Routledge Library Editions: Modern East and South East Asia, 7-Volume Set 9781138892583, 9781315697925, 9781138901209, 0043020119

Table of contents :
Cover
Volume1
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Original Title Page
Original Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Foreword
Preface
1: The End of an Era
A Reluctant Farewell
The Asean Way
When Bad News is Good News
Watch What We Say, Not What We Do
No Shortage of Shooting
Commodity Windfalls
Chinese Financiers and Footloose Factories
Second Time Around: Japan's Regained Ascendancy
Industrial Images, Industrial Mirages
Sub-contracting or Substitution?
Cutting Down a Resource
Commodity Con Games
Projectitis
Overlooking Maintenance
A Primitive Business Culture
The Chinese Connection
The Shadow of Debt
The Blunt Side of the East Asian Edge
An Indigenous Technological Culture?
Home Movies
The End of an Era
References
2: Full Circle in the Philippines
Portent of Things to Come?
Behave or Go Home
Drawing Comparisons
No Portent from the Philippines
The Cojuangco Factor
Specific Charges
The Arrastre Business
Gambling Dens, Barter Trade and Other Diversions
Plus ça Change . . .
Plus C'est La Même Chose
What's in a Name?
Early Gains
Duty-Free Duppies
Broadcasting Blues
Full Circle in the Philippines?
References
3: Malaise in Brunei and Malaysia
I: Toll Gates: A Cautionary Tale
Political Troubles
The Racial Conundrum
Banking Problems
Commodity Markets Crumble
Scandal of Scandals
Nep-otism at the Share Market
Sultans Galore
Move over Mat Salleh?
Damned Dams
Other Bright Ideas
'Looking East'
II: The World's Richest Man
Bribes, Backhanders and Favours
Bank Scandals
The Shell-Fare State
CONTRA-Dictory Generosity
III: Malay Economics: Getting it Right
Malay Business Culture: Getting it Wrong
Longer-Term Problems
The Religious Conundrum
The Educational Time Bomb
Ruminating About the Malay Malaise
References
4: ABRI-Culture: Dual Functioneering in Indonesia
Number Games
New Order, Old Habits
The Archipelagic Reach
The Curse of Oil
Khaki Commerce
Technocratic Influence
Cukong Friends
The First Family
Hidden Costs of Business Favouritism
Runs on Rupiahs
The Oil Future
Revenue Loss
Harbouring Thieves
Musical Pirates
Bogus Notes of Another Kind
The Bright Side
Urgent Needs, Slow Corrections
Intimations of Change
But No Easy Way Out
References
5: Boomtime in Bangkok
Southeast Asia's Brightest Star
Foreign Fund Managers Flock to Bangkok
Mass Capitalism?
Looks Good on Paper
Earlier Growth Models
Foreign Investment Invasion
Resourceful Thailand
The Newest NIC?
Rocketing Corporate Profits
The Mid-1980s: A Trial Run of Trouble
Financial Frights
Siam City's Travail
Problems for Krung Thai
Boardroom Bedlam
Risky Whisky
Superbike Racer and Santa Claus
Another Early Warning Signal: Foreign Debt
A Narrowly-based Success Story
Once Again, the Chinese
Addictive Habits
Looming Uncertainties
First Uncertainty: The Monarchy
Second Uncertainty: The Military
Third Uncertainty: Regional Conflicts
Fourth Uncertainty: Will the Domestic 'demand Base' Be Rich Enough?
The Parasitic City
The Fast-baht Crowd
Fifth Uncertainty: Disappearing Forests
Sixth Uncertainty: The Wrong Skills
Let's All Be Lawyers (or Civil Servants)
Seventh Uncertainty: Infrastructure
Eighth Uncertainty: Laggard Farmers
Vulnerable Miracle?
Free Riders After All
Korean Comparisons
References
6: Singapore: The Exception That Rules the Proof
Success Story
Crossroads or Revolving Door?
A Glance at the Recent Past
1985
Entrepreneurs' Lament
Reversing Gear
The Financial Centre of Asean
The Pan-el Shock
Home Truths or Awkward Facts?
Meddling Foreign Journalists
An Unhappy Episode
Trading in a Protectionist World
Political Uncertainties
Internal Politics
Hong Kong's Future
Whither the Yen?
Whither the State?
Politics and Confidence
References
7: Chinatown
The Chinese Puzzle
High Turnover, Quick Return
Straight Talk at the Banquet
Awkward Opinions
A Recent Exodus
A Less Than Enthusiastic Welcome
Thailand: Easiest for Chinese
Muddling Through in Malaysia
Indonesian Chinese: The Region's Wealthiest
Different Kinds of Chinese
Ali on the Lookout for Baba
Trying to Explain the Sino Magic
Community Values
Chinese Gain from New Policies
Chinese Corporatism
The Cukong's Cukong
A Royal Tiff
Foreign Bankers Beware
Other Alarums and Excursions
Chinese Credit Lines
The Chinese Juggernaut in Perspective
Renewed Nervousness
Chinatown's Corporate Future
References
8: Wellsprings of Wealth: Southeast Asia's Commercial Crucibles
Asean Share Markets: Much 'aduh' About Rather Little?
1987 and All That
Second Thoughts About the Bourses
Immature Markets
Yes, We Have No Fundamentals
Baubles, Bangles and . . . Bangkok
Abortive Paper Markets
Mice That Roar?
But Qualified Praise Is Due
Banking: Whirlwind Growth
Big Banks . . . and Bigger Banks
Where's the Money Going?
A Vogue for Private Banking
Hong Kong Jitters
Looking Ahead
Some Thing New: Asean's Multinational Corporations
The Richest of Them All?
Astra Group's Growth
Another Crucible: Industrial Whistle Stops
Spilling Over?
No 'open Skies'
Shipping: No Open Waters
Rust Bucket Labour Market
Investment Incentives: Another Distortion
Corporate Management: Form and Substance
In the Family Way
Book-keeping Illiteracy
Product Piracy: Another Free Ride?
Apart from (someone Else's) Ships, No Free Labour Market
Business Education: How Good Really?
References
9: Commodities: Glutted Cornucopias
Commodities: First and Foremost
Commodities Today
Still a Regal Earner. . .
. . . But Prices Badly Faltered in the 1980s
The End of the Golden Weather?
When Boom Goes Bust: Sabah's Experience
Sabah's Lament: into the Valley of Debt
Falling Prices Hurt Many Others
Star Commodities Also Falter
Disappearing Forests
Back to the Futures
Following OPEC . . . into the Sunset
Longer-Term Trends
The 1990s: Vulnerable Markets, or Reborn Hope?
'Downstream Processing': A Way Out?
Outlook
References
10: Development Bunk
An Asian Birthday
Signs of Age
Poor Little Rich Bank
Mid-Life Crisis
A Question of Quality
Boardroom Wrangling
Procurement is the Game
A Question of Control
Sour Grapes
References
11: Reluctant Regionalism
Swords into Bonus Shares
False Starts Towards a Regional Club
An Enduring but Overrated Framework
Regional Realism
The Myth of the Evolving Regional Market
Bureaucratic Smoke and Mirrors
No Substance but Plenty of Suitors
A Diplomatic Merry-Go-Round
A Record of Failure
The Asean Finance Corporation
The Bankers' Acceptance Scheme
A Lack of Energy
Swaps
Serious Proposals Ignored
Industrial Complementation Fizzles Out
Praise Where Praise is Due?
Asean Trade Diplomacy: How Successful Really?
The Reasons Why
Asean Be Damned: When Necessary
Preparations for the 1987 Summit
Some Straight Talk
The Manila Summit: So What?
Another Charade?
Invest Now, If . . .
The Japanese Dimension
The Regional Vacuum
Game Playing
Others Play Games Too
The Future as an Extension of the Past
References
12: The Clouded Future
Steady as She Goes?
The World in Flux
Inexorable Growth of Another Kind
Who's in Charge Here?
Neglected Agriculture, Neglected Land
More Giveaways
Debt Valley
Loans Unwisely Spent
Who Needs Maintenance?
Asean Economies: How Resilient?
Who Gains?
Education: Quantity, Not Quality
Lacking: A Culture of Innovation
Industrialisation Without Technology
Market Moves of Another Kind
Let the Market In, Get the Governments Out?
For All That, an Achievement
The Second Time Around: Japan in Southeast Asia
Is Japan Irresistible?
Practising What They Don't Preach
Trade Disputes
China Is Eyeing the Same Markets
So Are Other Eyes
Politics, Politics
A Crippled Culture?
Underlying Potential
Bigger Stakes
References
Glossary
Further Reading
Index
Volume2
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Original Title Page
Original Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
List of Abbreviations
Introduction
Part I: Return to South-East Asia
1: Wartime Planning and Diplomacy
2: The Dilemma of Peace in South-East Asia
3: ‘Famine Averted’: The Special Commission in Singapore
4: Regional Cooperation and Regional Defence
Part II: Asian Nationalism
5: India, Vietnam and the Limits of Colonial Cooperation
6: Singapore and the ‘Radiation of British Influence’
7: Regional Competition: India and Australia
8: Regional Competition: The United Nations and ECAFE
9: Western Union and South-East Asia
Part III: Communism
10: Cold War and Commonwealth
11: Enter the Dragon: South-East Asia and the Chinese Civil War
12: Regional Cooperation and Regional Containment
13: The Final Stages of Regional Planning
14: To Colombo and Beyond
Notes
Bibliography
Index
Volume3
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Original Title Page
Original Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Editorial Preface
Abbreviations
Communism in East Asia: The Production Imperative, Legitimacy and Reform
The Reform Process in the People’s Republic of China
Reform, Local Political Institutions and the Village Economy in China
China: The New Inheritance Law and the Peasant Household
North Korea: The End of the Beginning
Ideology and the Legitimation Crisis in North Korea
Vietnam: The Slow Road to Reform
The Mongolian People’s Republic in the 1980s: Continuity and Change
The Soviet Union and the Pacific Century
China and the Asia–Pacific Region
Volume4
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Original Title Page
Original Copyright Page
Introduction
Translator's note
Table of Contents
Illustrations
Part I: The Pattern of Settlement in Indochina
1: The Geographical Framework
2: Prehistory
Part II: The Founding of the First Indochinese States
1: The Chinese Conquest of the Red River Delta and the Birth of Viet-Nam
2: The Introduction of Indian Culture into Indochina
3: The spread of Indian Cultural Influence in the Peninsula
1. In the South: Fu-Nan
2. The Spread of Indian Influence in The East of The Peninsula: Champa
3. The Spread of Indian Influence in The Centre and The West of The Peninsula: Shrikshetra and Dvaravati
Part III: The Indochinese States from the Sixth to the Thirteenth Century
1: Viet-Nam
2: Cambodia
3: Burma
Part IV: The Crisis of the Thirteenth Century and the Decline of Indian Cultural Influence
Part V: The Indochinese States after the Thirteenth Century
1: Siam or Thailand
2: Laos
3: Burma
4: Cambodia
5: Viet-Nam
Conclusion
Notes
Index
Volume5
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Original Title Page
Original Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Introduction
I: The Scene Revolution and Intervention in South East Asia
Communist Revolts: 1948
Sino-Soviet Dispute: (People’s) War and Peace
US Reaction: The Vietnam Commitment
Indonesian Reversal: New Balance of Power?
Domino-Land
II: The Model China: Conditions for Success
Peasant Revolt: Mao’s Separate Course
Protracted War:
(1) Contradictions
(2) Mass Support
(3) Base Area
(4) Guerrilla Warfare
National Appeal:
(1) Resistance to the Enemy
(2) United Front Tactics
Downfall of the Régime:
(1) America’s Dilemma
(2) The Débâcle
III: Success Struggle for Vietnam
August Insurrection
Resistance War
Unity and Organization
Vietminh-Vietcong
IV: Failure
China in Maphilindo
Lessons from Malaya and the Philippines
Indonesian Exception
United States in lndo-China
Post-War Policy
Confusion in Laos
Backing into Vietnam:
(1) Commitment and . . .
(2) Credibility
Peace—and the Tet Offensive
Annotated Bibliography
Index
Volume6
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Original Title Page
Original Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter I: Introduction
Chapter II: Theoretical Framework
Chapter III: The Impact of Globalization on Human Rights
Chapter IV: Prospects for a Regional Human Rights Regime in East Asia
Chapter V: Conclusions
Appendix A: A Cover Letter
Appendix B: A Questionnaire Sent to Nongovernmental Organizations
Appendix C: A Questionnaire Sent to Individuals
Notes
Bibliography
Index
Volume7
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Original Title Page
Original Copyright Page
Dedication
Table of Contents
Introduction
Book One: The Foundations of Southeast Asia
1: The Origins of Southeast Asia
2: Invasion from the West
3: Imperialism at the Flood
4: The Birth of Nationalism in Southeast Asia
5: Two Colonial Cases
Book Two: War and Revolution
6: Invasion from the North
7: Transient Empire
8: An Unforeseen Peace
9: The Nationalist Revolt
Book Three: The Future of Southeast Asia
10: United Nations and Divided Counsels
11: The Bad Conscience of the West
12: The Economic Mainspring
13: Capitalist Adventurers and Communist Agitators
14: Voluntary Association in Southeast Asia
Index

Citation preview

ROUTLEDGE LIBRARY EDITIONS:

MODERN EAST AND SOUTH EAST ASIA

Volume 1

BEHIND THE MYTH

BEHIND THE MYTH Business, Money and Power in Southeast Asia

JAMES CLAD

First published in Great Britain in 1989 by the Trade Division of Unwin Hyman, Limited This edition first published in 2015 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 1989 James Clad All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-138-89258-3 (Set) eISBN: 978-1-315-69792-5 (Set) ISBN: 978-1-138-90120-9 (Volume 1) Publisher’s Note The publisher has gone to great lengths to ensure the quality of this reprint but points out that some imperfections in the original copies may be apparent. Disclaimer The publisher has made every effort to trace copyright holders and would welcome correspondence from those they have been unable to trace.

-~-

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BEllINI)

' ' ' ' 11 IE

MYIII

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~

BUSINESS,MONEY

AND POWER

IN SOUTHFAST ASIA

JAMES CLAD

UNWIN

HYMAN LONDON SYDNEY WELLINGTON

First published in Great Britain by the Trade Division of Unwin Hyman Limited, 1989

© James Clad, 1989 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Unwin Hyman Limited.

UNWIN HYMAN LIMITED 15-17 Broadwick Street London WIV IFP Allen & Unwin Australia Pry Ltd 8 Napier Street, North Sydney, NSW 2060, Australia Allen & Unwin New Zealand Pry Ltd with the Port Nicholson Press Compusales Building, 75 Ghuznee Street, Wellington, New Zealand

British Liltrary Cataloguing in Publication Data Clad, James Behind the myth : Business, money and power in Southeast Asia. I. South-east Asia, economic development I. Title 330.959 ISBN 0-04-302011-9

Typeset in ten on eleven point Plantin Printed in Great Britain by The University Press, Cambridge

CONTENTS

Foreword

page xi

Preface

xiii

1 The End of an Era A reluctant farewell - The Asean way - When bad news is good news - Watch what we say, not what we do - No shortage of shooting ­ Commodity windfalls - Chinese financiers and footloose factories - Second time around: Japan's regained ascendancy - Industrial images, industrial mirages - Sub-contracting or substitution? - Cutting down a resource - Commodity con games - Projectitis - Overlooking maintenance - A primitive business culture - The Chinese connection - The shadow of debt - The blunt side of the East Asian edge - An indigenous technological culture? - Home movies - The end of an era - References

1

2 Full Circle in the Philippines Portent of things to come? - Behave or go home - Drawing comparisons - No portent from the Philippines - The Cojuangco factor - Specific charges - The arrastre business - Gambling dens, barter trade and other diversions - Plus fa change . . . - Plus c' est fa mime chose - What's in a name? - Early gains - Duty-free duppies - Broadcasting blues - Full circle in the Philippines? - References

27

3 Malaise in Brunei and Malaysia I: Toll gates: a cautionary tale - Political troubles - The racial conundrum­ Banking problems - Commodity markets crumble - Scandal of scandals ­ NEP-otism at the share market - Sultans galore - Move over Mat Salleh? - Danmed dams - Other bright ideas - 'Looking East' II: The world's richest man - Bribes, backhanders and favours - Bank scandals - The Shell-fare state - CONTRA-dictory generosity III: Malay economics: getting it right - Malay business culture: getting it wrong - Longer-term problems - The religious conundrum - The educa­ tional time bomb - Ruminating about the Malay malaise - References

43

4 ADRI-culture: Dual Functioneering in Indonesia Number games - New Order, old habits - The archipelagic reach ­ The curse of oil- Khaki commerce - Technocratic influence - Cukong friends - The First Family - Hidden costs of business favouritism ­ Runs on rupiahs - The oil future - Revenue loss - Harbouring thieves ­ Musical pirates - Bogus notes of another kind - The bright side - Urgent needs, slow corrections - Intimations of change - But no easy way out ­ References

74

m

IV

BEIDND THE MYfH

5 Boomtime in Bangkok Southeast Asia's brightest star - Foreign fund managers flock to Bangkok - Mass capitalism? - Looks good on paper - Earlier growth models - Foreign investment invasion - Resourceful Thailand - The newest NIC? - Rocketing corporate profits - The mid-1980s: a trial run of trouble - Financial frights - Siam City's travail - Problems for Krung Thai - Boardroom bedlam - Risky whisky - Superbike Racer and Santa Claus - Another early warning signal: foreign debt - A narrowly-based success story - Once again, the Chinese - Addictive habits - Looming uncertainties - First uncertainty: the monarchy - Second uncertainty: the military - Third uncertainty: regional conflicts - Fourth uncertainty: Will the domestic 'demand base' be rich enough? - The parasitic city - The fast-baht crowd - Fifth uncertainty: disappearing forests - Sixth uncertainty: the wrong skills - Let's all be lawyers (or Civil Servants)­ Seventh uncertainty: infrastructure - Eighth uncertainty: laggard farmers - Vulnerable miracle? - Free riders after all - Korean comparisons ­ References

96

125 6 Singapore: the Exception that Rules the Proof Success story - Crossroads or revolving door? - A glance at the recent past - 1985 - Entrepreneurs' lament - Reversing gear - The financial centre of Asean - The Pan-El shock - Home truths or awkward facts? - Meddling foreign journalists - An unhappy episode - Trading in a protectionist world - Political uncertainties - Internal politics - Hong Kong's future - Whither the yen? - Whither the state? - Politics and confidence - References 7 Chinatown 146 The Chinese puzzle - High turnover, quick return - Straight talk at the banquet - Awkward opinions - A recent exodus - A less than enthusiastic welcome - Thailand: easiest for Chinese - Muddling through in Malaysia - Indonesian Chinese: the region's wealthiest - Different kinds of Chinese - Ali on the lookout for Baba - Trying to explain the Sino magic ­ Community values - Chinese gain from new policies - Chinese corporatism - The cukong's cukong) - A royal tiff - Foreign bankers beware - Other alarums and excursions - Chinese credit lines - The Chinese juggernaut in perspective - Renewed nervousness - Chinatown's corporate future­ References 8 WeUsprings of Wealth: Southeast Asia's Commercial Crucibles 165 Asean share markets: much 'aduh' about rather little? - 1987 and all that­ Second thoughts about the bourses - Immature markets - Yes, we have no fundamentals - Baubles, bangles and ... Bangkok - Abortive paper mar­ kets - Mice that roar? - But qualified praise is due - Banking: whirlwind growth - Big banks ... and bigger banks - Where's the money going? ­ A vogue for private banking - Hong Kong jitters - Looking ahead - Some­ thing new: Asean's multinational corporations - The richest of them all?­ Astra Group's growth - Another crucible: industrial whistle stops - Spilling over? - No 'open skies' - Shipping: no open waters - Rust bucket labour mark~t - Investment incentives: another distortion - Corporate manage­ ment: form and substance - In the family way - Book-keeping illiteracy­

CONTENTS

v

Product piracy: another free ride? - Apart from (someone else's) ships, no free labour market - Business education: how good really? - References

9 Commodities: Glutted Cornucopias

Commodities: first and foremost - Commodities today - Still a regal earner. .. - ... But prices badly faltered in the 1980s - The end of the golden weather? - When boom goes bust: Sabah's experience - Sabah's lament: into the valley of debt - Falling prices hun many others - Star commodities also falter - Disappearing forests - Back to the futures ­ Following OPEC ... into the sunset - Longer-term trends - The 199Os: vulnerable markets, or reborn hope? - 'Downstream processing': a way out? - Outlook - References

190

10 Development Bunk 205 An Asian birthday - Signs of age - Poor little rich bank - Mid-life crisis ­ A question of quality - Boardroom wrangling - Procurement is the game - A question of control- Sour grapes - References 11 Reluctant Regionalism 215 Swords into bonus shares - False starts towards a regional club - An enduring but overrated framework - Regional realism - The myth of the evolving regional market - Bureaucratic smoke and mirrors - No substance but plenty of suitors - A diplomatic merry-go-round - A record of failure - The Asean Finance Corporation - The bankers' acceptance scheme - A lack of energy - Swaps - Serious proposals ignored -Industrial complementation fizzles out - Praise where praise is due? - Asean trade diplomacy: how successful really? - The reasons why - Asean be damned: when necessary - Preparations for the 1987 summit - Some straight talkThe Manila summit: so what? - Another charade? - Invest now, if ... ­ The Japanese dimension - The regional vacuum - Game playing - Others play games too - The future as an extension of the past - References

12 The Clouded Future

237

Glossary

261

Further Reading

263

Index

271

Steady as she goes? - The world in flux -Inexorable growth of another kind - Who's in charge here? - Neglected agriculture, neglected land - More giveaways - Debt valley - Loans unwisely spent - Who needs maintenance? - Asean economies: how resilient? - Who gains? - Education: quantity, not quality - Lacking: a culture of innovation - Industrialisation without technology - Market moves of another kind - Let the market in, get the governments out? - For all that, an achievement - The second time around: Japan in Southeast Asia - Is Japan irresistible? - Practising what they don't preach - Trade disputes - China is eyeing the same marketsSo are other eyes - Politics, politics - A crippled culture? - Underlying potential- Bigger stakes - References

To the memory of my mother

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FOREWORD

In the 19805, the world became aware of the extraordinarily economic success of East Asia - Japan, South Korea and Taiwan. Few realise, though, that economic growth in Southeast Asia has been almost as successful. Over the past two decades countries such as Indonesia, the Philippines, Thailand, Malaysia, and Brunei have grown at an unprecedented rate. From 1980 to 1987 their economies increased by 4.8 per cent per annum, a very respectable rate by any standard. So why should one not trumpet the story of Southeast Asian success as well as that of East Asia? Few are better qualified to do this than James Clad. He has served in the Asian branch of the New Zealand foreign service and understands the diplomatic issues. As a former lawyer specialising in company law, he has a keen sense of the businessman's point of view, and after a year each at Harvard and Oxford on fellowships he has a wide academic knowledge of the area. In his years in Southeast Asia he has developed friendships that give his writing a sense of intimacy. But above all, he writes as a journalist who has covered Southeast Asia for the Far Eastern Economic Review, the leading journal of the region. He is fascinated by the throb of each country and writes tersely, as if trying to cram in every detail a page will hold. Clad searches persistently for the inside story and, alas, the story he finds is often not an entirely happy one. Behind the glossy exterior and the myth of success lie a host of problems. East Asian countries have undoubtedly achieved extraordinary success in providing high levels of education and standards of living for all their people, and in spawning businesses and an economic bureaucracy which enable their nations to be masters of their own fate. In Southeast Asia, however, the base of success is weak, tattered and fragile; large numbers of people still receive only a low level of education and live in poverty. Businessmen and political leaders, meanwhile, have siphoned off enormous fortunes without playing any constructive role in promoting their countries, and the fortunes are not reinvested. Too many local businessmen have been content to sell off their nations' resources - their oil, rubber and tin. Perhaps worst of all, they have profiteered while vast tropical forests have been felled, and are now dangerously close to depletion with no plans for their replacement. The success of Southeast Asia depends on outside finance, outside technology and outside management. Some local leaders have shared in the fruits of the success, but not enough have learned the secrets of that success and how to capture it for their own country, or how to develop their own initiative. Even Singapore, the best educated country in Southeast Asia, with the finest bureaucracy, is very dependent on outside companies for its economic health. The infrastructure projects instigated by foreign loans and technical assistance are often poorly maintained. Hovering in the background of Clad's account of Southeast Asia is the re-emergence of Japan as the dominant power in the region. In recent years, direct Japanese investment there has been more than three times that of the Vll

viii

BEIHND THE MY'IH

United States. The closest thing to a regional financial institution is the Asian Development Bank, dominated by the Japanese. So far every president of this bank has been nominated by the Japanese and, not surprisingly, a substantial amount of the goods procured by bank loans come from Japanese companies. And yet, for all its managerial skills and information, this bank does not emerge in Clad's account as a very happy or successful one. The Japanese have shown only a limited interest in building up strong local economies and in making direct investment - they prefer self-owned subsidiaries. Since local governments and business do not have the ability to provide a counterweight, one can imagine future conflicts as Japanese power, galloping along at great speed, encounters the forces of local nationalism. One wonders why the people of Southeast Asia have not been as ambitious as those in East Asia in making their countries strong. Why have so many Southeast Asian leaders been content merely to siphon off the fruits of their earnings while countless East Asian businessmen and bureaucrats have been willing to live modestly and plough the fruits of their earnings into productive assets? Why have so many Chinese in Taiwan built up their own manufacturing plants while Chinese in Southeast Asia (many of whom were originally from the same province of Fujian as those in Taiwan) are apparently happy to stick with commerce, finance and profits? Why would leaders with tens of millions of dollars not be content with their wealth and not be willing to reinvest additional earnings in their country? Clad is not so pretentious as to give systematic answers to these questions, but a careful reader who ponders the meaning of his stories will be able to reach some very informed conclusions. EZRA F. VOGEL Clarence Dillon Professor of International Affairs, Harvard University

PREFACE

This book describes the links between business and politics in Southeast Asia, an unseen system of business favouritism that lies behind the myth of free market enterprise. At a broader level, my central point is this: despite the glitter, Southeast Asia's prosperity rests on shaky foundations and depends on external forces well beyond its control. The region's growth, in its essence, results primarily from outsiders' capital, outsiders' technology, outsiders' management and outsiders' markets. Although this premiss may appear controversial, I hope this book will prove to be stimulating both to people in Southeast Asia and to those who have business, investment, banking, journalism, trade, travel or other interests in the region. I hope readers will welcome the following pages as a caveat, and a corrective, to the undifferentiated praise of Asia's 'economic miracle' now much in vogue. Throughout the book, I deal rather sceptically with claims that countries belong­ ing to the Association of Southeast Asian Nations, known as 'Asean', are fast developing sophisticated, self-propelled economies. To be sure, much of the region's impressive economic growth over the last two decades is self-generated, self-sustained and achieved without patronage or insider advantage. But much more is not. In separate chapters on Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia and the Philippines I try ~o probe behind the myth of indigenous success. In a chapter on Singapore, I discuss the vulnerability of that island's phenomenal economic accomplishment. Although I concentrate throughout on the commercial crises of the 1980s, I devote special attention to the financial power of Chinese minorities, to volatile commodity prices, to multinational companies and to the region's casino-like share markets. Separate chapters also analyse both the failure to build economic regionalism through Asean and the slipping reputation of the Asian Development Bank, the world's richest regional financial institution. All these, I stress, are different issues from the indisputable fact of Southeast Asia's quickly won and highly visible wealth. Mter a severe recession in the mid-1980s, the region once again has recorded high, if uneven, rates of growth. Yet it is probable that these improved terms of trade are but a temporary respite in a longer-term, downward trend; meanwhile, profoundly anti-market attitudes and habits still retard the region's potential. My business friends in Southeast Asia usually find these arguments irrelevant. 'Who cares?' they ask. 'Money is money, what does it matter how it is earned?' To underline this point, some ofthe world's wealthiest tycoons have made their fortunes in Southeast Asia. This rarified circle includes the two richest men on earth, one a Malay sultan, the other a well-connected Chinese. Both are beneficiaries of the system described in this book. Business practices naturally vary among the Asean's five island states (Brunei, Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines and Singapore) and one mainland nation (Thailand). Throughout the region, wealthy manipulators of the nexus between IX

x

BEIUND TIlE MYTH

business and politics have different names. In the Philippines they are known as 'cronies'. In Malaysia and Indonesia, the words towkay and cukong carry a similar meaning. Yet beneath the diversity lies a secretive but similar business culture, one in which public and private interests mix as effortlessly as the shuffled halves of a deck of cards. The book comes after twelve years either in the region itself or studying it from afar, during sabbaticals in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and at Oxford. I do not attempt to be comprehensive or particularly analytical about the economies, social structures or political elites discussed in these pages. Specialist and general surveys of the region abound, and I refer to some of these in the text itself and, at the end of the book, in a list of recommended further reading. Much of my material rests heavily on my experience in the foreign service or, later, on interviews and research done as a staff writer for the Far Eastern Economic Review; to that extent the book is episodic and personal. It should not be necessary to add that I have an extremely high regard for most Southeast Asians, whether powerful or peripheral, whom I have met during the last twelve years. To some extent they are all inheritors of the culture of business patrimonialism, which is basically a frame of mind consolidated over hundreds of years of native and colonial rule. In writing this preface and the words that follow I am acutely aware that people, wherever they live, must deal with the world as they find it. The sphere of political and business power has its own rules, in Asia and elsewhere. Staying in power or keeping the family business afloat, from street peddling to multinational corporate finance, requires Southeast Asia's business families to play the game by the locally prevailing rules. In this part of Asia, these rules are invariably antithetical to liberal market capitalism. That is the essential point. It will take a long time to tease out these habits but, until this happens, Southeast Asia will continue to be a reactive player in the world economy, not a proactive one. There is still a slim chance that the region may yet lead, rather than follow, the trends now shifting the world's centre of gravity to Asia and the Pacific. But that chance is quickly slipping away. New Delhi, India

31 August 1989

JAMES CLOVIS CLAD

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many friends and colleagues, some no longer living, have helped to sharpen my perceptions of Southeast Asia. Many kindly offered advice while I was writing this book. I have learned much from all of them and wish to express my appreciation to the following people in particular: the late Senator Benigno Aquino, Jr, Joker Arroyo, Susumu Awanohara, Robert Barnes, James Bartholomew, John Berthelson, Rodolfo Biazon, Ian Buruma, Peter Carey, Paul Chan, Jenny Clad, Sir Ra1f Dahrendorf, Lester Dally, K. Das, Derek Davies, Eduardo del Fonso, C. S. Eu, Carlos Fernandez, Jonathan Friedland, Jose Galang, Tony Gatmaitan, Tenku Ghafar, Philip Gibson, Goenawan Mohamad, Kim Gordon-Bates, Nigel Holloway, Dorojatun Koentjoro Jakti, David Jenkins, Jomo K. S., Clayton Jones, Kamal Hassan, David Kersey, V. G. Kulkarnee, Paul Leong, Victor Limlingan, John McBeth, Hamish McDonald, Jeffrey McNeeley, Rosnah Majid, Nono Makarim, Robert Manning, Matt Miller, Musa Hitam, the late Neil Naliboff, Adnan Buying Nasution, Richard Nations, Roger Peren, Raphael Pura, Ron Richardson, Anthony Rowley, Nelly Sandayan, Margaret Scott, the late Robert Shaplin, Greg Smith, Juwono Soedarsono, Anthony Spaeth, Paisal Sricharatchanya, Rodney Tasker, Nic Thorne, Marites Vitug, Ezra Vogel, Paul Wachtel, Wahjudiono, Roger Ward and WuAn. There are a dozen other friends whom I would wish to thank but, given the prevailing climate in their respective countries, it would be doing them scant service to mention them by name. They will know I am in their debt. Especial thanks are due to Philip Bowring, Editor of the Far Eastern Ecorunnic Review, for allowing me to rewrite much material which appeared originally in that magazine's pages; to Mary Butler at Unwin Hyman and to David Cox, my long-suffering but ever patient editor. Finally I shall always be grateful for the understanding I have received during the preparation and writing of this book from my two daughters, Katherine and Rachel, who have only rarely shown impatience at Daddy's long absences. And lowe more to my wife and friend, Carmen Jones-Clad, than I can say. The author and publishers are grateful to the following for permission to reproduce copyright material: Asian Development Bank for Table 4 (Chapter 8); Far Eastern Ecorunnic Review for Table 1 (Chapter 4); International Monetary Fund for Tables

7 and 8 (Chapters 8 and 11); PA Consulting Group, Australia for Tables 5 and 6 (Chapter 8); UNESCO for Table 2 (Chapter 5); Vita Development xi

xii

BEIDND TIlE MYIlI Corporation, Manila for Table 3 (Chapter 7) from V. Limlingan The

Overseas Chinese in ASEAN: Business Strategies and Management Practices (1987); and the World Bank and International Monetary Fund for Table 9 (Chapter 12). Especial thanks are also due to James Bartholomew for quoting from his book The World's Richest Man, published in 1989 by Viking Press.

1

THE END OF AN ERA

-

-

.~.

~------

A Reluctant FareweU On 25 February 1986 President Ferdinand Marcos of the Philippines took a long hard look outside his palace gates. Judging the moment both opportune and pressing, he dashed off to a comfortable though bemoaned exile, helicoptering over chanting crowds. Neighbouring Southeast Asian politicians watched his twenty-year presidency collapse with fear and relief. Fond of his fading photographs as a Manila muscleman, the 67-year-old Marcos left behind a country so thoroughly ravaged that the incoming regime, led by a woman he called 'a mere housewife', needed months just to count the missing money. To the disquiet of Manila's hungry new politicians, it soon became clear that hair-raising amounts of cash had left the country long before the dictator did. He was indulged right to the last minute, the Americans allowing him to stack hundreds of millions of his country's sadly eroded pesos on board his farewell plane. For Marcos it must have been force of habit; he would not be able to spend them in Hawaii, his place of exile. Relief at the dictator's departure cascaded elsewhere in Asia, although for different reasons from those animating the jubilant crowds in Manila. Marcos had long since become a colossal embarrassment to the Southeast Asians living around him, a region home to 300 million ve.. 5

business education 187-8

conflicts 8, 23

conglomerates 177-8

co-operation problems 218--35

debt load 243-4

development funds 12,221

diplomacy 6-7,220,235

Four Farms II, 192,233, 251

free trade zones 179-80

labour market 187

Manila summit 227-9, 231

trade 227-9, 254

Asean Finance Corporation 221

Asean Industrial Complememation 223-4

Asean-Japan Development Fund 12,232

Asean Trade Community 230

Asian Currency Unit 131

Asian Development Bank 24, 167, 170,205-14,232

Japanese factor 206,212-13

loans 6, 206-7, 209

scandal 210

staff 207

Association of Southeast Asian Nations ste Asean

aviation industry 5, 181

Bamboog Trihatmodjo 82, 84, 85

Bangkok 116-17

Bangkok Bank 96, 173, 174,175

Bank Bumiputra 2,19,52-4,173,174,175

Bank Nasionallndonesia 173,175

Bank Negara 49-53, 54, 174

Bank Rakyat 16

banks 173-7

in Malaysia 46-54

scandals 65, 105-7, 158-61

Bapindo 80, 209

Benedicta, Robeno 'Bobby' 30, 40

Besar Burhanuddin, Tunku Mohamed 157

Bimantara Group 82

Borneo

Chinese 152

cocoa 191

forests 14, 194,204

Brunei 63-73

bank scandals 65

Chinese 147, 148, 149

copyright laws 186

cronies 65

loan from Indonesia 66

National Bank debts 158, 159

oil 9, 10,66-7,87

palaces 64

population I

Brunei, Sultan of ,u Hassanal Bolkiah Burma

forests 14

oil 9

business

aptitude 185-6

culture 2~, 18,29-36

education 187-8

ethics 186

Campos, Jost 30, 39

Carrian Investments Ltd 52-3

Chang family 161

Chia, Eric 156

Chia Siow Vue 24

China 254-5

direct foreign in vestment 183

relalions with Hong Kong J41, 163

relalions with Vietnam 8

Chinatown 1#>-7 Chinese 19, 146-64,216,249-50

banking scandals 158-61

business acumen 148--9, 153-7, 163

community values 15~

corporate organisation 157-8

financiers 10, 19-20

in Brunei 147, 148, 149

in Hong Kong 141, 163

in Indonesia 81, 147, ISO, 151, 152

in Malaysia 16,47,49,51,71, 147, ISO, 151

in Philippines 147,150,152,154,162

in Singapore 10,125,126,147,148,149

inThaibnd 10, lU).. ll, 147, 149, 150-1, 152,156,163

investment 153, 157

Cojuangco, Eduardo 'Danding' 30, 31, 35,39

Cojuangco, Jost 'Peping' 30, 35, 41

gambling 32-3

Cojuangco, Margarita 'Tingling' 32, 34-5

Coj uan8CO, Pedro' Don Pedro' 30

272

BEYOND THE MYTH

Cojuangco, Ramon 39

Cojuangco family 15,30--0,41

Commission on c;"oo Government 16,37-42

commodities9, 1~14, 102,190-204

futures trading 197-8

price fluctuations 192-3

trends 199-200

Commodity Price Agreements (CPAs) 24, 193, 199

Cooper,; & Lybrand 47, 132-3

copyright law 27, 110, 137, 186

corporate management 184-5

crony capit~sm 1,29-42,251

definition 38-9

Cuenca, Rodolfo 30

Daim Zainuddin 4, 44, 67

money making 49-51,60

debt service 242-3, 244-5

deforestation 14-15,72,197,204,240

Development BankofSingapor.174, 175

Dew.yDee 16

Directly Unproductive Profit-seeking (DUP) 16

Disini, Herminio 30

edible oils )3,191,196,201

education 5, 187-8,246, 248-9

Indonesia 188

Malaysia 71

Philippines 188,246

Singapore 129, 142

Thailand 118-19, 150,187-8,246

electronics industry 69, 180,248

exchange controls 20

financial industry 5, 22

First Pacific Holdings of Hong Kong 5

First Pacific International 81, 177,178

Floirendo, Antonio 'Tony' 30, 39

forests 14-15, 72, 197,204,241

free trade zones 179-80

Fujioka, Masao, 205, 206, 207,211

Garuda Indonesian Airways 5

Generalised System of Preference (GSP) 137-8

Goh Chock Tong 127, 133, 134, 144

Goh Keng Swee 127, 163

Golden Triangle 112

Gonzales, Antonio 39-40

Guthries 190

Habibie, B. J. 88-9

Habibie, Mohamad 17

Harrisons 190

Harrisons & Crosfield 58, 65

Hashim Shamsudding 53-4

H.ssana! Bolkiah, Sultan of Brune; 23, 63,158, 159, 177

contribution to Contra rebels 29,66

Hatibudi 44, 47

Hiew Min Yong 160

Hong Kong

future 140-1, 163

population 141

relations with China 141, 163

stock exchange 22, 168

Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation 173, 174

Hu, Richard 128, 133, 137

Inchcape 58, 190

Indonesia 74-95

Abri 77-81,90-1

aircraft industry 88

and Asean 35, 216

Chinese 81,147,150,151,152

copyright laws 18f>-7

cukong friends 81

customs service 89-90

debts 24~5

dual functioneering 77-80, 93

education 119, 188

entrepreneur,; 185-6

foreign debt 20, 84, 8f>-7, 24~5

forests 204

gross domestic product 6

investment climate 237

investment policies 94-5

Japanese investment 11,76

labourforcel 39

loan to Brunei 66

military in1Iuence on business 77-81, 90-1

monopolies 84-6

Muslims 29

New Order 74, 75

newspapers shut down 27 , 89

oil 9, 7f>-7, 87-8

palm oil 191

plastics monopoly 84, 85

population 1, 25, 75

projects 17, 88

reform package 92

spice trade 190

stock exchange 166, 172

tax regime 88

trades unions 187

inverunent in Asia 6, 167,183-4,239-42

by Japan 1U-12, 24, 76,142

by US 101

debt finance 242-3

direct foreign investment 183

incentives 183

long-term trend 241-2

Iskandar, Sultan Mahmood 44, sf>-7

Islam 23

in Malaysia 7U-I

rebcllion 29

Japan 251-3

Asia Development Bank 206, 212-13

banks 174, 177

in Indonesia 11, 76

in Malaysia 11, 62-3

in Philippines 11 ,

investment in Asia IU-12, 24, 76, 142,231-2,251-2

Java 240

Chinese 152

population 152

journalists 27-8, 34,43

Khoo Ban Hock 66, 158

Khoo Kay Peng 156

Khoo Teck Puat 2, 66,156, 158

banking debts 159-60

Krung Thai Bank 98, 10f>-7, 174, 175

Kuala Lumpur 72

Commodities Exchange 171, 198

Stock Exchange 49-50

Kuok, Robert 15,60,156, 163

INDEX Kwek family 156

labour force 12, 187,239,249

Lee Hsien Loong 78,127,130,142,144,163

LeeKuanYew6,23,125, 126, 127, 144,218

anti-Vietnam policy 8

control of Singapore 133-4

disagreement with press 135-4>

visit to Manila 21

Lee Yan Lian 156

Liem Sioe Liong 2, 5, 156, 163, 178

association with Suhano 66,81,151,158

Lim Chong Eu 179

Lim Goh Tong 156

Lim Kit Siang 43

Locsin, Teodoro 'Teddy Boy' 4{)

Loo Cheng Ghee 171

Lop" Ricardo 'Baby' 3 J

Lop" Tessie 31

Mah Boonkrong 107

Mahathir Mohamad 4,14,23,61-2

expelled journalists 27, 43

filmed cabinet 23-4

Malaysian Car project 59, 61, 179

Malayan Banking Berhad 173, 174, 175

Malaysia 43-63

and Asean 216-35

banks 46-54

business 43-63

Carrian Affair 52-3

Chinese 16,47,49,51,71,147,150,151,185

copyright law 27, 186

culture 256

debts 24>-5

deforestation 14, 72

economy 67-8

education 71, 119

electronics industry 69, 180

entrepreneurs 185

foreign debt 2H-5

highway construction case 43-4

holding companies 177

industries 69

Internal Security Act 43, 45

investment 167

Japanese investment 11,62-3

Look East campaign 62

motor industry 17,58,59,61,179

New Economic Policy 15,16,52,54-6,60-1,71, ISO,

151,156

newspapers shut down 27

oi19,87

palm oil 171, 191

plantations 58, 70

politics 45-4>, 69

powers of judiciary 27,43, 69

publie enterprises 5S-6O

race problem 46-7

religion 70

stock markets 4S-5 I, 167, 169

sultans 56-7

trades unions 187

United Malay National Organisation 43, 45-4>, 61

Malaysian Airline System 5, 5~1, 66,181-2

Malaysian ('-at Project 58, 59,61, 179,226

Marcos, Ferdinand 1, 2,64

cronies 29-30

273

ill-gonen gains 30, 37, 41

palace papers 37-8

Marcos, Imelda 39

ill-gouen gains 30, 37,41

murder of Aquino 31

market economies 9,21, 165, 161>-9, 185

mass capitalism 4, 98, 167, 185

metals 200

motor car industry 17, 58, 59, 61, 179

multinational companies 5

Multi-Purpose Holdings Berbad 184-5

Muslims 23, 29

National Alcohol Programme 202

National Bank of Brunei 65, 1'58, 159

New Economic Policy 15, 16,52, 54-6,60-1,71, ISO,

151,156

NewZea1and

relations with Singapore 138

newspapers

in Indonesia 27, 89

in Malaysia 27

Noah bin Omar, Mohamed 49,157

Nubia, Ralph 30

Oei Hong Leong 178

Oen Yin-

foreign debt 20, 243-5

forests 14, IS, 24{)

gambling 32-3

graft and corruption 3~

investment climate 237

Japanese investment 11

274

BEYOND THE MYTH

labour force 239

National Alcohol Progranune 202

political transitions 240

population 25

privatisation programme 3(",,7, 170

projects 17

refugees 256

stock market 167, 169

sugar 19S--Q, 202

Tourist Duty Free Shops Inc (TDFS) 16, 39--40

Philippines for the Filipinos 156

plantations 58, 70, 190,202

population 239

Brunei I

Indonesia 1,25,75,239

Philippines 25

Singapore 25, 239

Thailand 25, 98-9, 239

Prem Tinsulonond 23

product piracy 90, 18(",,7

projects 17, 88

Promet Berhad 177-8

race problems in Malaysia 46--7

Rahardja, Harry 156

Rajaratnam, S. 29, 127

regionalism 215-35

commercial prospects 238

conflicts ll5

religion in Malaysia 70, 152

Romualdez, Benjamin 'Kokoy' 2, 38

Romualdez family 33

rubber 193, 196,199

Sabah 193-5,215

SaUeh, Harris 194

Salonga, Jovito 37-42

Sarawak 193

share markets see stock markets

Shearson Lehman Brothers 1S9

SheUOil

in Brunei 66

in Sumatra 76

shipping S, 182

Siam Cement Company 96, 103, llO, 170, 177

Siam City Bank 96, 1OS--Q

Siam Food ProductS 170

Sime Darby Group 5, 50, 77,178,202

Sin, Cardinal Jaime 29-32

Singapore 125-45

and Asean 21(",,35

binh rate 134

Chinese 10, 125, 126, 147, 148, 149

commercial strategies 130

compared to Hong Kong 140-2

copyright law 27, 137, 186

education ll9, 129, 142

financial services industry 126, 131, 141

foreign investment 142-4

Generalised System of Preferences 137-8

government-owned companies 143

gross domestic product 6, II, 126

investment climate 237

investments 21

Internal Security Act 139

journalists expeUed 27-8

labour 12, 139--40

Monetary Exchange 141-2

oil refineries 9

politics 139-40

population 25, 125,134

pri vatisation 143

recession 127-9

relations with US 137

relations with NZ 138

share market 4, 166, 167

Stock Exchange of Singapore 131-3, 166

technology 21, 128-9

tourism 126

uade7

western press 27-8, 135-7

Singapore Airlines 5, 181

Soeryadjaya, William 157, 178

South Korea compared to Thailand 123

spice trade 190

Standard Chartered Bank 1S~, 173

stock markets 4, 22, 165-88

capitalisation 167, 168

Causeway market 167

futures trading 171

immaturity 168-9

in Malaysia 48-51

Thailand 96-7

Sudharmono79

sugar 19S--Q, 20 I, 202

Suharto 17,23,74,79,81,89,151,158

family businesses 82-4, 178

import monopolies 158

Suharto, Probosutedio 82

Suharto, Tien 82, 83

Sukarno, Ahmad 74, 75, 215, 216

Sumatra

Chinese 152

forests 14, 204

oil 76

Tan, George 2, 52

Tan, Lucio 30

Tan, Tony 127, 128, 133

Tan Khing Ing J56

Tan Koon Swan 2, 48, 49,60,72, 132,

184

J3~7,

157, 167,

Tantoco, Giliceria 39-40

Tarlac Development Company 31, 35

technology 21, 128-9,247-8

TehCheangWan4,136

Thai Farmers 96,173,174,175

Thai International Airways 5, 98, 103, 181

Thai Petroleum Corporation 5

Thailand 9(,...124

agriculture 120

and Asean 21~3S

bank scandals 105-7

Chinese 10, llO-12, 147, 148, 150-1,152,156,163

copyright laws llO, 186

corruption 28

deforestation 14, 117-18, lSI, 204

direct foreign investment 100-3, IB

education 118-19, ISO, 187-8,246

exports 102, 115

foreign debt 20,99, 109,243,244

gross domestic product 6, 98-9

investment climate 237

Japanese investment ll, 101-3

Korea compared 123

labour force 239

INDEX military 114

monarchy II ~ 14

oil9,87,104 opium 112

politicians 10~9 population 2S, 9~9 poveny 116

projects 17

Securities Exchange 96-7, 166, 170--1

stock market 167

tapioca 191

tourism 121

trades unions 187

US investment 101

whisky wan; 107--8

timber business 14, 194, 197

tin 196-7, 199

tourism in Thailand 121

Tourist Duty Free Shops Inc (TDFS) 39-40

trades unions 187

trickle-down economics S, 47, 93

USA

Asian migrantS 18, 249-50

investment in Asia 10, 186

relations with Singapore 137

United Engineering 44,47

United Industrial Corporation 177-8

United Malay Banking Corporation 40, 161, 175

United Overseas Bank 174, 175

value-added 23, 24, 99

Vietnam 7-8, 240, 25S

Wee Boon Peng IS6

World Bank Loans 6

275

ROUTLEDGE LIBRARY EDITIONS: MODERN EAST AND SOUTH EAST ASIA

Volume 2

BRITAIN AND REGIONAL COOPERATION IN SOUTH-EAST ASIA, 1945–49

BRITAIN AND REGIONAL COOPERATION IN SOUTH-EAST ASIA, 1945–49

TILMAN REMME

First published in 1995 by Routledge This edition first published in 2015 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 1995 Tilman Remme All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-138-89258-3 (Set) eISBN: 978-1-315-69792-5 (Set) ISBN: 978-1-138-90126-1 (Volume 2) eISBN: 978-1-315-69789-5 (Volume 2) Publisher’s Note The publisher has gone to great lengths to ensure the quality of this reprint but points out that some imperfections in the original copies may be apparent. Disclaimer The publisher has made every effort to trace copyright holders and would welcome correspondence from those they have been unable to trace.

Britain and Regional Cooperation in South-East Asia, 1945-49

Britain and Regional Cooperation in South-East Asia, 1945-49 traces plans by the British Foreign Office to establish an inter­ national regional system in South-East Asia, that would allow Britain to dom inate the region politically, economically and militarily. T ilm an Remme explores the changing emphasis of Britain’s regional policies, from plans in 1945 for cooperation with other colonial powers to the aim of drawing India and other fledgling Asian states into a Singapore-based regional organisation. Dr Remme examines the effects of nationalism and of the colonial wars in Vietnam and Indonesia, as well as com peting regional initiatives by India, Australia and the United Nations which threatened British dominance in the region. He further shows how, after the Malayan Emergency of 1948, regional cooperation became B ritain’s key strategy to contain comm unism in Asia. By tracing Britain’s foreign policy initiatives, T ilm an Remme puts the issues affecting South-East Asia in the postwar period into a wider context, discussing events in the light of the sudden Japanese defeat in the Second World War, the transfer of power in India, the com m unist struggle for supremacy in China, the development of Anglo-American relations in Asia and the beginnings of the Cold War. T ilm an Remme is a writer and producer of historical and political television documentaries.

Books published under the joint imprint of LSE/ Routledge are works of high academic merit approved by the Publications Committee of the London School of Economics and Political Science. These publications are drawn from the wide range of academic studies in the social sciences for which the LSE has an international reputation.

Britain and Regional Cooperation in South-East Asia, 1945-49

Tilman Remme

LSE London and New York

First published in 1995 Published 2015 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY, 10017, USA Routledge is an imprint o f the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business Copyright © 1995 Tilman Remme All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library o f Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN-13: 978-0-415-09753-6 (hbk) Typeset in Baskerville by EXCEPTdetail Ltd, Southport

Contents

Acknowledgements List of abbreviations Introduction Part I Return to South-East Asia 1 Wartime planning and diplomacy 2 The dilemma of peace in South-East Asia 3 ‘Famine averted’: the Special Commission in Singapore 4 Regional cooperation and regional defence Part II Asian nationalism 5 India, Vietnam and the limits of colonial cooperation 6 Singapore and the ‘radiation of British influence’ 7 Regional competition: India and Australia 8 Regional competition: the United Nations and ECAFE 9 Western U nion and South-East Asia Part III Com m unism 10 Cold War and Commonwealth 11 Enter the dragon: South-East Asia and the Chinese civil war 12 Regional cooperation and regional containm ent 13 The final stages of regional planning 14 T o Colombo and beyond

vii viii 1

9 27 44 54

67 82 96 105 119

133 151 164 183 200

vi

Britain and Regional Cooperation

Notes Bibliography Index

217 243 250

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, I would like to express my gratitude to the British Council, whose financial support from 1985 to 1988 enabled me to research and write the thesis on which this book is based. I would also like to thank Dr Alan Sked of the London School of Economics for his help, advice and guidance. Further­ more, I would like to thank Professor R alph B. Smith and the members of his special seminar on South-East Asia at the School of Oriental and African Studies for their helpful advice and criticism, and for giving me the opportunity to present some of the ideas developed in my thesis. I would also like to thank Edward Lucas, the late Dr Roger Bullen, Dr Richard Aldrich, Dr Taka Tanaka, Dr Michael Leiffer, Shams Ul-Alam, Professor Peter Lowe and Professor Ian Nish for their advice and encouragement and for giving me inspiration. Thanks also to the staff at the LSE’s International History Department and at the Public Record Office in Kew. In addition, I would like to thank Professor Ernst Nolte, Professor Michael Erbe and the late Professor H ellm ut Becker for their support during the preparation of this project. This book is dedicated to my wife Fiona, w ithout whom it would never have come about.

Abbreviations

AFPFL Anti-Fascist People’s Freedom League, Burma ALFSEA Allied Land Forces, South-East Asia ANZAM Informal defence agreement between Britain, Australia and New Zealand in South-East Asia ANZUS Burma Office BO Colonial Office CO COS Chiefs of Staff Commonwealth Relations Office CRO DO Dominions Office DRV Democratic Republic of Vietnam ECAFE Economic Commission for Asia and the Far East, United Nations ECE Economic Commission for Europe, United Nations ECOSOC Economic and Social Council, United Nations Foreign Office FO IEFC International Emergency Food Council IO India Office Joint Intelligence Committee, Chiefs of Staff Jic Joint Planning Staff JPS Malayan Planning U nit MPU North Atlantic Treaty Organisation NATO Organisation for European Economic Cooperation OEEC PH P Post-Hostilities Planning Staff PRO Public Record Office PUSC Perm anent Under-Secretary’s Committee, Foreign Office RAAF Royal Australian Air Force SACSEA Supreme Allied Commander, South-East Asia

Abbreviations

SEAC South-East Asia Command United Malay National Organisation UMNO UNRRA U nited Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Adm inistration War Office WO

ix

x

Britain and Regional Cooperation

South-East Asia in the 1950s Source: John Bartholomew 8c Son, 1958. Published by The Times Publishing Company Ltd., 1958.

Introduction

On 8 January 1950, the British Foreign Secretary, Ernest Bevin, arrived in the Ceylonese capital of Colombo to attend the first Commonwealth conference ever to be held on Asian soil. The British had asked the Ceylonese government at very short notice to convene the week-long meeting. The official purpose was to discuss foreign policy issues of m utual concern. However, there was one topic that the British were particularly concerned about: the rapid spread of communism in the Far East. For eighteen m onths now, comm unist forces had been threatening British interests in eastern Asia. In Malaya - a highly lucrative British possession because of her dollar-earning rubber exports to the United States - groups of comm unist insurgents were conducting a destructive guerrilla campaign against British plantations and installations. Burma and Indonesia, too, were affected by com­ m unist strife, while in Indochina the French were waging a fullscale war against the communist-dominated Viet Minh. Most worrying, from the British point of view, was the fact that China had only recently been ‘lost’ to the communists, jeopardising British trading interests in the country and threatening to export Chinese-style revolutions to the rest of Asia. By the end of 1949, the British had decided to regard Asian communism not in isolation, but as a regional problem. London feared that if the rice-exporting countries of French Indochina, T hailand and Burma were going to fall to communist forces loyal to Moscow or Peking, the result would be food shortages and widespread unrest in the rice-importing countries of SouthEast Asia and the Indian subcontinent. To counter this trend, the British believed that, similar to the provision of Marshall aid in Europe, the non-com m unist governments of South and South-

2

Britain and Regional Cooperation

East Asia should be granted Western aid and financial assistance that would help to stabilise the economies of the region. The finance for this could only be provided by the United States, but the Americans could only be convinced if the original initiative came from the Asian countries themselves. At the Colombo Conference, the British thus encouraged the Asian members of the Commonwealth to propose the establishment of an international plan for ‘m utual self-help’ and for the economic development of Asia. The Colombo proposals paved the way for the Colombo Plan, an aggregate for the provision of bilateral aid to South and South-East Asia, which eventually included some twenty-three Asian and Western countries from inside and outside the Com­ monwealth. Between 1950 and 1961, the Colombo Plan chan­ nelled almost 10 billion dollars of bilateral aid and assistance to the non-com m unist countries of South and South-East Asia. The bulk of this assistance was provided by the United States. When I started the initial research for this book, my intention was to examine the development and achievements of the Col­ ombo Plan during the 1950s. Instead, I ended up tracing its origins. The Colombo Conference was in fact the culm ination of years of interdepartm ental planning at the British Foreign and Colonial offices. It was based on a policy which British officials in W hitehall and in South-East Asia referred to as ‘regional cooperation’. The notion of regional cooperation in South-East Asia first appeared in a British cabinet paper drafted by the Colonial Office in December 1944. However, London dropped the paper, which formed part of protracted Anglo-American negotiations on the future of colonial empires, following the Yalta Conference in February 1945. The reasons for this were first outlined by W illiam Roger Louis in his book Imperialism at Bay. This book picks up the thread in the second half of 1945, when the British Foreign Office developed new regional pro­ posals for South-East Asia. The departm ent’s somewhat vague idea was to use the British-led South-East Asia Command (SEAC) under Lord Louis M ountbatten as the basis for a Britishdom inated international organisation in South-East Asia. Immediately after the war, SEAC was in temporary control of T hailand as well as of the British, French and Dutch colonies in the region. By im plication, the Foreign Office hoped that a regional organisation would m aintain a maximum degree of British influence in the area after the return to civilian rule.

Introduction

3

Yet it wasn’t until 1950 that the Foreign Office’s plans came to fruition. T hroughout this period, the general aim of the Foreign Office’s regional policy was to establish a South-East Asian regional organisation under British leadership that would provide for international cooperation at the economic and poli­ tical levels. Eventually, this m ight also lead to a regional defence arrangement in South-East Asia. T hrough such an organisation the British hoped to m aintain and extend the regional hegemony of South-East Asia which they enjoyed immediately after the Japanese surrender in 1945. However, while the underlying aim of B ritain’s policy of regional coope­ ration remained the same until 1950, the means of achieving it underwent some fundam ental changes. Britain’s regional plans were affected by a num ber of key historical factors in Asia. First, there was the unexpectedly difficult task of postwar relief and adm inistration in South-East Asia. The war had ended much sooner than anticipated, and M ountbatten’s command had at the last m inute been given responsibility for a much larger area than originally planned. Apart from the volatile political situa­ tion in the various South-East Asian territories, the British also had to deal with widespread food shortages resulting from wartime mismanagement and destruction. Due to a shortage of rice, South-East Asia was even facing a famine by February 1946. T o alleviate the rice crisis, Britain established the so-called Special Commission in Singapore. Its m ain function was to organise the international allocation and distribution of food in South-East Asia, through regular meetings of international liaison officers sent by the various countries in the region. T hough the Special Commission was a Foreign Office body under the direction of Lord Killearn, it was also the first organisation in South-East Asia ever to organise regional coope­ ration at the ‘technical’ level. In the long run, the Foreign Office hoped to develop the Special Commission as the nucleus for a wider regional commission. Another key factor affecting the Foreign Office’s regional policy was the rapid advance of Asian nationalism in South and South-East Asia, and the transfer of power in India in August 1947. Under its impact the Foreign Office enlarged the geogra­ phical scope of its planned regional scheme, aim ing to include India, Pakistan and Ceylon in a British-led regional system with its centre in Singapore. The outbreak of the internationally

4

Britain and Regional Cooperation

unpopular war in French Indochina served as a catalyst for the form ulation of the Foreign Office’s new regional concept. How­ ever, the further effect of Asian nationalism was that it encour­ aged the idea in Asia of establishing exclusively Asian regional alignments. This goal was first pursued by India during the 1947 Asian Relations Conference. In its wake, the United Nations and Australia too emerged as competitors to Britain, vying for the lead in organising regional cooperation. Despite the redefinition of the Foreign Office’s regional policies at the beginning of 1947, Asian nationalism thus had a highly detrimental effect on L ondon’s plans. At the same time, B ritain’s increasing financial weakness severely jeopardised the Foreign Office’s plans to turn the Special Commission in Singapore into an international regional commission. Finally, Britain’s regional policy was fundamentally affected by the shift of the Cold War to South-East Asia. In 1948, after the beginning of the Malayan Emergency and a series of com m unist victories in China, the Foreign Office revived its by now flagging regional plans. Regional cooperation became one of the Foreign Office’s prime strategies in containing communism. L ondon’s plans culminated in the Colombo Con­ ference and the subsequent Colombo Plan. T hroughout the period between 1945 and 1950, regional cooperation remained prim arily a Foreign Office policy. The department even had to fight a series of bureaucratic battles with the Colonial Office over the issue, the latter fearing that regional cooperation was synonymous with international interference in the affairs of Britain’s colonial territories. W ithin the Foreign Office, it was Esler Dening, M ountbatten’s political adviser during the war and subsequently Assistant Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office, who was the leading architect of British regional policies in South-East Asia. The regional idea originated with him in 1945; he also seems to have been the main author of the 1949 cabinet paper that led to the Colombo Conference. Lord Killearn, Britain’s Special Commissioner in Singapore, also had considerable influence on the Foreign Office’s plans for SouthEast Asia. He was enthusiastic about the idea of a Singaporecentred regional arrangement that m ight eventually include East, South and South-East Asia. His was also the idea of progressing empirically from technical to wider regional cooperation through his Special Commission. The British Foreign Secretary, Ernest Bevin, on the other hand, was less involved in the

Introduction

5

form ulation of his departm ent’s regional plans. However, at times he too played a crucial role. It was at his initiative that the government went ahead with Lord Killearn’s appointm ent as Special Commissioner after the extent of the rice crisis had become fully apparent in February 1946. In 1948 and 1949 he was also instrum ental in carrying his departm ent’s regional policies through the cabinet. However, his own ideas on regional coope­ ration were sometimes inconsistent with those of his department. D uring the 1946 Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Meeting, for example, Bevin suggested turning the Special Commission into a proper regional commission that would include Australia. This was done w ithout previous departmental consultation and caused great confusion at both the Foreign Office and the Colonial Office. Another example was Bevin’s reference to the resources of the European colonies in his speech on Western U nion in January 1948. It led to Asian accusations of a European conspiracy in South-East Asia and contradicted Foreign Office plans for cooperation with the new Asian states. Finally, a word on the geographic terminology used in this book. In line with modern historiography, ‘T hailand’ rather than ‘Siam ’ is employed. Equally, ‘Indonesia’ refers to the Dutch East Indies after September 1945. However, rather than speaking of only Vietnam, the term ‘Indochina’ or ‘French Indochina’ has sometimes been used in reference to all the French colonies in South-East Asia, which included Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. T he term ‘South-East Asia’ has been the cause of some confusion: it only came into fashion after the creation of SEAC in 1943 and it originally included Burma, Thailand, Indochina, Malaya (including Singapore and N orth Borneo) and Indonesia. By 1949, in line with Britain’s growing interest in regional cooperation w ith the United States, W ashington’s former colony, the Philippines, was added to W hitehall’s definition of South-East Asia. This slightly broader definition is indeed in line with the one applied in this book. It should, however, be noted that in 1949 some British officials were beginning to include South Asia (i.e. India, Ceylon, Pakistan, Nepal, Tibet and Afghanistan) in the definition of South-East Asia, reflecting the new British tendency towards a Singapore- rather than Delhi-centred view of South and South-East Asia. Further confusion is caused by the term ‘Far East’. At the time, it could describe anything from East Asia (i.e. China, Mongolia, M anchuria, Korea and Japan) to the

6

Britain and Regional Cooperation

whole of South, South-East and East Asia. Where the term is used in this book, it refers to East and South-Ea st Asia.

Part I

Return to South-East Asia

Chapter 1

Wartime planning and diplomacy

On 26 July 1945 King George VI asked Clement Attlee, the leader of the British Labour Party, to form a new government in Britain. Unexpectedly, Labour had won a landslide victory in the country’s first general election since the end of the war against Germany. Attlee and his party had won on a ticket that promised the British electorate both prosperity and social reforms, includ­ ing the establishment of a national insurance system and a national health service and the provision of a costly housing programme. Foreign affairs had only played a secondary role during the campaign. Yet it was B ritain’s taxing international commitments and responsibilities at a time of severe financial weakness that were to present the most serious challenge to the new government. When Labour came to power in 1945, the geographical extent of Britain’s power and influence had never been greater. Her empire stretched from Africa and the Middle East via the Indian subcontinent to the Far East and the Pacific, where the war with Japan was drawing to a close. In Europe, she was responsible for the adm inistration and postwar order of a large part of defeated Germany. After the Japanese surrender in August 1945, British troops were also pu t in charge of large parts of South-East Asia, including T hailand and the Dutch and French colonies in Indonesia and Indochina. Yet Britain found it increasingly difficult to shoulder her international commitments. In Germany, the British had to feed the undernourished population in the country’s devastated industrial heartland, the Ruhr area, which was part of the British occupational zone. In war-torn South-East Asia, too, the British soon faced the prospect of widespread famine. In addition to these costly hum anitarian

10

Britain and Regional Cooperation

obligations, Britain was facing nationalist turmoil and unrest in Palestine, India and Burma, preventing the country from scaling down her defence expenditure to prewar levels. Added to this was the growing conflict with the Soviet Union in Europe and the Middle East which demanded continuous vigilance and high defence spending. Even six m onths after the Japanese surrender, Britain had more than two m illion troops under arms who were spread across the globe, and her defence expenditure for 1946 was estimated at about 2 billion pounds, compared to the govern­ m ent’s long-term target of 500 m illion pounds.1 Attlee’s m ain problem was that the country he had come to lead was close to bankruptcy as a result of the war. Britain had entered the war with debts of just under 500 m illion pounds, a burden that had been offset by massive reserves of gold and dollars, and by substantial foreign investments. By 1945, most of these reserves had all but disappeared, and the country’s debts had spiralled to 3.5 billion pounds. At the same time, Britain’s m anufacturing industry was becoming increasingly obsolete geared to producing war materials rather than the consumer goods now wanted by the British population. Traditional sources of invisible income, such as banking, insurance and shipping, had also suffered greatly because of the war.2 It soon emerged that Britain’s economic weakness would have a significant effect on her standing as a world power, in particular vis-a-vis the United States, which had emerged from the war as the most powerful nation on earth. Since 1941, the lend-lease agreement with the United States had allowed Britain to im port both consumer goods and arms from America while deferring payment to a later date. However, after the Japanese surrender in August 1945, President T rum an suddenly cancelled the agree­ ment, exposing Britain’s dependence on American financial support. Unable to purchase vital American imports, the British had to accept an American loan of 3.75 billion dollars which had certain strings attached. T hough the interest was low, the loan was linked to a British promise to eventually dismantle the system of imperial trade preferences and to make sterling fully convertible. Sooner or later, Britain would thus have to open up her colonial empire to powerful commercial competition from the United States. Not only was Britain effectively broke in 1945, but her tra­ ditional markets in the Commonwealth were under pressure

Wartime planning and diplomacy

11

from the outside. The new Labour government was also con­ fronted with strong secessionist forces at the heart of its empire, India, where the political situation had been fundamentally transformed by the war. Britain had taken India into the war w ithout consulting any of the Indian nationalist leaders. As a result, the Hindu-dom inated Indian Congress Party under the leadership of M ahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru had organised the powerful ‘Q uit India’ campaign directed against British rule. The movement was forcibly suppressed for the duration of the war, but when the interned Congress leaders were released in the summer of 1945, Attlee and his ministers lacked the stomach to put up with a new civil disobedience campaign in the country.3 Unlike the Conservatives, the Labour Party was at least morally committed to eventual Indian independence,4 though the new government was hoping that India would m aintain strong economic and military ties with Britain.5 Soon, the question was no longer if but when and under what circumstances India would be given independence, in particular whether demands by the Indian Muslim League for a separate M uslim-dominated Pakistan would be met. The Labour government reacted to the changed international realities with considerable flexibility. Many politicians and government officials sensed that B ritain’s influence in the world was on the wane and that the future of the Empire was by no means certain. Under the pressure of events, it was often decided to withdraw where B ritain’s position had become untenable. W ithin two years, Britain handed over power in India and Burma, and decided to abandoned her mandate in Palestine. However, both in Africa6 and in other parts of Asia, Attlee and his ministers had no intention of giving up power. In China and South-East Asia, the British made every effort to re-establish their prewar position, in particular in the trading centres of H ong Kong and Singapore, and in the prize colony of Malaya. In fact, while the British were preparing to withdraw from India, South-East Asia assumed increasing importance in British thinking. Singapore, not Delhi, soon became the focus of British power east of Suez. As will be seen, London was hoping to use Singapore as the ‘centre for the radiation of British influence’ in the region, laying the foundation for continuing British hegemony in both South and South-East Asia after the com­ pletion of European decolonisation. The British called their

12

Britain and Regional Cooperation

ambitious new policy ‘Regional Cooperation in South-East Asia’. Prior to the Second World War, the British had tended to underestimate the importance of South-East Asia, both for the security of their empire and for Britain’s worldwide trade. As a Foreign Office paper pointed out in 1946, South-East Asia, before the war, had been regarded as an ‘unim portant and little-known area’; only the war had demonstrated its political, economic and strategic im portance.7T he region’s prewar trade with Britain had in fact been considerable. South-East Asia’s main products were rubber, tin and rice, as well as sugar, tobacco, tea and palm oil. The region took up 9.5 per cent of Britain’s total prewar exports and provided 6.5 per cent of British imports.8 British investments in the region, including the Philippines, were equally significant, am ounting to about 775 m illion dollars before the war, nearly three times as much as those of the United States in the area. More than half of Britain’s investments were in her possessions in Burma, Malaya, Singapore, North Borneo, Brunei and Sarawak, though considerable assets also existed in Thailand, Indonesia and the Philippines.9 Malaya played a particularly im portant role in B ritain’s trade with South-East Asia. It was one of the w orld’s largest producers of rubber, the bulk of which was exported to North America. These exports provided Britain with some of the dollars needed to finance her increasing trade deficit with the United States. When, after the war, the triangular trade pattern between Britain, Malaya and the United States was resumed, Malaya provided the British with dollar earnings worth 60 m illion pounds in 1948, an income that London considered to be vital for the British economy.10 The fall of Singapore to the Japanese on 15 February 1942 emphasised South-East Asia’s enormous strategic importance for the British Empire and Commonwealth. Not only was the region the western gateway to China and Japan. It was also the last natural defence before the Japanese or any other eastern invader could reach India, as well as the last major obstacle on the way to Australia. After the Japanese captured the rem aining Western colonies in South-East Asia, the British were forced to retreat to the line west of Burma. All Western trade with the area was completely cut off, adding to B ritain’s wartime shortages, and

Wartime planning and diplomacy

13

depriving her of vital dollar earnings. T hroughout the war, the British remained determined to reconquer their lost territories from the Japanese in order to resume their prewar position in the region as well as their lucrative trade with Malaya and Burma. Back in London, officials in W hitehall were soon beginning to draft blueprints for the postwar administration of their former South-East Asian colonies. Completely cut off from South-East Asia, they paid little attention to the possibility that Britain’s prestige had suffered greatly as a result of the fall of Singapore, and that the war m ight have fundamentally altered the political situation in the region (see Chapter 2). By the time that the Attlee government came to power, British planning for the future of Burma was in its most advanced state. Having gone on the offensive at the end of 1944, the British-led South-East Asia Command (SEAC) under Lord Louis M ountbatten had recaptured the Burmese capital of Rangoon on 1 May 1945. Soon after, the Churchill government had published a White Paper on the future of Burma. The paper cautiously mentioned the ultim ate goal of granting Burma self-government and dom inion status; however, during an interim period of three years the returning British Governor of Burma would be given sweeping administrative powers.11 The White Paper reversed some of the concessions made to Burmese nationalists in the 1935 Government of Burma Act, which gave the Burmese a limited say in their country’s government. Critics argued that all that London was interested in was the restoration of British com­ mercial interests in the country: before the war, Britain had investments worth about 200 m illion dollars in Burma - the Burmah Oil Company being one of the most im portant British investors.12 As will be seen, the attempted implem entation of the policies outlined in the White Paper was to result in a massive disobedience campaign by Burmese nationalists in 1946. Coinciding with the Burma White Paper, planning for the postwar adm inistration of Malaya was entering its final stages. Under the watchful eye of the Colonial Office, a special Malayan Planning U nit (MPU) under General R alph Hone had spent the previous two years drafting a streamlined new constitution13 that would merge the federated and unfederated Malayan States, as well as Penang and Malacca, into a single British colony, the Malayan Union. The aim was to create a unitary state embracing the whole Malayan peninsula with a citizenship-scheme appli­

14

Britain and Regional Cooperation

cable to Malays, Chinese and Indians alike, and to prepare the country for eventual self-rule.14 Although Singapore would remain a separate colony, a Governor-General would be appointed who would control the British administrations in the area as well as coordinate British policies throughout the Malayan Union, Singapore and Borneo. In great secrecy, the M PU ’s recommendations had on 31 May 1944 been given provi­ sional approval by the war cabinet.15 After the war, London’s policies were to run into considerable trouble, as the Malay sultans were required to surrender even more of their rem aining sovereignty to the British Crown. Planning on the future of the non-British territories in SouthEast Asia fell to the Foreign Office. Like the rest of W hitehall, the Foreign Office, which was largely detached from the events in South-East Asia, assumed that Britain and the other European powers would be able to continue where they had left off in 1942. Apart from this, the department had given the future of the region relatively little thought. It expected French and Dutch rule to be restored in Vietnam and Indonesia, failing to take into account that the European defeat in 1942 m ight have fundamentally shaken the basis of colonial rule in Asia. So far as Indonesia was concerned, the British, like their Dutch and American counterparts, were almost completely unaware of the extent of the nationalist fervour that the Japanese had fostered in the country during the occupation.16Britain’s commitment to the restoration of Dutch sovereignty was expressed in a civil affairs agreement with the Dutch, which came into power immediately after the Japanese surrender in August 1945. It gave the Dutch wide-ranging administrative powers during the Allied occupa­ tion and was to be followed by the swift re-establishment of Dutch colonial rule.17 In Indochina, too, the British failed to anticipate the strong nationalist feelings generated by the war, expecting the French to swiftly regain control of their colony after a Japanese defeat. The case was, however, complicated by the fact that the American President, Franklin D. Roosevelt, wanted to prevent the French from returning to Indochina. Instead, he wanted to place the colony under international trusteeship. Roosevelt was particu­ larly critical of the fact that for most of the war the French colonial administrators in Indochina had openly collaborated with the Japanese troops in the country, similar to the Vichy

Wartime planning and diplomacy

15

regime’s collaboration with the Germans in France: it was only in March 1945 that the Japanese arrested all French personnel in Indochina to take complete control of the country. However, the British Prime Minister, W inston Churchill, vehemently opposed Roosevelt’s ideas: twice in 1944 the war cabinet endorsed pro­ posals by the British Foreign Secretary, Anthony Eden, that France should be allowed to return to Indochina.18 As one senior Foreign Office official wrote at the end of 1944, the British believed in ‘the colonial powers sticking together in the Far East’.19 In Thailand, as well, the British were aim ing to restore the status quo ante. Before the war, the bulk of Western investments in the country had been British, and London wanted to reimpose B ritain’s dom inant prewar position. But again differences with the Americans came into play. As the Foreign Office admitted in a policy paper of July 1945, the T hai question was by no means straightforward: under Japanese pressure, the Thais had in 1941 ‘flung themselves into the arm s’ of Japan and were now in a state of war with Britain. The paper recommended pressuring the Thais into an agreement with Britain which provided for the delivery of 1.5 m illion tons of free rice. Furthermore, Thailand was to be forced into a close defence relationship with Britain, allowing the latter to deploy troops in T hailand during times of war. However, the problem was that the Americans did not regard themselves as at war with Thailand, and they were bound to sympathise with the new T hai government that had succeeded the collaborationist government of Luang Pibul from 1941.20 Anglo-American differences over the future of T hailand and Indochina were in fact part of a m uch wider debate between W ashington and London on the future of the European colonial empires after the war. Ever since C hurchill’s attempts in 1940 and 1941 to draw the United States into the war against the Axis powers, the Americans had been pressing for greater economic access to the European colonies in Africa and Asia. At the same time, W ashington saw itself as the cham pion of national inde­ pendence movements throughout the world. In August 1941, Churchill and Roosevelt had signed the Atlantic Charter, which in its third article declared respect for ‘the right of all people to choose the form of government under which they will live’. T hough Churchill publicly m aintained that this did not affect developments inside the Commonwealth,21 the charter triggered

16 Britain and Regional Cooperation

a debate between London and W ashington about the future of colonial empires that would continue until the end of the war. The Anglo-American dispute over the future of the Western colonies reached a high point in March 1943, when W ashington handed a paper titled ‘National Independence’ to the British. It demanded that all colonial powers, including Britain, should prepare their colonial territories for self-government and eventual independence. As a first step, after the end of the war, all colonies should be opened up to international supervision. At the same time, the colonial powers would collaborate through a num ber of international regional commissions. In addition, an international trusteeship adm inistration should be set up in order to prepare all dependent peoples for independence. The American draft instantly set the alarm bells ringing in Whitehall. While the tone of the document was enough to upset the guardians of the British Commonwealth in W hitehall, London regarded the two emotive terms ‘independence’ and ‘interna­ tional supervision’ as completely unacceptable, the latter being im plicit in the American understanding of international trusteeship.22 T o regain the initiative in an increasingly heated debate with W ashington, the British decided to make a unilateral statement lest the Americans try to force them into unacceptable commit­ ments.23 The Colonial Secretary, Oliver Stanley, told the House of Commons on 13 July 1943 that it was Britain’s policy to keep sole responsibility for her colonies. But he welcomed greater international cooperation in colonial areas: [He had in mind] the possibility of establishing certain Commissions for certain regions. These Commissions would comprise not only the States with Colonial territories in the region, but also other States which have in the region a major strategic or economic interest. While each State would remain responsible for the adm inistration of its own territory, such a Commission would provide effective and perm anent m ach­ inery for consultation and collaboration so that the States concerned m ight work together to promote the well-being of the Colonial territories. An im portant consideration in designing the machinery of each Commission will be to give to the people of the Colonial territories in the region an opportunity to be associated with its work. . . . In this way it

