Quotes of the Day

The two biggest moments in Tung Chee-hwa's political life took place in two Chinese cities, under two Chinese leaders. In January 1996, a year-and-a-half before Hong Kong's handover to China, the 150 members of the committee overseeing the transition clustered in Beijing's Great Hall of the People to show fealty to their new sovereign, China's President Jiang Zemin. As the delegation posed for a group shot, a beaming Jiang strode across the hall, singled out Tung, and vigorously pumped his hand. With that one gesture, Jiang anointed Tung as China's first postcolonial Chief Executive of Hong Kong.

Nearly nine years later, Jiang's successor, Hu Jintao, had a different message, and a blunter way to convey it. While visiting Macau last December for the fifth anniversary of the enclave's own return to China, a stern-looking Hu told Tung and his team to "examine its inadequacies, and raise its competence." The rebuke was delivered under the full glare of TV lights, with Tung standing somberly like a schoolboy being scolded.

There, perhaps, lies the most important moral of post-1997 Hong Kong. Despite the "one country, two systems" formula that China's leader Deng Xiaoping pledged would govern Hong Kong—a formula that grants the territory considerable autonomy—and despite the many freedoms Hong Kong enjoys compared with the mainland, China's leaders call the shots on the key issues. Such blessings as they bestow, they can take away.

That truth seemed to apply forcefully last week. Just a little over two months since Hu dressed down Tung in Macau, Hong Kong's ever-fevered media were reporting that Tung's days as Chief Executive were numbered, and that he might leave office as early as this week—two years before his second term would be up. The speculation, which swept through the city with the intensity of a summer typhoon, followed the news that Tung had been named to the Chinese People's Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC), a largely ceremonial advisory body, and that he would be made one of its 25 vice chairmen, a post usually accorded retired officials. Because China's leadership has been unhappy with Tung's performance, the widespread conclusion among politicians and pundits was that he was being kicked upstairs, and that his CPPCC appointment—together with a very public pat on the back by Hu in Beijing last week—was a face-saving way for him to depart.

"Beijing wants him to go," says Democratic Party founder Martin Lee, a long-standing opponent of Tung. But even Tung's supporters acknowledge that he is leaving, though they argue it's of his own volition. "Tung feels he's already finished his mission," says Choy So-yuk, a legislator from the pro-Beijing Democratic Alliance for Betterment of Hong Kong. "He's helped Hong Kong make a smooth transition." Beijing itself was silent, and Tung would allow, without denying the speculation, only that he would "give an account at the appropriate time."

There may be confusion about the state of Hong Kong's leadership, but no crisis—yet. That's because, for at least the past year, Tung, 67, has not really been leading the territory at all, leaving the daily running of the government machine mainly to Chief Secretary Donald Tsang and Financial Secretary Henry Tang, the two most senior members of his administration. After suffering in the years immediately after the handover—the Asian financial crisis, SARS, bird flu—Hong Kong is now ticking over nicely. Unemployment is down, exports, the stock and property markets are all up, and the economy grew 8% last year. But if Tung is indeed leaving, his departure raises hard questions about China's intentions toward Hong Kong, especially regarding the territory's pace of reform toward democracy. "Beijing is moving toward a more interventionist and tougher line," says Anthony Cheung, a professor of public administration at the City University of Hong Kong.

Tung, the son of a tycoon and heir to the family's shipping business, is widely considered a nice guy. But he had no political or government experience prior to becoming Chief Executive, and he was not known as a dynamic executive at his father's company. For the Chinese leadership, however, he was a safe bet. Tung was loyal to Beijing and to the idea that Hong Kong should primarily be "an economic city" contributing to China's modernization. Democracy was not a part of his vocabulary. That suited Beijing just fine, and in his first term in office, when the worst challenges he had to face were a stalled economy and falling property prices (though in Hong Kong, any drop in the value of property brings on a collective attack of the vapors), he performed to China's satisfaction. The central government endorsed Tung for a second five-year term in 2002, and Hong Kong's 800-member Election Committee—which consists largely of pro-China businesspeople, executives and professionals—naturally did Beijing's bidding.

Tung would have done better to quit while he was ahead. Public discontent with him spiked sharply—over the economy, his administration's bungled handling of the SARS epidemic, and its attempt to bulldoze through the legislature antisubversion laws that many Hong Kongers felt could be used to stifle dissent. The discontent spilled into the streets on July 1, 2003, when half a million marched to demand that Tung go. China's leadership, which had been informed by Tung that the protest would be small and well contained, was not amused. A year later, after Beijing ruled out the direct election of Tung's successor, around the same number marched again, this time for greater democracy. Suddenly, Tung looked less an asset for Beijing than a liability—a man who had not just become deeply unpopular but seemed unable to control the territory. From being a folk who (it was condescendingly said) worried about nothing other than the state of their pocketbooks, Hong Kong people have developed a taste for public protest—over free elections, real estate schemes, the environment, even teachers' rights. That form of political expression is anathema to China's leaders. "There is a cause for concern for them if protests in Hong Kong set a precedent," says Michael Enright, a business professor at the University of Hong Kong, "or if the push for democratic elections sets a precedent."

Removing Tung could be part of a strategy to prevent that from happening. It would take away the focal point for dissent that Tung has become, and it would show that China's leaders are responsive to public opinion in Hong Kong. Both Hu and Premier Wen Jiabao have tried to convey the image of a kinder, gentler leadership that cares for the masses, even as they maintain a tight grip on power. During the SARS epidemic, for example, Wen sacked China's Health Minister for underplaying the scale of the crisis, and impressed Hong Kongers with his apparent warmth and sincerity by visiting the home of a family stricken by the disease.

Tung's departure also gives Beijing flexibility over how much electoral reform to allow in Hong Kong. The Basic Law, the territory's constitution, says that the Chief Secretary becomes acting Chief Executive if the top post is vacated in mid-term, and that a new leader has to be chosen by the Election Committee within six months. The question—now hotly discussed by Hong Kong's many lawyers—is whether the new Chief Executive merely serves out the rest of Tung's term to 2007, or whether he gets a new five-year term to 2010. If it's the latter, then the constitutional changes currently being debated to expand the Election Committee so as to include a more representative cross-section of society by 2007 could be delayed or rendered moot. Says Ronny Tong, a pro-democracy legislator: "If this is a play, then it's a very well-planned maneuver."

The plan seems likely to include inducting Chief Secretary Tsang, 60, as Tung's successor. Unlike Tung, Tsang, who is popularly known for wearing colorful bow ties, grew up in a low-income household and is respected by many Hong Kong people for making a success of his life. As a veteran civil servant, Tsang knows how Hong Kong works. And as a lifelong administrator, his instinct is to be conservative—a quality Beijing appreciates. "He's someone who is able to carry on business as usual, ensure economic growth and political stability, and who doesn't create controversy," says City University's Cheung.

Trouble is, eight years ago, precisely the same could have been said of Tung. The central truth about Hong Kong is that it has long ceased being a society that cares about nothing but business and stability. Do Tsang, Hu, and Wen understand that? And—a harder question, with more profound consequences for Hong Kong—if they do, is Beijing prepared to tolerate it?

• Zoher Abdoolcarim | Hong Kong
• Hong Kong's Chief Executive seems likely to leave office soon, as the city now wonders what the future holds