The Party: The Secret World of China's Communist Rulers Read Free Page B

ascent through the ranks by the Party’s remorseless strictures.
    In the time-honoured fashion of communist-era stage entrances, the nine had gently clapped themselves on to the podium as they walked into position for the up-coming ceremony. For the mass of media and government officials assembled to witness the ritual, carried out with a dark theatrical pomp, the most important thing was not how they walked on to the stage, nor the striking similarity of their appearance and career history. The key was in the order in which they appeared, as it cemented the hierarchy of the top leadership for the next five years, and laid out a line of succession for the entire decade to come, until 2022. Against the backdrop of a 20-metre-wide painting of an autumnal scene on the Great Wall, the nine stopped and stood to attention. Standing stiffly, they were ready to be introduced by the man at the head of the line, Hu Jintao, the General Secretary of the Communist Party, as the elected leaders of their country.
    Ahead of the congress, the authorities had executed the well-honed security routines reserved for major political events. The guard on diplomatic compounds was doubled; police were stationed at highway intersections; and scores of scowling, plain-clothes security men materialized in the streets around the Great Hall of the People. Local scholars received circulars reminding them to keep their opinions to themselves. In September, a month before the congress, internet data centres were raided, with servers keeping literally thousands of websites shut down for weeks. On the fringes of the city, the authorities had set about demolishing the Petitioners’ Village area where many out-of-towners with grievances congregated.
    For centuries, the central government has maintained a national petitions office in the capital to which citizens take complaints about official misconduct. Ahead of the congress, though, Beijing threatened to mark down the careers of local leaders if residents from their cities managed to get to the capital to make use of it. In case anyone got past the security cordon, the provinces maintain a last line of defence to protect the Politburo from the public, a string of ‘black jails’, or unregistered prisons, where local complainants can be held before being sent home. Detaining protesters according to this formula is akin to winning political points in the west for keeping the crime rate down.
    State security, local activists, government officials and the foreign and Chinese media alike have all learnt over time to internalize the seasonal rhythms of repression that turn with the political calendar. Television interviews with important dissidents are best done months ahead of time. By the time the day itself comes around, physical access and even phone contact to critics of the Party is cut off. Wan Yanhai, an outspoken AIDs campaigner, was one of many activists whisked off the streets and taken into temporary custody. Wan was picked up and detained without charge for twelve hours ahead of the anniversary of the 4 June 1989 military crackdown, and again for a few days in August. ‘My freedom was restricted,’ he said, echoing the deadpan phrase that state security uses when they haul people off the streets. Wan had riled the Health Ministry by attempting to sue the government over a contaminated blood scandal. He kept himself on the radar of state security through his unabashed friendships with dissidents. On each occasion, Wan was kept in a hotel room while the authorities counselled him about his views on the Party. ‘They still care very much about controlling our thoughts,’ he said later.
    In the years and months leading up to the choice of the leadership, there had been no public primaries, pre-selections or run-offs, and none of the noisy, blood-and-thunder clashes that are familiar events in the lead-up to western electoral contests. Following this drama for much of the time had been like standing