Wartime planning and diplomacy

17

would be possible to have international cooperation which consisted of something more than theoretical discussion but would be able to grapple with realities and get down to the solution of individual problems.24 Stanley’s statement was little more than a tactical move to publicly dissipate the American initiative on colonial policy. It picked up the least im portant part of the American proposal, namely the creation of regional commissions in colonial areas, yet dropped the idea of international supervision and colonial independence which was at the centre of the American declara­ tion. Stanley’s regional commissions would nom inally involve the United States in European colonial affairs while the colonial powers would remain in complete control of colonial develop­ ments. A precedent existed in the Anglo-American commission in the Caribbean. The organisation had recently been established after Britain had allowed the United States to lease a num ber of air and naval bases in her Caribbean dependencies, and it was meant to provide for bilateral cooperation towards the economic and social development of the British and American possessions in the Caribbean.25 However, the commission had no executive powers, only consultative functions restricted to dealing with 26 general economic, social welfare and health matters. It is doubtful whether Stanley would ever have followed up his regional ideas if it had not been for renewed international pressure for the international supervision of colonial territories. In January 1944, Australia and New Zealand picked up the regional idea in a bilateral agreement in which the two countries effectively demanded a greater say in international planning for the postwar world. The agreement included proposals for the creation of a South Seas regional commission in which Australia, New Zealand, Great Britain, the United States and France would be represented. The commission would have advisory powers, enabling it to recommend arrangements for the participation of natives in colonial administration, with a view to prom oting the ultim ate aim of self-government. It would also advise on econ­ omic development, on the coordination of health and medical services, and on education. The Australian-New Zealand sugges­ tions were ‘based on the doctrine of trusteeship’, the term so disliked in London.27 The Australian-New Zealand agreement forced Stanley to

18 Britain and Regional Cooperation

formulate his regional ideas in greater detail. Stanley opposed recent American plans for a central international commission with supervisory powers for colonial territories. Instead, he suggested to the cabinet that they should ‘make the idea of international regional associations our m ain contribution to the solution of Colonial questions’. The commissions he had in m ind would have no executive functions, and there would be ‘opportunities for participation by the people of the region’ w ithout obliging Britain to accept some particular form of association. Defence would be excluded from the commissions’ 28 scope. By the end of 1944, a major policy paper written by H ilton Poynton and Kenneth Robinson of the Colonial Office’s Interna­ tional Relations Department formally proposed the regional commissions concept as an alternative to American plans for international trusteeships and supervision. The paper, titled ‘International Aspects of Colonial Policy’, also tackled the internationally contentious issue of the future of the mandated territories which Britain and France had taken over from the Ottom an and German empires after the First World War. The authors proposed to scrap the mandates and turn them into proper colonies. At the same time, a new international colonial system would be established - based on international cooperation through regional commissions and through so-called ‘functional bodies’, dealing mainly with social subjects, which would be attached to the new world organisation (namely the United Nations). Areas eligible for regional commissions were the Caribbean, the South Pacific, South-East Asia, West Africa and Central, East and Southern Africa.29 Unlike under the American and Australian-New Zealand schemes, the commissions pro­ posed by the Colonial Office would be consultative bodies w ithout executive or supervisory powers, leaving the question of self-government and eventual independence to be decided by the respective colonial power. As H ilton Poynton had told a French official in W ashington in September 1944, the emphasis of the regional commissions should be on collaboration and consul­ tation on practical issues, ‘not supervision and “inquisition” ’.30 The paper had enormous potential implications for British interests in South-East Asia. In contrast to other colonial regions, South-East Asia included both colonial territories and indepen­ dent or ‘emerging native states’.31 Unlike the South Pacific’s

Wartime planning and diplomacy

19

‘small, prim itive and weak com m unities’, one official lamented, South-East Asia was made up in the m ain of communities which were either independent states or states ‘which it would not be an absurdity to expect to develop into national independent states w ithin the foreseeable future’. The representatives of the SouthEast Asian territories would therefore expect a much more substantial voice in a regional commission than those in the South Pacific.32 Another problem, from the British point of view, was the fact that the area was still under enemy occupation and that no detailed plans could be made prior to liberation from the Japanese. In addition, the Colonial Office regarded South-East Asia as particularly prone to outside interference: the region had much greater wealth than the other areas under discussion, possessing rubber and tin, and a large population of around 120 m illion people. Outside countries like the United States, Aus­ tralia, China, India and possibly even Russia would therefore have m ajor strategic or economic interests in the region.33 A further problem was that in any regional organisation China was likely to make claims on behalf of the Chinese im m igrant communities in the area.34 Added to this was the membership problem. W ould Burma, Ceylon and H ong Kong be considered part of the region, and should outside powers like the United States, Australia, China and India, as well as the Soviet Union, also be included?35 And if India was included, would it be an outside or an inside member? The question of Indian participation in a South-East Asian commission had first been raised by Sir Maurice Gwyer, a retired Chief Justice of the Indian Federal Court. Gwyer argued that India, after achieving ‘autonom y’, would be left at the mercy of China and Russia, who were likely to dominate postwar Asia. He therefore suggested an Anglo-Indian defence council that could also include parts of South-East Asia, and that could be linked to some kind of Anglo-Indian economic council.36 As will be seen later on, his ideas were not dissimilar to the Foreign Office’s regional plans in 1949, when China and Russia were indeed making their influence felt in South and South-East Asia. However, in 1944 the Colonial Office argued against Gwyer’s proposal for economic or defence cooperation between India and South-East Asia.37 As Stanley told his colleague at the India Office, Leo Amery, whatever the views of the services depart­ ments on the suitability of the Indian Ocean as a strategic unit, it

20

Britain and Regional Cooperation

certainly was not a natural economic or political unit.38 Finally, the Colonial Office had to address the question of what a South-East Asian commission should actually be dealing with. Before the war, the only institutionalised form of coope­ ration in South-East Asia had been the exchange of epidemiological inform ation and a certain am ount of political coordination concerning opium smoking through the League of Nations. In addition, there had been the International Regula­ tions Agreement on T in and Rubber, which had offered the governments and chief producers in the area ‘scope for consul­ tation and coordination’.39 London saw few other matters that would require regional coordination. As one Colonial Office official pointed out, any cooperation on rubber had to take account of synthetic production. So far as tin was concerned, other producers such as Bolivia, Nigeria and Congo also had to be considered. The only commodity that could be considered on a purely regional basis was rice.40 Despite the many difficulties and uncertainties tied to the question of regional cooperation in South-East Asia, the Col­ onial Office included the region in its proposals of December 1944, as it wanted to present the Americans with a coherent new policy applicable to all colonial territories around the world. ‘International Aspects of Colonial Policy’ thus stated reluctantly that South-East Asia too ‘seems to be an area suitable eventually for the establishment of a Regional Commission, though clearly it is impracticable to make any progress with the form ulation of regional organisation while the area is still in enemy occupa­ tion’. The membership of a South-East Asian commission would include: the United Kingdom with its Malayan territories, Singapore, North Borneo and Hong Kong; the Netherlands with the Netherlands East Indies (Indonesia); Portugal with Timor; France with Indochina; the United States with the Philippines; T hailand as an independent state w ithin the region; and Aus­ tralia, China and India as interested outside countries.41 So far as the comm ission’s scope was concerned, the department decided in an internal mem orandum that a South-East Asian regional council should be limited to research into the improvement of tin, rubber and agricultural production, the control of im m i­ gration and emigration, the development of fisheries and the preservation and protection of the area’s distinctive fauna.42 T hough the war cabinet endorsed the Colonial Office’s paper

Wartime planning and diplomacy

21

on the future of colonial territories, it soon became apparent that Stanley’s ambitious colonial scheme would never be implemented, as neither the dominions nor the United States were w illing to replace the mandates system with the new regional commissions plan.43 Further bad news emerged during the Yalta Conference in February 1945. During the conference, Churchill unw ittingly accepted a ‘trusteeship form ula’ worked out by the American Secretary of State, Edward Stettinius.44 Yet it was the despised term ‘trusteeship’ that the Colonial Office had hoped to eradicate in the first place. Even worse, the Yalta Protocol also im plied that the future of the mandates would be discussed at the forthcoming San Francisco Conference on the new world organisation, the United Nations. An angry Oliver Stanley, whose department had not been represented at Yalta, stressed in March 1945 that the policy outlined in ‘International Aspects of Colonial Policy’ had orig­ inally been intended to be discussed with the United States alone, after agreement with the dominions, but not w ithin the United Nations. As the original argum ent for the abolition of the mandates had been a plan which applied to the entire colonial empire, Stanley argued that it would now mean ‘throwing the whole Colonial Empire open to discussion by this motley assembly [the UN], a procedure which I should regard as hazardous in extreme’.45 In other words, proposing the mandates’ replacement with the Colonial Office’s regional cooperation scheme now m ight have required discussing the future of the British empire in a potentially hostile international forum. At Stanley’s initiative, government ministers therefore decided to continue the mandates system and to withdraw ‘International Aspects of Colonial Policy’.46 While the Colonial Office was disappointed about the failure of its worldwide regional coope­ ration plans, it was relieved in so far as South-East Asia was concerned. Of all the regions mentioned in the departm ent’s paper, South-East Asia had after all been regarded as least suitable for a regional organisation. However, a few months later, after the end of the war in Europe, the Foreign Office at last became interested in the future of South-East Asia. Previously, the department had not been involved in the drafting of ‘International Aspects of Colonial Policy’. In fact, the Foreign Office had done hardly any planning work on the future of East and South-East Asia. During the war,

22

Britain and Regional Cooperation

Eden had tended to neglect Far Eastern questions in favour of those concerning Europe, allowing his departm ent’s Far Eastern machinery to deteriorate. As Roger Buckley has argued, C hur­ chill and his ministerial colleagues suffered from an unfortunate inability to consider the nature of the postwar international situation in Asia.47 In June 1945, the new head of the Foreign Office’s Far Eastern Department, J.C. Sterndale Bennett, brought the lack of Far Eastern planning to the attention of his superiors. He com plain­ ed, in an extensive memorandum, that upon his return to Far Eastern work in August 1944 he had found a small department organised to deal only with current work, and that there was virtually no machinery for Far Eastern planning. The Foreign Office seemed to regard the Far Eastern war as a sideshow: diplom atic issues involving Russia and the United States were dealt with on a ‘hand-to-m outh basis’ with little regard to B ritain’s m ain Far Eastern interests or her relations with the dominions. At the higher level of the Foreign Office, no one had given attention to the Far East, and at international conferences vital decisions had been taken w ithout members of the Far Eastern Department being available for consultation. On the interdepartm ental level as well, all was not right. Although the Official Far Eastern Committee had recently been revived, there was a continuing tendency to ‘watertight departments’, and plans for the future of Burma, Malaya and H ong Kong were prepared w ithout Foreign Office participation. Sterndale Bennett believed the Foreign Office required a more com­ prehensive machinery to deal with questions such as the future of China, the Japanese settlement and the satisfaction of Russian claims, as well as the more immediate problems of relief, rehabilitation, economic recovery and population movements. He suggested a Minister of State or a Parliamentary Under­ secretary be appointed to ensure the coordination of Far Eastern foreign and colonial policies; alternatively there could be a small m inisterial committee superimposed on the Far Eastern Com48 mittee. The mem orandum made a considerable impression in W hitehall. T hough Sterndale Bennett failed to secure the appointm ent of a London-based Minister of State responsible for East and South-East Asia, his initiative immediately resulted in the establishment of a Civilian Planning U nit for Japan,49 and it

Wartime planning and diplomacy

23

paved the way for a special ministerial committee on the Far East a few m onths later. In addition, the Foreign Office’s Far Eastern Department was provided with additional staff and divided into three sections, one dealing with Japan and the Pacific, one with China and one with South-East Asia (including Thailand, Indochina, Indonesia and Nepal). In the following years, a separate Foreign Office department was created for South-East Asia. Once the new Labour government had taken over, Sterndale Bennett’s paper immediately caught the attention of the new Labour Foreign Secretary, Ernest Bevin, who assumed office on 27 July 1945. Bevin showed m uch greater interest in Far Eastern affairs than his predecessor, and he was highly concerned about the lack of interdepartm ental coordination in the area. Despite the recent changes in W hitehall, Bevin complained in November that the newly appointed committees were only concerned with individual Far Eastern questions. He therefore proposed a con­ ference of British officials and ministers to discuss overall Far Eastern policies and organisation.50 T hough Bevin’s planned conference never materialised due to the logistical difficulties of bringing back British representatives from abroad, and because of his own overburdened timetable,51 he had nevertheless alerted ministers and officials to the urgency of East and South-East Asian problems. In addition to Sterndale Bennett, another Far Eastern expert, Esler Dening, was pushing for change both at the Foreign Office and in the way that Britain was conducting her affairs in SouthEast Asia. As Dening was to become the chief architect of B ritain’s regional policies in South-East Asia, his position in 1945 and his initial ideas have to be explained in greater detail. T hough appointed by the Foreign Office, Dening had since 1943 served as political adviser to the Supreme Allied Commander, South-East Asia, Lord Louis M ountbatten (SACSEA). His offi­ cial job was to advise M ountbatten on matters relating to foreign territories including Japan, T hailand and Indochina, as well as on political warfare. After eighteen m onths in office, Dening had gained considerable political influence at the headquarters of South-East Asia Command (SEAC), in Kandy, Ceylon.52 His position was strengthened by the fact that he had independent cipher comm unications with the Foreign Office, which in turn relied on him to make its and the Colonial Office’s voices heard

24

Britain and Regional Cooperation

at SEAC. Despite this, Dening and M ountbatten were not always on best terms, and the latter sometimes ignored his chief political adviser’s views. In June 1945, Dening visited London for consultations with the Foreign Office. Dening found it increasingly difficult to work for both M ountbatten and the Foreign Office. He argued that the Supreme Allied Commander was overburdened with the increas­ ing speed of m ilitary developments, and SEAC, theoretically responsible to both the British and the American governments, should not be p ut in the situation of having to take sides when the two governments’ policies differed, i.e. regarding the colonial territories. In an interdepartm ental memorandum, Dening there­ fore proposed to strengthen the position of the civilian depart­ ments at SEAC, and to curb some of M ountbatten’s political powers. He suggested two alternative courses of action. The first option was to increase the staff and the powers of the political adviser at SEAC, to make him directly responsible to London, and to ask him to advise M ountbatten not only on foreign affairs but also on political, economic and financial matters, regardless of the departm ent involved. The second option was to appoint a Minister of State for South-East Asia, on the precedent of the Middle East and the Mediterranean, who would report to the cabinet and who would coordinate the views and needs of the British territories concerned, and relate them to developments in foreign territories. Dening personally favoured the second option, not least to avoid some of the mistakes of the prewar years. He argued that before the war: British territories east of Suez tended to be governed largely on parochial lines . . . unfam iliar with each other’s problems, and still less with the problems of non-British territories in the Far East. . . . T hat such a state of affairs was both strategically and politically undesirable was proved by subsequent events when Japan delivered her attack. To-day there is a danger that, with the preoccupations of reconstruction and rehabilitation . . . we shall drift once more into the same position as before the outbreak of hostilities.’53 The Foreign Office approved of Dening’s recommendations. When Dening returned to SEAC, Sterndale Bennett was con­ fident that he could gain the approval of other W hitehall departments for either of Dening’s suggestions before subm itting

Wartime planning and diplomacy

25

the matter to the cabinet.54 Copies of his m emorandum were sent to the Colonial, India, Burma and Dominions offices and to the services departments. In an accompanying letter, the Deputy Under-Secretary of State at the Foreign Office, Sir Orme Sargent, further explained that ‘it would be most desirable to have in SEAC some political authority of high standing to undertake local centralisation and coordination of matters affecting more than one Departm ent’, while relieving the Supreme Commander of a great deal of non-military work. Sargent therefore favoured the appointm ent of a Minister of State, possibly after the recapture of Singapore.55 W hitehall’s response to the Foreign Office initiative was mixed. The India, Burma and Dominions offices and the Air Ministry gave their consent to either of Dening’s alternative proposals, the Dominions Office m entioning that the dominions m ight themselves find it convenient to appoint political repre­ sentatives to such a coordinating authority.56 Only the War Office fully opposed Dening’s plans, arguing that after a Japa­ nese surrender the tendency would be to bring the British territories w ithin SEAC back under the direct control of the appropriate departments in W hitehall.57 The Colonial Office was in two minds about Dening’s proposals. Before his return to South-East Asia, Dening explained his ideas to colonial officials in London, arguing that M ountbatten tended to send telegrams to the Chiefs of Staff which were prim arily political and had only the ‘flimsiest strategic significance’. A Minister Resident would relieve the Supreme Allied Commander of the burden of political decisions, though he admitted that M ountbatten’s objections to the scheme could be expected.58 Initially, the Colonial Office was tempted by D ening’s suggestions as they promised to give the department an early foothold in South-East Asia.59 However, the head of the Colonial Office’s Eastern Department, Edward Gent, opposed a ministerial appointm ent. The Colonial Office itself had in m ind ‘the appointm ent of a ‘Governor-General’ with direct powers over the British authorities in Malaya, Singapore, North Borneo and Sarawak’, an appointm ent which had been provisionally approved by the war cabinet in 1944. Gent there­ fore believed that all that was required was the appointm ent of a political adviser in SEAC who was of greater political weight than Dening, and who was directly responsible to London.60 G ent’s objections were shared by the Permanent Under-Secre­

26

Britain and Regional Cooperation

tary of State at the Colonial Office, Sir George Gater, and the new Labour Colonial Secretary, George Hall, who was seeking final cabinet approval for the Colonial Office’s plans for the develop­ ment of Malaya. This included the appointm ent of a GovernorGeneral with direct powers over British authorities in Malaya, Singapore, North Borneo and Sarawak.61 As Gater replied to the Foreign Office, his department only agreed with the more moderate option of m aking the political adviser at SEAC respon­ sible to London. Once civil government was re-established there m ight be an appropriate place for the Foreign Office’s political adviser to be attached to the staff of the Colonial Office’s Governor- General.62 G ater’s reply made it clear that the proposed appointm ent of a Minister Resident conflicted with his departm ent’s own plans for South-East Asia. The Colonial Office was eager to regain its dom inant prewar position in B ritain’s South-East Asian terri­ tories. A superior minister undoubtedly would have had the power to overrule Colonial Office decisions; this would certainly have upstaged the new Malayan Governor-General. It is obvious that after years of intensive planning, the Colonial Office didn’t want its new constitutional scheme for Malaya to be spoilt by the Foreign Office, which had entered the South-East Asian scene belatedly and ill prepared. However, by the time that Gater’s letter arrived at the Foreign Office, the situation in South-East Asia had been radically transformed: Japan had just announced her surrender to the Allies. Suddenly, the future organisation of South-East Asia was no longer in the realm of postwar planning. It had to be decided swiftly, and under the pressure of rapid and often dramatic events.

Chapter 2

The dilemma of peace in South-East Asia

On 14 August 1945, after two American nuclear bombs had wiped out the Japanese cities of Hiroshim a and Nagasaki, Japan announced her surrender. The Allies had finally trium phed over the last of the Axis powers. In Britain, joyful crowds instantly took to the streets to celebrate the news, and the government declared a special two-day holiday. In South-East Asia, however, the British were soon confronted with problems that were completely unexpected and for which they were hardly prepared. As the headline of Pacific Post, the daily newspaper of the British Pacific Fleet in the Far East, predicted on 16 August 1945: ‘War is over - the job isn’t’. In the previous m onth, M ountbatten had visited Germany for the Potsdam Conference. While attending the conference, he was told of a highly im portant decision to extend the operational boundaries of his command. Since its creation in 1943, SEAC’s operational responsibility had included Burma, Malaya, Singapore and the northern Indonesian island of Sumatra. He was now informed that the American and British Chiefs of Staff had agreed to transfer the rest of Indonesia from the Americanled South-West Pacific Area Command (SWPA) to SEAC. They also added the southern half of Indochina to M ountbatten’s command, and confirmed SEAC’s responsibility for T hailand.1 T he decision im plied that after Roosevelt’s untimely death in April, W ashington decided to accept Britain’s desire to re­ establish her prewar position in South-East Asia.2 At the same time, the United States could concentrate on Japan, which was to be prim arily an American responsibility. Also in Potsdam, Churchill told M ountbatten about the existence of the nuclear bomb. He was instructed to prepare for a Japanese surrender in

28

Britain and Regional Cooperation 3

the middle of August. Not only would SEAC have to liberate and relieve a vastly increased command area; it would also have to do so at least six m onths earlier than planned. Initially, M ountbatten was confident that he would be able to cope with his additional geographical responsibilities.4 How­ ever, it soon emerged that SEAC was stretched beyond its limits. It was a military command geared to fighting the Japanese, not to deal with the complex logistical and political problems of postwar relief, reconstruction and adm inistration in most of South-East Asia. As M ountbatten reflected in a television interview in the 1970s: Suddenly, I found myself responsible as the Supreme Com­ mander for an enormous area of the globe, with a distance of 6,000 miles across it . . . with 128 m illion starving and rather rebellious people who had just been liberated, with 123,000 prisoners of war and internees, many of whom were dying,. . . and at the very beginning I had some 700,000 Japanese soldiers, sailors and airmen, to take the surrender, disarm, put into prison camps, awaiting transportation back. Even look­ ing at that it sounds a big problem, but I had no idea what I really was in for - what I really was in for was trying to re­ establish civilisation and rule of law and order throughout this vast part of the world. We didn’t even know what the conditions were going to be. I had no staff really trained or qualified to help me in this task, except some professional civil affairs officers from various countries whose one idea was to go back and carry on where they left off three or four years 5 ago. SEAC’s official postwar task was to disarm and enforce the surrender of the approximately 740,000 Japanese troops in South-East Asia before their eventual return to Japan, and to restore law and order in the reoccupied territories. It was also in charge of recovering approximately 125,000 Allied prisoners-ofwar and internees in the area, some of whom were held in remote jungle camps. T o fulfil his task M ountbatten had at his disposal a total of about 1.3 m illion British and Indian troops of whom only 350,000 were initially deployed. His fleet consisted of only 120 warships, and his air force included only 50 RAF squadrons6 - a small force considering the vast geographical extension of his command. At the same time, there was pressure from home to

The dilemma of peace in South-East Asia

29

further scale down SEAC’s strength; the PYTHO N repatriation scheme, introduced at the end of 1944, had already reduced the time that British soldiers had to serve in the Far East from five years to three years and eight m onths.7 SEAC’s resources were thus fully stretched, and one wonders what would have happened if the Japanese had refused to obey Allied orders in defiance of their country’s official surrender. In the event, the Japanese showed themselves cooperative and M ountbatten decided to m aintain their chain of command. This allowed SEAC to use Japanese troops for its own purposes: even months after the surrender the British often relied on the Japanese to police the recaptured territories. Of the many problems facing the British in South-East Asia, the question of how to deal with the nationalist movements in the region was of param ount importance. During the occupa­ tion, the Japanese had fostered the fledgling nationalist move­ ments in each country in order to secure the collaboration of parts of the population. By 1945, many nationalist movements had gained enough self-confidence to put up armed resistance against the returning European powers. The first South-East Asian country where the British were confronted with the new brand of m ilitant nationalism was Burma. Even before the war, nationalist sentiment had been stronger in Burma than anywhere else in South-East Asia. After occupying the country in 1942, the Japanese had tried to exploit Burmese nationalism for their own purposes, by establishing the Burma Defence Army under the command of the Burmese leader Aung San, and by declaring the country’s ‘independence’ in 1943.8 However, following clan­ destine negotiations with British forces Aung San’s troops swapped sides ip March 1945 and engaged the Japanese in guerrilla warfare. This greatly helped the advancing British forces under General Slim to recapture Rangoon before the onset of the monsoon rains in the late spring of 1945. Aung San’s involvement in the recapture of Rangoon con­ stituted a political dilemma for the British. On the one hand, they were committed, under the Burma White Paper, to re­ establish direct British rule for a transitional period. On the other hand, demands for self-government and independence by the nationalist movement behind Aung San, organised in the AntiFascist People’s Freedom League (AFPFL), could not be ignored. M ountbatten sensed that open conflict with the Burmese natio­

30

Britain and Regional Cooperation

nalists would make Burma untenable. In May, he recognised the Burma National Army, renamed the Burmese Patriotic Forces, as a British ally. In September an agreement was signed with the league providing for the creation of a Burmese army out of the Burmese Patriotic Forces.9 However, while M ountbatten temporarily succeeded in appeasing Burmese nationalism (before the return to civil government in October brought matters to a head), armed conflicts soon broke out in other parts of South-East Asia. Things weren’t helped by the fact that SEAC’s troops had been prevented from landing in Indonesia and Indochina before the beginning of September; General MacArthur, the designated American Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers in the Far East, had ruled that no Japanese-held territory should be reoccupied by any of the Allied troops before the official surrender documents had been signed in Tokyo on 2 September.10 As a result, a power vacuum existed in the Japanese-held territories that was playing into the hands of both Indonesian and Vietnamese nationalists. In Indonesia, as in Burma, the Japanese had since 1942 fostered nationalist movements to increase local cooperation. On 17 August 1945, the Indonesian nationalist leader, Sukarno, used the opportunity of the Japanese surrender to proclaim an inde­ pendent Indonesian republic. In the following weeks, Indo­ nesian nationalists, many of whom had previously received param ilitary training from the Japanese, seized arms from the now passive Japanese troops and gained control of large parts of the islands of Java and Sumatra. When British troops eventually reached Batavia in the west of Java they were too weak to force the Indonesian Republic into surrender. In November 1945, a fierce battle ensued for the control of Surabaya in the east of the island. T hough the British eventually gained the upper hand, they had also experienced at first hand the fanaticism and determination of the Indonesian nationalists. The episode finally convinced M ountbatten that a British military campaign to restore Dutch rule was out of the question.11 In view of SEAC’s experiences in Burma and Indonesia, it slowly dawned on the British that they had completely under­ estimated the significance of the war for the growth of South-East Asian nationalism. In Indonesia, the British soon used their position in the country to urge the Dutch that they should enter

The dilemma of peace in South-East Asia 31

into negotiations with the Indonesian nationalists. As Dening wrote to Sterndale Bennett at the beginning of October: These independence movements in Asia must be treated with sympathy and understanding. Otherwise they will become really serious. As I have indicated, they are half-baked and treated the proper way they should not be very terrifying. But treated the wrong way, they may well, in the end, spell the end of Europe in Asia. . . . Let us therefore stand no nonsense from the French or the Dutch.12 Despite this, Britain’s flexible postwar policies in Burma and Indonesia were in marked contrast to those pursued by SEAC in Indochina. Here, too, nationalist forces had seized the oppor­ tunity given to them by the delayed arrival of the Allied troops. D uring the war, the communist-dominated Viet M inh movement had kept a low profile, while the French colonial administrators were grudgingly cooperating with the vastly superior Japanese forces occupying the country. In March 1945, the Japanese finally took over complete control of Indochina and interned all the rem aining French troops and civilians. After the Japanese surrender five m onths later, the French were thus unable to regain the political initiative in the country. Instead, the Viet M inh’s m oment for action had come. As in Indonesia, the nationalists obtained large quantities of arms from the Japanese troops, who were w aiting passively for the arrival of Allied forces. On 2 September, the Viet M inh leader, Ho Chi Minh, proclaimed the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRV) during a large open-air rally in H anoi in the north of Vietnam. The DRV’s m ain power-base was to be in the northern province of T onkin where it was tolerated by the Chinese occupational armies until the return of the French in the spring of 1946. According to M ountbatten’s new directive, SEAC was in charge of liberating the southern half of Indochina, where the Viet M inh had effectively taken over control of the local adm i­ nistrations in and around Saigon. However, the commander of the British occupational forces in the country, Major General Douglas D. Gracey, decided not to make any concessions to the Vietnamese nationalists. Soon after his arrival in the country on 13 September 1945, Gracey declared a state of siege around Saigon and released and armed the few thousand French troops held in Japanese prison camps. On his own initiative, Gracey

32

Britain and Regional Cooperation

then organised a coup d’etat against the Vietnamese. On 23 September, his British, Indian and crack Gurkha troops arrested the surprised Viet M inh authorities in Saigon’s public buildings, and firmly reinstated the French administrators. In the following weeks and months, SEAC units became involved in active fighting with Viet M inh forces for the control of Saigon and its surrounding areas, an episode which one historian has called ‘The First Vietnam W ar’.13 New French troops under the com­ m and of General Philippe Leclerc arrived in October, and by February 1946 the French and British completed the reoccupa­ tion of Saigon and of large parts of Cochin-China in the south of Vietnam. British forces gradually withdrew and in March General Gracey officially transferred his rem aining authority to the French. Nationalism wasn’t the only unexpected problem confronting the British in South-East Asia. SEAC was also faced with serious economic problems throughout the region. It soon became apparent that South-East Asia’s agricultural economy lay in ruins as a result of the Japanese occupation. Traditional riceproducing countries like Burma, Indochina and to a lesser degree T hailand had all suffered from serious neglect and mismanage­ ment under the Japanese, and there existed hardly any stocks of rice or other foodstuffs in the area. No new crops had been planted, and the indigenous transport systems were disintegrat­ ing. The Japanese supply system - never very efficient - broke down completely at the time of the surrender, and there was a shortage of clothing, consumer goods, coal, machinery and fertilisers.14 As a result, South-East Asia was soon threatened by famine (see Chapter 3). The British had only very limited means to deal with the economic crisis in the region. SEAC’s own food stocks were completely insufficient to meet the area’s food demands, and since the shortage of rice was not confined to South-East Asia, the Combined Food Board in W ashington, responsible for world­ wide food allocations during and immediately after the war, was in no position to provide large-scale imports either.15 Another problem was SEAC’s lack of transport facilities. M ountbatten had a fleet of only 130 cargo ships, too little to keep up the flow of supplies to and w ithin his enlarged theatre. Things were made worse by the fact that the turn-around of ships was usually delayed by the lack of port equipm ent and the shortage of labour.

The dilemma of peace in South-East Asia 33

SEAC’s inadequate shipping resources were further strained by the need to transport Indian coal supplies to South-East Asia; the latter’s coal production was seriously reduced as a result of the war. All this had the effect that the few surplus stocks of rice, which existed for example in Thailand, were extremely difficult to transport to deficit areas.16 Last but not least, SEAC had hardly any qualified staff to deal with the civil administration, let alone the economic rehabilitation, of the re-occupied territories. However, as difficult as the political and economic situation m ight have been in South-East Asia, it also provided Britain with a unique political opportunity in the region. SEAC, which was completely controlled by the British, was temporarily responsible for the adm inistration of almost the whole of South-East Asia. If the British played their cards right, SEAC m ight be turned to long-term advantage, providing the basis for lasting British hegemony in the region. No one grasped this more clearly than M ountbatten’s political adviser, Esler Dening, who soon pro­ posed setting up a British-led civilian successor organisation to SEAC that would be responsible for the relief and economic development of the whole of South-East Asia. As Dening told London after first hearing of the Japanese surrender, everything depended on how Britain coped at this critical moment in history: By the creation of the South-East Asia Command, which is predom inantly British, we assumed responsibility for the areas contained w ithin its boundaries. T hat is all to the good provided we discharge that responsibility. If we do, then we stand a fair chance of restoring British prestige in a part of the world where it had sunk to a very low ebb. If we do not, then I should expect that, as the years roll on, the peoples of the Far East will tend to look less and less to Britain and more and more to any Power which is in a position to afford them strategic, political and economic security.17 T o cope with the enormous economic problems in the region Dening soon suggested setting up a ‘coordinating agency’ in South-East Asia which would deal with economic questions such as rice distribution, inflation or price fixing. Dening argued in a telegram dated 23 August that w ithout such an agency: There will be no overall economy which I believe to be

34

Britain and Regional Cooperation

necessary to future prosperity of South-East Asia, and we shall find ourselves drifting back to bad days when a number of political entities existed in this region with no consciousness of, or interest in, the problems of their neighbours, and no coordination of their economy or security.18 In September, Dening further wrote to Sterndale Bennett: I am all for the setting up of local civil administrations as soon as possible. At the same time I have not altered my view that it would be a pity to split up once more into isolated parishes, and some organisation should, I think, be preserved which will preserve the unity of purpose engendered by the war. Regional economy and regional security are, at any rate, essentials, and the more we can break down political barriers at this stage the better.19 T aking into account Dening’s earlier proposals, his ideas amounted to a scheme that provided for the establishment of a regional successor organisation to SEAC that would be linked to or led by the proposed British Minister Resident. Senior officers at SEAC were apparently thinking along similar lines to Dening. According to the War Office, there was enthusiastic support am ong top SEAC officials for a scheme which would make the m aximum political use of the command under the lead of 20 M ountbatten. At the Foreign Office, Sterndale Bennett con­ cluded that ‘if the scheme were properly handled SEAC m ight become the nucleus for a consultative regional commission in South-East Asia which has long been one of our tentative objectives’. However, due regard would have to be be paid to the susceptibilities of foreign countries, as it m ight appear that Britain was trying to fasten her control over French and Dutch territories; so far as T hailand was concerned it would also ‘revive American suspicions of our wish to reduce that country to a kind of subject State’. In the early stages the scheme would therefore have to apply to British territories, Indonesia, Indochina and T hailand only.21 Sterndale Bennett’s comments highlighted one key aspect of Dening’s and other officers’ proposals. The creation of a civilian successor organisation to SEAC, linked to a British Minister Resident, im plied the continuation in the postwar years of Britain’s factual hegemony in South-East Asia under SEAC.

The dilemma of peace in South-East Asia 35

Although the proposed organisation was to secure the economic revival and development of South-East Asia, there is no doubt that Dening also saw it as a potential tool for British great power interests in Asia. It was this aspect of Dening’s proposal which would have made the concurrence of France and the Netherlands in such a British-dominated regional scheme questionable, despite the two countries’ weakness in 1945 and their reliance on British support in South-East Asia. Despite these potential pitfalls, the Foreign Office supported the idea of prom oting regional cooperation in South-East Asia on the basis of SEAC. However, before launching an interna­ tional initiative in this direction, the department had to try and convince the rest of W hitehall to back Dening’s proposal. His telegram of 23 August was therefore passed on to the Official Far Eastern Committee and to the other departments involved, thus reviving the issue of regional cooperation which had been dorm ant since the failure of the Colonial Office’s worldwide plans earlier in the year. As Sterndale Bennett pointed out to Ernest Bevin on 9 October, three issues were now under consider­ ation. First, there was the question of whether a Minister of State or merely a high and independent government official should be appointed in South-East Asia, as SEAC was unprepared for dealing with the political and economic problems arising in the area. The second point was the serious supply problems in SEAC and the need for some better coordinating machinery. Third, there was the tendency of the various territories to ‘drop back into more or less water-tight com partm ents’. However: The existence of South-East Asia Command does provide an opportunity for working on a regional basis and perhaps for laying the foundation of some kind of regional organisation when the immediate m ilitary tasks of South-East Asia Com­ m and are over.22 On 18 October, cabinet ministers discussed the various plans for the future organisation of South-East Asia. It was argued that although SEAC urgently needed a stronger political machinery, there were signs that M ountbatten did not favour the appoint­ ment of a Minister Resident and that such an appointm ent would be embarrassing to the Indian Viceroy and to the Gov­ ernor of Burma. In view of these objections, the meeting decided

36

Britain and Regional Cooperation

instead on the appointm ent of an official of ambassadorial status, responsible to the Foreign Office, who would deal with political questions in the non-British territories and who could achieve further coordination in consultation with the Indian Viceroy and the Governor of Burma. Concerning the supply situation in South-East Asia and the region’s future economic organisation, it was generally accepted that coordinating m achi­ nery for economic and supply matters was needed. However, it was left to the various departments to discuss whether this machinery would be under the supervision of the proposed high official.23 Although the minutes of the meeting do not mention any objections by the Colonial Office, there is little doubt that the departm ent’s plans for a Malayan Governor-General helped to tip the balance against the appointm ent of a Minister Resident. Although the Foreign Office had initially supported a new m inisterial appointm ent in South-East Asia, it was pleased that the planned appointm ent of a senior diplom at would increase the departm ent’s influence w ithin the region. It also offered the Foreign Office the opportunity to assume some regional econ­ omic responsibilities - so long as the new post would be linked to the new economic machinery also envisaged by the ministerial meeting. If it played its cards right, the new Foreign Office post m ight even become the basis for an international regional commission. However, it soon became clear that W hitehall was divided over the question of regional cooperation. During a first interdepartm ental meeting on the issue, Sterndale Bennett invited other departments to comment on the desirability, from the economic point of view, ‘of setting up some machinery for cooperation as between the territories at present included in SEAC’. This subsequently inspired the meeting’s chairman from the Ministry of Production, McGregor, to circulate a paper proposing an ‘international advisory supply council’ for SouthEast Asia, composed of high-ranking officials, and with a secretariat in charge of the daily work. The council would deal w ith issues such as colonial economic policies, short-term rehabilitation and price control of the region’s commodities such as rubber, tin and rice.24 The Colonial Office was surprised by McGregor’s paper, arguing that the meeting on 22 October had reached no agree­ m ent on any aspect of long-term economic cooperation: there was no reason why SEAC should be taken as a nucleus for a

The dilemma of peace in South-East Asia 37

regional economic council, as the comm and’s boundaries were determined by reasons other than economic. Furthermore: While fully appreciating the advantages of regional economic cooperation . . . it is not the most propitious moment for proposing a regional body providing for coordination and cooperation in respect of economic matters on a regional basis. If the proposals are p ut forward now, they m ight be met with some suspicion on the ground that we are trying to take advantage of our m ilitary position in the Far East. . . . We would suggest that the question should be deferred for, say, a year, and reviewed at the end of that time in the light of the then conditions.25 The Colonial Office had thus expressed its opposition to any plans for regional economic cooperation in the near future. Its officials further argued that the resources of Britain’s South-East Asian colonies were too scarce to be shared with their non-British neighbours. Regional cooperation would also be complicated by Britain’s problems with Indonesia and Thailand, and there was a chance that other countries would be highly suspicious of British intentions behind a regional scheme. If a regional organisation was eventually created, it would have to be on the lines of the Caribbean Commission, which had only token economic and 26 political powers. However, the Ministry of Production w ouldn’t give up easily, circulating a revised paper that had the support of the Board of Trade and that again stressed the need for economic collaboration.27 The Foreign Office too continued to lobby for some form of regional cooperation in South-East Asia, hoping that it would be linked to its new appointm ent. As Sterndale Bennett wrote in a departmental minute, the question was now whether the planned Foreign Office post would be given responsibilities for the coordination not only of foreign affairs but also of general political, economic and financial questions in the area. The problem was that the Colonial and Burma offices would oppose anything which looked like im pinging on the prerogatives of the governors of the various British territories.28 A high-ranking interdepartm ental meeting on 19 November reconsidered the whole issue. It decided that the title of the new Foreign Office appointm ent would be Special Commissioner and that his headquarters would be in Singapore. He would not

38

Britain and Regional Cooperation

concern himself with the internal problems of the British territories in South-East Asia; nor would there be any derogation from M ountbatten’s authority. It was also agreed that for the time being the Governor of Malaya and, when appointed, the Governor-General of Malaya would be the King’s principal representative in Singapore. The duration of the appointm ent was left for further consideration.29 However, no agreement could be reached on the Special Commissioner’s economic respon­ sibilities. Sterndale Bennett had written a draft directive which stated that the new appointm ent would encourage political and economic coordination and that it would preside over a regional economic advisory council in Singapore. The directive was criticised by the heads of the Colonial Office, Sir George Gater, and of the Treasury, Sir Edward Bridges. The latter apparently wanted to avoid additional financial commitments in connection with the new post. So far as economic coordination and co­ operation in general were concerned, representatives from the ministries of Supply and of Food further argued that ‘raw materials from South-East Asia were wanted by the rest of the world and only to a small extent by the territories themselves’; trade would be with the outside world and the scope for interchange was not great. As a result of these objections, consideration of the Special Commissioner’s economic functions was postponed to a later date.30 Despite this set-back to the Foreign Office’s South-East Asian plans, further reports on SEAC’s inadequate economic organisa­ tion strengthened the departm ent’s hand. In the middle of December, Dening repeated his demand for a civil successor to SEAC. There were many matters that a military command should not be dealing with, such as the allocation of Indian textiles to South-East Asian territories. This was more for a civilian organisation which would be equipped with a staff trained in international affairs and in economic and financial matters, as well as in civil government. As most territories in South-East Asia had been liberated w ithout having to undergo the horrors of battle, the populations were expecting an earlier return to normalcy. The result was growing unrest and dis­ content. The proposed civil organisation would alleviate the position more quickly than the military ever could, removing the suspicion of neglect, coordinating the area’s requirements so as to ensure equitable distribution, and dealing with political

The dilemma of peace in South-East Asia 39

developments of more than a local significance. As in his earlier representations, Dening also saw use for such an organisation beyond the immediate postwar period: Burma, Malaya, Siam, Indo-China and the Netherlands Indies were all completely parochial in their outlook before the war and we had no organisation which was capable of surveying the scene as a whole and of m aking appropriate recommenda­ tions to HMG, while in W hitehall reports from these areas were canalised with the Foreign Office, as the case m ight be, so that again there was no comprehensive picture. I think we should avoid doing that in the future. In London I understand that the necessary machinery has been set up. O ut here I do not consider that a m ilitary command can fill the bill. Dening added that links should be made between such a ‘clearing house’ and Australia, New Zealand, China and India.31 Inspired by Dening, the Foreign Office took the opportunity of an interdepartm ental meeting on 18 December to press for a link between regional cooperation and its new appointm ent. As the attending Colonial Office official was insufficiently briefed and unfam iliar with the Special Commissioner’s appointm ent,32 the Foreign Office managed to steamroller any opposition. Accord­ ing to the official minutes, the meeting agreed that regional cooperation could be useful in matters concerning supply, distribution and pest control and that the Special Commissioner should be invited to make recommendations on whether the existing machinery in South-East Asia was sufficient to deal with economic questions. He should also recommend what arrange­ ments should be made for the period immediately after control had been handed over to the civil governments, and whether the foundations could be laid for a long-term organisation for regional cooperation.33 T he head of the Colonial Office, Gater, was furious when he heard of the m eeting’s outcome, and he asked Kenneth Robinson, the Colonial Office’s leading expert on regional commissions, to comment. Robinson, who had not been consulted before, warned of the ‘dangers involved in Regional Commissions’. While the Colonial Office was in general agreement that South-East Asia was an area suitable for regional commissions, the present situation underlined in the most acute form all the problems which were considered in Stanley’s paper on ‘International

40

Britain and Regional Cooperation

Aspects of Colonial Policy’. Regionalism would be used by the Americans and the two Pacific dominions to undermine the position of the colonial powers, assisted by China, and probably by India and Russia. Because of this, the French were already highly suspicious of all these regional proposals. While regional cooperation was of vital importance in raising the standard of living throughout the area, it should not be considered w ithout realising the wider political issues involved, particularly the ‘Colonial Q uestion’.34 R obinson’s reservations against any regional schemes in South-East Asia were the same as those voiced by the Colonial Office after the Yalta Conference in February 1945: regional cooperation bore in it the danger of international interference in colonial territories. This danger was particularly acute during the current political troubles in the South-East Asian territories. In a letter to the War Office, Gater therefore expressed serious doubts about including any reference to international regional cooperation in the Special Commissioner’s directive. This issue involved many problems of a political character, in particular the question of the relationship between such regional machinery and the United Nations Organisation.35 W hile W hitehall was considering Robinson’s objections to regional cooperation, the men on the spot had eventually got wind of the Colonial Office’s plans for Malaya.36 As Dening telexed to London on 5 January 1946, M ountbatten, Dening, MacMichael and Hone had concluded that instead of a Malayan Governor-General there was need for an overall civilian orga­ nisation to coordinate British domestic and foreign policy in the region. It would also act as a clearing house for the resolution of regional problems which were at the same time of concern to individual British territories. The functions of the head of such an organisation would be those of an umpire, coordinator and perhaps adjudicator rather than of an executive officer. His authority would furthermore derive from the cabinet, and he m ight one day m aintain links with any United Nations offices in the region.37 Dening added in a second telegram that the appoint­ ment of two high officials would be wrong, and that a GovernorGeneral’s m ind would ‘naturally be influenced towards colonial problems only as opposed to problems of the whole area of South-East Asia’.38 However, D ening’s comments arrived too late to make any

The dilemma of peace in South-East Asia 41

difference, as the cabinet had long decided against the appoint­ m ent of a Minister Resident in South-East Asia. Even the Foreign Office had come round to the view that it would be more practicable, if less ambitious, to make the Special Commissioner responsible to the Foreign Secretary, and to keep him out of inter-Malayan affairs.39 Nevertheless, Dening’s telegrams encour­ aged the Foreign Office not to relent on the Special Commiss­ ioner’s economic directive. T hough there was a risk of delaying the new appointm ent, officials at the Foreign Office argued that the departm ent should not for the sake of speed agree to the restrictions on the Special Commissioner’s terms of reference suggested by the Colonial Office.40 The m atter was subsequently referred to the Permanent Under­ secretary at the Foreign Office, Alexander Cadogan, who told Gater in a letter of 10 January that some civil organisation was needed to meet the overall requirements of South-East Asia. The value of regional cooperation had been accepted by the Colonial Office in other parts of the world and some form of regional organisation would help to increase the wealth and welfare of the region and of its inhabitants. The Foreign Office had a particular interest in regional developments since South-East Asia com­ prised, apart from T hailand, ‘colonial territories with the mother-countries of which it is our general policy to develop the closest comm unity of interests’. Cadogan therefore saw a good case for having the problem investigated by the Special Commis­ sioner who would merely make recommendations.41 However, Gater was not convinced that any reference to regional cooperation should be made. He had ‘very clear indica­ tions of the sensitivity and suspicion with which the French view any form of regional cooperation involving their Colonies especially if any outside powers such as the United States or, in this case, China are to participate’. There were good prospects for appropriate ad hoc collaboration with the French and with other colonial powers, but the inclusion of non-colonial powers as contemplated by Stanley in 1943 was fraught with great difficulty. Furthermore, relations with the Dutch in the Neth­ erlands East Indies were uneasy, and the situation in Indonesia, and to a lesser extent Indochina, was being used by ‘anti­ im perialist’ elements in the United States and elsewhere to support the case for international intervention in the area.42 However, the Foreign Office was far from satisfied with Gater’s

42

Britain and Regional Cooperation

reply, Sterndale Bennett com plaining that the Colonial Office had been ‘very obstructive’ about the Special Commissioner’s terms of reference: ‘Their fears about regional commissions may have some substance, but this letter gives no real argum ent why the Special Commissioner should not be asked to consider the question of regional cooperation in economic matters and to make recommendations about it.’43 The Foreign Office was in fact becoming increasingly concerned that agreement of the terms of its new appointm ent m ight be delayed. A departmental memo stressed that SEAC, which had provided a previously non­ existing link between the South-East Asian territories, was now ‘dw indling’.44 Moreover, Dening’s relations with M ountbatten were at an all-time low after a row over SEAC’s Far Eastern publicity division and it was clear that he would soon have to be transferred.45 Unless the Special Commissioner were soon appointed, D ening’s departure would leave the Foreign Office unrepresented at a time when SEAC was handing over to civil governments in the various territories.46 Furthermore, someone was urgently needed to report on regional economic develop­ ments affecting both foreign and British territories in the area. By the end of January 1946, W hitehall was thus divided into three different camps so far as the issue of regional cooperation was concerned. The first group was the traditionalists, for example at the Ministry of Supply, who saw no need for any kind of regional cooperation in South-East Asia. They believed that the prewar pattern of trade between a colony and the m etropolitan power should be resumed, and that inter-regional trade should be discouraged. By implication, the economic development and welfare of the colonies were of secondary importance. However, this group was in the minority. The second group, namely the Colonial Office, agreed in principle that economic collaboration was im portant for SouthEast Asian prosperity and social welfare. However, colonial planners feared at the same time that the establishment of a regional commission would lead to outside interference in the South-East Asian colonies, for example by the United States. Furthermore, they expected that any regional proposals tabled by Britain would be regarded with suspicion by France and the Netherlands. So far as colonial officials in charge of Malayan affairs were concerned, they were also disinclined to spare the colony’s limited resources for the economic reconstruction of

The dilemma of peace in South-East Asia 43

neighbouring foreign territories while there was still a shortage of food and basic consumer goods. Of equal importance was the Colonial Office’s objection to a link between regional coope­ ration and the Foreign Office’s new appointm ent. From the outset, Colonial Office officials had regarded the Foreign Office’s plans with suspicion, fearing that a Special Commissioner with economic responsibilities would trespass on the grounds of the Governor-General. The third group consisted of the promoters of regional coope­ ration. Officials at the Ministry of Production were enthusiastic about greater inter-regional trade and the control of commodity prices by an international organisation. The Foreign Office, too, believed in the short- and long-term economic benefits for SouthEast Asia’s war-shattered economy. However, the department was prim arily interested in the political opportunities that a regional scheme m ight offer - helping to promote British influence throughout the region. After the Colonial Office objected to the establishment of a regional organisation based on SEAC, the Foreign Office’s m inim al aim was to keep the regional option open by officially instructing the Special Commissioner to make recommendations on regional cooperation. W ithin the third group, certain differences existed between officials in South-East Asia and those in London. For example, Dening did not intend to involve the Americans in any regional arrangement, whereas Foreign Office officials in London were prepared to include the United States as well. Furthermore Dening, who was not fully aware of the developments in W hitehall, was adam ant that the proposed organisation should be linked to, or even headed by, a British official or minister responsible to the cabinet. The Foreign Office, on the other hand, accepted the m inisterial decision that the new appoint­ m ent would be responsible to the Foreign Secretary. Dening also kept pressing for the immediate establishment of a civil organisa­ tion in order to relieve SEAC of its non-military responsibilities. T he Foreign Office, by contrast, came to realise by the end of January that regional cooperation would have to be a long-term policy. The prim ary aim was to ensure that Britain would rem ain the dom inant power in South-East Asia for years to come.

Chapter 3

‘Famine averted’: the Special Commission in Singapore

Since the Japanese surrender, the Attlee government had con­ sidered the problems of South-East Asia to have been of second­ ary importance compared to the problems in Europe, the Middle East and India. However, at the end of January 1946 the region went right to the top of the cabinet’s agenda. During talks in W ashington, the British Minister of Food had learnt that the world production of grains had been overestimated and that a shortage of 5 m illion tons of wheat could be expected during the next year. Apart from expected shortfalls in Germany, both South-East Asia and India would be seriously affected because of crop losses and procurement failures on the subcontinent.1On 31 January, cabinet ministers were further told that South-East Asia was now facing famine because of a worldwide shortage of rice, the m ain diet of the region. The estimated supply of 3.1 m illion tons of rice was 0.7 m illion tons below the expected annual world demand of 3.8 m illion tons (excluding Ja p an ’s requirements of 1 m illion tons).2 Due to the shortage of wheat, rice could not be replaced by other crops. The gravity of the situation was brought to the w orld’s attention when on 11 February the United Nations General Assembly urged all governments to take immediate and drastic action against the worldwide shortage of food.3 Four days earlier, Britain had already announced the introduction of bread rationing and the cessation of her rice imports. The rice shortage was a direct result of the Japanese occupa­ tion of South-East Asia. During the war the Japanese had forced the territories under their control to aim for economic selfsufficiency, with the result that the production of rice-exporting countries, such as Indochina, Burma and Thailand, had been scaled down while rice-importing countries like Indonesia and

‘Famine averted’ 45

Malaya were facing starvation. Indochina’s rice-exports were affected the most and had fallen from 1.3 m illion tons before the war to a mere 0.1 m illion tons after the war. The country’s rice production further declined because of the fighting between the French and the Viet M inh in the rice-producing south of the country. At the end of 1945, the Chinese-controlled north of Indochina was hit by famine. The only country that was still producing rice on the prewar level was Thailand, as she had been spared the destruction of war due to her collaboration with the Japanese. On 1 January Britain had signed a peace treaty with Thailand in which the latter promised the free delivery of 1.5 million tons of rice as part of her war reparations. However, hardly any rice had been forthcoming as Thailand’s rice trade was controlled by Chinese merchants who were busy selling the commodity on the black market.4As a first measure to deal with the food crisis, the cabinet grudgingly decided to modify claims for free rice from Thailand, hoping that a postponement of British repa­ ration demands would increase Thai rice supplies. It was also decided to set up a ministerial committee for world food supplies to monitor the situation at the highest level.5 The announcem ent of an im m inent rice crisis helped to speed up the appointm ent of the Special Commissioner in South-East Asia. After the cabinet meeting on 31 January, Bevin suggested to Attlee that the new Special Commissioner should be charged with coordinating South-East Asian food supplies. His choice for the new post was Lord Killearn, the British ambassador in Egypt. Attlee agreed, and on 3 February Bevin sent a telegram to Killearn, offering him a two-year appointm ent as Special Com­ missioner in South-East Asia, stressing the gravity of the food situation and the need for someone who could ‘coordinate the efforts of Governors and other agents in the area’.6 Killearn was completely surprised by Bevin’s offer, but after two days of hesitation decided to accept.7 He was in his mid-sixties and realised that it was either Singapore or retirement. After Bevin told the cabinet about the new appointm ent on 11 February an official committee on South-East Asian food supplies was appointed in London under the chairm anship of Lord Nathan, a junior minister. Its aim was to increase food and rice supplies in South-East Asia, and to coordinate the actions of the Special Commissioner and of the ministries concerned with South-East 8 Asian food problems and related economic questions. •

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Britain and Regional Cooperation

The Special Commissioner’s terms of reference were approved by the middle of March. He was responsible to the Foreign Secretary, and would advise the government on foreign affairs in the area of Ceylon, Burma, Thailand, Indochina, Malaya, Borneo and Indonesia. He would give guidance to SACSEA on foreign affairs and would m aintain contacts with the British governors in the area, with the British minister in Thailand, and with the representatives of the dominions in Singapore. He would furthermore direct the activities of the Foreign Service officers in the area, except for Thailand, and would contact foreign administrations after the restoration of civil adm inist­ ration.9 A compromise was found on his economic responsibili­ ties. Apart from being invited to make recommendations on whether the existing machinery in South-East Asia was suf­ ficient to deal with the economic problems in the region, he was asked to advise the government on the issue of regional col­ laboration. It was, however, left to London whether or not it would accept his recommendations.10 In addition, the Special Commissioner was instructed to ensure that all possible steps were taken to alleviate the food crisis in South-East Asia: he would m aintain close contact with the Indian government and the dom inions, and would invite the French and Dutch authori­ ties in the region to cooperate in matters relating to food whenever it appeared desirable to do so. He would also try to secure agreement with any other foreign authorities on the adoption of measures designed to alleviate the food crisis.11 The Foreign Office had thus succeeded in providing its new Singapore office with considerable economic responsibilities for South-East Asia, and in keeping the issue of regional coope­ ration alive. However, the department was forced to com­ promise in its choice of candidates. Originally, it had been looking for someone from outside the department, in order to make the new appointm ent more acceptable to the rest of W hitehall. Potential candidates included Sir Harold MacMichael, an experienced colonial official, who was preoccupied with renegotiating the Malayan treaties prior to the Malayan Union, and Malcolm MacDonald, the former Colonial Sec­ retary and son of the first Labour Prime Minister, Ramsay MacDonald. Malcolm MacDonald currently served as British H igh Commissioner in Canada but was already designated to become Governor-General of Malaya.12

‘Famine averted’ 47

At the last moment, Lord Killearn was chosen from inside the Foreign Office. He had considerable experience of the Far East and had served as British Minister to China between 1926 and 1933 when he had renegotiated the ‘unequal treaties’ with China.13 Since 1934, first as H igh Commissioner and then as ambassador in Cairo, Killearn had been one of the true powers behind the Egyptian throne - indeed ‘one of the last great Proconsuls’ as W illiam Roger Louis has described him .14 During the war, he had gained experience of Middle Eastern supply questions; this made him suitable for dealing with the task of rice distribution in South-East Asia. His transfer to Singapore coincided with the Labour government’s reassessment of British policies in Egypt following the Egyptian government’s request to revise the 1936 treaty relations with Britain.15 Partly because of Killearn’s reputation as an old-style im perial­ ist, British press reaction to his new appointm ent was mixed. T hough the Sunday Times saw the new Singapore post as proof of the British government’s recognition that utmost efforts were needed to avoid disaster through famine in Asia, it also suggested that Killearn, at sixty-five, was too old for such a difficult job in Singapore’s enervating climate.16 More critical voices argued that Killearn was not only too old but also out of touch with public opinion in Britain, and that his appointm ent was dangerous in an area where change was so rapid that it would test the understanding of even the most sympathetic m ind.17 However, the Foreign Office was confident that Killearn’s diplom atic and political standing would give its new post enough clout both to promote British diplom atic influence throughout the region, and to be able to compete with the local British governors. Killearn arrived in Singapore in the middle of March. Apart from his diplom atic activities during his two years in office - he played a key m ediating role in the conflict between the Dutch colonial authorities and Indonesian nationalists - his primary, if less glamorous, task was to tackle the regional rice crisis. T hroughout 1946, South-East Asia remained on the brink of famine. Burma, T hailand and Indochina constituted the traditio­ nal ‘rice bow l’ of Asia, yet in 1946 the three countries only produced about 2 m illion tons of rice compared to the annual production of 6 m illion tons before the war. At the same time, the demand for rice by traditional im porting countries such as India, China, Malaya and Indonesia had grown significantly because of

48

Britain and Regional Cooperation

the increase in their populations. Apart from the hum anitarian aspects of a widespread famine, the governments of the region were extremely worried about the prospect of politically unset­ tling hunger riots in their respective territories. Killearn soon assumed M ountbatten’s responsibility for the ‘equal and fair distribution’ of the existing rice stocks to the countries of the region. His intergovernmental powers derived from the Combined Food Board in W ashington (superseded in June 1946 by the International Emergency Food Council, the IEFC), which was responsible for the world distribution of food 18 after the war. As a first step, the new Special Commissioner organised a conference of regional food experts in South-East Asia, followed by a high-level conference of British representa­ tives in the area. D uring these conferences initial plans were made to increase production, and to control the consumption of foodstuffs.19 The two food conferences were succeeded by regular m onthly meetings in Singapore attended by British as well as foreign representatives who were acting as liaison officers to their governments. By the beginning of 1948, the membership of these so-called Liaison Officers’ Meetings had grown significantly and included representatives from Burma, Ceylon, the Federation of Malaya, H ong Kong, India, North Borneo, Sarawak, Singapore, Indonesia, Indochina and Thailand. There were also unofficial observers representing China, the Philippines and the United States. To ensure harm ony between the attending representatives, the meetings strictly avoided political issues. According to British diplomats, decisions were made unanim ously and no 20 voting was ever necessary. In fact, Killearn’s international Liaison Officers’ Meetings soon became his chief instrum ent in dealing with short-term food problems in South-East Asia. The meetings’ main aim was to agree on the fair distribution of the available rice supplies in South-East Asia allocated by the IEFC. The attending officers also discussed ‘every problem connected with food which m ight confront any of the territories at any time’.21 To ensure close collaboration, the IEFC in October 1946 appointed a subcommit­ tee in Singapore whose members immediately endorsed or amended the shipping programmes decided at the Special Com­ m ission’s regional meetings. T he m ain reason why non-British territories regularly sent delegates to Killearn’s rice and food meetings was the simple fact

‘Famine averted’ 49

that only the Special Comm ission’s Economic Department had the administrative machinery to prepare shipping and distribu­ tion programmes, and to implem ent them once they were agreed by the Liaison Officers’ Meetings and the IEFC subcommittee. From the outset, Killearn had asked for sufficient staff to be attached to his organisation, including food and technical experts, as well as experienced administrators.22 Attlee and Bevin had agreed, and by April 1947 the Special Commission had a staff of approxim ately 500 people. Most importantly, the Special Commission had the support of Lord N athan’s Rice Committee in London, which was doing a lot of the coordinating work for the Singapore office, for example by working out the movements of transport ships at a time when shipping space continued to be 23 scarce. T o give an example of the work of the Special Commission’s Economic Department, it was the job of the rice and cereals assistant to determine how far the rice available from South-East Asian sources in any given m onth would fulfil the allocations from these sources. If required, temporary switches from one territory to another to meet ‘spot critical conditions’ were then arranged by common agreement during the m onthly Liaison Officers’ Meetings, whose membership was virtually identical with that of the regional IEFC sub-committee meeting immedi­ ately afterwards. Once a programme had been agreed, the ship­ ping assistant, another im portant expert, would ensure the program m e’s implem entation. Coal was another area covered by the Special Com m ission’s economic staff, which negotiated with the Indian government, with the Supreme Allied Commander in Japan and, by liaison, with the London Coal Committee.24 In addition to the immediate problem of rice distribution, the Special Com m ission’s Economic Department also tried to deal with the long-term task of increasing the food production in South-East Asia. Apart from encouraging the cultivation of rice fields, for example in traditional im porting countries, a number of regional conferences were held in Singapore dealing with special subjects. These conferences, like the Liaison Officers’ Meetings, were attended by representatives from British as well as foreign territories. The first such event was a N utrition Confer­ ence in May 1946 ‘to discuss ways and means of improving and supplem enting the diet of the local populations on a scientific basis, and to prepare for assimilation of alternative foodstuffs in

50

Britain and Regional Cooperation

the event of a breakdown in rice supplies’. This was followed by the South-East Asia Fisheries Conference in January 1947, a Social Welfare Conference in August 1947 and a Statistical 25 Conference in January 1948. T hroughout Killearn’s term in office questions were asked about the Special Commission’s success in dealing with the rice crisis in South-East Asia. In the Malayan press, the Special Com m ission’s activities were seldom mentioned except at moments of rice shortage: ‘Killearn’s Empty T alk Does Not Help to Relieve Rice Shortage’ was not an untypical headline, and only the Straits Times in Singapore would draw attention to the difficulties faced by the commission.26 As Killearn wrote in his diary at the beginning of 1947, his commission had inevitably come in for many kicks over the food shortage, ‘but there was a m oment when some of the gutter press went well beyond their limits of decent criticism - the m ain offender was the editor of the notorious Singapore Free Press, a most objectionable little bounder’. While local papers were critical of the continuing shortage of food, Conservative MPs in London complained about the high costs of the Foreign Office’s organisation in Singapore, which were initially estimated to be about £150,000 a year. Despite this, the Special Commission’s regional distribution programmes played a vital part in averting famine in South-East Asia. According to Killearn’s final report to the Foreign Office, it was ‘touch and go’ throughout 1946, as it was uncertain whether the small rations on which the populations in the deficit areas existed could be maintained. In October 1946, only 55 per cent of the estimated available rice actually materialised. In 1947, the situation was never as critical, but rations in the recipient territories ‘remained at a level scarcely high enough to avoid starvation and serious m alnutrition for the poorer sections of the comm unity who had not the means to buy extra rice in the black m arket’. Killearn thus concluded that, on the economic side; ‘The achievements of the Special Commission may be summed up in the statement that famine was averted and that most has been made of every means towards the production and distribu­ tion of foodstuffs.27 The Foreign Office accepted Killearn’s conclusion. Apart from coordinating the fight against famine in SouthEast Asia, the Special Commissioner soon became a chief advo­

‘Famine averted’ 51

cate of greater regional cooperation. T hroughout his term in office, Killearn travelled widely, including to China, Indochina, Thailand, the Philippines, Australia, New Zealand and Indo­ nesia, as well as most British territories in the region. He used his trips to discuss political issues as well as regional economic problems with national governments or the local colonial auth­ orities. As will be seen, he also kept pushing the idea of increasing international cooperation in South-East Asia - if possible under British leadership. During a visit to Bangkok at the end of April, for example, Killearn told the T hai Prime Minister Pridi Phanom yong how the whole of South-East Asia should become ‘some sort of bastion of civilisation’: I told him [Prime Minister Pridi] how, after the April Food Conference, we had talks with the Governors of the surround­ ing areas, and also with our people from French Indochina and the Dutch East Indies. It seemed to me vitally im portant that some form of political consolidation, of course nothing to do with territorial questions, should be set in train. . . . He said that he entirely agreed and would be more than ready to play up.28 Killearn also mentioned his ideas to a senior Dutch official in Indonesia, Van Byland, telling him in June that he had in m ind something really big and constructive in regard to South-East Asia. [Van Byland] only had to look at the map to see what I meant. . . . There was the whole stretch of SouthEast Asian territories strung out in a circle from Siam through Burma, French Indochina, Malaya and Dutch East Indies right up to and including the Philippines. I did not pretend to have crystallised my th o u g h t. . . but daily it seemed clearer to me that something really big would come of it to be set in train by the building up of all areas to form a valuable part of a new scheme of world security. Killearn admitted that all this was still quite vague in his m ind it was his personal idea and he did not know how it would strike London. But he hoped that the Dutch and the Indonesians would end their difficulties, because the Dutch East Indies would have to play an im portant part in this constructive work lying ahead. Killearn’s ideas for regional cooperation also included outside powers interested in South-East Asia. During a visit to China at

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the beginning of June, Killearn told the leader of the Chinese nationalists, Chiang Kai-shek, of his ‘pet idea of a bastion of stability in South-East Asia and, God willing, in the Far East’.30 Australia, too, would have to play a much more im portant role in the area, Killearn telling the Australian Commissioner in Singapore, Claude Massey, of ‘the big idea, getting all the interested regions here jointly into consultation, with a view to a discussion of the future world lay-out’. The idea was that: Sooner or later we should all meet here in Singapore, to discuss our m utual problems, including representatives from French Indochina and the Dutch East Indies. Also quite possibly America, owing to her special status in the P hilippi­ nes. Massey said he was well aware of this scheme, of which he personally approved most heartily. But he agreed that it was a matter that must be approached most delicately.31 Killearn also tried to win over W hitehall to his ideas. On 17 June he telexed a ‘Survey of Co-ordination w ithin the Territories of South-East Asia’ to London. The report had the backing of both M ountbatten and MacDonald, the newly appointed Malayan Governor-General. T o begin with, Killearn argued that South-East Asia would ‘continue to be a bastion of vital political, strategic and economic importance to the British Common­ w ealth’. T hailand, France and the Netherlands had territorial stakes in the area, while Australia, New Zealand and India were interested neighbours. Furthermore, China and the United States were intimately concerned, and the Soviet Union m ight become active w ithin the area in the future. The area was facing a num ber of potential threats, such as the collapse of law and order, the troubles in Indonesia, and difficulties with various nationalist movements as well the ethnic Chinese. Killearn recommended a coordinated approach to the area’s problems. W hat happened in one part of the region was of interest to all other parts, and a ‘reversion to the prewar system of handling these problems in water-tight compartments and penny packets would be a fatal step’. He added that in ‘matters of Colonial Adm inistration cooperation should be encouraged between Great Britain and other colonial Powers in the Far East’.32 Killearn in fact hoped that the Special Commission’s Liaison Officers’ Meetings, which now provided for cooperation on the technical level, should one day deal with wider regional coope­

‘Famine averted* 53

ration, including defence. As he wrote in his diary in January 1947, the system of m onthly Liaison Officers’ Meetings was proving to be extremely valuable and had the advantage of ‘setting the example of how supplies of comm unal interest to the whole region can profitably be handled’. He added: What one hopes is gradually to proceed from subject to subject until all these adjacent territories form the habit of acting together to discuss and plan regarding their various problems of m utual interest. My deliberate intention is that gradually this system shall lead up into the realm of international politics, and from that into the most im portant sphere of all, 33 namely regional defence. Killearn’s regional plans had considerable influence on the Foreign Office’s thinking. In April 1946, the Special Commissio­ ner sent a telegram to London which reported on a high-level meeting of British regional authorities in South-East Asia. D uring the meeting, Killearn had stated that he regarded SouthEast Asia as an essential strategic bastion of the Commonwealth. M ountbatten had agreed, urging the necessity of coordinating thinking and action in terms of the area as a whole. The ensuing general discussion had furthermore emphasised the importance of carrying the Dutch, French and Thais along with the British. T he hope of general collaboration with the United States had also been expressed.34 It is highly likely that Killearn’s telegram was shown to Ernest Bevin, and that the Foreign Secretary was particularly impressed by the Special Commissioner’s reference to South-East Asia’s strategic importance. A few days later, Bevin was to attend a Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ meeting in London, the first of its kind since the end of the war. He used the occasion to raise the issue of regional cooperation in South-East Asia with the governments of Australia and New Zealand. What Bevin prim arily had in m ind was the issue of regional defence cooperation.

Chapter 4

Regional cooperation and regional defence

The announcem ent of the rice crisis to the cabinet, and the subsequent establishment of the Special Commission, had made the new Labour Foreign Secretary increasingly aware of his departm ent’s regional plans for South-East Asia. In April 1946, Bevin decided to float the issue of regional cooperation during a conference of Commonwealth Prime Ministers in London. How­ ever, while he seemed to be genuinely interested in the long-term economic development of South-East Asia, his initiative was equally motivated by new worldwide defence plans of the British Chiefs of Staff, which had been drafted as a result of Britain’s deteriorating relationship with the Soviet Union. By the spring of 1946, relations between London and Moscow had in fact reached a new postwar low. It had long become clear to the British that the Soviet Union had no intention of withdrawing from the eastern zone of Germany, and that she was turning East European countries like Rom ania and Bulgaria into mere satellite states. However, London was even more concerned about Soviet intentions in the Middle East. In September 1945, during the first Council of Foreign Ministers’ Meeting in London, a stalement had been reached over the future of Germany and the question of an Italian peace treaty. At the same time, the Soviet Foreign Minister, Molotov, had demanded that Russia should be given a base in the former Italian colony of T ripolitania (Libya).1 From London’s point of view, Molotov’s demand was a worrying indication of Soviet expansionist am bi­ tions in the Middle East, where Britain could not rely on the political support of the Americans. The British were equally concerned about Moscow’s bullying tactics towards Turkey, a country that was linked with Britain by a prewar treaty of

Regional cooperation and regional defence 55

alliance. At the end of 1945, there were even rumours that the Soviet U nion m ight be going to war with Turkey over the latter’s eastern territories and the question of the control of the straits between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. In March 1946, Anglo-Soviet differences in the Middle East came to a head. The focal point was Iran, where British, American and Soviet troops had been stationed since 1941 to guard the Allied supply lines to the Soviet Union. The w ith­ drawal of all foreign troops from Iran was scheduled for March 1946, six m onths after the end of the war. However, Moscow announced on 1 March that it would delay its troop withdrawal. Furthermore, the Iranian Prime Minister was asked to recognise the separate state of Azerbaijan inside Iran, and there were reports that Soviet troops were heading for Teheran. Though the Soviets eventually climbed down and withdrew their troops in the face of fierce protests by the United States and Britain, the crisis finally changed the political atmosphere between the former allies. It happened to coincide with W inston Churchill’s famous speech in Fulton, Missouri, where he proclaimed the t an iron curtain had come down between eastern and western Europe.2 The Cold War had at last become reality. T he developments in Europe and the Middle East had a significant impact on B ritain’s defence plans, including those relating to South-East Asia. British military planners had long mistrusted the Soviet U nion’s worldwide ambitions. During the war, the Chiefs of Staff had set up a special military planning unit, the Post-Hostilities Planning Staff (PHP), in order to assess Britain’s worldwide defence requirements following the end of hostilities.3 By the middle of 1945, the PH P had drafted compre­ hensive recommendations for the postwar defence of British interests around the world. The P H P ’s m ain assum ption was that the Soviet U nion was the most likely adversary in Europe, the Middle East and the Far East. A PH P paper of June 1945 on ‘The Security of the British Em pire’ therefore proposed the creation of a num ber of regional defensive systems around the world, including Britain, the United States and in some cases France and the Benelux countries as participants. So far as South-East Asia and the Pacific were concerned, the Soviet threat was seen as remote. Despite this, the paper argued that Britain, France, the Netherlands and T hailand should cooperate in regional defence measures. There should also be a system of

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forward naval and air bases in the Pacific in cooperation with the United States and China.4 The P H P ’s recommendations failed to convince either the Chiefs of Staff or the Foreign Office. At the time, neither shared the planners’ view that the Soviet Union was the most likely adversary in a future war, and the paper was shelved as strategic background m aterial.5 The PH P itself was dissolved a few m onths later. However, in February 1946, in view of the deterior­ ating relations with Moscow, the P H P ’s worldwide analysis and defence recommendations were revived by a newly created Joint P lanning Staff (JPS). In South-East Asia, the JPS argued that any direct threat to British interests in the region was most likely to come from the Soviet Union, with possibly China, Japan or both under her control. The JPS therefore proposed the estab­ lishm ent of two defensive systems. The first would be a chain of forward air and naval bases in the Pacific, running from H ong Kong via Formosa, the Philippines and the Marshall and Mid­ way islands to the Aleutians. They would be held by Com­ m onwealth countries an d /o r the United States. The second defensive system would be in South-East Asia and the SouthWest Pacific. Here, Britain, Australia and New Zealand, in cooperation with France and the Netherlands, would m aintain an alternative system of bases along a general line from Indo­ china, which had special importance for the defence of SouthEast Asia, through Samoa, the Celebes, the Admiralty and Solomon islands and Fiji.6 The paper’s m ain difference to the P H P ’s proposals from 1945 was the inclusion of Australia and New Zealand in the regional defence of South-East Asia. The JPS paper was incorporated into two Chiefs of Staff reports distributed to the delegations attending the Com­ m onwealth Prime Ministers’ Meeting in April 1946. One paper, titled ‘Strategic Position of the Commonwealth’, argued that recent developments indicated that Russia was the most likely potential enemy of the British Commonwealth. Should a conflict with Russia occur, American participation on Britain’s side would be vital. The Commonwealth, it was further argued, depended on four m ain support areas, namely the United King­ dom, the North and South American continents, the southern half of Africa, and Australia and New Zealand. To ensure the security of the Commonwealth, the Chiefs of Staff argued that it was essential to secure enough ‘depth’ in front of these four

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57

support areas before the start of a conflict, in order to win time for m obilisation and for American resources to be brought in. T he areas that needed to be secured for in-depth defence and for the m aintenance of strategic air bases were Western Europe and the Middle East, where Russian pressure was already evident, as well as India and South-East Asia, where Russian pressure could be expected.7 A second COS paper stressed that to ensure the Com­ m onw ealth’s security, South Africa had to take on greater responsibility in the Middle East and in the Mediterranean, while Australia and New Zealand would have to share responsibility for South-East Asia. While in some areas political and economic action was required to prevent a potential enemy from gaining a dom inating position, in others the actual presence of military forces would be necessary. As this principle developed, it seemed reasonable that other members besides the United Kingdom should contribute to the efforts required. In short, Australia and New Zealand were invited to contribute to the defence of SouthEast Asia. London must have been aware of the fact that both Australia and New Zealand w ould be reluctant to commit themselves to the defence of South-East Asia, not least because of the costs involved in large-scale troop deployments. It therefore appears that Bevin, who as Foreign Secretary knew of the Chiefs of Staff’s proposals, decided to sweeten the bitter pill. In return for an Antipodean defence comm itm ent to South-East Asia, he decided to offer Australia and New Zealand a larger share in the region’s markets. At the same time, the two dom inions would be given a greater political say through the medium of the Special Commission. Bevin launched his regional initiative in his introductory speech to the Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Meeting on 23 April 1946. He began by describing the ‘rising tide of natio­ nalism ’ as the dom inant political factor in South-East Asia. As the people of the area were becoming better educated they realised the extent to which the West had in the past drawn from their resources which m ight have improved their own standards of living. However, Bevin postulated, the people of the British Commonwealth were now prepared to help the people of this area to develop their economy and raise their living standards. Later on in the meeting Bevin explained what he had in mind: South-East Asia had great resources while the general standard of

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living was low; the raising of this would be to everyone’s benefit. W ith an eye on the delegations from Australia and New Zealand he stressed that many countries were concerned with this area, that there existed a ‘vast and untapped’ market and that a coordinated effort in this area would be to the ‘common advan­ tage’. Getting to the point, Bevin suggested that Singapore and the headquarters of Lord Killearn’s organisation were the focus around which Britain, Australia, New Zealand and India could build up the development of the whole area. The new organisa­ tion, he hoped, would provide the meeting point for certain practical purposes, and could form a binding link between the different parts of the empire. So far, Killearn’s organisation was prim arily concerned with food supplies, but further useful work could be done in the field of nutrition, broadcasting and publicity services as well as the coordination of shipping. Bevin therefore proposed that the opportunity should be taken to discuss fully the possibility of developing the new organisation.8 There is little doubt that Bevin was genuinely concerned about the low standard of living in South-East Asia, that he was interested in a new relationship with South-East Asia’s indige­ nous population9 and that he wanted to improve the regional standard of living through the provision of Australian consumer goods which Britain could not provide. On the other hand, though the records of the Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ defence discussions are not available, circumstancial evidence suggests that Bevin was trying to lure Australia and New Zealand into a defence comm itm ent to South-East Asia,10 so that Britain could reduce her defence expenditure in the region. In return, he was offering the two countries greater access to the region’s markets (and implicitly raw materials), and a political say through the medium of the Special Commission. Bevin’s initiative played on Australian economic ambitions in SouthEast Asia. Prior to the war, Australia had, for example, had extensive tin m ining interests in Thailand, but she had been unable to resume them .11 Furthermore, the idea of jointly developing the Special Commission seemed to fit in with Aust­ ralia’s wartime proposals for regional cooperation in colonial areas. The Australian Foreign Minister, Dr H.V. Evatt, welcomed Bevin’s emphasis on the need for higher economic standards in South-East Asia, which he saw as im portant from the point of

Regional cooperation and regional defence

59

view of both security and welfare. He also saw great possibilities in the idea of closer association for regional purposes, and he suggested that in studying the subject earlier proposals made by Australia and New Zealand for the establishment of a regional 12 commission in the Pacific should be included. Bevin agreed; the issue of regional cooperation in colonial areas was thus back on the international agenda. However, while the Australians favoured Bevin’s economic initiative, the two dominions flatly rejected the Chiefs of Staff’s defence proposals. During the conference’s fourth meeting the Australian Prime Minister, J.B. Chifley, stated that his country naturally accepted primary responsibility for her own security and that she was w illing to make a greater contribution to the common defence of the British Commonwealth than before the war. But she simply lacked the financial resources and men to accept special responsibility for South-East Asia.13 Canberra thus expressed its reluctance to become financially or politically involved in the defence of Britain’s South-East Asian colonies. It disagreed w ith the British Chiefs of Staff’s assessment of a worldwide Soviet threat14 and refused to accept that SouthEast Asia was threatened by any outside power. Chifley further suggested that he regarded the acceptance of the defence commit­ ments demanded by the Chiefs of Staff as an impingem ent on his and other Commonwealth countries’ sovereignty. Attlee, who had not anticipated this response, showed himself ‘struck’ by Chifley’s comment that strategic requirements must be con­ sidered in relation to manpower and financial resources. T hat certainly was the case with the United Kingdom as she had very heavy overseas commitments which were a great strain on her resources.16 Despite Attlee’s protestations, the British defence initiative had failed. However, while the Australians refused to commit themselves to the defence of South-East Asia, they m aintained their interest in Bevin’s proposals for economic cooperation. On 27 April Chifley circulated a m em orandum which suggested the immediate establishment of a South Seas regional commission for the prom otion of welfare and the advancement of native peoples in the Pacific area in cooperation with Great Britain, a proposal dating back to Australian and New Zealand initiatives in 1944. So far as South-East Asia was concerned, Chifley’s mem orandum recalled that consideration had been given in the

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past to a South-East Asian commission, including Australia and New Zealand as well as the United Kingdom, the United States, the Netherlands and other interested countries, which would give at least some attention to air communications and the allocation and disposal of vital raw materials besides the more strictly welfare aspects such as health, nutrition and social and political 17 developments. T hough stopping short of demanding the crea­ tion of a South-East Asian regional organisation straight away, the Australians had called Bevin’s bluff. As a result of Chifley’s paper, London was forced to define its line on South-East Asian regional cooperation more clearly. It also had to decide whether to agree with the proposal for a regional commission in the Pacific. Officials in W hitehall hastily arranged a meeting to work out the British response to the Australian paper. The problem was that Bevin had failed to clear his earlier proposals on regional cooperation with either his own department or the Colonial or Dominions offices. As civilian departments they were also unaware of the defence proposals by the Chiefs of Staff which had triggered Bevin’s initiative. Yet Bevin was unavailable for consultations as he had left London for the Council of Foreign Ministers in Paris soon after the 18 opening of the Prime Ministers’ Conference. Before the meet­ ing, the head of the Foreign Office’s South-East Asia Depart­ ment, Richard Allen, who appeared to be as surprised by Bevin’s initiative as the Colonial Office, explained to the Colonial Office that his department was hoping to use Killearn’s organisation as a centre for cooperation with the dominions. The best course would be to inform the dom inion representatives of how Killearn’s organisation was being developed and to what extent the dom inions could usefully develop their own collaboration with it - over and above already existing cooperation.19 The Colonial Office agreed with the proposed establishment of a regional commission in the South-West Pacific but it warned of the dangers of international supervision inherent in proposals for a regional commission in South-East Asia. A departmental mem orandum stressed that there was ‘a consensus of opinion that some form of regional collaboration in economic and social welfare matters is desirable in South-East Asia’; however, the area had not yet recovered from the effects of the Japanese occupation, while further difficulties had arisen through the clash between insurgent nationalism and the restoration of the French and

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Dutch colonial systems. It was therefore ‘unlikely’ that under the present circumstances ‘anything but harm would be done by the creation of an international body such as a Regional Commis­ sion’. If at a later stage it was decided to set up a regional commission, it should fall w ithin the scope of the Malayan Governor-General, not the Special Commission. Britain’s major interests in the Far East arose out of her colonial dependencies, which should not be ‘sacrificed to diplom atic convenience’.20 In line with the Colonial Office’s paper, the interdepartmental m eeting on 2 May approved the suggested establishment of a regional commission in the South-West Pacific area. There was also consensus that in South-East Asia a regional commission could hardly be suitable for the time being in view of the abnorm al and disturbed conditions there. Killearn’s organisa­ tion, it was further agreed, could be seen as the first step towards the eventual constitution of a regional commission once SouthEast Asia had settled down to more peaceful and prosperous conditions. However, it was left open whether the Special Commissioner or the Governor-General would ultimately be Britain’s representative on a regional commission. In the absence of the Foreign Secretary, a brief was drafted on the lines of the m eeting’s conclusions for the use of the Colonial Secretary during the Prime M inisters’ Meeting.21 D uring the interdepartm ental meeting, Allen failed to follow up Bevin’s ambitious proposal to use the Special Commission for the joint economic development of South-East Asia. It seems that after the Australian refusal to contribute to the defence of SouthEast Asia Bevin had decided to withdraw his regional economic bait, and that he had instructed the Foreign Office accordingly. Allen was therefore satisfied with the Colonial Office’s line that regional cooperation was desirable in principle, though at a later date. A further reason for the Foreign Office’s reservation was that the Australian proposals now under consideration went m uch further than Bevin’s suggestions, as they envisaged United States membership in a regional commission. The Colonial Secretary, George Hall, clarified Britain’s line during a Commonwealth meeting on 3 May. He stressed that he would be ‘extremely ready to see a regional commission established in the South Seas, and he suggested that the details should be discussed between the officials of the three Govern­ m ents’. Other countries, such as the Netherlands and France

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m ight be invited to join in at a later date. So far as South-East Asia was concerned, Hall said that a regional organisation of the same type was desirable in the area, though he doubted whether the time was ripe for such a body as civil government had only just been resumed. Lord Killearn had recently been appointed as Special Commissioner and his organisation m ight provide the nucleus around which a more formal organisation could later develop. In the meantime, Australia and New Zealand should 22 attach special liaison officers to Lord Killearn’s staff. The British had thus committed themselves to the establish­ ment of a regional commission in the South-West Pacific. From the Colonial Office’s point of view, conditions for such a body were m uch more favourable in this area than in South-East Asia. All the territories in the South-West Pacific were governed by colonial powers, while the indigenous cultures were at a much lower level of political and economic development than those of South-East Asia. Regional cooperation would be limited to politically safe issues such as welfare or health, and there were no independence movements demanding representation. Another factor influencing L ondon’s decision was that only a few days earlier the British, Australian and New Zealand delegations had reached an understanding on defence cooperation in the SouthWest Pacific.23 Evatt welcomed H all’s initiative, and soon after the end of the conference Britain, Australia, New Zealand, France, the Netherlands and the United States started negotia­ tions that led to the establishment of the South Pacific Commis­ sion on 6 February 1947. Similar to the Caribbean Commission, the organisation was to be a consultative and advisory body dealing with the economic and social development of colonial territories in the region.24 The conference’s outcome for SouthEast Asia was less spectacular. T hough Hall endorsed the principle of regional cooperation in South-East Asia, he refused to establish a regional commission in the near future. The conference’s only visible achievement was the despatch of an Australian liaison officer to the Special Commission in the following m onth. The new appointm ent overlapped with the work of the Australian trade commissioner in Singapore, Claude Massey, who was already attending all im portant meetings convened by the Supreme Commander or the Special Commis25 sioner. Despite the conference’s limited outcome on South-East Asia,

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the meeting had at least revealed Australian ambitions in the region. While Canberra refused to commit itself m ilitarily to what it considered was the defence of British colonial interests, it nevertheless demanded a greater political and economic say in the area. In the following years, Australia would continue to promote greater regional cooperation in South-East Asia, emerg­ ing as one of Britain’s m ain competitors for the region’s leader­ ship. The British, on the other hand, remained prim arily inter­ ested in involving Australia and New Zealand in South-East Asian defence cooperation. Under the pressure of the Cold War in South-East Asia, London eventually succeeded. At the end of 1948, Britain, Australia and New Zealand secretly concluded the ANZAM treaty, an informal agreement which coordinated defence planning by the three countries in the South-East Asian 26 area. In addition to the issue of regional defence cooperation, the Commonwealth Prime M inisters’ Meeting introduced another new aspect to the Foreign Office’s plans for regional cooperation. Prior to the conference, the Foreign Office had been thinking in terms of cooperation prim arily with the colonial powers, possi­ bly also involving outside powers like Australia and the United States. After the conference, Asian nationalism began to play an increasingly im portant role in B ritain’s plans. As Bevin stated in his introductory speech, nationalism had become the single most im portant factor in Asia. More importantly, W hitehall agreed in the course of the conference to postpone its plans for regional cooperation partly because of the disturbances caused by the nationalist uprisings in Indonesia and Indochina. The confer­ ence in fact marked a turning point in British planning. In the wake of the meeting and under the pressure of rapid events in both South and South-East Asia the Foreign Office would soon prepare the ground for regional cooperation in post-colonial Asia.

