by Ilaria Maria Sala
Chinese newsstands get more impressive by the day: So much is on offer that most of them have opted to add a few extra magazine holders on the pavement. Here, a holder brimming with publications on collecting and the arts, interior decoration, and architecture. Opposite, another one with magazines on golf and various sports, cars, aviation, video games and so on. Conspicuous consumption publications abound, taking pride of place among the plethora of fashion magazines that becomes ever larger: all the famous international names are there, from Vogue to Cosmopolitan, busy “educating the taste” (as they claim) of contemporary Chinese urban women.
Sometimes, incongruity is part of the deal, like when Vogue hailed the “Country Girl” fashion style in English and Chinese on its cover. Inside, no peasant woman from Shaanxi province wrapped in padded cotton layers, but instead a southern belle in Texan hat and boots, pouting seductively from a pile of hay. Not so long ago the same type of urban youth that now reads these publications were “sent down” to rural areas to be re-educated by the peasants (no sexily made up country girl in Texan hat then), and today the newsstands, which are still owned by the Ministry of Post and Telecommunications and sport its logo, do tell the story of the vast changes that have turned the industry—as much else in China—on its head.
It used to be that newspapers were only available by subscription, or, in some cases, at the post office itself. But today only large, mainstream newspapers are sold by subscription, while the more popular commercial newsmagazines and papers can be found everywhere—in the capital, these include the Xin Jing Bao, or Beijing News, published by the Nanfang Group and the Guangming Daily Group (both groups are operated by the party), together with the increasingly popular Evening Legal Daily, and the reputed Nanfang Zhoumo, or Southern Weekend a high-brow, high-quality weekly. The business weekly Caijing usually sits among other news glossies and a few very serious literary magazines.
While this goes to show how hungry for written information people in China are, and how readily the market is trying to satisfy their demands, it is unavoidable to wonder: can such printed abundance really be monitored, censored, and controlled?
“There is not a single private publication in China, this remains strictly forbidden,” says Li San, a journalist working for Sanlian Shenghuo, the highest-selling weekly glossy (although circulation figures are not divulged). It’s a magazine that carries stories on lifestyle, society, celebrities and economics. Mr. Li himself, a very well-groomed man in his forties, a bit vain and determined not to look at all political, writes mostly about “wine, cars, luxury products: stuff that, for China, is a novelty. So, by testing these new products we are doing our readers a service”, he says. Even though it is a decidedly light magazine, Sanlian cannot be independent—it is published by the Sanlian Book Publication Group, which operates under the China Editions Group, a large publishing company that is linked to the Ministry of Propaganda. And none of this guarantees Sanlian immunity from trouble: in April the magazine was penalized and its editor reprimanded for having covered “politically sensitive anniversaries.” Nothing particularly unheard of, as what the magazine carried were photos that can be freely seen in China: a picture of Jiang Qing, or Madame Mao, standing trial at the end of the Cultural Revolution; and one of Mao himself, on the 30th anniversary of his death.
The magazine was penalized with the loss of “six points,” following the latest fashion for controlling publications—the point system is similar to the system some countries use to penalize reckless drivers. A deficit of 12 points and the publication is forced to fold.
“Most magazines, and a few local newspapers, are called ‘commercial’: they do not receive money from the state, but are nevertheless affiliated with some ministries, or local governments, in order to be allowed publication. Big mainstream papers, like the People’s Daily, or Liberation Daily, are directly run by various state organs. Officially, since 2003, they do not receive money from the state either, but…well, that seems unlikely”, says Zhang Jing, vice-editor of Caijing, the business weekly which, together with the Nanfang Group’s other publications, carries the greatest number of critical, informative articles in spite of the censorship and controls. These have become even stricter in the run-up to the 17th Party Congress (opening mid-October) and next year’s Olympic Games.
Mr. Zhang is a very slim man in his mid-40s, sporting a sideways hair style that was very fashionable in the 1980s. He has studied journalism at People’s University, in Beijing, and talks about his profession with passion and idealism. “Our first duty is towards our readers. We must be reliable and tell the truth. Today, we have more leeway: of course there are issues that simply cannot be touched, and there are setbacks, but nobody could accuse Caijing of printing propaganda!” he says, sitting in his small office just across from the newsroom. The latter is a vast space that covers a whole floor on a new, shiny office tower in downtown Beijing. But even here the interior is a little gray and drab. Reporters are typing away on their keyboards, exchanging comments, chatting, pouring over an article or a Web page: the usual concentrated, inquisitive background noise of newsrooms. Yet, most Chinese journalists on a first meeting with a newcomer display a distinct caution, often symbolized by that brief look behind one’s shoulder. It is an acknowledged fact that not all of one’s colleagues are simply reporters; some are surely informers, yet nobody knows for sure who is an informer.
One of the latest issues of Mr. Zhang’s magazine carried a detailed report on water pollution in China, one of several environmental problems that have reached the level of national crisis, and are frequently discussed in the press. But in an article concerning the alarming levels of pollution on lake Tai, China’s third-largest lake on the border between Zhejiang and Jiangsu provinces, Wu Lihong, an environmentalist who spent more than 15 years attempting to clean up the lake, is conspicuously absent.
