Wen Jiabao: Man of the Moment
Premier Wen Jiabao was in such a mad rush to rescue victims the night of the earthquake that he stumbled and fell in his haste, and wouldn't stop to let a medic bandage his bleeding arm, according to a microblogger apparently among the official press detail accompanying the premier. The account this journalist punched out on the popular Chinese instant messaging service QQ, leaked and reposted all over blogs and bulletin boards (such as here), went roughly like this: Wen's entourage reaches a school in Dujiangyan where 300 students are supposedly buried. Rescue efforts are faltering. Trying to coordinate another rescue attempt, Wen falls. Minutes later his arm is visibly bleeding. A medical worker tries to put a dressing on the cut, but Wen pushes him or her away.
Next comes a spark of good news: a student's been pulled out alive. After brushing aside the medic, Wen runs over to a caved-in part of a building to help. But soon word comes in that 100,000 people are trapped in the mountains in Pengzhou because a bridge has collapsed, making it impossible for rescue workers and supplies to get to them. Just twenty minutes after taking a tumble, Wen's barking loudly into a cell phone at someone, presumably a military or relief official: "No matter what your [problems are], I want these 100,000 people out of danger. That's an order." When he's done talking he impatiently chucks his phone to the ground. "It's the first time I've seen Grandpa this fierce," quips the blogging journo, referring to Wen by his endearing nickname.
Subsequently Sina.com posted a story titled "Wen Jiabao: I Just Want the 100,000 People out of Danger, That's an Order," from a Guangdong newspaper. It drew nearly 35,000 comments in nine hours.
The number of confirmed deaths from the earthquake that hit Sichuan province on May 12 rose to 28,881 on Saturday, when several people were rescued alive from the rubble, two of them 124 hours after being buried. An estimated five million people have been made homeless.
The quake was a monstrous catastrophe - but China's initial response has been a smash hit on the public relations front. Almost immediately, premier Wen had headed for the quake zone, amply covered by state-run television and an army of micro-bloggers transmitting "news" giblets via cellphone and instant messaging.
Introducing himself as "Grandpa Wen Jiabao," the premier reassured a schoolchild pinned in the debris of a collapsed primary school, "Hang on child, we'll rescue you!" Wen presented an unusually sympathetic face of the Chinese government, one that its people -- and the outside world -- haven't seen much of recently. Then again, the quake was an unusually deadly catastrophe, killing up to 50,000 people and now being described one of as the worst natural disasters in the history of the People's Republic.Top leaders such as Wen, who was trained as a geologist, would have immediately sensed the havoc a 7.9-magnitude quake would wreak, particularly given that initial reports indicated it was just as powerful as the 1976 quake in Tangshan, which killed an estimated 300,000 people.
This is an unusual year too, with the Beijing Olympic Games slated to kick off in August. Beijing's speedy response has played well both at home and abroad, helping to repair an international image tarnished by the government's handing of Tibetan unrest. Two months ago, after violent riots broke out in Lhasa, Beijing's leadership went into a defensive crouch, lashing at foreign critics and barring nearly all international observers from affected areas. The rancor increased as China's controversial Olympic torch relay attracted boisterous protests in Europe, which in turn triggered a virulent anti-Western backlash among jingoistic Chinese. Western media in Beijing received death threats; Chinese protested against Western retail giant Carrefours.
The mood has changed dramatically now. The cascade of official action and transparency was probably much more a matter of the scale of the disaster and chaos on the ground than some pre-meditated publicity plan, at least initially. As one journalist with a Party newspaper journalist in Beijing comments, "You can't compare this [event] to anything else."
Still, one big difference is that Wen was in control from the start and handling the earthquake crisis his way. Unlike past disasters, such as the record-breaking ice storm in late January, or even the SARS outbreak years back, the Sichuan quake was immediately identified as a "grade one" disaster, placing the central government in charge of relief efforts instantly. (In other words, there was no delay as has happened in the past, when provincial authorities tried to handle the crisis, only to conclude they couldn't and needed the center to come to the rescue.) "It's only when disasters hit that Wen plays his biggest role," says Zhan Jiang, dean of journalism at the China Youth University for Political Sciences in Beijing, "It's only at these times that he really has the ability to do things like move the army and mobilize the local leadership."
