Ian Buruna on China - Le Monde

"Le modèle chinois ébranle les certitudes américaines"

LE MONDE CULTURE ET IDEES | 07.01.12 | 17h08   •  Mis à jour le 08.01.12 | 09h15

par Propos recueillis par Sylvain Cypel

Des employées d'une ligne de production dans l'entreprise de matériel électroniqueSuzhou Etron à Suzhou, en Chine.Reuters/© Aly Song / Reuters

NEW YORK, CORRESPONDANT - Installé depuis 2005 à New York, Ian Buruma est devenu l'un des intellectuels les plus en vue aux Etats-Unis. Il collabore à la New York Review of Books, au New York Times et au New Yorker. Polyglotte (néerlandais, anglais, allemand, chinois, japonais et français, quoi qu'il en dise), il a été l'éditeur des pages culturelles de la Far Eastern Economic Review, à Hongkong, et de The Spectator, à Londres. Aujourd'hui professeur de démocratie, droits de l'homme et journalisme à l'université Bard - "façon de dire que j'enseigne ce que je veux, c'est le charme du système universitaire américain", dit-il en riant -, il est un auteur polyvalent et prolifique. Nous avons interrogé cet intellectuel à focale large, prix Erasmus 2008, sur sa spécialité initiale : la Chine et l'Extrême-Orient.

Votre itinéraire vous place au carrefour de l'Asie, de l'Europe et de l'Amérique. En quoi cela influence-t-il votre regard sur le monde ? 

Mon père est néerlandais, ma mère anglaise d'origine juive allemande. L'Asie puis l'Amérique se sont ajoutées un peu par hasard. Très jeune, étudiant en langue et littérature chinoises, j'étais un cinéphile. Un jour, j'ai vu à Paris Domicile conjugal(1970), de François Truffaut. Le personnage d'Antoine Doinel y tombe amoureux de la Japonaise... et moi aussi ! A l'époque, aller en Chine était impossible. Je me suis donc tourné vers le Japon, où j'ai étudié le cinéma et participé à la troupe de danse Dairakudakan. L'Amérique est venue à moi tardivement, quand on m'a proposé d'yenseigner. Je me sens toujours plus européen qu'américain. Un Européen marié à une Japonaise et parfaitement chez lui à New York, la ville de la mixité.

Vous êtes progressiste et un produit typique du multiculturalisme. Pourquoi dénoncez-vous la "courte vue" des progressistes sur l'islam ?

Je ne suis pas "progressiste". C'est ce pays tellement conservateur que sont les Etats-Unis qui m'a beaucoup poussé à gauche ! Je l'étais moins en Europe et en Asie. Je n'ai jamais admis les complaisances de gens de gauche pour toutes sortes de potentats sous le prétexte d'accepter les différences. Et je suis opposé à l'idéologie du multiculturalisme. Lorsque le terme décrit une réalité, il me convient. Sur le plan factuel, je suis multiculturel. Mais l'idée que les gens doivent impérativement préserver toutes leurs racines est absurde. Dans le cas célèbre d'un crime d'honneur commis en Allemagne, où le juge avait estimé que le criminel avait des circonstances atténuantes en raison de sa culture d'origine, je considère qu'il a tort.

Il y a des choses plus importantes que la culture. Je n'admets pas l'argument culturel pour justifier l'excision. En même temps, je suis plus tolérant que la loi française pour l'affichage des symboles religieux. Qu'une policière ou une enseignante soit interdite de porter le niqab dans ses fonctions, oui. Une personne dans la rue, non. Ce type d'interdiction n'est qu'une façon de dissuader des gens impopulaires d'adhérer à une religion impopulaire.

La peur des Japonais était très forte il y a vingt-cinq ans aux Etats-Unis. Comment expliquez-vous qu'un même phénomène soit aujourd'hui dirigé contre la Chine ?

Les deux phénomènes ne sont pas similaires. Ce qui faisait peur aux Américains il y a une génération, c'était la visibilité des Japonais : Mitsubishi rachetait leRockefeller Center, Toyota déboulait, etc. Leurs marques étaient très visibles. De plus, dans l'histoire américaine, les Japonais sont suspects. Aujourd'hui, les Américains se disent que, si les Chinois parviennent à la puissance qu'avaient les Japonais, ils seront bien plus dangereux. Mais, sur le fond, la menace nipponne avait été grandement exagérée et la menace chinoise l'est tout autant. D'abord, l'absence de liberté intellectuelle en Chine reste un obstacle très important pour son développement. Ensuite, l'intérêt des deux parties à préserver des liens l'emportera sur les forces poussant au conflit.

