Red Flags and Green Mail Boxes

This is the first of a two-part story.

When anyone asks me what has changed in Hong Kong in the 10 years since its return to China and the departure of the British, I usually say you see a lot of red flags flying (mostly flags of Hong Kong, not China) and the red Royal Mail boxes have been painted Hong Kong Post green.

That sounds rather flip, but in fact to me very has little changed. Street cars (called trams here) still trundle down streets named after colonial governors. Barristers still address red judges (from the color of their gowns not their political persuasion) as “your worship”.

One would be hard pressed to uncover many significant changes since the British Union Jack was hauled down and the red and yellow flag of China raised over the territory at midnight on the night of June 30, 1997, ending 156 years of British colonial rule and ushering in the untried political concept known as “one country, two systems.”

That’s not to say that the intervening decade has been easy. By some strange confluence of events the Asian Financial Crisis hit the region exactly one day after the handover with the precipitous fall of the Thai baht. There followed years of economic stagnation and unusually high unemployment from which Hong Kong is only now recovering.

There were other traumas, especially the deadly and frightening outbreak of SARS (Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome) in 2003. Add to that a crash in property prices, a bird flu outbreak, scandals in the hospital administration. None, with the possible exception of SARs, could be fairly blamed, even partially, on China.

Hong Kong’s first native Chief Executive, Tung Chee-hwa struggled, mostly unsuccessfully, to cope with these problems. He lost the confidence of most Hong Kong people early on and belatedly that of Beijing too. Halfway through his second term he resigned, and the mandate of heaven passed to his deputy Donald Tsang, a career civil servant more competent and politically adept than his predecessor.

As the fateful date of July 1, 1997, approached, Hong Kong and China had eyed each other warily. For Hong Kong, of course, the fear was that China would break its promises to allow the territory to keep its freedoms and way of life once the British (and most of the world’s press) had departed.

The Chinese had their own anxieties that Hong Kong that would turn into a base from which to subvert communist rule on the mainland. This fear was not unfounded. Hong Kong people had overwhelmingly and openly sided with the students who occupied Tiananmen Square in May 1989 until they were brutally suppressed by the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) on the night of June 4.

In the wake of Tiananmen, Beijing insisted on inserting new language into the draft of Hong Kong’s post-1997 charter, the Basic Law, obliging the SAR [Special Administrative Region] government to enact laws to suppress “subversion” and protect “state secrets” which are pretty loosely defined in China.

Article 23, as it was known, was considered so sensitive and so potentially damaging to “confidence” in Hong Kong’s future, that the government waited five years before acting. By then, it reasoned, Hong Kong people had become more comfortable with and less fearful of China’s ambitions to dismantle its freedoms. It was a serious miscalculation.

On July 1, 2003, a holiday in Hong Kong meant to celebrate the glorious return of the colony to the motherland half a million people (me included) turned out in a massive demonstration against Article 23 and the Hong Kong government in general. In its wake Tung withdrew the proposed bill indefinitely.

In a way it was China’s worst nightmare come true – except that it was so peaceful that one could (and some did) push baby strollers. One can only imagine the consequences had things turned violent, with rioters burning cars and smashing windows, requiring the government to call on the PLA garrison for support.

The demonstrators had many rude things to say about Tung Chee-hwa, but did not criticize China’s leaders, something that Beijing cannot fail to have noticed. Indeed, Premier Wen Jiabao was in town (he departed just before the demo), and he was greeted respectfully, even warmly, everywhere he went.

Ten years after the handover, Article 23 is a dead issue. The government shows no sign of wanting to reintroduce legislation, and there are no signs that Beijing is pushing it to do so or will anytime in the near future.

In terms of its political development, Hong Kong is about where the last British governor, Chris Patten, left it in 1997. That is, half of the legislature, known as the Legislative Council or Legco, is directly elected through universal suffrage. The other half is chosen through specialized “functional constituencies” of professional groups, such as doctors and lawyers.

The Chief Executive, analogous to the former British governor, is appointed by Beijing on the advice of an 800-person “selection committee” made up mainly of conservative businessmen and other notables.

Immediately after the handover, literally in the wee hours of July 1, the so-called provisional legislature repealed many of Patten’s democratic reforms, cutting the number of directly elected seats 20. Even so the first post-handover election in 1998 saw most of prominent democrats returned to Legco.

In the ensuing decade, the number of directly elected seats expanded to 30 in accordance with a timetable spelled out in precise detail in the Basic Law. Unfortunately, the charter turns vague after this point saying only that it is a goal to eventually, sometime in the future, in the here and yon, to elect all of the Legco and the chief executive through universal suffrage.