Part II

Asian nationalism

Chapter 5

India, Vietnam and the limits of colonial cooperation

The year of 1946 was a turning point in the history of Asia. It marked the beginning of the end of European colonial rule in the South and South-East Asian regions. The Indian subcontinent was of crucial importance to the rapidly changing situation. After the late spring of 1946 there was little doubt that India was edging towards independence. Inevitably, developments in the world’s second most populous country had a profound effect on her neighbours, fuelling the nationalist aspirations of countries like Burma, Indochina and Indonesia. In addition, the establish­ ment of an Indian nationalist government indicated that India would soon emerge as a powerful independent player in Asian politics who would compete with, rather than supplement, B ritain’s Asian policies. In fact, India soon took a keen interest in the affairs of South-East Asia, at the same time prom oting herself as the cham pion of the Asian independence movements. As will be seen, both the rapid advance of Asian nationalism and the emergence of an independent India would soon induce London to completely redefine its plans for regional cooperation in South-East Asia. Ever since coming to power, the British Labour government had been confronted with a potentially volatile situation in India. In November 1945, the Indian Viceroy, Wavell, told the new Secretary of State for India, Pethick-Lawrence, that he feared there would be another ‘Q uit India’ campaign unless there was the firm prospect of independence. Britain had the choice between capitulating to the Indian Congress Party and accepting its demands, or suppressing the movement with the use of all resources.1 As the British had little enthusiasm for attem pting to suppress Indian nationalism with military means, Attlee and his

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ministers soon privately considered handing over power in India, although hoping that the country would remain closely linked to Britain. However, there remained a major stum bling block in the way of an Indian settlement. While the Hindu-dom inated Congress Party insisted that India should remain united after indepen­ dence, the powerful Muslim League advocated the country’s division into separate H indu and Muslim states. To find a constitutional formula acceptable to all sides, Attlee despatched a special cabinet mission to India, which remained in the country between February and June 1946. It came up with a complicated proposal for a three-tier government of a U nion of India that satisfied neither H indus nor Muslims. Eventually, the Congress accepted the British initiative which led to the creation of the H indu-dom inated Indian Interim Government in September 1946, under the prem iership of Jawaharlal Nehru. However, the Muslim League initially remained opposed to the British pro­ posals, calling for a ‘day of direct action’ in the middle of August which triggered the first in a series of gruesome inter-ethnic killings in the country. When the Muslims subsequently joined the interim government, deadlock ensued over the country’s future constitution. As London saw itself unable to break the deadlock, the cabinet’s India Committee soon considered an early withdrawal from the country.2 On 20 February 1947, Attlee announced Britain’s intention to withdraw from India within the next eighteen months. Lord M ountbatten was appointed as the last Viceroy in charge of negotiating the transfer of power. After further ethnic clashes between Muslims and Hindus, power was transferred to India and a separate Pakistan in August 1947. Despite the clashes between H indus and Muslims, the develop­ ments in India greatly encouraged the nationalist movements in South-East Asia, in particular in neighbouring Burma. Since SEAC had handed over to civilian rule in October 1945, the country had been shaken by nationalist unrest. Unlike M ountbatten and his m ilitary adviser, Brigadier Hubert Ranee, before him, the new British Governor of Burma, Reginald Dorman-Smith, refused to make concessions to Aung San and his powerful Anti-Fascist People’s Freedom League (AFPFL), who were calling for full self-government and independence. In line w ith the recommendations of the Burma White Paper of May 1945, Dorman-Smith insisted that for a three-year period his

India, Vietnam and the limits of colonial cooperation

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adm inistration would have sweeping emergency powers, thereby giving Burmese politicians less of a say in their country’s government than they had had before the war. Aung San and the League soon embarked on a collision course with the British, organising mass protests which further destabilised the precar­ ious political and economic situation in the country. DormanSmith threatened to arrest Aung San, adding further fuel to the dispute; soon there were constant clashes between the police and rem nants of the Burmese guerrilla forces, while the Burmese economy and in particular the production of rice further declined. When the situation in Burma threatened to get out of hand, Attlee intervened, replacing Dorman-Smith with Sir Hubert Ranee in June 1946.3 The decision marked the turning point in Burm a’s struggle for independence. After widespread strikes in September, Ranee appointed five AFPFL members to im portant posts in the country’s executive council, m aking Aung San the council’s vice-president. After further Burmese pressure and demands for national independence, Attlee announced on 20 December 1946 that he would enter into constitutional talks with a Burmese delegation in London and that Burma would be given independence w ithin the next year.4 Although Aung San and his ministers were killed by Burmese assassins in July 1947, Burma was formally granted independence on 17 October under the prem iership of U Nu, a former political associate of Aung San. On 1 January 1948, Burma left the Commonwealth to become a republic. Undoubtedly, the events in India and Burma encouraged antiBritish opposition in Malaya. T hough there existed no indige­ nous movement towards national independence in the country, the Colonial Office’s Malayan Union scheme had run into serious trouble after the British had pressured the often collabor­ ationist Malay rulers to accept new treaties with Britain. The once politically apathetic majority Malay community was enraged by the proposed Malaya citizenship scheme which would grant equal political rights to Malaya’s Chinese, Indian and Malay communities. The Malays feared an erosion of their political privileges in favour of the economically dom inant Chinese. The United Malay National Organisation (UMNO), under the leadership of Dato O nn bin J a ’afar, soon demanded the replacement of the Malayan Union by a federal constitution.5

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Malay protests culm inated in a boycott by the Malay leaders of the inauguration ceremonies of Sir Edward Gent as Governor of the Malayan Union on 1 April and of Malcolm MacDonald as Governor-General for Singapore, Malaya and the British territor­ ies in Borneo on 22 May 1946.6 The events in India and in B ritain’s South-East Asian territor­ ies were closely watched by the Foreign Office’s Asian experts. Some argued that Britain needed to approach the problems of South and South-East Asia in an entirely new way. As early as May 1946, a mem orandum written by a former Indian civil servant, J.P. Stent, who now served with the Foreign Office, predicted that in the next twelve to eighteen months eastern Asia would cease to be a vast area of colonial territories. India was described as the key to the whole situation; the country had to be kept w ithin the Commonwealth and on pro-Western lines at all costs: ‘W ith India and South-East Asia securely w ithin the sphere of influence of the British Commonwealth and the USA, com­ m unism on the Russian pattern is much less likely to make headway in the Far East proper.’ Britain should thus launch an ‘overture of friendly cooperation on a basis of equality’. As a first step, the author demanded a ‘greater measure of coordination and interchange of views on foreign policy not only am ong the countries of South-East Asia but between them and India as well’. Eventually, Stent expected ‘the logic of geography and common interest’ would lead to some sort of close association between India, Burma, Ceylon, Malaya, Indonesia and probably Indochina.7 The head of the Foreign Office’s South-East Asia Department, Allen, could only ‘warmly endorse all that is said about the importance of coordination between these territories, where there was a complete lack of it before’. Furthermore: As regards some closer association between India, Burma, Ceylon, Malaya, Indonesia and Indo-China, which Mr Stent also favours, we have in a sense already advanced a step along this path. . . . Killearn’s organisation m ight provide the nucleus from which [a regional commission] m ight develop later. One of the im portant truths which emerges from Mr Stent’s mem orandum is that any such Regional Commission would be meaningless unless it included representatives of an independent India.8

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Allen sent copies of Stent’s memorandum to other W hitehall departments, but he failed to convince the Colonial Office. It remained opposed to any new regional initiatives in South-East Asia, whether or not they included India.9 The India Office also had its doubts, pointing out that the Indian leadership m ight not even be w illing to participate in Killearn’s coordinating m achi­ nery in Singapore: the Indian leaders would probably view any such attem pt to bring India w ithin the orbit of Commonwealth policy with considerable suspicion.10 The India Office had made a valid point. Not only were the Indian nationalists likely to m istrust the British. They would be even more suspicious of anything that involved the Dutch and the French, as both these refused to compromise with the nationalist movements in their respective South-East Asian colonies. In 1946, Indian public opinion was particularly critical of French policies in Indochina, and Indian leaders would not want to be seen as teaming up with unreconstructed European imperialists. Indochina soon became a m ajor stum bling block to British regional ambitions in SouthEast Asia. Unlike the British in India and Burma, the French had never seriously contemplated m aking any real concessions to the Vietnamese nationalists in Indochina. By the time that the last British troops left southern Vietnam in the spring of 1946, the French had successfully suppressed the Viet M inh’s forces in the south of the country, firmly re-establishing French authority in Saigon and Chochin-China. But France had yet to regain control of the north of Indochina, which was still under nationalist Chinese occupation. While the Chinese had agreed to withdraw their forces by June, France’s real problem was that the Viet Minh, after proclaim ing the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRV), had established themselves as the true power in northern Vietnam, equipped with weapons taken from the Japanese or bought from the often corrupt Chinese troops. When in the late winter of 1946 the first French troops were preparing to land at the northern port of H aiphong, they came close to an armed clash with Viet M inh forces. For the time being, an open conflict could be averted, not least because neither side was ready for a prolonged war. On 6 March 1946, the Vietnamese leader, Ho Chi M inh, signed an agreement with Jean

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Sainteny, who was representing the French, in which France formally recognised the Democratic Republic of Vietnam as a free state with its own government, parliam ent, army and finances, yet as part of the Indochinese Federation and w ithin the French Union. The Vietnamese in return accepted the stationing of French garrisons in the northern province of Tonkin. How­ ever, in the following m onths fundam ental differences emerged over the status of the DRV. It soon became evident that France merely intended to rule with native support rather than cede any real autonom y to the nationalists.11 A further problem was the status of Cochin-China in the south which the Viet M inh insisted belonged to Vietnam but which the hard-line French High Commissioner in Indochina, Admiral Thierry D’Argenlieu, in June unilaterally declared a free state. Subsequent high-level talks in Fontainebleau near Paris failed to achieve a compromise on either the issue of Vietnamese sovereignty or the status of Cochin-China. After the departure of the Vietnamese delegation only a modus vivendi was signed between the French Overseas Minister, Marios Moutet, and the Vietnamese leader Ho Chi Minh, on an Indochinese monetary and customs union.12 The future of Indochina was looking increasingly bleak. In the meantime the British, whose intervention in 1945 had facilitated the French return to Indochina in the first place, continued to support the French war machine in South-East Asia, albeit in great secrecy. In September 1945, London had in fact agreed to arm and equip France’s Far Eastern forces.13 In the spring of 1946, as Bevin later admitted in Parliament, Gracey’s departing troops also handed over ‘a certain am ount’ of war m aterial to the French.14 Furthermore, following a secret agree­ m ent between Paris and the British Admiralty, British vessels continued to provide logistic support for French supplies to Indochina. The agreement, which was unknown even to the Foreign Office, was crucial for the continuing flow of French arms and equipm ent to Indochina, particularly as there existed a worldwide shortage of shipping space. In addition to the pro­ vision of transport facilities, the Admiralty was involved in the covert sale of am m unition for French warships of British origin used in South-East Asia.15 However, despite the fact that Britain was France’s main foreign arms supplier in South-East Asia and that British troops had ensured France’s return to Indochina, the French authorities

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in Saigon initially showed little interest in close relations with their British counterparts in Singapore. In trade matters as well, the French adm inistration in Indochina soon resumed its prewar habit of discrim inating against foreign banks and enterprises. As a Foreign Office m em orandum pointed out in January 1947, it did not appear that ‘the French authorities contemplate throw­ ing open the Indo-Chinese market to foreign trade at the present m om ent’ - despite reports of a new pro-British mood in Saigon and Paris resulting from ‘the tactful way in which the situation in Southern Indo-China was handled (under the able leadership of General Gracey)’.16 Initially, Saigon was also reluctant to cooperate with Britain’s efforts to fight the regional shortage of rice. As Killearn reported to the Foreign Office in October 1946, Indochinese rice exports were essential to overcome the food shortage in South-East Asia. However, French administrators were highly suspicious of the Special Commission and of the International Emergency Food Council in W ashington (formerly the Combined Food Board) behind it, and in July 1946 completely halted their rice supplies from Indochina - at a time when the food situation in South-East Asia was particularly serious. Killearn later concluded that the French had been stubborn and that they had not received any 17 instructions from Paris. It was not until August 1946 that a French official from Indochina for the first time attended one of Killearn’s Liaison Officers’ Meetings in Singapore. Killearn used the opportunity to test French willingness for greater regional cooperation, explaining to the French official, Clarac, his ‘dream of fuller consultation and cooperation . . . amongst all regional authorities w ithin the South-East Asia area’, in particular French Indochina.18 Clarac reported the conversation to Saigon and Paris. One week later, Admiral D’Argenlieu invited the Special Commissioner to Saigon.19 Although an injury prevented Killearn from travelling, his deputy Michael W right visited Saigon between 4 and 6 September 1946. Much to his surprise, W right found the French authorities in an ‘extremely friendly and co-operative frame of m ind’. They told him that they owed largely to Britain the initial re-establishment of their position in Indochina and that they fully appreciated the interdependence of British and French interests in South-East Asia and elsewhere.20 W right replied that the British desired improved cooperation between the neighbourly and friendly countries in

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South-East Asia, and that a beginning had already been made through the Liaison Officers’ Meetings. In addition, a common approach with France towards security and other problems was required - there was for example the im portant question of the common use of airfields.21 D’Argenlieu replied that he would continue sending representatives to the meetings in Singapore and that he hoped to discuss increased cooperation on infor­ m ation and publicity matters. In defence and other matters, progress could be made on an informal basis. He further appreciated the impact of famine on the political situation: comm unism was after all the greatest danger, and failure to improve material conditions would play straight into the hands of the communists.22 As a sign of French goodwill D’Argenlieu subsequently sent 8,000 tons of emergency rice deliveries to Singapore.23 Shortly after W right’s return to Singapore, D’Argenlieu travelled to Paris where he informed his superiors of his talks with Killearn’s deputy. His reports encouraged Paris to instruct an official at the French embassy in London, LeRoy, to take up the matter of South-East Asian cooperation with Esler Dening, who was back at the Foreign Office. Referring to W right’s visit, LeRoy told Dening in the autum n of 1946 that, in addition to the m onthly food conferences and to normal diplomatic consul­ tations, there could be an additional interchange of visits and views between the territories facing the problems of reconstruc­ tion after the Japanese occupation. His enquiry was purely tentative, he assured, and he was aware that several W hitehall departments were concerned; he would nevertheless be grateful to learn in due course whether London was receptive to his 24 suggestions. LeRoy’s cautious approach coincided with an increase in tensions in Indochina. The negotiations between the French and the Viet M inh had reached a stalemate, and both sides were secretly preparing for war. By the end of 1946 the Viet M inh had an estimated 100,000 men and women under arms, controlling large parts of the countryside in Tonkin as well as parts of Cochin-China. In contrast, French troops in their Tonkinese strongholds, though better equipped for open warfare, numbered little more than 20,000.25 There is little doubt that Paris and Saigon were trying to improve relations with the British in case France needed Britain’s political or even military support in the

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event of a showdown with the Vietnamese nationalists. The British initially failed to assess the full gravity of the situation in Indochina. As Dening told the Colonial and Burma offices after his meeting with LeRoy, the problem was that ‘at a time when nationalism is running high in most areas in South-East Asia, a visit by French officials to say Rangoon, Singapore or Kuala Lum pur m ight not be welcome’. On the other hand, if dis­ cussions were explicitly limited to economic and reconstruction questions, he expected no great harm to result: since France had manifested a desire for it, the Foreign Office did not wish to discourage the French from friendly cooperation.26 Indeed, LeRoy’s initiative also coincided with the start of Anglo-French talks on economic collaboration in Europe, which were helping to improve the flagging relations between the two countries.27 There were also negotiations on an Anglo-French defence treaty in Europe, the first in a series of military alliances signed under the shadow of the Cold War.28 Bevin, in fact, attached great importance to better relations with Paris, and Anglo-French cooperation played an im portant role in his plans for a British-led Western European grouping.29 The Foreign Office’s Western Department, which was closely involved in the current negotiations with the French, consequently welcomed Paris’s initiative on South-East Asia. Furthermore, as one official pointed out in November, ‘we have been doing our best to promote Anglo-French cooperation in the colonial field . . . we are of course entirely in favour of any step forward on the thorny path of Anglo-French colonial cooperation’.30 The Burma Office, however, took a different view. One of its officials, F.W.H. Smith, argued that French colonialism was unpopular in Asian nationalist circles. He was therefore not convinced of the political wisdom of closer collaboration with French Indochina. After all, any official contacts by French visitors with Burma would have to be made prim arily with the Burmese political leader holding the office of counsellor to the governor in respect of external affairs.31 Subsequent events in Indochina strengthened the Burma Office’s case. On 23 November 1946 a m inor dispute over H aiphong’s customs control resulted in a French naval bombardment of the city during which up to 6,000 Vietnamese were killed. On 19 December Viet M inh forces retaliated and attacked French garrisons in H anoi and in other parts of Tonkin. On 20

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December Ho Chi M inh called for a nationwide people’s war against French colonialism.32 The outbreak of war in Indochina roused considerable antiFrench resentment in both India and Burma. Sarat Chandra Bose, a member of the All India Congress Committee, urged patriotic Indians to fight side-by-side with the Vietnamese as part of Asia’s struggle against Western dom ination, while leading members of the All India Trade Union Congress called for a boycott of French ships at Indian ports. At the end of January 1947, a violent anti-French demonstration in Calcutta resulted in 500 arrests and in 19 people being injured. Initially, Prime Minister Nehru was more cautious. He seemed to be apprehen­ sive about Ho Chi M inh’s comm unist affiliations,33 and wanted to m aintain good relations with France to secure the return to India of the French colonial enclaves along the Indian coast: Franco-Indian talks on the issue were to begin soon after the eventual transfer of power.34 However, increasingly under the pressure of Indian public opinion Nehru announced on 18 February that French operational and combat aircraft were no longer allowed to fly over Indian airspace.35 It took some time for the significance of the war in Indochina to sink in on London. At the beginning of January, the Colonial Office discussed Anglo-French cooperation in South-East Asia with MacDonald, who was visiting London. The meeting gener­ ally favoured closer collaboration with the French authorities on technical problems, leaving out political issues for the time being. Any cooperation would have to be part of a regional system and should be dealt with in Singapore by Killearn and MacDonald. However, further action should be postponed until the situation in Indochina had become clearer.36 The Burma Office was even more cautious, warning that the current political situation in Burma was very delicate, and that recent correspon­ dence about the passage of French military aircraft through Burmese airspace had further emphasised the unpopularity in Burma of French policy in Indochina. The Burmese Governor therefore felt it inopportune to pursue the French proposal for high-level visits to British territories.37 The question of Anglo-French cooperation in South-East Asia took on a new m eaning when France made an urgent request for British arms supplies to Indochina. Only one m onth after the fighting had begun, French troops were short of arms and

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am m unition and on 24 January 1947 the French Military Mis­ sion in Singapore approached the headquarters of Allied Land Forces in South-East Asia (ALFSEA) for the supply of large quantities of arms (and am m unition) from British stocks in Singapore. Killearn, who until recently had been a leading proponent of closer relations with Saigon, now urged caution: a similar situation had previously arisen in Java, where only by great luck had the British managed to prevent the Indonesians from m aking an issue of British arms supplies to the Dutch. In view of obvious political repercussions Killearn therefore dis­ liked the prospect of ‘laying ourselves open to the charge of supporting the French by supplies from Singapore’. Preferably, supplies should come from Europe, though even this m ight land Britain in extremely deep waters.38 London knew that any large-scale arms supplies to the French in Indochina could not be kept secret. Thus, the arguments for and against arms shipments were clearly cut: on the one hand there was the im pending alliance with France in Western Europe, as well as Anglo-French rapprochement in South-East Asia, which favoured meeting France’s demands. Open British support for the French war effort would be proof of Britain’s genuine desire for closer relations with France, while refusing the French offer m ight jeopardise the Anglo-French alliance in Europe. On the other side of the argum ent were Britain’s Asian interests. India and Burma were moving closer towards selfgovernment, and London was keen on m aintaining good rela­ tions with the Indian Interim Government and with Prime Minister Jaw aharlal Nehru. In view of Indian and Burmese condemnation of the French war in Indochina, arms shipments m ight have alienated Asian opinion and jeopardised Britain’s political prestige on the subcontinent. There was the further danger that Britain m ight herself be drawn into the hostilities in Indochina. Whatever B ritain’s response to the French request for arms would be, London would have to decide between the priorities of its Asian and its European policies. Foreign Office opinion on the issue was divided. The British ambassador in Paris, Duff Cooper, wanted to meet the French demands in full. He argued that it was in Britain’s interest for France to restore order in Indochina, as a prolongation of the Indochinese situation would afford a ‘stimulus to elements in our Far Eastern and other dependent territories hostile to all

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European control’. Another im portant reason was the forthcom­ ing conclusion of an alliance with France.39 Cooper failed to convince officials in London. Gordon Whitteridge of the Far Eastern Department acknowledged that it was desirable to help France at this m oment when an Anglo-French alliance was in the offing, and when contacts with the French authorities in Indo­ china were being developed as part of British plans for regional cooperation in the whole of South-East Asia. However, he also believed the French were pulling against the tide with their policy in Indochina: the future was with the native people not only in Indochina but throughout the Far East. Britain therefore had to be careful not to stultify her policy towards India, Burma, Malaya and Indonesia by openly supporting France in Indo­ china. Britain was under no obligation to continue supplying portions of French forces with arms. Whitteridge concluded that open support for a colonial power in a struggle against an independence movement would gravely affect Britain’s position in the Far East. The French should therefore be told that no arms or am m unition could be spared from Singapore, but that m etropolitan France could be supplied from surplus stocks elsewhere. As a gesture of goodwill, the Treasury m ight also be asked not to insist on payment in advance.40 At the Foreign Office’s Western Department Moynehan agreed with W hitteridge’s conclusions. It was unfortunate that the whole issue had cropped up at this moment when AngloFrench relations on the spot were developing satisfactorily, and when an alliance was under consideration. T urning down the French request would no doubt lead to hostile criticism in France, but it would be a great deal less than the criticism that would be provoked not only in India and the Far East, but in Britain as well, if France were supplied with stocks from Singapore. In the long run, Anglo-French relations would indeed suffer more if London took action which m ight start an outcry aginst French policy in the Far East. Moynehan added that: French policy towards some of their dependent territories is not in line with our own views. While we have every desire to work as closely as possible with the French in all these colonial matters we must not let the French, or indeed our own Embassy in Paris, think that the conclusion of the

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Alliance will necessarily mean that the French will be able to count on our support in their dealings with their dependent territories, regardless of the merits of the case.41 Dening subsequently summed up the departm ent’s views in a m em orandum for Orme Sargent, Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office. According to Dening, the Foreign Office’s telegrams and minutes brought out clearly the difficulties now facing London: If we turn down the French altogether, this is bound to have an adverse effect on our relations at a time when we are hoping to conclude an alliance. On the other hand, we do N O T wish the French or anyone else to suppose that we necessarily support their policy in their Colonial Dependencies.’42 The French made a further approach on the subject of British arms deliveries at the beginning of February. This time the British embassy in Paris was contacted about the supply of am m unition from Singapore stockpiles, which had long been the subject of secret negotiations, to be used by French warships of British origin operating in Indochina.43 For the Foreign Office, this was ‘the first inkling that we have had that the Admiralty were engaged in shipping am m unition to the French in the Far East’. As W hitteridge learnt from the Admiralty, the latest order had been placed by Paris some three months before but had not been fulfilled ‘because the French found our price too high and have been arguing about it ever since’. The Admiralty now wanted to know from the Foreign Office whether deliveries from Singapore could go ahead. Whitteridge stressed in a depart­ mental m inute that: In view of the urgency of the matter, we cannot wait to see whether the French Govt is in fact about to embark on a new and conciliatory policy towards the Viet Nam [Viet Minh], and I suggest therefore, that we should now tell the Admiralty what we have already unofficially told the War Office, that we are opposed to direct supply to the French in the Far East, but would have no objection if similar am m unition were supplied to m etropolitan France.44 The issue was now referred to the highest political level. Dening explained the problem in a draft memorandum to the

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Prime Minister. Dissenting from the rest of the Far Eastern Department, Dening argued that at the moment of establishing an alliance with France, French demands should be met in full. France was suspicious of British indifference to French colonial interests, a frame of m ind which dated back to events in the Middle East during the war when Britain more or less compelled the French to grant independence to Syria and the Lebanon, and which had been revived by differing policies over the economy and future of Germany. On the other hand, Dening recognised that ‘we have to be careful that we do not run into trouble through supplying arms to the French from Singapore’; a decision was thus required: as to whether we should supply the French from Singapore in the interest of Anglo-French friendship, or whether in the light of possible repercussions in the Asiatic territories we should only agree to supply arms and am m unition to m etropolitan France from this country.45 The Prime Minister himself made the final decision. During a staff conference on 11 February 1947 Attlee ruled that ‘we ought not to ship m ilitary supplies to the French from Singapore but that there was no objection to our doing so from the United Kingdom’.46 His decision has to be seen in the light of his policy on India. On 20 February, only nine days after his ruling on war m aterial for Indochina, Attlee announced Britain’s intention to transfer power in India w ithin the following eighteen months. Britain was of course deeply interested in m aintaining a close relationship with an independent India in the sectors of both foreign affairs and defence - through either the Commonwealth or a special bilateral treaty.47 At such a crucial moment for Anglo-Indian relations open support for the French war effort in Indochina m ight well have wiped out the political credit that Britain was likely to gain in the subcontinent by announcing her withdrawal from India. At the same time, London did not want to openly offend the French immediately before the signing of a bilateral defence treaty. Paris was therefore told that Singapore stocks represented local operational reserves which could not be spared, but that the services departments would do their best to meet French demands from the British m ainland to m etropolitan France as soon as possible.48 In March, the Minister of State at the Foreign Office,

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Hector McNeil, told Parliam ent that no aid specifically designed for Indochina had been given to the French armed forces. He did not m ention, however, that London had imposed a de facto embargo on direct arms deliveries to Indochina in order to prevent Britain from being associated with, or becoming involved in, the unpopular war in the country. As J.E.D. Street of the South-East Asia Department warned later on in 1947, if Britain’s public attitude contained even an implied criticism of French policy in Indochina, ‘we should lose much, if not all, the goodwill which France bears us and which, in the condition of Europe at the moment, is so vital a factor’.50 Although Britain refused to publicly condemn the French war against the Viet M inh, the debate on the urgent question of arms deliveries to Indochina nevertheless had a profound effect on the Foreign Office’s regional plans in South-East Asia. While the Stent m em orandum of April 1946 had made Foreign Office officials aware of the fact that an independent India would have to be included in a South-East Asian regional system, it now became apparent that Anglo-French cooperation in South-East Asia m ight well be incom patible with Anglo-Indian cooperation in the region. Cooperation with France had previously been at the centre of British regional plans. After the outbreak of war in Indochina, France was now becoming a liability to the British.

Chapter 6

Singapore and the ‘radiation of British influence’

T he debate on British arms deliveries to Indochina and the developments in India inspired the Foreign Office’s Far Eastern experts to redefine their policies in the South and South-East Asian region. The department formulated its new regional strategy in a series of policy papers used as background for the Foreign Secretary. T hough the papers never reached the cabinet level, they still constituted a major landm ark in Britain’s policy towards South-East Asia. The first of the three papers was titled ‘Stock-Taking Memor­ andum - Far East’. It argued that Britain’s position in the Far East had been adversely affected by three key factors. First, there was the British defeat in 1942 and the loss of considerable British territory to Japan, plus the fact that the ‘Far East in general’ considered Britain subsequently to have played a relatively minor role in defeating Japan. Second, there was the factor that the United States had dominated the war against Japan, and that W ashington now assumed the leadership in Far Eastern affairs, particularly north of the tropic of Cancer. Finally, there was the ‘tide of nationalism which pervades the whole area, and which received great impetus as a result of the war’. The paper stressed that Britain’s position would be further affected by the fact that India would probably become a foreign power in the near future, and that Burma would at best become an independent entity w ithin the Commonwealth. In China, Britain’s prewar role had been virtually replaced by that of the United States, though a serious threat would arise only if the Soviet Union ever replaced the United States as the dom inant foreign power in China. However, while Britain’s position in India and China was declining, the paper argued that her influence in South-East Asia

Singapore and the ‘radiation of British influence’ 83

was still strong: even in South-East Asia’s non-British territories, Britain’s leadership was tacitly, if not publicly, recognised. The area represented an im portant link in the strategic chain of Commonwealth defence, and it provided products such as sugar, vegetable oils, tea and coffee for soft currency and could allow Britain to cut down her (dollar) purchases from hard-currency areas. Britain should therefore devote close attention to SouthEast Asia, in order to improve her position there. Despite the political troubles in Indochina and Indonesia: It should not prove impossible in the course of the next few years to build up a regional system, with Singapore as its centre, which should not only strengthen the political ties between the territories concerned and facilitate a defensive strategy, but also prove of considerable economic and financial benefit to the United Kingdom.1 The second Foreign Office paper, titled ‘British Policy in SouthEast Asia’, took a closer look at British policies and interests in individual South-East Asian territories. In Thailand, it was B ritain’s m ain interest to promote stability and the development of democratic institutions in order to guard against ultra­ nationalist governments like the one before the war, which by experience tended to discriminate against Western interests. The paper believed that T hailand’s liberal elements needed to be strengthened. This would help to m aintain British trading interests in the country and ensure that in the event of any conflict in the area T hailand could be integrated into a (regional) British defence system. T he situation in Indochina was seen as more difficult. B ritain’s ‘cooperative attitude’ after the war, when she ‘did nothing to ham per French efforts to re-establish their sover­ eignty’ was much appreciated both locally and in Paris. How­ ever, the outbreak of hostilities in December and the continuing struggle between the French and the ‘Vietnam Republic’ had put Britain in an awkward predicament given her close relationship with France, and in view of the sympathies of the Burmese and Indian populations with the Vietnamese nationalists. There had also been little progress in the trade sector: British hopes that the French government would follow a more liberal economic policy and that Britain could extend her commercial influence in Indochina had met with little success. The paper recommended

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that Britain should promote any arrangements which provided for real long-term stability in Indochina; France should therefore resume talks with either the Viet M inh or the two nationalist parties. Almost predicting the Geneva settlement of 1954, the paper argued that at worst ‘it should be possible for the French to concentrate their forces and adm inistration in Indo-China south of Parallel 16° while allowing the territories north of Parallel 16° to develop into an autonom ous buffer state between themselves and C hina’.2 In Indonesia, on the other hand, the prospects for the extension of British interests were far more promising. After her direct postwar involvement, Britain still had considerable politi­ cal influence in the country: B ritain’s prestige stands high there today. We came as a victorious power (unlike the Dutch) and we went when our tasks were completed w ithout having sought to obtain any economic or other special advantage. Our disinterestedness, the restrained behaviour of our troops and the influence of two men in particular, Lord Inverchapel and Mr MacKereth, have strongly impressed the Indonesian leaders and intellectuals. However, Britain was not so popular with the Dutch who rum oured that the British had downed Indonesia in order to benefit Malaya’s tin and rubber industries, and who were cling­ ing to their m onopolistic commercial practices.3 The paper stressed that Britain had a unique opportunity in Indonesia. Before the war, British investments in the country had been worth £25 m illion, quite a considerable amount. The country’s economy was now run down after four years of Japanese occupation and eighteen m onths of bitter fighting after the war, yet it was not fully realised how much the great material resources of Indonesia were currently in demand. Exports on a prewar scale of the products of Indonesia would go far to relieve the world of some of its most acute shortages, such as of sugar, tea, vegetable oils and oil. Britain should therefore help to restore stable ccnditions as a basis for the country’s speedy economic recovery. Furthermore: It is clear that we have a remarkable opportunity in Indonesia to further British influence. It is perhaps a unique oppor­ tunity in the world today since nowhere else do we find an area

Singapore and the ‘radiation of British influence’ 85

comparable in natural resources and population which is embarking on a new independent existence, which is eager to accept help and guidance from outside and which at the moment is looking to Britain to provide these things. . . . The m ain object of our diplomacy should therefore be to show the Indonesians at all times that we have their interests at heart and to guide the present leaders in the right direction. The paper then turned to developments in Malaya, which were closely watched by neighbouring territories. Britain’s stock in the country was still high, and her attitude towards nationalist hopes in India, Egypt and elsewhere had gained her trust and respect. This had, however, been lessened by her handling of the consti­ tutional question and of the situation in Sarawak. Everything therefore depended on successful negotiations with the Malays and the local Chinese on the new constitution. Furthermore, Britain should replace the old generation of colonial adm inis­ trators with younger men with a broader outlook.4 The paper finally turned to South-East Asia as a whole, where Britain should seek to extend her cultural influence. The nascent nationalism s following the Japanese occupation were looking round for a model, and although such models were being provided by Russia and the United States, Britain appeared to find much favour, particularly am ong the Indonesians. Having been cut off from British influence, the inhabitants of South-East Asia were now clam ouring for renewed contacts with Britain and for instruction in English. The scope for the extension of B ritain’s cultural influence was greatest in T hailand and Indo­ nesia - in Indochina it was the French, and in the Philippines the Americans who were dom inant.5 The paper concluded: All the Colonial territories of South-East Asia look forward to a future of greater self-government or total independence. At the same time they are looking to other countries for help, guidance and example. . . . We ought to grasp the oppor­ tunity which this tendency gives us, firstly by prom oting rehabilitation by every practical means, and secondly by offering them the advice and help they need in developing their lives on modern lines. Lord Killearn’s organisation, the paper added, should play a prom inent role in centralising these efforts in South-East Asia.

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The Special Commissioner had already built up a system of cooperation with other British authorities in the area and beyond, and had taken steps towards regional collaboration by holding m onthly food liaison conferences. Regional conferences on nutrition and fisheries had also been held, and there was no doubt that by beginning on a technical plane the value of regional collaboration had been demonstrated: ‘As confidence grows it should be possible to progress towards regional collab­ oration in political matters also. Our aim should be to develop Singapore as a centre for the radiation of British influence.’6 The two papers thus proposed a new British approach to the affairs of South-East Asia. First, it was argued that Britain’s declining power in India and China could be compensated through the extension of British influence in South-East Asia. As Dening commented w ithin the Foreign Office: W ith our im m inent withdrawal from India and Burma, South-East Asia becomes of even greater significance as a strategic link between the United Kingdom, Africa and Aus­ tralia. T hough it is not believed that our influence will entirely disappear from India and Burma, its focus will be centred in South-East Asia, and geographically the centre is Singapore. It may well be that the closer contacts of the UK with India and Burma will be m aintained through some organisation such as that of the Special Commissioner in Singapore, in view of the great distance from the U.K.7 Second, the papers stressed that rather than feeling threatened by the recent wave of nationalist successes, Britain should exploit the opportunities offered by the new political situation, by cooperating with the nationalist movements in the region. According to Dening: We must not appear to be ganging up with Western Powers against Eastern peoples striving for independence. Rather should our aim be to contrive a general partnership between independent or about-to-be independent Eastern peoples and the Western powers who by their past experience are best able to give them help and, in our case, to some extent protection.8 Dening regarded it as vital that B ritain’s regional activities should be coordinated through the Special Commission, not the Malayan Governor-General’s office: a colonial appointee in

Singapore and the ‘radiation of British influence’ 87

charge of cooperation with foreign territories was bound to raise suspicion of British intentions.9 T he Special Commission should also be given responsibility for policies in the ‘cultural’ sector. The Defence Ministry had recently indicated its intention to withdraw ‘white troops’ east of India and Burma except where it was necessary to build up local formations. In this case, Britain would no longer be able to influence South-East Asia through the display of armed strength, but would have to rely on the impact of cultural and inform ation organisations on the local populations, bodies that should fall under the auspices of the Special Commissioner. Dening attached particular importance to the establishment of a powerful broadcasting organisation such as the ‘Voice of Britain’; at the moment, the only com­ petitors were the Americans, but one day the Russians m ight come up with a powerful station in eastern Siberia. By that time, a British station ought to have established its own audience.10 D ening’s recommendations were discussed during a depart­ mental meeting with the Foreign Secretary on 8 February 1947. Bevin agreed with Dening’s appreciation of South-East Asia, stating that: We should consolidate our position in South-East Asia as soon as possible, and before the attention of the world was focussed in that direction, which would happen when the Japanese Peace Treaty came up for consideration, possibly at the end of 1947 or early in 1948. Bevin also agreed to m aintain an organisation in charge of food allocations until at least the middle or end of 1948, and he promised to discuss with the Ministry of Food the desirability of extending the IEFC Rice Committee beyond 1947. When Dening drew attention to Colonial Office plans for the reorganisation of Malaya and Singapore under one governor, and the possible abolition of the Governor-General’s office, Bevin promised to discuss with the Colonial Secretary the question of the division of responsibility between Killearn and colonial officials. By im pli­ cation, this m eant pressing for an increase in Killearn’s coordi­ nating functions. Bevin was also keen on the expansion of B ritain’s cultural activities in South-East Asia, both through the activities of the British Council and through broadcasts by the ‘Voice of Britain’.11 The Foreign Office’s stock-taking papers and the subsequent

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departmental discussions constituted a highlight in the develop­ ment of Britain’s policy of regional cooperation. The Special Commission had firmly moved into the centre of the depart­ m ent’s regional plans. Killearn had started with regional coope­ ration on the technical level, and it was hoped that his organisa­ tion would provide the nucleus for a larger British-led regional organisation. As in 1945 and 1946, the ultim ate aim was to create a regional system or organisation in order to consolidate and extend Britain’s political and commercial influence in SouthEast Asia, in particular in Indonesia. However, there were also significant changes: contrary to previous regional concepts, great attention was given to cooperation with the nationalist move­ ments in South-East Asia. A further difference to previous plans was the enlarged geographical scope of a regional system, which was to include India, Burma and Ceylon. In fact, one of the main aims of regional cooperation was to m aintain close links with the countries of the subcontinent after their independence. In a nutshell, the Foreign Office was confident that in view of B ritain’s assumed popularity with the Asian nationalists, London would be able to use the proposed Singapore-based organisation to m aintain a high degree of political and economic influence in both South and South-East Asia. However, the three Foreign Office papers failed to address the question of whether France and the Netherlands should be included in the revised regional plans. T hough Britain had quietly decided to stop supplying French troops in Indochina, the previous autum n’s initiative by the French embassy in London still required an official reply. In the middle of Febru­ ary, the Foreign Office consequently agreed with Colonial Office recommendations that collaboration with the French should be lim ited to economic and technical subjects, leaving out political matters for the time being. This corresponded with existing Anglo-French collaboration in Africa. Furthermore, any collab­ oration with the French authorities in Indochina should form part of a regional system rather than being conducted on a bilateral basis. Questions like health, which called for a regional treatment, could best be tackled by regional technical conferences that included the French. Moreover, any such Anglo-French collaboration would best be organised locally, i.e. by Killearn and MacDonald, rather than by the British Colonial Office and the Ministry of France Overseas.12

Singapore and the ‘radiation of British influence’ 89

As Gordon W hitteridge of the Foreign Office’s South-East Asia Department pointed out in a departmental minute, no particular action regarding the French was required. They would continue to send representatives to the Liaison Officers’ Meetings and had been invited to the other conferences. T hough a visit by Killearn to Saigon m ight be useful, it was undesirable in the present political situation.13 Back in Singapore, Michael W right agreed with the Foreign Office’s line. Visits by French and British experts on rice, coal and economic matters were already going ahead, and there were periodic talks between the Special Com­ missioner and the French consul-general in Singapore. He added: It is clearly desirable to promote collaboration with neighbouring territories in South-East Asia, and not least with the French who are im portant to us in Europe and with whom we have just signed an alliance. On the other hand we must be extremely careful to avoid giving any false impression of a policy of ‘South-East Asia for Europeans’. So long as there is no agreement between the French and Asiatics in Indo China we must p ut each foot down warily.14 Dening, too, argued that Britain should avoid giving the impression of a European policy in South-East Asia. The French embassy in London should therefore be informed about the conclusions reached in London and Singapore. This should be done orally rather than in writing; after all, it had never been contemplated to ‘make a splash’ about it with the French. His own impression was that they were by no means unaware of the considerations which prom pted Britain to move cautiously in this m atter.16 The outbreak of war in Indochina had thus stalled efforts towards closer Anglo-French relations in South-East Asia. How­ ever, since Britain never admitted that she had imposed a de facto arms embargo on Indochina, it did not prevent Paris and London from signing a m ilitary alliance in Europe. T hough officially directed against Germany, the Dunkirk Treaty of 4 March 1947 was the precursor of an anti-Soviet security arrange­ ment in Western Europe;17 its signing h rther improved AngloFrench relations and helped to draw Paris closer into the AngloAmerican camp. The treaty also inspired closer Anglo-French cooperation in Africa; in September 1947 Bevin told the French

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Premier, Paul Ramadier, that he wanted to step up economic cooperation in the colonies.18In December, the French responded by officially suggesting bilateral talks on economic collaboration in West Africa.19 However, the British continued to avoid closer cooperation with the French in South-East Asia, with London rem aining prim arily concerned about Asian nationalist opinion. As Dening told the Colonial Office in December: T he question of regional cooperation in South-East Asia (not only of course with the French) has been very much in our minds, but we have rather steered clear of having anything laid on in the way of Anglo-French colonial discussions on Africa. T his is of course because of the political situation in Indo-China. Our colonial territories in particular are nervous of any association with the French which m ight be interpreted by the national movements in South-East Asia as having political significance. . . . If the French should by any manner of means contrive a satisfactory political settlement in IndoChina, things would of course be different.20 While the prospects for France’s inclusion in a South-East Asian regional system were thus greatly diminished as a result of the war against the Viet Minh, Dutch hard-line policies in Indonesia had an even more profound effect on the Netherlands’ chances of being included in a British-sponsored regional scheme. In November 1946, the Dutch and the Indonesian nationalists had signed a compromise agreement on the consti­ tutional position of Indonesia. Under the so-called Linggadjati Agreement - negotiated under British pressure and finalised only days before the departure of the last British troops from Indo­ nesia21 - the Dutch had recognised the Indonesian Republic’s de facto authority over the islands of Sumatra and Java. The Republic had in turn consented to a federal form of government for the proposed United States of Indonesia, which would be established not later than 1 January 1949 and which would be an equal partner in a Netherlands Union under the Dutch Crown. T hough ratified in March 1947, the agreement was never implemented. On 27 May 1947, the Dutch put an ultim atum to the Indonesian side, asking them to recognise de jure Dutch sovereignty in Sumatra and Java prior to January 1949, and denying the Republic the right to conduct her own foreign

Singapore and the ‘radiation of British influence’ 91

affairs. After an Indonesian refusal to meet the ultim atum in full, the Dutch, ignoring the Linggadjati provision for arbitration by a third party, on 20 July 1947 launched a military campaign against the Republic. W ithin days the Dutch captured large parts of Java and Sumatra, failing, however, to destroy the bulk of the Indonesian guerrilla forces.22 The Dutch police action, as The Hague called it, put London in an awkward position. On the one hand, the British saw the aspirations of the Indonesian nationalists with sympathy. As the three stock-taking papers of February 1947 had shown, some officials at the Foreign Office hoped to exploit Britain’s compar­ atively good standing with the republicans in order to extend British commercial and political influence in Indonesia after the end of Dutch rule. On the other hand, Britain had continuing obligations to the Dutch as former wartime allies. It was also in London’s interest to see the Netherlands regain both economic and m ilitary strength at a time of heightening East-West tensions in Europe. After the war, Britain had supplied the Netherlands with m ilitary equipm ent worth 40 m illion pounds. T hough intended prim arily for the defence of Western Europe, British arms supplies had been crucial for the Netherlands’ military build-up in Indonesia: by June 1947 about 90,000 Dutch troops had been equipped, and in Java some 60 tanks as well as 12,000 to 14,000 vehicles and a num ber of surplus aircraft had been delivered.23 However, the worsening of relations between the Dutch and the Indonesian nationalists between the signing of the Linggadjati Agreement and the beginning of the Dutch police action had forced the British to rethink their arms policies regarding the Netherlands. In May 1947, Attlee warned the cabinet that a Dutch resort to force would have serious political and economic consequences. Britain would be criticised for having brought Dutch forces back to Indonesia. An armed conflict was ‘bound to disturb our own relations with native populations throughout South-East Asia’; it would also delay for years the food exports from Indonesia needed to reduce Britain’s dependency on hard-currency countries.24 In June, Richard Allen pointed out to the Foreign Office that ‘we are faced with the serious prospect of hostilities in the Netherlands East Indies in the near future’.25 The outbreak of war in Indochina had clearly made the British wary of Asian and, in particular, Indian

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opinion and the Foreign Office warned The Hague on 16 June that public opinion m ight pressure Britain to cut off the supply of war material in the event of the Netherlands resorting to force in Indonesia.26 The cabinet supported the Foreign Office’s line thus deciding in principle that Britain m ight have to impose an arms embargo against the Dutch.27 However, Foreign Office officials were still in the dark about how, and under what circumstances, to implement the cabinet’s policy. At the beginning of July, the Dutch authorities in Indonesia asked for permission to fly locally-bought British ordnance stores from Changi airfield in Singapore to Sumatra. Killearn asked London for guidance, arguing that: In the light of Dutch intentions and of extremely delicate position we are in as regards Asiatic opinion by reason of the fact that we have already supplied military equipm ent to the Dutch forces and stopped it to the Indonesians, my own view is that we should say frankly as each case arises that we are unable to furnish or facilitate transport of any further military stores from South-East Asia for the present.28 Killearn’s telegram raised once again the ‘thorny question of the Asiatic reaction to our policy in respect of the Dutch and the French’. As John Street m inuted at the Foreign Office, it was well known that Britain had trained and equipped almost all the Dutch troops presently in Indonesia. ‘What is not so well-known is our constant pressure on the Dutch not to make fools of themselves by resorting to force. ’ However, he added, ‘we cannot afford to forget that the Dutch are our allies in Europe’. If the Dutch had actually bought the stores concerned, Street thought they should be allowed to load them onto their planes.29 Gordon W hitteridge disagreed, arguing that even such local deliveries were likely to do Britain much harm in the eyes of the Asians, particularly as no deliveries had been made to the Indonesians. Stopping local deliveries would annoy the Dutch without affect­ ing their ability to wage war; however, if things were left as they were it would be difficult to defend Britain’s actions.30 In this particular case, the Foreign Office decided that the Dutch could not be stopped from buying or taking away surplus equipm ent which Britain had put on the open market in Singapore.31 However, the stakes were raised dramatically after the Dutch police action in July 1947 caused a worldwide outcry

Singapore and the ‘radiation of British influence’ 93

against the Netherlands. India was one of the Netherlands’ most outspoken critics. The Indian press unanim ously condemned Dutch aggression. Nehru, too, was highly critical of the police action, using much stronger terms than in the case of Indochina: unlike the Viet Minh, the majority of Indonesia’s nationalist movement was not comm unist.32 He insisted in a telegram to London that Britain and the United States should put pressure on the Dutch in order to end the conflict. In public, he made it clear that he regarded the police action as an affront against the whole of Asia. The Dutch resort to military force was highly unwelcome in London. It destroyed the prospects for a return to normalcy in Indonesia and for a resum ption of full British trade with the country in the near future. Most seriously, it threatened to poison the political atmosphere in Asia less than a m onth before the transfer of power in India. Despite this, the British were forced to take a middle line, in view of their conflicting interests in good relations with both India and the Netherlands. Bevin told the House of Commons that Britain did not intend to lay the problems before the UN Security Council, but that she was hoping for other methods to end the fighting. The Dutch, however, refused arbitration.34 Further British efforts to negotiate a compromise solution failed when the Americans rejected a secret British proposal that London and W ashington should jointly induce the Netherlands to accept some form of arbitral solution to the conflict.35 At the instigation of Australia and India, the Indonesian question was subsequently taken to the Security Council, which in the following months repeatedly tried to arrange a cease-fire. Following the Dutch police action and the British failure to find a compromise, London was bound by the cabinet’s previous decision to im plem ent an arms embargo against Indonesia. However, as the head of the Foreign Office, Orme Sargent, pointed out, the question was whether only arms deliveries to Java would be stopped, or whether direct supplies to the Neth­ erlands should also be affected - to which Britain was committed in execution of her general policy of building up the Dutch armed forces in H olland for the defence of Western Europe. A public announcem ent that Britain would refuse shipping m ili­ tary supplies to the Netherlands was ‘likely to prejudice the readiness of the Dutch to collaborate with us in Europe’ and

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would cause deep and lasting resentment by the Dutch. It was also ‘liable to affect adversely our policy of standardisation since the Dutch m ight be led to adopt non-British types of standards of equipm ent and operational methods’. Sargent therefore suggested m aking the same distinction as in the case of Indo­ china by announcing the stoppage of military supplies to Java 36 only. The Chiefs of Staff supported Sargent’s line during a Defence Committee meeting on 23 July, but they failed to convince the Foreign Secretary. Bevin stressed that Britain had already offered her good offices to the Dutch; if a further approach failed, the provision of supplies and facilities in the Far East should stop at once. Furthermore, ‘if other action proved ineffective, it would be necessary to deny m ilitary assistance to M etropolitan H olland’.37 After Bevin convinced himself that his effort at mediation had failed, he told a staff conference on 28 July that it was now essential for Britain to announce her neutrality by declaring that no war materials would be supplied either to the Dutch or to the Indonesians. Nevertheless, supplies of British war materials to m etropolitan H olland and for training Dutch forces in Europe could be continued. Bevin’s line found the support of Attlee,38 and the Foreign Secretary told Parliam ent on 30 July that his government had prohibited the supply of war materials to Indonesia. The embargo also banned supplies to m etropolitan H olland which were intended for Indonesia.39 The terms of the Indonesian arms ban were much harsher than in the case of Indochina. The Dutch had to assure in the case of each British delivery that the supplied war materials were not destined for Indonesia, whereas the French, who of course had much greater international clout than the Netherlands, were free to do with their deliveries to the m ainland as they pleased. L ondon’s decision to impose an arms embargo on Indonesia meant that any ideas of prim arily colonial cooperation in SouthEast Asia, which had been at the heart of both Colonial Office and Foreign Office plans in 1945, were finally put to rest. At the same time, the prospects for joint European and Asian coope­ ration, laid down by the Foreign Office only four months earlier, were greatly diminished. The wars in Indochina and Indonesia were poisoning the political climate in Asia, and Asian leaders continued to attack not just the Dutch and the French but the colonial powers per se. Britain could not escape the fact that so

Singapore and the ‘radiation of British influence’ 95

long as the conflicts in Indonesia and Indochina remained at the centre of world attention, the prospects for any kind of Britishsponsored regional system in South-East Asia were dim. Things were made worse by the fact that the Special Commission, which was at the centre of British regional plans, had recently come under threat by a series of unexpected international develop­ ments. It is these developments that will be examined next.

Chapter 7

Regional competition: India and Australia

The crisis in Indonesia demonstrated the difficulties of drawing India and other fledgling Asian states into a British-led regional system in South-East Asia. As the unexpectedly vociferous Indian reaction to the Dutch police action showed, Delhi would not want to be associated with a South-East Asian grouping that involved either the Netherlands or France. To the contrary, Nehru regarded m utual Asian resentment of French and Dutch policies as an opportunity to further India’s own influence in South-East Asia. It slowly began to dawn on London that, if Nehru had his way Delhi, rather than London or Singapore, would be the focus of any South-East Asian regional develop­ ments. Indian interests in South-East Asia were historical. In the pre­ colonial period Indian cultural and religious influence, in the form of H induism and Buddhism, extended to Burma, Thailand, Indochina, parts of Malaya and Indonesia, and even the Philippines. Indian merchants also m aintained significant trade links with the area. T hough the appearance of the European colonial powers reduced the cultural contacts between India and South-East Asia, it strengthened the economic ties between the two areas. Under the British, Indian labourers settled in Malaya, and the country developed into an im portant trading entrepot for Indian goods and textiles exported to other parts of East and South-East Asia. Burma became an almost exclusive market for Indian m anufactured textiles and consumer goods. In return, British India heavily depended on Burma, Indonesia, Malaya, T hailand and Indochina for imports of oil, tin, rubber, rice and timber.2 South-East Asia was also of great strategic importance to India. The Japanese invasion of South-East Asia and neighbour­

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ing Burma during the Second World War reminded Indians that South-East Asia was a key for the defence of India against an invader from the north-east. While preparing for independence in 1947, it seemed almost natural that India would try to establish a m aximum of political and economic influence in South-East Asia, a region that was itself undergoing radical political changes. Nehru showed a keen interested in South-East Asia, which he had toured in the spring of 1946. Shortly after assuming office in the Indian Interim Government in September 1946, Nehru explained the principles of his foreign policy in a broadcast speech to the nation. First, it was to be based on the principle of non-alignm ent and neutrality between the European powers, in particular the growing conflict between East and West: ‘We propose, as far as possible, to keep away from the power politics of groups, aligned against one another, which have led in the past to world wars and which may again lead to disasters on an even vaster scale.’ Nehru then outlined a second aim in Indian foreign policy, namely for India to become the cham pion of the Asian independence movements and to assume a kind of m oral leadership in Asia. He also seemed to be thinking of possible Indian associations with South-East Asia and the Middle East: We are of Asia and the peoples of Asia are nearer and closer to us than others. India is so situated that she is the pivot of Western, Southern and South-East Asia. In the past her culture flowed to all these countries and they came to her in many ways. Those contacts are being renewed and the future is bound to see a closer union between India and South-East Asia on the one side, and Afghanistan, Iran, and the Arab world on the other. T o the furtherance of that close association of free countries we must devote ourselves.3 Nehru soon put his ideas for greater cooperation with other Asian states to the test. In March 1947, he convened the informal Asian Relations Conference in New Delhi - attended by delegates from twenty-eight Asian countries, some of which were still under colonial rule. D uring the meeting, he publicly denied that India had any desire for Asian leadership. However, behind the scenes he proposed creating an inter-Asian organisation with a perm anent secretariat on Indian soil. Western observers

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suspected Nehru wanted to establish India as the moral if not political leader of the Asian independence movements. However, N ehru’s plan failed to convince the participating delegations. The (nationalist) Chinese successfully lobbied against an Indiandom inated Asian organisation, while the smaller countries of South-East Asia expressed their fear of both Indian and Chinese dom ination. Instead, some of them suggested an exclusively South-East Asian grouping. The Middle Eastern countries remained altogether uninterested and the six attending Soviet republics largely abstained.4 Despite the set-back to his regional am bitions at the Asian Relations Conference, Nehru was to intensify his efforts in the following two years to create for India a leading position am ong the states of South and South-East Asia. T hough Nehru was genuinely outraged by the Dutch police action in July 1947, it also provided him with a welcome opportunity to indulge in anti-colonial rhetoric aimed at uniting the smaller Asian countries behind him. The United Nations was a welcome international platform for his policies.5 London was slow to grasp Indian aspirations in South-East Asia. T hough the Foreign Office had acknowledged the fact that a South-East Asian regional system had to include the Indians, its plans from February 1947 underestimated N ehru’s desire for South-East Asian leadership. So far as the Asian Relations Conference was concerned, the British were initially apprehen­ sive: the India Office regarded the conference’s announcem ent in September 1946 as a sign of the Indian Interim Government’s expansive tendencies in foreign affairs, and the Foreign Office complained about Soviet participation.6 However, when the conference failed to produce a perm anent Asian organisation, London lost interest in the issue. It was only after India’s continuing agitation on behalf of the Indonesian Republic that the Foreign Office began to take Indian ambitions in South-East Asia into account. London also underestimated some of the knock-on effects of the Asian Relations Conference: the meeting encouraged a series of international initiatives for regional cooperation, most of which were directed against the European colonial powers. Weeks after the meeting in New Delhi, the Burmese leader, Aung San, called for a ‘South-East Asia Economic U nion’ consisting of Burma, Indonesia, Thailand, Indochina and Malaya.7 In June, the French proposed a rival plan for ‘Pan South-East Asian

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8

U nion’, though this was little more than a tactical proposal during Franco-Thai negotiations on the fate of the Indochinese territories annexed by Bangkok. In September 1947, a group of intellectuals from T hailand, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Indo­ nesia, Burma and Malaya officially founded the ‘South-East Asia League’. The league’s manifesto spoke critically of South-East Asia’s foreign dom ination and subjugation, postulating that the days of colonialism were past. It also claimed that there was an increasing sentiment am ong the subjected peoples of South-East Asia to ‘join in an effort toward a regional development of common interests’ as had been expressed during the Asian Relations Conference and in Rangoon with the late Aung San (Aung San had been assassinated on 19 July 1947). The league’s prim ary aim was described as the achievement of unity among the various peoples of South-East Asia, leading to a ‘Federation of South-East Asia’.9 T hough none of these proposals took off, they still demonstrated that B ritain’s idea of Asian-European collaboration was being superseded by proposals for exclusively Asian alignments. Even worse, from Britain’s point of view, were the competing regional proposals by one of her key allies in the area, Australia. Ever since the Canberra Agreement between Australia and New Zealand in 1944 (see Chapter 4), Australia had shown a much more active interest in South, South-East and East Asia - areas colloquially referred to as ‘The Near N orth’.10 Australian inter­ ests in a South-East Asian regional commission, expressed during the 1946 Prime Ministers’ Conference, were a further sign that Canberra - at a time when the political situation in Europe’s Asian colonies was in a state of flux - was aim ing for greater influence in the region. When Nehru failed to invite Australia to the Asian Relations Conference, the Australians became increas­ ingly concerned about being excluded from Asian regional developments. After Britain’s announcem ent on the transfer of power in India, the Australian Foreign Minister, Dr Herbert V. Evatt, decided to go on the diplom atic offensive. On 26 February 1947, he told the Australian House of Representatives: Just so far as the peoples of South-East Asia cease to be dependent upon the decisions of European Governments, so far do A ustralia’s interests in the councils of South-East Asia increase. . . . The time has now arrived when there should be

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formed in South-East Asia and the Western Pacific an appro­ priate regional instrumentality, concerning itself with the interest of all the peoples of this area. It should include the representatives of the peoples and Governments directly inter­ ested in the problems of the South-East Asia area. . . . The proposed regional instrum entality will at least facilitate the free and rapid interchange of basic information concerning the problems of administration, education, health, agriculture, commerce and cultural relations.11 A week later, on 5 March, Evatt further announced that Australia intended to invite some thirteen countries, including India, Burma, Thailand, Malaya, Indonesia, the Philippines, Britain, the United States, France and the Netherlands, to an interna­ tional conference to discuss defence, trade and cultural relations in the Indian Ocean and in the South-West Pacific.12 T he British were not amused. Evatt’s conference proposal interfered with their own plans and constituted a veiled threat to Britain’s lead on South-East Asian regional developments. Initially, British officials in London and Singapore were aware only of Evatt’s first speech on India and a ‘regional instrum entality’ in South-East Asia, not of his proposal for a regional conference: according to one official at the Colonial Office, conditions in South-East Asia were unsuitable for a regional commission similar to those in the Caribbean or the South-West Pacific. In South-East Asia there were the Dutch, whose empire was ceasing to exist, the French, whose empire was already m uch reduced, ‘and ourselves, whose Asiatic interests are undergoing an extraordinarily rapid change and whose position is bound to be affected by events in the French and Dutch territories’. He suspected that Evatt’s proposal would allow countries like India and the Philippines ‘to stimulate in our colonies that brand of nationalism which we do not want to go out of our way to encourage’. Furthermore, there already existed Killearn’s organisation which extended British influence through economic encouragement and guidance.13 Lord Killearn, who had been invited to discuss regional cooperation with the Australians and who was planning a visit to the country, regarded Evatt’s initiative as encouraging. But he doubted whether its contents and tim ing were suitable. Unlike the Colonial Office, the Special Commissioner did not seem to

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fear the inclusion but rather the exclusion of Asian nationalists from a regional organisation. He told the Foreign Office: We must in my view be very careful to avoid giving the impression that our policy is that of South-East Asia for the Europeans or, indeed for the white race. Yet if we were to proceed with proposals for a Regional Association before political agreement has been reached in the Netherlands East Indies and French Indo-China two of the principal territories in South-East Asia would be represented by European adm i­ nistrations whereas they ought to be represented by adm inist­ rations of Europeans and Asiatics in partnership. Added to this was the question of whether Burma, Ceylon, India and China would have to be included, ‘and what about US and Soviet participation?’. Furthermore, the Indian government was sponsoring conferences on economic, social and other problems in Asia, while both India and China were playing for leadership throughout the Far East. In view of these unresolved issues, Killearn recommended to wait until the situation in Indonesia and Indochina had become clearer. On the other hand, it m ight become impossible to postpone some form of regional associa­ tion m uch longer, and something on the lines of Evatt’s pro­ posals presented fewer disadvantages than others.14 When news of Evatt’s South-East Asian conference plans subsequently reached London, the British sensed a challenge to their position in South-East Asia. As Sir David M onteath of the India Office argued in a letter to the Foreign Office, Australian policy should be developed in concert with Britain, especially since the future of India was uncertain. It was British policy to steer India and Burma into a relationship in which they would cooperate with Britain and Australia, either w ithin the Com­ m onwealth or as an ally. The precise form ulation of a scheme for regional association would be prem ature before India’s consti­ tutional problem was resolved and her position in relation to the Commonwealth was established. Furthermore, for Australia to try and impose a regional organisation with herself in the lead would be as little acceptable to the Asian countries concerned as similar attempts by the European powers.15 Four days before his departure for Australia and New Zealand, Killearn was instructed by the Foreign Office to find out exactly what kind of instrum entality Evatt had in m ind and to explain

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the work of the Special Commission to the Australians. He should also stress that Britain and Australia had to avoid giving the impression that they were developing a white m an’s policy for South-East Asia. Any attem pt to present the Asian countries with a cut-and-dried policy of United Kingdom or Australian manufacture would ‘frustrate our m ain object of securing the wholehearted and friendly cooperation of India and Burma, whether they rem ain in the Commonwealth or n ot’.16 Killearn met Evatt in Canberra on 17 April, where he explai­ ned the Special Com m ission’s functions and the regional work of the m onthly food liaison meetings. When Killearn later on enquired what precisely Evatt had in m ind with his proposed regional instrum entality, he got ‘very little new from him, maybe owing to his having gathered from my remarks at lunch that the Special Commission was in practice covering the ground which he had in mind, to some considerable extent’. According to Killearn, Evatt appreciated his w arning to proceed with caution and to avoid any impression of wanting to create a ‘white m an’s’ organisation. Evatt also agreed that the tim ing of new initiatives would have to await the clarification of the situation in Indo­ china. At the same time, Killearn stressed that everyone in Singapore wanted to see Australia more closely associated with British activities, and that there were great commercial and trade opportunities for Australia in South-East Asia.17 Killearn’s talks in Canberra gave the Foreign Office the impression that Evatt had not been fully informed of the extent of regional collaboration already achieved by the Special Com­ m ission.18 As Allen minuted: Dr Evatt seems to have discovered that most of the ‘instrum entality’ after which he hankers (under Australian leadership) already exists under the aegis of the Special Commissioner and UK leadership. He may not greatly care for this but on the other hand it may be difficult for him not to accept this situation with a good grace. Allen also pointed out that New Zealand opposed Australian designs to play a greater role in Asia.19 New Zealand’s Secretary for External Affairs, McIntosh, had informed Britain of recent talks with Evatt and J.W. Burton, the head of Australia’s External Affairs Department. According to the New Zealander, Evatt hoped that countries like India, Burma, Malaya and

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Indonesia, which were steadily moving towards self-government and independence, could be induced to turn to Australia for guidance, help and leadership which they would prefer not to seek from the West. He saw this as the basis of Evatt’s policy of ‘currying favour with Nationalists in these countries’. At the same time, the Australians seemed to have given little thought to what m ight be on the agenda of their proposed South-East Asian regional conference. McIntosh had replied that his country feared that supporting the ‘resurgent Nationalist Eastern peoples would result in New Zealand (and Australia) becoming tiny white islands in a large coloured sea’. New Zealand opposed watertight regional arrangements and preferred wider organisations such as the United Nations.20 Killearn’s talks in Australia and the report by McIntosh gave London the impression that the Australian proposals were only half-baked. Evatt had been unaware of the Special Commission’s regional work, despite the fact that the Australian Commissioner in Singapore had been working closely with Killearn ever since the latter’s arrival in South-East Asia. When Killearn stopped over in Canberra on 13 June during his return trip from New Zealand, Evatt no longer mentioned his regional plans.21 He was increasingly preoccupied with a forthcoming Commonwealth Conference in Canberra, scheduled for 26 August. The meeting had been arranged to prepare a common Commonwealth line on the question of a Japanese peace treaty, another area of AngloAustralian disagreement.22 Since Evatt was to chair the meeting, it seems that his desire for an international conference in Australia which would deal with Asian issues was at least partly fulfilled, and that he therefore dropped his plans for a South-East Asian conference. D uring the Canberra Conference, the issue of regional cooperation was not discussed. Despite the failure of his South-East Asian initiative, Evatt had made it clear that Canberra was demanding a greater say in the affairs of South and South-East Asia. Britain was watching this increasingly independent line in Australia’s foreign policy with some concern. According to a Foreign Office m inute of the end of May 1947: [Evatt’s] present policy is to keep in with the present natio­ nalist movements . . . with the idea that Australia m ight be able to take over leadership from the present European

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occupying powers. He would in fact like to be in on the ground floor. New Zealand on the other hand would prefer to stick to the United Nations and British Commonwealth.23 However, as Dening pointed out: We must not lose sight of the consideration that Australia may not always be Dr Evatt. While Dr Evatt dominates Australia’s foreign policy, I think it can be said that the broad aim is to put Australia in the foreground of the picture wherever it can be managed, I don’t think he really judges any prior grouping by what area it covers, but by how far Australia can predominate in it. 24 4-

*

In the following m onths and years, Canberra continued to seek greater influence in South-East Asia. Like Nehru, the Australians used the Dutch police action in July 1947 to woo the Asian nationalist movements. Canberra sharply condemned the Dutch offensive and jointly with India took the Indonesian problem to the Security Council. The Indonesian Republic subsequently nom inated Australia as its member of the U N ’s Good Offices Committee - the Netherlands nom inated Belgium and both sides picked the United States as third member. However, there were limits to Australian ambitions in Asia. Many Asians resented Australia’s traditional ‘White Australia’ policy, which severely restricted Asian im m igration into the country. In June 1948, for example, an Australian goodwill mission to South-East Asia nearly ended in failure because of the recent expulsion from Australia of a group of Malayan seamen.25 Despite this, the Australians, like the Indians, would refuse to give up their regional ambitions.

