On China (34 page)

At the same time, the emphasis on personal relationships goes beyond the tactical. Chinese diplomacy has learned from millennia of experience that, in international issues, each apparent solution is generally an admission ticket to a new set of related problems. Hence Chinese diplomats consider continuity of relationships an important task and perhaps more important than formal documents. By comparison, American diplomacy tends to segment issues into self-contained units to be dealt with on their own merits. In this task, American diplomats also prize good personal relations. The difference is that Chinese leaders relate the “friendship” less to personal qualities and more to long-term cultural, national, or historic ties; Americans stress the individual qualities of their counterparts. Chinese protestations of friendship seek durability for long-term relationships through the cultivation of intangibles; American equivalents attempt to facilitate ongoing activities by emphasis on social contact. And Chinese leaders will pay some (though not unlimited) price for the reputation of standing by their friends—for example, Mao’s invitation to Nixon shortly after his resignation, when he was being widely ostracized. The same gesture was made to former Prime Minister Kakuei Tanaka of Japan, when he retired due to a scandal in 1974.

A good illustration of the Chinese emphasis on intangibles is an exchange I had with Zhou during my October 1971 visit. I presented the proposals of our advance team for the presidential visit with the reassurance that, since we had so many substantive issues to deal with, technical problems would not be permitted to stand in the way. Zhou replied by turning my operational point into a cultural paradigm: “Right. Mutual trust and mutual respect. These two points.” I had emphasized functionality; Zhou stressed context.

One cultural trait regularly invoked by Chinese leaders was their historic perspective—the ability, indeed the necessity, to think of time in categories different from the West’s. Whatever an individual Chinese leader achieves is brought about in a time frame that represents a smaller fraction of his society’s total experience than any other leader in the world. The duration and scale of the Chinese past allow Chinese leaders to use the mantle of an almost limitless history to evoke a certain modesty in their opposite numbers (even if, in the retelling, what is presented as history is occasionally defined by a metaphorical interpretation). The foreign interlocutor can be made to feel that he is standing against the way of nature and that his actions are already destined to be written as a footnoted aberration in the grand sweep of Chinese history.

In those first exchanges with us on our arrival in Beijing, Zhou made a valiant effort to confer on America a history longer than China’s as a kind of welcoming present. In the next sentence, however, he was back to the traditional perspective:

Altogether, Zhou sought to outline a new approach to international relations, claiming a special moral quality that had evolved under Confucianism and was now ascribed to Communism:

Machiavelli would have argued that it is in the interest of the country in need of reassurance yet unwilling to ask for it to strive for a general proposition that could then be applied to specific cases. This was one reason why Zhou insisted that, however strong it became, China would maintain a unique approach to international affairs that eschewed the traditional concept of power:

The proposition that all that China sought was equality among nations would surely have marked a departure from an imperial history in which China is described as the Middle Kingdom. It was also a way of reassuring the United States that China was not a potential threat requiring countervailing force. The principle that Chinese international conduct was based on norms transcending the assertion of power went back to Confucius. As a basis for a new relationship, the test would be the compatibility of these norms with the pressures of a period of upheaval.

The underlying challenge of the secret visit was to establish enough confidence to turn a first meeting into a process. Almost invariably, high-level diplomatic exchanges begin by clearing away the underbrush of day-to-day issues. The unusual aspect of the secret visit was that, in the absence of any contact for twenty years, there were no day-to-day problems to clear away except two, which were recognized as insoluble in the short term: Taiwan and Vietnam. The problem was how to put them aside.

Both of these issues were anomalies. In 1971—it is hard to remember—the United States did not recognize Beijing as the capital of China. China and America had no diplomats in each other’s capitals and had no direct way to communicate with each other. The U.S. ambassador to China was assigned to Taipei, and the Chinese ambassador to the United States represented Taiwan. No U.S. diplomats or officials were assigned to Beijing. (So-called liaison offices were not established until eighteen months later.)

The second anomaly was the Vietnam War. Part of my task was to achieve Chinese understanding for a war America was fighting on China’s border against an ally of China. Both Zhou and I knew that my very presence in Beijing was a grievous blow to Hanoi, raising the implication of its isolation—though neither Zhou nor I ever discussed the issue in these terms.
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The Taiwan issue had become deeply embedded in the domestic attitudes of both countries, defined by two preconditions that had so far stymied diplomatic movement. Beijing’s position had been that American acceptance of the “one China principle” was the precondition of any progress. The American precondition was that China commit itself to peaceful resolution of the issue before the United States would discuss it.