Quelle est la part de réalité et de fantasme dans cette tension montante ?

Par fantasmes, vous entendez peur. Elle est fondée : la montée en puissance de la Chine ne pourra que réduire le pouvoir et l'influence américaine dans le monde. Après 1945, les Etats-Unis sont devenus le gendarme de l'Asie. Ce n'est plus le cas. Des peurs populistes sont également fondées sur des motifs socio-économiques. Mais je ne pense pas qu'elles atteignent le niveau des peurs antinippones de la fin des années 1980. Et les craintes de l'influence économique chinoise sont surtout concentrées dans les Etats de la vieille économie, où l'industrie lourde est en déclin.

Un sondage de l'Institut Pew a montré que les Américains croient que la Chine est devenue la première puissance économique mondiale. Or elle reste loin des Etats-Unis. C'est un fantasme typique... 

C'est une combinaison d'ignorance et de peurs, exploitées par des chroniqueurs de radios dans le but de blâmer Barack Obama. Mais je le répète : le déclin des Etats-Unis est un fait, comme la montée en puissance économique de l'Asie. Ce déclin génère un choc, dont il ne faut pas s'alarmer inconsidérément. Au début du XX^esiècle, l'invention du personnage de Fu Manchu (sorte de génie du Mal incarnant le "péril jaune") avait provoqué un arrêt de l'immigration sino-nipponne en Amérique qui avait même eu un impact en Europe. A suivi la menace communiste, qui était, pour les Etats-Unis, loin d'être aussi réelle qu'on l'a présentée. Mais même la CIA y a sincèrement cru.

Les Etats-Unis sont un pays qui vit sous la peur constante de puissances extérieures qui menaceraient de faire disparaître son espace sécurisé. Ce pays a bâti et a été bâti par une société d'immigrés mais, dans le même temps, il pourchasse ces immigrés pour se protéger. Comme la France, du reste. Et, comme les Français, les Américains s'estiment porteurs d'une mission civilisatrice universelle. Or le "modèle chinois" ébranle leurs certitudes.

Est-ce parce que les Américains fondent leur économie sur l'idée que la liberté est le meilleur garant du succès, alors que les Chinois ont une croissance très supérieure avec un régime dictatorial ?

C'est exactement ça. Ce mélange chinois réussi de capitalisme et d'Etat fort est plus qu'une remise en cause, il est perçu comme une menace. Je ne vois pourtant pas monter une atmosphère très hostile à la Chine dans l'opinion. Depuis un siècle, les Américains ont toujours été plus prochinois que pronippons. Les missions chrétiennes ont toujours eu plus de succès en Chine qu'au Japon. Pour la droite fondamentaliste, ça compte. Et, dans les années 1980, des députés ont détruit des Toyota devant le Capitole ! On en reste loin.

Et le regard des Chinois sur les Etats-Unis, comment évolue-t-il ?

Tout dépend de quels Chinois on parle, mais, pour résumer, c'est attirance-répulsion. Surtout parmi les classes éduquées qui rêvent d'envoyer leurs enfants dans les universités américaines et en même temps peuvent être emplies de ressentiment à l'égard d'une Amérique qu'elles perçoivent comme hostile, pour beaucoup à cause de la propagande de leur gouvernement. Du communisme comme justificatif du pouvoir il ne reste rien. Le nouveau dogme est un nationalisme fondé sur l'exacerbation d'un sentiment victimaire vis-à-vis du Japon et des Etats-Unis. En Chine, à Singapour, en Corée du Sud, on constate une forte ambivalence typique de certaines élites, par ailleurs fortement occidentalisées, pour qui le XXI^esiècle sera asiatique. Dans les années 1960, au Japon, a émergé une nouvelle droite ultranationaliste, dont les représentants les plus virulents étaient professeurs de littérature allemande ou française. Ils voulaient se sentir acceptés, légitimes en termes occidentaux, et se sentaient rejetés. C'est ce que ressentent aujourd'hui les nationalistes chinois.

En 2010, vous avez écrit que la Chine est restée identique sur un aspect essentiel : elle est menée par une conception religieuse de la politique. Serait-elle politiquement soumise à l'influence du confucianisme, comme l'espace musulman le serait par le Coran ?