Which Wen and other officials have done with surprising speed and comparative transparency. In theory at least, some observers might have expected Beijing leaders to react a bit more like the truculent and xenophobic Burmese generals who only reluctantly accepted outside help (and even then, not nearly fast enough) after the devastating Cyclone Nargis which ultimately may claim up to 200,000 Burmese lives, according to the latest estimates.
In contrast, after the Big One in Sichuan, China's been the anti-Burma: swift, sympathetic and startlingly open. The military and armed police mobilized immediately; one soldier based in a Chengdu unit said he was on the road within ten minutes of the quake. Authorities moreover were remarkably forthcoming about fatality counts - a stark difference compared to the 1976 Tangshan earthquake; its official death toll of 240,000 remained a state secret for three years, and even now is suspected of being too low.
Last week many Chinese experts cited a new "government information disclosure" law, which came into force May 1, as giving more progressive bureaucrats the legal backing (and ammunition) to release data of interest to the public. "I call it a 'sunshine law', somewhat like the freedom of information act," says Shi Anbin, professor of media studies at Tsinghua University, "It mandates the Chinese government at every level to provide information, especially at times like this."
Equally surprising has been the assertiveness of domestic media. Despite Propaganda Bureau instructions on Day #1 that only four state-run media could send reporters to the quake scene, many editors - sensing the story of a lifetime and the fact that local authorities were completely ill-equipped to enforce the usual media ground rules - mobilized reporting teams anyway (one of them equipped with an SUV an mountain bikes on the roofrack). CCTV quickly spun up its version of CNN-style breaking news coverage, complete with maps, talking heads and nifty graphics.
If Wen Jiabao is the man of the moment, setting an open-minded and responsive example for lesser bureaucrats, the big question is how long will his moment last? Many journalists predict the party's powerful propaganda department ultimately will re-assert control of domestic reporters, now swarming over the site, once the urgency of the quake story diminishes; technically, censorship was never lifted in any case. While many newspapers and magazines have reported more far more independently than they are supposed to, they have hardly been critical
However the recent outpouring of positive news coverage in both foreign and domestic media has been "a rewarding experience" for China's leaders, who are now encouraged to pursue greater openness "at least until after the Olympics, and probably until after the Shanghai Expo in 2010," predicts Tsinghua's Shi.
He also argues that the peripatetic premier and his boss President Hu Jintao, who made his own high-profile trip to the disaster zone Friday, are simply trying to revive a tradition of Chinese leaders taking on the role of The Great Communicator, in the mold of the late Great Helsman Mao Zedong and his premier Zhou Enlai. "They're restoring a more Chinese style of public relations," he says, "Even the photo ops and the use of sound bites indicate they want to use this opportunity to restore the tradition of public communication established by Mao and Zhou, who were great masters of P.R."
The late premier Zhou Enlai, for example, set the trend by making a populist trip to the site of the Xintai earthquake to comfort survivors - though that photo op far pre-dated the age of micro-blogging. Despite the fact that Chinese leaders are not elected to office- or, indeed, possibly because of it - they remain deeply aware of the need to stay on the right side of public opinion as a means of legitimizing their authority.
Wen, in particular, has mastered the art of handling big disasters at the grassroots. He made his debut in that starring role during SARS crisis. More recently, he was the guy who saved the day during the fierce snow storms in January, which paralyzed rail traffic for days during the key Chinese New Year holiday, when more than 100 million migrant workers were trying to travel home in the provinces from big cities where they work. Not only did Wen materialize to reassure impatient travelers waiting in overcrowded train stations, but "[He was] the only one able to resolve gridlock between the different provinces," says Zhan Jiang.In recent days Wen's given pep talks to exhausted rescue workers in orange jumpsuits, consoled grieving parents and shouted encouragement to survivors trapped in the rubble. "The central government hasn't forgotten about this place. We will rescue those who are injured. If the roads are blocked, we'll use airplanes," he announced in the epicenter of Wenchuan, bleary-eyed and voice cracking with emotion.
