Righteous Fists

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Let us look across the Pacific, where much of America’s future lies, entangled as usual with its past. One of President Clinton’s first post-re-election acts was a trip to Manila for an economic summit with Asian nations. There he trod another measure of a long diplomatic dance with China’s President Jiang Zemin. The United States badly wants to strengthen its commercial ties with a huge, modernizing China. But American public opinion also wishes Clinton to press Beijing toward a better human-rights record, using trade sanctions if need be. These conflicting objectives lead to a curious kind of verbal theater of the absurd in which China is alternately wooed and scolded.

It’s an old story. For more than a century and a half now, the United States has been trying simultaneously to “reform” Chinese society and to profit from China’s huge markets and resources, while successive Chinese governments have yielded or resisted, causing our policymakers to execute more flips than a gymnastics team. Consider only the past seventyfive years. In 1924 Chinese nationals could neither emigrate to nor become citizens of the United States. Yet the American government was committed to protecting China’s sovereignty. It was resolute U.S. opposition to Japan’s invasion of China in the 1930s that pointed the way to Pearl Harbor. From 1941 to 1945 American and Chinese troops fought on the same anti-Axis side, but six years later they were killing each other in Korea. China’s post-1949 Communist leaders (whom we had previously helped to resist Japan) became and remained pariahs until Richard Nixon (who had previously railed against the Democrats who “lost” China) reversed course and recognized their government in 1972. That led to the present hot-and-cold relationship.

Forgive me for a momentary but irresistible lapse into personal history. I am an infinitesimal part of the story, having served in Kunming at Rear Echelon Headquarters, U.S. Forces, China Theater, in 1945. What I remember chiefly is the beauty of the Yunnan countryside, the sufferings of the war-ravaged Chinese civilians, and an inspection by Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek himself. After a frenzied week of polishing and pressing, we were lined up at attention in our warlike ranks—clerk-typists, photographers, interpreters, radio operators, and the like—while Chiang, a small man in a mustard yellow uniform, walked past and tried to look reassured.

But back to general history. Many episodes could illustrate the fitful currents of U.S.-Chinese relations over the years, but the Boxer Rebellion of 1900 is especially revealing and awful. It was an essentially antiforeign as well as an anti-Christian outburst, perhaps easier for us to understand now than it was in the imperial days of McKinley. Chinese patriots had a full supply of annoyances back then. For some sixty years their emperors had been forced to yield trading rights, development concessions, and naval bases to better-armed powers. More insulting than the economic giveaways were the coerced grants of “extraterritorial” status for foreigners, who were allowed to live in special enclaves, immune from obedience to Chinese laws.

By 1899 China’s best ports and cities lay in “spheres of influence” controlled by Great Britain, France, Russia, Germany, and Japan. The United States had no such sphere, nor had it ever warred on China. So although it had gained many of the same rights as the other nations, it could claim a certain neutrality.

That year Secretary of State John Hay, fearful that the huge but helpless Chinese nation might one day simply be partitioned like Africa, and the United States shut out, won international acceptance of the Open Door policy. China’s territorial integrity would be respected, but all economic privileges squeezed out of it would be equally shared among the powers. Hay may have seen it as a favor to the Chinese imperial court, but it was hardly the kind to provoke much popular gratitude.

Rankling as badly with many Chinese as these humiliations were the multiplying efforts of the missionaries. With the enforced opening of China in the 1840s, their ranks grew from fewer than five hundred at mid-century to twenty-eight hundred in 1899. Those from the United States were especially zealous, their enterprise having been kindled during great revivals that encouraged ambition on a Yankee scale—nothing less than bringing the entire world to Christ within one or two generations. The missionary impact was visible in thousands of Chinese converts, hundreds of schools, many hospitals and dispensaries, and other training institutions. Yet seeds of discord were planted. Some of the missionaries were open in their disdain for the “heathenish” customs of their Chinese neighbors. It was also clear that wittingly or not, their Victorian gospel of progress linked the worship of Christ with sanitation, steam power, industrialization, and other forces that had less to do with escaping damnation than with developing the huge Chinese market for Western benefit.

To give them their due, the missionaries also found a society cruelly indifferent to the sufferings of the lowly. Missionary good works embraced schooling, health care, and the building of self-respect among outrageously oppressed groups—foot-bound women, to give a single example. In their fashion the evangelists were fighting for “human rights.” Many genuinely loved their converts and chose to die with them rather than flee the storm. (A fine overview of one representative group of such missionaries can be found in a book by a former managing editor of this magazine, Nat Brandt, Massacre in Shansi .)