Dans le cas chinois, il ne s'agit pas que de confucianisme ; le maoïsme était identique. Il n'y a aucune raison pour que les musulmans ne puissent accéder à la démocratie tout en préservant leur religion. La Turquie, l'Indonésie l'ont fait. La Chine le pourrait tout autant. Des sociétés de culture sinisante comme Taïwan ou la Corée du Sud ont montré qu'un changement est possible. L'obstacle àsurmonter, en Chine, est que le confucianisme rejette la légitimité du conflit. L'harmonie est caractérisée par un ordre social ou règne l'unanimité. Donc la plus petite remise en cause apparaît instantanément menaçante.

Qu'est-ce qui pourrait déclencher un processus démocratique en Chine ?

Le plus grand obstacle est l'alliance entre les élites urbaines et le Parti communiste. Les deux ont peur de l'énorme masse paysanne ignorante. Ces élites ont une telle histoire récente de violence et une telle peur d'un retour du chaos qu'elles préfèrent un ordre qui leur assure la croissance, au risque d'avancer vers la démocratie. Pour le pouvoir, la grande faiblesse de ce système est que, le jour où l'économie cesse de croître et que l'enrichissement des élites urbaines s'arrête, l'édifice s'écroule. Dans ce cas, tout pourrait advenir, d'une alliance entre démocrates, ressortissants des nouvelles élites, et une fraction du parti, jusqu'à un coup d'Etat militaire.

China's booming cities: lessos for Europe? - NYTimes

OPINION

What China Can Teach Europe

China Photos/Getty Images

Farmers cover vegetable plants with plastic film in the Chongqing municipality in China in April 2008.

By DANIEL A. BELL

The New York Times, January 7, 2012

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Shanghai

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The New York Times

FROM the outside, China often appears to be a highly centralized monolith. Unlike Europe’s cities, which have been able to preserve a certain identity and cultural distinctiveness despite the homogenizing forces of globalization, most Chinese cities suffer from a drab uniformity.

But China is more like Europe than it seems. Indeed, when it comes to economics, China is more a thin political union composed of semiautonomous cities — some with as many inhabitants as a European country — than an all-powerful centralized government that uniformly imposes its will on the whole country.

And competition among these huge cities is an important reason for China’s economic dynamism. The similar look of China’s megacities masks a rivalry as fierce as that among European countries.

China’s urban economic boom began in the late 1970s as an experiment with market reforms in China’s coastal cities. Shenzhen, the first “special economic zone,” has grown from a small fishing village in 1979 into a booming metropolis of 10 million today. Many other cities, from Guangzhou to Tianjin, soon followed the path of market reforms.

Today, cities vie ruthlessly for competitive advantage using tax breaks and other incentives that draw foreign and domestic investors. Smaller cities specialize in particular products, while larger ones flaunt their educational capacity and cultural appeal. It has led to the most rapid urban “economic miracle” in history.

But the “miracle” has had an undesirable side effect: It led to a huge gap between rich and poor, primarily between urban and rural areas. The vast rural population — 54 percent of China’s 1.3 billion people — is equivalent to the whole population of Europe. And most are stuck in destitute conditions. The main reason is the hukou (household registration) system that limits migration into cities, as well as other policies that have long favored urban over rural development.

More competition among cities is essential to eliminate the income gap. Over the past decade the central government has given leeway to different cities to experiment with alternative methods of addressing the urban-rural wealth gap.

The most widely discussed experiment is the “Chongqing model,” headed by Bo Xilai, a party secretary and rising political star. Chongqing, an enormous municipality with a population of 33 million and a land area the size of Austria, is often called China’s biggest city. But in fact 23 million of its inhabitants are registered as farmers. More than 8 million farmers have already migrated to the municipality’s more urban areas to work, with a million per year expected to migrate there over the next decade. Chongqing has responded by embarking on a huge subsidized housing project, designed to eventually house 30 to 40 percent of the city’s population.

Chongqing has also improved the lot of farmers by loosening the hukou system. Today, farmers can choose to register as “urban” and receive equal rights to education, health care and pensions after three years, on the condition that they give up the rural registration and the right to use a small plot of land.

While Chongqing’s model is the most influential, there is an alternative. Chengdu, Sichuan’s largest municipality, with a population of 14 million — half of them rural residents — is less heavy-handed. It is the only city in China to enjoy high economic growth while also reducing the income gap between urban and rural residents over the past decade.