"It's good that he cares about the people and that he sent support,” Cao Peifu, a local village representative in Mianzhu county told our colleague Mary Hennock not far from the rubble of the collapsed Dongfang steam turbine factory that Wen visited this past week, "He cried and we cried too. We saw it on TV." Here's more from Mary's visit to Dujiangyan.
With less than two months to go before the Olympics the extent of China’s losses has prompted a wave of international sympathy. This mood shift on both sides is important, following the paroxysm of anti-Western sentiment over the anti-China torch relay protests.
In a metaphor for morphing public sentiment, last week the instant messaging service MSN began encouraging Chinese Netizens to show sympathy for quake survivors by adding a rainbow icon to their MSN signatures, signifying hope and prayers in the face of calamity. The rainbow campaign eclipses the earlier MSN effort to promote a heart icon followed by "China", embraced by Netizens to show their fierce nationalism in the wake of anti-Beijing demonstrations.
In terms of cementing public approval, Wen and Co. can't rest on their laurels yet. The toughest test for Chinese leaders lie in the days and months -- and even years -- ahead. Soon, quake survivors will wake up to the fact that missing loved ones will most likely never be found alive. Many distraught parents are already questioning why so many recently built schools collapsed, trapping thousands, when structures built in the 80's remained standing; an official probe is underway.
Meanwhile the pressures of securing adequate food, water, clothing, medicines and shelter -- not to mention of rebuilding entire towns -- will no doubt strain government resources and people's patience. Still, the televised images of Wen, bullhorn in his hand and tears in his eyes, has at least for a moment captivated the citizenry -- and brought grassroots Chinese closer to their leaders than the shrill jingoism of the past two months could ever have done.
Premier Wen Jiabao was in such a mad rush to rescue victims the night of the earthquake that he stumbled and fell in his haste, and wouldn't stop to let a medic bandage his bleeding arm, according to a microblogger apparently among the official press detail accompanying the premier. The account this journalist punched out on the popular Chinese instant messaging service QQ, leaked and reposted all over blogs and bulletin boards (such as here), went roughly like this: Wen's entourage reaches a school in Dujiangyan where 300 students are supposedly buried. Rescue efforts are faltering. Trying to coordinate another rescue attempt, Wen falls. Minutes later his arm is visibly bleeding. A medical worker tries to put a dressing on the cut, but Wen pushes him or her away.
Next comes a spark of good news: a student's been pulled out alive. After brushing aside the medic, Wen runs over to a caved-in part of a building to help. But soon word comes in that 100,000 people are trapped in the mountains in Pengzhou because a bridge has collapsed, making it impossible for rescue workers and supplies to get to them. Just twenty minutes after taking a tumble, Wen's barking loudly into a cell phone at someone, presumably a military or relief official: "No matter what your [problems are], I want these 100,000 people out of danger. That's an order." When he's done talking he impatiently chucks his phone to the ground. "It's the first time I've seen Grandpa this fierce," quips the blogging journo, referring to Wen by his endearing nickname.
Subsequently Sina.com posted a story titled "Wen Jiabao: I Just Want the 100,000 People out of Danger, That's an Order," from a Guangdong newspaper. It drew nearly 35,000 comments in nine hours.
The number of confirmed deaths from the earthquake that hit Sichuan province on May 12 rose to 28,881 on Saturday, when several people were rescued alive from the rubble, two of them 124 hours after being buried. An estimated five million people have been made homeless.
The quake was a monstrous catastrophe - but China's initial response has been a smash hit on the public relations front. Almost immediately, premier Wen had headed for the quake zone, amply covered by state-run television and an army of micro-bloggers transmitting "news" giblets via cellphone and instant messaging.
