(2 of 3)
For a brief interlude, Zheng He challenged such conservative tendencies. By the end of his fleet's seven voyages, China had become an unrivaled naval power. As a result of the expeditions, the Emperor in Nanjing (and later Beijing when the capital was moved north in 1420) commanded the fear and respect of leaders throughout South and Southeast Asia. China had established itself as a trade and diplomatic force, its authority backed up by the thousands of troops who accompanied Zheng He on his travels. If countries could be said to "own" centuries — the 20th century is often viewed as America's; the previous one arguably belonged to colonial superpower Britain — the 1400s were all China's. Or at least they could have been, had the country not suddenly turned inward.
There are many theories as to why China curtailed its maritime aspirations in the mid-15th century. The simplest is that the Confucians prevailed. The imperial bureaucracy sought to contain the expansionary ambitions of its sailors and the increasing power of its merchant class: Confucian ideology venerates authority and agrarian ways, not innovation and trade. "Barbarian" nations were thought to offer little of value to China. Other factors contributed: the renovation of the north-south Grand Canal, for one, facilitated grain transport and other internal commerce in gentle inland waters, obviating the need for an ocean route. And the tax burden of maintaining a big fleet was severe. But the decision to scuttle the great ships was in large part political. With the death of Yongle, the Emperor who sent Zheng He on his voyages, the conservatives began their ascendancy. China suspended naval expeditions. By century's end, construction of any ship with more than two masts was deemed a capital offense. Oceangoing vessels were destroyed. Eventually, even records of Zheng He's journey were torched. China's heroic age was over; its open door had slammed shut. "The expeditions wasted tens of myriads of money and grain," a 15th century Minister of War complained. Roderick MacFarquhar, a sinologist at Harvard University, characterizes the conservative triumph this way: "Yellow River over blue water."
The philosophical dispute is far more than a historical curiosity. Through the centuries, China has struggled to find its proper place in the world. The pendulum has shifted back and forth between openness and insularity, between the spirit embodied in Zheng He and that of, say, Yang Rong, the Confucian tutor to the Emperor who argued for rolling back the power of eunuch adventurers like Zheng He. The Confucians won; China wouldn't emerge again as a naval force until the past decade or so, as it began to build up a sizable fleet, probe disputed islands like the Spratlys and project a presence in Asia's sea-lanes.
The internal conflict has fueled some of China's most dramatic confrontations. The 1919 May Fourth movement, still a potent symbol of resistance, advocated Western notions of science and democracy. When conservative forces rejected those demands, China slipped back toward insularity. During the Cultural Revolution in the 1960s, Mao whipped up an antiforeign hysteria that prompted the Red Guards to attack all things imported. In 1967, they burned down the British chancery in Beijing. Protesters at Tiananmen Square in 1989 echoed calls for adopting the liberal political approach of the West; the crackdown set China back yet again. "Throughout history, the Chinese have been very cautious about expansion and about allowing in Western influence," says Jonathan Spence, a historian at Yale University who writes frequently about China.
When I was stationed as a journalist in Beijing in the late 1980s, I was stunned by how citizens still viewed non-Chinese as exotic, often frightening creatures. When I visited the northern city of Hengshui, one of what were then hundreds of areas officially "closed" to foreigners, a local bureaucrat seized my shortwave radio from my hotel room, examining it to ensure that it wasn't a two-way spy communications device. A memo accidentally left behind in my room instructed officials to "politely refuse any request Mr. Ignatius may have to leave the hotel." Suspicion of the outside was deeply ingrained, particularly after the Cultural Revolution's xenophobic excesses.
As the 21st century dawns, China again is on a mission to open itself to the world. Tens of thousands of individuals are on the journey, people like Gong Jian, a 30-year-old exporter I met over tea in the elegant Portman Ritz-Carlton hotel in Shanghai. His title might sound prosaic: manager of footwear department No. 2 for Shanghai Lansheng Corp. But he exemplifies the cosmopolitan business Elite in China's coastal cities, leading the export charge that explains why Magic Chef refrigerators and seemingly everything else on sale at the 3,500 Wal-Mart department stores in the United States say "Made in China." Each year Gong and his team churn out $13 million worth of tennis shoes, cross-trainers and sandals for American Sporting Goods' Avia brand. That works out to about 6,000 pairs a day, ready for export. China, meanwhile, is clamoring for membership in the World Trade Organization, which will make the nation an equal partner in a transparent, globalized economy. And China's winning the bid to host the 2008 Olympics, despite the surrounding controversy, means the country will have to endure widespread outside scrutiny, including that of thousands of foreign journalists.
But the battle between advocates of openness and insularity continues. Consider the case of Beijing-born Li Shaomin, a scholar and U.S. citizen, who was recently convicted of spying for Taiwan and then expelled. His "crime": collecting material that's actually in the public domain but not meant for foreign eyes. And then there's He Qinglian, an economist who is outspoken about the cost of corruption and cronyism but, in China's authoritarian context, qualifies as a dissident. Police broke into her home several times, looking, she believes, for evidence of contact with foreigners to support a phony charge that she, too, is a spy. In June she left for the United States and self-imposed exile. Yes, the big picture now is that China is open. But that can hardly be taken for granted. "For the moment, we are beginning a period of openness," says Tsai, the Ming dynasty historian. "But there is always a challenge: another group afraid of opening up, afraid of threats to stability."
What if China hadn't turned inward after Zheng He's exploits? The nation arguably would have been stronger, more cosmopolitan and better equipped to combat the brutal assaults of the Western powers and Japan in the 19th and 20th centuries. When outsiders with advanced technologies, big guns and missionary zeal began prying the country open, China could do little to repel the onslaught. The 21st century might well turn out to be China's, but hundreds of years were lost when the Confucians trumped the eunuch-explorers. "If the foreign expeditions had been sustained, the world would be very different now," says Kong Lingren, a 69-year-old former civil servant who is secretary-general of a quiet little outfit known as the Zheng He Research Association. "We could have conquered the world."