Chapter 8

Regional competition: the United Nations and ECAFE

While in 1947, neither India nor Australia managed to overtake B ritain’s lead in organising regional cooperation in South-East Asia, a serious challenge to the Special Commission emerged through the body of the recently created United Nations Orga­ nisation. After little advance warning, the U N ’s Economic and Social Council (ECOSOC) decided on 19 March 1947 to establish the Economic Commission for Asia and the Far East (ECAFE), covering South, East and South-East Asia. ECAFE constituted the most serious threat so far to B ritain’s regional plans, as it was intent on taking over the coordinating functions previously performed by the Special Commission in Singapore. Plans for ECAFE dated back to a joint proposal by Britain, the United States and Poland in 1946 to establish an Economic Commission for Europe (ECE) in order to meet the challenge of wartime devastation. (The Polish socialist and peasant parties were keen on m aintaining economic ties with the West.) The ECE was intended to bring together existing European economic bodies, such as the Emergency Economic Committee for Europe, the European Coal Organisation and the European Central Inland Organisation. It would also continue the work of the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration (UNRRA), which the United States had stopped funding because it was seen as propping up anti-American governments in Eastern Europe.1 When the question of an ECE was considered by the Second Committee of the U N ’s General Assembly at the end of 1946, the Asian members of the UN, particularly China and India, made it clear that they would only support the proposed Economic Commission for Europe if a similar organisation was established

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in Asia. They were supported by the Latin American countries. T hough most European countries doubted whether there was a need for an economic commission in Asia, they bowed to Asian demands in order not to forestall the creation of the ECE. On 11 December 1946 the U N ’s General Assembly recommended unanim ously that: In order to give effective aid to countries devastated by war, the Economic and Social Council at its next session give prom pt and favourable consideration to the establishment of an Economic Commission for Europe, and an Economic Com­ mission for Asia and the Far East.2 The two commissions were now referred to the U N ’s Economic and Social Council, which would have the final say on their establishment. T hough the British delegation to the UN regarded ECAFE as unnecessary,3 both India and China lobbied hard in the relevant ECOSOC working group for the commis­ sion’s immediate establishment. Since they were supported by the Netherlands, the Philippines and the Soviet U nion4, the Foreign Office instructed its representative at ECOSOC, J.P. Stent, not to oppose the Chinese proposal but to ensure that ECOSOC would have a free hand in determ ining the new commission’s compo­ sition and organisation.5 However, London had failed to take the views of its officials in Singapore into account. Two m onths after the General Assembly’s recommendation on ECE and ECAFE, the Foreign Office still had not told Killearn about the current negotiations at the UN. When on 21 February 1947 London enquired whether Singapore knew of any useful jobs for ECAFE, Killearn was dumbfounded. It was the first thing he and MacDonald had heard about the proposed organisation. He told London that if possible the comm ission’s establishment should be prevented. The Special Commission’s Liaison Officers’ Meetings were themselves trying to extend their scope and could be geared over a m uch wider economic field. The IEFC had already accepted the Singapore meetings as its m ain instrum ent in South-East Asia, and had p ut this on a constitutional basis by establishing a subcommittee on rice in Singapore. Killearn therefore wondered whether ECOSOC, like the IEFC, could be persuaded to operate through his Liaison Officers’ Meetings rather than through ECAFE. The ECAFE project revealed once again the

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consistent determ ination of India and China (either separately or together) generally to oust us from leadership in this area. Both politically and strategically that seems to me highly undesirable. It also presumably means bringing Russia into the affairs of South-East Asia.7 Killearn’s telegram was communicated to the British delega­ tion at the United Nations. From New York, J.P. Stent com plai­ ned that Killearn had not been kept fully informed of the fact that the General Assembly’s resolution made ECAFE’s establishment almost inevitable. British opposition to the plan would have had awkward political consequences and would at best have received the support of Australia, New Zealand and the United States. It was currently proposed that ECAFE should act as a coordinating body on all economic subjects and would normally take over all the unofficial conferences which Lord Killearn had been holding on matters other than food. Once it was fully established, it m ight also take over his food-coordinating functions.8 Stent’s comments did not go down well in London, as they implied the abolition of the Special Commission. The Foreign Office there­ fore responded that it had ‘serious doubts as to the useful and practical work ECAFE could do’ and that it had ‘no desire to see it set u p ’. Stent should therefore ensure that ECOSOC would only despatch a field mission, which would report back later on. Failing this, he should make sure that the commission’s main functions were confined to fact-finding.9 By the time that the Foreign Office’s objections reached New York, the ECAFE W orking G roup had already decided in favour of the immediate establishment of ECAFE. Stent, who had officially supported the decision, refused to take the blame, com plaining to London that his conflicting instructions could have been avoided had the South-East Asian authorities been informed earlier on. Killearn’s opposition to ECAFE had so clearly been based on m isapprehensions that it had not occurred to the British delegation that his views could be endorsed by the British government. The first suggestion that London shared Killearn’s views had reached Stent too late for him to act accordingly: If, as a result of this sequence of events, I am found to have committed HM G to a course of action which they do not wholly approve, I hope at least that I may be personally

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acquitted of exceeding instructions which I did not receive in time to make use of them .10 T hough the Foreign Office subsequently admitted that some of its instructions to Stent had not been sufficiently explicit,11 it was too late to prevent the new organisation. On 19 March 1947, ECOSOC unanim ously approved the establishment of ECAFE, following an earlier decision in favour of ECE.12 According to Lalita Prasad Singh, a leading historian on ECAFE, the decision was a ‘concrete recognition by the world organisation of the political renaissance of Asia’.13 It certainly was a diplomatic victory for India and China, who had lobbied hard to push the commission through. It was, however, less certain whether the organisation would ever achieve anything in practice. Its official instructions were vaguely worded as helping to facilitate ‘con­ certed action for the economic reconstruction of Asia and the Far East’, while strengthening the economic relations between the countries of the area and the rest of the world. ECAFE would also sponsor economic and technological studies relevant to Asia and the Far East, as well as the collection of economic, technological and statistical inform ation.14 ECAFE’s terms of reference covered vast parts of the Asian continent. By definition, Asia and the Far East included in the first instance British North Borneo, Brunei and Sarawak, the Malayan Union and Singapore, H ong Kong, Burma and Ceylon, the Indochinese Federation, the Netherlands East Indies (Indo­ nesia), India, China, the Philippines and Thailand. Only four of these countries and territories were also full members of the commission; namely India, China, the Philippines and Thailand. T o this were added the region’s three colonial powers, Britain, France and the Netherlands; as well as the United States, Australia and the Soviet Union. ECAFE’s organisational structure crystallised in the following years. Its m ain policy­ m aking body was the commission, with its committees, sub­ committees and specialised conferences. The commission included representatives from each member-state who met twice, and later on once, every year. Decisions were made by simple majority vote. ECAFE also had a perm anent secretariat, which served as both research institute and service agency for the commission and its subsidiary bodies. ECAFE’s chief diplom at was the comm ission’s Executive Secretary and head of the

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secretariat.15 (By 1981 ECAFE’s name had been changed to Economic and Social Commission for Asia and the Pacific (ESCAP), including thirty-five countries as members.) From the outset, ECAFE was hampered by its lack of clearly defined tasks and powers. Rather than tackling the problems of postwar relief, ECAFE was limited to giving advice on long-term economic developments, and to the prom otion of research and the collection of data. It lacked the funds to finance large-scale development programmes, and hopes by countries like China that the commission could serve as a clearing house for interna­ tional aid were soon dashed by the United States.16 While ECAFE’s economic impact was thus limited, it did, however, assume some importance as an international political forum. India soon used ECAFE as a platform for the propagation of Asian independence, for example by lobbying for the inclusion of the Indonesian Republic as an associate member of ECAFE. In later years, ECAFE sessions were increasingly affected by Cold War rhetoric between the Soviet Union and the Western powers. Following ECAFE’s creation in 1947, London soon changed its negative line in favour of giving pragm atic support to the new commission.17 Its change of heart was inspired by Killearn, who m aintained his reservations but argued that now that the decision to set up ECAFE had been taken there was no going back on it: How we can best turn ECAFE to advantage will no doubt emerge more clearly as time goes on. But I should certainly favour His Majesty’s Government taking a leading part in it. I should also welcome from the outset close and friendly contact between this mission and ECAFE.18 However, he regarded it as vital that a reference to the Special Commission be included in ECAFE’s terms of reference, in order to safeguard Killearn’s organisation against interference by the new commission.19 In other words: ECAFE would have to be prevented from affecting B ritain’s regional plans in general, and the Special Commission in particular. A special interdepartm ental W orking Party on ECAFE, set up in W hitehall, agreed that Britain should attempt to ‘guide the commission along practical lines’, but that the British delegation to the first ECAFE session in Shanghai should consult London

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before agreeing to any expansion of the commission’s activities.20 The British delegation to ECAFE was also told that the commis­ sion should be confined to practical tasks which would not interfere with B ritain’s own reconstruction efforts in Asia.21 However, a British proposal at ECAFE’s first session in July 1947, aimed at establishing a formal relationship between ECAFE and the Special Commission, was turned down not only by the Asian countries and the Soviet Union but also by the United States.22 D uring a follow-up meeting in New York, the British refrained from launching a further initiative, to avoid another defeat on the issue.23 The hostility against the Special Commission came as a surprise to London. It showed that while the Special Commis­ sion was popular at the regional level, it was regarded with the greatest suspicion at the United Nations. Should it ever have come to a diplom atic showdown between B ritain’s and the U N ’s regional organisations in Asia, the Foreign Office must have been aware that the latter would undoubtedly have m aintained the upper hand. T hough ECAFE still lacked clear tasks and functions, its UN background gave it legitimacy as a truly intergovernmental organisation. The Special Commission m ight have performed some useful coordinating work in the field of food distribution, but it was funded and run by London and was therefore unable to shake off the stigma of British imperialism. T he muddle at the Foreign Office prior to ECAFE’s creation was thus beginning to show its negative effects on British policies. Had Killearn been consulted immediately after the General Assembly’s resolution in December 1946, and had the Special Commission’s requirements subsequently been taken into account, Stent could have been instructed to make the inclusion of Killearn’s organisation in ECAFE’s terms of refer­ ence conditional for B ritain’s consent to the new commission. In this way, competition between the two organisations could have been avoided, and the Special Commission m ight have received the U N ’s sanctioning at a time when Killearn’s regional work was still crucial for avoiding famine in South-East Asia. How­ ever, the Foreign Office had missed its opportunity. Lord Killearn initially failed to appreciate the force of the storm clouds that were amassing against his organisation at the United Nations. In March, he was still confident about the prospects for the Special Commission, writing in his diary:

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It appears that they are all in favour of keeping it [the Special Commission] on. . . . Malcolm said that when he was home he had been asked at the Colonial Office what his views were as regards the continuation of this commission and he had emphatically recorded his view that it would be entirely against the public interest to withdraw it for another four or five years. He believed that the Colonial Office had duly registered what he had said.24 However, Killearn was unaware that in London, too, his organisation and his own position were now being called into question. Since the summer of 1946 there had been constant complaints in the British press and by Conservative MPs about the Special Com m ission’s rising running costs. At the end of July 1946, Killearn had a staff of approximately 200, and his organisa­ tio n ’s total annual cost was estimated at£150,000.25 Eight months later the Special Commission had turned into an even larger bureaucratic machine with a staff of 500 people in March 1947, including a host of specialists and administrators.26 London later admitted that the organisation’s total cost from February 1946 to 30 June 1947 amounted to £424,30027 - more than twice the sum that had originally been estimated. T he Treasury watched the Special Commission’s inflation with growing anxiety. Britain was facing an increasing pay­ ments deficit in 1947.28 In January, £40 m illion had already been slashed off Britain’s projected defence budget to achieve some immediate savings - a reduction of 5 per cent of overall defence spending. However, the Treasury was looking for cuts all round, and the Foreign Office was asked to reduce its expendi­ ture in Singapore. Killearn had estimated that in the 1947/48 financial year his organisation would have to spend £121,000 in wages and allowances alone. The Treasury wanted this to be reduced to £70,000.29 In March, the Foreign Office sent Richard Allen to Singapore to investigate possible areas for cut-backs. After his return, Allen reported that he strongly believed in the continuation of the Special Comm ission’s regional work. It was the focal point for the radiation of British influence in South-East Asia and m ight even be the starting point of a regional commission. It had also dealt successfully with the food crisis, but now that things were settling down, Killearn’s staff of mainly ex-Army personnel was

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too big. He in fact saw a lot of duplication between the Special Commission and the Governor-Generars office; there was presently the tendency for the Special Commissioner to insist that, whenever a new officer was appointed to the GovernorGeneral’s staff, he must have someone separate for the same purpose. The best idea would be to merge the two organisations. MacDonald had secretly agreed to take over Killearn’s functions while continuing his coordinating work in the colonial field. His distinguished political record meant that he would be welcome to foreign authorities, and forthcoming constitutional reforms in Malaya would in any case dim inish the Governor-General’s responsibilities and enable him to take over additional duties.30 Dening was initially against a merger of the two organisa­ tions,31 but the Treasury convinced an interdepartmental meet­ ing at the end of April 1947 that it was the only way to significantly reduce Britain’s expenditure in Singapore. All the participants agreed that the amalgam ation would not mean abandoning the policy of coordinating political, economic and cultural affairs throughout South-East Asia. The new merged post would be offered to Malcolm MacDonald, who would have a small ‘colonial’ as well as a ‘foreign’ staff. At the instigation of Dening, the merger would not materialise until March 1948.32 From the Treasury’s point of view, the decision made financial sense. It would avoid the existing duplication, and it gave London the opportunity to send inspectors to Singapore who would examine further fields for spending cuts. The Colonial Office was also pleased, as it spotted an opportunity to increase its influence on the conduct of foreign policy in the region. A merger would also counter criticism of insufficient coordination between Britain’s colonial administrations in South-East Asia. MacDonald was a popular choice for the combined post as he was regarded as more than a ‘purely Foreign Office nom inee’.33 Killearn, however, who was told about the decision in the following m onth,34 was incensed by the plan. He told London that it was imperative that the Special Commission remained an ‘FO organisation, under an FO m an’. In the eyes of neighbour­ ing countries, the Special Commission’s position derived from the fact that it represented the Foreign Office, and that it was not an instrum ent of colonial policy. MacDonald also doubted whether the time was right for the junction of his and Killearn’s offices, though he gratefully accepted the offer to take over the

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113

new post.36 Killearn’s former deputy, Michael Wright, who had recently been transferred back to London, also worried that the Foreign Office would lose some of its influence on the affairs of 37 South-East Asia. Allen replied that the department had: no intention of losing [its] grip in that part of the world and that, as long as Mr MacDonald was out there, there seemed no real reason for our doing so since he was by no means a Colonial Official, but a distinguished politician who could view things from the angle of both departments.38 Unlike Killearn, the Foreign Office believed that the combined post would improve the coordination of British policies in South-East Asia. As Allen pointed out, the merger, in a way, achieved what had originally been planned in 1945/46: the appointm ent of one top official dealing with foreign and col­ onial policy in South-East Asia.39 W ith hindsight, there is no doubt that the Foreign Office underestimated the damage that the am algam ation of the two Singapore posts would do to Britain’s regional policies in SouthEast Asia. As Killearn had pointed out, one of the main reasons why the Special Commission had gained credit as an organisa­ tion providing for international cooperation was the fact that it was working independently from the Colonial Office. The problem with the am algam ation was that it linked the interna­ tional section of the Special Commission too closely to Britain’s colonial authorities in South-East Asia. A merger between Killearn’s and M acDonald’s offices was thus bound to reduce the Special Comm ission’s reputation as a quasi-international organ­ isation in South-East Asia. Consequently, its chances of develop­ ing into a larger regional organisation acceptable to the new Asian states were greatly diminished. As Killearn pointed out in a lengthy telegram in September: When Special Commission was first established there was a general assum ption in neighbouring foreign areas that it was a thinly disguised agent of British National policy. This suspicion has been dissipated as a result of over a year’s working. . . . But when this organisation is amalgamated into a system with what cannot avoid being regarded as British colonial complex not only will suspicion be revived but it will probably be intensified and thus underm ine much of our work

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in establishing system of wholehearted regional consultation w ithout national bias.40 In fact, when news of the planned am algam ation emerged, it immediately affected the Special Commission’s reputation. In September 1947, London confidentially informed Australia, New Zealand and South Africa of the planned merger in Singapore.41 The Australians responded that they were concerned lest there was a dim inution of the Special Commissioner’s work and of the ‘cooperation and goodwill’ built up over the past eighteen months. Canberra wondered whether the Special Commission could continue as a joint British-Australian responsibility; the Australian Minister in China, Professor Copland, m ight be a suitable candidate for the Special Commissioner’s post.42 The Australian response greatly annoyed London, which sent a polite refusal.43 However, the episode showed that the planned am algam ation was bound to weaken Britain’s chances of orga­ nising regional cooperation, and that London’s regional com­ petitors were only too eager to step in. In fact, the prem ature leakage of the planned merger to the press, also in September 1947, was to turn Killearn into a ‘lame duck’. It further raised the question whether London should continue to press for a formal relationship between ECAFE and the Special Comm ission’s international section. The alternative would be to use ECAFE, not the Special Commission, as the focus for Britain’s regional policy, abandoning the plans of February 1947 to turn the Special Commission into a proper regional commission. In view of the U N ’s hostility to the Special Commission, expressed at the first ECAFE session in Shanghai, Stent argued that Britain should give up the Special Commis­ sion’s international functions at the time of the merger. The functions of the merged post would presumably be confined to coordinating the requirements of British territories and of the territories directly concerning them. Other functions, such as the collection of economic statistics and the holding of conferences on economic and related matters, should presumably be taken over by ECAFE.44 J.P. Clow, B ritain’s representative during the Shanghai session, disagreed. His views were known to be ‘diame­ trically opposed’ to those of Stent. Clow had little confidence in the new UN commission, which he thought was set up merely for reasons of prestige, and would inevitably be a useless body.45

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115

The future of the Special Commission’s regional work was discussed by the ECAFE W orking Party in October 1947. Stent pointed out that the Asian delegates in Shanghai had not raised a single voice in defence of Killearn’s organisation, regarding it as purely temporary, and assuming that its functions would be taken over by ECAFE. He therefore wondered how Britain could continue to support indefinitely ‘a regional commission w ithin a regional comm ission’ where the larger was a United Nations body and the smaller was not. The representative from the Foreign Office’s South-East Asia Department, Kenneth Christophas, disagreed. The Special Commission’s international func­ tions should continue under the new post, at least until ECAFE had emerged from the embryo stage. The W orking Party agreed with Christophas and decided that individual members of ECAFE should be asked to support the Special Commission’s continuing existence until ECAFE was a going concern.46 T he decision meant that London was not yet prepared to abandon its regional organisation in Singapore, together with the high political hopes that had once been attached to it. The Foreign Office subsequently asked countries like Thailand, France and the Netherlands to oppose as premature any resolu­ tions tabled at the next ECAFE meeting in December which demanded an immediate transfer of responsibilities from the Special Commission to ECAFE.47 Furthermore, London asked ECAFE’s secretariat to make a statement at the commission’s next session on relations with the Special Commission.48 The secretariat agreed, and ECAFE’s Executive Secretary, Dr P.S. Lokanathan, subsequently visited Singapore for talks with the Special Commissioner. Lord Killearn, increasingly disillusioned about the prospects for his organisation, told Lokanathan that the Special Com m ission’s functions would eventually have to be taken over by the UN,49 though ECAFE still had to show that it could function efficiently. In return, Lokanathan agreed to recommend establishing a formal relationship between the two organisations. Britain’s diplom atic efforts bore fruit during ECAFE’s second session in Baguio (Philippines) in November/December 1947, when the commission accepted Lokanathan’s recommendation to establish a ‘satisfactory working relationship’ with the Special Commission. The two organisations would exchange liaison officers and would inform one another of any economic confer­

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ences they m ight hold. Eventually, it was perhaps desirable that some of the Special Comm ission’s functions should be assumed by ECAFE, though this depended on ECAFE’s ability to provide the necessary organisation. To begin with, a survey of the Special Com m ission’s work was required before possibly transferring some of its functions to ECAFE.50 L okanathan’s proposal was opposed only by the delegates from the Philippines and the Soviet Union, who argued that the Special Commission was not intergovernmental. The British delegate, Christofas, countered that fifteen countries participated in the Liaison Officers’ Meet­ ings, and that no voting had ever been necessary.51 As Stent subsequently reported to the Foreign Office, Britain had achieved her objective of obtaining ‘formal recognition for the organisation of the Special Commissioner in South-East Asia as an international economic body’, laying the foundation for a ‘rational scheme of cooperation between Killearn’s organisation and ECAFE’.52 However, at the same time Britain had accepted the fact that unless ECAFE turned out to be a complete failure, the U N ’s commission would be gradually allowed to absorb the Special Com m ission’s regional functions. It is ironic that at the very m oment that the Special Commission was recognised by the United Nations, its prospects of becoming a proper regional commission had all but vanished. Whether or not the Foreign Office realised it at the time, it had just abandoned the regional strategy laid down in February 1947. In Singapore, Killearn was instructed to m aintain his rice, coal and edible oils activities for the time being, to continue with the Liaison Officers’ Meetings, and to retain the Special Commis­ sion’s advisory services to British and non-British territories. He should only drop his m onthly economic bulletins and leave statistics entirely to ECAFE, in order to prevent the feeling that Britain was unw illing to surrender anything at all.53 However, the Special Commissioner was becoming increasingly bitter about the bleak prospects of his organisation, and about his forced retirement. He refused the governorship of Eastern Bengal as compensation for the Singapore post and criticised the For­ eign Office whenever high-ranking British officials or politicians were visiting Singapore.54 Because of his alleged ‘propaganda’ against the proposed combined post, London decided to recall Killearn in March rather than letting him stay on until after MacDonald had taken over in May.55 The decision further

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poisoned relations relations between London and Killearn, who complained to the head of the Foreign Office, Orme Sargent: After sweating blood for you for 44 years it would have been m uch pleasanter to quit your Service with less feeling of having been scurvily treated. I know full well just how the Department (and possibly you yourself) feel towards me: I believe that to be largely based on perversion of the facts. But in any case it couldn’t leave me colder than it does. But it is sad - very sad - to leave a Service one has worked for nearly half a century, feeling as I now do about your office.56 Six weeks after Killearn’s departure, the Special Commission was merged with the Malayan Governor-General’s office. On 1 May 1948 Malcolm MacDonald was officially appointed Com­ missioner-General of the United Kingdom in South-East Asia. He was given two deputies, one for his colonial and one for his foreign affairs staff. Linked to the foreign affairs side of the Commissioner-General’s office was the former economic section of the Special Commission, now restyled ‘The Economic Depart­ m ent of the Commissioner-General’s O rganisation’.58 In June 1948, Lokanathan presented the third ECAFE session with a survey of the Special Commission which had been drafted w ith considerable ‘help’ from the British. The survey honoured the regional work of the Special Commission (now called the Economic Department of the Commissioner-General’s Organisa­ tion), the organisation’s food and coal activities, its collection of statistics, its holding of specialised conferences and the staff of experts who were advising the Liaison Officers’ Meetings. The survey recommended m aintaining the existing working relation­ ship between the two organisations; there would continue to be an exchange of liaison officers and an exchange of the ‘fullest documentation on their respective activities’.59 The majority of ECAFE members endorsed the survey. Only the Soviet Union opposed the paper, describing the Special Commission as a purely British organisation that was dom inating shipping in the region. The fact that the Special Commission had previously been merged with the Governor-General’s office proved to be no problem after a British observer from the Commission-General explained that the change of title had not affected the commis­ sion’s functions.60 London thus succeeded in establishing a working relationship

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between ECAFE and its regional organisation in Singapore at a time when the fortunes of the former Special Commission were at an all-time low. T hough the Commissioner-General’s organisa­ tion continued the coordinating work of the Special Commis­ sion, M acDonald’s regional coordinating activities never featured as prom inently in the Foreign Office’s South-East Asian plans as they had under Killearn. Two months after assuming office, MacDonald became preoccupied with the Malayan emerg­ ency. He also temporarily took over as Malayan High Commis­ sioner, after the death of Edward Gent in an aircrash over London on 2 July 1948. Furthermore, the Liaison Officers’ Meetings were slowly running out of things to do because of the im proving rice situation. In the following year, the UN Food and Agriculture Organisation dissolved the international rice alloca­ tion system. T hough the Commissioner-General’s economic department continued, the last Liaison Officers’ Meeting was held in November 1949.61 Britain’s hope of turning its organisa­ tion in Singapore into a proper regional organisation had failed. At the same time, ECAFE never qualified as a viable alternative to the Special Commission. Its geographic scope was too big to organise effective regional cooperation. More importantly, it included the Soviet Union and served Asian politicians like Nehru as a platform for anti-colonial rhetoric. When, as a result of the Cold War, the Foreign Office subsequently decided to revive its policy of regional cooperation, a completely new approach had to be found.

Chapter 9

Western Union and South-East Asia

British regional policies in South-East Asia were in considerable disarray at the beginning of 1948. Lord Killearn was about to leave his post, and ECAFE was intent on assuming the Special Com m ission’s coordinating functions. Furthermore, Australia and India had tried to gain the initiative on regional cooperation while the Asian Relations Conference had fuelled demands by smaller Asian countries for exclusively Asian cooperation. Last but not least, the continuing conflicts in Indochina and Indo­ nesia made the creation of a joint Asian-European scheme impossible for the time being. Even a British regional initiative that excluded France and the Netherlands would have been doomed to failure because of the anti-colonial atmosphere prevailing in Asia. W hile the prospects for regional cooperation between Britain and the new Asian states were thus low, there was m ounting pressure from the Foreign Office’s Western Department to increase cooperation with the other colonial powers in SouthEast Asia. As a first step, it demanded revising the ban on British arms deliveries to the Dutch forces in Indonesia. The Western Department based its arguments on two new developments. Firstly, the Netherlands and the Indonesian Republic had signed the so-called Renville Agreement on 17 January 1948, which provided a truce between the two parties.1Though the agreement constituted a hum iliating defeat for the Republic2 - failing to solve the issue of sovereignty and recognising considerable territorial gains made by the Dutch - it satisfied the Foreign Office’s Dutch experts. They were convinced that the accord would take the Indonesian issue away from the world’s attention. In addition to the Renville Agreement, developments towards

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greater Western European unity instigated a reappraisal of British regional policies in South-East Asia. After secret fivepower negotiations, Bevin on 22 January 1948 announced plans by Britain, France and the Benelux countries to forge a military alliance in Western Europe. Two months later, on 17 March, the five powers signed the Brussels Pact, prom ising m utual defence against an aggressor. No particular adversary was mentioned; however, it was clear that the ‘Western U nion’, as it became known, was aimed against the Soviet U nion.3 In addition to its military provisions, the Brussels Pact contained clauses on economic, social and military collaboration, in line with Bevin’s ideas on general Western European cooperation.4 Inevitably, moves towards greater Western European unity raised the ques­ tion of whether, or to what degree, cooperation between the Western European powers would extend to colonial territories. The Foreign Office’s Western Department believed that the forthcoming Western European alliance required a re-orientation in South-East Asia. A few days before Bevin’s Western Union speech, it described the Renville Agreement as a good opportunity to lift the arms ban in Indonesia: From the point of view of our plans in Western Europe it is im portant that this obstacle [the embargo] to closer relations with H olland should be removed as soon as possible. . . . [We are] fully aware of the reasons which made the imposition of the ban inevitable in the first place, [but] its continuance when we are discussing a treaty of alliance with the Dutch will be to say the least anom alous.5 At the Foreign Office’s South-East Asia Department, J.E.D. Street saw some merit in the Western Departm ent’s arguments, pointing out that the ban had been introduced to satisfy public opinion in Britain and to avoid incidents in Singapore and in other British Far Eastern territories. By now, British public opinion was concerned with ‘matters of far greater moment than Indonesia’.6 However, Gordon Whitteridge wanted to m aintain the ban until a political agreement and not just a ceasefire was reached.7 The head of the South-East Asia Department, Paul Grey, agreed that it would be unwise to re-open the question of the ban, as the omens for a final settlement in Indonesia were still not good. Com m enting on a Royal Navy enquiry whether British

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ships should be allowed to visit selected ports in the Netherlands East Indies, Grey argued: From the point of view of satisfying feeling in India and am ong the native population in Malaya as well as in SouthEast Asia generally, we do not want at this stage to suggest that we have gone over into the Dutch camp. The Dutch militarists, am ong whom I should include the Navy, do not want encouraging if a political settlement is to be reached.8 From Batavia, the British consul-general, F.M. Shepherd, supported Grey; the Royal Navy should refrain from visits which would be interpreted as gestures of sympathy towards the Dutch as distinct from the Republic - at least so long as the embargo was in force.9 Five days after the Western Departm ent’s initiative, Bevin announced his plans for a five-power alliance in Western Europe that was based on the precedent of the Dunkirk (defence) Treaty between Britain and France. He indicated that the treaty was also of economic relevance to some of the European colonies, whose prim ary resources, raw materials and foodstuffs could be turned to the ‘common advantage of the peoples of these territories, of Europe and of the world as a whole’. Bevin stressed that: Europe has extended its influence throughout the world, and we have to look further afield. In the first place we turn our eyes to Africa, where great responsibilities are shared by us with South Africa, France, Belgium and Portugal, and equally to all overseas territories, especially of South-East Asia, with which the Dutch are closely concerned. The organisation of Western Europe must be economically supported. T hat involves the closest possible collaboration with the Com­ monwealth and with overseas territories, not only British but French, Dutch, Belgian and Portuguese.10 It has recently been argued that Bevin was pursuing the idea of ‘Euro-Africa’ between 1947 and 1948. African colonial resources were meant to enable Britain to regain the economic lead in Europe, a position that was being threatened by the United States and her Marshall Plan. There w ould also be cooperation between the European colonial powers in Africa, in the first place between Britain and France, in order to turn the continent into a vital element in the eventual creation of a T hird World grouping

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under British leadership.11 Whatever Bevin’s plans for Africa may have been, it is unclear whether he wanted to include South-East Asia in his plans for colonial cooperation. At the time, many Asian observers believed this was the case, alleging a colonial conspiracy in South-East Asia. ‘Is the Western Union also a league of colonial powers to perpetuate colonialism?’ a prom i­ nent Malayan paper was asking at the end of January. The paper suspected that Bevin’s reference to collaboration with overseas territories m eant that the colonies were to become economic appendages of European power politics.12 Bevin’s speech linking European cooperation to the use or exploitation of colonial resources was highly unwelcome to the Foreign Office’s South-East Asian experts. Apart from the fact that the Foreign Secretary’s remarks increased Asian suspicion of British imperial designs, the South-East Asia Department was concerned lest plans for Western Union encouraged the Dutch to demand an end to the arms embargo. As Paul Grey stressed at the beginning of February, it was undoubtedly an ‘anomaly’ that while Britain was proposing to negotiate an alliance with the Netherlands in Europe, every Dutch request for supplies to the East Indies had to be checked to see whether it was covered by the ban. Nor did the ban prevent the Dutch from carrying out their police action, and it was unlikely to prevent them from taking sim ilar action in the future. On the other hand, the Indonesian republicans would ‘undoubtedly feel that the lifting of the ban was a further nail in the coffin of their aspirations’. Britain did not ‘wish to alienate nationalist sentiment in Asia, which it is our own policy to try to meet half way’. Public opinion in Britain and Australia, too, was critical of the Dutch. Grey therefore recommended m aintaining the ban at least until the Security C ouncil’s Good Offices Committee had reviewed the 13 situation. Dening and Sargent agreed. Dening’s ‘own instinct’ was to do nothing for the present, particularly as the Australian attitude to Indonesia had to be considered.14 In March, the Treasury proposed lifting the embargo. There was progress in the U N ’s mediating efforts in Indonesia: though the Dutch representative had failed to defend his government adequately against the charge of continuing to treat republican interests unfairly, the Security Council had approved the report of the Good Offices Committee; furthermore, the signing of the Brussels Treaty was imminent. At the Foreign Office, Grey

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personally wanted to see the embargo m aintained.15 However, if it was decided to lift the ban then now was the moment to do so. As he explained to Bevin, the Dutch were trying to interpret Britain’s Western U nion policy as an indication that London was changing its line on Indonesia. In South-East Asia, particu­ larly am ong the Indonesians, there was a corresponding fear that Britain had abandoned her ‘sympathies for the coloured people’ and that she wanted to use the colonial territories to bolster the European economy. While lifting the ban would certainly be convenient, the Foreign Office would ‘have to think seriously of the political consequences on opinion in the Security Council as well as in Malaya, India and South-East Asia generally’.16 Dening supported Grey’s line, arguing that ‘we have never at any time taken sides in the Indonesian dispute, nor do we propose to do so now ’.17 Shepherd similarly advised from Batavia that a lifting of the ban would be seen in Indonesia as a ‘political endorsement of Dutch conduct of negotiations with the Repub­ lic’. It would also imply that Britain would not object to the resum ption of m ilitary action in the case of a breakdown of political negotiations. Politically, it would am ount to taking definite sides at the m oment when political discussions were about to begin, and it would strengthen the hands of the Dutch m ilitary commanders and thus tend to prejudice a reasonable and fair settlement.18 Killearn added from Singapore that if Britain offered m ilitary supplies to the Dutch, w ouldn’t she also ‘be bound to offer them to the Indonesians and would not [the] Dutch take a poor view of that?’19 Tw o days before the signing of the Brussels Treaty in March 1948, the Dutch ambassador in London, Baron Bentinck, told Dening that Western Union ought to make Britain and the Netherlands see eye to eye in South-East Asia, and that the British embargo should be lifted. Bentinck also mentioned the issue of regional security in South-East Asia. Dening replied that Britain was not yet in a position to consider regional security, particu­ larly where non-British territories were concerned; one of the reasons was that he did not know what the Americans had in mind. Dening subsequently explained in a Foreign Office minute: I feel that we must resist the suggestion that, because of Western Union, the policy of the United Kingdom is bound to

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coincide with that of the Dutch or the French in South-East Asia. T h at is not to say that we may not some day hope to secure regional collaboration in that area too, but we have enough troubles of our own at present w ithout becoming involved in those of the NEI or French Indo-China.20 However, the Foreign Office had underestimated the strength of Dutch feelings on the embargo. The Netherlands increasingly resented the fact that, despite the new five-power alliance in Europe, the British arms embargo remained in force. On 1 April, the Dutch ambassador in London told I. Kirkpatrick of the Foreign Office that a member of the Dutch Upper House had argued with some force that it was quite wrong that an arms embargo should continue to exist between the two parties. Bentinck, under instruction from his government, therefore asked Britain to consider lifting the embargo as soon as pos­ sible.21 Once again, London found itself in the dilemma of having to choose between its interests in Asian and in those European cooperation. Grey explained the problem to Killearn’s new deputy in Singapore, P.S. Scrivener: Indonesia, he argued, had become a test case. Not that India or Burma was really passio­ nately devoted to Indonesian independence; that devotion was very theoretical. However, they were watching Britain closely ‘to see how far we would carry our profession of interest in the Indonesian people and [they] were alert for any signs that we would be w illing to sacrifice what we professed to believe in ’. The difficulty remained that: We have to associate more closely with the European powers than ever before. We have, at the same time, to undertake a complete reconstruction of our relations with the East. And we have to do the latter in the face of a growing nationalism and a struggle for dominance by forces which would seek to divorce 22 the East from the West altogether. Despite this, Grey eventually advised that there should be a limited relaxation of the arms ban in private on material urgently needed by the Dutch. The British ambassador in the Netherlands had just confirmed how strongly most political parties in H olland felt about the embargo.23 Dening still objected to the lifting of the ban as premature, but agreed that Britain

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should offer relaxing the ban on non-lethal equipm ent.24 Sargent went even further and suggested publicly withdrawing the embargo: A great deal of water has flown under the bridges since it [the embargo] was imposed and I cannot believe that its cancel­ lation would arouse m uch criticism here. As for criticism in South-East Asia, we m ight meet this by getting the Dutch Government in return for the cancellation to state equally publicly that any war material which they buy from the United Kingdom is for the defence of M etropolitan Holland and nothing else.25 Surprisingly, Bevin refused to abandon the embargo, despite the fact that it had been his speech on Western Union which had set the ball rolling in the first place. He seemed to be primarily concerned about criticism in the House of Commons, arguing that: Sargent oversimplifies the matter. Delightful in a country where there is no political opinion and no watchful eye on Ministers and their policy. The sympathy of a large number of the House is with the Indonesians and therefore of the cabinet too. I cannot meet the request.26 The Dutch Foreign Minister told Bevin during a subsequent meeting in Paris that the Brussels Treaty made the Indonesian embargo an anomaly. Bevin replied that lifting the ban m ight lead to reactions in Australia and India which could be very unfortunate from the point of view of the Dutch government. Britain already had considerable difficulties with India on the Kashmir question and the raising of the embargo was, in any case, not really needed by the Dutch for practical purposes; it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie.27 However, the Dutch were insistent and the Dutch ambassador asked Bevin a few days later whether he would agree to a statement by the Dutch government on the line that it had reason to believe that Britain would take into favourable consideration Dutch representations regarding equipm ent for Dutch troops in the Netherlands East Indies. Bevin refused, but hinted that Britain m ight consider helping out with the supply of uniforms and transport equip­ ment - as long as the Singapore stockpiles allowed this.28 The Hague took Bevin’s remarks as an indication that he was

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softening his line on the embargo. The Netherlands Foreign Minister subsequently told the Dutch parliam ent that talks with Britain on the arms ban had been resumed, and that he expected them to be favourable. Since the announcem ent attracted no 29 attention in Britain, London decided not to comment on it. In June, the Dutch ambassador changed tactics, telling Grey that the Netherlands was reluctant to agree to any further assurances that equipm ent ordered from Britain would not go to their South-East Asian territories. Grey replied that a lifting of the embargo was out of the question, but suggested that Britain m ight be more forthcoming on ‘non-lethal’ equipm ent, i.e. equipm ent other than weapons, am m unition or armoured fight­ ing vehicles of any kind.30 By June 1948, Britain was thus indicating a relaxation of the Indonesian arms embargo. However, London was resisting sug­ gestions that Western U nion should lead to increasing coope­ ration with either the Dutch or the French in South-East Asia. At the beginning of April, the French consul-general in Singapore, Guibaut, had told Scrivener that the five Western Union coun­ tries should work out a common colonial policy at government level. Scrivener had agreed, and he subsequently told London that five-power cooperation provided by the Brussels Treaty should be reproduced overseas, ‘including the area containing Indochina, Indonesia, Malaya and the other British territories in South-East Asia’. Much had already been achieved in the techni­ cal sphere, but there was a lack of political cooperation, in particular in resisting communism. Scrivener was hoping for a broad policy statement which would ‘show our adversaries that our solidarity extends beyond the confines of Europe’, though he realised that the attitude of the local populations m ight be difficult.31 The Foreign Office disliked the idea of a policy statement by the colonial powers. As Christophas pointed out, Britain had previously avoided close cooperation with the Dutch and French in Indochina, instead m aintaining collaboration through the less m etropolitan medium of the Special Commission. So long as the Foreign Office side of the merged Commissioner-General’s office remained in existence, there was no need to change this habit. The fact was that Britain had consistently pursued a more liberal policy in South-East Asia

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than either of the other two M etropolitan powers concerned. There is great danger that, if our alliance with the other Western Powers in Europe were to be correspondingly reflected in our behaviour in the East, we should lose the sympathy of the Asiatic peoples by whom ‘Colonialism ’ and ‘Im perialism ’ are considered a far greater menace than ‘Comm unism ,.32 Dening, too, recommended that the Western U nion should ‘hasten slowly’ in South-East Asia and persist in collaborating in technical matters until the participants had become so accus­ tomed to cooperating that higher flights could then be essayed.33 D uring a meeting in London on 26 April between representa­ tives from the French embassy and members of the Foreign Office, as well as MacDonald, who was in London for consul­ tations, LeRoy followed up G uibaut’s proposal. The French diplom at was keen on governmental discussions on South-East Asia, as Paris sometimes took little account of what was going on under the Special Commissioner’s aegis. MacDonald replied that he welcomed local collaboration but that Western U nion had made the peoples of South-East Asia very suspicious of the motives of the Western colonial powers. It was therefore desirable not to give colour to these suspicions by embarking on formal intergovernmental consultations. The French embassy staff, according to a Foreign Office minute, took the points but did not seem entirely satisfied.34 In June 1948 Michael W right summed up Britain’s continuing regional strategy in a Foreign Office minute. The Special Com­ m ission’s aim had been to promote regional cooperation by starting with economic and social subjects, then working upwards to political matters as circumstances permitted. At the same time, it was felt that political collaboration ought not to be confined to the three colonial powers ‘but should be on the basis of Europeans and Asiatics working together’. However, so long as the questions of Indochina and the Netherlands East Indies remained unsettled it was difficult to initiate political coope­ ration except on a predom inantly European basis. Western U nion complicated the matter and made it ‘still more difficult to get away from the pattern of purely European collaboration in the area, which it is desirable to avoid’. W right objected to the proposed policy statement by the m etropolitan powers. For the

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time being, Britain had to be content with the policy of prom ot­ ing cooperation on technical matters. At the same time, Singapore should be encouraged to take any opportunity for further cooperation on the technical level, and to ‘keep on the look out for possible openings however modest for political collaboration also’. W right concluded: ‘If only the Dutch would make further progress in Indonesia, the whole problem would become easier. The longer matters drift the greater becomes the risk that comm unistic tendencies, as in Burma, will become accentuated.’35 The Western Union episode demonstrated that, despite the decline of Britain’s regional organisation in Singapore and the prevailing anti-colonial climate in Asia, London remained committed to the idea of regional cooperation prim arily with the new Asian states. Nor had it given up hope that its regional activities in Singapore m ight be the starting point for wider regional cooperation. London therefore resisted any notion that Western U nion cooperation extended to South-East Asia, and it thwarted French attempts at open colonial cooperation in SouthEast Asia. As Grey argued in July: Western Union was taken by many Dutchmen as an indication that we would be w illing to revise our Indonesian policy. . . . Unfortunately, and for the same reason, Western Union was greeted with the greatest suspicion in Asia, and attempts were immediately made by the Russians, as well as by extreme local nationalists, to persuade the Asiatic peoples that we had reversed our policy of increased freedom for Asiatic peoples. . . . We cannot afford to give further material to our critics in that area by agreeing to any form of Anglo-Dutch collaboration in South-East Asia so long as the Indonesian problem remains in its present state. Finally, any collabor­ ation in South-East Asia must be between all the countries which have interests in the area - i.e. it must include the countries in the area as well as the colonial powers con, 36 cerned. However, rapid new developments in South-East Asia soon led to a change of Britain’s regional strategy. On 18 June 1948, one day after W right’s comments, the British colonial authorities in Malaya declared a state of emergency in the colony. The announcem ent was made in reaction to an increasing number of

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attacks by com m unist guerrillas on British-owned rubber plan­ tations and m ining enterprises, as well as on police outposts. The emergency coincided with heightening tensions in Europe, where the Soviet U nion started to blockade the Western sectors of Berlin on 24 June. The British soon suspected Moscow of being behind the Malayan insurrection. From the British point of view, the beginning of the Malayan Emergency marked the extension of the Cold War to South-East Asia. As will be shown next, regional cooperation would soon become a key British policy in trying to contain the spread of communism in Asia.37

Part III

Communism

Chapter 10

Cold War and Commonwealth

Like the British withdrawal from India the previous year, the onset of the Malayan Emergency in June 1948 was a watershed in the postwar history of Asia. It marked the extension of the Cold War from Europe and the Middle East to the Far East. From the British point of view, communism, not nationalism, now constituted the overriding problem of the day. The Malayan Emergency followed the outbreak of communist guerrilla warfare in Burma in March 1948, which seriously destabilised the country throughout the year.1 In Indonesia too, com m unist forces were to make a bid for power, though their attempts to gain control of the Indonesian Republic in September 1948 were quashed by troops loyal to the moderate nationalist government of Mohammed H atta.2 Towards the end of 1948, a num ber of decisive victories by the Chinese comm u­ nists against the nationalist Kuom intang government in China further added to L ondon’s worries. The Chinese communist leader, Mao Tse-tung, had publicly aligned himself with Moscow, and the British feared that China, once it had fallen under comm unist control, would encourage other communist movements in South and South-East Asia to intensify their struggle against the colonial powers and the pro-Western governments in the region. T he British had been concerned about Soviet intentions in South-East Asia for some time. In 1947, the head of Britain’s Security Intelligence, Far East, had warned of growing comm u­ nist strength in South-East Asia, arguing that most of the local com m unist parties, though temporarily out of touch or disorga­ nised, were bound to be directly or indirectly controlled by the Soviet U nion.3 One year later, the communist campaign in

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Malaya increased British suspicion of Soviet designs in the region. As Paul Grey told Bevin in the middle of July 1948: There is no direct evidence of co-ordination by Russia of com m unist activities throughout South-East Asia, though it is strongly suspected. When the Cominform was set up last September, there must have existed in Moscow some plan for Asia as well as Europe. The Cominform manifesto declares quite clearly that it is the task of communism to combat imperialism not only in Europe but also in South-East Asia. Grey added that the Calcutta Youth Conference in February 1948 had ‘provided a means of co-ordinating communist activities in all the South-East Asia countries, and probably of relaying the latest ideas from Moscow’.4 Historians have been arguing since the 1950s whether the comm unist insurrections in South-East Asia were orchestrated by the Soviet Union. One line of argum ent suggests that Moscow used both the Calcutta Youth Conference, which was attended by comm unist delegations from South-East Asia, as well as the immediately following Congress of the Indian Communist Party to instruct the attending comm unist delegates to initiate armed uprisings in their respective countries. The Soviet U nion’s intention is described as w anting to destabilise the Western European economies by depriving them of vital raw materials from South-East Asia.5 However, while there is little doubt that the meeting encouraged the subsequent outbreak of communist insurrections, R uth T. McVey’s convincing study of the Calcutta Conference has called into question whether it was Moscow that gave the orders for armed revolt.6 The current historical consensus is that there is no concrete evidence that Moscow used the conference to order the South-East Asian uprisings, but that the meeting did serve as a forum for the advocacy of the Soviet U nion’s two-camp thesis propagated by Zhdanov during the founding meeting of the Cominform in 1947, and that it quick­ ened the pace of comm unist revolutionary movements in Asia.7 New evidence may come to light if and when the relevant Soviet documents are released. However, what matters in the context of our story is that at the time London came to the conclusion that Moscow was behind the com m unist uprisings in South-East Asia. The insurrections were seen as part of a Moscow-inspired campaign to assume

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control of the region. As a result, South-East Asia soon took on global importance in the conflict between the Soviet U nion and the West, and the development of an anti-com munist strategy in the region became of param ount importance to London. In September 1948, Grey stressed that direct evidence of the Russian connection was still remarkably small, but ‘circum­ stantial evidence strongly suggests Russian inspiration and guidance in the recent series of comm unist outbreaks in SouthEast Asia, of which the latest example is the sudden Communist revolt in the Republican-held territory in Java’.8 The same opinion was expressed in a Foreign Office memorandum prior to a Commonwealth Prime M inisters’ conference in mid-October: In general, the pattern seems to be one of attem pting to overthrow established government and to create economic chaos. T hough there is no concrete evidence of direction from Moscow, nevertheless the pattern suggests that communists in South-East Asia are following the Moscow line.9 One m onth later, the Foreign Office had largely made up its m ind as to who was behind the South-East Asian insurrections. London told the Commissioner-General’s office in Singapore that the com m unist developments in South-East Asia were of concern not only because they presented an immediate problem in the defence of B ritain’s vital interests, but also because they ‘fit into the general strategy of the Kremlin in the cold war against us’. The paper suspected that after a tightening of Moscow’s control during the Calcutta Conference the Kremlin’s ‘grand strategists’ decided that the world’s international situation required a more active campaign of open violence and disruption in most of South-East Asia. Hence, ‘the result of the Calcutta Conference was that violence directly organised by the Com m u­ nists broke out throughout South-East Asia’.10 P.S. Scrivener, at the Commissioner-General’s office, was not convinced. At the end of November he sent a letter to the American consulate-general in Singapore, stressing that the ‘evidence for the integration of terrorist activities in Malaya with a Com m unist schedule of uprisings elsewhere in South-East Asia rests only to a small extent on documents discovered here’.11 Despite this lack of concrete evidence, any rem aining doubts about Moscow’s central role had been removed by December: the Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC) of the Chiefs of Staff argued

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that after the inauguration of the Cominform there had been a reorientation of comm unist policy in India, Burma and Malaya, and that ideological guidance had been reinforced by personal contacts established during the Calcutta Conference, to which a large Russian delegation was sent. As a result, the communist parties from the three countries had all decided to embark on a course of m ilitant opposition, encouraged also by the increas­ ingly influential Chinese Com m unist Party. The strategic plan, the JIC concluded, was initially to forge a m ilitant communist front in the Far East, aim ing to aggravate the conflict between imperialism and the oppressed colonial people, as a step towards total com m unist control. The revolts in Burma, Malaya and Indonesia all fitted into this pattern.12 London was determined to fend off the perceived Moscowinspired comm unist onslaught on South-East Asia. In Malaya, the comm unist insurgents would have to be defeated by military means.13 At the same time, the British realised that they needed to coordinate their own anti-com m unist campaigns with those of the neighbouring territories - in particular at the intelligence and police levels. Furthermore, some kind of diplomatic initiative m ight be required to strengthen the political resolve of the South and South-East Asian countries against the communist threat. Soon, the issue of regional cooperation was back on the political agenda. However, the old question remained of who to cooperate with first, and whether France and the Netherlands could be included w ithout upsetting India. The issue first came up in July 1948, prior to a Brussels Treaty meeting in The Hague. The Foreign Office warned Bevin before his departure to the Netherlands that he m ight be questioned about the spread of communism in South-East Asia. The department advised him not to make any public announcem ents on a common anti-com munist policy by the colonial powers, as there was the danger that this m ight mistakenly be construed as anti-nationalist rather than anti­ communist. However, exchanges of inform ation about commu­ nist activities in the respective colonies would be advantageous so long as they were given no publicity.14 During the meeting in The Hague, the Dutch Prime Minister, Louis Beel, subsequently used the opportunity to propose a joint study of the role of overseas territories in the development of the ideas embodied in the Brussels Treaty. His proposal in fact implied the extension of

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Western U nion cooperation to South-East Asia. Bevin was reluctant to discuss the Dutch proposal, but failed to thwart it altogether; the issue was consequently referred to the council’s next meeting in October.15 By the autum n, London would thus have to make up its m ind whether it wanted to increase its cooperation with the other colonial powers in reaction to the com m unist insurrections. British Foreign Office officials in Singapore, unaware of the Dutch governm ent’s initiative, saw some merit in increasing cooperation with the French and the Dutch, particularly at the intelligence level. As MacDonald told London at the end of July 1948, fresh signs of comm unist activities gave the issue of cooperation in South-East Asia greater importance and urgency. There were strong movements towards the extreme left in Burma, further com m unist progress in China and a communist-inspired outbreak of terrorism in Malaya. In Thailand, a Soviet League had been established. MacDonald believed that these events m ight reduce to some extent the prejudices of the local peoples against Western cooperation, and a framework of such collabor­ ation should therefore be studied if not erected. He saw three possible forms of cooperation: 1) a more generous exchange of security intelligence; 2) the association, in some form, of the local Dutch and French representatives with the activities of the British Defence Co-ordination Committee; and 3) confidential discussions between the three governments to ascertain what measures of agreement already existed between them, whether it could be increased and whether it could be reduced to a formula calculated to discourage the Russians w ithout provoking the Asians. MacDonald added that a discreet ‘education cam paign’ could be launched in the South-East Asian territories which would argue that if these countries wished to stand on their own feet they had to be safe from aggression in the process, and that protection could only be supplied by the great democratic powers and their associates. It would perhaps be possible to use some kind of ballon d’essai to estimate the real depth of Asian opinion regarding Western collaboration in South-East Asia.16 At the Foreign Office, Dening was not particularly pleased that the issue of colonial cooperation had come up again. In an

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extensive draft reply to MacDonald, he argued that the Russians were out to rouse Asian opinion against the West, and that one therefore had to be careful not to offer them a weapon by entering into open colonial collaboration in South-East Asia. London did not wish to alienate the ‘Asiatic races of South-East Asia by an overt association in this area with France and the Netherlands so close as to appear exclusive’. Politically, strategically and eco­ nomically, the aim had to be to get all the peoples of the area to work together, and not just the Western powers. This was impossible unless and until the issues of Indonesia and Indo­ china had been resolved, as Britain would otherwise be unable to carry Pakistan, India, Ceylon and Burma with her: Practically speaking therefore, we see insuperable objections for the present to associating the Western Union in any way publicly with South-East Asia, although we . . . see advantage in the exchange of inform ation with the French and the Dutch, on a secret basis, about communist activities and methods of combating them, always provided that this is w ithout risk to the security of our own inform ation.17 Christofas agreed with Dening’s line, m inuting that: We have consistently opposed any integration with the French and the Dutch in the Far East on the Colonial level and insisted that instead all our collaboration should be through the medium of what was the Special Commission and is now the Foreign Office side of the Commission-General. . . . Developments in the third session of ECAFE, where an overwhelming majority displayed pro-Indonesian and antiDutch sympathies, should serve as a warning to us of the dangers of appearing anti-nationalist in the eyes of the Asian peoples.18 D ening’s draft letter was subsequently circulated to other departments in W hitehall. The Commonwealth Relations Office (formerly the Dominions Office) agreed with Dening: Australia’s and New Zealand’s reactions to signs that Britain was underwrit­ ing measures taken by the French in Indochina and the Dutch in Indonesia could well be unfavourable; the same could be said of India, Pakistan and Ceylon.19 However, other departments tended to favour MacDonald’s ideas. The Defence Ministry, for

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example, ‘attached rather more weight than [Dening] to the arguments in favour of three-power cooperation in the Far East in the struggle against Com m unism ’. It realised there had to be a cautious approach to the problem, but hoped that in view of the possible strategic advantages the risks would be acceptable.20 The Colonial Office was divided over the issue. Its Eastern Department regarded D ening’s draft reply as too negative, argu­ ing that the com m unist emergency required closer collaboration with the Dutch and the French. H olding rigidly aloof from the Dutch would merely isolate Britain from her friends in the area while not necessarily increasing her ‘popularity with the races of South-East Asia’.21 Galsworthy of the Colonial Office’s Interna­ tional Relations Department, on the other hand, had misgivings about open cooperation with the French and the Dutch at the present time,22 though he agreed that it was undesirable to urge MacDonald to go more slowly than he thought safe. After ‘exhaustive discussions’ between Galsworthy and the Eastern Department, J.M. M artin sent a letter to the Foreign Office hoping to turn the ‘red light which Mr Dening was proposing to flash to Mr MacDonald not into green, but into Amber’.23 The department wanted to avoid going any more slowly than MacDonald and other local officials thought to be safe: just as there was technical as well as some political cooperation with the French on colonial matters in Africa, a num ber of conferences with France and the Netherlands could be arranged on technical subjects in South-East Asia. These conferences would not be exclusive: other states would attend, and representatives from the local populations could be invited.24 However, the Foreign Office used the opportunity of a forthcom ing Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ conference, scheduled for mid-October, to thwart proposals for open colonial cooperation in South-East Asia. During an interdepartmental meeting on 29 September, which discussed the forthcoming conference, Dening recalled that the Special Commissioner’s organisation had empirically built up regional collaboration on economic matters, and that its monthly Liaison Officers’ Meet­ ings were regularly attended by representatives from fifteen countries. The economic emergency which had brought these meetings into being was now rapidly passing, but it seemed a pity to let them die, particularly because ECAFE was unlikely ever to prove effective since the Soviet Union was one of its

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members and would seek to make mischief in it. Dening suggested that, similar to the existing cooperation through the Liaison Officers’ Meetings, anti-com munist collaboration should be built up empirically by liaison between the criminal investigation departments, as well as the police and security services of all the countries of the area, colonial and Asian alike. T he representative of the Commonwealth Relations Office, MacLennan, supported the idea, but Martin from the Colonial Office doubted whether security cooperation with the Asian powers could be as close as with the Dutch. In Africa, there were two degrees of cooperation with Britain: France and Belgium formed an inner circle, while the other powers concerned (Liberia, Ethiopia and South Africa) constituted an outer circle. The meeting subsequently agreed that, while security coope­ ration in South-East Asia would best be achieved through direct contacts between the agencies concerned (there was already some cooperation between the police in Malaya and India), the Com­ missioner-General could coordinate two degrees of collabor­ ation. Britain, France and the Netherlands, on the inside, would cooperate prim arily at the security level, while there would be a second circle of Commonwealth countries working together at the political level. Since cooperation between the colonial pow­ ers would be kept secret, it would not offend Asian opinion.25 However, a few days before the beginning of the Com­ monwealth Prime M inisters’ Conference, Ernest Bevin came up with a m uch grander idea. According to a departmental m inute by Dening, the Foreign Secretary was thinking of ‘a kind of OEEC for Asia’.26 Bevin’s idea hit a raw nerve at the Foreign Office. The Organisation for European Economic Cooperation (OEEC) was an intergovernmental organisation with a compar­ atively high degree of autonom y in decision-making. If an Asian equivalent was established on similar lines, Britain would be unable to influence the organisation in the way that it had directed the Special Commission. Not surprisingly, Dening warned not to broach the idea with the Commonwealth Prime Ministers w ithout very careful study in advance. He saw ‘real danger that if such an organisation were set up, either India or Australia would try to assume the leadership, and in either case the results m ight not be very happy for the United Kingdom’.27 A.L. Scott added that China would also try to assume the leadership w ithin such a scheme. In his opinion, the special

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interests of Asian countries already received adequate attention through ECAFE.28 Apart from the political pitfalls of an Asian OEEC, the Foreign Office believed that Bevin’s proposal had dangerous economic implications. In Europe, the OEEC had been created as a result of Marshall aid provided by the United States. An Asian OEEC would require similar aid packages - aid that Britain was unw illing and unable to provide because of her precarious financial situation. The Asian countries had in fact requested some form of M arshall aid for Asia during the last two sessions of 29 ECAFE. As one of the Foreign Office’s economic experts warned: Anything like an Asiatic OEEC would at the present time be most undesirable. O ur role in ECAFE, and that of the other Commonwealth members, permits us to exercise fully the lim ited degree of influence on the economic development of the area which can be experienced w ithout involving us in 30 commitments which we cannot afford. The only alternative source of aid or loans would have been the United States. Yet there were no signs that W ashington was prepared to provide financial support for the development of South and South-East Asia. Even if the Americans had been interested in financing an Asian OEEC, the British were reluctant to encourage American involvement in an area of prim arily British responsibility and economic influence. Malaya, Australia and New Zealand as well as the ‘new dom inions’ - India, Pakistan and Ceylon - were all part of the so-called ‘sterling area’, which helped to strengthen the pound as well as Britain’s trade balance. T he sterling area dated back to 1939 and provided for the pooling and rationing of the Com m onwealth’s hard-currency reserves during the war (with Canada, a dollar-area country, as the main exception). Under its provisions, Britain bought all the hardcurrency reserves from the sterling area countries and credited them with sterling balances in return. This allowed Britain to make vital dollar purchases of war materials and consumer goods from the United States. The sterling area also enabled Britain to purchase goods from the Commonwealth countries and to credit them with sterling rather than pay them with exports. Before the war, Britain had had sterling liabilities worth 600 m illion pounds. After the war, Britain’s liabilities had

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increased to 3.7 billion pounds, of which almost 2.5 billion pounds were owed to sterling-area countries. After the balance of payments crisis in 1947, Britain had temporarily blocked some of the sterling balances, as countries like India and Pakistan were drawing too freely on them to finance their trade deficits. Malaya played a particular role w ithin the sterling area, as she was one of the most im portant dollar earners w ithin the Com­ m onw ealth’s trading bloc, exporting considerable amounts of tin and natural rubber to the United States. Yet the provisions of the sterling area prevented Malaya from spending the dollars she had earned. Instead, she had to use the dollars’ sterling equivalent, calculated at a fixed exchange rate, to buy goods from Britain or from other parts of the sterling area. As many goods could not be provided by British industry, Malaya was running up a massive sterling surplus; Malayan sterling balances were worth 85 m illion pounds at the end of 1947.31 As one historian has argued, the deal provided by the sterling area was rough on the dollarearning countries, including Malaya and the Gold Coast, because the others, such as Britain and India, were only too ready to spend the surplus.32 It certainly suited Britain, as she was able to use the dollar-earning exports from colonies like Malaya to finance the purchase of vital imports from the United States. Britain could also delay the repayment of her war debts, and in the case of Australia and New Zealand even convinced creditors to waive some of L ondon’s sterling debts. Apart from providing Britain with hard currency, the sterling area also served as an external trade barrier that protected the 33 Commonwealth countries against excessive dollar imports m uch to the dismay of the United States. In 1945, as one of the conditions for the American loan, Britain had to agree that she would start repaying her sterling debts from 1951 onwards, and that sterling would be made convertible. However, when in 1947 the Americans attempted to break up the sterling area through the convertibility of sterling, the pound entered into free fall and convertibility had to be aborted. It was therefore not surprising that the Foreign Office’s economic experts poured cold water on Bevin’s idea of an Asian OEEC, fearing that his plans would involuntarily underm ine the sterling area and jeopardise the triangular trade pattern between Malaya, Britain and the United States. According to J.F. T urner of the Foreign Office’s Econ­ omic Relations Department:

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If the implications of the present proposal are that Asia should receive assistance, either in the form in which Marshall aid is being given to Europe, or in the form of a comprehensive government loan from sources outside Asia, the consequences must be economically undesirable. The UK is not in a position to provide such aid itself, from its own resources, & aid from any other source must necessarily mean the establish­ m ent of an economic bloc in Asia, cutting right across the operation of the Sterling Area including the principal dollar 8c other foreign currency contributors to the Sterling Area pool.34 The Foreign Office soon decided to play down Bevin’s ideas. Christophas of the South-East Asia Department wondered whether the Foreign Secretary was really just thinking of a medium for regional collaboration that would go beyond the economic field. This had been suggested in Dening’s brief for the forthcom ing meeting of Commonwealth Prime Ministers. The brief envisaged setting up a forum that was similar to the Commissioner-General’s Liaison Officers’ Meetings, but that was empowered to deal not with economic or technical matters but with measures to combat communism. If the Commonwealth agreed, such cooperation could be built up around MacDonald’s existing organisation. It would ‘give new stim ulus’ at a time when the organisation’s economic raison d’etre was rapidly ceasing to exist, and it would ‘encourage the countries of SE Asia to continue to look to the United Kingdom for spiritual leader, . ,3 5 ship . Bevin, however, had given up on the former Special Commis­ sion’s prospects for expanding its regional role. Yet he was determined to launch a regional initiative at the forthcoming Commonwealth conference. After a top-level meeting with offi­ cials from the Foreign and Colonial offices, he agreed to drop his idea of an Asian OEEC. Instead, Bevin would propose that government ministers from Britain, India, Pakistan, Ceylon, Australia and New Zealand should meet at regular intervals to discuss matters of m utual interest, including South-East Asia.36 Bevin was further briefed that he should suggest at the beginning of the Commonwealth conference that South-East Asia’s pro­ blems were of sufficient importance to demand some form of regional collaboration, and that members of the Commonwealth should meet at six-monthly intervals for discussions on the

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region.37 Dening subsequently explained to his department that ‘the idea as now developing is political rather than economic, with the basic fear of communism and of Russia as the driving r ,38 force . The Foreign Secretary’s brief for the London meeting con­ stituted the first interdepartm ental agreement on regional coope­ ration since the Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Meeting in A pril/M ay 1946. It also marked the beginning of a new phase in L ondon’s regional policy. Instead of concentrating on the former Special Commission as the nucleus of a wider regional system in South-East Asia, London finally decided that a Commonwealth approach offered the best chance of regaining the initiative on regional cooperation. Britain was the dom inant power inside the Commonwealth and London was optimistic that it could play a leading role at the suggested regional conferences. It also hoped that it could use the comm unist bogey to mould the Asian countries into a regional grouping under British leadership. The Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Conference in October 1948 provided London with an opportunity to implement its revised regional policy. T hroughout the meeting, the British stressed the comm unist menace in both Europe and Asia. During one of the initial sessions of the conference, on 12 October, Bevin suggested that the Commonwealth countries interested in SouthEast Asia should hold regular consultations to put the political and economic life of the region, which was threatened by communism, on a firm footing. He had not worked out detailed proposals and was not suggesting any elaborate machinery, but he hoped that an understanding particularly with the new dom inions could be worked out. Bevin’s proposals met with a favourable response. Evatt endorsed the idea of Commonwealth consultation on South-East Asia, and Nehru stated that India was vitally interested in South-East Asia and that regional understanding between India, Britain, Australia and New Zealand was desirable.39 A few days later, Attlee repeated Bevin’s proposals for regional discussions, suggesting that economic developments in SouthEast Asia m ight be discussed by representatives from Britain, Australia, New Zealand, India, Pakistan and Ceylon.40 On the following day, Nehru replied that regional arrangements were desirable but must not conflict with the United Nations. He had hitherto resisted proposals from other Asian countries for the

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form ation of an Asian Union, but there would be increasing pressure as the ‘regional idea’ was growing inside Europe. The Pakistani Prime Minister, Liaqat Ali Khan, was more forthcom­ ing, stating that the Commonwealth should give a lead to the countries struggling against communism by drawing up a plan for strengthening the countries of the Commonwealth, the Middle East and South-East Asia by methods similar to those which were being applied in Western Europe. Bevin replied that regional associations could form a basis for confidence in the UN. He did not have precise plans in South-East Asia, but was convinced of the necessity for consultation and association. He agreed with Nehru that it was wise to associate Burma with such consultation, but believed it to be difficult to save the country from communism, as Britain had already attempted everything short of m ilitary intervention.41 London was generally pleased with the conference’s dis­ cussions on communism. As Machtig of the Commonwealth Relations Office pointed out, the conference’s outstanding feature was the large measure of support given to the policy of offering firm resistance to ‘Soviet totalitarian pressure’, be it in the form of external aggression or communist infiltration.42 The Foreign Office was particularly pleased that advice by Nehru on combating communism provided ‘valuable confirmation of our own thinking on this matter, coming as it does from a man with such experience of leftist thinking in Asia’.43 However, the conference did not fulfil all of the Foreign Office’s expectations for South-East Asia. As Dening pointed out, the initial response to Bevin’s proposal for periodic meetings of Commonwealth countries interested in South-East Asia had been favourable. Yet this idea was subsequently overtaken by a proposal for general Commonwealth meetings on foreign affairs:44 during one of the later conference sessions the suggestion was made that in the future the Commonwealth Prime Ministers should meet as often as practicable, and that in the intervals there would be regular m inisterial meetings on foreign affairs. The first such meeting was contemplated for May 1949 in Ceylon. It was therefore unclear whether whether the Prime Ministers still favoured a special conference on South-East Asia. Despite the confusion over the focus of the proposed follow-up meetings, the Foreign Office further embraced the the idea of using the Commonwealth as a basis for regional cooperation in

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South-East Asia. As Grey minuted, the Foreign Office had always favoured regional political collaboration in South-East Asia as an ‘object towards which we should work’; indeed ‘the idea in establishing the organisation in Singapore was that economic collaboration should eventually produce political collaboration’. A Commonwealth conference therefore m ight well lead to such a development.45 Dening, too, was hopeful, arguing that Nehru seemed w illing to agree at least to a certain am ount of collabor­ ation - provided that it was covert. As a first step, closer contacts w ith the police and security services should be established. Dening supported the proposed follow-up to the Com­ m onwealth Prime M inisters’ Conference, ‘and if a [separate] regional conference was arranged the matter should be carried further, possibly bringing in other non-British territories as well’.46 At the same time, London decided that the new Com­ m onwealth approach to South-East Asia was incompatible with the kind of colonial cooperation proposed by other Western U nion powers. As Dening told a meeting of W hitehall represen­ tatives on 20 October, the Asian populations would be strongly prejudiced against political cooperation with the Brussels Treaty powers in the Far East. MacDonald, still in London after attending the Prime Ministers’ Meeting, now supported D ening’s line. The meeting therefore agreed that Bevin should explain to Western Union members that Britain opposed open political cooperation in South-East Asia, but that she was prepared to collaborate covertly.47 A meeting of the Brussels Treaty con­ sultative council in Paris at the end of October provided the opportunity for Britain to clarify her line. Before leaving for France, Bevin was briefed by his department that he should oppose any special A nglo-Dutch-French consultations on South-East Asia. The only exception was collaboration ‘behind the scenes’. There was ‘already effective cooperation in Singapore with the Dutch and French as regards the activities of Commu­ nists, arms smuggling, contraband and so on’.48 During the Paris meeting on 25 October, the Dutch Foreign Minister, Dirk Stikker, raised his country’s proposal from July 1948 to study Western Union cooperation in colonial territories. He stressed that not only the Netherlands but also France and Britain were in trouble in South-East Asia. However, Bevin was unforthcom ing, explaining that the recent Commonwealth

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Prime M inisters’ Conference had shown that Australia and India were unfavourable to the situation in South-East Asia. Official discussions of the problem w ithin the framework of the Brussels Treaty would encourage nationalist feelings in South-East Asia and give the communists a good propaganda weapon. Any consultations should therefore be held through the ‘normal diplom atic channels’.49 It soon became evident that other West­ ern U nion powers were equally disinclined to become entangled in the Netherlands’ problem in Indonesia. The Belgian Foreign Minister, Henri Spaak, stressed that it was inconsistent for the Dutch to argue in the Security Council that Indonesia was an internal Dutch affair, and no threat to peace, while taking the view in the consultative council that the matter was of interna­ tional concern and a threat to peace. The French Foreign Minister, Robert Schuman, added that discussions on Indonesia, perhaps on the grounds that the Netherlands’ financial stability was threatened, would be stretching the Brussels Treaty to mean rather more than it actually said. The meeting therefore decided that any discussions on Indonesia should be mentioned in the official com m unique only after other international issues such as Palestine, Spain and the Italian colonies.50 As Christofas com­ mented a few days later at the Foreign Office, the meeting had satisfactorily disposed of Dutch attempts to extend the scope of the Brussels Treaty to overseas territories.51 Bevin also refused to make any further concessions on the Indonesian arms embargo. On 19 July 1948, Bevin had told the Dutch Prime Minister that the arms ban could not be lifted before the introduction of constitutional reforms in Indonesia; however, this did not preclude ‘special arrangements being made for the supply from Singapore or elsewhere of a few spare parts or uniforms required by the Dutch in Indonesia’. 2 In August, London had confirmed to The Hague that subject to availability Britain ‘would in future supply orders for what we consider to be non-lethal equipm ent (including spares) w ithout requiring any guarantee that it would not be forwarded to the Netherlands East 53 Indies’. However, this was as far as Bevin was prepared to go. In October, the Dutch proposed that the British would no longer ask for specific undertakings but would assume that the Neth­ erlands would not order any lethal material for Indonesia. Bevin objected - against the advice of the Foreign Office.54 The Foreign Secretary saw the proposal as a subterfuge that could not be

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defended in the House of Commons:55 it would mean the end of the embargo.56 Bevin explained to his officials that there was the possibility of a second police action in Indonesia, in which case he would be questioned closely about the embargo. The matter should be left as it was, though Grey was instructed to help the Dutch as m uch as he could administratively.57 The decision of the Brussels Treaty’s consultative council against special Western Union talks on Indonesia, as well as the m aintenance of the arms embargo, cleared the way for a British initiative towards Commonwealth cooperation on South-East Asia. As Grey wrote to B ritain’s diplom atic representatives in South-East Asia in November, the Foreign Office intended, when the time seemed ripe, to propose a special regional conference in Singapore on the problems of South-East Asia. The department intended to keep the initiative in South-East Asia which we took when we established the Special Commissioner’s Organisation. But secondly we should like at some stage to bring in nonCommonwealth countries. It was always intended that the economic collaboration initiated at Singapore should develop into a wider political collaboration.58 At the end of November 1948, MacDonald invited British officials in South-East Asia to talks in Singapore. The meeting concluded that although much was to be said for the calling of an early regional conference on the lines suggested by the Foreign Office, it would be better to delay the proposal. As MacDonald pointed out to London, the proposal to hold a larger Commonwealth conference in Ceylon in April or May 1949 was holding the field, and Commonwealth countries would probably be upset by an earlier regional Commonwealth conference in Singapore which m ight cover much of the same ground. It was also thought that countries like T hailand and Burma would be reluctant to attend such a conference. They probably wanted to avoid ‘ganging up against the Russians and Com m unists’ while ‘lining up with “Im perialists” ’, though any American participation would make it easier for non-Commonwealth countries to attend. Furth­ ermore, the Indonesian problem remained a stum bling block. According to MacDonald: The Indonesian situation is so vital to developments in South-

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East Asia generally that a conference w ithout representatives of Indonesia would be like a performance of ‘H am let’ in the absence of one of the im portant characters, if not the Prince of Denmark himself. . . . An attem pt to hold such a [conference] prior to settling of Indonesian question will result in great controversy between us, the Dutch, the Indians and Indo­ nesians. The reactions of such a controversy in South-East Asia would be very bad.59 Despite the Dutch-Indonesian irritant, M acDonald’s meeting confirmed the new British line on South-East Asia. This was that a series of Commonwealth conferences, and not the former Special Commission, would be used to encourage regional cooperation in the area. The driving force would be the m utual fear of comm unism in Asia. Britain, still the dom inant power in the Commonwealth, would be in the best position to organise regional action, at the same time preventing countries like India from becoming the cham pion of exclusively Asian alignments. However, a num ber of problems remained. Britain simply could not escape the fact that so long as France and the Netherlands failed to find a settlement with their respective nationalist movements, the two powers were unlikely to be accepted as regional partners by the other Asian states. Yet Indonesia and Indochina were an essential geographical and political part of South-East Asia, and regional cooperation, whether on the security, economic or political levels, would eventually have to include the two territories. Indeed, confining cooperation to the Commonwealth meant that mainly countries from the South-East Asian periphery would be included. A further question was whether Burma and T hailand could be convinced to participate in future Commonwealth conferences. Burma feared both British and Indian dom ination, while T hailand was reluctant to commit herself to any grouping w ithout securing considerable gains in return, such as large-scale financial or m ilitary aid. Finally, Britain had to make up her m ind about the kind of regional cooperation she wanted. Would collaboration be con­ fined to the police and intelligence levels, would defence be included, and what exactly did political cooperation entail? Economically, the problem was that the South and South-East Asian countries were bound to demand loans or financial aid

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from Britain to raise their populations’ standard of living. W ithout such aid, an agreement on regional cooperation under British leadership was highly unlikely. Would it perhaps be necessary to bring in the Americans, and what consequences would this have for B ritain’s economic interests in the region? Furthermore, would W ashington be at all interested in support­ ing British policies in South-East Asia? Britain’s new regional plans were thus full of questions and uncertainties. However, dramatic new developments in China soon induced London to make up its m ind about its future course of action.

