20

The Family

Sripatin/aChandrasekharn/an/an/an/a

Mao’s War With the Chinese Family¹

The years of shock treatment administered by the Chinese Communists have rendered virtually impossible any reconstitution of the pre-"liberation" form of Chinese society. Of all the institutions that have been affected, the most important is the family.

The family in China, as in other parts of the world, has been the single major factor in insuring the stability and survival of the essentials of human civilization. From the time of Confucius, China’s emperors and philosophers realized its importance as a fundamental social unit and its tremendous role in determining the character and structure of society.

In the "Book of Poetry," edited by Confucius, it is said, "No one is to be looked up to like a father. No one is to be depended on like a mother." During those times certain "criminals" were held to be worse than murderers. They were: "The son who does not serve his father respectfully, but greatly wounds his father’s heart; and the father who cannot cherish his son but hates him; and the younger brother who does not bear in mind the evident intention of Heaven, and will not respect his elder brother; and the elder brother who forgets the tender regard in which he should hold his younger brother, and is unfriendly to him."

Through the centuries these theoretical directives of good behavior and family loyalty gradually took root to the extent that not only businesses but even government became family matters. Men did not usually associate with strangers in any venture, but with their kin. In China the greatest loyalty was always given not to the state, or to religion, but to the smallest group—the family.

One aspect of the Communist assault on traditional Chinese society has been the technique of denunciation, destroying loyalty among relatives.

The campaign of denunciations began within two years of the Communists’ seizure of power. On Feb. 21, 1951, the Government promulgated the "Regulation of the People’s Republic of China for Punishment of Counter-Revolutionaries." This regulation was intended to suppress all opposition to the Communist regime and its policies. One extraordinary feature was that penalties were decreed for offenses committed before the promulgation of the measure.

A major effect of this regulation has been the demoralization of age-old familial loyalties. In the name of waging a war against anti-Government counter-revolu-tionaries, the Government in effect tried to break the bonds between husband and wife, parents and children, one relative and another. For the first time in China’s long and checkered history it became a virtue and an imperative patriotic duty to bear witness against one’s kith and kin.

Why did the Chinese give up their traditional and intimate loyalties so easily? The answer is simply that people do not like to face death. One can face social ostracism, economic disinheritance and political persecution, but strong must be the soul that is ready to die for love of one’s relations, especially when such love and emotion have been declared reactionary, unpatriotic and unacceptable by society at large. The much-publicized open mass trials and accusations became so terrorizing that the thought uppermost in the mind of every Chinese, once the drive had begun, was survival.

Chinese newspapers, magazines, films and official pronouncements of recent years record countless instances of sons and daughters accusing their parents (interestingly enough, few parents turned against their children) and wives turning against their husbands, and sometimes vice versa, all in the name of the patriotic duty of ferreting out anti-Government elements. Although such denunciations are not now so widespread as during the height of the drive, they still continue.

This drive has sown seeds of suspicion between one member and another in almost every family. Distrust has now become the watchword and no one can confide one’s thoughts, not to speak of one’s deeds, to another, however intimate the relationship between the two may be. Thus demoralization has set in, disrupting the cherished values inherent in the traditional close family of the Chinese.

Another aspect of the assault on traditional society has been the emancipation of women for, although this has included many desirable reforms, it has also contributed to the disruption of the old family system.

Arranged marriages have been abolished. A young man or woman can marry anyone of his or her choice provided the local Communist party and precinct police raise no objections. Concubinage and prostitution have been strictly outlawed. Monogamy has become the rule. Married women can retain their maiden names if they desire. Women have also obtained freedom of divorce.

On the economic front, women can hold property—at least such property as is still permitted to private ownership. But perhaps the most important reform is that women’s wages are paid directly to them, not to their husbands or fathers. I was told that this simple and just change in itself had reduced the family patriarch to an impotent position, and that male domination in the family had vanished.

The imposition of central authority has been an equally revolutionary change. The Chinese have been known throughout centuries for their rugged individualism. The people, particularly the rural folk, have gone about their daily business, through all their ups and downs, relying on their traditional knowledge and common sense, animated, if unconsciously, by the belief that they were governed best when they were governed least. They seldom came in contact with even provincial authority, not to speak of any directions from the nation’s capital.

This age-old disregard for central authority is now gone forever. Peiping has tightened its hold on the remotest areas. In distant villages people’s contact with the thought, actions and directives of the capital is alive, thanks to the radio. The nation’s administration is now close-knit and Peiping’s directives are carried out speedily and efficiently all over the country.