Therein lies the current political deadlock. Beijing has served notice that it will not approve any further political changes anytime soon. I’ve always had the hunch that Beijing is waiting for former chief secretary Anson Chan, now 68, to pass from the scene before risking the sensitive post of chief to the popular will.

At the time of the handover, Anson was by far the most popular political figure in Hong Kong. If the post had been filled though a direct election, she would have won hands down. But she was (and still is) deeply distrusted by the Beijing hierarchy because of her past association with the British.

Though retired, Anson thrust herself onto the political scene last year when she went on the radio to urge people to turn out for the July 1 pro-democracy march, now pretty much an annual event, which boosted the numbers from previous years. There was also talk that she might challenge Donald Tsang in the selection committee, although in the end she did not put herself forward.

Of course, it is equally plausible, even likely, that the answer is simpler. China is happy with Hong Kong’s current system and is in no mood to change things. Every now and then a prominent Beijing official admonishes Hong Kong to forget about full democracy and stick to making money.

For example in March National People’s Congress vice chairman Cheng Sewei said, “If Hong Kong people focus on internal political rows and not economic development they might be marginalized.” He knew where to stick the stiletto, playing on Hong Kong’s barely suppressed anxiety about being overtaken and rendered irrelevant by Singapore or Shanghai, two places where there is no nonsense about democracy.

Todd Crowell lived in Hong Kong from 1987 to 2004. He is the author of Farewell, My Colony: Last Years in the Life of British Hong Kong

This is the first of a two-part story.

When anyone asks me what has changed in Hong Kong in the 10 years since its return to China and the departure of the British, I usually say you see a lot of red flags flying (mostly flags of Hong Kong, not China) and the red Royal Mail boxes have been painted Hong Kong Post green.

That sounds rather flip, but in fact to me very has little changed. Street cars (called trams here) still trundle down streets named after colonial governors. Barristers still address red judges (from the color of their gowns not their political persuasion) as “your worship”.

One would be hard pressed to uncover many significant changes since the British Union Jack was hauled down and the red and yellow flag of China raised over the territory at midnight on the night of June 30, 1997, ending 156 years of British colonial rule and ushering in the untried political concept known as “one country, two systems.”

That’s not to say that the intervening decade has been easy. By some strange confluence of events the Asian Financial Crisis hit the region exactly one day after the handover with the precipitous fall of the Thai baht. There followed years of economic stagnation and unusually high unemployment from which Hong Kong is only now recovering.

There were other traumas, especially the deadly and frightening outbreak of SARS (Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome) in 2003. Add to that a crash in property prices, a bird flu outbreak, scandals in the hospital administration. None, with the possible exception of SARs, could be fairly blamed, even partially, on China.

Hong Kong’s first native Chief Executive, Tung Chee-hwa struggled, mostly unsuccessfully, to cope with these problems. He lost the confidence of most Hong Kong people early on and belatedly that of Beijing too. Halfway through his second term he resigned, and the mandate of heaven passed to his deputy Donald Tsang, a career civil servant more competent and politically adept than his predecessor.

As the fateful date of July 1, 1997, approached, Hong Kong and China had eyed each other warily. For Hong Kong, of course, the fear was that China would break its promises to allow the territory to keep its freedoms and way of life once the British (and most of the world’s press) had departed.

The Chinese had their own anxieties that Hong Kong that would turn into a base from which to subvert communist rule on the mainland. This fear was not unfounded. Hong Kong people had overwhelmingly and openly sided with the students who occupied Tiananmen Square in May 1989 until they were brutally suppressed by the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) on the night of June 4.

In the wake of Tiananmen, Beijing insisted on inserting new language into the draft of Hong Kong’s post-1997 charter, the Basic Law, obliging the SAR [Special Administrative Region] government to enact laws to suppress “subversion” and protect “state secrets” which are pretty loosely defined in China.

Article 23, as it was known, was considered so sensitive and so potentially damaging to “confidence” in Hong Kong’s future, that the government waited five years before acting. By then, it reasoned, Hong Kong people had become more comfortable with and less fearful of China’s ambitions to dismantle its freedoms. It was a serious miscalculation.

On July 1, 2003, a holiday in Hong Kong meant to celebrate the glorious return of the colony to the motherland half a million people (me included) turned out in a massive demonstration against Article 23 and the Hong Kong government in general. In its wake Tung withdrew the proposed bill indefinitely.

In a way it was China’s worst nightmare come true – except that it was so peaceful that one could (and some did) push baby strollers. One can only imagine the consequences had things turned violent, with rioters burning cars and smashing windows, requiring the government to call on the PLA garrison for support.