Chapter 11

Enter the dragon: South-East Asia and the Chinese civil war

The Commonwealth Prime M inisters’ Conference in London had concentrated prim arily on the internal threat posed by the com m unist movements in South and South-East Asia. Little attention was given to the developments in China and to their possible significance for the country’s neighbouring regions. Yet only two m onths later, the Chinese civil war was catapulted to the top of W hitehall’s political agenda. After sudden military successes by the Chinese communists, London feared that Mao T se-tung’s forces would soon gain the upper hand in the country. Not only would this have serious implications for B ritain’s trade with China and for the position of H ong Kong. The British were equally concerned about the effects that a com m unist take-over in China would have on South-East Asia. T he conflict between the Chinese communists under Mao Tsetung and the nationalist Kuom intang forces under General Chiang Kai-shek dated back to the late 1920s. T hough immediately before and during the Second World the two sides concentrated on fighting the Japanese invaders, the civil war flared up again in the spring of 1946 - following the breakdown of com m unist-nationalist peace talks, and after failed American attempts to arrange a truce between the warring factions. During the Second World War, the Kuom intang had been America’s m ain ally in China, and therefore the recipient of massive US aid. However, the Americans had become increasingly disillusioned with C hiang’s corrupt Kuom intang regime, and after 1947 W ashington decided to ‘let the dust settle’ and see what emerged from the civil war. Britain, who was hoping to resume her strong prewar trade position in China, was equally disillusioned about the prospects of the Chiang Kai-shek government.1 But neither

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London nor W ashington anticipated the rapid military successes achieved by the communists towards the end of 1948. Countering the nationalists’ attem pt to reconquer Manchuria, the comm u­ nists launched an all-out offensive in September 1948. By 1 November the Kuom intang army in M anchuria, suffering from corruption and extremely low morale, had finally collapsed. In December, the communists turned towards Peking, forcing the city to surrender by the end of January 1949.2 After the fall of M anchuria, London began to take the comm u­ nist successes in China extremely seriously. Mao was publicly aligning himself with the Soviet Union, who was believed to be behind the South-East Asian uprisings. As a result, the British no longer watched the Chinese developments in isolation but as an integral part of the Cold War in Asia. On 9 December 1948, a lengthy cabinet paper drafted by the Foreign Office alerted the British government to the new situation.3According to the paper, it now looked certain that at least the north of China would perm anently fall into comm unist hands, as Chiang Kai-shek had virtually lost control of the area north of the Yangtze river. In the long run, it was highly possible that the communists would take over the whole of China. Apart from considering the negative implications of the comm unist advance for British and American trade interests in China, the cabinet paper examined the likely effects on adjacent territories. So long as the communists controlled only the north of China, the effects on Malaya and Singapore would be limited. However, should the whole of China fall to the communists, Malaya would be in grave danger. ‘M ilitant com m unism ’ would be very close to Malaya’s frontier only T hailand and French Indochina would remain as buffers. Inside Malaya, the morale of the Malayan communists would improve and there m ight be increased communist infiltration from China. The problem was that even relatively small successes by the Malayan communists would have considerable repercussions am ong the traditionally passive Chinese com m un­ ity. Other parts of South-East Asia would also be adversely affec­ ted. Any com m unist successes in the north of China, the paper argued, would stimulate comm unist movements throughout the entire region, and if all of China was overrun, contacts between Chinese communists and the communists in Indochina and T hailand would be greatly facilitated. Furthermore, Burma was

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likely to be infiltrated because of her partly undefined border w ith China and because of the Burmese government’s lack of effective control over the country. There was also the danger that comm unism would ‘seep over’ into India and to the eastern part of Pakistan. Things would be particularly difficult in Indochina where ‘the failure of the French Government . . . to seek a solution has resulted in an alliance between the Nationalist and Com m unist elements’. Any comm unist Chinese reinforcements for the Viet M inh m ight make the French position in the north of the country untenable and would increase the threat to other parts of South-East Asia. Furthermore, if the Dutch failed to reach a political settlement in Indonesia, and again resorted to m ilitary action, the country’s nationalists m ight decide to forge an alliance with the communists, creating long-term disorder that would have serious consequences for the whole of SouthEast Asia. T hailand as well had a strong communist element which m ight get out of hand as a result of the developments in China. In southern T hailand in particular there was the danger that local communists would combine with the Malayan com­ munists. T he paper expected that the comm unist dom ination of China would also have indirect but ‘none the less formidable’ conse­ quences for India and Pakistan. The strengthening of commu­ nism in Burma, Tibet, Nepal and Bhutan, following a commu­ nist take-over in China, would threaten to encircle India and Pakistan strategically and politically. At the same time, India’s attitude of neutrality between the communist states and the Western powers would probably be strengthened. The situation on the subcontinent was further complicated by the conflict between India and Pakistan over Kashmir. So long as this dispute existed, there was the danger that Pakistan, who was potentially anti-com munist, m ight seek Russian support against India. The developments in China would also have a serious economic knock-on effect in neighbouring regions. Burma, T hailand and Indochina were the m ain rice producers of the entire area. Com m unist disturbances in these three countries would lead to a significant decrease in the production of rice, with immediate repercussions for Britain’s colonial territories and in the Asian Commonwealth countries: A decrease in rice consum ption will provide fertile ground for

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Com m unist agitation. This - together with general dis­ turbances in other South-East Asia industries - would cause further disruption of the economy of the area with consequent adverse effects on the production of such vital commodities as rubber, tin, edible oils, &c., which are of such importance to world economic recovery. H aving painted the gloomiest of pictures, the cabinet paper made recommendations for possible British counter-action. In China, Britain should m aintain de facto relations with the communists to safeguard existing trading interests and to keep a ‘foot in the door’.4 In South-East Asia, the problem was that the Americans were apparently not prepared to accept any political responsibility, nor would they take any action to m aintain the position of friendly powers there. The powers geographically situated in the region therefore had to take their own measures to ‘meet the Com m unist menace’. Britain would have to make strenuous efforts to clear up the situation in Malaya, while in the region as a whole the measures of the different governments had to be coordinated. There were, however, a number of problems. It would, for example, be difficult to associate Burma with French Indochina. Moreover, the Commonwealth countries prim arily concerned, i.e. Australia, New Zealand, India and Pakistan, who all had a vital interest in the peace and prosperity of South-East Asia, would probably be unw illing to join in any activities to support the French and Dutch governments in this area. Britain would therefore have to act as coordinator, though it would be necessary to consider the political consequences very carefully at each stage. The paper concluded that Britain should inform all the interested powers about the problems likely to arise as a result of the com m unist successes in China, and consult them on the best m ethod of dealing with the situation. This included the United States who should be kept informed and whose support should be sought. The paper also suggested stepping up intelli­ gence and police cooperation, so far as political considerations permitted, and conducting a study of the economic consequences of com m unist dom ination of China for the whole area. In addition, the Chiefs of Staff were being asked to consider the possibility of coordinating military measures against any stra­ tegic threat in the area between Afghanistan and the Pacific region.5

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The cabinet endorsed the paper’s recommendations on 13 December 1948,6 thus com m itting the government to attempts to coordinate international action against the further spread of comm unism in South-East Asia. However, what exactly such action entailed still had to be worked out. MacDonald, probably still unaware of the exact contents of the cabinet paper, told London on 10 December what he thought ought to be done. He argued that the com m unist advance in China constituted a most formidable threat to all the countries further south; the further north the communists could be stopped, the better. T hough South-East Asia would only be a m inor theatre of operations should a ‘hot war’ ever break out: We m ust accept that South-East Asia is now a major theatre in the ‘cold w ar’, and will continue so throughout this period. T he com m unist friends of Russia, with such help as Russia deems it advisable to give, will push as far as they can by propaganda, agitation and subversive activities. Britain could only counter this through a diplom atic and political offensive and had to do everything that lay in her and American power to strengthen the forces opposed to the commu­ nists inside the Asian populations. In Malaya, for example, the establishment of a Central Inform ation Bureau was required, while in Indonesia the Foreign Office’s energetic policy of influencing both the Dutch and the Indonesians towards a compromise settlement had to be maintained. T hailand also required action. The country was now ‘dangerously exposed to the Com m unist threat from outside and inside’. As a sign of goodwill Britain should waive 1 m illion pounds’ worth of war reparations claims, and supply some military equipm ent for use against bandits in southern Thailand. Furthermore, the Amer­ icans would have to be convinced to do whatever they could in terms of economic and m ilitary aid. In addition, both Britain and the United States had to examine the position with a view to form ulating a joint programme for adequate economic and m ilitary support. There should also be talks in Singapore between the British and T hai m ilitary authorities - if the Americans were ready to join in these talks, all the better. W ashington would, in any case, have to be taken into Britain’s confidence. MacDonald then turned to Indochina, which from the military

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point of view was ‘of course of great importance to our position in South-East Asia’. Unfortunately there seemed ‘little chance of a complete political agreement between the French and even moderate elements in Indochina’. Despite this, MacDonald recommended discreetly adopting the course of cooperation with France, by discussing strategic questions with the local French military chief, and by arranging secret joint planning dis­ cussions. At the same time, diplom atic action in Paris should encourage the French to reach an agreement with the anti­ communists in their colony, although he was not optimistic that such an initiative would be successful. Finally, there was the problem of Burma whose government was weak and where the situation was confused. MacDonald found it difficult to know what more could be done before he had visited the country, believing, however, that India m ight be able to help by showing m ilitary strength, or perhaps by giving some form of support to the Burmese government.7 MacDonald attached unprecedented importance to AngloAmerican cooperation on South-East Asia, in particular so far as T hailand was concerned. As MacDonald explained in a followup telegram, the T hai Prince Chum bot had recently told him that the Thais were in some ways cowardly and never put up a firm resistance to an enemy unless they felt sure it would be effective. This, the Prince asserted, was the reason why the Thais had not resisted Japan: they wished to resist but knew that their foreign friends would give them no support. The same would happen with the communists unless the Bangkok government saw practical evidence that Britain was granting help.8 The British ambassador in Thailand, Thom pson, strongly endorsed MacDonald’s proposals, arguing from Bangkok that: T he frontiers of Malaya are on the Mekong and . . . if we desire to establish a bastion against communism in this area, we must be ready to give very substantial help to Siam. We must, moreover, work in conjunction with the United States. American assistance to T hailand was meagre, and encroached upon or competed with British interests. There was in fact considerable Anglo-American rivalry in the country which der­ ived prim arily from American disappointm ent over Britain’s commercial come-back. This rivalry had to go if Thailand was to be strengthened. Thom pson stressed that Anglo-American help

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would have to be generous and would have to include paying for the equipm ent and training of the T hai Army and Air Force. In T hai eyes the threat was prim arily Chinese rather than commu­ nist. In 1941, Britain had offered T hailand no help apart from Churchill urging Prime Minister Pibul to uphold the cause of democracy. Having had as little hope of successfully resisting Japan as Denmark had of standing against Hitler, Pibul had followed a policy which enabled the country outwardly to m aintain its independence and spared its people much suffering, gam bling in the process on an eventual Allied victory. Now a new danger threatened and T hailand could scarcely be blamed if, in the absence of any resolute Anglo-American action, she sought to conjure it by again employing methods which in both the recent and the distant past had proved successful.9 The Foreign Office had its doubts about MacDonald’s idea of involving the Americans in m ilitary talks with the Thais; A.M. Palliser arguing that ‘our enemies m ight make fruitful pro­ paganda out of an “Anglo-American colonial policy” towards Siam ’. The Americans should, however, be taken into Britain’s confidence.10 In a further comment, this time on T hom pson’s telegram, Palliser admitted that the Thais were using AngloAmerican rivalry to play one country off against the other and that it would obviously be preferable to persuade the Americans to take an interest in this part of the world. He was, however, not convinced of the need for aid to Thailand. The country had enough foreign exchange to meet her rehabilitation and defence requirements and he foresaw the danger that Western pounds and dollars would go the the way of US aid to China.11 At the same time, Palliser welcomed MacDonald’s proposal for secret staff talks with France on Indochina. However, he refused to contemplate Indian intervention in Burma, which would actually constitute an invasion of the country. While the Burmese government would gladly accept arms and money, it did not want advice about how to use them. Direct Indian military intervention in Burma would be just as unpopular as direct British intervention. Nehru m ight, however, have more influence with the present Burmese government than any European could hope to exert, and he m ight be ready to use it if it looked as 12 though Burmese rice exports were stopping. As the debate on the T hai question demonstrated, the details of London’s anti-com m unist policies were still unclear. Should

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there be m ilitary intervention by either Britain or India in troublespots like Burma?; was financial aid required to keep the Thais in the pro-Western camp?; and where and how would the Americans come in? Despite this lack of coherence, London decided to set the ball rolling. It opted for three separate diplom atic initiatives towards anti-com munist collaboration in South-East Asia. The first concerned the Commonwealth. At the end of December, short versions of the cabinet paper on China were sent to all Commonwealth countries and to Thailand. This was in line with the policy of pursuing Commonwealth coope­ ration as the basis for a wider regional scheme in South-East Asia. B ritain’s second initiative was aimed at convincing the United States with her overwhelming financial power to support British policies in South-East Asia; despite earlier fears that American involvement m ight cut across the sterling area. Shocked by the developments in China, London believed that only the Amer­ icans could stem the perceived communist tide in Asia. Just as W ashington had come to the rescue in Western Europe by providing Marshall aid, it now had to make a commitment to South-East Asia. The problem was, however, that the United States had shown little inclination to become involved in what it regarded as the problems of the colonial powers in South-East Asia. As Thom pson told London on 18 December, the American ambassador in Bangkok, Stanton, supported his views on AngloAmerican consultation and agreement, but Stanton also feared that little could be expected from the United States. W ashington felt it had so m uch on its hands in Europe that there was little it could do in South-East Asia.13 Despite such discouraging reports, London decided to go ahead with the diplom atic offensive suggested in the cabinet paper. As Grey explained in a Foreign Office memorandum, Britain had hitherto b sen dealing rather piecemeal with furnish­ ing support against communism in countries like Afghanistan, Burma and Thailand. W hat was needed was a ‘full-scale review w ith the United States of the possibilities of action in South-East Asia, m ilitarily, political and economic’.14 On 20 December the Foreign Office instructed its embassy in W ashington to approach the Americans on the issue of communism in Asia as a whole. A summary of the cabinet paper on China was given to the State Department on 5 January as a basis for bilateral discussions.15

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The Foreign Office’s third initiative aimed at stepping up collaboration with France. As MacDonald had pointed out to London, Indochina was in the front line in the fight against communism, and it was expected that the activities of the com m unist Viet M inh would increase once Mao’s troops had reached C hina’s border with Vietnam. But before Britain could openly cooperate with the French in Indochina, London believed that Paris had to be seen to be m aking concessions to the non­ com m unist nationalists in the Vietnam, in particular to the former Vietnamese emperor, Bao Dai. The French had in fact been involved in constitutional talks with Bao Dai since the end of 1947. London now hoped that a ‘Bao Dai solution’ to France’s political image problem in Asia would make French participa­ tion in South-East Asian regional cooperation acceptable to India. In November 1948 Dening had visited Paris, where he had stressed the need for a French understanding with the non­ com m unist Vietnamese nationalists. The French had agreed that they would have to make concessions to Vietnamese nationalist feelings.16 This further encouraged London to pursue a more active policy on Indochina. On 21 December, Dening returned to Paris for further talks on South-East Asia. His comments now centred on the com m unist threat to the region, and on the need 17 for intelligence cooperation as well as high-level talks. A few days later, London sent Paris a summary of its cabinet paper on C hina.18 In the following months, there occurred a series of AngloFrench consultations on South-East Asia. During these meetings, London pursued three objectives. First, it tried to encourage Paris to come to an agreement with Bao Dai that was based on real concessions to the Vietnamese nationalists. The aim of this was to remove Indian objections to France’s participation in regional talks on communism in South-East Asia.19 A second British objective was to improve cooperation on the police, intelligence and propaganda levels. Bevin was particularly enthusiastic about this, and he suggested to the French Foreign Minister, Robert Schuman, in January 1949 that the British, French and Dutch should pool their inform ation work; possibly in Singapore where Britain already had a powerful broadcasting station.20 Most of the Foreign Office and Colonial Office files dealing with intelligence and security cooperation in South-East Asia are still classified. However, it seems that in this field

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considerable progress was subsequently made between the local 21 French and British authorities. The Foreign Office’s third objective was to leave Paris in no doubt that Anglo-French cooperation would not take precedence over collaboration between Britain and the independent Asian countries - despite Bevin’s enthusiasm about the pooling of Western intelligence in the region. In February, a French reply to the British paper on China welcomed Anglo-French cooperation in the region but suggested that the United States and the independent Asian countries would merely be associated with 22 efforts by London and Paris. In addition, the French consul in Singapore, Guibaut, suggested to MacDonald that a ‘colonial charter’ be drawn up between Britain, France and the Neth­ erlands with a set of economic and political principles. Possibly, some Asian countries could be associated.23 In response, Dening made it clear to MacDonald that a colonial charter was a non­ starter. Only after settlements had been found in Indonesia and Indochina was there a possibility of associating the Dutch and French not only with Britain but with Asian countries as well.24 While the prospects for France’s inclusion in a regional scheme sponsored by Britain were thus temporarily improving, the opposite was the case with the Netherlands, due to the completely different circumstances in Indonesia. Unlike the Viet M inh in Indochina, the Indonesian nationalist movement was relatively free of comm unist influence. In October 1948, the Republican government under Mohammed Hatta had managed to crush an insurgency by the Indonesian Communist Party. The event proved to both Britain and the United States that the Indonesian Republic was not a communist spearhead, as the Dutch were suggesting, but should indeed be regarded as a bulwark against comm unism .25 From the British point of view, the danger was that open support for the Dutch position in Indonesia m ight drive the nationalists into the camp of the communists. A further reason for L ondon’s reluctance to include the Dutch in its regional plans was that international opinion remained far more concerned about the situation in Indonesia than about that in Indochina. The moment of truth came on 19 December 1948 when the Dutch launched a second ‘police action’ aimed at liquidating the Indonesian Republic. W ithin two weeks, most of the Indonesian leaders, including H atta and Sukarno, were arrested, and most of

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the republican cities in Java and Sumatra were occupied by Dutch troops.26 The move instantly resulted in a worldwide outcry against the Netherlands. While the Security Council called for a cease-fire and the release of the republican leaders, India was am ong the most outspoken critics of the Dutch. Flights by the Dutch airline KLM over Indian territory were suspended and the departure of the first Indian ambassador to The Hague was postponed ‘indefinitely’. There were demonstrations at the docks in Bombay, where a Dutch ship was being unloaded, and in front of the city’s Dutch consulate. The Indian national Congress assured the Indonesian Republic of its complete sympathy.27 In Britain too, public opinion was critical of the Dutch intervention. T hough London refused to back a Soviet demand 28 for a Dutch troop withdrawal, it nevertheless put diplomatic pressure on The Hague to stop the fighting. Bevin also gave instructions to discontinue the recent relaxation in the arms embargo.29 On 29 December, Bevin told the Dutch ambassador in London that the Netherlands had not paid sufficient attention to recent international developments. The whole situation had changed with the granting of independence to India, Pakistan and Ceylon. There had also been enormous advances in Malaya; the Dutch should have kept in step with this general progress. Bevin suggested the Dutch called a conference of all the parties in Indonesia, including the republicans. They should offer to set up an interim government and set a firm date for the transfer of power. India and Pakistan m ight then adopt a constructive attitude. Nehru and Liaqat Ali Khan were ‘both well aware of the dangers of Slav expansion in South-East Asia, especially since Russian territory was near their frontiers’. If the Dutch handled this problem right, they could make friends in Asia, instead of antagonists. He added that it was B ritain’s policy to make friends in South-East Asia for many years to come, and to m aintain our trade and our economic position there. It m ight be possible to hold at no distant date a South-East Asia conference, including India, Pakistan, Ceylon, Australia, New Zealand and the Western European powers concerned. But the Dutch must show, in any declarations they make, that they appreciate nationalist sentiment in South-East Asia and intend to follow a forward looking policy. If they did this, we

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would use what influence we could with Asiatic countries to help them.30 However, news subsequently reached London that Nehru was planning a conference of mainly Asian countries in order to condemn the Dutch action in Indonesia. The proposed confer­ ence set the alarm bells ringing in London. The Foreign Office immediately cancelled all telegrams, addressed to other Com­ m onwealth governments, which contained reports of Bevin’s conversation with the Dutch ambassador, fearing that countries like Australia would ‘conclude that we had been outwitted by the 31 Indians’. The prospect of an anti-Dutch conference sponsored by India made the Netherlands’ participation in the joint AsianEuropean scheme, proposed by Bevin, virtually unthinkable. Until the transfer of power in Indonesia one year later on, the Netherlands in fact ceased to feature in L ondon’s regional strategy. T o sum up, London was by the end of 1948 considering three levels of cooperation on South-East Asia. First, Britain remained committed to the plan of using the Commonwealth as the basis for regional cooperation. One of the immediate issues that the Commonwealth, and particularly India, would have to address was the deteriorating situation in Burma. Second, Britain was hoping to secure the material and political support of the United States in order to stabilise the countries of South-East Asia. Initially, cooperation would centre on T hailand where the Americans had established an economic foothold after the war. Joint Anglo-American action would prevent the T hai govern­ ment from siding with the Chinese and enable it to suppress possible communist-resistance movements. Finally, Britain decided to embark on separate talks with France. The aim was to increase security and intelligence cooperation in South-East Asia in order to strengthen the anti-com munist campaigns in both Indochina and Malaya. London also hoped to induce the French into granting concessions to the non-com m unist nationalists in Indochina. This would provide a nationalist alternative to the Viet M inh, and it m ight turn France into an acceptable partner in a European-Asian scheme of cooperation in South-East Asia. The Netherlands, on the other hand, had missed her chance. After the second police action, the British privately recommended that the Dutch should withdraw from Indonesia.

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As Dening reflected four m onths later, the cabinet paper was originally designed to give the impetus which would induce the South-East Asian territories, the United States and the Com­ monwealth to consider concerted action to resist Russian 32 expansion and com m unist tactics in South-East Asia. However, while the short-term goal nay have been the creation of an anti­ com m unist bloc in South-East Asia, London’s diplom atic efforts also fitted in with the Foreign Office’s long-term policy of setting up a regional system that would guarantee Britain lasting political, economic and m ilitary influence in South-East Asia. Six m onths before the cabinet paper, the prospects for British-led regional cooperation had been extremely dim given the rise of ECAFE, the concurrent decline of the Special Commission, and regional com petition from India and Australia. At the end of 1948, none of these problems had disappeared. However, the Cold War now dom inated British thinking on South-East Asia. Against the odds, London was determined to press ahead with its revised regional plans. Regional cooperation was turning into one of B ritain’s m ain strategies for countering communism in South-East Asia.

Chapter 12

Regional cooperation and regional containment

After years of interdepartm ental planning and debating, W hitehall had firmly lifted the issue of regional cooperation to the governmental level. O ut went the idea of using the Special Commission as the basis for a British-sponsored regional com­ mission; rather than organising regional cooperation from the grassroots upwards, London now opted for international talks at the government level. The precarious situation in South-East Asia urgently required concerted action by the West and by the pro-Western governments in the region. The aim was to stem the perceived com m unist tide through an anti-com munist front: regional cooperation as a means of regional containment. However, the problems that London would have to overcome were considerable. After despatching shortened versions of the cabinet’s paper on China to the United States, France, T hailand and the Commonwealth countries, London was hoping for quick and forthcoming responses from all quarters to its pro­ posals for greater anti-com m unist collaboration. Yet only France and to a lesser degree T hailand were receptive. The Americans indicated that they were financially overstretched because of their commitments to European recovery. They had also burnt their fingers in China, where billions of dollars had been wasted on supporting the Kuomintang. W ashington was reluctant to make the same mistake again by supporting the European colonial regimes in South-East Asia. The Asian Commonwealth countries were equally hesitant. T hough they were interested in obtaining Western aid, they wanted to avoid being associated with any proWestern or anti-com m unist bloc in Asia. However, more than any other single factor, the Indonesian crisis continued to interfere with the British initiative. The

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second Dutch police action in December 1948 provided Nehru with an ideal opportunity to wrest the regional initiative away from London. If anti-com munism was the driving force behind B ritain’s revived regional policies, then the theme of anti­ colonialism continued to serve the Indians as a means of rallying the fledgling Asian states behind them. Between 20 and 23 January 1949, Nehru invited representatives from fifteen Asian countries to a conference in Delhi to discuss ways and means of helping the Indonesian nationalists. Of the Western countries only Australia was fully represented.1The conference was highly critical of Western policies in Asia, and Nehru called not only for Indonesian independence but for the elim ination of all forms of colonialism. In one of the final conference resolutions, the delegates in Delhi demanded the complete transfer of power from the Netherlands to the Indonesian Republic by 1 January 1950. This greatly added to the m ounting international pressure on the Netherlands, exerted also by the United States, Britain and the United Nations. The Dutch eventually gave in and in April 1949 began negotiations with the Indonesian Republic. After a round­ table conference at The Hague in August, the Dutch transferred their sovereignty to the republican government on 29 December 1949.2 Apart from calling for Indonesian independence, Nehru used his conference to launch a new initiative for exclusively Asian cooperation. At India’s instigation, the meeting recommended that: ‘Participating Governments should consult am ong them­ selves in order to explore ways and means of establishing suitable machinery, having regard to the areas concerned, of prom oting consultation and cooperation w ithin the framework of the United N ations.’3Immediately after the conference, the Indians organised a ‘private’ meeting to discuss detailed steps towards the third resolution’s implem entation. The meeting was attended by repre­ sentatives from most of the countries who had participated in the conference - with the exception of Burma, the Philippines and Australia. According to the Australian H igh Commissioner in India, Gollan, the meeting was specially postponed until the Australians had departed.4 During this informal meeting, it was proposed at India’s instigation that all the countries concerned should collect and exchange inform ation of m utual importance, and that they should collaborate on matters of common policy, for example in

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the UN, and take steps to improve cultural relations. Once official replies to these proposals had been received, there should be a meeting in Delhi to confirm plans for a proposed interna­ tional organisation that would be linked to periodical ambassadorial meetings in Delhi. If certain countries were not prepared to take part in the organisation, the rem aining coun­ tries should not be prevented from carrying out these proposals. The Indians subsequently communicated a copy of the meeting’s minutes to the Australians, indicating that there m ight be two (regional) groups, one Middle Eastern and one South-East Asian. G ollan passed on his inform ation to London, telling the British that it was his impression that India intended to be the leader of both these groupings.5 From the outset, London had disliked N ehru’s conference plans which excluded Britain and which interfered with its own regional plans. However, the British had soon realised that there was little they could do about the Delhi Conference. Bevin consequently wished Nehru success during his meeting,6 and London encouraged Australia to take a moderating stance. The conference’s outcome further depressed British officials. Com­ m enting on the informal Indian-sponsored get-together at the end of the meeting, the British H igh Commissioner in India, Archibald Nye, argued that ‘whether we like it or not, this organisation would get going and would remain in being’. But all was not lost, and Nye advised his Australian colleague that the membership of Australia and New Zealand (in an Asian organisation) would have a stabilising effect.7 The Com­ m onwealth Relations Office agreed that there m ight be an advantage if Australia and New Zealand were associated with any organisation that m ight develop out of the Delhi Conference’s resolution.8 From Singapore, MacDonald agreed that the movement to­ wards Asian cooperation had probably come to stay, and he recommended m aintaining an understanding and reasonably sympathetic attitude towards gatherings of Asian governments. P utting too m uch of a brake on the movement m ight render its mood hostile towards Britain rather than stop it, whereas by giving it sympathetic support Britain would help to lead it along paths of moderation and cooperation with the West. Australian and New Zealand participation would be of advantage, and it was desirable that Britain would also join. This could be done

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through Malaya and British Borneo, who would be represented by MacDonald as well as local Malayan and Chinese leaders.9 The Foreign Office was less sympathetic to N ehru’s plans, which clearly conflicted with its own ambitions. When, by the begin­ ning of March, India, Pakistan and Ceylon had all indicated general agreement with the British analysis of the situation in South-East Asia, but had refrained from suggesting closer Com­ monwealth collaboration, the Foreign Office blamed Nehru. It suspected that the cautious replies were partly a result of the Delhi Conference’s anti-colonial undertone.10 However, there were also signs that the Asian countries were beginning to regard the Soviet U nion as a potential threat. Moscow had in fact condemned the Delhi Conference. London hoped that the Soviet move would now backfire, and it stressed that the ‘Recent outspoken criticism of New Delhi conference may result in hardening of attitude against Soviet and open more eyes to the indivisibility of Com m unist menace and the urgency of resisting its encroachments.’11 Despite this glimmer of hope, the Foreign Office was becom­ ing increasingly depressed about the lack of international action against comm unism in Asia. In January, the Chinese comm u­ nists had occupied Tientsin and Peking, and had cleared the way to the Yangtse river which divides the northern and southern halves of China. The leader of the Kuom intang forces, Chiang Kai-shek, had (temporarily) declared his retirement, and in February the nationalist headquarters had been moved from N anking to Canton in the south of the country. At the beginning of March, the Chiefs of Staff told the cabinet that the spread of comm unism in southern China would lead to further unrest in South-East Asia. Furthermore: Should the Russians establish bases in Southern China, the threat to South-East Asia and to our sea communications m ight become serious. If Communism successfully spreads into the Indian sub-continent, our whole position in SouthEast Asia would become untenable. . . . U ntil all countries interested in the area have agreed on a policy for the Far East, the only military consultative and inform ation organisation which is likely to be effective is the exchange of intelligence inform ation on Com m unist activities and the exchange of police information.

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Bevin presented the Chiefs of Staff paper to the cabinet. He told his m inisterial colleagues that Britain should continue her international initiative that had begun in December. London, together with the other powers that had been approached, should also examine any possible economic measures in defence of British interests mentioned in the cabinet paper on China. Authority should also be given to establish international liaison between police and intelligence organisations in the area.12 The cabinet fully supported Bevin’s line.13 After the set-back to the British plans following the Delhi Conference, some of the ‘men on the spot’ gave Britain’s regional initiative a new impetus. Coinciding with the Chiefs of Staff paper, the British, American, Australian and Indian ambassadors in China were holding informal talks on the implications of the comm unist victories. The four diplomats subsequently sent a joint mem orandum to their respective governments, known as the Nanking Proposals, which suggested an internationally coordinated aid plan for South-East Asia. The paper, which expressed the ambassadors’ private views, was to have a consider­ able impact in both London and W ashington. It argued that the comm unist victories in China had created a ‘revolutionary situation’ in South-East Asia, including the subcontinent. Inde­ pendence had failed to transform oriental societies based on starvation economies into modern communities organised on principles of social justice and economic freedom. Unless this situation was brought under control the communists with their easy and immensely appealing solution of ‘Land to the T iller’ and ‘Power to the W orker’ would step in and take charge. T he four ambassadors believed that there was only one solu­ tion: a confederation of South-East Asia that would provide for a planned and integrated economy, and that would turn the small units in this region into a viable state with a progressive economic and social policy. However, countries like Indochina and Burma, who were struggling for or had recently acquired independence, would be unlikely to consider anything which m ight lim it their independence. The immediate solution was therefore to establish a ‘perm anent consultative council of the states of this area’. As a first step, Indonesia and Indochina would have to acquire political freedom, while a new constitutional set­ up in Malaya would have to enable the country to participate as well. The council would then work out common policies in the

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region and provide for an ‘integrated economy’ capable of resisting the pressure of comm unist doctrines. To formulate the ‘principles on which the New Society in South-east Asia should be fashioned’, an economic survey could be conducted by a small committee of four or five high-level political and economic thinkers from Britain, the United States, Australia and India. T he paper further stressed that the program m e’s success depended on Western aid. A second advisory committee should therefore be established consisting of representatives from Britain, the United States, Australia and India, as well as France and the Netherlands, whose continuing economic interests in South-East Asia were believed to be considerable. The advisory committee would be responsible for determining the amounts and the procurement of Western assistance.14 In an accompany­ ing letter to the Foreign Office the British ambassador in China, Stevenson, explained that the proposed second advisory com­ mittee m ight be criticised as an ‘Imperialist Syndicate’; the committee’s m ain advisory functions m ight therefore be given to the United States, so long as the Europeans m ight provide expert assistance.15 This indicated that Stevenson regarded W ashington as the principal source of assistance to South-East Asia. The N anking Proposals showed distinct similarities to the Marshall aid program me in Europe. As in Europe, American funds would be used to develop the economies and social infrastructures of South-East Asia in order to provide prosperity and democracy, and to keep the region firmly w ithin the proWestern camp. However, while in Europe aid was distributed through the OEEC, the Nanking Proposals envisaged a twocouncil system that would give the United States and the European powers a decisive say in the economic development of Asia; at the same time safeguarding Western economic interests and investments. It is of course doubtful whether the proposals could ever have been implemented, not least because countries like Burma and Indonesia would have objected to Western economic supervision. However, the paper had made two im portant points. First, it argued that a successful anti-com mu­ nist policy had to be based on regional cooperation, including the new Asian states and the Western powers. Second, any attem pt to stop the comm unist advance in Asia required Western aid, the bulk of which could only be provided by the United States. The Foreign Office, which only recently had rejected

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Bevin’s suggestions for an Asian OEEC, now agreed that Amer­ ican aid was required to stabilise the situation in South-East Asia. Confirm ing the recent shift in British thinking, Dening told the Commonwealth Relations Offices that if the Asian countries showed a disposition to create a united front against Russian expansion, ‘we should hope that the Americans would be disposed to offer material help when and where it is required’.16 In Singapore, MacDonald was thinking along similar lines to his colleagues in China. At the end of March he was urging London to intensify its efforts in South-East Asia, as the political situation was deteriorating. Iii addition to the communist victor­ ies in China, the Burmese government was now unable to restore law and order in its own country. Furthermore, there was the possibility of collaboration between the free Thais and the communists in T hailand, as well as a dangerous deterioration of the situation in Indonesia. MacDonald believed that these developments should no longer be dealt with in isolation: We should regard South-East Asia as a whole, and devise a coherent policy for dealing with it over the whole region. There is evidence that our Communist enemies view the region as one whole and more or less plan their campaign on a theatre-wide basis. We shall not defeat them unless we do likewise, and do it in conjunction with all the friendly governments both w ithin and [outside] the region who are concerned. MacDonald saw the comm unist campaign in South-East Asia as part of a global comm unist offensive. For the time being, European cooperative action and American and Canadian help, culm inating in the Atlantic Pact, appeared to have held comm u­ nism along the Iron Curtain, but it was probably because of frustration in the West that the planners of international com­ m unist strategy had given more attention to the East where economic and social conditions in some Asian countries pro­ vided the communists with a good field for propaganda and other activities. Unless counter-action was firm, areas like Burma and Indonesia m ight be lost as a prelude to losing a large part of the rest. Such counter-action had to be collective: The analogy of what has been done in Western Europe is quite

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a good one. We need Asian equivalents of the Marshall Plan and the Atlantic Pact. We appreciate that in many respects they would have to be very different from the arrangements in Europe, but in general they should offer the Asian Govern­ ments and peoples economic, political, and, if necessary, m ilitary aid in their resistance to Communism. T o devise such a plan, all the governments concerned in the region should be invited to cooperate, including Australia, New Zealand and the United States. The latter was particularly im portant as no adequate military and economic plan was possible w ithout large measures of American help. However, since it would be difficult for the moment to contemplate constructive discussions which included both India and the Netherlands, and since the United States was not ready to participate, a conference of Britain, Pakistan, India, Ceylon, Australia and New Zealand should be held as soon as possible to discuss, am ong other things, the situation in South-East Asia. It now seemed that the forthcoming Commonwealth Prime Minis­ ters’ Conference m ight not discuss South-East Asia at all, and MacDonald warned that if a Commonwealth conference in the near future did not examine the South-East Asian situation, the 17 effect throughout the region would be serious. Similar to the N anking proposals, M acDonald’s letter indicated how recent Western policies in Europe were influenc­ ing British thinking on South-East Asia. As in Europe, the countries directly concerned with South-East Asia would have to get together and demonstrate their willingness to cooperate against com m unist pressure. Initially, this would be on a Com­ m onwealth basis. The United States would then have to come in to provide financial aid in order to stabilise the region economi­ cally and militarily. However, the m ain problem both with M acDonald’s ideas and with the Nanking Proposals was that W ashington had given no indication that it was prepared to help out financially. Prior to the British initiative of December1948, the United States had been extremely reluctant to assume a more prom inent role in the area - with the exception of the P hilippi­ nes. T hough the United States became involved in the Indo­ nesian dispute through her membership in the U N ’s Good Office Committee, she generally accepted Britain as the politically dom inant power in South-East Asia. At the same time, Wash­

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ington refused to make any significant financial contributions to the rehabilitation of the European colonies in the region. In the spring of 1948, Dening had been sent on a tour of Australia, New Zealand, Canada and the United States to orga­ nise five-power talks on the Far East. Dening failed in his aim, partly because of Am erican-Australian antagonism over the 18 future of Japan. However, another reason was that 1948 was a presidential election year in the United States, and thus full of political uncertainties. As the American Under-Secretary of State, Robert Lovett, pointed out to Dening at the time, there were fears in W ashington that an expected economic recession would increase the pressure to cut American commitments abroad; there was the further worry that a newly elected administration m ight revert to isolationism. If, under these circumstances, Congress received an inkling that the State Department was about to hold five-power talks on the Far East, there would immediately be an adverse reaction. When Dening referred to the lack of an American-aid plan in Asia, the State Departm ent’s director of Far Eastern affairs, W alton Butterworth, stressed that W ashington had no intention of sponsoring a Far Eastern Marshall Plan.19 The ‘Dening M ission’ made it clear that for the time being no American support would be forthcoming for South-East Asia The United States was traditionally anti-colonial in her outlook, and any notion that the W ashington administration intended to prop up the European colonial regimes in South-East Asia could have damaged T ru m an ’s electoral prospects. Apart from that, there was a general feeling that Congress had reached its limits by providing Marshall aid to Western Europe. An aid programme for South-East Asia would have had little chances of success. At the end of 1948, the apparent failure of American policies in China added to W ashington’s reluctance to become involved in South-East Asia. Despite the fact that the United States had, since 1945, contributed more than 2 billion dollars of aid to nationalist China,20 the collapse of the Kuom intang regime was now only a matter of time. W ashington feared that American dollars for other parts of Asia m ight equally go down the drain. T o London, the only sign that the Americans m ight be contem plating a more active involvement in South-East Asia was the fourth point in Harry T ru m an ’s inaugural address as re­ elected President on 20 January 1949, in which he stressed the United States’ intention to foster capital investment in and

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technical assistance to the underdeveloped world.21 However, if the British were hoping that ‘Point Four’ was a prelude to an American-aid programme in Asia they would soon be disillusio­ ned. When the State Department received a shortened version of the cabinet paper on China it was reported to be ‘keen to discuss the whole problem ’ with the British.22At the same time, it refused to make any prem ature commitments, and was highly concerned about the publicity that the British were giving to their consul­ tations with W ashington. When Reuters reported in January 1949 that British and American officials were discussing a plan to contain communism in South-East Asia, the T hai ambassador in W ashington assured the American Secretary of State, Dean Acheson, that Bangkok, too, was w illing to cooperate. There were, however, limits to what T hailand could do on her own, and the diplom at wondered whether the Americans could help recover T hai gold that was retained in Tokyo. As Butterworth subsequently explained to H.A. Graves of the British embassy in W ashington, W ashington welcomed every move to get other countries interested in the problem; however, he wondered whether it was opportune to let them know at this early stage that Britain and the United States were devising a plan to contain communism. If countries like T hailand got the impression that they could hold out their hands, it would be difficult to persuade his superiors to go along without tremendous caution. Dening, alarmed by the American rebuke, assured Graves that London was careful not to commit the United States, particularly as it did not know what American policy was. Equally: The habit of oriental countries of asking what we or the United States will do for them w ithout m aking any serious effort to do anything for themselves is by now so familiar . . . there is no reason why either we or the United States should respond to Siamese blackmail, or indeed blackmail from anyone else. The first task, Dening added, was for the Asian countries to take the comm unist menace seriously. However, it would be fatal to let the Asians believe that they could sit still and leave it to Britain and the United States to defend them. Britain’s own resources were in any event too limited to make this a practical proposition, and he imagined that the United States would be

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equally reluctant to make any considerable commitments over so vast an area. Both Britain and America were firmly wedded to the principle of self-help. His own personal view was ‘that it is diplomacy rather than dollars which will be required for some >24 time to come . After further talks with the State Department Graves reported to the Foreign Office that the Americans appeared reluctant to embark on any sort of economic assistance plan for Thailand. He therefore suggested that B ritain’s aim should be to get the American government ‘to help us press the orientals to build up their own front against com m unism ’. If this had the ‘convenient sequel that America should become economically involved in South-East Asia so much the better, but we should encourage the United States authorities to act politically first’.25 On 23 February, Graves again met with State Department officials, including Butterworth and the chief of the Division of South-East Asian Affairs, Charles Reed. Graves repeated some of the points made by Dening, particularly that the Foreign Office did not envisage an anti-com munist movement in terms of US dollars; it was only hoping for American cooperation in terms of moral support for the British thesis that the Asian countries must set their houses in order and evolve a policy of their own in the struggle against communism. Anglo-American cooperation was merely to fill the gaps while the greatest emphasis was to be put on self-help.26 Graves subsequ< ntly enquired what American policy was. Butterworth replied that American policy was well defined. In Korea, the United States intended to put Rhee’s government on a solid basis, and she would extend the occupa­ tion in Japan so that the country would not fall prey to communism. In China, the US would test any successor adm i­ nistration to see if it gave signs of good faith. In the Philippines, the United States was already available for defensive purposes, while she stood by the UN resolution on Indonesia. Graves then mentioned that Butterworth had not touched on the continental territories which were in the line of the communist march, and he asked whether there was not ‘some urgency about measures which would take into im portant consideration the danger to South-East Asia’. Butterworth’s response was ‘lukewarm’, and Graves had the impression that the United States was prepared neither to accept any responsibility for South-East Asia nor to act to m aintain the position of friendly powers in the area.

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However, after Butterworth had left the meeting, Reed stayed on and suggested to Graves that Britain and the United States should jointly tackle the problem of Indochina. This was the ‘area where the flow could, and ought to be stemmed’. He thought perhaps something could be done together with the French in Paris. United States policy ‘ought to consider remedial measures at any rate in IndoChina, if not in other parts of SouthEast Asia’. The initiative was shortlived; Butterworth soon got wind of Reed’s suggestion and told Graves to forget that any such proposal had been hinted at. Reed’s statement did not represent State Department views and would not be included in the 27 eventual reply to the British paper. Graves subsequently told London that talks with Butterworth were going slowly, and he doubted that any written analysis given to Britain would contain suggestions for a grand plan.28 Despite the obvious rift between Reed and Butterworth, the British failed to detect a gradual shift inside the State Department on the issue of South-East Asia. Slowly recovering from the shock they had received in China, some American officials were becom­ ing concerned about the prospects for similar communist advances in South-East Asia. As some American historians have recently mentioned, W ashington was in 1949 becoming increas­ ingly aware of South-East Asia’s economic importance both for the United States and for the recovery of Europe. Malaya for example, as has already been pointed out, exported considerable am ounts of natural rubber and tin to the United States. These exports provided Britain with scarce dollars that were needed to finance the recovery of her domestic economy; an economy that in 1949 continued to stagnate despite the provision of Marshall aid to Europe. Apart from this, South-East Asia was a source of raw materials for Japan and a potential outlet for Japanese manufactured goods - at a time when the United States was moving towards the re-establishment of Japanese commercial and industrial power.29 Some American officials were therefore beginning to regard the stability of South-East Asia as closely linked to the success of American policies in both Asia and Europe. In January 1949, Charlton Ogburn Jr of the State Depart­ m ent’s South-East Asian Division was one of the first American officials to argue in favour of a more active policy in South-East Asia. He was inspired by the Delhi Conference, which the

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majority of his department feared m ight encourage the formation of an anti-Western bloc in Asia. Ogburn, in contrast, suggested supporting Asian unity as a means of stopping the spread of comm unism in South and South-East Asia. He reflected that America’s postwar prestige as a cham pion of independence in Asia had declined nearly to the vanishing point. In China, American policy had failed, after supporting an unpopular, dictatorial and corrupt regime. W ashington had also refused to oppose France’s war against the Vietnamese and had provided financial backing for the Netherlands’ campaign in Indonesia. As a result, India now regarded the United States as the heir of British imperialism. Yet South-East Asia was in great peril due to the com m unist success in China. If the communists managed to assume control of the nationalist movements in Indonesia, they m ight soon achieve the conquest of the whole of East Asia, leaving Australia in a most precarious situation. Ogburn there­ fore proposed to the State Department that W ashington should encourage the formation of a southern or non-communist Asian bloc. It was immaterial that such a bloc would initially be antiWestern. Once the French and Dutch had lost control of Vietnam and Indonesia, the source of friction between Asia and the West would disappear and the anti-Western bloc could develop into a common Asian front against communist aggression.30 O gburn’s paper, strongly anti-Dutch and anti-French in its outlook, opened the State Departm ent’s eyes to the possibility of using regional cooperation in Asia as a means of containing communism. One m onth later, the American ambassador in China, Leighton Stuart, provided W ashington with an analysis that came close to British ideas for regional cooperation. He argued that communism in Asia could not be stopped by military force or economic aid alone. If ‘Soviet expansion-throughCom m unism ’ was to be contained, then convincingly dramatised ideas were required. Unlike Ogburn, Stuart was thinking of a united A sian-European scheme in South-East Asia. He proposed that Britain, France and the Netherlands, together with the United States, should join a federation that would help to restore the complete independence of the peoples of East and South-East Asia. It would further help to protect Asia from more subtle forms of imperialism through highly organised minorities who were linked to international communism. India, the Philippines and other countries in the area m ight be included. So far as

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Indonesia and Indochina were concerned, the Netherlands and France m ight be convinced that the two colonies should be ‘liberated graciously rather than grudgingly and as a total loss’. Britain, too, m ight make an unequivocal statement about ‘how long it intended to m aintain its protectorates in H ong Kong and Malaya’.31 Stuart gave a copy of his memorandum to his British colleague, Stevenson.32 A few weeks later, the two ambassadors, together with their Australian and Indian colleagues, drafted the N anking Proposals, which came close to proposing some kind of anti-com m unist Marshall Plan for South and South-East Asia. Proposals by officials like Ogburn and Stuart had a consider­ able impact in W ashington. Together with the British paper on China and the N anking Proposals, they inspired the State Departm ent’s high-ranking Policy Planning Staff to draft a paper which attempted to redefine American policies in Asia including W ashington’s stance on regional cooperation. The American paper, titled PPS 51, stated that it was America’s objective to contain and reduce ‘Kremlin influence’ in SouthEast Asia through m ultilateral cooperation prim arily with the British Commonwealth countries and the Philippines. After Anglo-American talks with France and the Netherlands, there should be prom pt discussions with Britain, India, Pakistan, the Philippines and Australia on a cooperative approach to SouthEast Asia. T o minimise the suggestion of American imperialist intervention, India, the Philippines and other Asian states should take the public lead. America’s role should be to offer discreet support and guidance. Furthermore, the United States should seek vigorously to develop the economic interdependence of Japan and the raw-material-supplying region of South-East Asia, and of India and Western Europe as a supplier of finished goods. To achieve this, every effort should be made to initiate and expand programmes of technical assistance through bilateral arrangements and international agencies. Last but not least, ‘efforts should also be made to supplem ent conservatively private investment, with Governmental assistance’.33 Though the PPS paper did not express official American policy, it was later on adopted by the National Security Council and circulated as NSC 51 in July 1949. Despite its shifting line, W ashington refused to indicate to London that it was reviewing its South-East Asian policies. As a

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result, the British m aintained their diplom atic offensive. In the middle of March 1949, the Chiefs of Staff’s analysis of the com m unist threat to South-East Asia and the cabinet’s recom­ m endation for joint economic measures and greater intelligence cooperation were communicated to W ashington.34 The Foreign Office was also planning for Bevin to discuss South-East Asia during a forthcoming visit to Washington. A brief was therefore prepared which outlined the departm ent’s current regional policy, and which was intended to be left with the Americans. The brief argued that while Russia’s threat to South-East Asia was unlikely to be a military one, the conditions in the region were favourable for the spread of communism. Furthermore: If the general impression prevails in South-East Asia that the Western Powers are both unw illing and unable to assist in resisting Russian pressure the psychological effect may be that local resistance is weakened, with the result that the process of underm ining the systems of Government in that region will succeed to the extent that eventually the whole of South-East Asia will fall a victim to the Communist advance and thus come under Russian dom ination w ithout any military effort on the part of Russia. The brief continued that the will of the South-East Asian territories to resist communism had to be stiffened: no vast resources were required; initially it was a question of political and economic efforts rather than of large-scale outright aid. The alternative was the abandonm ent of the whole position. If the Asian governments made an effort to stabilise the position, the Western powers m ight make limited contributions through technical assistance and advice, and by the provision of capital goods and arms. T o avoid suggestions that Britain or the United States was seeking to dominate the situation, London should prom pt the fully sovereign governments of South-East Asia to take the initiative. At the same time, self-interest should provide the inspiration for the new unity needed to resist Russian expansion. If a common front could be built up from Afgha­ nistan to Indochina inclusive, it should be possible to contain the Russian advance southwards. A stable South-East Asia m ight also eventually influence the situation in China and make it possible to redress the situation there. The paper concluded:

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While the strategic necessities of Europe and the Middle East are greater and should have priority, the requirements of South-East Asia, though in a different category, are of vital importance. We should therefore, parallel with our efforts in Europe and the Middle East, do our utmost to encourage a spirit of cooperation and self-reliance in South-East Asia with a view to the creation of a common front against Russian expansion in that area.35 Dening explained to the Colonial and Commonwealth Rela­ tions offices that it would take months, if not years for the policy to crystallise in the m anner suggested in the brief. If, however, Asian countries showed a disposition to create a united front against Russian expansion, ‘we should hope that the Americans would be disposed to offer material help when and where it is required’.36 Dening advised Bevin that he could hand a copy of the brief to Acheson. There had been little progress in the recent discussions with the Americans. His strong impression was that the Americans had not yet developed any policy in this part of the world, and that they were reluctant to become involved in any commitments. Bevin’s talks were intended to be an initial step to enlist American support in principle for the policy the Foreign Office hoped to pursue. It would, however, be premature to ask for material support, since the Americans would want to be firmly convinced that the principle of self-help was firmly established before they considered an outlay of dollars.37 D uring Bevin’s visit to W ashington, issues like the Atlantic Pact and the future of Germany took precedence over Far Eastern topics.38 However, Bevin briefly raised the issue of South-East Asia during a meeting with Acheson on 2 April, arguing that Russia had an ‘opening’ in the region since 60 per cent of the population were Muslims. Britain could exercise influence through Pakistan but was hoping for American help. So far as Indonesia, Burma and Malaya were concerned, Bevin was look­ ing for a ‘sort of South-East Asia conference arrangement’ in which the United States, Britain, Australia and New Zealand could cooperate for economic and political purposes - as distinct from a military understanding or pact for this area which should not be considered at the moment. The only American comment on this came from a State Department expert on German and Austrian affairs, who interposed that the United States m ight like

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to set up a kind of Caribbean Commission for South-East Asia. At the end of the meeting, Bevin left his brief on South-East Asia 39 with the State Department. Apart from this, the Americans gave few indications that they m ight be considering a more forthcoming attitude towards cooperation with the British in South-East Asia, though gener­ ally agreeing that a spirit of cooperation should be encouraged. Graves feared that it would be difficult to bring the Americans in on South-East Asia: ‘They have burnt their fingers so badly in China that they are at present in a very cautious mood.’40 Even more disappointing than Bevin’s talks with Acheson was the American response to the British paper on China of December 1948. The American reply, arriving in London at the end of March 1949, described the British m emorandum as a thoughtful, detailed and well-reasoned analysis. However, it m aintained that the British could have laid greater emphasis on the growing strength of nationalism and its long-term incom patibility with communism. Furthermore, ‘a word of caution is desirable regard­ ing dependence upon American material aid in approaching the problems of South Asia’. Since 1937, the United States had given vast am ounts of American financial, economic and military aid to China. The failure of America’s policy in this country was enough evidence that external aid could neither induce nor replace effective measures of self-help.41 The British were extremely disappointed by the American reply. As Graves pointed out to the Foreign Office, the weakness of the American paper was that it contained several isolated comments which had not been developed into any general conclusion.42 R.A. Hibbert of the Foreign Office’s South-East Asia Department was even more disconcerted. The United States seemed to be petrified by the failure of her policy in China and it was quite clear from the m emorandum that no American aid would be forthcoming for South-East Asia.43 Despite this, the Foreign Office w ouldn’t give up hope. As R.H. Scott commented at the end of April 1949, the American response contained no new statement of policy, but confirmed what London already knew: The im portant thing about the M emorandum - mixture of defeatism and pious advice that it is - is that the State Department has been induced to consider these problems and to formulate a statement of policy which we can use as a basis

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of argument. I am all for steadily pegging away at the Americans, on the principle of the steady drip wearing away 44 the stone. In addition to the disappointing American response, Britain’s hopes for the success of her anti-com m unist initiative in SouthEast Asia were further dampened by discouraging news from France and Indochina. For some time, the French had been negotiating w ith the former Vietnamese emperor, Bao Dai, in the hope of establishing him as a pro-French alternative to the Viet Minh. On 8 March 1949, the French President, Vincent Auriol, had come to an agreement with Bao Dai, comm itting France to eventual Vietnamese independence, though w ithout any time­ table for the transfer of power. In the meantime, Bao Dai would become head of state in Vietnam, which included the provinces of Cochin-China, Annam and Tonkin. However, the French retained responsibility for foreign affairs and defence, as well as keeping a num ber of political privileges. Furthermore, Vietnam together w ith Laos and Cambodia would form part of the French Union, which embraced other parts of France’s colonial empire and which was under the direct control of France.45 T he Elysee or Bao Dai agreement, as it soon became known, in fact provided for little more than the establishment of a French puppet regime in Vietnam to placate international opinion. From the outset, the British therefore doubted whether the deal would convince India that the French were really interested in changing their colonial policies in Indochina. Yet without Indian consent, France could not become part of a regional grouping in South-East Asia. As a Foreign Office memorandum pointed out on 24 March, neither India nor Australia would regard the Bao Dai agreement as giving true independence to Indochina so long as it secured so many privileges for France. The problem was, however, that the French ‘would not take kindly to any pressure or suggestion from us to make a more liberal offer of independence to Viet N am ’. Britain could only hope that if the new agreement failed the French would see for themselves the urgent necessity for the future of the whole of South-East Asia of granting something more than just the token independence which they appeared to have bestowed under the new agreement.46 D uring the following months, the British in fact refused to endorse the Bao Dai agreement.47 London feared

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offending the Asian Commonwealth countries and jeopardising the chances of its regional initiative. The Indian attitude rem ai­ ned crucial. T hough Nehru had no wish to see communism established in Indochina, he still argued consistently that the French would have to grant full independence to Vietnam and that they had to come to terms with Ho Chi M inh as the real leader of Indochinese nationalism .48 The upshot of the international controversy over France’s agreement with Bao Dai was that Britain remained unable to include France in her regional plans. Some British officials quietly hoped that France, together with the Netherlands, would soon disappear from the region.49 For the time being, however, there was little more the British could do both about the situation in Indochina and about the Americans. As a result, the emphasis of Britain’s regional diplomacy shifted back to the Com­ m onwealth countries.

Chapter 13

The final stages of regional planning

After the disappointing news em anating from Paris and Wash­ ington in the early spring of 1949, fresh reports from Delhi encouraged the British to step up their South-East Asian initiative. According to the British H igh Commissioner in Delhi at the end of March, N ehru’s proposals for an Asian regional organisation had not been accepted by the smaller states of South and South-East Asia.1 Many of the countries whose delegates at Delhi had originally welcomed N ehru’s initiative had apparently been intim idated by the Soviet U nion’s condemnation of the Delhi Conference. Even more significant was the fact that most Asian states generally mistrusted Indian intentions. Since inde­ pendence, Indian prestige had suffered greatly as a result of her m ilitary intervention in Kashmir, and the continuing conflict with Pakistan over the disputed border province. As Dening explained to the Foreign Office’s new Permanent Under-Secretary, Sir W illiam Strang, Nehru wanted to ‘take the lead in building up a “united Asia front” on lines which may not be entirely dissimilar from our own views on the subject’. However, Dening added, the response had not been very eager. The Indian Prime Minister had cast his net too wide, and India was not much loved in Asia. Pakistan, Ceylon and Burma all feared India, and T hailand as well was afraid of being overlaid. Nor did India have the necessary know-how, judgem ent and tact to lead a united Asian front.2 Instead, Dening believed that ‘We are the obvious people to take the initiative in this matter, and if we play the hand skilfully, there is no reason why we should not succeed where India is likely to fail.’3 Apart from the failure of N ehru’s initiative at Delhi, unex­ pected Australian and Filipino proposals on South-East Asia

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induced the British to step up their regional diplomacy. Since February 1949, there had been growing press speculation in Australia and the Philippines about the prospects of a Pacific defence pact. Such rum ours were inspired by the current negotia­ tions between the United States, Canada, Britain, France and the Benelux countries on a m utual defence treaty covering Western Europe and the N orth Atlantic area. On 4 April 1949, a total of twelve Western countries signed the North Atlantic Treaty, which established the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO). Both Australia and the Philippines now suggested that a sim ilar defence arrangement was needed in the South-East A sian/Pacific area to protect the region against a possible com m unist onslaught from China and the Soviet Union. The Australian Minister for Defence, Dedman, was reported to have stated on 14 March, four days before plans for NATO were officially unveiled, that ‘discussions were taking place for the conclusion of a Pacific Regional Defence Pact embracing nonBritish as well as British countries’.4 Six days later, the President of the Philippines, Elpidio Quirino, followed up the Australian statement by proposing a Pacific pact somewhere along the lines of the planned N orth Atlantic agreement.5 Q uirino continued to pursue his idea throughout the rest of the year.6 London was in two minds about the issue of South-East Asian defence. On the one hand, British military planners had for years been advocating greater international defence cooperation in the area. Since the 1946 Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Meeting, Britain had also been urging Australia to station troops in the region. In August 1948, Canberra had told London that it was not prepared to send troops to Malaya.7 However, in the follow­ ing m onths the Australians suggested that they would assume responsibility for defence planning in the area including Indo­ nesia, Malaya and Borneo. Despite Foreign Office fears that Britain’s influence in South-East Asia would be ‘finally ext­ inguished’ if it became known that she would surrender her position to Australia in a future war,8 London agreed in November 1948 that Australia should ‘assume the initiative in peacetime’ for defence planning in the area.9 The decision paved the way for the secret ANZAM defence agreement, negotiated between Britain, Australia and New Zealand at the beginning of 1949, which coordinated trilateral defence planning in the Aus­ tralian, New Zealand and Malayan area. In September 1949,

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New Zealand stationed a num ber of military aircraft in Singapore, and in June 1950, Royal Australian Airforce (RAAF) planes were moved to Malaya.11 However, after the signing of the ANZAM agreement London regarded a wider Pacific defence pact as premature. Firstly, India was known to oppose power blocs, and was unlikely to join in an anti-com m unist defence grouping only shortly after the failure of her own regional initiative. Excessive speculation about a Pacific pact m ight have frightened Nehru off London’s more limited plans for economic or political cooperation in South and SouthEast Asia. Secondly, there was the danger of alienating the Americans if they came to believe that Britain wanted to involved them in a regional defence organisation. Immediately after Q uirino’s proposal in March 1949, Acheson made it clear that the United States was not ready to consider a Pacific pact. As American diplom ats in London explained to the Foreign Office, a Pacific defence pact would open the United States to the accusation that she was underw riting British, French and Dutch colonial policies in the region: this was something the American people were certainly opposed to. Dening got the point, assuring the Americans that the whole thing was a ‘pipe dream’ of Australian politicians and newspaper men; he added, however, that some other type of pact was possible, for example to combat comm unism in the Far East.12 The Foreign Office soon realised that it needed to intensify its diplom atic efforts if it wanted to steer the current m ultitude of regional developments and proposals along pro-British lines. It was spurred on by MacDonald, who kept warning London that the situation in the Far East would further deteriorate unless something was done to check the process.13 Furthermore, as Dening pointed out in W hitehall, there were two, in a sense contradictory, trends which needed correcting: one was the feeling that Europe and America were preoccupied with their own selfish interests to the detriment of South-East Asia; the other was that the Atlantic Pact would somehow involve SouthEast Asia in a war of European creation.14 At the end of April 1949, another meeting of Commonwealth Prime Ministers in London promised the Foreign Office a muchneeded opportunity to intensify its regional efforts. The confer­ ence had been arranged at short notice because of India’s intention, announced in December 1948, to become a republic,

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albeit w ithin the Com m onwealth.15 Unlike the originally planned meeting of Commonwealth Foreign Ministers in Ceylon, which had to be postponed to a later date, the London Conference would not officially deal with the troubles in SouthEast Asia. Despite this, Dening suggested the need ‘to have something on paper’ lest the South-East Asian issue came up during the m eeting.16 As he explained in a letter to the other departments, only Britain had the experience and ability to knit the South-East Asian region together. However, for this to be successful Nehru had to be convinced that the colonial powers in the region should not entirely abandon their position, and that the West had a material contribution to make to the welfare of South-East Asia. Even if India’s aim was the ‘overlordship of Asia’, the Indian leaders m ight accept that they needed the West. Economic cooperation m ight initially be more fruitful than political cooperation.17 Dening stressed in a brief for the Foreign Secretary that Britain’s attempts to build up a united front against communism had not brought any marked response. At the same time, Nehru had hoped that his regional conference m ight develop into a regional organisation. T hough he had cast his net too wide, there remained the danger that an Asian regional organisation would develop anti-European tendencies. There was the disquieting feature that Nehru had the tendency to harp on the theme of colonialism and racial discrim ination, both of which were harm ful to cooperation with the West. The situation m ight get out of hand if it was allowed to drift until a meeting of Commonwealth Foreign Ministers in Ceylon in 1950, and Den­ ing suggested an approach be made during the next Com­ m onwealth conference.18 Annexed to Dening’s brief was a memorandum titled ‘South Asia’ that was apparently intended to convince the Com­ m onwealth delegations at the London meeting of the wisdom of Britain’s regional policy. The paper was approved by the Foreign Office’s Permanent Under-Secretary’s Committee, a high-level planning committee recently established by Attlee that was similar to George F. Kennan’s Policy Planning Staff in Wash­ ington. The paper warned that the Russians were aim ing at world hegemony. Militarily, the greatest threat was towards Europe and the Middle East, but politically, the threat was worldwide. In South Asia, communism m ight undermine and

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liquidate governments and thereby bring the area into the Soviet orbit. Thus, the need of South Asia was not so much to build up m ilitary strength against the threat of armed Russian aggression, but to establish conditions of stability which would defeat the Stalinist techniques. A great deal could be done in the economic field: In economic development there is a need for co-operation between South Asian territories and other Commonwealth countries. . . . The United States and other countries can also eventually make their contribution. . . . Economic co-ope­ ration may in fact prove to be the first step towards political co-operation, so that in the process of time a degree of unity will be achieved in South Asia which will render it immune from Russian attempts to underm ine the position and to dom inate the area.19 T he British thus offered unspecified economic benefits if the Asian Commonwealth countries agreed to fall in line with Britain’s regional anti-com m unist policies. T hough initially such benefits would be derived from m utual aid, the paper hinted that in the long run American aid m ight be forthcoming as well. Bevin approved the paper and asked Attlee to take the intiative during the Prime M inisters’ Conference. If he approached the problem from the economic angle, it m ight lead to some kind of regional conference, perhaps including countries from outside the Commonwealth as well. Economic cooperation m ight later 20 on result in ‘some kind of security arrangem ent’. It appears that the paper was subsequently given to the attending delegations. Coinciding with the Prime Ministers’ Conference, both the Colonial and the Commonwealth Relations offices commented. While they agreed with Dening that Britain had to give evidence of a more active interest in South-East Asia,21 they also warned of the financial implications of the current proposals. Garner of the Commonwealth Relations Office warned that in the absence of a Marshall Plan or of any indications of an American contribu­ tion, economic cooperation was likely to be mainly a British contribution, in the form of either finance or consumer goods. Many items were scarce at the time and British resources were strained; indeed, for ‘dollar earning purposes’ Britain was currently trying to divert some of her exports away from India

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and Pakistan to Canada and the United States. A working party of the Official Far Eastern Committee should therefore assess what contributions Britain could actually make. A conference of only Commonwealth countries could then be held in Colombo, Ceylon, to prove that Britain had a contribution to make in overcoming the problems of the area.22 The Colonial Office, however, warned that the Foreign Office’s plans m ight jeopardise the development of British colonies elsewhere, in particular in Malaya. As J. J. Paskin pointed out, the achievement of social progress based on economic development in the undeveloped countries of South-East Asia was a slow and laborious process, and it was illusory to expect too much in a short time in the way of creating an atmosphere unfavourable to the growth of communism. Even if there was the prospect of something like Marshall aid for the countries of South-East Asia, large quantities of the required material and technical staff would probably have to be diverted from other colonial development schemes. There was the danger that the butter would be too thinly spread. Paskin felt that the best contribution towards checking comm unism in South-East Asia was to set Malaya once again firmly on the road to social and economic progress, creating a ‘bastion of contentm ent’ in South-East Asia which would also influence other countries. The Colonial Office was currently negotiating with the Treasury substantial grants to Malaya, and it would be nothing ‘short of calamity’ to jeopardise this pro­ gramme by diverting scarce material and personnel to the development of foreign countries in the area.23 In the event, the Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Conference, gathering in London between 24 and 27 April 1949, was prim ar­ ily preoccupied with the question of India’s position in the Commonwealth. The participating Prime Ministers unani­ mously recommended to the King that an Indian republic should rem ain in the Commonwealth, which would accept him as its head.24 However, although the conference gave Attlee no oppor­ tunity to raise the issue of South-East Asian regional coope­ ration, Nehru indicated in the course of the conference that until the Dutch and French faced the facts and granted independence to their respective South-East Asian colonies, nothing much could be done in Asia about wider cooperation with the colonial 25 powers. His remarks strengthened L ondon’s conviction that any regional initiative had to exclude the other colonial powers

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so long as they refused to make genuine concessions to the respective nationalist movements. There was only one South-East Asian issue on which the conference produced some concrete results: Burma. Since gaining independence at the beginning of 1948, the country’s internal situation had declined considerably as a result of the continuing fighting between government troops and the country’s minority Karen community. In December and January 1949, Burma had secretly asked Britain for financial and military aid for its cam paign against the Karens. London had used the opportunity to bring in the Commonwealth, encouraging Nehru to organise a Commonwealth meeting in Delhi on the issue of Burma. However, the attending British, Indian, Pakistani and Ceylonese delegates had failed to agree on financial aid for Burma. Instead, they proposed Commonwealth mediation in the Karen dispute, an offer refused by the Burmese Prime Minister, T hakin Nu, at the beginning of March 1949.26 During the Commonwealth Prime M inisters’ Conference in April, Britain, India, Pakistan and Ceylon now decided that they would try to meet Burmese requests for arms and military equipm ent. It was furthermore proposed to establish an informal committee consisting of the four countries’ ambassadors in Rangoon to consider financial 27 assistance to the country. T hough the Burmese initially dragged their feet about the proposed committee, a Com­ m onwealth loan of 350 m illion rupees was negotiated by the end 28 of December 1949. From the British point of view, the fourpower initiative was im portant prim arily because of its ‘educa­ tional’ effect on the participating countries, as it constituted the first example of Commonwealth cooperation on South-East Asia. It seemed to matter very little to London that the Karens, who had supported the British forces during the war against the Japanese, were losing out. In the meantime, further comm unist advances in China made the issue of anti-com m unist collaboration in Asia increasingly urgent. On 23 April 1949, comm unist forces captured Nanking, the former headquarters of the Kuom intang government. The way was now open to Shanghai, where many of the city’s Western residents were preparing themselves for evacuation. The comm unist advance on the city meant that before long Mao’s troops would reach the border with Indochina and Burma. There was also the danger that Britain would be drawn into the

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fighting after com m unist forces had shelled the British frigate HMS Amethyst which had become trapped in the Yangtse river. B ritain’s men on the spot were highly alarmed by the situation in China. At the beginning of May, the Far Eastern Defence Coordination Committee in Singapore, consisting of MacDonald and the British Commanders-in-Chief in South-East Asia, told London that diplomatic, economic and military action was required to form a ‘containing ring’ against further communist penetration. The ring should be formed as a result of ‘coordi­ nated action’ between Britain, India, Burma, Thailand, Indo­ china and Indonesia.29The Foreign Office passed on the w arning to Bevin. It suggested a meeting of British officials in South-East Asia to discuss the situation. The meeting could be attended by Commonwealth observers and should be followed by a confer­ ence of Commonwealth Foreign Ministers in Ceylon.30 Soon after, MacDonald visited London and on 24 May attended an interdepartm ental meeting between representatives from the Foreign, Colonial and Commonwealth Relations offices, as well as the British H igh Commissioner in India, Archibald Nye. D uring the meeting, MacDonald described the current situation in dramatic terms, outlining the core of what later on became known as the ‘dom ino theory’: the communists had just conquered the whole of China and could probably seize large parts of Indochina w ithin the next six months; Thailand would then be unable to resist, while the possibilities of commu­ nist dom ination of Burma were well known. If these three countries were to fall, Malaya as well as India would be exposed to a direct comm unist threat. MacDonald strongly argued in favour of regional counter-measures: If, however, we could devise a political, economic and defence policy which could convince the peoples of South-East Asia of our and their ability to resist Communism, we would be able to hold a line north of Pakistan, Burma, Indo China, H ong Kong and the Philippines. Dening, too, believed that urgent measures were required. He stressed that ‘the object of regional cooperation would be the building of a common front against Russia’, though this did not necessarily mean the formation of a regional defence pact. One of the problems remained the Americans, who were still holding aloof from South-East Asian problems. It seemed, however, that

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they would be content to let Britain go ahead with her plans for regional cooperation, waiting to see whether the policy was working before offering assistance. In Western Europe, Dening added, international cooperation would never have been achieved w ithout B ritain’s initiative. The same could probably be said of South-East Asia where there would be no cooperation unless Britain discreetly took the lead. India was another problem, the meeting was told, because of her opposition to colonialism and her aim of becoming a third force in Asia. Nye believed it would be difficult to ask Nehru to join a regional conference whose chief purpose was the effective building of an anti-com m unist front. However, ‘regional collab­ oration could be made attractive to India by using the economic bait’. MacDonald agreed that India could not be expected to participate in a conference with the French and the Dutch, but asked why Britain should not hold a conference limited to Commonwealth powers at which India played a leading part. India’s cooperation in giving aid to Burma was a good omen, and while cooperation was developed w ithin the Commonwealth in South-East Asia, the Dutch and the French m ight disappear from the scene as colonial powers and so facilitate a wider conference. Dening then proposed to hold a Commonwealth conference in Colombo which, for climatic reasons, would have to be held in January or February 1950. Britain could offer technical help and capital, and if some concrete plan could be p u t forward after the conference it m ight be possible to interest the Americans as well. However, Paskin of the Colonial Office warned of the ‘insatiable appetites’ of India and the colonial empire; there was only a ‘limited am ount of assistance available from United Kingdom sources’ and the Colonial Office would find it difficult to agree that colonial development should suffer because of assistance given elsewhere, ‘particularly to India’. Dening blocked Paskin’s objections by stating that economic studies and country surveys were now in progress which should not be prejudiced. Eventually, the meeting decided that ‘Efforts should be made to hold a Commonwealth Conference in Ceylon in January or February of 1950. A paper should be prepared for Ministers outlining the position as seen by officials and recommending a policy.’31 T he interdepartm ental meeting on 24 May 1949 gave the Foreign Office a green light for its regional policies, which

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aimed at creating an anti-com m unist front in South and SouthEast Asia to safeguard B ritain’s interests in the region. But prior to launching a new regional initiative at the next Com­ m onwealth conference, considerable work needed to be done. As a first step, the Foreign Office commissioned two comprehensive economic studies of the region. The first study was written by a so-called interdepartm ental W orking Party on Food Supplies and Com m unism and concentrated on the effects that comm u­ nism would have on the supply of rice to the countries of South and South-East Asia. It pointed out that the extension of com m unist control throughout China ‘will bring organised Com m unism to the northern borders of the countries of SouthEast Asia, three of which, French Indo-China, Siam and Burma, constitute the major rice exporting region of the world’. This would have serious consequences. The three countries’ rice production was already much lower than before the war. The situation was worst in Indochina, who was currently producing 160,000 tons of rice compared to 1.3 m illion tons before the war. Thailand, with a production of 800,000 tons, had now reached about 60 per cent of its prewar exports of rice, but its trade was controlled by Chinese merchants and would be jeopardised if the communists tried to influence the country’s Chinese minority. Burma, the paper further argued, was threatened not so much by com m unist dom ination, but by a complete breakdown of law and order leading to a cessation of exports. The paper concluded that a cessation of rice exports from T hailand and Burma would be extremely serious for Malaya, N orth Borneo, H ong Kong, Ceylon and India. In Malaya, a shortage of rice would ‘predispose the urban populations to active participation in disorder’, while in Ceylon and India any failure of supplies would result in disturbances and provide ‘fruitful soil for Com m unist agitation’. The problem was that the local populations would be reluctant to accept wheat as a substitute for rice. Furthermore, any wheat supplies to the area, which would come from countries inside the sterling area, would reduce the am ount of ‘sterling wheat’ available to Britain. As a result, Britain would have to im port wheat from countries outside the Commonwealth, and the total effect would be a ‘substantial drain direct and indirect on the dollar resources of the sterling area’.32 The study thus shared the Foreign Office’s concern that further comm unist troubles in the rice-producing

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countries would affect the subcontinent and Malaya through the back door. The paper in fact provided the economic rationale for M acDonald’s argum ent that the countries of South-East Asia were in danger of falling into the Soviet orbit once the Chinese communists had reached the Indochinese border. In a second economic study, a working party of the Official Far Eastern Committee went on to examine possible economic counter-measures against comm unist disturbances. The aim was to find ways of encouraging conditions which would ‘prevent Com m unism from finding a fertile soil’ in South, South-East and East Asia, as the whole region was now in the ‘front line in the fight against Communism where fighting is actually taking place’.33 As an early draft of the second study explained, the area under consideration (Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, Ceylon, Nepal, Tibet, China, H ong Kong, Japan, South Korea, the Philippines, Indochina, Burma, Thailand, Malaya, British N orth Borneo, Sarawak, Brunei and Indonesia) was of great importance. It had more than half of the world’s population and played a significant role in B ritain’s external trade. For example, Britain was vitally dependent on Malayan dollar earnings, worth 60 m illion pounds in 1948. At the same time, the area was economically behind. It was ‘rice eating’, and there was m alnu­ trition and illiteracy as well as a widespread lack of responsibility on the part of the privileged for the underprivileged, creating conditions favourable for the spread of communism among the latter. The single most significant factor was the food situation: if the control of rice supplies fell to the communists ‘the disruptive political and economic consequences in Asia are likely to be serious’. T he paper suggested that the urgent short-term problem was to assist Burma, T hailand and Indochina to increase their exports, and to stimulate the production of rice, wheat and grain in deficit areas. In the next five years, the aim should be to develop the economic potential of the area, recognising the need for improved comm unications and encouraging industries. Above all, agricultural production had to be increased. Any Western assistance should be directed towards im proving the production of valuable prim ary products for the West. In the long term, the problem was to raise the general standard of living through a greater degree of industrialisation. The only problem was that Britain could not be expected to provide large-scale capital

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investment to assist the area, though it was essential to offer training to the people from the countries concerned, as they m ight otherwise use similar facilities in the Soviet orbit.34 When the Official Far Eastern Committee discussed the study, it recognised the further problem that the Americans had given no indication that they were prepared to provide financial or material assistance. Therefore, the International Bank for Recon­ struction and Development had to be regarded as one of the main instrum ents of assistance.35 T he economic studies enabled the Foreign Office to draft two comprehensive policy papers on South-East Asia. They were subsequently adopted by the departm ent’s Permanent Under­ secretary’s Committee (PUSC) and submitted to the cabinet. At the end of July, the department completed a first paper, PUSC (32), titled ‘The United Kingdom in South-East Asia and the Far East’ which set out the goals of British policies in the eastern half of Asia. It argued that unless Britain used her particular position in Asia to bring about closer cooperation between East and West, there was a ‘very real danger that the whole of Asia will become the servant of the Kremlin’. Economically, Britain depended on the area for imports of rubber, tea and jute, while the sterling area’s dollar pool derived substantial earnings from Malaya. However, the area was affected by considerable political difficulties. The paper stressed that nationalism was ‘ram pant to­ day from Afghanistan to the China Sea’ while the Soviet Union was seeking to dom inate the whole Eurasian continent. The political im m aturity of the Asian countries and their economic distress made them particularly susceptible to communist tactics. The paper went on to state that it was ‘fair to say that from the Persian Gulf to the China Sea there is no single Power capable of dom inating the region’. Despite this, Britain could use her influence to weld the area into some degree of regional coope­ ration to resist Russian expansionism. Politically, Britain’s chief advantage was that she had been the most successful of the Western powers in coming to terms with the new nationalist spirit in Asia. Britain also enjoyed the moral prestige of a victory in the Second World War, moderated, however, by the memory of earlier defeats at the hand of the Japanese. She also had consider­ able economic influence in the area, and the value of her trade with South-East Asia and the Far East was second only to that of the United States. However, the area’s full economic develop­

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ment could only be brought about with American assistance, and W ashington had to be encouraged to supplem ent Britain’s efforts. Militarily, as well, there were limits to what Britain could achieve on her own. She could not afford military commitments of a size enabling her to offer effective resistance against a fullscale attack. Her peacetime commitments should rather be for the purpose of m aintaining internal security in Britain’s own territories. In the long run, it would be for the ‘Asian countries themselves to preserve their national integrity’. Despite this, there was no other power capable of undertaking the formidable task of trying to link South-East Asia with the West and to create some kind of regional association which would be capable of effective resistance against communism and Russian expansion: T he aim of the United Kingdom should be to build up some sort of regional association in South-East Asia in partnership with the association of the Atlantic Powers. Not only are we in the best position to interest the United States in active participation in m aintaining the stability of the area, but our relation with the Commonwealth provides a means of influencing and co-ordinating the policies not only of the Asiatic Dominions, but of Australia and New Zealand, whose strategic interest in the area is, in fact, equal to our own. The immediate object of a wider association of the West, including the Pacific members of the Commonwealth and the SouthEast Asian countries, would be to preserve the spread of comm unism and to resist Russian expansion: its long-term object would be to create a system of friendly partnership between East and West and to improve economic and social conditions in South-East Asia and the Far East.36 PUSC (32) thus proposed a two-pronged approach to SouthEast Asia. Britain should endeavour to create a common proWestern front to contain the further spread of communism. This would be in line with Britain’s long-term aim of establishing a regional system which provided for the area’s economic develop­ m ent and allowed a m axim um of British political and economic influence. However, a second paper, PUSC (53) dated 20 August 1949 and titled ‘Regional Co-operation in South-East Asia and the Far East’, outlined the problems of implem enting the pro­ posed regional policy. Addressing Asia’s apparent disunity, the paper stressed that the relationship between the Asian countries

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and the West was bedevilled by the struggle between emerging nationalism and the European colonial powers, in particular France and the Netherlands, who were discrediting Britain in the eyes of Asian nationalists. Further discord was provided by continuing inter-Asian conflicts such as the Afghan-Pakistani and Kashmir disputes, as well as the chaotic state of Burma. India, the paper continued, was the ‘key to the whole problem of South-East Asian regional cooperation’. Little could be achieved w ithout her, yet she was presently in no mood to co­ operate with the establishment of an anti-com munist front in South-East Asia and the Far East. India and most other SouthEast Asian countries failed to realise that the Soviet threat was worldwide, and they mistrusted the West and desired to remain clear of entanglements with the great power blocs. However, while India believed in her destiny as the leader of the Asian peoples, the other Asian countries appeared to ‘fear and mistrust dom ination by one of their own num ber as m uch as they disliked European dom ination’. T o counteract Asian suspicions of British intentions, London had to convince the nations of SouthEast Asia that they would be unable to m aintain a position between the power blocs and that a joint front against commu­ nism was in their interest. Furthermore, India needed to be convinced that ‘unless she is prepared to play a more positive role, there may be no Asia left for her to lead’. To achieve this, concrete help of a technical, financial and economic nature would be of great importance. In addition, there were encourag­ ing signs that ‘Com m unist expansion, just as it served to bring about greater cohesion of the West, is bringing the leaders of the countries of Asia to a more realistic frame of m ind with regard to regional cooperation in the face of common danger’. Furth­ ermore: Having agreed that it is for Great Britain to play a major (if unobtrusive) part in organising South-East Asia for regional political, economic and m ilitary co-operation, there is much to be said for using a Commonwealth rather than a purely United Kingdom approach to achieve our aims. Not only will India be less suspicious that she is being used as a pawn in a European-M oscow chess match, but her aspirations to be a leading member of the team can largely be satisified w ithout a) causing undue offence to Pakistan and Ceylon (since the

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United Kingdom, Australia and New Zealand will all be playing, too), b) Frightening other countries in the area that Asian regional collaboration is not another name for Greater India or M ahabharat. The suggestion to hold a Commonwealth conference in Ceylon in 1950 remained in abeyance. Further communist successes and disturbances in Asia would help to bring India to the conference table. Furthermore, Burma, where the political situation was ‘thoroughly unstable’, was a ‘useful field for the exercise of a policy of Commonwealth cooperation, and success here would create an encouraging precedent for a joint approach to other South-East Asian problem s’. The paper then turned towards individual countries. It stated that Thailand, unlike her neighbours, was peaceful and prosper­ ous. However, unless the Thais were ‘satisfied that they will receive material support they may in the end follow the line of least resistance, as they did with Japan in 1941, and come to terms with Com m unist China, thus contributing to their own downfall’. So far as Indochina was concerned, it was ‘unfortu­ nate’ that the country would be more directly threatened than any other South-East Asian territory. For the time being, the presence of French troops and the retention of French bases ‘should act as a reasonably effective counter to infiltration or direct aggression from China, although here, again, charges of imperialism may be the price to be paid for greater security’. Malaya, the paper continued, was of ‘utmost importance strategically and economi­ cally to the United Kingdom and is the major dollar earner of the sterling area’. An assurance that Britain was not prepared to abandon the area and was taking active steps to safeguard it from external aggression m ight do m uch to encourage the local Chinese to believe that reinsurance with a communist China was not an absolute necessity. So far as the Philippines was con­ cerned, the paper doubted whether the country could bring ‘positive strength’ to any Asian Union. However, she could ‘nevertheless serve as a link in a system embracing South-East Asia and the Far East and Pacific areas’. Sum m ing up the situation, the paper stressed that South-East Asia would not allow the same degree of political cooperation as in Europe. Nor was the United States prepared to play the same part or produce the same material incentives to greater unity. For

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the time being, the colonial powers remained suspect and there were many local jealousies and rivalries. Any thought of a SouthEast Asian pact could therefore be ruled out for the time being. Furthermore, before establishing a regional defence system, Britain would have to attem pt to obtain a ‘nucleus of strategic cooperation’ with the Asian Commonwealth countries, Australia and New Zealand. This cooperation would have to be entirely in the field of planning and exchange of views, since Britain was unable to increase the present flow of arms. The paper con­ cluded: Political differences between the countries of South-East Asia and the Far East and their unwillingness and inability to collaborate m ilitarily leave economic collaboration as the only form of greater unity which the countries of the area are likely to accept at present. . . . Regional collaboration in the econ­ omic field, if achieved, may well lead not only to a better understanding between the countries of Asia themselves, but also between East and West. It is therefore at present the only possible line to pursue in the direction of our long-term objective of political and military, as well as economic, co-operation throughout the region in partnership with the West.’57 The two PUSC papers offered the most detailed and precise definition of British regional plans in South-East Asia since the Colonial Office’s paper on ‘International Aspects of Colonial Policy’ in 1944. The papers’ authors suggested establishing, under British leadership, a regional organisation which provided for cooperation prim arily in the economic field, and which would help develop the South and South-East Asian economies. The Commonwealth would provide the initial platform from which a regional initiative would be launched. The underlying aim of regional cooperation was the containm ent of communism in Asia: economic cooperation, together with Western aid, would help to stabilise the countries most threatened by the communist successes in China, namely Burma and Thailand. Sooner or later, Indochina m ight also be included, though it was not clear whether this would be under French or nationalist rule. The countries on the subcontinent, too, would benefit. Apart from safeguarding their food supplies from the rice-producing coun­ tries in the north of South-East Asia, Britain’s regional plan

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would prevent the growth of communism by slowly raising their populations’ standards of living. Aid and economic cooperation would also place them firmly in the Western camp and prevent them from siding w ith the Soviet Union or communist China. In the long run, collaboration could be extended to the political and m ilitary spheres. If the proposed regional scheme was successful, the authors of the two PUSC papers believed that Britain would benefit con­ siderably. T hough she could not hope to dominate the region, regional cooperation would nevertheless provide her with a m axim um degree of political and economic influence in the area. It would further help to safeguard the position of the dollarearning colony of Malaya, and m ight one day provide for a regional defence system to protect the colony against a potential attack from the outside. At the same time, regional cooperation would help to develop the region’s economies in concert with the West, providing Britain with new markets and securing the flow of raw materials to Europe. Last but not least, a regional system would guarantee Britain’s long-term survival as a Far Eastern power. T hough never directly expressed, the papers’ authors seemed to be thinking ahead to the time after Malaya’s eventual independence. However, the difficulties that had to be overcome in organising regional cooperation were manifold. There was the problem of associating India with L ondon’s plans, and of convincing her that she would not be entering into an anti-com munist bloc in Asia. A further problem was that the whole area was dominated by national rivalries. The Commonwealth approach to regional cooperation undoubtedly promised to be the best way to over­ come these difficulties. However, the papers failed to provide a satisfactory solution to the recurring problem of aligning France and Indochina with the new Asian states. A more immediate problem was Britain’s lack of financial resources. The papers’ authors knew that only the Americans could give large-scale aid. It was even stated that no system of regional collaboration could hope to exist in the long run w ithout American participation. All efforts therefore had to concentrate on drawing the United States into B ritain’s plans.

