Hong Kong's Canary Flies: Top civil servant Anson Chan's resignation signals that Hong Kong's values and status as an international city are under siege
By DORINDA ELLIOTT Hong Kong
The political winds were shifting, but Anson Chan stood her ground. As the 1997 deadline for Hong Kong's handover to Chinese sovereignty loomed, a social revolution was sweeping the British colony. Former London loyalists busily jettisoned their colonial baggage, discarding titles and friends as fast as you could say "Let's make a deal" in Chinese. After 150 years, the British — even the English language — were out of vogue. Hong Kong's establishment flocked, instead, to receptions hosted by Chinese officialdom and Red Chip mainland companies. Beijing's hand-picked chief executive, C.H. Tung, a British-educated shipping tycoon who had spent a decade in the U.S., suddenly started playing up his Chineseness, too. Western bankers and friends had always called him C.H. Suddenly, he decided he would be called by his Chinese name, Tung Chee-hwa. Anson Chan would have none of it. The colony's chief secretary, the dimpled, Shanghai-born bureaucrat who ruled the civil service with a stiffly correct Westminster style, continued to call her new boss "C.H."
In the end, the story of Hong Kong boils down to that clash: between the city's traditional international role and its new Chinese identity. When Chan announced her premature retirement last week, everyone in Hong Kong — from resigned taxi drivers to pro-Beijing tycoons — knew it marked the end of an era. Chan, by far Hong Kong's most popular official, has resolutely stood for Hong Kong's status as an international city, and all that meant: rule of law, transparency, spirited debate, even democracy. Chan's civil service, known for its professionalism, has earned Hong Kong its reputation as a fair place to do business, a city where officials can't be bought. Before the handover, she promised to protect the Hong Kong way of life and business from China's corruption and guanxi-driven dealings — and hinted that she would quit if she felt those influences creeping in. A senior official once called her "the canary in the mineshaft." Though Chan chose to go quietly, venting her frustrations only to her closest friends, the departure is a sign that Hong Kong's values are under siege. "This signals a change in culture," says Margaret Ng, a prominent lawyer and legislator. "We will have a more Chinese approach, and more authority around the chief executive, who would like to see himself as completely in line with the Beijing authorities."
On the surface, Hong Kong has weathered the transition to Chinese rule remarkably well. No tanks have rolled down Queen's Road. Not a single khaki-clad People's Liberation Army soldier has been spotted on the streets since the rain-drenched night of the handover three years ago. Foreign investment is holding steady. Most importantly, Beijing has taken pains to keep its hands out of Hong Kong's affairs. What Chan worries about is not Beijing's meddling but the erosion of the Hong Kong way from the inside.
Under Chinese rule, Hong Kong is supposed to be protected by a "one country, two systems" formula that allows the city to maintain its British common law and its own politics for at least 50 years. Chan "believes it is important to emphasize two systems," says one colleague. But Tung has surrounded himself with conservative, pro-Beijing yes-men. His own Confucian, patriotic instincts lead him to emphasize the one-country side of things. "One country is obvious and a fact," says Ng. "It's the two-systems part that you need to defend."
Why did Chan decide to go now? Newspapers have speculated that she wants to avoid tough decisions coming down the line. But the real reason is almost certainly a fundamental difference in belief of what is good for Hong Kong — and Chan's deep frustration that Tung declines to protect Hong Kong's autonomy more vigilantly. Close colleagues say she was worn out by fighting for her values — and losing too many battles.
From the start, her stubborn arguments fell on deaf ears. The first big showdown erupted over a case involving the right of Chinese-born children of Hong Kong citizens to live in Hong Kong. In 1999, Hong Kong's Court of Final Appeal reached a verdict allowing hundreds of thousands of mainlanders to migrate to the city. Behind closed doors, Chan argued for amending the city's constitution to avoid turning to Beijing for a reinterpretation. Tung sent the case to Beijing, which overturned the ruling. The legal community yelped. "I worry a great deal about our profession," says lawyer James To. "The [reversal] was a crucial point marking the loss of our legal autonomy. The whole legal industry was shaken."
Tung and Chan have disagreed over freedom of the press, too. "You have to accept [the free press] warts and all," Chan recently said. In 1999, Xu Simin, a leading pro-Beijing figure, attacked RTHK, the government's broadcasting corporation, for allowing Taiwan's envoy to defend the island's "two-states" policy on air. Chan tried to persuade Tung to bluntly defend the free press and rebuke Xu. Ever the conciliator, Tung insisted on a softer approach. ""I really hope that [the media] can discipline themselves in various areas," Tung said.
Perhaps the most outrageous affront to Chan's beliefs was the scandal that erupted last summer at Hong Kong University. A professor and director of a public-opinion program charged that an aide to Tung, Andrew Lo, had pressured him to stop conducting polls on the chief executive's popularity. Concerned about suggestions that cronyism was creeping into government, Chan tried to persuade Tung to fire Lo. But he loyally stood by his aide.
Chan has been dismayed that Tung's circle of advisers, from property tycoons to aides, consult with him privately, then bandy around policy ideas as if they were Tung's views. "Our system is about values like integrity, transparency and honesty," says one civil servant. "But under Tung, half the time you don't know what's been said and who's doing what."
It's not surprising that Chan felt sidelined. After all, the two represent entirely different cultures. The tough-talking bureaucrat was born in Shanghai and speaks perfect Shanghainese, Mandarin and Cantonese. But she was raised in the strict discipline of the British civil service. "I believe in systems," Chan has said in her crisp British accent. In the civil service, officials are expected to argue their points. Chan rarely pulls her punches, even criticizing friends when necessary. "She wouldn't condone any mistakes we made," says Shelly Lee, director of the Home Affairs Department and a longtime friend. "We've been told off by her in meetings." Tung grew up in the shadow of his flamboyant Confucian father, who taught his children the importance of respect, order and hierarchy. According to colleagues, Tung believes in harmony — and worries that noisy democracy could shake Hong Kong's stability. "The problem is Tung wants to build consensus all the time," says one colleague.
Without Chan, will Hong Kong simply become another Chinese city? Donald Tsang, the bow-tied financial secretary, is the current favorite to be the next chief secretary. He guarded the territory's financial autonomy in negotiations before the handover. But Tsang is more cautious than Chan, and the government will soon have to deal with contentious issues. For example, Chan has tried unsuccessfully to persuade Tung to begin debate about democracy now rather than wait for 2007, when Hong Kong will decide whether it wants complete direct elections.
Chan's departure doesn't mean Hong Kong's autonomy has been destroyed. The government's decision to allow members of the Falungong movement — outlawed in China — to congregate last week was an act of independence. But there are worrying signs. The refusal to permit some followers to enter the territory raised concerns. There are also fears that Tung's plans to appoint loyalists to top civil service posts could erode the system. "The danger is officials will speak up less and less," says one civil servant.
To Chan, speaking one's mind is a duty. At a meeting in Beijing last September, Liao Hui, head of the Hong Kong and Macau Affairs Office, must have been surprised at Chan's reaction to his criticism that she be more supportive of Tung. According to an official at the meeting, Chan insisted she would continue to express her views. "If you expect me to sit there and say nothing, I can't do it," she reportedly said. "It's simply not in my nature." "Chan sees Hong Kong's international status as a matter of survival," says legislator Ng. "If we bend over backwards to become a Chinese city, then we must fear for the future." The canary has sent her signal.
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