The effects of all these changes can be seen most vividly in the commune, the most extreme form of communized society known. These communes have been set up in rural areas all over the country. Peiping’s official claim is that they include 90 per cent of the rural population—some 500,000,000 people. My estimate is that, in fact, only 100,000,000 to 200,000,000 are living communal lives. But Government spokesmen frankly state that they will not rest until the whole country has become one vast commune.

I had occasion to visit four communes—the northernmost was some six miles north of Peiping and the southernmost was near Chengchow. Of the four, two were show places—one, the Sputnik Commune, and the other, Chili-yin, known as The Commune of the Sixteen Guarantees. I spent a whole day in the latter and saw something of every aspect of the commune’s life.

The Communists are not only not apologetic but positively proud of the trans-formations wrought in Chili-yin over a short period of time. Here, they have not only challenged but have swept away the concepts of centuries.

As we stepped out of the jeep, my interpreter, the city official from Chengchow who accompanied us and I were cordially greeted by a stocky peasant in the inevitable blue uniform—the director of the commune. He was very happy, he said, to welcome "the scientist from India, our great and friendly neighbor." As we walked to his modest rural office—the home of an ex-landlord—he observed that he himself was a good example of what Chairman Mao and communism had done for the nation.

"Before liberation I was the exploited son of a farmhand who never owned a mou of land. I did not know where India was. But now I am the People’s Director and, thanks to intense study of world problems and international relations, I have come to know India as our great neighbor and friend who is fighting for China and peace."

We went round the commune—innumerable crèches of chubby infants, kindergartens overflowing with well-fed children singing the now familiar songs, "Socialism Is Good," "Communes Are Good" and "Chairman Mao Is Our Savior": the Middle Schools and the Red and Expert Schools—all coeducational—and their attached hostels, clinics and kitchens.

The Red and Expert Schools take in peasants and workers, youths and adults, who have had no formal education, and give them intense part-time instruction at two levels. At the first level the student is taught the "universal truths" of the Communist classics. At the second level, he is trained in his particular specialty— it may be plowing or welding or weaving, tinkering or tailoring. The students also work on the farms and in the factories that belong to the commune. They become in a real sense Reds and experts, and they need know nothing else to play their robot roles in the new order.

The principal of the Red and Expert School was ebullient. "This kind of school is new and is not yet known even in other People’s Republics," he told me. "Here we demonstrate that virtue is teachable and human nature can be changed. And learning here is no longer the privilege of the limited few but the birthright of all."

We stopped at random at the home of a peasant. It was a small mud affair, extremely clean and neat. We were introduced to a peasant couple in their thirties. They greeted us by clapping their hands and we reciprocated. They formerly had been what were called "middle" peasants, neither rich nor poor. The house had three large rooms which the couple’s sizable family had occupied before the commune was organized. Now the family had been dispersed. The couple, who formerly owned the house, had been allotted one room, and two other couples, strangers from a near-by village, had moved into the two other rooms.

"My old parents have gone to the Happy Home for the Aged. My two sons are in the Middle School hostel. I am happy for them because they are getting an education—the new education that will make them experts. But it is the baby I miss." The wife said this, looked at the official, and added, "Of course, I can now work hard and happily, knowing that my baby is well taken care of."

"How old is the baby?" I asked.

"About 3," was the reply.

"Can’t you visit the baby?" I wanted to know.

"Of course, my husband and I can and we do. But we are so very busy with work, study and meetings," she said, in a tone half proud and half sad, "that we haven’t very much time for the baby."

"Of course, we realize that we have to work hard and produce more to defeat the American enemy and get back Taiwan," her husband intervened. His statement seemed inspired by the presence of the official, but it is possible that he meant it. In China one gets so used to hearing statements like this that I wasn’t surprised to hear it from this young peasant.

"Can you bring your child home if he falls ill?" I asked the mother.

"Of course, I can spend some time with my baby if he is ill, and if the person in charge of the crèche sends for me," she replied.

In the crèches we visited, the children did look happy and cheerful. Everything was clean, and the orderlies and the women in charge even wore cotton surgical masks. The children in their padded clothes—houses are very poorly heated all over China because of a fuel shortage—played with their crude commune-made toys.