Chapter 14

To Colombo and beyond

The two PUSC papers had left the Foreign Office with the major problem of trying to secure American financial support for its grand regional strategy in South-East Asia. Before subm itting the papers to the cabinet, the department therefore decided to increase its lobbying efforts towards the United States. First, the British had to convince W ashington that they would not involve the Americans in a potentially hazardous defence arrangement in South-East Asia. Yet, renewed speculation about a Pacific pact continued to fuel American suspicions of British intentions. On 15 May 1949, the Australian Prime Minister, Chifley, had stated that planning between Australia, New Zealand and Britain for the Pacific area was proceeding parallel with corresponding planning for the Atlantic area. The statement, which probably referred to the ANZAM treaty, drew fresh attention to Australia’s earlier proposals for a Pacific pact. Both W ashington and London immediately dampened Canberra’s hopes for a Pacific defence treaty. On 18 May, Acheson publicly reiterated American opposition to a Pacific pact: While it is true that there are serious dangers to world peace existing in the situation in Asia, it is also true, as Prime Minister Nehru of India stated to the press the other day, that a Pacific defence pact could not take shape until present internal conflicts in Asia were resolved. . . . N ehru’s view appears to be an objective appraisal of the actual, practical possibilities at the present time.1 Anglo-American discouragement induced the Australian Defence Minister to tell the Australian House of Representatives that it was impossible to get other nations on the Pacific littoral

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to join in a Pacific pact. The best that could be done for the present was to integrate Australian defence plans with those of Britain and New Zealand.2 However, New Zealand’s Prime Minister, Peter Fraser, was more persistent than his Australian counterpart. He told Attlee on 19 May of his increasing concern over the com m unist successes in creating or exploiting chaos and strife in the South-East Asian area. He further suggested that some form of Pacific pact was needed, and that Bevin m ight pay a visit to the Pacific to discuss the whole issue.3 Bevin expressed sympathy with Fraser’s anxiety, but told the Foreign Office that likely American reactions made it necessary to proceed with caution. He particularly did not want to complicate matters before the Atlantic Pact had been ratified.4 Fraser was therefore sent a polite refusal: Bevin was unable to leave Europe for the time being, and he was reluctant to take the initiative on a Pacific pact in view of Acheson’s recent statement. However, Britain was anxious to press on with her joint defence arrangement with Australia and New Zealand.5 In the following months, London continued to quell specula­ tion about defence cooperation in the Pacific, advising its diplom atic representatives abroad to discourage any talk of a Pacific pact.6 When, in July, a British military planning mission was sent to Australia and New Zealand to discuss common defence planning, London refused to let the delegation discuss the question of a Pacific pact, as had been demanded by the New Zealand Chiefs of Staff.7 The British wanted to avoid anything that would scare W ashington or Delhi off their South-East Asian plans. Any Pacific or South-East Asian pact would have to follow regional cooperation in the economic and political sphere. Despite L ondon’s refusal to contemplate any regional defence arrangements, there were few signs that the Americans were warm ing to Britain’s overtures on South-East Asia. In July 1949, George F. Kennan, head of W ashington’s Policy Planning Staff, visited London. He explained that the United States was con­ ducting a full survey of the situation in the Far East. At the same time Kennan repeated W ashington’s refusal to join any kind of defence arrangement in South-East Asia. He also made it clear that the m ain task of resisting communism in South-East Asia had to fall to the Commonwealth. Kennan’s visit offered London little hope that American attitudes towards South-East Asia were changing, and a Foreign Office memorandum lamented:

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The general impression left by Mr Kennan’s comments on South-East Asia was that the Americans expected the United Kingdom to take the lead in this region. They will welcome frank discussions with us, but will not readily be persuaded to enter into any commitments. They will certainly not enter into m ilitary commitments, and we shall probably have difficulty in persuading them to give economic help. Mr Kennan said the military threat to South-East Asia from Russia was negligible, and South-East Asian countries must learn in the event of war they must be capable of defending themselves.8 However, British officials’ hopes were raised again in August 1949, after W ashington’s publication of a White Paper on China which aimed to explain the failure of American postwar policies in China. In Singapore, MacDonald was encouraged by the cover note to the White Paper, written by Acheson, which ‘contains a statement of policy about South-East Asia which seems to mark, or at least to foreshadow a considerable change in the American attitude to this part of the world’.9 Dening, however, doubted whether there had been a change of attitude.10 In September, Anglo-American talks in W ashington on the situation in the Far East gave the British an opportunity to put further pressure on the Americans. Dening, accompanying Bevin in Washington, was hoping to sell to the Americans the idea of an economic approach to South-East Asia - based on the two PUSC papers.11 On 12 September, according to an account by the State Depart­ ment, Dening told the Americans that the British wanted to discuss ways and means of defending South-East Asia, i.e. the area stretching from Afghanistan to Indochina and including the Philippines, against communism. In his opinion, it was necess­ ary to develop the economies of the countries of the area to a degree of strength equal if not superior to Communist pressure. Mr Dening said that his Government believed if such a program was successful even in preserving the present standard of living in Southeast Asia that area could be successfully orientated toward the West. Dening added that the cost could not be met completely from local resources, but that Western economic aid would hopefully

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build up the habit of cooperation with the West. Butterworth, speaking for the State Department, generally agreed that there should be greater political and economic cooperation; however, he also stressed that it would be difficult to extend financial and economic assistance until the area’s political difficulties were approaching a solution. When the discussion turned to ECAFE, Butterworth stressed the United States had been obliged to discourage the members of ECAFE in their efforts to lay the foundations of the Marshall Plan for Asia, not only because a Marshall Plan for Asia was in itself impractical but because we felt that the Asiatics should make increased efforts to solve their own economic problems . . . public financing of practical projects should be done through the Export-Im port Bank and the World Bank.12 Dening subsequently informed Bevin that the Americans were unduly cautious about an economic approach to a regional understanding, and that Butterworth seemed to put too much faith in the ability of India and the Philippines to bring about regional cooperation. Bevin should therefore repeat in his talks with Acheson that an economic approach was the best means of bringing about political cohesion. If the Asian countries developed the habit of cooperating with each other and with the West in the economic field, it would be easier to secure their political and strategic cooperation, something both Britain and the United States desired.13 On the following day, Acheson stressed that it would be im portant to encourage the Asian countries to take the lead in the area and that it would be helpful if the Philippines and India could get together. Bevin, however, urged caution in encouraging India to take a lead, since the smaller countries feared Indian dom ination.14 In a first assessment of the Anglo-American consultations, Dening felt that the talks had gone much better than expected, particularly on China and Japan. However, he did not get far with the State Department on the question of economic aid for South-East Asia. The State Department felt that Congress had just reached the limits in voting fresh funds for aid anywhere, and it therefore did not want to encourage British hopes that dollars m ight be forthcoming to South-East Asia other than through banks or private investment:

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Politically, the Americans seem to think that the Asiatics should get together on their own initiative. I tried to point out that if they are left to their own devices little cohesion is likely to result in view of existing disputes and suspicions. If we did not make m uch progress on the regional approach, we at any rate discovered a comm unity of thought on the individual problems such as Indonesia, Indo-China, Kashmir etc. I am afraid I detected a distinct tendency to use the Philippines as a stalking horse in South-East Asia, while choosing to ignore the fact that this horse is not only weak-kneed but internally unsound.15 However, during subsequent Anglo-American talks with the French Foreign Secretary, Robert Schuman, Acheson gave a first hint that aid m ight be forthcoming to a South-East Asian country. In view of Mao Tse-tung’s drive towards the south of China, Acheson urged the French to swiftly ratify the Bao Dai agreement, as it would be easier for the American adm inistration to give assistance to the local nationalist governments than to the colonial adm inistrations in South-East Asia. If the nationalists agreed to give guarantees for private investments in their coun­ try, it would become m uch easier for W ashington to take a more positive line.16 Bevin, who quickly grasped the importance that the Americans were attaching to the situation in Indochina, agreed that Paris should ratify the Bao Dai agreement, ignoring the fact that the French-Vietnamese accord had previously been spurned by the British. Acheson’s remarks helped to raise the Foreign Office’s spirits. In a final evaluation of the W ashington talks, Dening wrote to MacDonald that the Americans were now showing a much keener interest in South-East Asia than during Bevin’s last visit in March, and that they greatly desired to see the economic surveys now being prepared by Britain. They seemed to realise that South-East Asia could not be left to its own devices and that US aid was necessary. However, the State Department did not believe it possible to persuade Congress to vote further sums for South-East Asia at a time when W ashington had difficulties in pushing through Marshall, as well as military, aid for Europe. Any financial aid for South-East Asia would have to be found from sources already available to the administration. Seventy-five m illion dollars originally intended for nationalist China should

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now be placed at T ru m an ’s disposal for use anywhere in the Far East. Further aid would have to be found either by the Interna­ tional Bank or by the Im port and Export Bank, which only financed commercial propositions. On the whole, the Wash­ ington talks had gone some way in convincing the adm inist­ ration of the need for aid, and time was required for the adm inistration to convince Congress of the necessity of further appropriations.17 The W ashington talks encouraged Bevin and Attlee to press ahead with their plans for regional cooperation. The question of South-East Asia became even more urgent after Mao Tse-tung proclaimed the People’s Republic of China on 1 October 1949. On 17 October, Bevin and Attlee agreed that there should soon be a meeting of Commonwealth Foreign Ministers to discuss the situation in the Far East.18 On 27 October, the combined PUSC papers on South-East Asia were submitted to the cabinet. As one m inister (presumably Bevin) pointed out, ‘it should not be impracticable to m aintain the political influence of the United Kingdom in South-East Asia while arranging for the United States to provide m uch of the capital investment that was required’. The Americans’ unfortunate experience in China had made them more receptive to suggestions for collaboration with Britain on Asian affairs, ‘on the basis that the United Kingdom provided experience and the United States provided finance’. The cabinet seemed to be impressed and approved the combined paper.19 On 3 November, Attlee asked the Prime Minister of Ceylon, Don Stephen Senanayake, to organise a Commonwealth meeting on foreign affairs in Colombo at the beginning of 1950. Coinciding w ith this, Dening was sent to Singapore to explain the cabinet’s policy to British officials in South-East Asia, who were holding a meeting at Bukit Serene, MacDonald’s official residence. The meeting generally supported the policy that Britain should encourage the ultim ate creation of a regional pact or association for economic, political and if necessary military cooperation, in order to prevent the spread of communism in South and South-East Asia. It also agreed that the initial approach should be to encourage economic cooperation. The meeting also welcomed L ondon’s plan to hold a Commonwealth conference in Ceylon which would discuss South-East Asia. In addition, however, immediate anti-com munist action was required in Burma, Indochina and Thailand, for example by

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giving the latter sufficient material support and encouragement. 20 A few weeks later, further evidence emerged that W ashington was changing its line on South-East Asia. In return for letting the Americans see the second of the PUSC papers on South-East Asia, the British were handed a copy of NSC 51. The paper had first been circulated in W ashington as PPS 51 eight months before, and it suggested both m ultilateral cooperation and Amer­ ican aid to South-East Asia (see Chapter 10). As R.F. HoyerMillar of the British embassy in W ashington told the Foreign Office, PPS 51 had now been initialled by the President, thus becoming official policy. He added that both papers underlined the necessity for the United States and Britain jointly to encour­ age the South-East Asian countries to reduce the effects of comm unism in the region. He consequently saw grounds for optim ism , though he disliked the American paper’s reference to South-East Asia as a market and supplier of raw materials for Japan; Britain would have to be ‘vigilant over the extent to which the Americans seek to expose South-East Asia to Japanese penetration’.21 However, the Foreign Office was on the whole satisfied with PPS 51. T hough the Americans tended to use the Philippines as a ‘stalking-horse’ in South-East Asia, 22 the main point was that ‘American thinking, by and large, is on the same lines as our ow n’.23 Encouraged by PPS 51, a British brief on South-East Asia stressed that Britain and the United States were now pursuing the same two policies: to combat communism and to improve the standard of living of economically backward peoples. Though Britain would be able to provide technical help, for example in the agricultural sector, it was clear that she could not make any financial contributions in addition to the assistance given to her colonial dependencies, and to the release of some of the sterling balances held by the countries in the area. If substantial aid was going to be provided, it would have to come from the United States. The prim ary recipient of American aid would have to be India, who was most im portant because of her size, low standards of living and strategic position.24 However, a recent visit by Nehru to the United States had produced only disappointing financial and economic results. The British cabinet therefore recommended that every effort should be made to ‘convince the United States Government of the major importance of providing ^

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financial and economic aid for South-East Asia as the most effective bulwark against the further advance of com m unism ’. It was added that for political reasons American aid should not be provided directly by the US government but through the m achi­ nery of the International Bank.25 The last recommendation undoubtedly im plied the point made in the cabinet a few weeks earlier: though the United States was asked to provide the capital for the economic development of South and South-East Asia, Britain did not intend to give up her political leadership in the region. In a subsequent brief for the British delegation at the Colombo Conference, written shortly after the final collapse of the Kuom intang government in m ainland China in December 1949, London spelled out, once again, the immediate aim of its regional policy: to prevent the further spread of communism in South-East Asia. Com m unist action was expected initially to be directed against Indochina, then against Thailand and Burma. This would lead to a serious threat to India, East Pakistan and Malaya, not least because of the drying up of T hai and Burmese rice supplies. In countering the comm unist threat, it was prem a­ ture to think about regional cooperation on the political and defence levels - the situation in the different Asian countries was too different for that. Instead, the Commonwealth should be used to promote economic cooperation, for example in the area of food production. But any such efforts had to be supplemented by the resources of the United States, whose cooperation was indispensable. In addition, the Commonwealth should be encouraged to formulate a common policy to deal with the situations in the non-Com monwealth countries most threatened by communism, i.e. Burma, T hailand and Indochina.26 The Colombo Conference opened on 9 January 1950. The meeting was the first Commonwealth conference that was held in Asia, and international interest in the event was considerable. The British, who attached great importance to the meeting, sent a delegation of more than thirty officials to Ceylon, including MacDonald from Singapore. Bevin arrived on 8 January, despite serious heart problems, after a strenuous journey from London. The conference promised to breathe new life into the Com­ m onwealth after N ehru’s recent threat to leave the organisation unless India was allowed to obtained republican status. How­ ever, the British were equally keen to use the conference in order

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to inspire a joint Commonwealth initiative towards South-East Asia, and to convince the Americans that they should contribute to the development of South and South-East Asia. Great efforts were therefore made to keep W ashington’s interest going. The Foreign Office even provided the State Department with highly confidential daily reports on the conference discussions. In addition, American journalists were given the daily background briefings otherwise only afforded to the British press.27 The attending Commonwealth Foreign Ministers covered a wide range of topics during their five-day deliberations, includ­ ing the situations in Europe and China, as well as the question of the Japanese peace treaty. However, from the British point of view the question of communism in South-East Asia was undoubtedly the most im portant issue. As Bevin told his Com­ m onwealth colleagues during the conference’s second session on 9 January, after the West’s successful resistance to communism in Europe the Soviet Union had now turned her attention to the East. He believed that the best response was for the countries with interests in the East to keep in close contact and to help each other in ‘resisting any attem pt to hinder peaceful development on democratic lines’. He also held out the prospect of Western financial aid w ithout political domination. A start had been made by Britain, and there was the encouraging promise of US aid under T ru m an ’s ‘Point Four’. However, Bevin did not want to go as far as establishing a Pacific pact on the lines of the Atlantic Pact. In an obvious reference to India, he added that a Pacific pact would not be appropriate for some of the area’s newly emerging countries. Nehru, who was leading the Indian delegation, agreed that a Pacific pact was undesirable as it would only increase the menace of aggression w ithout increasing the capacity to resist it. The new Australian Foreign Minister, Percy Spender, added that the problem was essentially one of raising economic standards in the region, and that some kind of plan was required to assist the countries of the area. He also seemed to favour a regional defence arrangement, though he conceded that in view of what Nehru had said and in the absence of an assurance of American participation ‘he did not at this stage favour a military or defence pact, certainly not at this stage’.28 The first day of the conference showed that the British were playing their cards very carefully, testing the political ground for their regional policies. Instead of launching their own formal

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initiative for regional cooperation, they left it to others to table proposals which in fact closely resembled those developed in London during the previous months. On the second day of the conference, the Ceylonese Finance Minister, Jayawardene, pro­ posed the establishment of a ten-year plan for the development of the agricultural and industrial economies of South-East Asia, which would also guarantee commodity prices. The plan would be implem ented by a committee of officials who would study the problems of the countries involved before recommending what help the Commonwealth countries could give in carrying out the programme. He based his proposals on recommendations for the development of the underdeveloped countries of the Com­ monwealth made by a Commonwealth Finance Ministers’ meet­ ing in London in July 1949.29 Later, a proposal for a South-East Asian OEEC had been added to this. In addition to the Ceylonese proposal, the Australian delegation submitted a paper on economic policy in South and South-East Asia. Similar to the recent planning papers in W hitehall, the Australian draft emphasised the comm unist threat to South-East Asia and the need to improve economic conditions so that the ideological attractions of comm unism would lose their force. Like the British, the Australians were thinking of m utual technical help w ithin the Commonwealth, and of encouraging outside coun­ tries, like the United States, to provide financial assistance.31 There is little doubt that the British had encouraged Ceylon to p ut forward her proposals. They had also been closely involved in drafting the Australian memorandum. The new Liberal Australian Prime Minister, Robert Menzies, had only been in power for a few weeks. His government was both fiercely anti­ com m unist and deeply committed to the Commonwealth,32 and therefore far more receptive to L ondon’s plans than the old Labour government under Chifley and Evatt. According to Bevin’s subsequent cabinet report on the conference, two senior British officials, Sir Percivale Liesching and Sir Roger Makins, had in fact asked Spender whether Australia could take the initiative in tabling proposals on South-East Asia. Spender ‘readily agreed’ and submitted a draft to the British delegation. T hough the British made certain ‘observations’ on the paper, they did not attem pt to table a joint proposal. The reason seems to have been that London wanted to avoid m aking any financial commitments to the development of South-East Asia. According

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to Bevin’s subsequent report, it would have been difficult for Britain to take the lead ‘in view of the strict lim itations on any additional contribution which the United Kingdom could make in present circumstances’.33 After the two papers were submitted to the attending delega­ tions, it was decided to merge them into a joint Australian-New Zealand-Ceylonese proposal. Again, British officials seem to have been involved. The joint m emorandum stated that the conference delegations should recommend to their respective governments that they should consult with each other on ways of m aking credit available for ‘essential productive purposes’ in South and South-East Asia, for example through the Interna­ tional Bank for Reconstruction and Development. They should also encourage governments outside the Commonwealth to adopt sim ilar policies - a strong indication that the Com­ m onwealth initiative would be open to other Asian countries. In addition, there should be bilateral arrangements for the pro­ vision of aid. Furthermore, a consultative committee for South and South-East Asia should be established which would examine methods of coordinating development activities in the area. This committee would also consider an economic development plan for the underdeveloped countries in the area. The plan would be implem ented by a proposed new organisation. The first meeting of the consultative committee should be held in Australia.34 The conference unanim ously accepted the memorandum with only a few m inor amendments. As Spender pointed out to the conference, Asia’s prim ary need was to improve her production of food. T o achieve this, every effort should be made to encourage American participation in attempts to develop South-East Asia. Indeed, not m uch could be accomplished w ithout considerable assistance from the United States. Yet American aid would not be forthcoming unless South-East Asia demonstrated her w illing­ ness to help herself. Bevin agreed but hinted that Britain would not be able to make any m ajor contributions; since the end of the war she had already contributed 750 m illion pounds to the area, and she had to take the needs of the Middle East and Africa into consideration.35 The final com m unique told the international press corps that was covering the Colombo Conference relatively little about the new initiative. It m entioned that the meeting had made recommendations for the furtherance of the economic develop­

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m ent of South and South-East Asia, including the establishment of a consultative committee representing Commonwealth governments which would first meet in Australia.36 T hough many observers were disappointed by the vagueness of the final statement, the British delegation had every reason to be pleased w ith the conference’s results. After more than five years of planning on the issue of regional cooperation, they had at last secured the agreement of three Asian Commonwealth countries, as well as of Australia and New Zealand, to participate in a regional development plan for South and South-East Asia. Crucially, India’s opposition to any regional arrangements that included the Western powers had been overcome. At the same time, London had avoided any major financial commitments to Asian development schemes. Furthermore, the meeting had met one of the preconditions for American aid to South-East Asia, as the attending countries had all agreed to try and help one another through m utual aid and development schemes. The British, as well as the other delegations in Colombo, now hoped that W ashington would provide considerable financial assistance to the region. In retrospect, the Foreign Office’s considerable efforts in the postwar years to organise some form of regional cooperation in South-East Asia were a clear indication of the region’s growing importance to Britain. Economically, the region had become increasingly valuable as a producer of food and raw materials for the ruined economies of Western Europe, as the supplier of dollarearning rubber to the United States, and as the rice bowl of Asia. Politically, the region’s status was greatly enhanced when after Indian independence the centre of British influence in eastern Asia had shifted from Delhi to Singapore. B ritain’s colonial foothold in Malaya now ensured her survival as a major Far Eastern power. In 1948, the region gained further geopolitical importance. London was convinced that Moscow was sponsoring the com­ m unist insurrections in the area. The Second World War had highlighted South-East Asia’s strategic importance for the defence of Australia and India. The British would not allow the region to be taken over by hostile forces for a second time. T o counter the comm unist threat to South-East Asia, the British in 1949 adopted the policy of regional cooperation as one of their m ain strategies of containment. London’s regional plans outlined at the Colombo Conference had distinct similarities

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with those harboured by the Foreign Office in the immediate postwar period. As in 1945, one of the key aims was to establish a regional system that would provide a maximum of British influence in the area. In both cases, regional cooperation would progress at the political and defence levels. However, in most other ways Britain’s regional plans had undergone considerable changes. While in 1946 the rice crisis and the threat of famine enabled the British to take the lead, the motor behind Britain’s regional policies in 1949 was the threat of communism. More strikingly, the underlying concepts of regional cooperation had changed radically. The 1945 plans were largely based on coope­ ration with other colonial powers in the region. By 1949, Britain was hoping to cooperate prim arily with the newly independent Asian countries in the region, sidelining France and the depart­ ing Dutch, whose hard-line colonial policies had discredited them in the eyes of the Asian nationalists. Another difference was the enlarged geographic scope of the regional scheme envisaged at the end of 1949. It was no longer confined to Malaya, T hailand, Indochina, Indonesia and per­ haps Burma, but included also Afghanistan, the whole of the Indian subcontinent and the Philippines. This enlargement was due to two key factors. First, India was no longer under British rule and had become a fiercely independent player on the world stage. D uring the Asian Relations Conference in 1947 and the Delhi Conference in 1949 she had furthermore displayed her aim of becoming the moral and political leader of both South and South-East Asia. The British were now coming to terms with Indian aspirations and concluded that no regional plan would be successful unless Delhi was involved. At the same time, London hoped to use a successful regional scheme in South and SouthEast Asia to exert a m axim um degree of influence on India, and to steer the country along pro-British lines. The second reason for the geographic extension of Britain’s regional plans was the fact that the Foreign Office had decided to use the Com­ m onwealth as the basis for its regional diplomacy. Since South Asia included all of the Com m onwealth’s independent Asian countries, the region necessarily had to be involved. In addition, the Philippines were added to the definition of the region in order to win over the Americans. Indeed, by 1949 Britain was attaching overriding importance to the inclusion of the United States in her regional plans.

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Unlike in 1945, when many British officials feared that the United States would merely stir up trouble in the war-torn territories of South-East Asia, the British were now trying to draw W ashington into a firm commitment towards the region. They knew that American financial support was vital for the success of their South-East Asian plans. W ith the help of Marshall aid, Britain and the United States had managed to forge an anti-Soviet alliance in Western Europe. London now needed W ashington’s financial support to create an anti-com munist bloc in South and South-East Asia. T hroughout 1949, British ministers and diplom ats therefore bombarded the Americans w ith memoranda and statements about the communist threat to South-East Asia. British diplomacy in 1949 thereby played an im portant part in drawing the United States into the affairs of South-East Asia, and ultimately into the conflict in Indochina. T he Colombo Conference in January 1950 marked the high point of Britain’s regional diplomacy in South and South-East Asia. Against the odds, the British had laid the groundwork for a scheme for international cooperation towards the economic development of the region. In the following months, London pressed on with the Com m onwealth’s regional initiative, which soon became known as the Colombo Plan. In May 1950, the p lan ’s new Consultative Committee met for the first time in Sydney. It decided to draw up six-year development plans for each of the participating Asian countries, and agreed to establish a technical cooperation scheme for the region. In October 1950, the Colombo P lan’s second meeting in London drew up a report titled The Colombo Plan for Co-operative Economic Develop­ m ent in South and South-East Asia which detailed individual development programmes worth more than 1.8 billion pounds. The required external finance for the programmes amounted to about 1.1 billion pounds. The development plans included projects in the sectors of irrigation, power generation, comm u­ nication, housing, health and education, as well as road and railway construction.37 However, for the Colombo Plan to be successful, the British needed to secure American support, as only the United States could afford to provide the considerable sums that were required. First signs that W ashington was coming round to Britain’s analysis of the situation in South-East Asia had emerged in the form of PPS 51, the American policy paper that bore close

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resemblance to earlier British drafts on South-East Asia. By the end of 1949, W ashington was indicating that it was thinking of providing financial aid to the region. On 30 December 1949, shortly after the final collapse of the Kuom intang government on the Chinese m ainland, T rum an endorsed a National Security Council paper, NSC 48/2, which recommended that W ashington should be prepared to provide political, economic and military assistance to supplem ent the efforts of other governments in resisting comm unism in Asia. As a matter of urgency, 75 m illion dollars were program med for the area.38 Three months later, an official American fact-finding mission to South-East Asia under the publisher R. Allen Griffin recommended giving aid to the French in Indochina. On 8 May 1950, six weeks before the outbreak of the Korean War, Acheson announced that the United States would send economic and military aid to the French in Indochina. Indochina and Indonesia were assigned a first grant of 13 m illion dollars.39 The United States had finally become involved in Vietnam. However, while the British welcomed the American commit­ m ent to Indochina, they were increasingly concerned about the lack of American interest in the Commonwealth initiative at Colombo. D uring the first half of 1950, British diplomats kept trying to convince their American counterparts that in addition to any short-term measures in combating communism, a long­ term reconstruction programme was required to stabilise the situation in the region. The Americans were not entirely con­ vinced, especially when the British admitted that W ashington would be presented with a staggering bill as a result of the Com m onwealth’s development plan.40 However, after the out­ break of the Korean War in June 1950, W ashington was begin­ ning to approach the British-sponsored Commonwealth initiative with a more open mind. During the Colombo Plan meeting in London in October 1950, Colombo Plan members decided that external aid should be granted on a bilateral basis rather than being channelled through a central allocating agency such as the OEEC.41 This met one of the conditions for American involvement in the plan and W ashington subsequently gave the Commonwealth initiative its support and blessing.42 During the third meeting of the Colombo Plan in February 1951, the United States attended as a full member. T he establishment of the Colombo Plan was undoubtedly a

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considerable diplom atic achievement by the British. In addition to India, Ceylon, Pakistan and B ritain’s Malayan territories, countries like Indochina, Nepal, Burma, Indonesia, Thailand, the Philippines and Japan joined the organisation in the follow­ ing years. Of the Western countries involved, the United States became by far the most im portant donor. Between 1950 and 1961, the United States provided a total of 8.3 billion dollars in bilateral loans, grants and technical assistance. Britain’s con­ tribution to the plan was m uch smaller, totalling about 250 m illion pounds between 1951 and 1961. In addition, Britain used the Colombo Plan to release some of the sterling balances held by India, Pakistan and Ceylon, worth another 250 m illion pounds, until 1958.43 Despite this, the British soon had to realise that their initial hopes and expectations connected to their policy of regional cooperation had been pegged too high. In fact, the Colombo Plan never fully lived up to its expectations for the economic development of Asia. T hough the United States provided far more financial assistance than the cash-strapped British, the p la n ’s impact on Asia could hardly be compared with the far more significant effects of Marshall aid to Europe. According to Lalita Prasad Singh, the Colombo P lan ’s total value of external capital assistance to South and South-East Asia amounted to almost 10 billion dollars between 1951 and 1961. This only made up one quarter of all the development programmes funded by the regional governments themselves. Most of the assistance con­ sisted of loans rather than grants. Furthermore, the total expendi­ ture on technical aid provided under the Colombo Plan between 1950 and 1965 amounted to just over 220 m illion pounds. Of this, 176 m illion pounds were provided by the United States. The prim e recipients were Indonesia, Vietnam, India and T hailand.44 As an inform ation pam phlet by the Colombo Plan Bureau explained in 1962, the p lan ’s assistance only supplemented the national effort, and was generally of a m arginal character.45 Apart from having only a limited impact on the economic development of South and South-East Asia, the high political hopes connected to the Colombo Plan were never fulfilled either, as it failed to develop into the kind of anti-com munist bloc envisaged by the Foreign Office in 1949. The main problem remained India, who refused to be drawn into an anti-com munist alignm ent, and who instead tried to act as mediator in the

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conflicts in Korea and in Indochina. The British equally failed to use the new regional organisation as a means of prom oting British political influence in the region. After 1950, Britain’s dom inant position in South-East Asia was increasingly taken over by the United States. In 1951, the creation of the ANZUS defence treaty, which excluded Britain but included Australia and New Zealand in an American-sponsored defence system in the Pacific, was an embarrassing indicator of Britain’s declining status as a Far Eastern power. Bevin’s hope that W ashington would provide the finance and London the political leadership in South-East Asia had obviously been wishful thinking. W ith hindsight, L ondon’s regional policy between 1945 and 1950 can be described as an inspired attempt at m anaging B ritain’s decline as a great power in Asia. Having briefly harboured plans for the expansion of Britain’s regional hegemony in 1945, the Foreign Office subsequently aimed to replace Britain’s dw indling colonial power base in South and South-East Asia with a less formal system of British influence in the region. Diplomacy was to substitute colonial and military might. The Colombo Conference and the subsequent establish­ ment of the Colombo Plan were the high point of London’s regional plans, a last attem pt to regain the political initiative in South-East Asia. But they failed to stem the tide that was running against all the European colonial powers in Asia. After a last m oment of diplom atic glory during the Geneva Conference on Indochina in 1954, the British were slowly abandoning their position in the region. In 1957, London granted independence to Malaya, followed by Singapore in 1961. In 1968, at the height of the Vietnam War, the British decided to withdraw all troops from South-East Asia by 1971.

Notes

1 WARTIME PLANNING AND DIPLOMACY 1 A. Gorst, ‘Facing Facts? The Labour Government and Defence Policy 1945-1950’, in N. Tiratsoo ed., T h e A ttlee Years, London, 1991, pp. 192-93. 2 D. Childs, B ritain sin ce 1945, 2nd edn, London, 1986, pp.23-24. 3 R. Jeffrey, ‘India: Independence and the Rich Peasant’, in R. Jeffrey ed., A sia - the W in n in g o f In depen den ce, London, 1987 (paperback), pp.94-6. 4 K.O. Morgan, L a b o u r in P o w er, 1945-1951, Oxford, 1985 (paperback), p.219. 5 D.K. Fieldhouse, ‘T he Labour Governments and the Empire-Com­ m on wealth, 1945-51’, in R. Ovendale ed., T h e F oreign P olicy o f the B ritish L a b o u r G o vern m en ts, 1945-1951, Leicester, 1984, p.86. 6 See J. Kent, ‘Bevin’s Imperialism and the Idea of Euro-Africa, 1945— 49’, in M. Dockrill and J.W. Young eds, B ritish F oreign P o licy, 194556, London, 1989. 7 FO 371, 54017, F 1933, memo for the Foreign Secretary, 31 January 1946. 8 CAB 134/287, FE (O) (49) 43, 20 July 1949, preliminary report of the Econom ic Survey Working Party. 9 L.A. Mills, S ou th ea st A sia, M inneapolis, 1964, pp.229-230. 10 CAB 134/287, FE (O) (49) 43, 20 July 1949, preliminary report of the Econom ic Survey W orking Party. 1 1 N . Mansergh ed., D o cu m en ts an d Speeches on B ritish C o m ­ m o n w ea lth A ffairs, 1931-1952, Vol.2, London, 1953, pp.760-5: extracts from a government White Paper, May 1945. 12 See Mills, S o u th ea st A sia , p.254. 13 A.J. Stockwell, B ritish P o licy an d M alay P o litics d u rin g the M alayan U n ion E x p erim en t, 1945-1948, Kuala Lumpur, 1979, p.24. Although theoretically responsible to the War Office, the Malayan Planning U nit was staffed by colonial personnel and was supervised by the C olonial Office’s Eastern Department headed by Sir Edward Gent. 14 A.J. Stockwell, ‘C olonial Planning during World War II: The Case

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28 29

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of Malaya’, in Jou rn al o f Im p eria l an d C o m m o n w ea lth H isto ry, Vol.2, No.3, May 1974, pp.333-4. Stockwell, B ritish P o licy an d M alay P o litics, p.30; also CAB 65/42, WM (44) 70th conclusion, minute 3, 31 May 1944. Apparently, the War Office feared that early publicity w ould prejudice the renegotia­ tion of the Anglo-M alay treaties. The Malaysian Planning U nit was subsequently transferred to Ceylon as a military unit w ithin the headquarters of SEAC, w hile Sir Harold MacMichael of the Colonial Office prepared to negotiate new treaties with the Malay rulers after the eventual reoccupation of Malaya. C. Thorne, A llies o f a K in d - the U n ited States, B ritain an d the W ar again st Japan , 1941-1945, Oxford, 1978 (paperback), pp.613-14. See P. Dennis, T ro u b led D ays o f Peace - M o u n tb a tten and S ou th East A sia C o m m a n d , 1945-46, Manchester, 1987, pp.79-80. The civil affairs agreement was extended to the w hole of Indonesia after the extension of SEAC’s boundaries in September 1945. J.J. Sbrega, ‘“First Catch your Hare”: Anglo-American Perspectives on Indochina during the Second World War’, in Journal o f S ou th east A sian S tu dies, Vol. 14, N o .l, March 1983, p.72. During the final months of his life, Roosevelt was beginning to accept the reim posi­ tion of French rule in Indochina; see W. LaFeber, ‘Roosevelt, Churchill, and Indochina: 1942-45’, in T h e A m erican H istorical R eview , V ol.80, No.5, December 1975. See C. Thorne, ‘Indochina and Anglo-American Relations, 19421945’, in P acific H isto rica l R e v ie w , No.45, 1976, p.84, quoting Sir Alexander Cadogan, Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office in November 1944. FO 371, 46545, FE (45) 29, ‘Policy towards Siam ’, 14 July 1945. Thorne, A llies o f a K in d , p.61. See W.R. Louis, Im p e ria lism at Bay, 1941-1945. T h e U n ited States and the D isso lu tio n o f the B ritish E m p ire , Oxford, 1977, p.231. ibid., p.256. Hansard, P arliam en tary D ebates, House of Commons, Vol.391, 13 July 1943, col. 142. See H. Corkran, P attern s o f In tern a tio n a l C o o p era tio n in the C arib­ bean, 1942-1969, Dallas, 1970, pp.8ff. CO 968/158/5, annexed paper titled ‘An Account of International Co-operation in C olonial Areas’, 1944. The paper stressed that independent South American countries which could be considered part of the Caribbean region m ight become involved in the Carib­ bean C om m ission’s work. Mansergh, D o cu m en ts an d Speeches, pp. 1157-64, agreement between H is Majesty’s Government in the Commonwealth of Australia and H is Majesty’s Government in New Zealand, signed at Canberra, 21 January 1944; also CAB 66/46, WP (44) 70, memo by the D om inions Secretary, 2 February 1944. CAB 66/49, WP (44) 211, memo by the Colonial Office, 18 April 1944. CAB 66/59, WP (44) 738, ‘International Aspects of Colonial Policy’, 16 December 1944.

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30 CO 968/158/5, extract from enclosures attached to letter from Poynton, W ashington, to Gent, 22 September 1944. 31 FO 371, 41727 A, F 2196, memo by Hudson, Foreign Office Research Dept (FORD), 5 May 1944. 32 CO 968/159/6, m inute by Caine, 26 May 1944. 33 CAB 66/49, WP (44) 211, memo by the Colonial Office, 18 April 1944. 34 FO 371, 41727 A, F 2196, memo by Hudson, FORD, 5 May 1944. 35 See CO 968/158/6, m inute by J.J. Paskin, 13 May 1944. 36 CO 968/159/7, memo on ‘Post-war Security in the Indian Ocean’ by Maurice Gwyer, n.d., enclosed in a letter from Amery to Stanley, 8 November 1944. 37 CO 968/159/7, m inutes by Sabben Clare, 28 November 1944; Rolleston, 1 December 1944; and Robinson, 4 December 1944. 38 CO 968/159/7, Stanley to Amery, 11 December 1944. 39 CO 968/159/6, extract, titled ‘Far East’, from a CO paper, n.d. 40 CO 968/159/6, m inute by Caine, 26 May 1944. 41 CAB 66/59, WP (44) 738, ‘International Aspects of Colonial Policy’, 16 December 1944. 42 CO 968/159/6, draft titled ‘R egional Organisation Proposals for Far Eastern C olonies’. 43 CAB 66/63, WP (45) 200, annexed memo by Stanley, 19 March 1945. 44 Louis, Im p e ria lism at Bay, p.459. The formula stated that territorial trusteeship would apply to the mandates of the League of Nations, to territories detached from the enemy as a result of this war and to any other territories that m ight voluntarily be placed under trusteeship. 45 CAB 66/63, WP (45) 200, annexed memo by Stanley, 19 March 1945. 46 CAB 87/69, APW (45), 8th meeting of the Armistice and Post-War Committee, 26 March 1945. 47 R. Buckley, O ccu p a tio n D ip lo m a c y - B ritain , the U n ited States and Japan , 1945-1952, Cambridge, 1982, p.8. Buckley points out that by the time of VJ Day British policy towards Japan had not been clearly defined either; ibid., p.22. 48 FO 371, 46328, F 3943, memo by Sterndale Bennett, 8 June 1945. 49 FO 371, 46328, F 3943. T he results of the meeting are summarised in a m inute by Sterndale Bennett, dated 3 July 1945. 50 FO 371, 46424, F 9753, Bevin to Lord Pethick-Lawrence, 14 November 1945. 51 FO 371, 46424, F 9753, Bevin to D ening (SEAC), tel. 1196, 8 December 1945. Further material in FO 371, 54012, F 248ff. 52 FO 371, 46328, F 3944, memo by Dening, 26 June 1945, and his attached terms of reference. See also FO 371, 46434, F 8195, memo by Sterndale Bennett, 9 October 1945. 53 FO 371, 46328, F 3944, memo by Dening, 26 June 1945. 54 FO 371, 46328, F 3944, departmental memos by Sterndale Bennett from July 1945. 55 FO 371, 46328, F 3944, Sargent to Machtig, DO, 2 August 1945. 56 See FO 371, 46328, F 5357, for the reply of the India and Burma offices; ibid., F 5602 for the Air Ministry’s reply; and ibid., F 5684, for that of the D om inions Office.

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57 FO 371, 46328, F 5598, Bovenschen to Sargent, 21 August 1945. 58 CO 273/677/50908, m inute by Bourdillon, 27 June 1945, summaris­ ing a m eeting held between 24 and 26 June. 59 CO 273/677/50908, minute by Bourdillon, 27 June 1945. 60 CO 273/677/50908, minute by Gent, 7 August 1945. 61 CO 273/677/50908, minutes by Gater, 8 and 11 August 1945. 62 FO 371, 46328, F 5239, Gater to Sargent, 13 August 1945.

2 T H E DILEMMA OF PEACE IN SOUTH-EAST ASIA 1 C. Thorne, A llies o f a K in d - T h e U n ited States, B ritain and the W ar again st Japan , 1941-1945, Oxford, 1978 (paperback), p.523; also R. Butler and M.E. Pelly eds, D o cu m en ts on B ritish P olicy Overseas, Series I, Vol.I, 1945: T h e C onference at P o tsd a m J u ly -A u g u st 1945, London, 1984: document 183, meeting of Combined Chiefs of Staff Committee, 18 July 1945, CCS 195th m eeting (CAB 99/39): and document 193, m eeting of Combined Chiefs of Staff, 19 July 1945, CCS 196th m eeting (CAB 99/39). 2 For a discussion of the boundaries decision see R.J. McMahon, C o lo n ia lism a n d C old W ar - the U n ited States and the Struggle fo r In don esia n In depen den ce, 1945-49, Ithaca and London, 1981, pp. 76-

83. 3 S.W. Kirby, T h e W ar aga in st Japan , Vol.V, T h e Surrender o f Japan, London, 1969, p.226. 4 P. Dennis, T ro u b led D ays o f Peace - M o u n tb a tten and South-E ast A sia C o m m a n d , 1945-46, Manchester, 1987, p. 11. 5 T h e W orld at War, Channel Four, penultimate programme in the British television series. 6 Vice-Admiral the Earl Mountbatten of Burma, P ost-Surrender Tasks: R e p o rt to the C o m b in ed C hiefs o f Staff by the S u prem e A llied C om m an d er, S ou th -E ast A sia, 1943-1945, London, 1969, p.282; and J. Ehrman, G ran d S trategy, V ol.6, London, 1956, p.255. 7 Kirby, T h e W ar aga in st Japan , p.65. 8 J.H. Esterline and M.H. Esterline, H o w the D o m in o es Fell Sou th east A sia in P erspective, Lanham, 1986, p.219. 9 J. Pluvier, Sou th -E ast A sia fro m C olon ialism to In depen den ce,

Kuala Lumpur, 1974, p.391. For Mountbatten’s role in Burma see N. Tarling, ‘Lord Mountbatten and the Return of Civil Government to Burma’, in Jou rn al o f Im p eria l and C o m m o n w ea lth Studies, V ol.11, No.2, January 1983, pp. 197-226. 10 ibid., pp.230-4. 11 ibid., pp.365-6 and 369-71. Recent literature on Britain and Indo­ nesia: P. Dennis, T ro u b led D ays o f Peace; McMahon, C olon ialism an d C old War.

12 FO 371, 46353, F 9497, D ening to Sterndale Bennett, 5 October 1945. 13 P.M. Dunn, T h e F irst V ietn am War, London, 1985. For a more critical appreciation of Britain’s postwar involvement in Indochina in the recent literature see Dennis, T ro u b led D ays of Peace. A good

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selection of documents on British policies in postwar Indochina can be found in PREM 8/63. 14 Mountbatten Papers, Southam pton University, MB 1/ C l 50, Killearn to Bevin, 27 April 1946. 15 On the Combined Food Board see S.M. Rosen, T h e C o m b in ed B oards o f the Secon d W orld War, New York, 1951, pp. 191-256. 16 Account based on Kirby, T h e W ar again st Japan , pp.238-41; and Mountbatten Papers, MB 1/ C l 50, Killearn to Bevin, 27 April 1946. 17 Butler and Pelly, D o cu m en ts on B ritish P o licy Overseas, Series I, Vol.I, 1945, p. 1256: document 599, letter from Dening to Sterndale Bennett, 2 August 1945, No. 1691 (F 5022/47/23); also CO 273/677/ 50908/1, Sterndale Bennett to Anderson, 12 September 1945, enclos­ in g letter from D ening to the FO, 2 August 1945. 18 ibid. 19 FO 371, 46434, F 7496, D ening (SEAC) to Sterndale Bennett, 18 September 1945. 20 FO 371, 54020, F 5385, Jacob (WO) to D ixon (FO), 13 September 1945, com m enting on a memo from a top SEAC official which is m issing in the FO files. 21 FO 371, 54020, F 5385, memo by Sterndale Bennett, 19 September 1945. 22 FO 371, 46434, F 8195, memo by Sterndale Bennett, 9 October 1945. 23 FO 371, 46329, F 8951, meeting of ministers, 18 October 1945. 24 CO 273/677/50908/1, memo dated 14 November 1945. 25 CO 273/677/50908/1, Davies to McGregor, 11 December 1945. 26 See CO 273/677/50908/1, minute by Mayle, 22 October 1945; and Davies to McGregor, 11 December 1945. 27 CO 273/677/50908/1, McGregor to Brooke, cabinet Office, 30 November 1945. T he only ‘econom ic’ department opposed to the principle of regional cooperation was the Ministry of Supply. 28 FO 371, 46329, F 9498, memo by Sterndale Bennett, 2 November 1945. 29 CAB 78/39, G E N .lO l/lst meeting, 19 November 1945. 30 ibid. 31 FO 371, 46424, F 12106, D ening to Bevin, 30 November 1945. 32 See CO 273/677/50908/1, m inute by Davies, 18 December 1945. 33 FO 371, 46303, F 12337, G EN.101/2nd meeting, informal meeting at the cabinet Office, 18 December 1945. 34 CO 273/677/50908/1, m inute by Robinson, 21 December 1945. 35 CO 273/677/50908/1, Gater to Armstrong, 21 December 1945. 36 T he C olonial Secretary had first told Parliament about his plans for a Malayan U nion on 10 October 1945, om itting, however, the planned appointm ent of a Malayan Governor-General. See Hansard, P arliam en tary D ebates, House of Commons, Vol.414, col.255, 10 October 1945. 37 FO 371, 54017, F 333, D ening to FO, tel.43, 5 January 1946. 38 FO 371, 54017, F 822, D ening to FO, tel.106, 15 January 1946. 39 FO 371, 54017, F 334, minute by Sterndale Bennett, 27 January 1946. See also ibid., F 333, m inute by W ilson-Young, 12 January 1946. 40 FO 371, 53974, F 348, m inute by W ilson-Young, 8 January 1946.

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41 42 43 44 45

CO 273/677/50908/1, Cadogan to Gater, 10 January 1946. FO 371, 53974, F 1069, Gater to Cadogan, 17 January 1946. FO 371, 53974, F 1069, m inute by Sterndale Bennett, 27 January 1946. FO 371, 54017, F 1933, memo dated 31 January 1946. See Mountbatten Papers, M B1/C30/18, Mountbatten to Bevin, n.d.; ibid., M B1/C30/21, Mountbatten to Bevin, SC H 6/96/B, 6 February 1946; also FO 800/461, file page 108, draft tel. from Bevin to Clark Kerr, 28 January 1946. The D ening incident is also discussed in Dennis, T ro u b led D ays o f Peace, pp. 184-7. 46 See FO 371, 54017, F 2336, copy of a letter from the FO to the Secretary of the COS, 6 February 1946.

3 ‘FAMINE AVERTED’: T H E SPECIAL COMMISSION IN SINGAPORE 1 CAB 128/5, CM (16) 5th meeting, 15 January 1946. 2 CAB 129/5, CP (46) 28, memo by the Minister of Food, 29 January 1946. 3 S.M. Rosen, T h e C o m b in ed B oards o f the Second W orld War, New York 1951, p.253. 4 See J. Pluvier, S ou th -E ast A sia fro m C olon ialism to In depen den ce, Kuala Lumpur, 1974, p.407. 5 CAB 128/5, CM (46) 10th meeting, 31 January 1946; and FO 371, 54017, F 2933, FO to Bangkok, tel.115, 21 February 1946. In December, Britain eventually gave up its last demands for free or cheap rice deliveries and agreed to pay the world market price in full. 6 FO 371, 54017, F 2036, FO to Cairo, tel.180, 2 February 1946; FO 800/ 461, FO to Cairo, tel. 181, 3 February 1946, file page 122. 7 FO 371, 54017, F 2037, Cairo to FO, tel.171, 4 February 1946. 8 F0 371, 54017, F 2478, conclusions of a m eeting at the FO, 12 February 1946; and CAB 134/677, SEAF (46) 1st m eeting, 18 February 1946. Executive action w ithin the committee fell to the Ministry of Food, the Board of Trade or the Ministry of Supply. 9 FO 371, 54018, F 3117, FO to SEAC, tel.377, 1 March 1946. 10 FO 371, 54018, F 3117, FO to SEAC, tel.378, 1 March 1946. 11 CAB 134/678, SEAF (46) 34, 13 March 1946. 12 See PREM 8/189, Bevin to Prime Minister, PM /45/47, 13 December 1945, for the difficulties of finding a suitable candidate. 13 See Peter Lowe, B ritain in the Far East: A Survey fro m 1819 to the P resent, New York, 1981, pp. 132-4. 14 W.R. Louis, T h e B ritish E m p ire in the M iddle East, 1945-1951, Oxford, 1985 (paperback), p. 49. 15 ibid., pp.48-50, 226-64. 16 S u nday T im es, 24 February 1946. 17 N e w s C hron icle, 19 February 1946 18 See Rosen, T h e C o m b in ed B oards, p.256 19 CAB 21/1956 (also F 5076/286/61), Killearn to Bevin, received 6 April 1948, ‘Work of the Special Commission in South-East Asia’.

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20 CAB 134/418, IOC (FE) (47) 1, 9 January 1948, report of the UK delegate on ECAFE, 2nd session, Baguio, November-December 1948. 21 CAB 21/1956 (also F 5076/286/61), Killearn to Bevin, received 6 April 1948, ‘Work of the Special Comm ission in South-East Asia’. 22 FO 371, 54017, F 2037, Cairo to Foreign Secretary, tel. 171, 4 February 1945. Killearn also asked for equal pay to his job in Cairo - a demand w hich nearly caused a rift with Bevin; see FO 800/461, draft telegram from Bevin to Killearn, February 1946, not sent, file page 146. 23 Off-the-record interview by the author with a former Foreign Office member of the Rice Committee in London. 24 FO 371, 68911, UE 2923, ‘Survey of the Economic Organisation of the Special Commissioner in South-East Asia’. 25 CAB 21/1956 (also F 5076/286/61), Killearn to Bevin, received 6 April 1948, ‘Work of the Special Comm ission in South-East Asia’. 26 A.S.B. Olver, ‘The Special Comm ission in South-East Asia’, in P acific A ffairs, Vol.21, No.3, September 1948, p.290, quoting an article in Sin C hew J ih P ao, 23 August 1946. Malayan comment on the series of special regional conferences convened by Killearn was more positive. 27 CAB 21/1956 (also F 5076/286/61), Killearn to Bevin, received 6 April 1948, ‘Work of the Special Commission in South-East Asia’. The outline of the Special Com m ission’s econom ic work is also based on Killearn’s reports in CAB 21/1956, Killearn to Bevin, 28 August 1946, F 12907/3/61; and ibid., Killearn to Bevin, 15 October 1946, F 15749/ 3/61. 28 Killearn Diaries, St Antony’s College, Oxford, 1946, V ol.l, 30 April 1946. 29 ibid., 1946, Vol.2, 19 June 1946. 30 ibid., 1946, V ol.l, 5 June 1946. 31 ibid., 1946, Vol.2, 18 July 1946. 32 CO 537/1437, Killearn to FO, tel. 12 Saving, 17 June 1946. A first draft was sent to the Foreign Office at the end of April; see FO 371, 54020, F 6352, Killearn to FO, tel.315, 25 April 1946. 33 Killearn Diaries, 1947, 1 January 1947. 34 FO 371, 53995, F 7340, Killearn to FO, tel.285, 21 April 1946. The m eeting included Mountbatten, the British consul-general in Bangkok, Thom pson, and the governors of the British territories in Malaya.

4 REGIONAL COOPERATION AND REGIONAL DEFENCE 1 A. Bullock, E rnest B evin - F oreign Secretary 1945-51, Oxford, 1985, (paperback), pp. 135-6. 2 ibid., pp.235-8. 3 See J. Lewis, C h a n g in g D irectio n - B ritish M ilitary P la n n in g fo r P o stw a r S trategic D efence, 1942-1947, London, 1988.

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4 CAB 81/46, PH P (45) 29 (0) (Final), ‘The Security of the British Empire’, 29 June 1945. 5 CAB 79/36, COS (45) 175th meeting, 12 July 1945. 6 CAB 134/280, FE (O) (45) 52, paper titled ‘British Foreign Policy in the Far East’, dated 31 December 1945. The paper was prepared by the Civil P lanning U nit (CPU), a new sub-committee of the Official Far Eastern Committee. The JPS’s contribution was added in February. T he meetings and memoranda of the CPU, which stopped its work in February 1946, can be found in CAB 130/4 and 5. 7 CAB 133/86, PMM (46) 1, ‘Strategic Position of the Comm onwealth’, 20 April 1946. 8 CAB 133/86, PMM (46) 1st meeting, 23 April 1946. 9 According to Bevin’s Private Secretary between 1947 and 1949, Frank Roberts, Bevin believed that British industrial workers had to understand that markets could only be found if the standard of life of the peasant masses in the (third) world was improved. See F.K. Roberts, ‘Ernest Bevin as Foreign Secretary’, in R. Ovendale ed., T h e F oreign P o licy o f B ritish L a b o u r G overn m en ts, 1945-51, Leicester, 1984, p.28. 10 See CAB 133/86, PMM (46) 2nd meeting, 23 April 1946, item 1 only: strategic position of the British Commonwealth, not recorded. T hough no direct evidence for a link between South-East Asian defence and econom ic cooperation during the conference could be found at the PRO, a meeting of British ministers and officials prior to the m eeting emphasised that defence discussions would include the question of strategic responsibilities. It was also stressed that Bevin’s statement at the beginning of the conference w ould have special relation to the Pacific and South-East Asia; see PREM 8/179, DPM (46) 1st meeting, 3 April 1946, cabinet committee on prepara­ tions for the m eeting of dom inion Prime Ministers. 11 R.H. Fifield, T h e D ip lo m a c y o f S ou th east Asia: 1945-1958, New York, 1968, p.242. 12 CAB 133/86, PMM (46) 1st meeting, 23 April 1946. 13 CAB 133/86, PMM (46) 4th meeting, 25 April 1946. 14 Chifley referred to Australia’s differing view of the Soviet threat during the 10th m eeting of Commonwealth Prime Ministers on 2 May; see CAB 133/86, PMM (46) 10th meeting, 2 May 1946.The same view seems to have been expressed on the day of Bevin’s initial speech. 15 CAB 133/86, PMM (46) 4th meeting, 25 April 1946. 16 ibid. 17 CAB 133/86, PMM (46) 17, ‘Economic and Welfare Cooperation in South Seas and South-East Asia Areas’, memo by the Australian Prime Minister, 27 April 1947. 18 DO 35/1620, Poynton to Sterndale Bennett, 26 April 1946. 19 DO 3 5 / 1620, Allen to Poynton, 29 April 1946. 20 CO 537/1437, memo dated 29 April 1946. 21 FO 371, 54068, F 6596, m inute by Allen, 4 May 1946, and memo by the FO’s South-East Asia Department, 2 May 1946. Further brief

Notes

22 23

24

25 26

225

accounts of the m eeting in CO 537/1437, minute by Poynton, 3 May 1946; and DO 35/1620, m inute by Price, 6 May 1946. The meeting was attended by Poynton and Robinson (CO), Allen (FO), Price and Davies (DO), Morley (BO) and E.A. Armstrong (Cabinet Office). CAB 133/86, PMM (46) 11th meeting, 3 May 1946. CAB 133/86, PMM (46) 5th meeting, 26 April 1946. The American government was subsequently sent an appropriate message but declined to participate in regional defence arrangements in the South-West Pacific. N. Mansergh ed., D o cu m en ts an d Speeches on B ritish C o m ­ m o n w ea lth A ffairs, 1931-1952, Vol.2, London, 1953, pp. 1050-2: agreement establishing the South Pacific Commission, 6 February 1947. It came into force one year later on 29 July 1948. (For an outline of the work of the South Pacific Comm ission see R.C. Lawson, In tern atio n a l R e g io n a l O rga n isa tio n s, New York, 1962, pp.251-5.) DO 35/1621, Singapore to FO, tel.783, 2 June 1946. T he agreement was subsequently extended to the defence of Malaya, and in the spring of 1955 Australia and New Zealand stationed military units in Malaya. See A. Watt, T h e E vo lu tio n of A ustralian F oreign P o licy, 1938-1965, Cambridge, 1967, pp. 163-6.

5 INDIA, VIETNAM AND TH E LIM ITS OF COLONIAL COOPERATION 1 N. Owen, “ ‘Responsibility without Power” - the Attlee Govern­ ments and the End of British Rule in India’, in N. Tiratsoo ed., T h e A ttlee Years, London, 1991, p. 173, quoting a letter from Wavell to Pethick-Lawrence in November 1945. 2 R. Jeffrey, ‘India: Independence and the Rich Peasant’, in R. Jeffrey ed., A sia - the W in n in g o f In depen den ce, London, 1987 (paperback), pp.99-101; and K.O. Morgan, L a b o u r in P ow er, 1945-1951, Oxford, 1985 (paperback), p p .219-24. 3 For Attlee’s role in Burma see K. Harris, A ttlee, London, 1984 (paperback), pp.355-62. 4 J. Pluvier, S ou th -E ast A sia fro m C olon ialism to In depen den ce, Kuala Lumpur, 1974, pp.389-92. 5 ibid., pp.394-6. 6 ibid. 7 FO 371, 53995, F 7340, memo by Stent, 24 April 1946. It is unlikely that his paper influenced the interdepartmental talks on regional cooperation held at the FO on 2 May, since Allen only found time to com m ent on it on 8 May. 8 FO 371, 53995, F 7340, minute by Allen, 8 May 1946. 9 CO 537/1478, m inutes by Bourdillon, Sidebotham, Mayle and Lloyd from 17 June, 18 June, 2 July and 17 July 1946. 10 CO 537/1478, Donaldson (IO) to Allen (FO), 22 August 1946. 11 D. Marr, ‘Vietnam: Harnessing the w hirlw ind’, in Jeffrey, A sia, p.204.

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12 Pluvier, Sou th -E ast A sia, p.415. 13 See A.D. Griffiths, ‘Britain, the United States and French Indochina 1946-1954’, unpublished thesis, University of Manchester, March 1984, p.77. 14 Hansard, P arliam en tary D ebates, House of Commons, Vol.433, 19 February 1947. 15 FO 371, 63542, F 1423, m inute by Whitteridge, 6 February 1947. 16 FO 371, 63549, F 2616, memo titled ‘British Policy in South-East Asia’, 24 January 1947. 17 CAB 21/1956, F 12907, report by Killearn to Bevin, 24 August 1946. 18 Killearn Diaries, St A ntony’s College, Oxford, 1946, Vol.2, 15 August 1946. 19 ibid., 1946, Vol.2, 2 September 1946. 20 FO 371, 53912, F 13076, Singapore to FO, tel.2026,8 September 1946. 21 ibid. 22 ibid. 23 CAB 21/1956, F 15749, Killearn to Bevin, 15 October 1946. 24 FO 371, 54046, F 16726, D ening to F.W.H. Smith (BO), 18 November 1946. 25 Marr, ‘Vietnam ’, p.204; and Pluvier, S outh -E ast A sia, p.440. 26 FO 371, 54046, F 16726, D ening to F.W.H. Smith (BO), 18 November 1946. 27 See J.W. Young, B ritain , France an d the U n ity o f E urope, 1945-1951, Leicester, 1984, p.41. 28 See Morgan, L a b o u r in P ow er, p.268. 29 J. Kent, ‘Bevin’s Imperialism and the Idea of Euro-Africa, 1945-49’, in M. Dockrill and J.W. Young eds, B ritish F oreign P olicy, 1945-56, London, 1989, p.49. 30 FO 371, 54046, F 16726, minute by S.H. Hebblethwaite, com m enting on D ening’s letter, 19 November 1946. 31 FO 371, 53969, F 17983, F.W.H. Smith to Dening, 12 December 1946. 32 Marr, ‘Vietnam’, p.204. For an analysis of the events leading to the outbreak of war see S. Tonneson, ‘The Longest Wars: Indochina 1945-75’, in J ou rn al o f Peace R esearch, Vol.22, N o .l, 1985, pp. 12-17; and S. Tonneson, 1946: D eclen ch em en t de la G uerre dT n doch in e, Paris, 1987. For a commented selection of French governmental documents relevant to the outbreak of war in Indochina see P. Devillers, P aris - S aigon - H a n o i, Paris, 1988. 33 C.H. Heimsath and S. Mansingh, A D ip lo m a tic H isto ry o f M odern In dia, Calcutta, 1971, p.253. 34 ibid., pp.322-3. 35 T .T . T hien, In d ia an d S ou th -E ast A sia, 1947-1960, Geneva, 1963, pp. 122-3. These events were reported in the British press, see for example T h e T im es, 24 January 1947, reporting that a dem on­ stration by com m unists and admirers of Subhas Chandra Bose (the Indian wartime collaborator with the Japanese) in front of the French consulate in Bombay had caused two deaths and fourteen people being injured. 36 FO 371, 63518, F 560, Lloyd to Dening, 11 January 1947.

Notes 227 37 FO 371, 63518, F 757, F.W .H.Smith to Dening, received 20 January 1947. 38 FO 371, 63542, F 1035, tel.202, Killearn to FO, 26 January 1947. In an apparent effort to put pressure on London, Paris hinted to the American press that both France and Britain were contem plating an econom ic regional organisation also including the Dutch; see N ew Y ork T im es, 20 February 1947. 39 FO 371, 63542, F 1201, Paris to FO, tel.96 A, 29 January 1947. 40 FO 371, 63542, F 1035, m inute by Whitteridge, 30 January 1947. 41 FO 371, 63542, F 1035, m inute by Moynehan, 31 January 1947. 42 FO 371, 63542, F 1201, m inute by Dening, 1 February 1947. 43 FO 371, 63542, F 1423, tel.112, Cooper (Paris) to FO, 3 February 1947. 44 FO 371, 63542, F 1423, minute by Whitteridge, 6 February 1947. 45 FO 371, 63542, F 1035, draft minute to the Prime Minister, February 1947, enclosed in a note from D ening to Bevin, 10 February 1947. 46 FO 371, 63542, F 10184, m inute by Allen. 47 For W hitehall’s debate on this issue see R.J. Moore, Escape fro m E m p ire - the A ttlee G o ve rn m e n t an d the In dian P roblem , Oxford, 1983, pp.220-34. 48 FO 371, 63542, F 1201, FO to Singapore, tel.375, 14 February 1947. 49 Hansard, P arliam en tary D ebates, House of Commons, Vol.435, 24 March 1947. 50 Griffiths, thesis, p .75, quoting FO 371, 63457, F 13675, minute by Street, 13 October 1947.

6 SINGAPORE AND T H E RADIATION OF BRITISH INFLU ENCE’ 1 FO 371, 63549, F 2616, ‘Stock-Taking Memorandum - Far East’, com piled by Dening, 22 February 1947. It appears, however, that the paper preceded the second paper (below) and was written in January. 2 FO 371, 63549, F 2616, ‘British Policy in South-East Asia’, 24 January 1947. 3 ibid. 4 ibid. 5 ibid. 6 ibid. 7 FO 371, 63547, F 1969, memo titled ‘South-East Asia’ by Dening, 7 February 1947. 8 ibid. 9 ibid. 10 ibid. 11 FO 371, 63547, F 1969, ‘Record of a Meeting Summoned by the Secretary of State to Discuss South-East Asia’, 8 February 1947. 12 FO 371, 63518, F 560, D ening to Killearn, 20 February 1947. 13 FO 371, 63518, F 560, minute by Whitteridge, 19 February 1947. See also ibid., m inute by Lambert, 17 February 1947. 14 FO 371, 63518, F 7103, Wright to Dening, 14 May 1947.

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15 FO 371, 63518, F 8650, D ening to Killearn, 11 July 1947. 16 FO 371, 63518, F 8650, D ening to Seel, 11 July 1947. 17 J. Young, B ritain , France and the U n ity o f E urope, 1945-1951, Leicester, 1984, p.50. For the previous negotiations see ibid., pp.4351. 18 ibid., p .70. 19 J. Kent, ‘Bevin’s Imperialism and the Idea of Euro-Africa, 1945-49’, in M. Dockrill and J.W. Y oung eds, B ritish F oreign P olicy, 1945-56, London, 1989, p.59. 20 FO 371, 63518, F 16507, minute by Dening, 10 December 1947; and ibid., m inute by Harvey, 10 December 1947, for a previous enquiry by Sir S. Caine from the CO. 21 R.J, McMahon, C o lo n ia lism an d C old W ar - the U n ited States and the S tru ggle fo r In d o n esia n In depen den ce, 1945-49, Ithaca and London, 1981, pp. 130, 135. 22 Account based on McMahon, C olo n ia lism an d C old War, pp. 137-68. 23 FO 371, 63631, F 9184, m inute by Mayall, 16 June 1947. Further Dutch arms requests were under consideration; see FO 371, 63631, F 10291, memo dated 16 June 1947, ‘Recent Dutch Requests for Military Supplies’. 24 CAB 128/9, CM (47) 48th, 20 May 1947. 25 FO 371, 63631, F 9184, minute by Allen, 16 June 1947. 26 Reference to this in FO 371, 63631, F 10372, FO to The Hague, tel.699, 29 July 1947. 27 CAB 128/10, CM (47) 54th, 17 June 1947. 28 FO 371, 63631, F 9052, Singapore to FO, tel. 1499, 4 July 1947. 29 FO 371, 63631, F 9052, minute by Street, 7 July 1947. 30 FO 371, 63631, F 9052, minute by Whitteridge, 8 July 1947. 31 FO 371, 63631, F 9052, FO to Singapore, tel.1709, 18 July 1947. 32 T .T . Thien, In d ia an d S ou th -E ast A sia, 1947-1960, Geneva, 1963, p. 103. 33 McMahon, C o lo n ia lism and C old War, pp. 172, 180. 34 A.M. Taylor, In d o n esia n In depen den ce and the U n ited N a tio n s, London, 1960, p .48. 35 See McMahon, C olo n ia lism and C old War, p. 179. 36 FO 371, 63631, F 10291, memo by Sargent, 21 July 1947. 37 FO 371, 63631, F 10290, DO (47), 17th meeting, 23 July 1947. 38 FO 371, 63632, F 10372, staff conference, 28 July 1947. 39 Hansard, P aliam en tary D ebates, House of Commons,Vol.441, 30 July 1947.

7 REGIONAL CO M PETITIO N : INDIA AND AUSTRALIA 1 For a discussion of early Indian influence in South-East Asia see D.G.E. Hall, A H isto ry o f S ou th -E ast A sia, 4th edn, Basingstoke, 1981 (paperback), pp. 12-24. 2 T .T . Thien, In d ia a n d Sou th -E ast A sia, 1947-1960, Geneva, 1963, pp.71-3.

Notes

229

3 Extracts from a broadcast speech by Nehru from New Delhi, 7 September 1946, in A. Appadorai ed., Select D o cu m en ts on In dia's F oreign P o licy a n d R ela tio n s, 1947-1972, Vol.I, Delhi, 1982, pp.2-5. 4 See T. Remme, ‘Britain, the 1947 Asian Relations Conference, and Regional Cooperation in South-East Asia’, in T. Gorst, L. Johnman and W.S. Lucas eds, P o stw a r B ritain , 1945-64, T h em es and P erspec­ tives, London, 1989, pp. 109-34. 5 See C.H. Heimsath and S. Mansingh, A D ip lo m a tic H isto ry o f M odern In dia, Calcutta, 1971, p. 104. 6 FO 371, 54729, W 11239, Monteath to Sargent, 30 September 1946; and ibid., W 12230, m inute by Warner, 9 December 1946. 7 Straits T im es, 19 April 1947. 8 B an gkok P o st, 1 July 1947; also FO 371, 63557, F 9373, Thom pson (Bangkok) to FO, 2 July 1947. 9 V iet N a m N e w s Service, 29 September 1949. For British concerns that the league was infiltrated by communists see FO 371, 69686, F 1216, Thom pson, Bangkok, to SEA Department, no.2/2G /48, 12 January 1948, enclosing a memo by John Coast from 12 January 1948. 10 On the term ‘T he Near N orth’ see R. Varma, A u stralia an d S ou th east A sia - the C rystallisation o f a R e la tio n sh ip , New Delhi, 1974, p. 12. 11 FO 371, 63552, F 3458, extract from statement by Dr Evatt, 26 February 1947. 12 FO 371, 63552, F 4334, Monteath to Sargent, 26 March 1947. 13 CO 537, 2093, m inute by Watt, 18 March 1947. Watt was still unaware of Killearn’s comments below. 14 FO 371, 63552, F 3281, tel.563, Killearn to FO, 10 March 1947. 15 FO 371, 63552, F 4334, Monteath to Sargent, 26 March 1947. 16 FO 371, 63552, F 3269, tel.858, FO to Singapore, 8 April 1947. 17 FO 371, 63543, F 5642, UK H igh Commission in Australia to DO, tel.280, 21 April 1947, follow ing for FO from Killearn. 18 FO 371, 63543, F 5642, minute by Christofas, 28 April 1947. 19 FO 371, 63543, F 5642, minute by Allen, 24 April 1947. 20 FO 371, 65583, W 2919, note by the British H igh Commissioner in W ellington of a conversation with McIntosh, 29 March 1947. 21 FO 371, 63544, F 8250, UKHC Australia to DO, tel.417, 17 June 1947. 22 On the Canberra Conference and Anglo-Australian differences over Japan see R. Buckley, O c cu p a tio n D ip lo m a cy - B ritain , the U n ited States an d Japan 1945-1952, Cambridge, 1982, pp. 142-57. 23 FO 371, 63552, F 5961, m inutes dated 30 May 1947. 24 FO 371, 63552, F 5961, minute by Dening, 30 May 1947. 25 Varma, A u stralia a n d S o u th ea st A sia, p.232.

8 REGIONAL CO M PETITIO N : T H E UNITED NATIONS AND ECAFE 1 L.P. Singh, T h e P o litic s o f E co n o m ic C o o p era tio n in A sia, Col­ umbia, Missouri, 1966, p. 18-22. 2 ibid.

230

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3 CAB 134/417, FE (47) 5 (Revise), 14 May 1947, brief for the UK delegation to the first meeting of ECAFE, summarising continuing British reservations. 4 ibid. 5 FO 371, 62256, UE 960, m inute dated 20 February 1947. 6 FO 371, 62256, UE 960, FO to Singapore, tel.437, 21 February 1947. 7 FO 371, 62257, UE 1265, Singapore to FO, tel.495, 28 February 1947. Killearn’s line was supported by the Governor of Burma; see FO 371, 62257, UE 1265, FO to New York, tel.813, 12 March 1947, repeating tel. 113 from Governor of Burma, n.d. 8 FO 371, 62257, UE 1491, New York to FO, tel.732, 6 March 1947. 9 FO 371, 62257, UE 1265, FO to New York, repeated to Singapore, tel.729, 6 March 1947. 10 FO 371, 62472, UE 1966, Stent to Stevens, 13 March 1947. Stent’s criticism that the FO had failed to consult British posts in South-East Asia in time was shared by Killearn: FO 371, 62473, UE 2515, Singapore to FO, tel.833, 8 April 1947. 11 FO 371, 62472, UE 1966, Stevens to Stent, 17 March 1947. 12 FO 371, 62472, UE 1862, New York to FO, tel.904, 19 March 1947. 13 Singh, P o litic s o f E co n o m ic C o o p era tio n , p.26. 14 ibid., pp.242-3. 15 ibid., pp.65-83. 16 ibid., pp.56-7. 17 See FO 371, 62473, UE 2508, FO to Nanking, tel.385, 4 April 1947. 18 FO 371, 62473, UE 2576, Singapore to FO, tel.833, 8 April 1947. 19 FO 371, 62472, UE 2057, FO to New York, 26 March 1947. 20 CAB 134/417 - IOC (FE) (47) 4, minutes of the First Working Party, Far Eastern Economic Commission, 15 April 1947. Other topics discussed at the m eeting were issues like the permanent site for the new com m ission or the com position of Britain’s delegation attend­ ing ECAFE’s first session in Shanghai in June. An examination of these topics lies outside the scope of this chapter. 21 CAB 134/417 - IOC (FE) (47) 5 (Revise), 14 May 1947, brief for UK delegation to the first meeting of ECAFE. 22 See FO 371,62476, UE 9447, Singapore to FO, tel. 1981,8 October 1947. 23 For a detailed British account of the m eeting see CAB 134/417, IOC (FE) (47) (10), ECAFE, meeting of the Committee of the W hole in New York, July 1947, report of the UK delegate, 24 July 1947. 24 Killearn Diaries, St A ntony’s College, Oxford, 1947, 12 March 1947. 25 See A.S.B. Olver, ‘The Special Commission in South-East Asia’, in P acific A ffairs, V ol.21, No.3, September 1948, p.290; also: D aily T elegraph , 30 July 1946. 26 See FO 371, 63543, F 7570, minutes by Dening, 10 April 1947, and by Allen, 14 April 1947. 27 Straits T im es, 8 November 1947. 28 See R.N. Gardner, S terlin g -D o lla r D ip lo m a cy in C urrent P erspec­ tive, New and expanded edn, New York, 1980, p.309. 29 See FO 371, 63543, F 7570, minutes by Dening, 10 April 1947, and by Allen, 14 April 1947.

Notes 231 30 FO 371, 63543, F 7571, ‘Future of the Special Commissioner in South-East Asia’, report by Allen, 15 March 1947. 31 FO 371, 63543, F 7570, m inute by Dening, 10 April 1947. 32 FO 371, 63543, F 7625, note of a m eeting held at the Treasury on 24 April 1947. So far as the new post’s terms of reference were concerned, the Foreign Office and C olonial Office w ould find an agreement, w hile any successors to MacDonald w ould be chosen by the two respective Secretaries of State. 33 CO 537/2203, m inute by H .T.Bourdillon, 7 May 1947. 34 FO 371, 63544, F 7679, Bevin to Killearn, 6 June 1947. 35 Malcolm MacDonald Papers, Durham University, file 17/2/34, Killearn to Bevin, 4 July 1947. 36 FO 371, 63544, F 7867, tel. 178, Governor-General, Malaya, to S. of S., Colonies, 9 June 1947. 37 FO 371, 63544, F 9770, minute by Allen, 17 July 1947. 38 ibid. 39 ibid. 40 FO 371, 63545, F 12345, Singapore to FO, tel. 1832, 5 September 1947. 41 See CO 537/2205, CRO to UK H igh Commissioner, Australia, 26 September 1947. The original telegrams were sent out on 10 September 1947; see CO 537/2205, minute by Bourdillon, 30 September 1947. 42 CO 537/2205, UKHC Australia to CRO, 22 September 1947. 43 CO 537/2205, m inute by Bourdillon, 30 September 1947. 44 CAB 134/417, IOC (FE) (47) 15, 30 September 1947, basis of a brief for the UK delegate at ECAFE. 45 FO 371, 62475, UE 7613, m inute by I.F.S. Vincent, 18 August 1947. 46 CAB 134/417, IOC (FE) (47) 16, 5th meeting of the Working Party, 3 October 1947. 47 See for example: FO 371, 62476, UE 9882, The Hague to FO, tel.543, 16 October 1947; FO 371, 62476, UE 9447, Thom pson (Bangkok) to Luang Prabang, Under-Secretary of State at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Bangkok, 14 October 1947; FO 371, 62476, UE 9900, Millar (British embassy - Paris) to Pridham (FO), 14 October 1947. 48 FO 371, 62476, UE 9398, Troutbeck to Keen, 16 October 1947. 49 FO 371, 62669, UE 10943, Singapore to FO, tel.2155, 11 November 1947. 50 FO 371, 62478, UE 11822, ‘Relations between ECAFE and the Special C omm issioner’s Office’, 2 December 1947, Colonial Office document quoting Dr Lokanathan’s note. 51 CAB 134/418, IOC (FE) (47) 1, 9 January 1948, ECAFE, 2nd session, Baguio, November-December 1947, report of the UK Delegate. 52 ibid. 53 FO 371, 69664, F 2340, FO to Singapore, tel.252, 12 February 1948. Killearn had previously asked for instructions; see FO 371, 69664, F 2340, Singapore to FO, tel. 195, 7 February 1948. 54 See Malcolm MacDonald Papers, Durham University, file 17/2/49, Bevin to Killearn, 9 August 1947; and file 17/2/47, Killearn to MacDonald, 21 August 1947.

232

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55 ibid., file 17/2/99, MacDonald to Killearn, 29 January 1948. 56 FO 371, 69687, F 3347, Killearn to Sargent, 8 February 1948. 57 Malcolm MacDonald Papers, Durham University, file 17/4/7, Listowel to MacDonald, 19 April 1948. 58 ibid., file 17/4/14, Listowel to MacDonald, 27 April 1948. 59 FO 371, 68911, UE 3329, ‘Survey of the Economic Organisation of the Special Commissioner in South-East Asia’; also British Library of Political and Econom ic Science, Depository, Egham, U N document E /C N .l 1/88, 7 May 1948, survey of the Economic Organisation of the Special Commissioner in South-East Asia. 60 British Library of Political and Economic Science, Depository, UN document E /C N .l 1/SR.37, ECAFE, 3rd session Octacamund, India, 5 June 1948. 61 Malcolm MacDonald Papers, Durham University, file 22/8/55-60, 10 November 1949.

9 W ESTERN UNION AND SOUTH-EAST ASIA 1 See A.M. Taylor, In d o n esia n In d ep en d en ce an d the U n ited N a tio n s, London, 1960, p p.66-97. 2 R. J. McMahon, C o lo n ia lism an d C old W ar - the U n ited States an d the S tru ggle fo r In d o n esia n In depen den ce, Ithaca and London, 1981, p.206. 3 See K.O. Morgan, L a b o u r in P ow er, 1945-1951, Oxford, 1985 (paperback), p.274. 4 J.W. Young, B ritain , France an d the U n ity o f E u rope 1945-1951, Leicester, 1984, p .84. 5 FO 371, 69796, F 1183, Foreign Office minute, 17 January 1948. 6 FO 371, 69796, F 1183, minute by Street, 19 January 1948. 7 FO 371, 69796, F 1183, minute by Whitteridge, 19 January 1948. 8 FO 371, 69796, F 1183, m inute by Grey, 24 January 1948.1 w ould like to thank Sir Paul Grey for discussing with me his time at South-East Asia Department. Author’s interview with Sir Paul Grey on 27 September 1989. 9 FO 371, 69796, F 1384, Batavia to FO, 27 January 1948. 10 N . Mansergh ed., D o cu m en ts an d Speeches on B ritish C o m ­ m o n w ea lth A ffairs, 1931-1952, Vol.2, London, 1953, pp. 1121-4: extract from a speech by Bevin in the House of Commons on 22 January 1948. 11 J. Kent, ‘Bevin’s Imperialism and the Idea of Euro-Africa, 1945-49’, in M. Dockrill and J.W .Young eds, B ritish F oreign P o licy, 1945-56, London, 1989, p.62. 12 FO 371, 69682, F 1930, cutting from M o rn in g T ribu n e, dated 28 January 1948. 13 FO 371, 69796, F 2156, memo by Grey, 2 February 1948. 14 FO 371, 69796, F 2156, minute by Dening, 4 February 1948; and FO 371, 69796, F 2156, m inutes by Kirkpatrick and Sargent, 4 February 1948.

Notes 233 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30

31

32 33 34 35 36 37

FO 371, 69796, F 2156, m inute by Grey, 9 March 1948. FO 371, 69760, F 4576, m inute by Grey, 10 March 1948. FO 371, 69760, F 4576, m inute by Dening, 10 March 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 4024, Batavia to FO, tel.212, 12 March 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 4052, Singapore to FO, tel.352, 15 March 1948. FO 371, 69688, F 4249, m inute by Dening, 15 March 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 4052, memo by Kirkpatrick, 1 April 1948. FO 371, 69682, F 5258, Grey to Scrivener, either 6 or 13 April 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 4052, m inute by Grey, 13 April 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 4052, m inute by Dening, 13 April 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 4052, m inute by Sargent, 14 April 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 4052, m inute by Bevin, n.d. FO 371, 69796, F 5788, minute by Roberts, 19 April 1948, on conversation between Bevin and the Netherlands Minister for For­ eign Affairs between 16 and 17 April 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 5804, conversation between the Secretary of State and the Netherlands ambassador, 20 April 1948. FO 371, 69797, F 7130, m inute by Whitteridge, 3 May 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 8122, Grey to Gage, British embassy, The Hague, 11 June 1948. W hitehall had already launched an investigation into possible supplies for the Netherlands East Indies; see FO 371, 69797, F 7130, m inute by Whitteridge, 3 May 1948. FO 371, 69689, F 5922, Scrivener to Dening, 14 April 1948. According to Scrivener, Guibaut was a ‘very good friend of ours who actually understands our colonial policy, who genuinely deplores what he regards as the remoteness and particularism of the French authorities in Indo-China, and w ho indeed asssures me that had he not worked very hard indeed, the Quai d’Orsay itself w ould have but the vaguest knowlege of what we have been trying to do out here’. FO 371, 69689, F 5922, m inute by Christophas, 27 April 1948. FO 371, 69689, F 5922, minute Whitteridge, 13 May 1948. ibid. FO 371, 69689, F 5922, minute by Wright, 17 June 1948. FO 371, 69770, F 10533, memo for the Foreign Secretary by Grey, 15 July 1948. On the Malayan Emergency see A. Short, T h e C o m m u n ist Insurrec­ tion in M alaya, 1948-1960, London, 1975; E. O ’Ballance, M alaya: T h e C o m m u n ist In su rg en t War, 1948-60, London, 1966; and A.J. Stockwell, ‘Counterinsurgency and C olonial Defence’, in T. Gorst, L. Johnm an and W.S. Lucas eds, P o stw a r B ritain , 1945-64, T h em es and P erspectives, London, 1989, pp. 135-54.

