Should China be in the Global North or Global South?

I’ve never been a big fan of the terms “Global North” and “Global South,” which in some quarters are used as synonyms for “developed” and “developing” economies. This is mainly because their actual meanings are too disconnected from their literal meanings. If the south of the globe means anything, it means the southern hemisphere. And yet the “Global South” is conventionally understood to include China, which is, let’s face it, in the northern hemisphere. To me, it doesn’t seem to clarify things to use a term from geography in a way that makes its geographical meaning incoherent.

So I was interested to come across William Polk’s new book Crusade and Jihad: The Thousand-Year War Between the Muslim World and the Global North (thanks to a nice review by Malise Ruthven), in which the conventional identities of the Global North and Global South are slightly altered. He calls the Global North “the relatively rich, advanced, and formerly imperial powers” and the Global South “the relatively poor, traditional, mostly former colonial peoples–here, specifically those of the Muslim world.”

Yet China and Russia are, in his view, unquestionably members of the Global North, along with usual suspects Britain and France. Not being a small-minded geographical pedant like myself, he does not focus too much on the fact that both are located in the northern hemisphere. What seems to matter for Polk is that they were clearly imperial powers, who acted toward Muslims in ways not very different from the imperialists of Western Europe. Here is an example:

When the Northern powers set out to conquer and control the Muslim South, they saw Arabic as a sort of defensive wall. It encircled nations and united generations. The Chinese, Russian, British, and French imperialists each tried to suppress it and to replace it with their own languages. …

In dealing with the Chinese-dominated Turkish-speaking peoples of Central Asia, Chiang Kai-shek went even further than the British and French imperialists. Following revolts in 1933 by the Kazakh peoples and the proclamation in 1944 by the Uyghurs of the short-lived East Turkish Republic, Chiang decreed that there were no such people as the Turks, even though the Chinese had a name for them, Chantou. He said that they were just part of the “greater Chinese race.” He tried to force Turkish speakers to give up their native language and learn Chinese. Chiang’s successors in the People’s Republic of China still employ his policy: they are linguistically “denationalizing” the Uyghur people.

At the same time as Chiang was suppressing the Uyghurs, Joseph Stalin was tightening the linguistic screws on the Asian peoples who had been conquered by the tsars. The better to dominate them, the Soviet Union divided what had been the common written language (Ottoman Turkish) “horizontally” by converting all written materials from the traditional (Arabic-based) script first to Latin in 1926– 1927 and then to Cyrillic in 1936.

I have to say that this grouping makes some sense to me. It is useful to recall that the only only major nineteenth-century imperial power whose borders are largely unchanged today is China.

China is these days unquestionably a great power, whose relationship with other developing countries is not exactly one of equality. The term “Global South” was originally coined in the 1970s, when it was more plausible to see China as differing from other developing countries mainly in its size. I wonder if Polk’s book might mark the beginning of a rectification of these names for groups of countries, for a time when it seems more appropriate to put China in with other large economies and great powers.

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The size of a problem matters

Dominique Fong at The Wall Street Journal has checked in on Ordos, Inner Mongolia, and found that China’s most famous ghost town–the new district of Kangbashi–is still, well, pretty ghostly:

Local officials had hoped to attract a million people to the new area, nearly matching the size of the old city 20 miles away. Architectural showpieces—a museum in the form of a giant metallic bean bag, a library resembling a shelf of books, a sports stadium reminiscent of a modern Coliseum—were built as attractions. Officials have since reduced their population goal to 300,000, and they are just halfway there. An early resident, Hu Richa, has been waiting seven years for more neighbors. Still, he says, “There’s barely anyone living here.”