In the first exchange over the agenda, Zhou cut that Gordian knot. In the exchanges before the meeting, he had already accepted the principle that both sides would be free to raise any topic, but he had not yet abandoned the condition that the Taiwan issue needed to be discussed and presumably settled first. In the initial exchange, Zhou indicated that he was open to any sequence of discussion I might suggest—in other words, Taiwan no longer needed to be discussed, much less settled first. He also accepted linkage in reverse—that is, to make a settlement of issues relating to Taiwan dependent on the solution of other issues, for example, Indochina:

In the event, we made the withdrawal of our military forces from Taiwan conditional on the settlement of the Indochina war.

Zhou’s substantive position on Taiwan, which he articulated during the long opening discussion on the first day, was familiar; we had heard it at 136 Warsaw meetings. The United States needed to “recognize the PRC as the sole legitimate government of China and not make any exceptions” and accept that Taiwan was “an inalienable part of China.”
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“The natural logic of the matter” dictated that the United States must “withdraw all its armed forces and dismantle all its military installations on Taiwan and in the Taiwan Straits within a limited time period.”
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As these processes unfolded, eventually the U.S.–Republic of China defense treaty—whose legality Beijing did not recognize—“would not exist.”
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At the time of the secret trip to China, there was no difference between Beijing and Taipei as to the nature of the Chinese state. Both Chinese sides subscribed to the one China principle; the Taiwanese authorities forbade agitation for independence. Therefore for the United States, the issue was not agreeing to the one China principle so much as putting the recognition of Beijing as the capital of a united China into a time frame compatible with American domestic necessities. The secret trip began the delicate process by which the United States has step by step accepted a one China concept, and China has been extremely flexible about the timing of its implementation. Successive American Presidents of both parties have skillfully pursued a balancing act. They have progressively deepened relations with Beijing while creating conditions in which Taiwan’s economy and democracy have flourished. Successive Chinese leaders, while vigorously insisting on their perception of one China, have not pushed it to a showdown.

Zhou followed the same pattern on Vietnam that I had on Taiwan in the sense of avoiding any immediate commitment but also any sense of urgency. Zhou listened to my presentation and asked penetrating questions; yet he stopped far short of even moral pressure, much less threats. Whatever support China gave Vietnam had a historical, not an ideological or strategic, origin, he explained. “The debt we owe them was incurred by our ancestors. We have since liberation no responsibility because we overthrew the old system. Yet we still feel a deep and full sympathy for them.”
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Sympathy, of course, was not the same as political or military support; it was a delicate way to convey that China would not become involved militarily or press us diplomatically.

At lunch on the second day, at the Great Hall of the People, Zhou suddenly raised the issue of the Cultural Revolution. We had undoubtedly observed it from outside, he said, but he wanted his guests to understand the road that had led China—however circuitously—to where Chinese and American leaders could now meet.

Mao had sought to purify the Communist Party and break through the bureaucratic structures, Zhou explained. To this end, he had created the Red Guards as an institution outside the Party and the government, whose task was to return the system to the true ideology and ideological purity. The decision turned out to produce turmoil, as various Red Guard units pursued increasingly autonomous and incompatible policies. Indeed a point was reached, according to Zhou’s account, where various organizations or even regions created their own Red Guard units to protect themselves in the spreading chaos. The spectacle of these splinter Red Guard units fighting each other was truly shocking for a people brought up on the universal truth of Communist beliefs and faith in China’s unity. At that point, Chairman Mao had asked the PLA to restore order after the country on the whole had made progress in defeating bureaucracy and clarifying its convictions.

Zhou was in a delicate position in presenting this account, which he must have been instructed to do by Mao. He clearly sought to distinguish himself from the Cultural Revolution and yet remain loyal to Mao, who would read the transcript. At the time I tried to sum up Zhou’s main point to myself as indicating a measure of disassociation from Mao by means of an expression of qualified support as follows: There was much chaos during the Cultural Revolution. At one point, the Red Guards locked Zhou up in his own office. On the other hand, Zhou had not been as farsighted as Chairman Mao, who saw the need to inject new vigor into the revolution.
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Why present such a narrative to an American delegation on the first visit from the United States in two decades? Because the objective was to go beyond normalization to what our interlocutors called friendship, but which would be more accurately described as strategic cooperation. For that, it was important to define China as a country that had overcome its turmoil and was therefore reliable. Having navigated the Cultural Revolution, Zhou implied, it was able to face any foreign foe as a united country and was therefore a potential partner against the Soviet threat. Zhou made the theme explicit in the formal session that immediately followed. It was held in the Fujian Hall of the Great Hall of the People, where each hall is named after a Chinese province. Fujian is the province to which, in both Beijing’s and Taipei’s administrative divisions, Taiwan and the so-called offshore islands belonged.
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Zhou did not make a point of the symbolism, and the Americans ignored it.