chinese categories—to flourish. It was, as far as I could see, the most recent example of the Chinese not knowing when to stop—first the government, then the students.
There was a suspicion that behind it all was a power struggle in the Chinese leadership. The students were being manipulated, not by Dr. Fang (who was fired from his university job and then expelled from the Party), but by leftists who wanted to discredit the reforming rightist Mr. Deng. Or was it the rightists who were inciting the students in order to provoke the leftists into overreacting?
I decided to find out for myself.
On a hot muggy winter day in Canton I went to Zhongshan University, south of the city on the opposite bank of the Pearl River, to see whether the students were still rioting. They were not. It was very placid under the eucalyptus trees. The students were cycling and punching volleyballs and jogging. They were doing their laundry, they were smooching, they were studying. Some of them stared at me. They had few inhibitions. They even talked about the demonstrations. They said their own professors were critical of the government and especially the official policy of suppressing or misreporting the news.
"How do they know it's misreported?" I asked.
"Because we know the truth," a student said. "We listen to Hong Kong news here."
The Hong Kong stations came in loud and clear in Canton, and some Hong Kong newspapers circulated in the city, as well.
A student who called himself Andrew—he was a Cantonese fellow named Hen To—said, "I'll tell you anything you want to know about the demonstration here."
I liked his attitude, but there was not much to tell. He said the students in the south were complacent and money minded, not furiously political as in the north.
"We only had two hundred students in our demonstration," he said. "After they made a fuss here they marched to the government offices in town and sang songs. It wasn't much—not as big as Shanghai or Peking."
"What did the students say they wanted?"
"Democracy and reform," Andrew said.
"But China is changing very fast," I said.
"That's what the old people think," he said. "We young people say it is changing too slowly. But that is the government policy. They want China to look stable so that foreign investment will be encouraged. No one will put money into China if there are riots."
I asked him his plans.
"I'd like to take up business," he said. "Import and export."
"You might make a lot of money."
"I hope so."
"Then you'll become a capitalist-roader."
"Maybe," he said, and snickered. "I think we have a lot to learn. We want to use the good features of capitalism but not the bad ones."
"Is that possible?"
"We can try."
That was the new thinking—"To be rich is glorious," was a politically okay slogan. It was the philosophy of the young, of the rising students, and even of many farmers. It was the essence of Deng's thinking, too. It was in total opposition to Mao's philosophy, and it was one of the reasons Shaoshan had no visitors.
Andrew saw himself as an individual, with his own needs and desires. He didn't say what every student had said for the past thirty-five years when asked about their ambitions: "Serve the people." He said "business," "money," "import-export." He was fairly open-minded. He studied hard. He liked his fellow students. He lived in a room with seven others and did his homework in the library. His favorite author was Mark Twain. In the movie theater on campus (built by a Hong Kong tycoon named Leung) he had seen On Golden Pond, Superman and Rambo.
I said that Rambo represented everything that I loathed.
"But he is strong," Andrew said. "His body is interesting. The way he looks. The things he does."
That was a point, the freakishness of it; but I said, "Do you realize that it was about Vietnam?"
"Yes."
"So doesn't that make it a reactionary, bourgeois, violently imperialistic movie?"
Andrew shrugged and said, "We don't take it that seriously."
He was twenty-one years old. His parents, as teachers, had been singled out during the Cultural Revolution.