What kind of person does it take to lead the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), the world's largest political organization, ruling over 1.3 billion souls? Does it take a great visionary? A ruthless tyrant? A dogmatic ideologue? Or a tame puppet? Last November the enigmatic Hu Jintao became CCP Chairman and earlier this year, President. He came to power as a blank slate, and in the 100 days that he has held both posts, the nature of his leadership has become an increasingly heated topic of debate. Many see Hu's actions over the past three months as cause for hope that he's a reformer likely to initiate large-scale change. Optimists point to his decree that the SARS crisis be handled openly, and to the government's steps to overhaul its notoriously brutal system of extrajudicial detention. But so far Hu has governed by the book—and there's little evidence he'll do otherwise.
From his predecessor, Jiang Zemin, Hu inherited the mandate for maintaining China's social compact after the Tiananmen Square massacre: the government gets to continue its autocratic ways, and in return the people get the longest sustained period of prosperity in more than 50 years. During last year's 16th Party Congress, which saw Hu's appointment as General Secretary, China's leaders made but one concrete pledge to the public—and it had dollar signs attached. The CCP vowed to quadruple the nation's per capita income by the year 2020.
No, Hu is President because he is an accomplished political contortionist, and so far he's made all the moves expected of him—nothing more. He actively led a fresh internal Party campaign to study Jiang's doctrine of the Three Represents, thus preserving the legacy of the old guard and ensuring the continuity of Party authority. He has reiterated economic development targets and prosecuted the ongoing war against corruption, persuading the country's striving middle class that their needs are being addressed. He has also visited peasants who live in absolute poverty, helping to neutralize discontent among the neglected, disadvantaged, repressed and disillusioned. This all follows the script.
It is true that Hu's government during the SARS epidemic displayed a degree of responsiveness not seen under previous leaderships. This generated a flood of praise from around China, and the whispers of "tame puppet" that were floating around faded away. But the true litmus tests have yet to come. One such test will occur the next time leadership is tempted to use force to suppress dissent. Among post-Mao rulers, Deng Xiaoping stumbled in both 1979 (crushing the Democracy Wall movement) and 1989 (the Tiananmen Square massacre), while Jiang Zemin failed in 1999 against the meditation group Falun Gong. Another litmus test is the Party's relationship with the media. Now that public opinion has swung in Hu's favor, he could consolidate his power by loosening the censor's steely grip. This could give him leverage to fight bureaucratic resistance to needed institutional reforms. The option is there, but Hu hasn't taken it.
The Chinese public has long been prone to worship leaders who appear even infinitesimally different from dictators. Take, for example, the public's veneration of Premier Zhou Enlai toward the end of the Cultural Revolution. That reverence had much more to do with disillusionment with Mao than evidence that Zhou was truly another kind of leader. As the French politician Léon Blum once said, "I believe it because I hope for it." The Chinese public might mistake benevolence from their ruler for democratic values and might confuse administrative reforms with real political reforms—but the leadership will not.