Chengdu has focused on improving the surrounding countryside, rather than encouraging large-scale migration to the city. The government has shifted 30 percent of its resources to its rural areas and encouraged development zones that allow rural residents to earn higher salaries and to reap the educational, cultural and medical benefits of urban life.

I recently visited a development zone composed of small firms that export fiery Sichuan chili sauces. Most farmers rented their land and worked in the development zone, but those who wanted to stay on their plots were allowed to. So far, one-third of the area’s farmland has been converted into larger-scale agricultural operations that have increased efficiency.

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More than 90 percent of the municipality’s rural residents are now covered by a medical plan, and the government has introduced a more comprehensive pension scheme. Rural schools have been upgraded to the point that their facilities now surpass those in some of Chengdu’s urban schools, and teachers from rural areas are sent to the city for training.

Empowering rural residents by providing more job opportunities and better welfare raises their purchasing power, helping China boost domestic consumption. And in 2012, Chengdu is likely to become the first big Chinese municipality to wipe out the legal distinction between its urban and rural residents, allowing rural people to move to the city if they choose.

Chengdu’s success has been driven by a comprehensive, long-term effort involving consultation and participation from the bottom up, as well as a clear property rights scheme. By contrast, Chongqing has relied on state power and the dislocation of millions to achieve similar results. If Chengdu’s “gentle” model proves to be more effective at reducing the income gap, it can set a model for the rest of the country, just as Shenzhen set a model for market reforms.

There are fundamental differences, of course: Chengdu’s land is more fertile and its weather more temperate, compared to Chongqing’s harsh terrain and sweltering summers. Life is slower in Chengdu; even the chili is milder. What succeeds in one place may fail elsewhere.

Ultimately, the central government will decide what works and what doesn’t. And that’s not a bad thing; it encourages local variation and internal competition.

European leaders ought to take note. Central authorities should have the power not just to punish “losers” as Europe has done in the case of Greece, but to reward “winners” that set a good example for the rest of the union.

Daniel A. Bell is a professor at Shanghai’s Jiaotong University and Beijing’s Tsinghua University, and co-author of “The Spirit of Cities.”

A version of this op-ed appeared in print on January 8, 2012, on page SR5 of the New York edition with the headline: What China Can Teach Europe.

Deng, the man, and his work, in and on China - Ezra F. Vogel

The New York Times Book Review, October 21, 2011

How Deng Did It

By JONATHAN MIRSKY

DENG XIAOPING AND THE TRANSFORMATION OF CHINA

By Ezra F. Vogel

Illustrated. 876 pp. The Belknap Press/Harvard University Press. $39.95.

Two mighty rhetorical questions conclude this enormous biography of Deng Xiaoping (1904-97): “Did any other leader in the 20th century do more to improve the lives of so many? Did any other 20th-century leader have such a large and lasting influence on world history?” The answers emerge from this comprehensive, minutely documented book, but not as predictably as Ezra F. Vogel, a Harvard University emeritus professor of social sciences, assumes.

After Mao’s death in 1976, Deng became the champion of the economic reforms that transformed the lives of many, but not most, Chinese. (Vogel observes that Mao’s immediate successor, Hua Guofeng, was the initiator of the reforms.) Deng had long been a central figure in the Communist Party. Vogel rightly says that “for more than a decade before the Cultural Revolution” — 1966-1976 — “no one had greater responsibility for building and administering the old system than Deng Xiaoping.” Yet, most of Deng’s life and career takes up only a quarter of Vogel’s 714 pages of narrative.

By 1978, Deng had become China’s “paramount leader.” It follows, therefore, that apart from his long period of house arrest and banishment during the years 1967-73, and during another year in 1976-77, when Mao again removed him from the political scene, Deng must share the blame for much of the agony Mao inflicted on China and the Chinese. He certainly bears the major responsibility for the Tiananmen Square killings in 1989.

It is a curiosity of “Deng Xiaoping and the Transformation of China” that Deng the man is almost invisible. There is a well-known list of his personal characteristics: he played bridge; liked bread, cheese and coffee; smoked; drank and used spittoons. He was unswervingly self-disciplined. Though Deng left no personal paper trail, Vogel ably relates what is known.