10 COLD WAR AND COM MONW EALTH 1 H. Tinker, T h e U n io n o f B urm a, 4th edn, London, 1967, pp.34-7. 2 R.J. McMahon, C o lo n ia lism an d C old W ar - the U n ited States and the S tru ggle fo r In d o n esia n In depen den ce, 1945-49, Ithaca and London, 1981, pp.242-3.

234

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3 CAB 21/1956, Killearn to Bevin, 24 July 1947, paper titled ‘SouthEast Asia: G rowing Comm unist Strength’. 4 FO 371, 69694, F 10350, memo by Grey dated 16 July 1948. 5 See J.H. Brimmel, C o m m u n ism in S ou th -E ast A sia, London, 1959, p.263; also F.N. Trager, M a rx ism in S ou th east A sia, Stanford, 1959, p.268. 6 R.T. McVey, ‘The Calcutta Conference and the Southeast Asian U prisings’, Cornell University paper, Ithaca, 1958. 7 C.B. McLane, S o viet S trategies in S ou th east A sia - an E x p lo ra tio n o f Eastern P o licy u n d er L e n in an d Stalin, Princeton, 1966, p.360; Y. Toru, ‘Who Set the Stage for the Cold War in Southeast Asia?’, in Y. Nagai and A. Iriye eds, T h e O rig in s o f the C old W ar in A sia, New York, 1977, pp.333-6, and T. Yoshihiko, ‘The Cominform and Southeast Asia’, ibid., pp.370-1. 8 FO 371, 69695, F 13733, memo by Grey dated 29 September 1948. 9 FO 371, 69695, F 14002, memo from 11 October 1948. 10 FO 371, 69695, F 14002, memo titled ‘Communist Strategy in SE Asia’, dated 10 or 11 November 1948. 11 FO 371, 69695, F 17015, Scrivener to John H. Ham lin, American Consulate-General, Singapore, 24 November 1948. Scrivener enclosed a sequence of events that paid considerable attention to the congrees of the Indian Communist Party in Calcutta immediately after the youth conference. 12 India Office Library and Records, L /W S/1/1198, JIC (48) 113 (Final), paper titled ‘Comm unist Influence in the Far East’, 17 December 1948. 13 See A. Short, T h e C o m m u n ist In su rrection in M alaya, 1948-1960, London, 1975, pp. 113-48. 14 FO 371, 69694, F 10350, memo by Grey dated 16 July 1948. 15 FO 371, 69702, F 136935, draft letter D ening to MacDonald, begin­ n ing of August 1948. 16 FO 371, 69702, F 13635, MacDonald to Dening, 26 July 1948. 17 FO 371, 69702, F 13635, draft letter from D ening to MacDonald, beginning of August 1948. In his letter, D ening referred to a separate (but untraceable) telegram apparently dealing with intelligence cooperation. According to a minute by Christofas of 6 August attached to D ening’s letter, Mr Kellar of MI5 was now in Singapore on a visit to discuss the issue. It seems that intelligence cooperation between the three colonial powers was subsequently stepped up. However, the relevant Foreign Office and Colonial Office documents are still classified. 18 FO 371, 69702, F 13635, minute by Christofas, 6 August 1948. Other FO officials proposed minor amendments to D ening’s original draft which are included in the version summarised above. 19 FO 371, 69702, F 13636, Archer to Dening, 26 August 1948. 20 FO 371,69702, Price, Secretary of the COS, to Dening, 14 August 1948. 21 CO 537/3550, minute by W illiams, 17 August 1948. 22 CO 537/3550, m inute by Galsworthy, 2 September 1948. 23 CO 537/3550, minute by W illiams, 3 September 1948.

Notes

235

24 FO 371, 69702, F 13636, Martin to Dening, 6 September 1948. 25 FO 371, 69702, F 13637, draft of a first version, meeting at the FO, 29 September 1948, attended by FO, CO and CRO representatives. 26 FO 371, 69683, F 14589, m inute by Dening, 8 October 1948. 27 ibid. 28 FO 371, 69683, F 14589, m inute by Scott, 8 October 1948. 29 FO 371, 69683, F 14589, m inute by Christophas, 9 October 1948. 30 FO 371, 69683, F 14589, m inute of 8 October 1948. 31 T his account of the sterling area is based on D.K. Fieldhouse, ‘The Labour Governments and the Empire-Common wealth, 1945-51’, in R. Ovendale ed., T h e F oreign P o licy o f the B ritish L a b o u r G o vern ­ m en ts, 1945-1951, Leicester, 1984, pp.95-6; and on CAB 129/48, C (51) 57, 20 December 1951. 32 P.S. Gupta, ‘Imperialism and the Labour Government’, in J. Winter ed., T h e W o rk in g Class in M odern B ritish H isto ry , Cambridge, 1983,

p.m.

33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

S. Strange, Sterlin g an d B ritish P olicy, London, 1971, p.62. FO 371, 69683, F 14589, minute by Turner, probably 8 October 1948. FO 371, 69683, F 14589, m inute by Christophas, 9 October 1948. FO 371, 69683,F 14930, memo by Dening, 12 October 1948. FO 371, 69683,F 14930, memo by Dening, titled ‘South-East Asia Comm onwealth Co-operation’, 11 October 1948. FO 371, 69683, F 14930, memo by Dening, 12 October 1948. CAB 133/88, PMM (48) 3rd meeting, 12 October 1948. CAB 133/88, PMM (48) 7th meeting, 18 October 1948. CAB 133/88, PMM (48) 10th meeting, 19 October 1948. FO 371, 70196, W 6400, memo by Machtig, 5 November 1948. FO 371, 70196, W 6208, m inute by J.H. Watson, 19 October 1948. FO 371, 69684, F 15363, letter from Grey to British diplomatic representatives in SEA (signed by Lloyd), n.d. probably beginning of November 1948. O 371, 69684, F 16408, memo by Grey for Bevin, 20 October 1948. FO 371, 70196,W 6208, minute by Dening, 2 November 1948. FO 371, 69702,F 14679, m eeting at the FO, 20 October 1948. FO 371, 69684, F 16408, memo by Grey for Bevin, 20 November 1948. FO 371, 69702, F 15179, record of a Consultative Council m eeting at the Quai d’Orsay, 25 October 1948. ibid. FO 371, 69702, F 15179, m inute by Christofas, 1 November 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 10694, memo by Grey titled ‘Indonesia Arms Embargo’, 30 July 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 11859, Lloyd to Gage, The Hague, summarising a letter to Dutch ambassador, 31 August 1948. FO 371, 69796, F 15534, m inutes by Grey, 19 October 1948; Dening, 23 October 1948; and Sargent, 26 October 1948. FO 371, 69796,F 15534, m inute by Roberts, 2 November 1948. FO 371, 69796,F 15534, minute by Bevin, n.d. FO 371, 69796, F 15009, Grey to Sir P hilip Nichols, The Hague, 6 November 1948. According to the British ambassador in The Hague,

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Dutch feeling against the embargo remained ‘widespread and bitter’. ‘The fact that political circles do not say much about it, except the Right W ing opposition who find periodical opportunities to make remarks in the States General, does not mean that they do not resent it very m uch’; see FO 371, 69796, F 16427, Sir P. Nichols, The Hague, to Grey, 18 November 1948. 58 FO 371, 69684, F 15363, Grey to British diplomatic representatives in SEA (signed by Lloyd), n.d. probably beginning of November 1948. 59 FO 371, 69684, F 16872, MacDonald to FO, tel. 1204, 27 November 1948.

11 EN TER T H E DRAGON: SOUTH-EAST ASIA AND TH E CHINESE CIVIL WAR 1 See P. Lowe, T h e O rig in s o f the K orean War, London, 1986, pp.98104. 2 On the Chinese civil war see S. Pepper, C ivil W ar in C hina, Berkeley 1978. 3 CAB 129/31, CP (48) 299, annex titled ‘China’, 9 December 1948. 4 ibid. Britain recognised com m unist China in January 1950. On Anglo-American differences in 1949 over recognition see Lowe, O rigin s, pp. 104-13 5 CAB 129/31, CP (48) 299, annex titled ‘China’, 9 December 1948. 6 CAB 128/13, CM (48) 80th meeting, 13 December 1948. 7 FO 371,69684, F 17499, MacDonald to FO, tel. 1252,10 December 1948. 8 FO 371, 69684, F 17532, MacDonald to FO, tel. 1253, 11 December 1948. 9 FO 371, 69684, F 17833, Bangkok to FO, tel.836, 14 December 1948. 10 FO 371, 69684, F 17499, minute by Palliser, 15 December 1948. 11 FO 371, 69684, F 17833, minute by Palliser, 17 December 1948. 12 FO 371, 69684, F 17499, minute by Palliser, 15 December 1948. 13 FO 371, 69684, F 17971, Bangkok to FO, tel.845, 18 December 1948. 14 FO 371, 69684, F 17833, memo by Grey, 22 December 1948. 15 F oreign R ela tio n s o f the U n ited States (F R U S ), 1949, Vol.9, p.2, Franks to Lovett, 893.00/1-549. 16 See FO 371, 75961, F 3519, memo titled ‘Indo-China, March 1949. 17 For two accounts of D ening’s talks see FO 371, 76002, F 623, memo on D ening’s visit to Paris, and ibid., translation of a French memo titled ‘Franco-British Conversation on the Situation in South-East Asia Held on 21st December 1948 in the Quai d’Orsay’. 18 FO 371, 75735, F 4244, a id e-m em o ire dated 29 December 1949. 19 See FO 800/465, meetings between Bevin and Schuman at the FO, 14 January 1949, file pages 156-9. 20 ibid. 21 Reference to im proving intelligence cooperation in FO 371, 76002, F 4401, meeting at the FO on 14 March 1949 between Dening and Baron Bayens.

Notes

237

22 See FO 371, 75740, F 2277, translation of an aid e-m em o ire by the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 2 February 1949. 23 FO 371, 76031, F 3010, MacDonald to Dening, 3 February 1949. 24 FO 371, 76031, D ening to MacDonald, 24 February 1949. 25 On the impact of the event on American thinking see R. J. McMahon, C olon ialism an d C old W ar - the U n ited States and the S tru ggle fo r In do n esia n In d ep en d en ce, 1945-49, Ithaca and London, 1981, p.244. 26 J. Pluvier, S ou th -E ast A sia fro m C olo n ia lism to In depen den ce,

Kuala Lumpur, 1974, pp.485-6. 27 T .T . Thien, In d ia an d S ou th -E ast A sia, 1947-1960, Geneva, 1963, p.99. 28 A.M. Taylor, In d o n esia n In d ep en d en ce an d the U n ited N a tio n s, London, 1960, p. 173, note 13. 29 FO 371, 69797, F 11859, minutes by R.C. Mackworth-Young, 29 December 1948, and Grey, 31 December 1948. 30 FO 371, 69788, F 18538, FO to The Hague, tel.6, 1 January 1949. 31 FO 371, 69788, F 18538, Foreign Office minute, January 1949. 32 FO 371, 76031, F 5016, D ening to MacDonald, 13 April 1949.

12 REGIONAL COOPERATION AND REGIONAL CONTAINM ENT 1 The conference was attended by delegates from Afghanistan, Aus­ tralia, Burma, Ceylon, China, Egypt, Ethiopia, Iraq, Lebanon, Nepal, Pakistan, the Philippines, Saudi-Arabia, Syria and Yemen. Thailand and New Zealand sent observers. 2 T .T . T hien, In d ia an d S ou th -E ast A sia, 1947-1960, Geneva, 1963, p p.99-102. 3 FO 371, 76031, F 2879, CRO to UK H igh Commissioner in India, tel.600, 21 February 1949. 4 FO 371, 76031, F 2191, UKHC in India to CRO, tel.220, 5 February 1949. 5 ibid. 6 A. Bullock, E rnest B evin - F oreign Secretary 1945-51, Oxford, 1985 (paperback), p .631. 7 FO 371, 76031, F 2191, UKHC in India to CRO, tel.220, 5 February 1949. 8 FO 371, 76031, F 2879, CRO to UKHC, India, tel.600, 21 February 1949. 9 O 371, 76031, F 5016, MacDonald, Singapore, to Dening, 15 March 1949. 10 FO 371, 75744, F 3729, CRO to UKHCs in India, Pakistan and Ceylon, tel.Y 69, 2 March 1949. 11 ibid. 12 CAB 129/32, CP (49) 39, memo by Foreign Secretary, 4 March 1949. 13 CAB 128/5, CM (49) 18th meeting, 8 March 1949. 14 FO 371, 75745, F 3790, memo enclosed in letter from Stevenson, Nanking, to Bevin, 4 March 1949.

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15 FO 371, 75745, F 3790, Stevenson, Nanking, to Bevin, 4 March 1949. 16 FO 371, 76023, F 4486, D ening to Syers, 18 March 1949. 17 FO 371, 76033, F 4545/ MacDonald, Singapore, to Bevin, 23 March 1949. 18 On the Japanese question during the D ening mission see R. Buckley, O ccu p a tio n D ip lo m a cy - B ritain , the U n ited States and Japan 19451952, Cambridge, 1982, p. 164.

19 FO 371, 69926, F 7716, W ashington to FO, tel.2541, 29 May 1948; and F oreign R ela tio n s o f the U n ited States (F R U S ), 1948, Vol.6, memo of conversation by Lovett, 27 May 1948, 740.0011 PW (peace)/5-274. 20 R. Edmonds, S e ttin g the M o u ld - the U n ited States an d B ritain, 1945-1950, Oxford, 1986, p. 143. 21 For an analysis of American intentions behind ‘Point Four’ see A.J. Rotter, T h e P ath to V ietn am - O rig in s o f the A m erican C o m m itm e n t to S ou th east A sia, Ithaca, 1987, pp. 18-19. 22 FO 371, 76003, F 1308, FO to Bangkok, tel.28, 14 January 1949. 23 FO 371, 76003, F 2415, Graves, Washington, to Scarlett, 7 February 1949. 24 FO 371, 76003, F 2415, D ening to Graves, W ashington, 14 February 1949. 25 FO 371, 76003, F 3215, Graves, Washington, to Dening, 21 February 1949. 26 F oreign R e la tio n s o f the U n ited States (F R U S), 1949, Vol.7, p. 1118, memo of conversation by Reed, W ashington 23 February 1949, 890.00B/2-2349. 27 FO 371, 75743, F 3288, Graves to Scarlett, 25 February 1949. 28 FO 371 76003, F 3271, minute by Graves, 23 February 1949. 29 A.J. Rotter, ‘T he Triangular Route to Vietnam: The United States, Great Britain, and Southeast Asia, 1945-1950’, in In tern ation al H isto ry R e v ie w , Vol.6, No.3, August 1984, pp.404-5; and G.R. Hess, T h e U n ited S ta tes’ E m ergence as a S ou th east A sian P ow er, 19401950, New York, 1987, p.334. For Rotter’s theory that the United

30 31 32 33 34 35

36 37

States became involved in South-East Asia in order to safeguard the econom ic recovery of Western Europe and Japan see also his detailed book, T h e P a th to V ietnam . National Archives, W ashington, PSA, Box 5, file; SEA US policy in 1949, memo by Ogburn, 17 January 1949. F R U S , 1949, Vol.7, pp. 1117-18, Stuart to Secretary of State, Nanking, 15 February 1949, 890.00B/2-1549: telegram. FO 371, 76050, F 5095, memo by Stuart, n.d. F R U S, 1949, Vol.7, pp. 1128-32, Policy Planning Staff paper on United States policy towards South-East Asia, PPS 51, 29 March 1949 FO 371, 76023,F 3507, Scarlett to Franks, 23 March 1949 FO 371, 76023,F 4487, brief dated 23 March 1949; Also F R U S, 1949, Vol.7, pp. 1135-7, 890.00/4-2249, memo left by Bevin, dated 2 April 1949. FO 371, 76023,F 4486, D ening to Syers, 18 March 1949. FO 371, 76023,F 4487, minute by D ening to Secretary of State, 23 March 1949.

Notes

239

38 FO 371, 76023, F 5743, Graves to Dening, 16 April 1949. 39 F R U S, 1949, Vol.7, p p .l 138-41, memo of conversation, by Mr Jacob D. Beam, Acting Special Assistant in the Office of German and Austrian Affairs, subject: talk with Mr Bevin about the Middle East and South-East Asia, on 2 April 1949, 890.00/4-449; and ibid., p p .l 135-7, memo left by Bevin, dated 2 April 1949, 890.00/4-249. 40 FO 371, 76023, F 5743, Graves to Dening, 16 April 1949. 41 FO 371, 75747, F 4595, memo enclosed in a letter from the State Department, 15 March 1949. 42 FO 371, 75747, F 4595, Graves, W ashington, to Bevin, 22 March 1949. 43 FO 371, 75747, F 4595, minute by Hibbert, 27 March 1949. 44 FO 371, 75747, F 4595, minute by R.H.Scott, 29 April 1949. 45 G.R. Hess, T h e U n ite d S ta tes’ E m ergence, p.314. 46 FO 371, 75961, F 3620, memo titled Trench Indo-China’, 24 March 1949. 47 Hess, T h e U n ite d S tates’ E m ergence, p.324. 48 C.M. Turnbull, ‘Britain and Vietnam, 1948-1955’, in W ar & Society, Vol.6, No.2, September 1988, p. 110, referring to Nehru’s line on Indochina in June 1949. 49 FO 371, 76034, F 8338, m inutes of a meeting at the Foreign Office on 24 May 1949. Bevin, D ening and MacDonald discussed the whole issue in London on 19 May. N o account of the m eeting between Bevin and MacDonald was found apart from a minute by Dening, 19 May 1949, in FO 371, 76009, F 7516.

13 T H E FINAL STAGES OF REGIONAL PLANNING 1 FO 371, 76031, F 2191, UK H igh Commissioner in India to CRO, tel.X 580, 24 March 1949; and ibid., UKHC in New Zealand to CRO, tel. 129, 28 March 1949. 2 FO 371, 76031, F 2191, D ening to Strang, 29 March 1949; also ibid., m inute by Dening, 4 April 1949. 3 FO 371, 76031, F 2191, D ening to Strang, 29 March 1949; also ibid., m inute by Dening, 4 April 1949. 4 FO 371, 76375, W 4092, Foreign Office intel.249, 9 June 1949, ‘A Pacific Pact’. 5 F oreign R ela tio n s o f the U n ited States (F R U S), 1949, Vol.7, pp. 11235, charge in the Philippines (Locket) to the Secretary of State, No.319, Manila, 21 March 1949, 890.20/3-2149; and ibid., p. 1125, Lockett to S.of S., confidential, Manila, 22 March 1949, 840.20/3-2249. 6 See C.M. Dobbs, ‘T he Pact That Never Was: The Pacific Pact of 1949’, in Jou rn al o f N o rth ea st A sian S tu dies, Vol.3, No.4, Winter 1984, pp.29-42. 7 CAB 131/6, DO (48) 70, 7 October 1948, ‘Malaya: Possibility of Australian Assistance’, annex II, tel.629 from UKHC in Australia, 28 September 1948. 8 DEFE 4/17, COS (48) 150th meeting, 22 October 1948. 9 CAB 131/5, DO (48) 22nd meeting, 24 November 1948, and CAB 131/

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6, DO (48) 79, ‘Australian Defence Co-operation’, report by the COS, 18 November 1948. 10 See A. Watt, T h e E v o lu tio n o f A u stralian F oreign P o licy, 1938-1965, Cambridge, 1967, pp. 164-5. Unfortunately, the relevant documents in the British archives are still classified. One reason for the secrecy surrounding the planning agreement at the time seems to have been L ondon’s anxiety that it m ight be interpreted as a weakening of Britain’s position in South-East Asia. I I P . Darby, B ritish D efence P o licy East o f Suez, 1947-1968, London, 1973, p.29. 12 F oreign R ela tio n s o f the U n ited States (F R U S), 1949, Vol.7, pp. 11334, the ambassador in the United Kingdom (Douglas) to the Secretary of State, No.540, London, 29 March 1949, 890.20/3-2949. 13 FO 371, 76031, F 5864, MacDonald, Singapore, to Strang, 3 April 1949. 14 FO 371, 76031, F 2191, D ening to Syers, 4 April 1949. 15 See A.I. Singh, ‘Keeping India in the Commonwealth: British Political and Military Aims, 1947-49’, in Journal o f C on tem porary H isto ry, Vol.20, No.3, July 1985, pp.469-81. 16 FO 371, 76031, F 2191, D ening to Strang, 29 March 1949; also ibid., m inute by D ening 4 April 1949. 17 FO 371, 76031, F 2191, D ening to Syers, 4 April 1949. 18 FO 371, 76031, F 8035, memo by Dening, 14 April 1949. 19 FO 371, 76031, F 5863, FO memo titled ‘South Asia’, 14 April 1949. 20 FO 371, 76031, F 5863, minute for the Prime Minister, 21 April 1949, signed by Bevin. 21 FO 371, 76032, F 8039, Garner to Dening, 22 April 1949. 22 FO 371, 76032, F 8039, Garner to D ening 25 April 1949. 23 FO 371, 76031, F 8037, Paskin to Dening, 22 April 1949. 24 See Singh, ‘Keeping India in the Comm onwealth’, p.478. Singh argues that Britain decided to keep India in the Commonwealth because it expected the prestige of a united Commonwealth to outw eigh the disadvantages of the Indian Republic in the group. She also hoped the Commonwealth w ould be able to influence in its favour Indian foreign and defence policies. 25 FO 371, 76031, F 5863, minute by Lloyd, 9 May 1949. 26 See FO 371, 75669, F 2998, memo by Dening, 23 February 1949; and FO 371, 75688, F 3971, summary of m ission to Pakistan and India by A.G. Bottomley in February and March 1949. 27 FO 371, 75697, F 6105, FO to Rangoon, tel.397, 28 April 1949. 28 J.F. Cady, A H isto ry o f M odern B urm a, Ithaca, 1958, p.598. 29 FO 371, 76034, F 6670, G H Q Far East Land Forces to Ministry of Defence, SEACOS 900, 5 May 1949. 30 FO 371, 76031, F 8036, draft brief for the Foreign Secretary for use in discussion with Mr MacDonald, checked by Dening and Scott on 16 May 1949. 31 FO 371, 76034, F 8338, m inutes of a meeting at the Foreign Office on 24 May 1949. Bevin, D ening and MacDonald discussed the whole issue in London on 19 May. N o account of the m eeting between

Notes

32

33 34 35 36 37

241

Bevin and MacDonald was found apart from a minute by Dening, 19 May 1949, in FO 371, 76009, F 7516. CAB 134/287, FE (O) (49) 23, report of the Working Party on Food Supplies and Comm unism , ‘Food Supplies and Communism in the Far East’, Gen.271/14. CAB 134/ 286, FE (O) (49) 5th meeting, 12 May 1949. CAB 134/287, FE (O) (49) 43, 20 July 1949, preliminary report of the Econom ic Survey W orking Party. CAB 134/286, FE (O) (49) 9th meeting, 27 July 1949. FO 371, 76030, F 17397, PUSC (32), ‘T he United Kingdom in SouthEast Asia and the Far East’, Foreign Office, 28 July 1949. FO 371, 76030, F 17397, PUSC (53), Foreign Office, 20 August 1949.

14 T O COLOM BO AND BEYOND 1 FO 371, 76375, W 4092, Foreign Office intel.249, 9 June 1949, ‘A Pacific Pact’. 2 ibid. 3 FO 371, 76375, W 3159, UK H igh Commissioner to CRO, tel.205, 19 May 1949. 4 FO 371, 76375, W 3160, Bevin (Council of Foreign Ministers, Paris) to FO, tel.36, 24 May 1949. 5 FO 371, 76375, W 3161, Attlee to Fraser, CRO, tel.274, 27 May 1949. 6 FO 371, 76375, W 4092, Foreign Office intel.249, 9 June 1949, ‘A Pacific Pact’. 7 FO 371, 76375, W 4092, memo by Furlonge, 15 July 1949. London even tried to keep the planners’ visit secret, apparently trying to avoid any ‘deleterious affects’ on the situation in Malaya which m ight arise out of suggestions that the Australians were taking over Britain’s responsibility for defence planning in the area. 8 FO 371, 76383, W 4528, memo recording talks with Kennan in July 1949. 9 FO 371, 76024, F 13085, MacDonald to Dening, 23 August 1949. 10 FO 371, 76024, F 13085, FO to Singapore, tel.1043, 29 August 1949. 11 FO 371, 76032, F 14256, D ening to MacDonald, 1 October 1949. 12 All quotes taken from F oreign R ela tio n s of the U n ited States (F R U S), 1949, Vol.7, pp. 1197-1204, memo of conversation at the State Department by Butterworth, 12 September 1949, 890.20/9-1249. Account also based on FO 371, 76032, F 14256, record of conversation between D ening and Butterworth, 12 September 1949, pp. 14-18. 13 FO 371, 76024, F 15775, minute by Dening , 12 September 1949. 14 FO 371, 76032, F 14114, record of a meeting at the State Department, 13 September 1949. 15 FO 371, 76024, F 14149, D ening to Strang, 15 September 1949. 16 FO 371, 76024, F 14438, record of a m eeting at the State Department on 17 September 1949. 17 FO 371, 76032, F 14256, D ening to MacDonald, 1 October 1949.

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18 DO 35 / 2773, memo titled ‘Commonwealth Meeting on Foreign Affairs - January 1950’. 19 CAB 128/16, CM (49) 62nd, 27 October 1949. 20 FO 371, 75705, F 17415, MacDonald to FO, tel.928, 6 November 1949. 21 FO 371, 76025, F 17668, 16 November 1949. 22 FO 371, 76025, F 17668, minute by Lloyd, 24 November 1949. 23 FO 371, 76025, F 17668, minute by R.H. Scott, 24 November 1949. 24 AB 134/223, EPC(49)152, 1 December 1949. 25 CAB 134/220, EPC(49) 51st meeting, 13 December 1949. 26 CAB 134/669, SAC (49) 15 (Revise), 28 January 1949, South-East Asia, general: brief for the United Kingdom delegation to the Colom bo Conference, January 1950. 27 CAB 129/38, CP (50) 18, 22 February 1950, ‘The Colombo Confer­ ence’. 28 CAB 133/78, FFM (50) 2nd meeting, 9 January 1950. 29 CAB 133/78, FFM (50) 4th meeting, 10 January 1950. 30 CAB 129/38, CP (50) 18, 22 February 1950. 31 CAB 133/78, FFM (50) 4, 11 January 1950. 32 A. Watt, T h e E vo lu tio n o f A u stralian F oreign P olicy 1938-1965, Cambridge, 1967, pp. 106-9. 33 CAB 129/38, CP (50) 18, 22 February 1950. 34 CAB 133/78, FMM (50) 6, 12 January 1950. 35 CAB 133/78, FFM (50) 8th meeting, 12 January 1950. 36 CAB 133/78, FFM (50) 11th meeting, 14 January 1950, Annex A. 37 Colom bo Plan Consultative Committee, T h e C o lo m b o Plan: F ourth M eetin g at K arachi; R e p o rt o f the C on su lta tive C o m m itte e on eco n o m ic D e v e lo p m e n t in S o u th an d Sou th -E ast A sia, Colombo,

1952, p. 10. 38 R. Ovendale, ‘Britain, the United States, and the Cold War in SouthEast Asia, 1949-1950’, in In tern a tio n a l Affairs, Vol.58, No.3, Summer 1982, p.460. 39 A. Short, T h e O rig in s o f the V ietn am War, London 1989, pp. 79-81. 40 F oreign R e la tio n s o f the U n ited States (F R U S), 1950, Vol. VI, p.51, record of conversation between Jessup and British Foreign Office representatives, 11 March 1950. 41 CAB 129/48, C. (51) 51, cabinet memo on the Colombo Plan, 20 December 1951. 42 F oreign R e la tio n s o f the U n ited States (F R U S), 1950, Vol. VI, pp. 1601, Secretary of State to the embassy in London, 22 November 1950. 43 Colom bo Plan Bureau, T h e C o lo m b o Plan - Basic In fo rm a tio n , Colombo, 1962, pp.31-2. 44 L.P. Singh, T h e P o litic s o f E co n o m ic co o p era tio n in A sia, Col­ umbia, Missouri 1966, pp.l70ff. 45 Colom bo Plan Bureau, T h e C o lo m b o Plan , p.4.

Bibliography

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Foreign Relations of the United States (FRUS), US State Department, W ashington, 1967-80. Hansard, P arliam en tary D ebates, House of Commons, London, 1943-9. Mansergh, N., ed., D o cu m e n ts an d Speeches on B ritish C o m m o n w ea lth A ffairs, 1931-1952, Vol. 2, London, 1953. Mansergh, N., In d ia - the T ransfer o f P ow er, 1942-47, London, 1970— 83. Porter, A.N., and Stockwell, A.J., eds, B ritish Im peria l P olicy and D eco lo n isa tio n , 1938-64, Vols. 1 and 2, London, 1987 and 1989. Tinker, H., B u rm a - the S tru ggle fo r In depen den ce, London, 1983-4.

Diaries, memoirs Cooper, D., O ld M en F orget, London, 1954. Ziegler, P., ed., P ersonal D iary o f A d m ira l the L o rd L o u is M o u n tb a tten , 1943-1946, London, 1988.

LATER WORKS Articles and chapters Aldrich, R., ‘Imperial Rivalry: British and American Intelligence in Asia, 1942-46’, in In telligen ce an d N a tio n a l Security, Vol. 3, No. 1, January 1988. Brands, H.W., ‘India and Pakistan in American Strategic Planning, 1947-54: T he Comm onwealth as Collaborator’, in Journal o f Im p eria l an d C o m m o n w e a lth H isto ry, Vol. 15, No. 1, October 1986. Darwin, J., ‘British D ecolonisation since 1945: A Pattern or a Puzzle?’, in Jou rnal o f Im p eria l an d C o m m o n w ea lth H isto ry, Vol. 12, No. 2, January 1984. Dobbs, C. M., ‘The Pact That Never Was: T he Pacific Pact of 1949’, in Journal o f N o rth ea st A sian S tu dies, Vol. 3, No. 4, Winter 1984.

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Index

Acheson, Dean, US Secretary of State 173, 179, 180, 185, 200, 203; on China 202; and Indochina 204 Afghanistan 5, 158, 193, 196, 212 Africa 11; colonial cooperation in 88, 89-90, 121-2, 140 aid plans see econom ic development; Marshall aid A li Khan, Liaqat, Pakistani Prime Minister 145, 161 Allen, Richard, Foreign Office 60, 61, 70-1, 91; and future of Special Comm ission 111—12, 113 Allied Land Forces in South-East Asia (ALFSEA) 77 Amery, Leo, India Office 19 anti-colonialism 94-5, 119, 165, 167; Asian Relations Conference and 98-9 Anti-Fascist People’s Freedom League (AFPFL) 29-30, 68-9 ANZAM Treaty (1948) 63, 184-5,

200 ANZUS Treaty (1951) 216 arms supplies: to Dutch in Indonesia 77, 91-4, 119, 120-6, 161; to France in Indochina 72, 76-7, 78, 79-81 Asian cooperation: against com m unism 178-9; India’s plans for 4, 165, 166, 183; see also colonial cooperation

Asian Relations Conference (1947) 4, 97-8, 99, 119, 212 Atlantic Charter (1941) 15 Atlantic Pact 170-1 Attlee, Clement, Prime Minister 9, 10, 11, 45, 49; and Burma 68; and Commonwealth 59, 144; and Indian independence 67, 80; on war in Indonesia 91 A ung San, Burmese leader 29-30, 68-9, 98, 99 Auriol, Vincent, French Prime Minister 181 Australia: at Delhi conference (1949) 165, 166; economic proposals for SE Asia 209; interests in SE Asia 20, 52, 58, 195, 198; regional ambitions 4, 63, 99-104; and SE Asia regional defence 53, 56-7, 58-60, 62-3, 183-4, 200-1; and South Seas regional com m ission 17, 59, 99; and Special Commission 114; support for Indonesia 104; ‘White Australia’ policy 104 Bao Dai Agreement, between France and Vietnam 159, 181-2, 204 Beel, Louis, Dutch Prime Minister 136-7 Belgium, on Indonesia 147

Index Bennett, J.C. Sterndale see Sterndale Bennett, J.C. Bentinck, Baron, Dutch Ambassador in London 123, 124, 125, 126 Berlin, Soviet blockade of 129 Bevin, Ernest, Foreign Secretary: African colonial cooperation 121-2; Anglo-French relations 75; and Cold War 54-5; at Colom bo conference 1, 207, 208; Comm onwealth Meeting (1946) 54, 57-60; Comm onwealth Meeting (1948) 143-5; and Dutch in Indonesia 93-4, 125-6, 147-8, 161; and Dutch proposals to combat com m unism 136-7; and European military alliance 120, 121; plans for Asian OEEC 140-3; and regional defence cooperation 53, 58, 60, 201; regional econom ic plans 58-60; and rice crisis 45-6, 47; role in policy on SE Asia 4-5, 23; and SEAC 35; supports expansion of cultural influence 87; visit to W ashington (1949) 178-80 Bridges, Sir Edward, Treasury minister 38 ‘British policy in South-East A sia’ (FO paper 1947) 83-6, 88 Brunei 193 Brussels Treaty (1948) 120, 122, 123, 125; and political cooperation in SE Asia 146, 147, 148 Buckley, Roger 22 Burma 13, 29, 69, 82, 193; and Comm onwealth cooperation 189, 197; com m unist threat to 152-3, 156; com m unist warfare in 1, 133, 136, 145; deteriorating situation in 156, 162, 170, 189; on French in Indochina 76, 156; Indian influence in 96, 157, 191; and Indonesia 124; nationalism in 13, 29-30, 68-9; rice production

251

1, 44, 47, 192; suspicion of regional cooperation 148, 149 Burma Office 75, 76 Burma White Paper (1945) 13, 29, 68 Burmah O il Company 13 Burton, J.W., Australian External Affairs 102 Butterworth, Walton, US State Department 172, 173, 174-5, 203 Cadogan, Alexander, Foreign Office 41 Calcutta Youth Conference 134, 135, 136 Cambodia see Indochina Canberra Agreement (1944) 59, 99 Caribbean Commission 17, 37, 62 Ceylon 23, 192, 196, 209; see also Colombo Chiang Kai-shek, Chinese nationalist leader 52, 151, 167 Chiefs of Staff: on Chinese com m unist threat 167-8, 178-9; defence plans 55-7, 59, 60 Chifley, J.B., Australian Prime Minister 59-60, 200 China 47, 193; Communist Party 136; com m unist victories in 1, 133, 137, 151-2, 167, 189-90; and ECAFE 105-6, 108, 109; interests in SE Asia 19, 52, 107, 140; opposes Indian ambitions 98; People’s Republic declared (1949) 205; role in regional cooperation plans 20, 41, 51-2; UK trade with 11, 151; US aid to 151, 164, 172; US policy towards 82, 174, 176, 202 Chinese: immigrant populations in SE Asia 14, 19, 52, 69; troops in Vietnam 71 Christophas, Kenneth, Foreign Office 115, 116; opposes colonial collaboration 126-7, 138, 143 Chumbot, Prince, of Thailand 156

252

Index

Churchill, Winston, Prime Minister 15-16, 21 Clarac, M., French official in Vietnam 73 Clow, J.P. 114 coal trade 32-3, 49 Cochin-China 71, 72 Cold War 54-5, 129; and SE Asia defence policy 4, 55-7, 152, 170-1 Colom bo conference see Comm onwealth Conference (Colombo 1950) Colom bo Plan (1950-61): culm ination of FO policy 4, 215; econom ic aid 2, 213-15; lim itations of 215-16 colonial cooperation: AngloFrench 75, 77-8, 81, 88-90, 162; Bevin’s plans for 121-2; British resistance to 119, 121, 122, 123— 4, 126-8, 160, 188-9; to combat com m unism 136-40, 146-7; covert 140, 146; opposed by Comm onwealth 146, 154; would alienate Asian opinion 35, 77-8, 81, 94, 122-3, 138, 139; see also Asian cooperation C olonial Office: on Anglo-French cooperation in SE Asia 76, 88; on D ening’s econom ic cooperation proposals 187, 188; and MPU 13-14; opposition to Special Comm ission 36-7, 38, 39-40, 41-3; and proposed regional com m issions 18-21, 39-40, 60-2; proposes Governor-General for Malaya 14, 25-6; relations with Foreign Office 4, 26, 43; Special Comm ission merged with Governor-General’s office 112; views on regional cooperation 2, 42-3, 139; see also Foreign Office colonies see Indochina; Indonesia, an d individual countries Comm issioner-General’s Office

117-18; see also Special Commission (Singapore) Commonwealth: as basis for regional cooperation 143-9, 162, 196-7, 211; collaboration against com m unism 154, 158, 167; cooperation on Burma 189; defence plans 56-7; and sterling area 141-2 Commonwealth Conference (Canberra 1947) 103 Commonwealth Conference (Colombo 1950) 1-2, 148, 191, 197, 205, 207-11; diplomatic success of 213-14; see also Colombo Plan (1950-61) Commonwealth Finance Ministers’ m eeting (1949) 209 Commonwealth Foreign Ministers’ m eeting (1950) 205 Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Conference: (1946) 5, 53, 54, 56-63; (1948), and communist threat 143, 144-5; (1949) 185-7, 188-9 Commonwealth Relations Office 138-9, 187-8 communism: Commonwealth discussions on (1948) 144-5; as threat 4, 128, 178, 186-7, 196-7; threat to food supplies 1, 1923; uprisings in SE Asia 1, 129, 133-6, 207; in Viet Minh nationalism 74, 76, 93; see also China; Cold War; Soviet U nion Cooper, Sir Alfred Duff 77-8 Copland, Professor, Australian Minister in China 114 cultural influences in SE Asia 85, 87, 96 D ’Argenlieu, Admiral Thierry, H igh Commissioner in Indochina 72, 73, 74 Dedman, J.J., Australia Defence Minister 184 defence: excluded from proposed regional commissions 18, 62;

Index proposed Anglo-Indian defence council 19; of SE Asia 3, 53, 60, 195, 196-7, 198; see also Chiefs of Staff; regional defence D elhi Conference (1949) 165-7, 168, 175-6, 183, 212 Dening, Esler, Foreign Office: adviser to Mountbatten 23-4, 42; architect of regional policy 4, 23-5; on Australian regional plans 104; on Bevin’s plan for Asian OEEC 140; on British influence in SE Asia 86-7; on civilian successor to SEAC 33-5, 38-9, 43; and Dutch arms embargo 122-5; econom ic cooperation against com m unism 186-7, 205; influence on Special C om m ission’s role 40-1; need for Asian resistance to Soviet U nion 179; need for US econom ic aid 170, 202-4; on N ehru’s am bitions 183; regional cooperation 137-8, 146; regional cooperation against com m unism 163, 173— 4, 190-1, 202; on regional cooperation with French 74-5, 89, 90, 159; on supply of arms to French 79-80 ‘D ening M ission’ (1948) 172 D om inions Office 25; see also Comm onwealth Relations Office ‘dom ino theory’, propounded by MacDonald 190 Dorman-Smith, Reginald, Governor of Burma 68-9 Dunkirk Treaty (1947) 89, 121 Dutch East Indies see Indonesia; Netherlands East Asia, defined 5 ECAFE see Econom ic Comm ission for Asia and the Far East Econom ic Comm ission for Asia and the Far East (ECAFE):

253

origins 105-8; terms of reference 108-10, 114-18, 119, 203; ineffectiveness 109, 139-40 Economic Commission for Europe (ECE) 105-6 econom ic cooperation: Asian OEEC proposed 140-3, 169-70; proposed by Dening 186-7; proposed in PUSC papers 196-9 econom ic development 32-3; as bulwark against communism 168-9, 199, 206-7; Colombo Plan 215-16; N anking Proposals 168-9, 177 econom ic functions: of regional com m ission 36-8; of Special Commission 39, 41, 42-3, 58 Economic and Social Commission for Asia and the Pacific (ESCAP) see ECAFE Economic and Social Council (ECOSOC) 105, 106, 107 econom ic studies (Foreign Office), of effect of com m unist control 192-3 Eden, Anthony, Foreign Secretary 15, 22 Egypt, Killearn’s work in 47 Europe: Anglo-French relations in 75, 77-9, 89; collaboration against com m unism 170, 171; see also Western U nion an d individual countries Evatt, Dr H.V., Australian Foreign Minister 58-9, 62, 99-101, 102-4, 144 famine, threatened in SE Asia 1, 9, 32, 44-5 Far East 5-6, 22 Far Eastern Defence Coordination Committee, Singapore 190 food production, Special Com m ission’s responsibility for 49-50 Foreign Office: and Australian regional proposals 101-2,

254

Index

103-4; and Bevin’s plan for Asian OEEC 140-3, 169-70; brief for Bevin’s visit to W ashington (1949) 178-9; and Comm onwealth Prime Ministers’ Conference (1949) 185-6; econom ic studies of SE Asia 192-4; on India 70, 98; long-term policy of regional cooperation 2-4, 43, 211-13; and nationalism in SE Asia 63; Permanent Under-Secretary’s committee (PUSC) papers 186— 7, 194-9, 205; plans for nonBritish SE Asia 14-15, 83; and proposals for ECAFE 106-7; proposes regional conference 148-9; reaction to Delhi conference 167; regional cooperation to contain com m unism 4, 136-40; regional policies (1945) 2-3, 21-5; (1949) 191-2; (reassessment 1947) 82-8; relations with C olonial Office 4, 26, 43; and Special Com m ission 4, 39-40, 110-11, 113; supports D ening’s proposals for SEAC 34-5; supports m inisterial post in SE Asia 36, 37; views on colonial cooperation 75, 81, 88-9, 119-20, 126; see also Colonial Office; Special Comm ission France: and Bao Dai Agreement 159, 181-2; and British plans for regional cooperation 73-4, 81, 88-90, 159-60, 162; colonial policy condemned 75, 76, 77, 78-9; colonial rule in Indochina 14, 31-2, 71-3, 75-6; membership of ECAFE 108; Pan South-East Asian U nion plan 98-9; and proposed SE Asia com m issions 20, 61; suspicion of regional proposals 40, 41; suspicion of Special Comm ission 73; Western U nion and colonial

cooperation 127-8 Fraser, Peter, New Zealand Prime Minister 201 French Indochina see Indochina Galsworthy, A.N., Colonial Office 139 Gandhi, Mahatma 11 Gater, Sir George, Colonial Office 25-6; opposition to Special Commission 38, 39, 41-2 Gent, Sir Edward 25-6; Governor of Malayan U nion 70, 118 Germany 9, 129 Gollan, H.R., Australian H igh Commissioner in India 165, 166 Government of Burma Act (1935) 13 Gracey, Major General Douglas D., in Vietnam 31-2, 72-3 Graves, H.A., British Embassy in USA 173, 174-5, 180 Great Britain: anti-communist initiatives 136, 158-9; on com m unist threat in SE Asia 1, 152-5; defence expenditure 10, 111; and Delhi conference (1949) 166-7; development of policy in SE Asia 13-15, 20, 120, 212-16; dollar earnings 12, 141-3; econom ic cooperation proposals 187-8; economic weakness 10, 111, 141-2; influence in SE Asia 82-6, 88, 171-2, 191, 194; international commitments (1945) 9-11; leadership in South-East Asia 149-50, 171, 191, 194-9, 202; liberation of Vietnam 31-2, 71, 72-3; policy on SE Asian nationalism 29-31, 86, 88, 89, 91; pragmatic support for ECAFE 109-10; prewar trade with China 11, 151; provision of aid 193-4; relations with France in Europe 75, 77-9, 89; relations with France over

Index Indochina 72-5, 76-81, 88-90, 181-2; relations with India 77, 80; relations with Netherlands over Indonesia 41, 47, 90-4, 161; suspects Soviet control of com m unism in SE Asia 133-6; and US policy on colonialism 15-16; and US policy in SE Asia 177, 179-82; withdrawal from SE Asia 216; see also C olonial Office; Foreign Office Grey, Paul, Foreign Office: on Dutch arms embargo 120-1, 122-3, 124, 126, 128; on regional cooperation 146, 148; on Soviet influence in SE Asian com m unism 134-5 Griffin, R. Allen, US m ission 214 Guibaut, M., French consulgeneral Singapore 126, 127 Gwyer, Sir Maurice 19 H aiphong, bombardment of 75 H all, George, C olonial Secretary 26, 61-2 Hatta, Mohammmed, Indonesian leader 133, 160 Hibbert, R.A., Foreign Office 180 HMS A m e th y st 190 H o Chi Minh, Viet M inh leader 31, 71-2, 76, 182 Hone, General Ralph, Malayan P lanning U nit 13, 40 H ong Kong 11, 19, 20, 177, 192, 193 Hoyer-Millar, R.F., British Embassy in USA 206 IEFC see International Emergency Food Council India: anti-colonialism of 98-9, 165, 191; and Asian Relations conference (1947) 4, 97-8, 99, 119, 212; aspirations as regional leader 97-8, 186, 191, 212-13; and Australian regional proposals 100, 101; com m unism in 136; condem nation of Dutch in Indonesia 93, 98, 124, 161-2;

255

condemns French war in Indochina 76, 182; and ECAFE 105-6, 108, 109; economy 142, 206; importance in regional plans 19-20, 70-1, 199, 211; independence movement 11, 67-8; influence in Burma 157, 191; interests in SE Asia 52, 96-7; nationalism and regional alignm ents 4, 67-8, 70-1; neutrality against communism 185, 191, 196-7, 199, 216; and regional collaboration 191, 196-7, 203, 211; rice consum ption 1, 44, 47, 192; threat of Chinese communism to 153, 190; wants to become republic 185-6, 207; see also Nehru, Jawaharlal India Office 71 Indian Communist Party 134 Indian Congress Party 11, 67-8 Indochina 193; British liberation of 31-2, 72; British policy towards (1947) 83-4; com m unist threat in 152, 153, 159, 197; French colonial policy in 71-3, 75-6, 156, 181; French war against Viet Minh 1, 4, 76-81, 84; importance in regional cooperation 101, 102, 149, 198, 199; Japanese occupation 14-15; nationalism in 14, 31, 71; rice production 1, 44-5, 47, 73, 192; US policy on 175, 204, 214; see also France Indonesia 5, 27, 193; Australian influence in 104; British influence in 84-5, 91; com m unism in 133, 153; of critical importance in regional cooperation 51, 148-9, 164-5; independence 165; Linggadjati Agreement 90-1; nationalism in 14, 30-1, 93; and Renville Agreement (1948) 119; Republic declared 30; rice shortage in 44-5, 47; war with Dutch 90-4, 146-9, 160-1;

256

Index

Western U nion attitude to 146-7; see also Netherlands intelligence cooperation 154, 159-60, 168 ‘International Aspects of C olonial Policy’ (CO paper 1944) 18-19, 20-1, 39-40 International Bank for Reconstruction and Developm ent 194, 205, 207, 210 International Emergency Food Council (IEFC) 48-9, 73, 87, 106 International Regulations Agreement on T in and Rubber

20 Iran, Soviet relations with 55 Japan: Foreign Office Civilian Planning U nit on 22-3; need for rice 44, 193; occupation of SE Asia 12, 14-15, 29, 32, 44; surrender of 3, 9, 10, 26, 27-9, 30; US policy towards 174, 206 Java 30, 90-1, 135, 161 Jayawardene, J.R., Ceylon Finance Minister 209 Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC) of Chiefs of Staff 135-6 Joint P lanning Staff (JPS) 56 Karen minority, in Burma 189 Kashmir, Indian-Pakistani conflict over 153, 183, 196 Kennan, George F., US Policy P lanning Staff 186, 201-2 Killearn, Lord: advocates regional cooperation 50-3; on Australian regional proposals 100-3; disillusionm ent of 115, 116-17; on Dutch war in Indonesia 92, 123; head of Special Comm ission 3, 4-5, 45, 47; press criticism of 47, 50, 111; proposals for ECAFE 106—7, 109-14; relations with French in Indochina 73-4, 77, 89; use of Liaison Officers’ Meetings 48-9

Kirkpatrick, I., Foreign Office 124 Korea 174, 214 Kuomintang nationalists, in China 151, 152, 207 Labour Party 9, 47; and Indian independence 11, 67-8 Laos see Indochina Latin America, and ECAFE 106 League of Nations 20 LeRoy, M., French Embassy official 74-5, 127 Liaison Officers’ Meetings (Singapore) 48-9, 116, 117, 118; anti-com m unist collaboration 139-40, 143; success of 52-3, 74, 106 Libya 54 Liesching, Sir Percivale 209 Linggadjati Agreement (1946) 90-1 Lokanathan, Dr P.S., ECAFE Secretary 115-16, 117 London Coal Committee 49 Louis, W illiam Roger: Im p eria lism at Bay 2; on Killearn 47 Lovett, Robert, US Secretary of State 172 MacArthur, General Douglas 30 MacDonald, Malcolm: AngloAmerican cooperation against com m unism 155-6, 170-1; at Colombo conference 207; on colonial cooperation in SE Asia 76, 127; CommissionerGeneral in SE Asia 117, 118; Commonwealth cooperation in SE Asia 148-9; ‘dom ino theory’ propounded by 190; and fate of Special Commission 106, 112-13; Governor-General of Singapore and Malaya 46, 70; on movement towards Asian cooperation 166; regional cooperation against com m unism 137-8, 139, 185; support for Killearn 52

Index McGregor, K. Ministry of Production 36-7 McIntosh, New Zealand External Affairs 102-3 MacLennan, I., Commonwealth Relations Office 140 MacMichael, Sir Harold 40, 46 McNeil, Hector, Foreign Office 81 McVey, Ruth T. 134 Makins, Sir Roger 209 Malaya: anti-British opposition 69-70; appointm ent of Governor-General for 25-6, 36, 38, 46; Australian troops in 184-5; British policy towards 85, 188, 197; com m unist threat to 152, 153, 155, 192, 193; Emergency 1, 4, 128-9, 133, 136; importance of 11, 12, 142-3, 193, 197; independence 199, 216; Indian interests in 96; plans for Malayan U nion 13-14, 69-70; press criticism of Special Comm ission 50; rice shortage 45, 47, 192; rubber trade with USA 1, 12, 142, 175 Malayan Planning U nit (MPU) 13-14 Manchuria, fall of 152 mandated territories (British) 18, 21 Mao Tse-tung 133, 151, 152, 205 Marshall Aid 204, 213; and Asian OEEC 141, 169, 172; for SE Asia 1-2, 141, 143, 157, 204 Martin, J.M., C olonial Office 139, 140 Massey, Claude, Australian trade commissioner 52, 62 Menzies, Robert, Australian Prime Minister 209 Middle East, Soviet ambitions in 54-5, 186-7 Minister of State, proposed for SE Asia 22, 24, 34 Ministry of Production 36-7, 43 Ministry of Supply 38, 42 Molotov, V.M., Soviet Foreign

257

Minister 54 Monteath, Sir David, India Office

101 Mountbatten, Lord Louis, Earl Mountbatten of Burma: advocates regional cooperation 50-1; and Burmese nationalism 29-30; Commander of SEAC 2, 13, 23, 24, 27-9; opposed to proposed Minister Resident 35, 40; supports Killearn’s report 52, 53; Viceroy of India 68 Moutet, Marios, French Overseas Minister 72 Moynehan, Foreign Office 78-9 Muslim League (India) 11, 68 N anking Proposals, aid plans 168-9, 177 Nathan, Lord 45, 49 ‘National Independence’ (US paper 1943) 16 nationalism: and anti­ colonialism 94-5, 165, 196; Australian policy towards 100, 103, 104; British policy towards 29-31, 63, 85, 86, 88, 89, 91; fostered by Japanese occupation 14, 29, 30; in South and SE Asia 3-4, 10, 30-2, 57, 67, 194; US policy on independence movements 15-16 NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organisation) (1949) 184 Nehru, Jawaharlal 11, 68; ambitions for India in SE Asia 96, 97-8, 165-6, 183; Asian conference in Delhi (1949) 162, 165-7, 168; at Colombo conference 208; Commonwealth regional collaboration 144-5; influence in Burma 157; opposition to colonial cooperation 188; proposes Asian regional organisation 166, 183; relations with France 76; and Russian expansion in SE Asia 161 Nepal 5, 153, 193

258

Index

Netherlands: British arms embargo against 122-6, 128, 147-8; colonial rule in Indonesia 14, 30-1, 161-2, 165; membership of ECAFE 106, 108; Renville Agreement (1948) 119; role in regional cooperation plans 20, 51, 52, 61-2, 160, 162; and spread of com m unism in SE Asia 136; war with Indonesian Republic 91-4, 146-9, 160-1 New Zealand: and Delhi conference (1949) 166; interests in SE Asia 52, 195, 197, 198; opposition to Australian regional plans 102-3; and SE Asia regional defence 53, 56-7, 58-9, 184-5, 201; and South Seas regional com m ission 17 North Borneo 5, 20, 192, 193 NSC 48/2 (National Security Council paper) 214 NSC 51 (National Security Council paper) see PPS 51 N utrition Conference (1946) 49-50 Nye, Archibald, British H igh Commissioner in India 166, 190, 191 Ogburn, Charlton (Jr), US State Department 175-7 Onn bin Ja’afar, Dato 69 Organisation for European Econom ic Cooperation (OEEC) 140, 141 Pacific Pact on defence, proposed 184-5, 198, 200-1, 208 Pakistan 11, 68, 153, 193, 196 Palestine 10, 11 Palliser, A.M., Foreign Office 157 Paskin, J.J., C olonial Office 188, 191 Pethick-Lawrence, Lord, Secretary of State for India 67 P hilippines 5, 193, 197, 203, 212, 213; and ECAFE 108, 116; proposes SE Asia defence treaty

183-4; as ‘stalking horse’ 203, 204, 206; US policy in 171, 174 Pibul, Luang, Prime Minister of Thailand 15, 157 Poland, and proposed ECE 105 Portugal, colonial power 20 Post-Hostilities Planning Staff (PHP) 55-6 Potsdam Conference (1945) 27 Poynton, Hilton, Colonial Office 18 PPS 51 (US Policy Planning Staff paper) 177, 206, 214 Pridi Phanomyong, Prime Minister of Thailand 51 PUSC (Permanent Under­ secretary’s planning committee): D ening’s paper 186-7; policy paper (32) 194-5, 198-9; policy paper (53) 195-9, 206 PY TH O N repatriation scheme 29 Quirino, Elpidio, President of Philippines 184 Ranee, Brigadier Hubert, Governor of Burma 68, 69 Reed, Charles, US State Department 174-5 ‘Regional Co-operation in SouthEast Asia and the Far East’, (PUSC 1949) 195-9 regional commissions, proposed 16-17, 18, 39-40, 62 regional conference, proposed by FO (1948) 148-9 regional cooperation: against com m unism 136-40, 154-5, 162-3, 164, 169-70; (PUSC proposals) 196, 197, 198-9; differing views on 42-3, 119, 149-50; Killearn’s ideas for 50-3; Leighton Stuart’s plan for 176-7; need to involve US 158, 162, 194-5, 199, 207, 213-14; origins of policy 2-4; role of European powers in 4, 88-90, 98-9; see also Asian

Index cooperation; colonial cooperation; Commonwealth cooperation; regional defence regional defence: ‘containing ring’ 190-1; PH P proposals for 55-6; proposals (1949) 184-5,

200-1 R enville Agreement (1948) 119, 120 rice 20; com m unist threat to production 1, 153-4, 192-3; shortage of 3, 32, 44-5, 47-8, 50, 118; see also Special Comm ission Robinson, Kenneth, C olonial Office 18, 39-40 Roosevelt, Franklin D., US President 14-15, 27 Royal Navy 120-1 rubber trade 12, 20; exports to USA 1, 12, 142 SACSEA (Supreme Allied Commander SE Asia) see Mountbatten, Earl Saigon, re-occupation of 31-2 Sainteny, M. Jean 71-2 Sarawak 85, 193 Sargent, Sir Orme, Foreign Office 25, 79, 93-4, 125 Schuman, Robert, French Foreign Minister 147, 159, 204 Scott, A.L. 140-1 Scott, R.H ., Foreign Office 180-1 Scrivener, P.S., Killearn’s deputy 124, 135 SEAC see South-East Asia Command ‘Security of the British Empire’ PH P paper (1945) 55-6 self-help in SE Asia, US insistence on 2, 174, 179, 202, 203-4, 210 Senanayake, Don Stephen, Prime Minister of Ceylon 205 Shanghai, ECAFE m eeting in 114-15 Shepherd, F.M., consul-general Indonesia 121

259

shipping, in SE Asia 32-3, 48-9 Siam see Thailand Singapore 14, 92, 216; as centre for regional organisation 3, 4, 11,86, 118, 211; fall of (1942) 12, 13 Singh, Lalita Prasad 108, 215 Smith, F.W.H., Burma Office 75 South Africa 57 South Asia, defined 5 South Korea 193 South Pacific Commission (1947) 62; proposed 17, 59-60, 61—2 South-East Asia: British influence in 82-6, 88, 171-2, 191, 194; defined 5-6, 212; economy 12-13, 32-3, 48, 211; European colonies 5, 14, 15-16, 122; independent states in 18-19; international interference in 19, 40, 41; parochialism in 24, 39; political differences within 195-6, 198, 199; strategic importance of 52-3, 83, 96-7, 195, 212; view of communist threat 167, 173-4 South-East Asia Command (SEAC) 3, 24, 25, 27-9; as basis for regional organisation 2, 33-8; D ening’s proposals for 24-6, 33-6, 38-9; and econom ic crisis in SE Asia 32-3; and liberation of SE Asia 13, 29-32 South-East Asia Fisheries Conference (1947) 50 South-East Asia League (1947) 99 South-East Asia Social Welfare Conference (1947) 50 South-East Asia Statistical Conference (1948) 50 South-West Pacific Area Command (SWPA) 27 South-West Pacific regional com m ission proposed 62 Soviet Union: ambitions in Europe 54, 129, 186-7; in Middle East 54-5, 186-7; condemns Delhi conference 167, 183; interests in SE Asia

260

Index

19, 52, 56, 107, 152-3, 178-9; member of ECAFE 108, 110, 116, 118; perceived as threat 54-7, 59, 133-6, 167, 196-7 Spaak, Henri, Belgian Foreign Minister 147 Special Com m ission (Singapore) 37-8, 49, 111, 112-14; as basis for regional cooperation 39, 58, 85-7, 88, 113, 126, 127-8, 164; econom ic functions 3, 39, 41, 42-3, 139; position challenged 102-3, 105, 106-7; relationship to ECAFE 109, 110, 113-16, 117-18; and rice crisis 45-6, 48-50; see also Liaison Officers’ Meetings Special Commissioner see Killearn, Lord Spender, Percy, Australian Foreign Minister 208, 209, 210 Stanley, Oliver, Colonial Secretary 16-18, 19-20, 21 Stanton, E.F., US ambassador in Bangkok 158 Stent, J.P., Foreign Office 70, 81; on ECAFE 106, 107-8, 110, 114 sterling area 141-3, 192 sterling convertibility (1947) 10, 142 Sterndale Bennett, J.C., Foreign Office 22-3, 24, 34-6, 37-8, 42 Stettinius, Edward, US Secretary of State 21 Stevenson, Ralph, Sir, UK ambas­ sador to China 168, 169, 177 Stikker, Dirk, Dutch Foreign Minister 146 ‘Stock-Taking Memorandum Far East’ (FO paper 1947) 82-3, 86, 87-8 Strang, Sir W illiam , Foreign Office 183 ‘Strategic Position of the Com m onwealth’ 56 Street, J.E.D., Foreign Office 81, 92, 120 Stuart, Leighton, US ambassador in China 176-7

Sukarno, Achmad, Indonesian leader 30, 160 Sumatra 90-1, 161 Thailand 2, 27, 46, 108; British interests in 15, 83, 85; com ­ m unist threat to 17, 152, 155, 156-7, 170; demand for aid 149, 156-7, 164, 173, 174; and regional cooperation plans 20, 51, 148, 149, 197; rice production 1, 15, 32, 44-5, 47, 192; US relations with 15, 156-7 Thom pson, Geoffrey Harrington, Sir, UK ambassador in Bangkok 156-7, 158 Tibet 5, 153, 193 trade 11, 12-13, 19, 177, 211; coal 32-3, 49; rubber 1, 12, 20, 142, 175; sterling area 141-2, 192; tin 19, 20 transport: problems of 32; shipping 32-3, 48-9 Truman, Harry S., US President 10, 172-3, 214 trusteeship, international 16, 17, 18, 21 Turkey 54-5 Turner, J.F. 142-3 U Nu, Burmese premier 69 United Kingdom see Great Britain ‘United Kingdom in South-East Asia and the Far East’, (PUSC 1949) 194-5 United Malay National Organisation (UM NO) 69 United Nations 4, 18; ECOSOC 105; Good Offices Committee 104, 122, 171; hostility to Special Commission 110-11, 114; and Indonesia 93, 122, 161; and mandated territories 21; Relief and Rehabilitation Administration (UNRRA) 105; and world food shortage 44, 118; see also Economic Commission for Asia and the Far East (ECAFE)

Index U nited States of America: aid to China 151, 164, 172, 180; change of attitude to SE Asia 175-7, 206, 214-15; econom ic aid to SE Asia 2, 141-2, 169-70, 204-5, 214-16; on French colonial policy in Indochina 15-16, 176, 204, 214; and future of European colonies 10, 15-17; influence in Far East 27, 82; interests in SE Asia 41, 43, 52, 148, 150, 175; membership of Colom bo Plan 215; and N anking Proposals 168, 169; need to involve US in SE Asia 158, 162, 194-5, 199, 207, 21314; policy on China 82, 174, 176, 202; Policy Planning Staff 177, 186; and proposal for ECE 105; relations with Thailand 15, 156-7; reluctance to support SE Asia 154, 155-8, 164, 171-5, 180, 190-1, 197; role in regional defence proposals 567, 185, 200-2; and self-help in SE Asia 2, 174, 179, 202, 203-4,

261

210; and war in Indonesia 93, 176 Viet Minh nationalist movement 1, 4, 31-2, 71-2, 74-6, 159 Vietnam: Bao Dai Agreement 159, 181-2, 204; declaration of Republic (DRV) 31, 71-2; see also Indochina ‘Voice of Britain’ broadcasting station 87 War Office, and D ening’s plans 25 Wavell, Field Marshal Lord, Viceroy of India 67 Western U nion 137, 138; and pressure for colonial cooperation 120-8, 146-7; see also Brussels Pact wheat, shortage (1946) 44 Whitteridge, Gordon, Foreign Office 120; on Indochina 78, 79, 89, 92 Wright, Michael, Killearn’s deputy 73-4, 89, 127-8 Yalta Conference (1945) 2, 21

ROUTLEDGE LIBRARY EDITIONS: MODERN EAST AND SOUTH EAST ASIA

Volume 3

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

Edited by DAVID S. G. GOODMAN

First published in 1988 by Frank Cass and Company Limited This edition first published in 2015 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 1988 Frank Cass & Co. Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-138-89258-3 (Set) eISBN: 978-1-315-69792-5 (Set) ISBN: 978-1-138-90132-2 (Volume 3) eISBN: 978-1-315-69783-3 (Volume 3) Publisher’s Note The publisher has gone to great lengths to ensure the quality of this reprint but points out that some imperfections in the original copies may be apparent. Disclaimer The publisher has made every effort to trace copyright holders and would welcome correspondence from those they have been unable to trace.

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

Edited by

DAVID S.G. GOODMAN

FRANK CASS

First published 1988 in Great Britain by FRANK CASS AND COMPANY LIMITED Gainsborough House, 11 Gainsborough Road, London E l l IRS, England and in the United States of America by FRANK CASS AND COMPANY LIMITED c/o Biblio Distribution Centre 81 Adams Drive, P.O. Box 327, Totowa, NJ 07511 Copyright €> 1988 Frank Cass & Co. Ltd. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication data Communism and reform in East Asia. 1. East & South-east Asia. Communist countries. Social reform I. Goodman, David S.G., 1948II. The Journal of communist studies 303.4*84 ISBN 0-7146-3340-2 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Communism and reform in East Asia. This group of studies first appeared in a special issue of the Journal of communist studies, vol. 3. Contents: Communism in East Asia / David S.G. Goodman — The reform process in the People’s Republic of China / Tony Saich — Reform, local political institutions and the village economy in China / Elisabeth J. Croll — [etc.] 1. Communism—East Asia. 2. East Asia—Politics and government 3. East Asia—Social conditions. I. Good­ man, David S. G. HX410.5A6C65 1988 335.43*095 88-5032 ISBN 0-7146-3340-2 This group of studies first appeared in a Special Issue on Communism and Reform in East Asia of The Journal of Communist Studies Vol. 3, No. 4 published by Frank Cass & Co. Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, with­ out the prior permission of Frank Cass and Company Limited.

Printed and bound by Adlard and Son Limited, Dorking, Surrey, and Letchworth, Hertfordshire

Contents Editorial Preface Abbreviations Communism in East Asia: The Production Imperative, Legitimacy and Reform The Reform Process in the People’s Republic of China Reform, Local Political Institutions and the Village Economy in China China: The New Inheritance Law and the Peasant Household North Korea: The End of the Beginning Ideology and the Legitimation Crisis in North Korea Vietnam: The Slow Road to Reform The Mongolian People’s Republic in the 1980s: Continuity and Change The Soviet Union and the Pacific Century China and the Asia-Pacific Region

vii viii David S.G. Goodman

1

Tony Saich

9

Elisabeth J. Croll

28

Delia Davin Aidan Foster-Carter

52 64

James Cotton Michael Williams

86 102

Judith Nordby Gerald Segal Michael B. Yahuda

113 132 148

Editorial Preface In May 1987 the Journal of Communist Studies held its annual conference at the East Asia Centre, University of Newcastle upon Tyne. Appro­ priately the theme for the papers presented at that conference was ‘Communism in East Asia’, and this volume has resulted from that conference. Despite the fact that six of the world’s communist party states are concentrated in East Asia - China, North Korea, Mongolia, Vietnam, Kampuchea, and Laos - and that a seventh (the Soviet Union) is at least in some respects an East Asian power, those with an interest in communist studies still tend to regard it as a region on the periphery. One reason for that perspective may be the relative lack of literature on the subject. This volume cannot solve that problem but it can at least hope to take a step in the right direction. Many people were involved in the organization of the conference that led to this volume, as well as in the production of the book itself. The invaluable assistance of the staff of the East Asia Centre with the former, and of Professor Ronald Hill with the latter ought particularly to be acknowledged. In addition the East Asia Centre and the editorial board of The Journal of Communist Studies would like to thank The Nuffield Foundation for its generous support. D a vid S.G . G oodm an

East Asia Centre, University of Newcastle upon Tyne

Abbreviations ASEAN CCP CGDK CMEA CPSU GATT MPR MPRP NIC PECC PRC PRK

Association of South East Asian Nations Communist Party of China Coalition Government of Democratic Kampuchea Committee for Mutual Economic Assistance [Comintern] Communist Party of the Soviet Union General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade Mongolian People’s Republic Mongolian People’s Revolutionary Party Newly Industrialized Country Pacific Economic Cooperation Conference People’s Republic of China People’s Republic of Kampuchea

Communism in East Asia: The Production Imperative, Legitimacy and Reform David S.G. Goodman

Western perceptions of communism in East Asia have changed dramatically during the last decade. Where once it was seen as a threat now the emphasis is on communism in reform. Moreover, because these communist party states are located at what is widely regarded as the centre of the ‘Pacific Century’, they have become economically as well as politically attractive within a relatively short period of time. The lure of China alone as an open market is a very seductive prospect for Western economies and businessmen. Equally, for the global strategists in the West, the possibility of isolating China and most of East Asia from Soviet influence appears attractive. The perceived Soviet need for a counter­ balance is undoubtedly one reason Gorbachev has sought to emphasize the USSR’s role in East Asia since his speech at Vladivostok in July 1986.1 There certainly does appear to be a reform process under way in the communist party states of East Asia. It can be said to have started in the People’s Republic of China (PRC) at the third plenum of the eleventh Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) in December 1978. The CCP had tried for two years after the death of Mao Zedong to maintain the policies and structures of earlier years - a kind of ‘Maoism without Mao’. However, by mid-1978 it became clear that a more radical break with the past was necessary if economic modernization - one of the CCP’s orginal long-term goals in 1949 - were to be attained. Incremental­ ly, new policies have been introduced which, for example, have decentralized the administration of the economy, reformed the price structure in favour of the market, de-collectivized agriculture, ended the state administration’s monopoly in the economy, and severely restricted its role in new developments. In short, there has been a radical reform of the command economy. At the same time there have been political reforms explicitly intended to support the drive to modernization, the most important of which have been the establishment of a functioning legal system, the overhaul of local government, and the acceptance of a greater degree of pluralism within the political process. An essential part of the reform process has been a change in China’s attitude to the outside world. Whereas once Mao proclaimed ‘self-reliance’, now China turned to the industrialized world for new technology and expertise. In return, Western investment and

2

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

involvement in the Chinese economy have been encouraged. Moreover, China’s foreign policy has been adapted to support the reform era. The goals are now the creation of a peaceful and stable international environ­ ment, and China’s integration into the international economic and political order, particularly in the Asia-Pacific region.2 Although reform has advanced furthest in the PRC, during the 1980s the other communist party states of East Asia have (to varying degrees) also begun to experiment. Even North Korea - the most orthodox of all, in terms of its adherence to a popular image of Stalinism - has started a programme of joint-venture economic enterprises with foreign investors. There is even some basis to the obvious argument that the reforms of the Gorbachev era to some extent follow China’s experience. Glasnost’ may have stolen the headlines in the USSR, but it is identical with Deng Xiaoping’s call for ‘socialist democracy’, and both are required in order to achieve economic modernization.3 There can be little doubt that economic factors have been a major stimulus to change throughout the communist party states of East Asia. In the 1970s the experience of the East Asian NICs (Newly Industrializing Countries) - South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong and Singapore - acted as a positive example, and at the least demonstrated that the countries of the region could benefit from Japan’s technology. At the same time, the economies of the East Asian communist party states were faced by severe problems. For example, Vietnam was faced by the legacy of civil war and the intervention of the USA. In North Korea, the initial economic successes had run out of steam, and indeed inspiration. In China, by the late 1970s living standards - however they are measured - had clearly fallen compared to the mid-1950s. The cause of reform thus appears to be the production imperative: a recognition that continued economic modernization requires capitalist techniques, structures and technology, and also political liberalization. The communist party’s monopolization of power would appear to be efficient only in reaching fairly limited though none the less important goals: the achievement of government, national unity, and in most cases (Vietnam apart) economic recovery after war. However, its particular manifestation in the command economy seems to require modification by the market. From this production imperative there would appear to flow a whole series of reforms that have possible implications for the relationship between the West and communist party states, both organizationally and ideologically. The reforms, especially as presented in the Chinese pattern, entail more than ‘peacefiil co-existence’ between the communist party states of East Asia and the industrialized, capitalist nations. They entail the integration of the communist party states into the world economy. The reforms not only present potential markets to the West, they present potential allies as well. Arguments about the ‘failure of socialism’ and the ‘triumph of capitalism’ are well-rehearsed elsewhere, not least by those in the com­ munist party states of East Asia who are opposed to reform.4 However, it

COMMUNISM IN EAST ASIA

3

is far from clear that the causes of reform are the same throughout the communist party states of East Asia, or that there is a single reform process under way, and in particular that the production imperative is as significant as is often suggested. These issues are important for under­ standing not only the development of individual countries, but also the dynamics of international relations, both within East Asia and on the wider stage. The extent of reform and the consequences are the concerns of the contributions to this volume. They demonstrate that, although the production imperative can be a stimulus to reform, it is neither a necessary nor even a sufficient condition. In individual countries the communist party’s search for legitimacy or its relationship with the USSR may equally be the spur to reform. Moreover, the production imperative may be a consequence of the communist party’s desire to reform rather than a cause. Overemphasis on the production imperative can impose a superficial pattern of uniform economic and political reform on the communist party states of East Asia. However, the causes of reform are neither so simple nor just economic. Reform may result from a number of factors - the production imperative, a change of leadership, a search for legitimacy, or a changing relationship with the USSR - which are not mutually exclusive and which can all exist, if to differing degrees, in each country. The Causes of Reform

As already indicated, the prospects of economic modernization are none the less an important reason for reform. The communist parties of East Asia had all come to power as nationalists committed to economic modernization. In some cases, for example North Korea and the PRC, up to a point the economic strategies they had initially adopted were suc­ cessful. However, by the late 1970s it was clear that such economic strategies, which owed much to the Soviet model - even where individuals such as Mao Zedong might seek to argue otherwise about the Great Leap Forward or the Cultural Revolution5 - were not as successful as those being implemented elsewhere in East Asia. The problems faced by the communist party states of East Asia were on the whole not new, but rather the familiar systemic faults of the Soviet model already experienced in Eastern Europe and the USSR. These included an overemphasis on heavy industry, overcentralized and inef­ ficient planning, an inflexible price structure, and low productivity. Repeated attempts to adjust the command structure were frequently counter-productive. An example from the PRC is particularly instructive. In China after the mid-1950s most of the state administration’s responsibility for manage­ ment of the economy was decentralized to provincial level with the intention of increasing flexibility. (Although a level of non-central government, China’s provinces are far from small, each with an average

4

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

population of 40 million.) However, the consequence was that central government’s share of total budgetary revenue became less than that of the combined provincial authorities. Moreover, this was barely enough to cover central government expenditure let alone provide assistance to the poorer regions of the country through redistribution. Various adjust­ ments were introduced to these financial arrangements between centre and province before more far-reaching reforms were introduced. The last of these, which survived from 1974 to 1978, resulted in a process whereby in effect each province was encouraged to minimize revenue and maximize expenditure, and where overspending was rewarded.6 Although the production imperative may seem to present a good cause for reform, it is by no means self-evident. If it were, the question of the nature of reform communism in East Asia might very well not arise. The goal of economic modernization might not be regarded as so important an issue as to ignore any other priorities. For example, it is now widely accepted that during the last decade of Mao’s life (1966-76, the era of the Cultural Revolution in the PRC) the CCP emphasized redistribution and equality alongside economic modernization, even though the result was equal poverty.7 Again, however strong the production imperative might appear, a united leadership is unlikely to change the direction of policy. Such would clearly appear to be the case in North Korea. The evidence of near-constant personnel changes in the leadership of the Korean Workers’ Party should not mask the sociological phenomenon of a wellentrenched ruling class whose position would be threatened by a programme of reform. Such examples highlight the political conditions for reform. They also seem to emphasize the importance of changes in the leadership of the communist party (or equivalent) as a cause of reform. For example, in the PRC the reform era started in 1978 after the most comprehensive series of leadership changes since the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution a decade earlier. Within 18 months of Mao’s death in September 1976, the leadership was once again dominated by those who had been in office on the eve of the Cultural Revolution, most of whom had had been removed in the interim. In both Vietnam and Mongolia, a slow road to reform has started with the removal of long-term leaders. The importance of leadership changes, in turn, indicates a further and perhaps more fundamental cause of reform. In a sense, leadership changes are a condition for reform; a more definite cause is the associated search for legitimacy. Almost by definition, politics in the communist party states of East Asia are not institutionalized. Indeed, as the Chinese case exemplifies fully, that is one goal of reform. There is a desire to institutionalize politics so that there is a predictable legal and political basis for economic activity. However, because politics have not been institutionalized it is difficult for a new leadership group to inherit automatically its predecessors’ mantle of authority. There is, in short, if not a succession crisis, then certainly a succession dilemma. This dilemma is illustrated sharply in the case of the PRC. The

COMMUNISM IN BAST ASIA

5

third plenum of the eleventh Central Committee of the CCP marked not only the start of the reform era in the PRC, but also Deng Xiaoping’s ascendancy. However, Deng’s power and authority is inherently personal. He has not formally held the senior position in the CCP, although he has been a member of the Political Bureau’s five-man standing committee. Since 1977 he has been neither chairman of the CCP (a post later abolished), nor general secretary of the CCP, nor premier of die State Council. At die same time as he has criticized Mao Zedong and others for their personalization of power, emphasized the need for collective leadership, and led the drive to institutionalize politics, he has attained much by virtue of his own charismatic authority. In its search for legitimacy, it is then hardly surprising that a new leadership will turn to the production imperative, particularly in times of economic recession or falling living standards. Relatively quick economic success, such as has been achieved since 1978 in the PRC, can effectively buy legitimacy for the new leadership, its structures and policies. If in the process economic modernization can create a majority social constitu­ ency in support of the reforms, then a community of interests ensures the future of the new status quo. This requirement of legitimacy is one that East Asian communist party reformers have not been slow to appreciate. For example, Chen Yun - one of the key architects of the CCP’s reform programme - speaking shortly after the third plenum of December 1978, emphasized that it was not enough to have the right policies: they had to be explained to the population in the right way. There was, he argued, a crisis of faith in the Chinese population’s attitude to the CCP. They no longer believed it could or would deliver on its policies. If they were to be mobilized behind the goal of economic modernization, they had to be shown that the reforms would work, and would work quickly.8 The production imperative, changes in leadership and the search for legitimacy are all internal causes of reform. There is, however, at least one direct external cause. (It could be argued that the example of the East Asian NICs was an indirect external cause of reform to all the East Asian communist party states; or that similarly by example the PRC has been an indirect external cause of reform in the USSR and the Soviet-influenced states of the region.) The adoption of a reform programme in the USSR however limited by comparison with that of the PRC - has already started to have an impact on those communist party states in East Asia heavily dependent on the USSR. The consequences of the reform process in the USSR for Mongolia and Vietnam are still in their early stages. However, the available evidence would seem to suggest the USSR may no longer be prepared to support those two countries’ economies to the extent it has done in the past. Moreover, with its eyes fixed firmly on East Asian economic development, the USSR is now advocating greater regional co­ operation and less international tension. Since the summer of 1986, it has publicly encouraged both Mongolia and Vietnam to reduce the potential for problems with the PRC.