The city has spent 14 years planning, erecting and maintaining Kangbashi, which has the distinction of being one of China’s best-known “ghost towns”—gleaming but sparsely populated new urban centers adjacent to older metropolises. Built by the dozen across the country, the new areas reflect—and were meant to accelerate—China’s economic boom. As the country’s growth has slowed, many of them have become serious liabilities, deep in debt, with little prospect of full occupancy anytime soon. …

According to a study by Lu Ming, a professor at Shanghai Jiao Tong University, 272 new districts across China have been built with borrowed funds near existing cities. Other researchers, using different definitions for ghost towns, find smaller numbers, but all agree that there is a serious problem.

While I don’t really disagree with anything in this piece (in which one of my colleagues is quoted), I have to say that I find the limited analysis a little frustrating. The ghost town phenomenon has been extensively reported for several years now, and yet the Chinese property market strangely refuses to collapse in the way that these reports always suggest it should. Construction starts have been growing pretty consistently for the past two and half years, and have actually accelerated some this year.

At this point in the China story I feel like saying “there is a serious problem” and stopping there is not really sufficient. It is of course not wrong to point out that China has lots of capital misallocation and has been heavily reliant on expanding debt to drive growth. But many people have correctly identified problems in the Chinese economy, and yet they have not been correct about the trajectory the economy would take.

In my view, outside observers of China have not been so good about understanding 1) the actual size of problems, 2) the constraints on policymakers’ ability to address problems. It is easy to suggest that problems are extremely large or cannot be easily solved, but it would be better to put more effort into identifying just how big problems are and how they might be addressed.

The ghost town phenomenon is a good example where the relative size matters a lot. Both anecdotal and statistical evidence suggests these huge clumps of unused housing are concentrated in northern China, in areas more reliant on resoure extraction and heavy industry. The property markets in these areas are certainly troubled, but they are also a relatively small part of the national total. The construction and sales recovery of the last few years has been driven mostly by southern and central China, where populations are growing and inventories are in fact quite low.

 

Pointless opinions about everything

Of late he had become especially tired of pointless opinions and was trying to get rid of them. He would catch himself thinking as everyone does: too hot, too cold, too green, too fat, too spicy, ugly building, old slippers, loud music, homely woman, fat man. Not, he thought, that one couldn’t discriminate but it had grown boring to get in a dither over rehearsing opinions about everything. To the degree that he had gotten rid of this propensity he felt a bit lighter and more fluid.

That is from Jim Harrison’s novella “The Man Who Gave Up His Name,” which is in his 1978 collection Legends of the Fall. I found this piece generally weaker than the other two novellas in the collection, “Revenge” and the title story, which are excellent. But I liked this passage, despite the fact that I am in the business of having and expressing opinions. Not all opinions are worth getting riled up about.

On reading ‘Alive in the Bitter Sea’

Fox Butterfield’s China: Alive in the Bitter Sea is the original China journalist’s book of the modern, post-Cultural Revolution era, and it holds up quite well today. Published in 1982, it captures China at a remarkable and delicate turning point: a time when the old system had lost all credibility thanks to the exhausting turmoil of the Cultural Revolution, but it was not yet clear what new system would come to replace it.

By his own admission, Butterfield completely missed the economic renaissance that was beginning to unfold during his time in China, possibly because he was prevented from traveling to the rural areas where the most dramatic changes were taking place. But for me this adds rather than subtracts to the book’s value, because it is not shaped by the false confidence of hindsight, and reflects all the doubts and uncertainties of the time. Given all the China-model triumphalism that is going around today, it is useful to recall that in 1980 no one knew that an economic miracle was about to unfold in China, least of all the Chinese.

But Butterfield was a good enough reporter that there are plenty of hints of what was to come in his interviews. One of many excellent anecdotes in the book is the following:

By lucky chance, on the night before I left China, a friend arranged for me to have dinner with a member of Mao’s family. My friend specified we could meet only if I agreed not to divulge the man’s identity–he lived a precarious existence–and I assented.