Deng came from a small-landlord family in Sichuan Province, yet his formal education, apart from his time at a local school when he was a child, consisted mainly of a single year, 1926, of ideological indoctrination at Sun Yatsen University in Moscow. For five years before that, he lived in Paris, where he received a practical, and enduring, education inside the infant Chinese Communist Party, serving under the leadership of the young Zhou Enlai.

After Paris and Moscow, Deng went back to China, and before long had ceased being “a cheerful, fun-loving extrovert.” He commanded a small force against warlords, was defeated and may have run away. Eventually, he joined the “Mao faction,” rising and falling with its inner-party fortunes. During the Long March of 1934-35 Deng attended the meeting where Mao took supreme power, and after the Communist triumph in 1949, he served as party commissar for the army that occupied Tibet, although he seems not to have set foot there. In the southwest Deng organized the land reform program of 1949-51 “that would wipe out the landlord class.” Mao praised Deng “for his success . . . killing some of the landlords.” (As part of a national campaign in which two million to three million were killed, “some” seems an inadequate word.) In 1957, Deng oversaw the “anti-rightist campaign,” a “vicious attack on 550,000 intellectual critics” that “destroyed many of China’s best scientific and technical minds.” As for the Great Leap Forward of 1958-61, when as many as 45 million people starved to death, Vogel provides no evidence that Deng objected to Mao’s monomaniacal policies. Frank Dikötter’s well-documented book “Mao’s Great Famine,” however, shows that Deng ordered the extraction of grain from starving peasants for the cities and export abroad.

In late 1966, Vogel tells us, Deng was accused of “pursuing the capitalist road.” Under house arrest in Beijing until 1969, he was transferred to Jiangxi Province to work half days in a factory. Red Guards harassed his five children, and the back of one of his sons was broken when he may have jumped from a window after the guards frightened or bullied him. Mao permitted Deng to return to Beijing in 1973.

Vogel contends that during his internal exile Deng concluded that something had gone systemically wrong with China: it was economically backward and isolated from the international scene; its people were poorly educated. China under Deng became an increasingly urban society. And following Deng’s view that corruption crackdowns limit growth, many officials, Vogel writes, “found ways not only to enrich China, but also to enrich themselves.” The result, he says, is that China is more corrupt than ever and its environment more polluted.

While Deng believed that science and technology were important — as have many Chinese reformers since the late 19th century — he feared that the humanities and social sciences could be seedbeds of heterodoxy; he never hesitated in punishing intellectuals, whose divergent views could “lead to demonstrations that disrupt public order.” It is telling that for Deng perhaps the worst development in the Communist world after Tiananmen was the execution on Dec. 25, 1989, of the Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceausescu and his wife. Ceausescu was the only Eastern European leader whose troops had fired on civilians.

Vogel calls Tiananmen a “tragedy,” and quotes Deng brushing aside doubts from colleagues that using troops to smash the uprising would disturb foreigners; “Westerners would forget.” Actually, it is young Chinese for whom the demonstrations in over 300 cities are a dim fact absent from their history lessons. Vogel’s account of the crackdown is largely accurate, although he omits the shooting down on Sunday morning of many parents milling about at the edge of the square, searching for their children. In this, as in other parts of this narrative, Vogel could have spoken with journalists who were there, and not just read their accounts. (I declare an interest; I saw these events.) What is disappointing is Vogel’s comments about why “the tragedy in Tiananmen Square evoked a massive outcry in the West, far greater than previous tragedies in Asia of comparable scale.”

Part of the answer, Vogel correctly says, citing another scholar, was the real-time television in Tiananmen. Then he perplexingly adds that viewers “interpreted” what they saw “as an assault on the American myth that economic, intellectual and political freedom will always triumph. Many foreigners came to see Deng as a villainous enemy of freedom who crushed the heroic students.” Furthermore, Vogel contends, for foreign reporters the Tiananmen uprising “was the most exciting time of their careers.” Such comments are unworthy of a serious scholar. He states flatly that “Deng was not vindictive.” If he means Deng didn’t order his adversaries and critics killed, that is true — as far as individuals are concerned. But Deng never shrank, either in Mao’s time or his own, from causing the murder of large numbers of anonymous people.

The most valuable part of Vogel’s account is his survey of Deng’s economic reforms; they made a substantial portion of Chinese better-off, and propelled China onto the international stage. But the party has obscured the millions of deaths that occurred during the Maoist decades. In the end, what shines out from Vogel’s wide-ranging biography is the true answer to his two questions: for most of his long career Deng Xiaoping did less forChina than he did to it.