The demonstrators had many rude things to say about Tung Chee-hwa, but did not criticize China’s leaders, something that Beijing cannot fail to have noticed. Indeed, Premier Wen Jiabao was in town (he departed just before the demo), and he was greeted respectfully, even warmly, everywhere he went.

Ten years after the handover, Article 23 is a dead issue. The government shows no sign of wanting to reintroduce legislation, and there are no signs that Beijing is pushing it to do so or will anytime in the near future.

In terms of its political development, Hong Kong is about where the last British governor, Chris Patten, left it in 1997. That is, half of the legislature, known as the Legislative Council or Legco, is directly elected through universal suffrage. The other half is chosen through specialized “functional constituencies” of professional groups, such as doctors and lawyers.

The Chief Executive, analogous to the former British governor, is appointed by Beijing on the advice of an 800-person “selection committee” made up mainly of conservative businessmen and other notables.

Immediately after the handover, literally in the wee hours of July 1, the so-called provisional legislature repealed many of Patten’s democratic reforms, cutting the number of directly elected seats 20. Even so the first post-handover election in 1998 saw most of prominent democrats returned to Legco.

In the ensuing decade, the number of directly elected seats expanded to 30 in accordance with a timetable spelled out in precise detail in the Basic Law. Unfortunately, the charter turns vague after this point saying only that it is a goal to eventually, sometime in the future, in the here and yon, to elect all of the Legco and the chief executive through universal suffrage.

Therein lies the current political deadlock. Beijing has served notice that it will not approve any further political changes anytime soon. I’ve always had the hunch that Beijing is waiting for former chief secretary Anson Chan, now 68, to pass from the scene before risking the sensitive post of chief to the popular will.

At the time of the handover, Anson was by far the most popular political figure in Hong Kong. If the post had been filled though a direct election, she would have won hands down. But she was (and still is) deeply distrusted by the Beijing hierarchy because of her past association with the British.

Though retired, Anson thrust herself onto the political scene last year when she went on the radio to urge people to turn out for the July 1 pro-democracy march, now pretty much an annual event, which boosted the numbers from previous years. There was also talk that she might challenge Donald Tsang in the selection committee, although in the end she did not put herself forward.

Of course, it is equally plausible, even likely, that the answer is simpler. China is happy with Hong Kong’s current system and is in no mood to change things. Every now and then a prominent Beijing official admonishes Hong Kong to forget about full democracy and stick to making money.

For example in March National People’s Congress vice chairman Cheng Sewei said, “If Hong Kong people focus on internal political rows and not economic development they might be marginalized.” He knew where to stick the stiletto, playing on Hong Kong’s barely suppressed anxiety about being overtaken and rendered irrelevant by Singapore or Shanghai, two places where there is no nonsense about democracy.

Todd Crowell lived in Hong Kong from 1987 to 2004. He is the author of Farewell, My Colony: Last Years in the Life of British Hong Kong

Indonesia Shows the Way

Dollar for dollar, the best value in the Global War on Terrorism must be the few millions that Washington has given to Indonesia to help fund its special anti-terrorism police group known as Detachment 88.

For the price of a couple of cruise missiles, Indonesian authorities, with Detachment 88 in the van, have gone a long way to rolling up Jamaah Islamiyah (JI) the regional ally of al-Queda.

JI operatives were instrumental in four major terror bombings in Indonesia beginning with the first Bali bombings in October, 2002. They also planned attacks on the Marriott Hotel, the Australian Embassy in Jakarta and a second attack in Bali.

Detachment 88 first proved its value when in late 2005 it cornered and killed the Malaysian-born master bomber Azahari bin Husin. Starting in March this year it initiated raids that culminated in two more big scores in June.

In central Java it arrested Abu Dejana, implicated in the nightclub bombing in Bali. He is reputed to be (accounts vary) to be the commander of JI’s military wing. Simultaneously, it arrested a man named Zarkasih in Jogjakarta, described as the “emir” of the terror organization.

“Clearly, the loss of two first-generation, al-Qaeda-trained operatives is a major blow,” said Sidney Jones, a Jakarta-based expert on terrorism in Southeast Asia. “We couldn’t have done it without proper detective work,” added one foreign police officer involved in training Detachment 88.

Detachment 88 was formed after the first Bali bombings (the numeral 88 is said to stand for the number of Australians killed in the attack). The funds to help run it come from the US Anti-Terrorism Assistance Program. It is advised by the CIA, FBI and Australian Federal Police.