Previously nominated as one of China’s most effective environmentalist, Mr. Wu was sentenced in August to three years imprisonment for “racketeering”—or, as most observers believe, for running afoul of local officials who benefit from the polluting industries along the lake. Caijing did report Mr. Wu’s arrest, but has not mentioned the activist since.
“Well, obviously, there are things we cannot report, it would be useless to pretend the contrary”, says Mr. Zhang: “Chinese reporters, today, are under three kinds of pressure: censorship, the market, and the risk of being beaten up by thugs who may be hired by local officials or private businessmen to prevent reporters from digging up stories,” he says.
“Until now, no reporter from my magazine has been beaten up, but it might happen, as it has happened to others, and there is simply nothing we can do to protect the journalists that we are sending out. Nothing,” he says.
Cases of reporters beaten up while trying to cover stories are numerous. Among recent cases, the most notorious happened to journalists who tried to report on the Fenghuang bridge collapse (Hunan province), which killed scores of people last August. Five reporters, including Wang Weijiang, from the Communist Party’s People’s Daily, were kicked and punched by a group of people that have been described as thugs. Nobody is safe from these hired hoodlums according to a recent report by Human Rights Watch, “You Will Be Harassed and Detained”, which details the many impediments to media freedom encountered in China (in spite of the assurances of greater openness that the Chinese government had given to boost its candidacy as host of the Olympic Games). Non-uniformed men openly follow journalists, Chinese or foreign, and intimidate them, all the while refusing to produce identification or declare their affiliation. Often, they seem to be plain-clothes officers; this, despite new rules that guarantee temporary free access to people and places (except Tibet) for the foreign media.
Unfortunately the new regulations do not apply to Chinese journalists: many restrictions still limit them and their work. “For me, there is no choice: I can only be a journalist,” says Liu Chang, one of the most important young investigative reporters, with the China Youth Daily. A very quiet man, he points out of the windows of the meeting room at his newspaper, and says: “You see, our society…and the city itself, change so quickly. We must strive to leave a written diary of what is happening. I do not mean our personal diary, but that of those who have no voice. The workers who have built Beijing’s skyscrapers, but have remained poor and without protection. The peasants whose land has been expropriated to build these same skyscrapers without adequate compensation. And the miners, the workers who get injured or die in work accidents. It is to give them a voice that I write,” he says.
“We all know that there is a line beyond which we cannot go, but nobody ever spells it out for you. It would be easier if we knew…. Instead, it is up to us to keep on pushing, gently though, otherwise we get stopped. We must use our intelligence, and write as much as possible, without getting censored or beaten,” says Y. M. (not her real initials), a reporter for a national daily. “The risks are there, but I believe ours is an important job that allows us to truly contribute to our society,” she says. The “risks” range from a tighter control by the authorities over the newsroom, to the outright termination of a story (a measure that is especially effective because Chinese journalists are paid according to the number of characters they print, on top of a meager monthly stipend for those employed by a publication). Risks also include political intimidation, forced resignation or, in the severest cases, detention—not forgetting the thugs.
Not everything is a guessing game though: the Propaganda Department and other ministries send regular letters “advising” against the use of certain words (“‘constitutionalism’ has been on the black list for a while!” says Y. M., amused) or topics—to reveal what these words and topics are is illegal, as this is a state secret.
Defy the ban, and you will be punished, as happened to the Nanfang Group after the Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome epidemic, or last year to the Beijing News after reporting on street protests in a northern city. “It is a game of wits,” says Li Datong, the former editor in chief of Bingdian (Freezing Point), a weekly supplement of the China Youth Daily. He was dismissed from his post last January, after printing one too many challenging articles. His fame and popularity did not protect him, and today Mr. Li, 54, spends his time writing on his own and chain-smoking.
“What happened to me is not important: every now and then, one of us gets hit. But the freedoms that we have conquered cannot be taken back. Readers are now accustomed to a freer environment, and they will never settle for less. Of course, we are still far from abolishing censorship, and you know how it goes, it is not just a matter of what, but also when, we can write,” he says. A genial man, he talks with sudden bursts of laughter, moving his arms and hands around vigorously. “Our calendar is peppered with ‘sensitive’ moments: because of the Party Congress, the summer has been very tense, and then, there will be the Olympics. But even in a normal year, it is full of obstacles! In March, there is the National People’s Congress plenary session, nothing goes. June? Tiananmen anniversary, hopeless. April and May too: full of politically delicate anniversaries, forget it! October? Be on your guard, National Day is there,” he laughs.
“You do not know what the Party will accept, so the responsibility is on the reporter, the editor, the vice-editor-in-chief, and the editor-in-chief. But everyone in the chain is becoming bolder. Every now and then, there’s a chill. But,” he adds, using one of his favorite metaphors: “think of a rubber balloon: the press swells up, clamoring for space. The balloon has to expand, and becomes thinner. What happens then?” he asks.
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