Jonathan Mirsky is a journalist and historian specializing in China.

A version of this review appeared in print on October 23, 2011, on page BR18 of the Sunday Book Review with the headline: On the Capitalist Road.

The Rape of Nanjing - a (true historical) novel

Recreating the Horrors of Nanjing

By ISABEL HILTON

The New York Times Book Review, October 21, 2011

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Ha Jin has a talent for first lines. Consider these, from his latest novel, “Nanjing Requiem”: “Finally Ban began to talk. For a whole evening we sat in the dining room listening to the boy.”

Jerry Bauer

Ha Jin

NANJING REQUIEM

By Ha Jin

303 pp. Pantheon Books. $26.95.

We do not know who Ban is, why he should have taken so long to speak or why his story has so compelled his as yet unknown audience. As he tells that story, we plunge abruptly into the horrors of the Japanese occupation of Nanjing, then the capital of China’s Nationalist government. It is December 1937. Ban is a Chinese teenager, a boy seized while on an errand for his American employer and forced to serve as coolie to a band of Japanese soldiers who are looting, pillaging and murdering their way across the city, with Ban a terrified witness to their atrocities.

Equally abruptly, the novel then takes us back to the previous month, to the frantic preparations for an evacuation of the government to Chongqing, following the retreating forces of Chiang Kai-shek. For the civilians who will be left behind, a safety zone is hastily organized. Madame Chiang’s piano is loaded into a truck and left for safekeeping in the institution at the heart of Ha Jin’s narrative, Jinling Women’s College.

This is fiction, but fiction that draws heavily on the historical record and in which many of the characters actually lived the events described. The narrator, Anling, a middle-aged Chinese woman, may be Ha Jin’s invention, but she serves as assistant to a well-documented real-life character, Minnie Vautrin, an American missionary from Illinois who served as acting head of Jinling College. Vautrin also figures in Iris Chang’s best-­selling account, “The Rape of Nanking,” one of the inspirations for Ha Jin’s portrait of the doomed city.

When Chiang Kai-shek abandoned Nanjing to the Japanese, a few Western nationals chose to remain. The Americans who stayed were mostly missionaries, among them the formidable Minnie Vautrin. Also present was John Rabe, the German representative of Siemens in Nanjing, a member of the Nazi party who led the extraordinary effort to set up the safety zone in which Jinling College and similar institutions became refugee camps, tenuously protected by the presence and personal courage of a tiny group of foreigners. It is to them that we largely owe the documentation of the rape, pillage, arson and murder that followed.

As a novelist, Ha Jin brings a cool, spare documentary approach to this rich trove of material. His narrative centers on Jinling, an attractively landscaped campus in the heart of the city. The college itself becomes a character, the early hope of its founders that it would be a premier seat of learning as much despoiled by the war as are the lives of those who love and labor within it. The college represents humanity and civilization, repeatedly violated and nearly destroyed.

Ha Jin begins with a fast-­moving accumulation of horrors as some 10,000 refugees cram into Jinling, which was prepared to receive around 2,500. The safety it offers is fragile: Chinese citizens are dragged off and killed by marauding Japanese troops, and young women are attacked on the campus itself. The occupants of the college struggle to find enough food, fuel and shelter for everyone in need, living in constant fear that the Japanese will overrun the place.

The Nanjing Massacre remains a highly controversial topic. Some in Japan still deny or play it down, and its re-­emergence in the 1990s as a prime example of wartime barbarity has been used by the Chinese government as it constructs a highly nationalist version of its history. But Ha Jin is more interested in nuance than polemic. He shows us the Christian Japanese officer who brings supplies for the refugees; the Nazi who saves a quarter of a million Chinese; the Chinese worker who admits that, under torture, he made a false accusation of collaboration against two Americans from the Red Cross; the Chinese doctor, consumed by self-­loathing because of his association with the Japanese, who helps Vautrin rescue Chinese prisoners.

Ha Jin also shows us how the family of Anling, the narrator, is torn apart — with a son-in-law fighting in the Nationalist army, a husband who still admires the Japan in which he once studied, an only son drawn into serving in the army of occupation because of his love for a Japanese woman.

Ha Jin also reminds us that heroism carries its own heavy price. Minnie Vautrin was to die by her own hand, burdened with guilt over those she had failed to save. This emotional turmoil is personified in the character of Yulan, a young woman who goes mad after being raped by the Japanese and accuses the missionaries of collaboration. Vautrin’s struggle to rescue Yulan doubles as a struggle for her own sanity.