I can’t find the exact figure given to fund Detachment 88 (about $10 million sticks in my mind), but the total budget for the program, which includes aid to groups in Afghanistan, Colombia and other countries, is less than $100 million.

“There have been significant gains in reducing the size of JI, and Detachment 88 has been the tip of the spear,” says Ken Conboy, another anti-terrorism expert based in Jakarta.

Documents seized during the raids show that Jamaah Islamiyah has lowered its sights considerably. Where once it envisioned a caliphate encompassing all of Indonesia, Malaysia, southern Philippines and even parts of Australia, it now concentrates almost exclusively on the island of Java.


Zarhasih was virtually unknown outside of police circles when he was apprehended and unmasked as the leader of JI. “By his own admission he was selected for the top job because so many of his colleagues had been captured,” said Conboy. “If an unknown becomes JI’s default emir, that speaks volumes about the attrition in the ranks,” he added.

Indonesia’s success in the war on terror is all the more remarkable in that it has no equivalent of the Internal Security Act, which Singapore and Malaysia have and use to imprison suspected terrorists (not to mention other political opponents) indefinitely without charges or trials.

Indonesia’s 2003 counter terrorism law allows for the detention of suspects for only up to one week before they either have to be charged or released. A new law that would permit detention without trial for up to six months is stalled in parliament.

Yet Congress persists on looking on Indonesia as a human rights violator, mainly the regular army, stemming from the violence that engulfed East Timor in the wake of the 1999 independence referendum. Some in Washington insist that officers implicated in the violence have not been properly punished.

To its credit, the administration of President George W Bush has stuck by Indonesia.

The amount of assistance that the US provides to Indonesia’s armed forces is minuscule to begin with, but the constant efforts to cut it or attach “conditions” sends a wrong message to a valuable ally that is conducting a successful battle against a common enemy.

The recent high-profile arrests (not to mention numerous others with lower profiles) shows that a modest amount of financial support and training can have a genuine impact and how misguided are those who scorn mere police work over conventional military action in the war on terror.

Jazz on the Beach

HUA HIN – The combination is hard to beat: sand under your feet, a cool breeze wafting off the Gulf of Thailand, barrels of beer at every corner and the sound of cool jazz. What more could one want on a hot summer day?

The Hua Hin Jazz Festival has been growing in popularity and stature since it was founded in 2002 as a means of drawing more visitors to this seaside resort, about 200 km south of Bangkok.

The fact that it is a convenient two-hour drive from the capital has made the festival popular with young couples, lovers as well as jazz lovers. That this year’s festival was scaled down from 2006 did not seem to dampen the turnout.

Only two European jazz groups were on hand this year, instead of five the previous year. They included the Scandinavian diva Caroline Henderson, whose latest album “Love or Nothin’” won the “best album” award at the Danish Music Festival – the Danish “Grammy” - while she was here.

“I got the text message last night,” she beamed shortly before going on stage. The after glow of the recognition seemed to animate her performance on the second and last night of the festival.

She sang several numbers from the award-winning album, including “So Fine,” and an energetic rendition of “Sugar” as well as, from another album, an very personal rendition of that old standard, “Tenderly.”

The other headline group from abroad was the rocco Italian music twins Frederico “Kikko” and Francesco “Kekko” Montifiori. They were joined, as is usual, by complementary jazz groups from Thailand, including the S.U. Jazz Quintet, Ben Charatit & Mariam Alcalali, the Young Blood Band and Bossa Blossom

“You know our [economic and political] situation here in Thailand,” said Panadcanang Tippagomut, project director for CM Organizer. The scaled down event is “part of the ‘sufficiency economy’,” she said, referring to the Buddhist-inspired all things in moderation philosophy that is associated with King Bhumibol.

A representative of Hitman, the Thai recording label, which is responsible for booking the talent, had a more prosaic explanation: “budget constraints”.

Unlike in previous years, the 2007 festival was completely off-street. All of the performances took place on a single stage on a stretch of beach fronting the historic 1920s Railroad Hotel, now part of the Sofitel Group.

Undoubtedly, having all of the festival concentrated on one place pleased local authorities of this small town who did not have to close off streets and try to accommodate the flow of traffic. If the promoter’s estimate of 65,000 jazz fans is accurate, the festival goers just about match the population of the town.

But it also underscores the limitations of the festival as it becomes better known and popular. The seaside venue is essential for the theme: “Jazz on the beach”. Yet less than 50 meters separates the expansive hotel grounds (strictly for paying guests) and the water’s edge. In that space are crammed at least 10,000 concert goers a night.