Introducing himself as "Grandpa Wen Jiabao," the premier reassured a schoolchild pinned in the debris of a collapsed primary school, "Hang on child, we'll rescue you!" Wen presented an unusually sympathetic face of the Chinese government, one that its people -- and the outside world -- haven't seen much of recently. Then again, the quake was an unusually deadly catastrophe, killing up to 50,000 people and now being described one of as the worst natural disasters in the history of the People's Republic.Top leaders such as Wen, who was trained as a geologist, would have immediately sensed the havoc a 7.9-magnitude quake would wreak, particularly given that initial reports indicated it was just as powerful as the 1976 quake in Tangshan, which killed an estimated 300,000 people.
This is an unusual year too, with the Beijing Olympic Games slated to kick off in August. Beijing's speedy response has played well both at home and abroad, helping to repair an international image tarnished by the government's handing of Tibetan unrest. Two months ago, after violent riots broke out in Lhasa, Beijing's leadership went into a defensive crouch, lashing at foreign critics and barring nearly all international observers from affected areas. The rancor increased as China's controversial Olympic torch relay attracted boisterous protests in Europe, which in turn triggered a virulent anti-Western backlash among jingoistic Chinese. Western media in Beijing received death threats; Chinese protested against Western retail giant Carrefours.
The mood has changed dramatically now. The cascade of official action and transparency was probably much more a matter of the scale of the disaster and chaos on the ground than some pre-meditated publicity plan, at least initially. As one journalist with a Party newspaper journalist in Beijing comments, "You can't compare this [event] to anything else."
Still, one big difference is that Wen was in control from the start and handling the earthquake crisis his way. Unlike past disasters, such as the record-breaking ice storm in late January, or even the SARS outbreak years back, the Sichuan quake was immediately identified as a "grade one" disaster, placing the central government in charge of relief efforts instantly. (In other words, there was no delay as has happened in the past, when provincial authorities tried to handle the crisis, only to conclude they couldn't and needed the center to come to the rescue.) "It's only when disasters hit that Wen plays his biggest role," says Zhan Jiang, dean of journalism at the China Youth University for Political Sciences in Beijing, "It's only at these times that he really has the ability to do things like move the army and mobilize the local leadership."
Which Wen and other officials have done with surprising speed and comparative transparency. In theory at least, some observers might have expected Beijing leaders to react a bit more like the truculent and xenophobic Burmese generals who only reluctantly accepted outside help (and even then, not nearly fast enough) after the devastating Cyclone Nargis which ultimately may claim up to 200,000 Burmese lives, according to the latest estimates.
In contrast, after the Big One in Sichuan, China's been the anti-Burma: swift, sympathetic and startlingly open. The military and armed police mobilized immediately; one soldier based in a Chengdu unit said he was on the road within ten minutes of the quake. Authorities moreover were remarkably forthcoming about fatality counts - a stark difference compared to the 1976 Tangshan earthquake; its official death toll of 240,000 remained a state secret for three years, and even now is suspected of being too low.
Last week many Chinese experts cited a new "government information disclosure" law, which came into force May 1, as giving more progressive bureaucrats the legal backing (and ammunition) to release data of interest to the public. "I call it a 'sunshine law', somewhat like the freedom of information act," says Shi Anbin, professor of media studies at Tsinghua University, "It mandates the Chinese government at every level to provide information, especially at times like this."
Equally surprising has been the assertiveness of domestic media. Despite Propaganda Bureau instructions on Day #1 that only four state-run media could send reporters to the quake scene, many editors - sensing the story of a lifetime and the fact that local authorities were completely ill-equipped to enforce the usual media ground rules - mobilized reporting teams anyway (one of them equipped with an SUV an mountain bikes on the roofrack). CCTV quickly spun up its version of CNN-style breaking news coverage, complete with maps, talking heads and nifty graphics.