He turned out to be a dignified, reserved middle-aged man with a high forehead and swept-back hair reminiscent of Mao. Whenever he mentioned Mao, it was always as “the Chairman.” He wanted to talk with me, he said, because he felt there was misunderstanding about Mao. Mao was not a conservative, he insisted, he was always open-minded. He loved to read books–when he went on tours of the provinces, the one thing he took with him were cartons of books, and his bed was always half covered with unread volumes. …

When dinner was finished, Mao’s relative wanted to ask me a question. Why, he pondered, was China so backward compared to Japan? One hundred years ago they had been at the same level. “Is it because socialism is not as good as capitalism?” he asked.

It was an awkward situation. I felt embarrassed to evaluate China’s adoption of communism in front of a member of Mao’s family. But then he answered for me.

“In theory, socialism is excellent,” he said. “It provides for economic as well as political democracy. But in practice, it has shown weaknesses. We let the state and the bureaucracy grow too strong and prevented the development of individual initiative. China needs to find some way to combine the two systems.”

Would the Chairman feel the that way? I asked.

“The Chairman was always prepared to learn,” he answered.

Thanks to Lucy Hornby for recommending this book to me.

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A Weberian analysis of Xi Jinping’s power

A  long essay by Chinese constitutional scholar Jiang Shigong has been making the rounds of China-watching circles, thanks to an impressive full translation by David Ownby (Don Clarke has made some interesting comments on it already). It’s a fascinating document in a kind of court philosopher mode, with Jiang interpreting the Communist Party’s current political priorities and leadership into an intellectual framework using both Chinese history and Western philosophy.

One part that I found particularly surprising and interesting was Jiang’s analysis of Xi Jinping’s consolidation of power in terms of Max Weber’s tripartite classification of authority:

In terms of Weberian theory, General Secretary Xi Jinping’s position as the core of the Party center, the core of the entire Party, his authoritative position as leader, arises not only from the ‘legal authority’ obtained by virtue of his legally defined positions as Party Secretary, National Chairman, Chairman of the Central Military Committee and not even from the ‘traditional authority’ born of the Party’s historical tradition.

More important is the fact that Xi Jinping, at a particular moment in history, courageously took up the political responsibility of the historical mission, and in the face of an era of historical transformation of the entire world, demonstrated the capacity to construct the great theory facilitating China’s development path, as well as the capacity to control complicated domestic and international events, thus consolidating the hearts and minds of the entire Party and the people of the entire country, hence becoming the core leader praised by the entire Party, the entire army and the entire country, possessing a special ‘charismatic authority’.

One of the interesting things about this passage is that it comes remarkably close to admitting that there is in fact a cult of personality around Xi Jinping: “charismatic authority” in Weber’s formulation is based on people’s personal devotion to the leader and their belief in his special qualities. Perhaps this Weberian terminology is a useful way for his supporters to recognize that Xi Jinping has in fact shifted toward personalized rule without evoking the more problematic Communist precedents of Mao and Stalin.

But I think Jiang’s framework is not just interesting as propaganda: it is significant, I think, that he argues that Xi possess all three forms of Weberian legitimate authority: traditional, legal, and charismatic. This analysis in my view is correct, and actually helps us understand how Xi differs from his predecessors.

Xi is more powerful than Hu Jintao because he has a charismatic authority that Hu never managed. But Xi’s charismatic authority is a complement to his traditional and legal authority, not a replacement for it. This is the major way he differs from Mao Zedong, who tried to use his personal charisma to overthrow tradition and law. Xi is an organization man as well as a charismatic figure, who has put lots of effort into clarifying bureaucratic reporting lines and emphasizing traditional morality–things that Mao never had much time for.

Chinese population controls before the one-child policy

Here is an interesting paper on a lesser-studied period in China’s family planning policy. The starting point is the simple observation that fertility in China declined more in the decade before the introduction of the one-child policy in 1979 than it did in the decade after it: the total fertility rate dropped from 5.7 children per woman in 1969 to 2.7 in 1978, and then declined marginally to 2.5 in 1988.