The rising tide (which happens to be highest at this time of year) did not discourage the fans. Some perched on the rocks jutting out of the sea or, when the rocks were fully occupied, simply stood angle deep in the sea keeping with the beat as water slosh through their bare feet.

The organizers abandoned the idea of a second stage in front of the neighboring Hilton Hotel, which they had tried out last year, since the beach front there is even more constricted than in front of the Sofitel. The festival is literally caught between a rock (s) and a hard place.

The Thai jazz group OMAH Quarter paid a special tribute to King Bhumibol by playing one of his compositions, a bluesy number known as “Yam Yen” (Sundown) in honor of the His Majesty’s 80^th birthday this year.

The King now lives more or less year-round in the “summer” palace, Klai Kangwon (Far from Worries) several kilometers down the beach front in Hua Hin, and he has long been a jazz aficionado and saxophone player (he once jammed with jazz great Benny Goodman during a tour of the United States).

If reports emanating from the palace are accurate, the King still regularly jams with his own band known as Aor Sor Wan Sook early on Sunday mornings at his Hua Hin palace, as they have been doing for the past 25 years.

Today the band has only about 10 members, most of whom are pushing 70. The King, of course, did not personally attend the festival. Wonder if any of his band members watched the festivities incognito?

Probably the biggest hit of the festival was the Italian Montefiori twins and their backup players with their “cocktail” mixture of easy-listening, “lounge” jazz and bosso nova. “The latter gives things a Latin flavor, which is appropriate enough since “we’re Latin ourselves,” said Fransesco. “It was World Music from the beginning.”

But there is a real Montifiori cocktail invented by Frederico’s girlfriend. It is comprised of vodka, Italian wine and strawberry juice. But beware. The concoction is pretty strong stuff. Just like the music.

In Defense of Article 9

Momentum is building in Japan to revise or drop altogether Article 9 of the constitution that prohibits maintaining “land, sea and air forces as well as other war potential.”

Prime Minister Shinzo Abe has made revision of the 1947 constitution a major goal of his administration. The Diet recently passed the legislation needed to hold a national referendum, although it is still problematical whether the government can muster the two-thirds majorities in both houses to pass the revisions.

On the surface there are compelling reasons to revise the document. One is to bring the paperwork in line with reality. Although the constitution prohibits maintaining any military forces in unequivocal language, in reality Japan maintains a sizeable “Self Defense Force.”

If the constitution were revived, it would, of course, end all talk of the self defense forces being unconstitutional and eliminate the need for various tortured arguments that have been advanced to justify the army (such as maintaining it is not a military but a kind of super police force).

Others argue that the language constrains Japanese diplomacy, makes it too dependent on the United States or, conversely, an unreliable “ally”. Some conservatives argue that constitution should be replaced because it was written by foreigners. Possessing armed forces is the “natural right” of all nations, they argue.

Yet there are compelling reasons to retain Article 9, which has served Japan well in the 60 years since the end of World War II. Indeed, polls show that an increasing numbers of Japanese are getting cold feet about the whole idea as it gets closer to reality.

But some of what the proponents of constitutional revision call advantages can also be seen as disadvantages. If the taboo on collective defense is eroded and Japan comes to assume a military role as a true US ally, it will be forced to go to war in future conflicts in which Washington plays a leading role.

In part because of Article 9 the self-defense forces were never sent to fight in the Vietnam War unlike South Korea, which sent several divisions there. The US had use of its bases in Japan to support operations in Indochina.

In that respect Article 9 has been likened to a safety valve on the US-Japan relationship that many Japanese feel is too important to give up lightly.

After the Gulf War in 1991, in which Tokyo contributed billions in financial support but no troops, it became increasingly difficult for Japan to avoid pressure to support adventures in the Middle East even by citing Article 9.

Prime Minister Junichiro Koizumi supported the decision to invade Iraq and even decided to send ground and air forces to the region. When the ground forces returned to Japan, Koizumi boasted that the troops had never been caught up in the fighting and suffered no casualties.

That’s because the SDF chose a relatively safe corner and performed duties that involved no danger (protected by Dutch and later Australian troops) and thus was consistent with the spirit of Article 9. Without it Japanese troops might have ended up like the British, who have lost many troops.

In the past 60 years a consensus in Japan has taken hold. It amounts to support for the security treaty with the US support for the self-defense forces as presently configured, and missioned and Article 9.

This wasn’t always the case. Throughout most of those years the main opposition party, the Socialist Party of Japan formally opposed both the treaty and the self-defense forces as being contrary to the constitution.

If this consensus seems like holding two contradictory thoughts at one time, the Japanese would say let’s make the most of it.