The novel does contain some awkward phrasing. Ha Jin writes in his second language, English, a remarkable achievement but one that demands editorial vigilance. The reader is surprised at times to find contemporary slang in the mouths of Chinese characters speaking more than 70 years ago. Early on, for example, a Chinese man seeking shelter for his family is offered a job at the college and blurts out, “For real?”

This is the sort of misstep that can provide an unfortunate distraction in the course of an otherwise fine novel, a book that renders a subtle and powerful vision of one of the 20th century’s most monstrous interludes. The closing section, “The Grief Everlasting,” underscores Ha Jin’s message. There will be no happy ending here, and precious little healing.

Isabel Hilton edits the bilingual news, environmental and analysis Web site Chinadialogue​.net. Her most recent book is “The Search for the Panchen Lama.”

A version of this review appeared in print on October 23, 2011, on page BR23 of the Sunday Book Review with the headline: In Harm’s Way

Cradle of Confucianism - Shanghai Daily

Cradle of Confucianism

By Mark Melnicoe  |   2011-10-17  |     NEWSPAPER EDITION

Shanghai Daily, October 16, 2011

The entrance to the Confucius Temple.

TO begin to understand Confucius, one really should visit Qufu, where the sage was born, died, and taught his philosophy that would shape China. Mark Melnicoe makes the pilgrimage.

Everyone knows Confucius. The philosopher/teacher/sage is pre-eminent among China's ancient thinkers, and his teachings have profoundly impacted the development of Chinese history and left a deep imprint on the national psyche. 

To really get to know Confucius, one should make a pilgrimage to Qufu, Shandong Province. For it is here that the master was born, died and spent most of his 73 years, including the decisive period when he preached to his disciples, who then carried forward his ideas. 

To honor its former resident, Qufu boasts three main sites - the Confucius Temple, Kong Family Mansion and Confucius Cemetery - which together take most of a day to see. In 1994 they were added to the UNESCO list of World Heritage sites for their outstanding historical, cultural, scientific and artistic value. 

Beyond these, vestiges left by Confucius can be found all over Qufu. He was born about 20 kilometers away in Nishan, grew up in the area, preached his philosophies at the Xingtan Pavilion, also known as the Alter of Apricot (part of today's temple), got involved politically and became an official in the ancient state of Lu, and was buried by the Zhu River. Lining the roads in the old city are shops and stalls selling Confucius trinkets and replicas - wooden statues, fans, screens, coins, vases, boxes, canisters, paintings, stones, tablets and more. If you want any kind of souvenir related to Confucius, you will find it here. 

Confucius Temple

The temple, the oldest and grandest of more than 2,000 Confucian temples worldwide, is really the heart of Qufu. Lying within the impressive old city wall, it started as a humble establishment two years after Confucius' death in 471 BC. Though the master's ideas were not so grandly received in his day, Confucius' many disciples were committed to his ideals and built the temple not far from where he was buried. 

Over the dynasties, it was expanded by succeeding rulers, gradually mushrooming into the second-largest historical building complex in China. Only Beijing's Forbidden City is bigger. In fact, the temple's appearance is not unlike that of the Forbidden City, as its last major revision took place during the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) after a fire in 1499. The temple has 466 rooms aligned along a north-south axis that is more than a kilometer long, and contains nine courtyards. 

Within are countless trees, beautiful halls containing paintings, tablets and sculptures, and stone bridges crossing tiny waterways and gardens. Historic tablets, numbering some 1,000 of various kinds - small ones, towering ones, oddly shaped ones, some crumbling, some in remarkably good condition - lie throughout the temple complex. These tablets, along with manuscripts, contain much written information about ancient China and are still used by scholars today. 

Going through the temple from the entrance, one gets the feeling of going backward in time. That's because the entrance is near the "youngest" part of the temple complex, and as you go further in, you head through the dynasties. Thus you enter through Qing (1644-1911) and Ming dynasty stone gates, find Ming architecture everywhere, come upon Song Dynasty (960-1279) halls such as Tong Wen Gate and Kuiwen Pavilion, then hit the huge Hall of Integration, built in the Tang Dynasty (618-907), before coming to the oldest, ancient areas of the complex. Most buildings have been built and rebuilt over the ages because of fires or deterioration.