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So what happened in the 1970s? That is the subject of the paper, “The Power of the Government: China’s Family Planning Leading. Group and the Fertility Decline since 1970”; here is an excerpt with some history:

China’s family planning policy has a much longer history than that of the One-Child Policy. The history of China’s family planning dates back to December 1962, with the release of the No. 698 document. In 1964, the State Family Planning Commission was established, after which commissions at the province, city, and county levels were gradually set up across the country. However, the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution negatively affected these family planning institutions, most of which ceased to function in 1966.

In early 1970, Premier Enlai Zhou emphasized that the implementation of a family planning policy should not stop. In 1971, the State Council released document No. 51, “Report on Better Implementing Family Planning Policy,” signaling the recovery of family planning from the Cultural Revolution. The document required provinces to set up a Family Planning Leading Group to organize and lead family planning work. A pilot run was initiated in 1970, and, by 1975, all provinces had set up a leading group. The leading group is an important and high-level provincial institution. In most cases, its leader is also the main leader of the provincial party committee.

The primary duty of the provincial Family Planning Leading Group is to promote the implementation of family planning policy under the guidance of the central government. By 1960, the slogan “Later, Longer, Fewer” (wan, xi, shao) had already appeared, although no real action was enforced until the formation of the Family Planning Leading Group. “Later” means marriage at a later age–23 years for women and 25 years for men. “Longer” means a birth planning rule of waiting for more than three years between births. “Fewer” means that one couple could have two children at most. Concrete examples of rewards and punishments include paid vacations after a sterilization operation, priority in housing arrangements, and no subsidies for workers facing difficulties as a result of unplanned childbirth.

Although there is narrative evidence suggesting that the campaign had several coercive elements, overall, the policy enforcement was much more lenient during this period compared to that of the One-Child Policy period, when an above-quota birth could result in huge fines and even the loss of one’s job.

The authors, Chen Yi and Huang Yingfei, use the different dates on which family planning leading groups were established in different provinces to estimate the effect of the policy; their model suggests about half of the total decline in fertility in the 1970s can be attributed to the “later, longer, fewer” policy.

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What changed most dramatically after the introduction of the one-child policy was not total fertility, but the sex ratio at birth: the ratio of male to female children surged in the 1980s and 1990s due to selective abortions of female children. The authors suggest two reasons for this change. First, the family planning policies in the 1970s were less coercive than the one-child policy, so couples who had a preference for sons could more easily exercise that preference by just having another child. Second, ultrasound technology did not become widely available in China until the late 1980s, so in the 1970s it was generally not technically possible to determine the sex of an unborn child.

What I’ve been listening to lately

  • Wadada Leo Smith – America’s National Parks. Smith’s trumpet and Ashley Waters’ cello lead the quintet through a series of pieces that are as extended and spacious as the parks they celebrate. Adam Shatz’s recent profile of Smith is a great primer on his work and quiet aesthetic.
  • Albert King – I’ll Play The Blues For You. Blues purists criticize this 1972 live album for being too funky (the backing band is the Bar-Kays, who were also working with Isaac Hayes at the time), while for funk aficionados it is too much blues guitar. For the rest of us, the mix is just right–absolutely ripping.
  • Freddie Hubbard & Stanley Turrentine – In Concert. Jazz-funk fusion is mostly not really my thing, but an old friend recently reminded of this 1973 album, which is a classic of the genre. Ron Carter’s bassline on “Povo” in particular is unbelievably groovy.
  • Ernest Ranglin – Guitar In Ernest. This reissue of a 1965 recording gives us a rare chance to hear the reggae guitar master in a more straightahead jazz context; his virtuosity is always astounding.
  • Clark Terry – Color Changes. This is an old favorite that recently popped up on the playlist again. Terry’s octet emphasizes tone color and ensemble work, creating a sound something like a straightahead Sun Ra Arkestra, or a modernized version of Ellington’s small bands. I could listen to 20 more albums like this, but sadly there is only the one.