I raised the question of children’s illnesses and parental visits with the woman in charge of one crèche. "We have a Western-trained, as well as a traditional, doctor," she said. "Both examine all sick babies and give them what is considered the best treatment under the circumstances. Sometimes we send for the parents, but more often not. We find their knowledge of how to care for their infants is certainly inferior. The doctor and nurse know more about what is good for the babies than the parents."

Among the institutions we visited was a dormitory for unmarried men and women. The occupants were roughly in the 20–25 age group. Some were waiting to get married and move into rooms allotted to married couples.

In this group was an occasional married man or woman. The women were introduced as "Worker" or "Producer," not as "Mrs. X" or "Mrs. Y." I inquired into the reason for separation. "The spouse is probably a very skilled worker and in demand elsewhere in some other town," I was told. "But the separation is temporary until the authorities can find a suitable job for the partner in the same area." It is not uncommon to come across married women working on teams in communities miles away from their husbands.

There is a belief outside China that the separation of husbands and wives sometimes found in the communes is a deliberate one. Some external observers have jumped to the conclusion that the communes are trying to solve the country’s population problem through such separation, but I inquired into this matter in some detail and have satisfied myself that these separations are temporary and accidental and not designed by the authorities for any demographic purpose.

I visited a Happy Home for the Aged where one old lady—about 70, perhaps—took me to her little room and showed me proudly a new woolen blanket that was lying on her k’ang (built-in bed). "Are you happy here?" I asked her as she handed me a handful of shelled peanuts.

"Oh, yes, I am; but I miss my grandchildren," she said, adding, perhaps as an afterthought, "I know they are getting a useful education somewhere."

Through their vague and indirect remarks—or more often through their silence to my questions—I could discern these people’s unhappiness over the disruption of their families. In the past, there were times when they did not have enough to eat or blankets enough in winter, but this was more than compensated for by the warmth of family loyalty and affections. Those days are gone and now they have material necessities but not emotional security.

Even the most casual observer could not have helped seeing that the average adult looked sullen and unhappy. He followed official directions and did his duty, but dejection and misery are impossible to conceal. We have incredible poverty in some of India’s villages, but such poverty has never been a barrier to banter and humor, and even, oddly enough, gaiety. This I completely missed in the communes and the countryside of China.

The director invited me to a simple but adequate lunch in his own office. It consisted of meat dumplings, which we dipped in a hot sauce, a sweet dish and endless cups of hot tea. Everyone enjoyed the lunch and the director, obviously satisfied and happy, recalled his days as a landless farmhand in this village before "liberation."

"These meat dumplings were a great luxury then, because we couldn’t afford meat. We had this dish only once a year during a festive occasion. Now we can have this delicacy any time we want." And he served me a few more hot dumplings.

I asked the director whether anyone could leave the commune for some other place in China. He was genuinely surprised at my question, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

"I cannot imagine anyone wanting to leave this place," he replied. "Please don’t forget that this commune came into existence because the people themselves demanded it."

He then explained that migration within China was controlled by a permit system. The permit goes with the ration card which enables one to buy rice, oil and pork in the cities and other non-commune areas.

In the communes there is no need for ration cards because everybody eats in the common mess halls. Hence anyone leaving a commune—unless on official business or with special permission—would be unable to obtain food elsewhere. Furthermore, one of the duties of street committees is to inform their daily meetings of both new arrivals and persons missing from the community street. So desertion from the communes is hazardous. Anyone caught is usually condemned to hard labor in one of the remote areas which are being developed.

"Can one go out of the commune to visit friends or relatives?" I asked.

"Permission may be granted under special circumstances, but actually such requests have not come to me so far," the director assured me.

This is a model commune—"the latest development, where we have gone one step ahead of the Soviet Union," as officials in Peiping repeatedly told me.

Everyone works according to his or her ability and all are given their basic needs. Everyone’s loyalty is dedicated to the all-powerful state and its demands and directives. Food, clothing, housing, education, medical care, recreation and burial are guaranteed. What more can one ask for? The tentacles of the state embrace every aspect and account for every hour of one’s life. Leisure, privacy and solitude have become dreadful vices. Abiding emotional attachments are suppressed in the name of the new Moloch of state and production.

What is likely to be the end of this new way of life? Will the worm someday turn and a silent revolution of angry men and women overthrow the communes? Or will the communes evolve in time a new human species—robots that respond to the radio? It is rash to prophesy.

¹ From the , May 17, 1959, pp. 21, 71–73. By permission.