Eye of the Tiger: What Jiang Zemin Tells Us About China

The Beijing massacre of June 1989 was never necessary to clear Tiananmen Square. Thanks to bitter infighting and a lack of clear purpose in the student movement, the million protesters who gathered in mid-May had already shrunk to a few thousand stragglers by the time of the shooting. They could easily have been dispersed by riot police or tear gas. But the massive show of military might was not aimed only at the students. It was also the conclusion of a hidden drama inside China's top ranks, where an intense power struggle had paralyzed the leadership for weeks (the main reason the protest was able to grow so large in the first place). Paramount leader Deng Xiaoping had only just succeeded in purging his anointed successor, Zhao Ziyang, and the show of force was meant to seal the gaping rift in the party. But the bloodshed only tore open new holes, since the needless brutality forced many party members to question the viability of their organization.

When leaders convened three weeks later to announce the new party chief, an unlikely candidate from Shanghai named Jiang Zemin, many assumed he had little chance of surviving such a tumultuous time. Jiang's initial speeches, lifeless and obviously scripted by committee, only reinforced this impression. As 1989 came to a close and communist governments in Europe fell like dominoes, China's leadership -- suffering from a badly outdated ideology, endemic corruption, and a devastating loss of legitimacy after the massacre -- seemed poised to follow.

Since 1989, however, both Jiang and his party have defied all expectations. Not only is Jiang still at the helm and stronger than ever, having won the added title of president in 1993, but the party has also remained firmly in control, without ever changing its intensely secretive and outdated mode of governing. Virtually no moves have been made to dilute its autocratic powers; party leaders still reach decisions in private, without more than a cursory pause to consider public opinion.

Remarkably, this ability to resist change has persisted through years of spectacular economic growth and deep social change. The transformation has been overwhelming: China at the close of the twentieth century barely resembles the country a decade earlier. Ordinary citizens have gained a measure of personal freedom -- the ability to choose where they work and live, how they get information, and how they spend money -- that was unimaginable in 1989.

Even more remarkable, perhaps, is the way that Jiang and his colleagues managed the seamless transition of power from the octogenarians who preceded them and presided over the massacre. Even before the death of Deng Xiaoping in 1997, a new generation of 60-somethings had already started giving, not following, orders. And they made the change without betraying any sign of inner turmoil.

Exactly how Jiang pulled off this impressive political feat remains largely secret. In fact, the decision-making methods of China's leaders remain unknown outside the walls of Zhongnanhai, the sprawling estate that is China's contemporary Forbidden City and sits next door to the original.

The Communist Party's Central Committee convenes twice a year, issuing pronouncements so turgid that they are nearly incomprehensible. Real decisions are made in the frequent and informal meetings of xiao zu (small groups) of China's top leaders and later given a seal of official approval at formal Politburo gatherings. The code of loyalty and secrecy kept by the leaders and their staffs is so strong that only a handful of people know how and when the real meetings are held. Outsiders may make much of the role of factions in the leadership, but can only guess at exactly who is in what clique. Chinese leaders -- Jiang included -- are so intent on preserving the appearance of consensus that their personal opinions, biases, and preferences remain well hidden.

Prime Minister Zhu Rongji, for instance, is widely regarded as a liberal due to his open and direct way of talking and his bold declarations. His predecessor, Li Peng, an inept and painfully cautious public speaker, is believed to be more conservative. But how much do the two men actually differ on specific issues, like central versus regional control or fiscal policy? Few know, since their public stances -- in line with carefully worked-out party positions -- are virtually identical.

The political gossip that seeps from the network of political cognoscenti in Beijing is so scarce that observers must inevitably rely on second-, third-, and fourth-hand accounts. By its very nature, such information is highly unreliable, containing perhaps a sliver of truth wrapped in layers of misinformation and misunderstanding.

Historians, political scientists, and journalists hungry for reliable information about Chinese politics have to rely on official publications, and on the semiofficial and nonofficial accounts that bubble up in Hong Kong. These are the same methods of tracking and analyzing China's political movements that outsiders have used for decades.

It is in this Byzantine context that Bruce Gilley has written Tiger on the Brink, a biography of Jiang Zemin and a highly readable account of modern Chinese politics. Unfortunately, Gilley is sharply limited by the same lack of access as every other student of Zhongnanhai. A correspondent for The Far Eastern Economic Review who covered China out of Hong Kong, Gilley has done an admirable job of scouring Chinese-language publications for tidbits about Jiang's personal background. But hamstrung by lack of information, this story of Jiang's decade at the top of China's Communist Party only partly satisfies.