If Wen Jiabao is the man of the moment, setting an open-minded and responsive example for lesser bureaucrats, the big question is how long will his moment last? Many journalists predict the party's powerful propaganda department ultimately will re-assert control of domestic reporters, now swarming over the site, once the urgency of the quake story diminishes; technically, censorship was never lifted in any case. While many newspapers and magazines have reported more far more independently than they are supposed to, they have hardly been critical
However the recent outpouring of positive news coverage in both foreign and domestic media has been "a rewarding experience" for China's leaders, who are now encouraged to pursue greater openness "at least until after the Olympics, and probably until after the Shanghai Expo in 2010," predicts Tsinghua's Shi.
He also argues that the peripatetic premier and his boss President Hu Jintao, who made his own high-profile trip to the disaster zone Friday, are simply trying to revive a tradition of Chinese leaders taking on the role of The Great Communicator, in the mold of the late Great Helsman Mao Zedong and his premier Zhou Enlai. "They're restoring a more Chinese style of public relations," he says, "Even the photo ops and the use of sound bites indicate they want to use this opportunity to restore the tradition of public communication established by Mao and Zhou, who were great masters of P.R."
The late premier Zhou Enlai, for example, set the trend by making a populist trip to the site of the Xintai earthquake to comfort survivors - though that photo op far pre-dated the age of micro-blogging. Despite the fact that Chinese leaders are not elected to office- or, indeed, possibly because of it - they remain deeply aware of the need to stay on the right side of public opinion as a means of legitimizing their authority.
Wen, in particular, has mastered the art of handling big disasters at the grassroots. He made his debut in that starring role during SARS crisis. More recently, he was the guy who saved the day during the fierce snow storms in January, which paralyzed rail traffic for days during the key Chinese New Year holiday, when more than 100 million migrant workers were trying to travel home in the provinces from big cities where they work. Not only did Wen materialize to reassure impatient travelers waiting in overcrowded train stations, but "[He was] the only one able to resolve gridlock between the different provinces," says Zhan Jiang.In recent days Wen's given pep talks to exhausted rescue workers in orange jumpsuits, consoled grieving parents and shouted encouragement to survivors trapped in the rubble. "The central government hasn't forgotten about this place. We will rescue those who are injured. If the roads are blocked, we'll use airplanes," he announced in the epicenter of Wenchuan, bleary-eyed and voice cracking with emotion.
"It's good that he cares about the people and that he sent support,” Cao Peifu, a local village representative in Mianzhu county told our colleague Mary Hennock not far from the rubble of the collapsed Dongfang steam turbine factory that Wen visited this past week, "He cried and we cried too. We saw it on TV." Here's more from Mary's visit to Dujiangyan.
With less than two months to go before the Olympics the extent of China’s losses has prompted a wave of international sympathy. This mood shift on both sides is important, following the paroxysm of anti-Western sentiment over the anti-China torch relay protests.
In a metaphor for morphing public sentiment, last week the instant messaging service MSN began encouraging Chinese Netizens to show sympathy for quake survivors by adding a rainbow icon to their MSN signatures, signifying hope and prayers in the face of calamity. The rainbow campaign eclipses the earlier MSN effort to promote a heart icon followed by "China", embraced by Netizens to show their fierce nationalism in the wake of anti-Beijing demonstrations.
In terms of cementing public approval, Wen and Co. can't rest on their laurels yet. The toughest test for Chinese leaders lie in the days and months -- and even years -- ahead. Soon, quake survivors will wake up to the fact that missing loved ones will most likely never be found alive. Many distraught parents are already questioning why so many recently built schools collapsed, trapping thousands, when structures built in the 80's remained standing; an official probe is underway.
Meanwhile the pressures of securing adequate food, water, clothing, medicines and shelter -- not to mention of rebuilding entire towns -- will no doubt strain government resources and people's patience. Still, the televised images of Wen, bullhorn in his hand and tears in his eyes, has at least for a moment captivated the citizenry -- and brought grassroots Chinese closer to their leaders than the shrill jingoism of the past two months could ever have done.