6

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

The Consequences of Reform Given that the reform process is barely under way throughout the communist party states of East Asia it is perhaps too early to speculate on the consequences of reform. Nevertheless, there are three areas where it already seems useful to consider the limitations of the reform process. The first is the importance of the production imperative; the second, the extent to which East Asian reform communism will lead to greater regional co­ operation; and the third, the consequences of reform for ruling East Asian communist parties. As has already been indicated, the production imperative is by no means the sole explanation of the reform process in the East Asian communist party states. It may be that in time it does come to dominate the development of those countries, but it has not been the catalyst for change. To the extent that the production imperative is taken as a characterization of East Asian reform communism, it is somewhat misleading since there is not one reform process but many. Of course, as has already been indicated, there are commonalities between the different reform processes in individual countries. However, there are also important differences. The USSR’s relationship with both Mongolia and Vietnam is radically different from that with the PRC. Even were it thought desirable, it thus seems unlikely that Mongolia and Vietnam would be able to introduce, for example, the kind of price reforms currently being developed in the PRC, if only because of the complications this might cause within the CMEA. North Korea’s development cannot be seen outside the context of the whole Korean peninsula, if only because that is the perspective adopted by its leaders. Technology transfers from South Korea may be interpreted in the PRC as ‘learning from the West’: in North Korea they would be an admission of failure, and even defeat. Many of Vietnam’s problems stem from the aftermath of the war in South-East Asia. Reform of chaos may result in an order not unlike that which is now about to be reformed away elsewhere in East Asia. From an international perspective, the communist party states of East Asia could previously have been characterized not only by their diversity, but also by conflict amongst themselves. Even though the production imperative does not yet dominate the reform process, its international dimensions are significant. Reform seems to require a stable international environment. This requires not only that each East Asian communist party state should have peaceful relations with its non-communist trading partners, but also that tensions should be lessened amongst the East Asian communist party states. The equations of international relations are obviously complex, but a reputation for political instability or unreliability does not encourage foreign investment. Somewhat ironically, it appears that the East Asian communist party states have better prospects for regional co-operation with other non­ communist states than with one another. Partly, of course, this results

COMMUNISM IN EAST ASIA

7

from the historical fear of China’s dominance of the region. However, that cannot be the whole story, not least since the other East Asian states have had the same historical relationship with China, and continue to have an ambivalent attitude towards China’s participation in Asia-Pacific affairs. On the whole, better relations amongst the communist party states of East Asia are likely to be an integral part of reform. Quite apart from the need to maintain a stable international environment, they represent significant markets to each other. However, the ramifications of the ambiguous SinoSoviet relationship, Mongolia’s attitude to China, and Vietnam’s position in South-East Asia, are unlikely to result in co-operation. The most likely result is that a grudging tolerance will emerge, coupled with a wary rhetoric expressed at international conferences and institutions. The production imperative indicates certain consequences for internal affairs, and these may be less restricted than proponents of that view might hold. Indeed, the political consequence of the production imperative is liberalization, not simply in a relative sense, but towards some kind of model of liberal democracy. The production imperative requires talented individuals willing and able to harness their skills and technical knowledge to the service of the nation. There must be an intellectual atmosphere in which the individual is encouraged to use his or her intitiative, and is rewarded. Interest articulation must be possible, not only to maintain the unity of civil society, but also to sustain reform. It is at this point that the political consequences of the production imperative come into conflict with the role of the communist party. It is clear that a substantial portion of the reform process must involve reform, not only of the political system generally, but also of the communist party. This is precisely what Gorbachev has indicated by glasnost’ and Deng Xiaoping by ‘socialist democracy’. However, there is considerable room for manoeuvre between the communist party’s absolute monopoly of political control and its surrender of ultimate control. Reform has a long way to go before it reaches the (as yet) unlikely latter situation. The current problem for each communist party is discovering its own middle ground, where it encourages initiative and limited pluralism but still maintains control. This aspect of the reform process has advanced furthest in the PRC, or at least the question has been debated there longest. Since 1978 there has been a frequently revived debate about the reform of the political system. At times quite astonishing proposals (given China’s political culture both before and after 1949) - such as a directly elected national parliament; or that public policy is best made by interest group interaction - have received official sanction.9 However, the crucial limits of debate were set in early 1979. Reform is desirable but it must accept the leadership of the CCP, the supremacy of Marxism-Leninism-Mao Zedong Thought, the socialist road, and the dictatorship of the proletariat.

8

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA NOTES

David S.G. Goodman is Director of the East Asia Centre, and Reader in Chinese Politics, at the University of Newcastle upon Tyne. 1. ‘The Development of the Soviet Far East and Asia-Pacific Affairs’, Soviet television, 28 July 1986, translated in BBC Summary of World Broadcasts (SWB), 30 July 1986. 2. For a broad survey of these reforms see David S.G. Goodman, M. Lockett and Gerald Segal, The China Challenge (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1986). 3. David S.G. Goodman, ‘The Chinese Political Order after Mao: “Socialist Democracy” and the Exercise of State Power’, Political Studies, Vol.33, No.2 (1985), p.218. 4. See, for example, the speech by Peng Zheng, a member of the CCP’s Political Bureau and chairman of the National People’s Congress, in November 1986, discussing the ‘Resolution of the CCP on the Guiding Principles for Building a Socialist Spiritual Civilization’, translated in BBC SWB, 2 Dec. 1986. 5. E. Friedman, ‘Maoism, Titoism, Stalinism: Some Origins and Consequences of the Maoist Theory of the Socialist Transition’, in Mark Selden and Victor D. Lippit (eds.), The Transition to Socialism in China (Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe, 1982). 6. Wang Zuyao and Fan Yong, ‘An Enquiry into Reform of the Financial System and the Strengthening of Central Government’s Financial Resources’, in Caizbeng (‘Finance’), 1986, No.12. 7. N. Eberstadt, ‘Has China Failed?’, The New York Review of Books, Vol.26, No.5 (5 April 1979), p.33. 8. Chen Yun, ‘Speech at Central Theoretical Work Conference*, Inside China Mainland, April 1980, p .ll. 9. For example, Liao Gailong, ‘The Road to Build Socialism in an All-Round Way*, Social Sciences in Yunnan No.2 (March 1982), p.l; also Li Fan, ‘The Question of Interests in the Chinese Policy-Making Process’, The Bulletin of Political Science, Nov. 1985, translated in The China Quarterly, No.109 (1987), p.64.

The Reform Process in the People’s Republic of China Tony Saich

The question of reform has dominated China’s political agenda throughout the 1980s. Differences about the scale, extent and nature of the reforms have been major topics of discussion. These discussions have produced a wide array of policies that have left no institution, organization or sector of the economy untouched. The reforms would not have been possible without major leadership changes, and they draw inspiration not only from previous reform attempts in state-socialist regimes but also from other Asian countries. The reform programme has as its core a significant liberalization of previous regime practice. In the economic sector, policy has revolved around the promotion of market mechanisms to deal with the inefficiencies of allocation and distribution that occur with the central state planning system. While considerable success has been achieved in the agricultural sphere, progress has been far less dramatic in the industrial sector. This shift to a more market-oriented economy was not readily served by a rigid, over-centralized political system dominated by the party, and hence calls have been made for reform of the political system. This reform will be the hardest of all to achieve because of the vested interests it encroaches upon.

In recent years, the terms ‘reform’ and ‘openness’ have become popular words in the political vocabularies of ruling communist parties. China, Vietnam and the Soviet Union have all begun to look at the legacy of economic and political structures derived from an over-reliance on the central planning apparatus and the highly centralized power structures and political organizations that accompany it. The latest round of reforms began in the People’s Republic of China (PRC), although they owed much not only to previous reform attempts in China during the early 1960s, but also to the abortive Soviet reforms of that decade and the initially more successful reforms of Hungary and Yugoslavia. However, the Chinese reforms have not consisted of a mere aping of previous reform attempts. In addition to the flexible policies adopted to attract foreign capital, new ground has been broken in the rural sector in particular. Nor has China been afraid of casting its net beyond the communist world for ideas that can help its economic modernization. Interest in the Japanese model is keen, and, although less openly expressed, study has been made of South Korea and Taiwan to try to gain clues about modernization within an Asian context. The question of reform has dominated China’s political agenda during the 1980s. Differences over the scale, extent and nature of the reforms

10

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

have been major topics of discussion. These discussions have produced a wide array of policies that have left no institution, organization or sector of the economy untouched. The reforms have moved beyond trying to deal with what the current leaders denounce as the ‘leftist’ excesses derived from China’s experimentation during the Great Leap Forward (1958-60) and the Cultural Revolution decade (1966-76) to attempting to come to grips with the fundamental flaws in the over-centralized system that China opted for in the 1950s. Here the intention is to outline the background to the reforms, some of their key aspects, and the problems that have arisen with their implementation. The Background to the Reform Programme

A number of writers have suggested that when the imperatives of economic modernization come to the fore, the need for reform in statesocialist societies becomes difficult to resist. The need for change thus summoned up is often aided by the passing of the revolutionary genera­ tion and its replacement by a generation that has grown up under the new state and is more concerned with purely technical prescriptions. This is when, to use John Kautsky’s terms, leadership passes from the ‘revolu­ tionary modernizers’ to the ‘managerial modernizers’.1While one can see Gorbachev as a representative of a new generation, albeit one not solely technocratic in its approach to problem-formulation and solving, this is definitely not the case in China. Deng Xiaoping and the other leaders who have sponsored the reform programme are all members of the pre­ liberation communist elite and were actively involved in running the system from its earliest years. Although a new generation may be in power at the non-central levels, the centre remains firmly in the hands of the old guard. Without their initiative the reforms could not have been contemplated. Gordon White has provided a more recent analysis of the process of systematic change in state-socialist societies within the context of modernization. After consolidating power and building up the economic base, these societies are said to reach the point where ‘bureaucratic voluntarism’ becomes ‘increasingly irrational economically and increas­ ingly unacceptable politically’.2 To meet these problems, it is necessary to introduce a greater use of the market mechanism and give a larger role to democracy, albeit primarily for economically functional reasons. If a decision is taken in favour of reform, it is necessary to give more autonomy, and possibly more power, to those with professional and technical skills and try to restrict the power of the old administrative elite. In turn, this allows for the emergence of a new elite that bases its power not on its position within the politico-administrative hierarchy but on its possession of the scarce skills necessary for the modernization pro­ gramme. This can lead to conflict between the two elites and attempts by administrative cadres to frustrate the reform programme. However, while socio-economic advance may well build up pressure for

REFORM IN THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

11

change, it is not always the case that changes in the political superstructure do take place or that having occurred they will not be reversed.3 What is crucial for realizing change is the political will of the party and the drive for change among significant sections of the population. Over time all organizations develop a resistance to change. In ruling communist parties, where membership is tied to prestige, power and privileged access to goods and services, resistance to change will be strong. There must be a political will for change that is greater than the will to preserve the status quo. In the ideal situation, this ‘will’ should come from the party leader­ ship, or a part of it, and be supported by significant sections of the party rank and file and members of society. Change can occur without mass support, but the example of Poland in the early 1980s suggests that mass support for change in the absence of support within the top party leader­ ship will not result in success. Czechoslovakia in the late 1960s has demonstrated that it is possible to have both the political will of significant parts of the party leadership and mass support for change without being successful. In this particular case, Soviet perception of interest proved decisive and it moved to thwart reform. Independence from the Soviet Union has meant that the PRC has a greater degree of manoeuvre in comparison with those state-socialist societies that come within the Soviet sphere of influence. This indepen­ dence provides an important background factor explaining the speed and extent of change that has taken place in China, not only in the 1980s but also from the late 1950s onwards. While the Soviet Union is now trying to push its East European allies in the direction of reforms incorporating a greater use of the market and greater democracy, in the late 1960s and the 1970s it sought to limit the degree to which meaningful change occurred. By the late 1970s, the PRC appeared to fulfil the necessary criteria for reform attempts to be made. There was a leadership group under Deng Xiaoping committed to a wide-ranging reform programme that involved a significant liberalization of previous regime practices. There was a population of which large sections were dissatisfied with the arbitrary nature of rule that existed and were tired of ritualized political behaviour and the postponement of increased consumption. Both the leadership and the society at large had their perception shaped by the events of the decade 1966-76 during which time they had seen an increasingly arbitrary, autocratic political system develop out of the democratic and participatory promises of the Cultural Revolution. Furthermore, the reform programme has economic modernization as its clearly stated objective. The stress on economic development had specific causes deriving from China’s immediate past. Three reasons are highlighted here.4 First, living standards for much of the population in the late 1970s had barely risen from levels that pertained in the late 1950s. The government’s obsession with accumulation at the expense of consumption meant that rationing, queuing, and hours spent on laborious household chores were the daily fare for most. The lack of consumer goods was offset by the fact that few had sufficient disposable income in any case. In fact, the average wage for

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COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

employees in the state sector in 1977 was 5.5 per cent lower than it had been in 1957; for industrial workers it was 8.4 per cent lower.5 Part of the decline in the average figure is explained by the addition of many young workers in the lowest wage scales. However, it seems no exaggeration to conclude that China’s population had probably had enough of tightening their belts today in return for the promise of a bright tomorrow. Secondly, the failure of the initial post-Mao strategy significantly to improve economic performance caused the leadership to focus more sharply on the need for fundamental economic reform. The ascription of blame for economic failure to the ‘Gang of Four’, with the associated policy of returning to a ‘golden age’ before they existed, was seen as taking China into a dead end. Increasingly, it was recognized that the main problems were deep-seated structural ones. Also, the ambitious pursuit of ‘Maoism without Mao’ had led to serious short-term problems such as a towering budget deficit, increasing inflation and inflationary pressures. The politically inspired measure of offering the urban labour force increased wages and bonuses to win their confidence and allegiance was exhausted. Future increases in earnings would come only after real increases in productivity. While the economy might not have been in crisis, it was in bad shape. However, there was a political crisis in terms of a loss of faith by many in the party’s capacity to rule. The party was faced with the problem of legitimacy. The continual twists and turns of policy since the mid-1950s left the party’s claim to be the sole body in society capable of mapping out the correct road to socialism looking a little thin. The notion of the infallibility of the party was strained to breaking-point. This meant that the ‘fine traditions’ and the name of the party could no longer be invoked to ensure allegiance to a particular set of policy preferences. This was compounded by the fact that people had the feeling that they might be expected to give total allegiance to a different set of policy preferences. The criticism of Mao Zedong and the dismantling of the personality cult meant that his name could no longer be invoked effectively to underpin legitimacy. As a result, the party chose the option of promising a bright economic future for all within a relatively short period of time. In December 1978, the third plenum of the eleventh Central Committee made the decision to focus on economic modernization, subordinating all other work to the meeting of this objective. By 1979, Deng Xiaoping and his supporters had tied their legitimacy to rule more closely to their ability to deliver the economic goods than had any other leadership group since 1949. In turn, this meant that more freedom had to be given to those groups that could devise and implement the plans to bring this delivery about. The Nature of the Reforms

The reform programme has at its core the liberalization of previous practices in both the economic and the political realm. While most of the

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13

stress and the major changes have been in the economic sphere, reform of the political structure has been much talked about and some limited reforms have been introduced. The experiences of the Cultural Revolu­ tion, during which virtually all China’s current top leaders suffered, has convinced many of the need for a more predictable system regulated by law, and one that allows for more feedback of information from society. The terms ‘socialist democracy’ and ‘socialist legality’ are used to cover these reforms, ‘socialist’ in this context meaning reform under party guidance. A predictable legal system understood by and applicable to all is seen as conducive to stability and thus to development Similarly, a relaxation of control is seen as providing a lively atmosphere that will produce ideas useful for the modernization process. The adoption of a new development strategy at the third plenum (December 1978) made the need for reform of political structures all the more apparent. The shift to a more marketoriented, decentralized economy reliant on officials who could give expert technical advice was not readily served by a rigid, over-centralized political system dominated by the party and staffed by personnel who felt at home hiding behind administrative rules and regulations. The link between political and economic reform has been consistently acknow­ ledged. As Deng Xiaoping said in September 1986: The major problem is that the political structure does not meet the requirements of the reform of the economic structure. Therefore, without reforming the political structure, it will be impossible to safeguard the fruits of the economic reform or to guarantee its continued advance.6 Implicit in the quotation is the subordination of political reform to economic needs. Indeed the main reason why discussion of reform of the political system received much attention in 1986 was the fear that the economic reforms were in danger of reaching an impasse. Such a way of thinking, while opening up the potential for reform, immediately sets limits on the nature of that reform: the only political reforms necessary are those that will oil the wheels of economic modernization. Some Chinese writers, recognizing the possible limitations that this can set, point to the increasing diversification of economic life and the resultant social differentiation as creating a genuine need for political reform to deal with the growing plurality in Chinese society. It is not, they claim, mere ‘subjective’ whim that has led to the calls for overhauling China’s outdated political structure.7 In the economic sector, policy has revolved around the promotion of market mechanisms to deal with the inefficiencies of allocation and distribution that occur with the central state planning system. Awareness of the ‘new technological revolution’ has increased the Chinese leaders’ desire to make their system more flexible and thus more amenable to change. To take advantage of the market opportunities, more power of decision-making is to be given to the localities, and in particular to the

14

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

units of production themselves. Production units now have more autonomy to decide what they produce, how much they produce and how they sell it. At the core of this system lie the ubiquitous contracts that are expected to govern economic activity. Correspondingly, material incentives are seen as the major mechanism for causing people to work harder, and the socialist principle of ‘to each according to his work’ is to be firmly applied. Egalitarianism is attacked as a dangerous notion that retards economic growth. These reforms of the domestic economy have been accompanied by an unprecedented opening to the outside world in search for export markets and the necessary foreign investments, technology and higher quality consumer goods.8 Agricultural Reform

The economic reforms began, and have proceeded furthest, in the agricultural sector. Indeed, while the industrial reforms present nothing that has not already been tried in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, the agricultural reforms represent a radical new departure, throwing up the question of whether there is still a socialist agricultural system in China. The initial policy was to encourage growth in agricultural production by substantial increases in procurement prices and by modernizing agri­ culture through brigade and team financing.9 At the same time, policy was relaxed to let different regions make use of the ‘law of comparative advantage’. Also, private plots of land and sideline production were stressed as playing an important role in agricultural growth. To allow the peasants to sell their products - for example, their above-quota grain private markets were again tolerated. This policy was firmly based on the collective and represented nothing radically new.10 In December 1978, it was decided that the procurement price of quota grain would be increased by an average of 20 per cent, above-quota grain by 50 per cent, and cotton by 30 per cent. However, the result of this policy was to increase massively state expenditures on agriculture. Nor did the policy of agricultural modernization bear fmit. A new strategy had to be found that would raise agricultural incomes, permitting modernization but without significantly increasing state investment. The most important reform was the introduction of the production responsibility system. Although this was introduced in December 1978, it did not entail any significant undermining of the collective. However, by 1980 the more radical forms of contracting various activities to the household were becoming commonplace despite official denials. The household was clearly becoming the key economic unit in the countryside. The new system was codified in two documents: Document 1, 1983, and Document 1, 1984.11 The 1983 document officially endorsed the ‘responsibility system for agriculture’ (nongye shengchan zerenzhi) and its most common form for crop-growing, the household contracting system (baogan daohu). This makes the peasant household the nucleus of

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15

agricultural production, working on a clearly stipulated piece of land for a specific period of time. It includes all raw materials and means of produc­ tion except land-use rights and access rights to irrigation facilities; the latter rights are made available by the collective.12 The 1984 document confirmed the situation in the countryside and added a number of new points such as extending the cropping contracts to over 15 years,13 encouraging the concentration of land with the most productive house­ holds, encouraging capital flow across regions for investment, and reducing the funds that the collective can demand from the peasantry.14 The leadership had chosen to sanction the abandonment of the collec­ tive as the key economic unit in the countryside. It is worth pointing out that the new incentive and the original contracting system were not incompatible with a collectivized agricultural sector. However, it seems that in many communes in China the collective as a political entity had become despised and distrusted. When given the opportunity, peasants rapidly removed themselves and concentrated production on their own households. The leadership, seeking to boost production quickly, was only too happy to install the household as the basic economic unit so long as its goals were achieved.15 It should also be pointed out that, despite the many problems with collective agriculture, its success in establishing an infrastructure and a drainage system provided the opportunity for this alternative policy of de-collectivization to flourish. It seems highly un­ likely that it would have been a viable option in the 1950s without massive state investment - something that was just as impossible then as now. In January 1985, in a further radical measure the state announced its intention to abolish its monopoly over purchasing and marketing of major faim products.16 Instead of the state assigning fixed quotas of farm products to be purchased from farmers, a system of contract purchasing was introduced. All products not purchased in this way could be disposed of on the market. Clearly, the aim of this reform was to improve the distribution of commodities and further reward efficient producers. It was hoped that this would encourage wealthier peasants to re-invest capital and labour in the land. As the Alew China News Agency noted in November 1984, ‘the funds for quadrupling the value of agricultural production must come mainly from the accumulations of agriculture itself’.17 The new strategy for agriculture has produced quite a remarkable improvement in agricultural performance and rural living standards. Thus, grain production has increased from 305 million tons in 1978 to 391 million metric tons in 1986. Annual per capita net income has increased from around 135 yuan in 1978 to 424 yuan in 1986. However, a number of writers have questioned whether such improvements are a one-time shot in the arm or are truly capable of producing sustained economic growth. Despite this progress, new problems have arisen in the countryside as a result of the new strategy. In particular, concern has been expressed about whether the infrastructure can be maintained now that the collectives have lost their political and economic strength. Will wealthy peasants

16

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re-invest enough of their profits to maintain the road and water systems? Similarly, there apppears to have been a marked decline in the provision of rural welfare services. Will decent schooling and medical care be available only to those who can pay for it? Will the majority of the peasantry be left with inferior welfare facilities or will they be dependent on hand-outs from the new wealthy elite to build their schools and clinics? Here, two problems will be dealt with: grain production, and the emer­ gence of a new rural elite. One particular headache for reformers in the last year or two has been caused by the fall in grain production in 1985 to 379 million metric tons from the record harvest o f407 million metric tons in 1984. Objectively this was not a major problem, as sufficient stocks were available to cover any possible shortfall and the harvest was still above those of the pre-reform period. But grain shortages in the past and the Maoist emphasis on grain production have caused some in the leadership to speak out critically on the question. Apart from bad weather, the decline was caused by farmers turning to more lucrative cash-crop production or small-scale industry. Also, between 1983 and 1985, average prices paid for chemical fertilizers rose by 43 per cent and those for pesticides by 83 per cent, which had the effect of reducing the net income gained from one hectare of grain by 30-40 per cent.18This forced the reformers to make concessions to their critics. The price of fertilizers was dropped and priorities for loans were given to farmers growing more grain. Prime Minister Zhao Ziyang was even forced to amend his report on the seventh five-year plan to take into account worries of National People’s Congress deputies, particularly those from leading grain-producing provinces.19 As a result, the sown grain area was enlarged by two per cent and grain production rose to 391 million metric tons in 1986. More importantly, the new policies that give free rein to enterprise represent a clear abandonment of attempts to promote egalitarian policies in the countryside. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but it will lead to the emergence of a new wealthy stratum in the countryside. For a while, the Chinese media extolled the virtue of the 10,000-yuan households as pioneers of the new China. This was toned down because of the envy and unrealistic expectations that it was creating among other sections of the population. Families with large cash surpluses now have a number of mechanisms for extending their power throughout rural society. The authorities have promoted the concentration of land in the hands of the most skilled (or wealthiest) farmers via a process of sub-contracting or transfer of land-use rights. In theory, there is still no private land ownership in China: land is owned by the collective.20 The Land Administration Law, adopted in January 1987 makes the distinction between land ownership (the col­ lective) and land-use rights (the household).21 However, at the grass-roots level such distinctions begin to look very fine, especially when contracts run for over 15 years and when land is becoming concentrated in fewer hands. In addition, in order to strengthen their economic power further,

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17

wealthy peasants may use their surplus capital to invest in setting up service companies or local enterprises. The question remains whether this new stratum can turn its economic power into political power, and this depends on its relationship with local party and government organizations. Party policy has swung from promoting such farmers as models and actively courting them, to pushing notions of restraint, plain living and hard work. If this newly emerging elite is co-opted into the party or can form an alliance with local party officials, the basis will be formed for a powerful new force in the country­ side that will make subsequent policy change very difficult. In the initial phase of reform, local party and state cadres were one of the main obstacles to reform as they saw their power being broken up by the dismemberment of the collective. However, where they chose to participate in the reforms they have been one of the major beneficiaries. A number of the new entrepreneurs in the countryside are now old commune officials who have privatized their former public contacts and set up lucrative marketing, transport and other service facilities. Current rural policy is clearly creating a much greater differentiation within the peasantry and to date we know too little to say whether existing political institutions in the countryside can cope with this. The fact that most political activity has taken place through informal channels would indicate that the party has not yet been capable of creating formal institutions for the political participation of the peasantry. It seems potentially dangerous for the regime if the overwhelming majority of society have to rely on political activities that are not sanctioned or exert their influence through withdrawal and non-co-operation. As noted, the increasing complexity of economic life at the basic levels in the rural areas gives rise to a variety of interests, som e conflicting, that will have to be brokered and accommodated within the political system. Whether village committees22 and township governments will be up to this task remains to be seen. If they are not, it will lead in formal terms to the political marginalization of the peasantry.23 Industrial Reforms In contrast with the rural reforms, industrial reform has been a stop-go affair with consequently a far more limited impact. The success of the rural reforms has provided ammunition for those who wished to introduce much more wide-ranging reforms into the urban sector. In fact, as the American political scientist Bernstein has indicated, the centralized industrial system has not been able to meet properly the needs of ‘increasingly commercialized decentralized agriculture’. The need for reform, and the reform experiments to date, were recognized in the Central Committee ‘Decision on Reform of the Economic Structure’ of October 1984.25 This Decision chronicles the problems of the industrial economy, noting that ‘defects in the urban economic sector ... seriously hinder the development of the forces of

18

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

production’. The measures proposed offered a more thoroughgoing reform than the piecemeal experimentation that had previously taken place. The key to the industrial reform programme is to make enterprises more economically responsible. Most important has been the introduc­ tion of enterprise profit retention. In 1983, a system of tax for profit was introduced and this was adopted in the 1984 Decision as a policy for all enterprises. This new system replaced the old system of requisition of profits or covering losses and the initial reform experiments of profit contracting. It is expected that the tax system will stabilize state revenues and ‘restore greater objectivity in determining enterprise incentives and fairness to the financial system’.26 To ensure that enterprises can take proper advantage of the limited market opportunities, managers of factories and other enterprises are to be given greater power of decision-making with respect to production plans and marketing, sources of supply, distribution of profits within the enterprise, and the hiring and firing of workers. While this provides the carrot, it was recognized by some that there should be a stick with which to beat inefficient enterprises. Thus, a draft bankruptcy law was made, and in August and September 1986 great publicity was given to an enterprise in Shenyang that won the fame of being the first enterprise to be declared bankrupt since the founding of the PRC. However, this measure provoked a strong reaction from opponents of reform and reformers alike. Decision on the law was shelved and in December 1986 the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress reached a compromise by adopting a ‘trial law’ to come into effect three months after the general enterprise law had been adopted.27 As with the peasantry, the main incentive to make workers work harder and raise labour productivity is a material one. Wage rises, bonuses and piece-rate systems have all been used to try to increase worker productivity, although to date the results have not been remarkable. Here, also, along with the carrot comes a stick: the ‘iron rice bowl’, the name given to the system under which it was impossible to fire workers, is to be abolished. Lifelong tenure is to be replaced by a system of fixed-term labour contracts. In October 1986, a new labour contract law and supplementary regulations were introduced to cover the recruitment and dismissal of undisciplined employees. This new system is intended to reward those who work well, provide the basis for dismissal of bad workers, and, at the same time, cut down the costs of social security and welfare.28 Again, problems and resistance have developed during the process of reform. The major problem with the increased use of market levers in China’s economy is that the market, such as it exists, is an imperfect one and is quite capable of distorting policy intentions. The irrational price structure was recognized in the 1984 Decision as ‘the key to reform of the entire economic structure’. But recognizing the problem and dealing with it are two quite separate matters. The decision suggests an extremely

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cautious approach to the problem, and progress to date has been slow. While China’s leaders recognize the necessity for price reform, they fear the potential unrest caused by such an overhaul. It is too early to state how successful the urban industrial reforms will be, but the experience of other state-socialist societies is not, on the whole, encouraging. In fact, the whole programme for industrial economic reform was given a low priority during 1986-87. While a reversal of direction is unlikely, a stop-go process is a more probable outcome, with spurts of activity being followed by temporary halts as results are assessed and ways are sought to deal with problems that arise. In broad outline, the measures resemble those of the Liberman reforms introduced in the Soviet Union in the early 1960s. The worst scenario would be that the reform programme became bogged down, losing impetus through bureaucratic inertia and resistance from lower-level cadres. Zhao Ziyang, in his Government Work Report of March 1987, complained that the decentralization of more decision-making powers to enterprises had ‘been held up at the intermediate levels in some localities and departments’.29It will take a major change in thinking and practice for state organs to adjust to their more withdrawn role and for enterprise managers to exert fully their new entrepreneurial functions. Cadres will not easily be persuaded to relinquish their power over economic affairs,30 and at present China simply does not possess enough people trained to exploit properly the market opportunities that do exist. According to the 1984 Decision, a new generation of cadres and competent managerial personnel is to be trained, and a reshuffling of leadership in enterprises, especially key enterprises, was to be completed by the end of 1985. This does not seem to have occurred. A more successful scenario would see China’s industrial economy evolve in the direction of Hungary’s more market-oriented economy. Political Reform31 Exactly what China’s leaders mean by reform of the political system is unclear and has become a major source of division within the leadership. As early as August 1980, Deng Xiaoping highlighted problems that were hampering China’s development, such as bureaucratism, excessive concentration of power, patriarchal behaviour, lifelong tenure and abuse of privilege. These problems, Deng hinted, all derived from China’s organizational system. Deng also alluded to the need fully to develop democracy. According to Deng, it was important to make sure that the people genuinely had the power of supervision over the state in a variety of effective ways. In particular, they were ‘to supervise political power at the basic levels, as well as in all enterprises and undertakings’. Although this speech was not published at the time, it set the tone for subsequent discussions about reform. Its appeals to democracy were picked up and developed by reformers such as Liao Gailong,33 while the more conservative party apparat concentrated on tinkering to eradicate

20

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

the more obvious abuses of the system, particularly the increasing level of official corruption. During the early 1980s, a number of initiatives were undertaken to reform the political system, including the adoption of new party and state constitutions, measures to trim the bureaucracy, attempts to improve the quality of the cadre force, and steps to promote effective citizen participa­ tion.34 Although restructuring of the party and state continued throughout the decade, a major overhaul was resisted. In particular, the question of the party’s dominant role was not tackled, and many party cadres balked at the idea of any curtailment in their power. In fact, a number of measures already adopted tended in the opposite direction, particularly with respect to the degree of democracy and participation permissible. Promotion of adherence to the ‘Four Principles’ clearly indicated that there were limits to the reforms and suggested a range of obligations for those engaged in discussions about democracy. These principles had been put forward by Deng Xiaoping in March 1979 at a Central Theoretical Work Conference.35 The party also began to reassert its role as the guardian of the ideology. As its confidence was restored by its economic successes, it began once again to feel that it was sufficiently qualified to tell people what was in their best interests. Thus, by the middle of 1981, China’s leaders decided that conscious guidance in ideological and spiritual terms was needed. It was discovered that socialism had a moral-spiritual goal as well as a material one, and that these goals could be defined by the party alone. At the twelfth party congress (1982), the then General Secretary, Hu Yaobang, reversed the listing of the tasks of modernization, democratization and building of a high level of spiritual civilization: Hu placed the building of spiritual civilization before democratization, thus making it a prerequisite for democratization.36 Similarly, in the summer of 1986, when discussions on political reform filled the pages of China’s official media, often drawing inspiration from Deng’s 1980 speech, it was made clear that it would be limited and implemented gradually. This stress on caution stems from the leadership’s fear of spontaneous activity that may take place beyond party control, and from a lack of consensus within the top leadership about the precise nature of the reform. In public pronouncements, for example, both Deng Xiaoping and Secretariat member Wang Zhaoguo have been careful to stress that ‘some reform of the political system is necessary to complement the current economic reforms’.37 Political reform became a divisive issue. A Hong Kong newspaper report referred to a meeting held at Beidaihe in the summer of 1986 at which some leaders expressed the view that, on the whole, the current political system was basically suited to the needs of economic develop­ ment and that reform could lead to the negation of the ‘Four Principles’. Disagreement on the issue led to the postponement of any decision until the next party congress, to be held in the autumn of 1987.38In fact, the sixth plenum of the twelfth party congress (September 1986), instead of

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21

discussing political reform, passed a resolution on the need to improve work in the ideological and cultural spheres. These are issues more closely associated with those who wish to limit the extent of political reform. The opponents of too radical reforms began to link far-reaching reforms with ‘bourgeois pollution’. In November 1986, Politburo member Peng Zhen warned against those who yearned for bourgeois democracy ‘as if the moonlight of capitalist society were brighter than our sun’. To reinforce the view that the party would remain firmly in command, Deng Xiaoping’s comments of March 1979 on the need to uphold the ‘Four Principles’ received wide publicity once again. Comments of Deng Xiaoping made in September 1986 show how little progress had been made on substantial issues and indicated what would be discussed at the thirteenth party congress. He stated: I think the aim of the reform of the political structure is to motivate the masses, raise efficiency and overcome bureaucracy. The sub­ stance of reform should primarily be separating the party from government administration, finding a solution to how the party should exercise leadership, and how to improve leadership. This is the key to the question.39 Without doubt, the most important aspect of political reform concerns the correct role for the party, and its relationship to other organizations. Any fundamental reform would lead to a decrease in the power of the party. However, such a reform will be much harder to realize than the proposed economic reforms because of the vested interests that will have to be eliminated. While party hegemony is an enduring fact of life, significant changes have taken place, albeit ones that do not challenge party hegemony. Having launched a development strategy that will create - and already has created - greater social differentiation and more interests to be brokered, Deng and his supporters have accepted that new institutions must be devised to mediate between the party and the officially sanctioned sectors of society. According to Jowitt, communist parties when faced with this situation must make an ‘attempt to expand membership in the regime in a way that allows politically co-opted social elites or activists to maintain their social-occupational identity, and the Party apparatus to maintain its institutionalized charismatic status’.40 The problem is exacerbated by the fact that the party professes to be the only organization in society capable of defining the correct strategy for the attainment of communism. The current leadership has chosen a strategy that relies heavily on the advice of those with scarce professional skills skills that are conspicuously absent within the party itself. Thus, the party is frequently in the position of having to make decisions, and supervise situations, about which it has little expert knowledge. This lies behind the party’s desire both to recruit more intellectuals and to extricate itself from the day-to-day decision-making process. The party thus wishes to loosen its grip somewhat over state and society.

22

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

As a part of the reform programme, power is to be redistributed, both horizontally to state organs at the same level, and vertically to party and state organs lower down the administrative system. To date, the party has so dominated the legislature, executive and judiciary as to make their independence a fiction. To add to the problem, the party has no effective regulatory mechanism. As a result, when the interests of the state or the individual are infringed, the legal system cannot automatically intervene, as it is controlled by the party. To improve this situation it is suggested that a clear separation of powers should be established with clear guidelines laid down for each organization. However, as long as ‘rule by man’, in this case ‘party man’, rather than ‘rule by law’ is the dominant ethos, the creation of new rules and regulations will not fundamentally resolve the problem. At the basic levels, attempts have been made to loosen the party’s grip in an attempt to improve economic efficiency. Thus, in the rural areas, the communes, where the will of the local party committee too often reigned supreme, have been broken up and power redistributed. In the urban sector, more power is to be given to the enterprise manager at the expense of the party committee. In experiments begun in 1986, the phrase used to describe them was the ‘managerial responsibility system’ rather than the previous description of ‘managerial responsibility system under the leadership of the party committee’. This is an attempt to make a clear demarcation between party and administration, and it emphasizes the need of the manager to act on certain matters without always first asking for the approval of the party committee. Not surprisingly, these reform attempts have met stubborn resistance. Thus, when discussions on the new enterprise law were held at the Standing Committee meeting that preceded the sixth session of the National People’s Congress (March 1987), it was made clear that this form of management was a key point of disagreement. Opponents of change argued that it would undermine the role of the party in die enterprise. As a result of disagreements, the Standing Committee did not put forward the draft of the law to the National People’s Congress session. Local officials have sought to resist implementation. Conflicts have emerged between those party officials who owe their position to their personal connections and to their political and administrative skills in working the old system, and those who derive their power from their detailed technical knowledge. While those with technical skills push for greater autonomy, many old party officials have fought to exert greater control over the enterprise’s work in order to maintain their pre-eminent position. As a last resort a party secretary can always invoke the ultimate authority of the party to ensure getting his or her own way. Similarly, it seems that local party officials have blocked the policy of recruiting more intellectuals into the party. They fear that ‘if intellectuals are promoted to leading posts and then join the party, they will have all the best jobs’.41 This causes some to think in the following terms:

REFORM IN THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

23

While you have an education, I have the party membership in my hands. While you have the knowledge, I have qualifications and record of service. No matter how capable you may be, as long as you are not admitted into the party, you will remain under my leader­ ship.42 Conclusion The reform programme started in December 1978 was introduced to boost standards of living as quickly as possible and cure the problems that were seen as deriving from the ‘leftist’ course pursued in the previous 20 years. It was soon realized that this was only part of the problem and that deep-seated structural problems existed that had to be dealt with. The return of Deng Xiaoping to power enabled the wide-ranging programme to be launched. He was able to blame the problems on his predecessors and offer China a new start. However, the reform programme had no conscious blueprint but was marked by incrementalism. Problems arose and solutions were found; new problems arose and the process began again. As the reform programme continued, it became clear, however, that the policies were intended not as emergency measures but as part of a new long-term development strategy. Successful experiments in one area became reform blueprints for the whole nation. Most of the reforms began in trial areas and then were extended on the basis of their success to other areas. Indeed, the major reason for Zhao Ziyang’s appointment as Premier was his success in handling economic reform in the province of Sichuan. In this respect one bad trait of the bureaucracy was retained from the past. China has operated for thousands of years as a unitary state and has been unable to allow different regions to develop their own policy variants, or at least not to any meaningful degree. In the initial phase of agricultural reform, it seemed as though the leadership in Beijing would allow the different regions to find their own organizational forms. However, once the contract system was decided on, it was forced on most areas irrespective of their local conditions. One exception to this habit of ‘cutting with one knife’, as the Chinese refer to it, has been the creation of Special Economic Zones. The zones have separate regulations to encourage the investment of foreign capital and to attract foreign technology. To varying degrees, these special measures have since been applied to 14 coastal cities, mainly the old foreign concessions in China. This is an explicit recognition that the coastal strip will be allowed to follow a more flexible, ‘open’, tradeoriented policy than the inland provinces. In fact, the liberalization of the economy in these areas seems to have been a source of conflict between the coast, which stands to benefit greatly, and the inland provinces, which fear being left further behind in the race for modernization.43

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COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

Interestingly, Shenzhen in particular has provided a testing-ground for enterprise and labour legislation that has later been introduced through­ out the rest of the industrial sector.44 The reform programme has now progressed for a sufficient period of time for its contours to become clear and for problems to arise. Not everyone has been favoured by the reforms in equal measure. Whether or not the programme will continue will depend on the strength of the opposition. Apart from the opposition of groups already mentioned, it seems that at the centre there are two main focuses of opposition that pose a threat to any further extension of the reform programme. They may not want to turn back the clock to the Maoist years, but they are worried about the future direction reform may take. For them reform seems to have gone far enough, and they are not willing to see a further erosion of the pillars of the political and economic apparatus. First, there is a group of people who are worried on economic grounds: this group would include veteran leader Chen Yun. Chen, and others, are worried about the destabilizing effect of pushing the reforms too far, too fast. They have criticized the over-reliance on the market and were worried about the ‘over-heating’ of the economy caused by the rapid growth of the rural industrial sector. While Chen is not opposed to an increased role for the market - indeed he has been one of its main proponents - he did see the too-rapid introduction of market forces as causing the economic problems of early 1985. Chen has consistently argued for the importance and primacy of central planning within the economic system. Furthermore, this group fears that current policies will deepen regional inequalities between China’s poor hinterland and its more advanced coastal regions. Finally, they are concerned about the mushrooming of corruption that has sprung up as a result of the more liberal policies and increased contacts with the West. This group can count on the support of what Shirk has termed the ‘communist coalition’: those groups favoured by the old system - the heavy industrial sector, inland provinces, the central planning agencies and the industrial ministries.45 The second group contains people such as Peng Zhen, who have a more orthodox view of the party-state apparat, and Hu Qiaomu and Deng Liqun, who are worried about the consequences of liberalization for the social fabric of China. In their view, the more relaxed economic policies and increasing contacts with the West have led to a rise in corruption and the appearance of decadent bourgeois thought and practices. However, Peng’s experiences in the Cultural Revolution have convinced him of the need for a strong legal basis for the reforms to govern both economic activity and civil society. Peng Zhen has been able to use the National People’s Congress as a forum for airing criticisms of the reform programme. The removal of Hu Yaobang as General Secretary of the party and the launching of attacks on bourgeois liberalization in the early months of 1987 represented a considerable success for the opposition. However, their inability to push the campaign any further attests to their ultimate

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25

weakness, as it did with the campaign against Spiritual Pollution launched at the end of 1983. They have managed to silence more radical ideas about political reform, certainly those ideas that challenge Party hegemony, but they do not seem to have made any significant inroads into the economic reform programme. At the present time, it is difficult to see where sufficient support can come from to turn back the reform programme. Despite recognized problems, it does seem to be popular. Given China’s recent past, it would be extremely dangerous for the party to risk once again alienating its population, and particularly its intellectuals. Also, Deng Xiaoping, although no liberal, when confronted with the choice has always chosen to maintain the reform momentum. This has been a crucial factor. While a total reversal seems unlikely, the opposition may be able to gather enough strength to frustrate the reform programme. If that happens it will be up to Mikhail Gorbachev to take the lead in developing the politics of reform within a state-socialist setting. NOTES Tony Saich is an Associate Professor at the Sinologisch Instituut, Leiden University. He has written numerous articles and books concerning political developments in China, including China: Politics and Government (1981) and China*s Science Policy in the 1980s (1987). At present he is editing for publication the Sneevliet (Maring) Archives for his period in China. 1. See the relevant sections in John H. Kautsky, The Political Consequences of Modernization (New York: Wiley, 1971). 2. According to White, the phase of ‘bureaucratic voluntarism’ occurs after the revolu­ tion has taken place and when it is becoming ‘institutionalized’; an increasingly complex bureaucracy develops that attempts to stimulate and oversee rapid economic development: see G. White, ‘Revolutionary Socialist Development in the Third World: An Overview*, in G. White, R. Murray and C. White (eds.), Revolutionary Socialist Development in the Third World (Brighton: Wheatsheaf Books, 1983), p.32. 3. On this point see, for example, Stephen White, Political Culture and Soviet Politics (London: Macmillan, 1979), pp. 169—77 and ‘Communist Systems and the “Iron-Law of Pluralism”*, British Journal of Political Science, Vol. 8 (1977), pp. 101-17. 4. This draws on information contained in Ch.6 of Tony Saich, China's Science Policy in the 1980s (forthcoming). 5. M. Korzec and T. Saich, The Chinese Economy: New Light on Old Questions, Working Paper No.28 (Amsterdam: University of Amsterdam, 1983), p. 16. 6. Deng Xiaoping, ‘Not Reforming the Political Structure Will Hamper the Development of Productive Forces’, 3 Sept. 1986 quoted in Beijing Review (BR), No.20 (18 May 1987), p.15. 7. See, for example, Wang Huming, ‘Heading for an Efficient and Democratic Political Structure’, Shijie Jingji Daobao, 21 July 1986, in BBC Summary of World Broadcasts (,SWB) FE/8832. 8. It lies beyond the scope of this article to discuss the reforms of China’s foreign trade structure and the new policies to attract foreign capital. However, it should be pointed out that its increasing involvement in the world economy makes the current leadership more dependent on factors beyond their control than at any other time since the founding of the PRC. For example, its importation of sensitive foreign technology depends on the attitude of foreign governments, particularly the USA, with respect to granting it favoured-nation status. Its export of textiles depends on quotas set by other nations where its influence is weak at best.

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9. For an excellent account of the earliest phase of the agricultural reforms see A. Watson, ‘Agriculture Looks for “Shoes that Fit”: The Production Responsibility System and Its Implications’, in N. Maxwell and B. McFarlane (eds.), China’s Changed Road to Development (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1984), pp.83-108. 10. It was essentially based on the ‘Three Freedoms and One Guarantee’ policy of the early 1960s that had been introduced to revive Chinese agriculture after the disaster of the Great Leap Forward. 11. Excerpts from Document No.l, 1983, ‘Some Questions Concerning Rural Economic Policy’, can be found in Foreign Broadcast Information Service (FBIS), 13 April 1983, K—1. A Translation of Document N o.l, 1984, ‘Circular of the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party on Rural Work During 1984’, can be found in China Quarterly, No.101 (1985), pp.132-44. 12. See F. Christiansen, ‘Private Land in China? Some Aspects of the Development of Socialist Land Ownership in Post-Mao China’, The Journal of Communist Studies, Vol.3, N o.l (1987), p.58. See also F.W. Crook, ‘The Baogan Daohu Incentive System: Translation and Analysis of a Model Contract’, China Quarterly, No.102 (1985), pp .291-303. 13. This was done to give the peasants more incentive to invest in the land. The short-time contracts, previously three years, coupled with the peasants* fear that policy might change, caused them to maximize output from the land without due regard for its long­ term potential. 14. See K. Lieberthal, ‘The Political Implications of Document N o.l, 1984’, China Quarterly, No.101 (1985), p.109. 15. Jon Unger, when interviewing 28 people from different villages, found that 26 of the 28 villages had received commands from county officials to divide all their land among the peasant households; out of these 26, 24 were instructed to adopt the same system: see J. Unger, ‘The Decollectivization of the Chinese Countryside: A Survey of Twenty-eight Villages’, Pacific Affairs, Vol.58, No.4 (1985-86), pp.585-606. 16. See ‘Ten Policies for Enlivening the Rural Economy’ (Document N o.l, 1985), Renmin Ribao, 2 Jan. 1985. 17. Quoted in J. Fewsmith, ‘Rural Reform in China: Stage Two*, Problems of Communism, July-Aug. 1985, p.52. 18. Nongye Jingji Wenti, No. 11 (1986), quoted in E.B. Vermeer, ‘Agriculture in China’s Economy: A Statistical Picture*, China Information, Vol.2, No.l. 19. ‘NPC Gives Go-Ahead to 5-Year Plan’, BR, No.16 (21 April 1986), p.5. In discussing Zhao’s work report for the 1987 session of the NPC, it was reported that delegates criticized the government for not taking prompt and effective measures to solve problems in agricultural production, particularly grain production: ‘National People’s Congress: A Democratic Session’, BR, No.16 (20 April 1987), p.5. 20. Or by the state on the state farms. 21. For an interesting account of this Law and its implications see F. Christiansen, ‘An Analysis of Recent Developments in China’s Land Legislation: Some New Trends in Chinese Land Ownership and Land Use*, China Information, Vol.l, No.3, pp.20-31. 22. In 1982, village committees were set up to replace the brigades as the intermediate village-level political unit. The fifth session of the sixth National People’s Congress (March-April 1987), after considerable discussion, passed draft regulations on villagers’ committees and authorized their trial implementation. However, before the trial law was promulgated, it was stressed that further investigation and revision were necessary. The committees are self-governing organizations and are not subordinate to the local government. Notably, the text of the draft law was not released. 23. See Tony Saich, ‘Modernization and Participation in the People’s Republic of China*, in J.Y.S. Cheng (ed.), China in the 1980s (forthcoming). 24. T.P. Bernstein, ‘China in 1984: The Year of Hong Kong*, Asian Survey, Vol. XXV, No.l (1985), p.38. 25. A translation of this document can be found in BR, No.44 (29 Oct. 1984), pp.i-xvi. 26. E.J. Perry and C. Wong, ‘Introduction: The Political Economy of Reform in Post-Mao China: Causes, Content, and Consequences’, in E.J. Perry and C. Wong (eds.), The

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27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45.

27

Political Economy of Reform in Post-Mao China (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1985), pp. 12-13. See T. Vosbein, ‘Bankruptcy-The Limit of Economic Reform in China?’, China Information, Vol.l, No.3, pp. 1-8. E.B. Vermeer, ‘China’s Labour Policies and the New Labour Contract Law’, China Information, V ol.l, No.3, p.9. Zhao Ziyang, ‘Report on the Work of the Government’, BR%No. 16 (20 April 1987), p.XI. See below. This section draws heavily on information contained in Tony Saich, ‘Reform of China’s Political System*, in R. Benewick and P. Wingrove (eds.), Reforming the Revolution: China in the 1980s (forthcoming). Deng Xiaoping, ‘Reform of the Leadership System of Our Party and State’, speech of 18 Aug. 1980, officially published in Deng Xiaoping Wenxuan (Beijing: Renmin Chubanshe, 1983), p.282. Liao Gailong, ‘Historical Experience and Our Path of Development’, Zhonggong Yanjiu, VoLXV, No.9 (1981). For initial reforms of the state sector see David S.G. Goodman, ‘State Reforms in the People’s Republic of China since 1976: A Historical Perspective’, in Neil Harding (ed.), The State in Socialist Society (London: Macmillan, 1984), pp.277-98; for the party see Tony Saich, ‘Party-building since Mao: A Question of Style?’, in Maxwell and McFarlane, op. cit.; on cadre policy see Tony Saich, ‘Cadres: From Bureaucrats to Managerial Modernizers?’, in B. Arendrup et al. (eds.), China in the 1980s - and Beyond (London: Curzon Press, 1986). For an early discussion of the significance of these principles see the editorial, ‘Firmly Grasp the Four Basic Principles in Order to Realize the Four Modernizations’, Hongqi, No.5 (1979), pp.11-15. Tony Saich, ‘Party Consolidation and Spiritual Pollution in the People’s Republic of China’, Communist Affairs: Documents and Analysis, Vol.3, No.3 (1984), p.286. Deng Xiaoping, Xinhua Report, 3 Sept. 1986, in SWB, FE/8355 and Wang Zhaoguo, Xinhua Report, 16 July 1986, SWB, FE/8315; emphasis added. Cheng Hsiang, ‘News From Beidaihe’, Wenhui Bao, 8 Aug. 1986, in SWB, FE/8335. Deng Xiaoping, ‘A Blueprint is Needed for Reform of the Political Structure’ quoted in BR, No.20 (18 May 1987), p.16. Kenneth Jowitt, ‘Inclusion and Mobilization in European Leninist Regimes’, World Politics, Vol.XXVIII, No.l (1975), p.72. Sun Jian and Zhu Weiqun, ‘What is the Current Situation in Implementing Policies on Intellectuals? An Investigation of Jiangsu Province Shows that “Leftist” Influences Stubbornly Persist and the Problem is Far from a Solution*, Renmin Ribao, 8 July 1985, p.2. Cao Zhi, ‘Assess from the High Plain of Strategy the Question of Recruiting Party Members from Among Outstanding Intellectuals’, Hongqi, No.23 (1984), p. 18. See S. Shirk, ‘The Politics of Industrial Reform’, in Perry and Wong, op. cit., pp.210-16. This was the case, for example, with the contract labour system that was started in the Special Economic Zones in 1980. See Shirk, op. cit.

Reform, Local Political Institutions and the Village Economy in China Elisabeth J. Croll

Recent reforms in China have far-reaching implications for the form and content of village political and economic institutions and their relations with peasant households, family and kin groups. This article examines the recent separation of economic and political authority at the local level and the substitution of new township and village institutions for the commune, production brigade and production teams. With the development of the commodity economy and new economic associations, the government predicts a diminution in the production responsibility and autonomy of the newly emergent peasant household. However, a preliminary examination of the politics of the local economy suggest that peasant households may have developed alternative strategies based on new family forms and networks that potentially challenge village-wide political and economic structures.

In the past few years, one of the most important developments in many East European and Asian planned economies has been the introduction of new and radical rural economic reforms. These have separated political and economic authority, redefined responsibility for agricultural produc­ tion and altered both the balance of production for the plan and the market and the balance of resource allocation between public and private forms. These reforms have far-reaching consequences for local political, social and economic institutions. In China it has been apparent since 1980 that such reforms have transformed not only the rural collective economy, but also the village social and political institutions that had encapsulated peasant households, families and kin groups since the late 1950s. Yet, although there has been much attention drawn by analysts of China to the economic repercussions of these recent reforms, less attention has been devoted to the far-reaching social and political implications that the reforms have for the form and content of village political and economic institutions and their relations with peasant households, family and kin groups. One of the most important components of the recent reforms in rural China has been the separation at the local level of political and economic authority and the emergence of new political and economic institutions. Indeed, after the establishment of the production responsibility system, the local separation of political administration from economic manage­ ment has been designated as the second most important of the economic

REFORM AND THE VILLAGE ECONOMY IN CHINA

29

reforms in rural areas. In the past five years, and since the introduction of the new constitution in late 1982, the government has reformed local political structures by substituting new township and village institu­ tions for the commune, production brigade and production team, and redefining the scope of their authority and controls. The government has also established new forms of economic organization based on local corporations, co-operatives and economic associations, to expand pro­ duction, develop the commodity economy and service economic enter­ prises managed by peasant households either individually or jointly. As a result of these reforms, the government expects that within the village a new division of labour will emerge in which local political institutions remain in control of the local economy and are responsible for guiding, planning and managing its development, but where they no longer directly participate in production. Rather this is to be the responsibility of the individual household and co-operative or economic associations, which combine to make up a new two-tier system of local economic management. The individual peasant household will be responsible for the development of its own economy and the management of its own productive operations. The co-operative or economic associa­ tion will manage production services and enterprises that are beyond the capacity of the individual peasant household. However, the government also expects that with increasing productivity in agriculture, diversifica­ tion and specialization and the development of the commodity economy, co-operative forms of unified management will come to predominate over the individual household’s management of the local economy. A preliminary examination of new social, political and economic institu­ tions in the villages suggests that such a hypothesis does not take sufficient account of the degree to which the peasant household has acquired a new measure of independence and control over inputs, resources and output; nor does it take into account the emergence of new family forms and strategies in the countryside whose networks may increasingly challenge the authority and controls of the new local economic and political structures.1 New Political Structures

The reforms that separated political and economic authority and established new local political structures began in 1982 in accordance with the Draft Constitution of the People’s Republic of China. From the turn of the decade there had been some discussion about the form this re­ structuring should take and some experiments had been conducted in Sichuan province; but within a very brief period, in 1984, it was reported that the new political structures had been introduced throughout China (with the exception of Tibet). The new political structures below county level include the township, the administrative village and village groups, and each coincides with previous administrative divisions of and within the commune2 (see Figure 1).

30

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA FIGURE 1 LOCAL GOVERNMENT STRUCTURES

Chinese Terms Xian

English Terms County (County Government)

Past Equivalent County

Xiang

Township (Township Government)

Commune

Xingzhengcun I

Administrative Village (Village committee)

Production brigade

Cunmin Xiaozu

Village Group (Village leader)

Production team

The establishment of new township governments is the key to local restructuring and they have been set up to assume the government and administrative functions formerly vested in the commune. Thus town­ ship governments replaced the people’s commune governments which, originally introduced into China in 1958, combined economic and politi­ cal authority over the means of production and were responsible for the production, management and operation of economic enterprises and of individual peasant households. Within the commune, the production brigade and production team, based on the whole or part of the rural village depending on its size, comprised the basic units of production with responsibility for accounting, planning and distribution. Between the state and the commune and within the commune, there was a single organizational structure, and China’s countryside was characterized by a clearly defined, hierarchical, single line of command combining political and economic authority. The collective structure, with its three tiers of commune, production brigade and production team, had almost entirely encapsulated the peasant household and the village economy, and the co-ordination of political and economic authority had meant that the peasant household had very little independence within or outside these structures. Although historical forms of association and co-operation based on small kin relations and neighbourhood groups might have remained the focus of informal exchanges largely confined to ritual occasions, most of the traditional forms of family and kin-based co-operation had been formalized, enlarged and magnified by the process of collectivization to include all households within the productive unit.3 For instance, the process of collectivization had demanded that peasant households place a high value on the mobilization of collective resources and co-operate on unprecedented levels and in larger collective-wide activities. The incorporation of peasant households into these large village production units with exclusive control of resources and the means of production meant that, although their very solidarity might derive from and draw on kinship and neighbourhood ties, there was little institutional competition to the collective from the family, kin and village. In production, the

REFORM AND THE VILLAGE ECONOMY IN CHINA

31

peasant household had little or no access to alternative resources and inputs apart from those generated and distributed by the collective. However, it was the all-inclusive range of functions of the commune and its direct responsibility for production that were criticized by the reformers as an inefficient and institutional obstacle to rural economic development, and especially to the development of a commodity economy. The new township government, unlike the communes, is responsible only for the administration of political and social affairs, and for administering overall government and county plans for the local economy. Under the direction of the township head and two executive heads, it has offices to manage markets, disaster-relief, public security, welfare, health, culture and education. Although the township govern­ ment is charged with using economic, legal and other necessary administrative methods to guide and plan the economic development of the whole township, it is not charged with the administration of individual enterprises or organizing production by individual farmers. Indeed it is expressly prohibited from itself undertaking economic activities and from interfering in the specific production and management activities of individual and larger units of production. The township constitutes the lowest level of the formal local government administration hierarchy, and its officials, appointed and paid by the state, usually number some ten to 20 cadres. They are responsible for administering the affairs of the township and its constituent administrative villages. An administrative village, like its forerunner, the production brigade, is an administrative subdivision covering a geographical area made up of one large or several small and natural villages, usually comprising a total of 200-400 households. Each administrative village is governed by a villagers’ committee, whose members are recommended or elected by the villagers and approved by the township office. It is not a formal part of the government administration, since the members of the village committee are not employees of the state, but are rather part-time local leaders. The constitution stipulates that the villagers’ committees are ‘mass organizations of self-management’4which manage the public offices and social services of the village and help the local government in administration, production and construction. The village committee is usually made up of five persons, including the head or director of the village committee, two executive deputy directors, an accountant and a woman in charge of women’s affairs. Unlike the township and county, there is usually no division of personnel into branches. Instead, each person has multiple tasks and duties that might include the implementa­ tion of county or township policy, advising farmers on the development of their economic activities, taking charge of village construction work such as irrigation, forestry and roads, mediating in disputes, and overseeing the welfare of the poorest peasant households. Most of the members of the village committee expect to work one month a year on village affairs and they are usually paid 10-20 yuan a month to compensate for their loss of

32

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

production time. This sum is paid from village committee funds which are managed by the village accountant and derive from either direct annual levies on member households, calculated according to household size, or proceeds from a portion of die village’s cultivated land set aside and cultivated on a sharecropping basis for this purpose. The village committee is responsible for co-ordinating the activities of its constituent village groups. Each administrative village is divided into village groups with an average of 30-50 households and 100-150 persons in each. As for the former production team, whether the village group coincides with a natural village will very much depend on settlement patterns and the size of individual villages. Each village group has a village leader, who is elected or recommended by its constituent households, and it has access to the services of an accountant who may be responsible for the funds of one or several village groups. These two functionaries also receive a monthly sum, often six to nine yuan, contributed by the farmers to compensate for the loss of production time. The main functions of village group leaders are to acquaint villagers with government policy, to mediate in disputes, to be acquainted with the conditions of each member household in order to help them solve problems and advise them in the development of their incomes, and to disseminate information and technologies. The leader also arranges for each household to contribute labour for construction of village or township projects such as planting trees or developing roads, irrigation works or other community needs. In rural China in the past five years these political reforms have been introduced and implemented so that the new local political structures continue to constitute a single line of political authority reaching from the county through to the township village and peasant household. Although these bodies have been redefined in name and function to exclude direct responsibilities for and participation in production, they are expected to control the development of the local economy. A recent report in People’s Daily on political power at the grass-roots level outlined tire limits to the economic responsiblities of the local political organizations: To guide and manage the economic work of the township is an important power bestowed on the township government by the law. The township government should use the economic, legal and necessary administrative methods to manage the economy of the whole township and serve the development of commodity produc­ tion, but should not interfere in, undertake or even replace the specific production and management activities of economic organizations.5 In addition to and alongside this political restructuring and the establish­ ment of new local political institutions, the government also advocates the establishment of new forms of economic organizations based on a two-tier system of management combining households with companies, associa­ tions or co-operatives.

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33

New Economic Structures When the first steps were taken to separate local political and economic authority, the reform was expressed largely in terms of simply ‘stripping’ the communes of their governmental and political functions and leaving them as economic entities responsible for organizing production of local enterprises, collectively owned and managed. Gradually, however, the economic role of the commune has declined as collectively managed enterprises were frequently contracted out to individuals or small groups of households and made responsible for their own profits and losses. The commune, instead of assuming new economic responsibilities in the wake of de-collectivization, has gradually diminished in importance so that the very use of the term has passed from the local rural vocabulary. Instead, government policy has increasingly directed attention towards a new twotiered system of economic management that combines individual management by the peasant household with co-operative and unified management of the larger services beyond the capacity of the individual household provided by local economic associations, corporations, companies and co-operatives. One of the most important dimensions of the recent rural reforms has been the new interest in and focus on the peasant household as an economic unit in the countryside. Although it has to be remembered that it was a more important unit of production than was generally surmised within the collective, it has now virtually replaced the collective as the dominant unit of production in rural China with primary responsibility for consumption and the welfare of its members. This substitution came about largely as a result of the new rural production responsibility system in which land was contracted out to the peasant household for use for a period of some 15-50 years.6 In practice, the peasant household has gained de facto control over the land, since it is encouraged either to invest in, accumulate, or sub-contract out its lands. The reallocation of responsibility for production also demanded that peasant households took charge of all field management from sowing to harvesting, and bore the expenses of production, including the hire and exchange of labour, animal labour and small machines, and the cost of the disposal of its agricultural products. Initially households had contracted to grow specified crops, and after allowing for taxes and the sale of mandatory quotas to the state had retained control over only the surplus. However, in 1985 the state abolished the mandatory purchase of quotas for crops, and peasant households may now either take out contracts with the state or produce almost exclusively for the market7 The rural economic reforms not only allocate new responsibilities to peasant households in crop cultivation, but they also encourage peasant households to diversify their economic activities to include both agricultural and non-agricultural occupations as part of new diversifica­ tion programmes aimed at developing animal husbandry, cash cropping, industries and commercial activities within the rural economy. To

34

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

encourage the peasant household to expand its income-generating activities, the government has increased producer prices, provided local incentives and re-established rural fairs and markets where goods, foods, local handicrafts and manufactured goods may be exchanged between producer and consumer at prices set according to local supply and demand.9 In a new and increasingly important development, peasant households are also encouraged to diversify their economic activities so that they increasingly move outside agriculture and specialize in some form of commodity production.10 A household is normally said to be specialized if the main labour force works or manages some form of specialized commodity production, with the income from commodity production accounting for some 50 per cent or more of the household’s total income. In other localities it is simply the number of rabbits, poultry or other products that determines its classification. The introduction of this new category of households, ‘specialized households’, marks the beginning of a new type of household economy or one that is ‘small and specialized’ as opposed to ‘one that is small and complete’.11It is estimated that approximately one-fifth of peasant households now specialize in the production of a single product or service,12 and since this proportion, already higher in coastal areas and the plains, is expected to rise with the development of commodity production, the characteristics of this type of peasant household are important in setting a trend for the future. The individual peasant household also remains the chief unit of consumption and welfare in the countryside responsible for meeting the basic needs of all its members, but it is now no longer aided and subsidized by collective structures and services to the same extent as formerly. As before, reorganized rural economy continues to demand that the peasant household should provide housing, non-staple foods, clothes and other basic necessities for all its members, but it is also responsible for procuring its own staple food supply now that the distribution of grain by the production team to its member households no longer takes place. Additionally, the peasant household is expected to take greater responsiblity for the economic support and welfare of its dependants, including its young, unemployed, elderly and disabled or otherwise handicapped members who are not able-bodied enough to be in full-time employment. Previously the production team absorbed all village residents into its labour force in some capacity or another, so they all earned work points whose value was calculated simply by dividing the income of the production teams by the total number of work points. Now, those without labour power must be either incorporated into the incomegenerating activities of the peasant household or supported by the peasant household out of its own income. In sum, as a result of the rural reforms, the peasant household is a more independent and complex economic unit managing a whole new range of economic activities and requiring an array of new resources to maintain it as the dominant unit of production, processing and welfare. The main aim of the second tier of economic management, comprising

REFORM AND THE VILLAGE ECONOMY IN CHINA

35

economic companies, associations and co-operatives, is to support and service the peasant households’ new economic needs and demands which have expanded on an unprecedented scale as a result of the introduction of the production responsibility system and the development of specialized commodity prodution. Previously, the procurement of raw materials, the purchase of the means of production, the introduction of new agricultural techniques and the acquisition of new technologies, transport facilities and markets were all the responsibility of the collective production unit, and few demands were made on the initiative and management qualities of the individual peasant household or its special skills and resources. The development of the individual household as a production unit, and the expansion of its commodity production, now requires the house­ hold to have access to new skills, resources and facilities quite outside its previous experience, and frequently beyond the capacity of the indivi­ dual household to provide. In recognition of this new situation in the villages, the government has increasingly encouraged the pooling of existing resources by households, combining to organize new economic associations and co-operatives. These are intended to service the peasant households, and especially those specializing in commodity production, thereby facilitating production, and more particularly easing circulation, distribution, transport, storage and marketing - all areas where the infrastructure in rural China is weak. At first, many of the new economic structures, including corporations and companies, were established by communes or production brigades before the latter’s demise, in order to take care of the capital resources previously accumulated and operated by the collective. Many local resources - irrigation canals, plant protection units, agricultural machinery, seedlings and storage and transport facilities - were trans­ ferred to company ownership, and maintained and operated by a staff for whose services and inputs peasant households paid a fee. From various provinces it was reported that communes and production brigades had established service companies to deal with irrigation, agricultural machinery or artificial insemination, or supply and marketing companies to make various inputs - such as fertilizer and seed - available to peasant households.13 At first, communes and production brigades administered these companies and received a portion of the profits; gradually, however, such companies have managed their own operations inde­ pendently. Staff and local peasant households have taken shares in these coiporations or companies and shared in the profits. In addition to these independently operated companies and corpora­ tions, the government has encouraged peasant households to set up their own economic associations and societies to serve their own production needs.14Economic associations might be formed in several different ways. For instance, peasant households may combine to purchase an animal, a piece of machinery or other capital equipment which they then jointly own and operate. Alternatively, a group of households may employ personnel to perform certain specialist services on their behalf. For instance, reports

36

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

on the establishment of economic associations often quote a sequence of events in which individual households experience many difficulties in developing a specialist activity. They might spend much time and energy on searching for raw materials, acquiring new skills or obtaining market information in selling their products. Sooner or later a number of these households come together to appoint and send buyers and sellers to search for raw materials and markets, and import technicians to help them improve their knowledge and skills.15 In a third pattern of development, households may combine to invest in a small industry or a service centre, in which they either merely own shares or which they jointly operate by pooling their labour and resources. One of the main characteristics of these co-operatives and associations is that they are to be based on the principles of ‘spontaneous association and voluntary participation’.16 In pushing for new forms of co-operation and unified management of certain production services in the village, the government has taken great pains to persuade peasants that the new economic forms of co-operation are very different from those operating within the former three-tiered commune system. For example, an editorial in the People’s Daily in 1985 emphasized that these new economic organizations and co-operative systems were entirely different from former collectives in four main ways: First, it is not a highly centralized organization that integrates government administration and the management of the organiza­ tions into one, but a pure economic organization; secondly, the establishment of these organizations does not mean an amalgama­ tion of private property but, under the prerequisite of affirming household management, these organizations promote co-operation with regard to certain economic items, certain kinds of production, or certain technical links in accordance with the desires of the masses; thirdly, peasant households may voluntarily join or withdraw from these organizations, and the higher authorities never issue any orders to the lower levels for the establishment of these organizations; and fourthly, these organizations are established in accordance with local conditions and the demands of local peasant households. The practice of ‘demanding uniformity in everything’ or ‘trying to find a single solution for diverse problems’ is avoided.17 By the end of 1985 it was estimated that there were 480,000 new economic associations, mainly engaged in industry, transportation and construc­ tion, and commerce, catering and other service trades, which together employed a total of 4.2 per million employees and netted 13,300 million yuan.1®Increasingly the government has forecast that these new forms of economic co-operation will emerge spontaneously as the dominant economic organization in the countryside, in a three-stage cycle of development that began with the introduction of the responsibility system and the contracting-out of land, the diversification of the economy and the development of specialized commodity production. The concentration of land-use and the development of specialized households marks the

REFORM AND THE VILLAGE ECONOMY IN CHINA

37

development of the second stage, in which some peasant households remain in agriculture while others develop specialized non-agricultural occupations. With the development of production and a commodity economy, a third stage would be marked by new levels of co-operation between households based on a mutual need for production services and on increasing specialization and the division of labour.19 Current campaigns aimed at perfecting the co-operative system also forecast a decline in household management and an increase in unified management by co-operative and economic associations, which will become the major new economic organizations in China’s countryside. The government thus expects that there will be a fundamental shift from individual household management of production and the economy to a co-operative or unified management, as productivity develops and the transition to a commodity economy proceeds.20 However, reports on the development of the new economic associations suggest that the establish­ ment of co-operative organizations based on the villages or a larger unit requires a degree of political and economic authority and control at local level and a related diminution of the economic independence of the peasant household. A preliminary examination of the politics of the local economy suggests that peasant households may be reluctant to give up the new independence and controls that they have acquired as a result of the new economic reforms, and that they may develop alternative strategies based on new family forms that potentially challenge village-wide political and economic structures. Peasant Household Strategies

The degree to which a peasant household has been able to take advantage of the new economic policies to expand or diversify its income-generating activities or specialize in any one activity is very much dependent on the household’s acquiring new and sufficient material and labour resources. In the search for new capital resources, the basis of any household strategy to expand and develop its economy is the generation of income to invest singly or jointly in fixed assets, tools for production and processing, as well as modes of transport. In the absence of inherited capital and accumulated individual material resources, the major means by which a peasant household in present-day China can generate capital is through develop­ ing its allocated land resources, or accumulating savings from the sideline incomes and wages of its members. Although the primary material resource of most peasant households is still the land, the ability of cultivated land to support the household and generate a surplus for investment is very much dependent on the amount of land available for cultivation in a region, the quality of the land and increases in producer prices. Generally it seems that households for which land generates the major portion of their income have not increased their earnings as much as those that have diversified or specialized in addition to (or instead of) cultivating their land. For instance, one recent survey has revealed that

38

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

the richer, specialized and well-off households with surplus cash received an average of only 20-33.5 per cent of their incomes from farming, while poor peasant households depended on field cultivation for 66.5 per cent of theirs.21 Whereas before 1978 income from land cultivation was the major source of collective (and therefore household) income, now a much more likely source of savings are the wages or income from household members ’ various agricultural and non-agricultural sideline activities. Now much expanded, these activities furnished a larger cash income that could be accumulated and invested in production activities. In rural China, one of the most obvious achievements of the reforms has been to raise peasant household incomes. This rise is due to three factors: the allocation of land and the responsibility for production to individual households, with remuneration calculated according to output; the diversification of the rural economy; and the new pricing policies for agricultural products. There have recently been several surveys of peasant cash incomes. Although little is known of their sampling techniques (and consequently the definition and categorization of income cannot be taken too precisely), these suggest that peasant household cash incomes, after allowing for price increases, may have risen by as much as 100 per cent since 1978. After meeting basic needs, much of the surplus has been allocated to building new housing and the purchase of consumer durables; nevertheless, it is also estimated that peasant households may now set aside upwards of a quarter of this income for the purchase of capital goods and fixed production assets.23 Indeed, major changes in the rural market have been created by the increased individual demand for items such as farm implements and machinery, irrigation pumps, fodder-crushing plants and equipment for raising livestock, plus machinery to facilitate food-processing, handicrafts and small and medium-sized industries. At the end of 1984, it was estimated that on average each household possessed fixed assets for production worth 579.45 yuan at cost value, which represented an increase of 24 per cent over 1983.24 According to the same survey, the average cost value of machinery for agriculture, forestry, animal husbandry and fishing accrued by peasant households rose by 59 per cent over 1983; that of industrial and sideline machinery owned by each household rose by 43 per cent; and that of transport rose by 52 per cent. This all suggests that the production scale of peasant households has expanded markedly as they seek to extend and mechanize their operational capacity. One of the very important variables determining the degree to which a household may generate an income sufficient for its daily needs and a surplus for investment is the number and proportion of adult labourers in the household. In the first instance, the expansion, diversification and specialization of the peasant household economy relies on the accumulation and distribu­ tion of its labour resources. The correlation between the economic livelihood and welfare of the peasant household and its labour resources is not new, for even within the collective, the deployment of waged and unwaged family labour was the chief means by which a household fulfilled

REFORM AND THE VILLAGE ECONOMY IN CHINA

39

its obligation to the collective production unit, cultivated its vegetables on the private plot, raised domestic livestock, and undertook limited produc­ tion of sidelines or handicrafts and domestic services for family members.25 This meant that access to and control over family labour resources was the major source of its economic support and welfare, and of income dif­ ferentiation within the collective. However, the demands on family labour have been greatly exacerbated by the new rural economic reforms, which now encourage the peasant household to expand and invest without limits in new and diverse income-generating activities. Compared with the past, when government regulation was the chief obstacle to economic expansion, it is now the limited labour power to which a household has access that is likely to be the major constraint. To meet the new and rapidly increasing demands on its labour resources, the peasant household has a number of short- and long-term strategies at its disposal. One of the means by which the peasant household might immediately augment its labour resources is to hire labour. In a radical departure from past policy, and in recognition of the potential demand for family labour, the government has relaxed the rule prohibiting the hiring of labour. Initially, and in some regions, there still seems to be a degree of uncertainty surrounding the details of the new policy and the number of labourers that any one household is permitted to employ. There also seems to be a wide variation in the extent to which the practice has been encouraged.26 In some villages there is very little evidence of the hiring of labour, while in others, such as in the Pearl River delta, it has not been unknown for field cultivation in its entirety to be undertaken by labour hired specifically for this purpose sometimes from outside the village. On the whole, though, the hiring of labour on any scale - which in the first instance also requires the generation of sufficient cash resources to pay wages - is still unusual: for the majority of peasant households, therefore, it is the intensification of existing family labour resources and the reproduction and recruitment of family labour that underlie household strategies. One of the only immediate means by which a peasant household might expand its activities and generate capital rapidly is to intensify or maximize the labour of existing household members, and the decline of the collective organization of family labour enabled the peasant house­ hold to do just that. The demise of the collective has altered the way in which peasants structure their working day, and in interviews they repeatedly (and quite spontaneously) contrasted past and present work­ ing methods.27 In the past, production team leaders, who had responsi­ bility for the production timetable, had allocated production tasks each morning, and the work points the peasant earned were directly related to (and were dependent on) their full-time daily presence in the fields. Now, however, agricultural workers control their own production timetables and work in the fields only when the production process necessitates it. At other times they turn their attention to alternative economic activities. Although they were quick to perceive the benefits of this flexibility, many also recognize that they now work harder than ever before. Women in

40

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

particular have noted that, although they have always had to work hard, the recent reforms have made their daily routines even more demanding.28 Children, too, have been pressed into some form of income-generating activities, as is confirmed by the decline in middle and even primary school attendance (especially among girls) in the past few years. Within the peasant household there has also been some reallocation of labour, and several common patterns have emerged that both maximize and diversify labour resources. In poor and inland regions, where there are few alternative forms of employment outside farming and where a peasant household continues to combine field cultivation with sidelines, payment by output and the contraction of the demands of field cultivation have combined with the expansion of alternative economic activities to bring about a new division of labour. Instead of both men and women of the household earning work points in the fields, the men continue to undertake field cultivation while the women have expanded previous economic activities or developed new ones. In some respects this is a reversion to a more traditional division of labour, since it has long been a characteristic of the fanm economy that the scale of sideline farm occupa­ tions - cultivating vegetables, tending livestock and producing handicrafts - was determined almost exclusively by the availability of female labour. After a period of contraction it has become common for women, once they were no longer needed in the fields, to develop and expand the scope of their income-generating activities, so that they frequently furnish a substantial portion of the household’s total annual cash income.30 It is also not uncommon for one of these activities to be developed to a point where it becomes a large-scale and full-time specialized occupation. Frequently what was originally a sideline or subsidiary product has been developed to become the dominant income-generating activity of the specialized households that are increasingly common in the richer regions of rural China.31 A quite different strategy for intensifying the labour resources of the peasant household has emerged where some of the adult members of the household are employed in non-agricultural occupations. Before the reforms, in regions where there were a number of employment op­ portunities outside agriculture, it was not uncommon for the men of the village to move into rural industries, capital construction projects, mining, fishing and forestry.32 In such regions it was often the women who were the mainstay of the agricultural labour force of the collective. As a result of the reforms, it is reported that many households in the country­ side have become ‘half-side families’ in which husbands work in occupa­ tions outside the farm and commute from the village on either a daily, weekly or monthly basis, leaving the women and children to undertake all the farm activities.33 The men return to help at the busy agricultural seasons, but these peasant households are for all practical purposes headed and operated by females. Again there has been an intensification of labour, although most women also willingly admit that they now earn higher incomes than the men of the household and have a greater measure

REFORM AND THE VILLAGE ECONOMY IN CHINA

41

of control over the domestic economy. It remains to be seen whether these female-operated farm households will receive their fair share of inputs and avoid the discrimination so common in peasant farming systems elsewhere. However, in all these strategies there are limits beyond which the intensification of existing labour resources cannot be pushed, and peasant households have also sought to expand household size through the reproduction and recruitment of family labour. The reproduction of family labour is a time-honoured means of augmenting the labour force of any household, even if it4s not immediate in its effects. That peasants have customarily perceived there to be a direct correlation between family size and income is reflected in a number of common folk-sayings linking more children with ‘greater blessings’. It was not lost on peasant households that many of the newly rich house­ holds that emerged in the first years following the rural reforms were recognizably larger than those of their neighbours. These impressions were confirmed by a number of surveys reported in the mass media, which also showed a direct correlation between household size and income.34 However, any attempt to maximize labour resources by this means not only has to be part of a long-term strategy, but in China brings the peasant household into direct opposition with current family planning campaigns that centre on the one-child policy. In more recent years this policy has been relaxed to permit two children in a wider range of circumstances related to family structure and level of economic develop­ ment.35 One of the reasons for this relaxation was the number of diffi­ culties and problems associated with its implementation in the face of considerable opposition in the rural areas deriving from the demand for labour, especially sons’ labour.36 Nevertheless, stringent family planning controls are likely to remain in operation in the countryside, and any expansion of household size on this basis is likely to be severely curtailed for the foreseeable future. A household is therefore likely to adopt alternative and short-term strategies to augment its labour force. One of the more obvious of these is to arrange for the marriage of sons and delay the establishment of separate nuclear households. An important interest for a peasant household in the marriage negotia­ tions of its sons is the recruitment of a daughter-in-law whose labour is very welcome.37 Parents very often express their support for early marriage in terms of their desire ‘to drink a cup of tea provided by a daughter-in-law’. This is particularly so in circumstances where a household’s labour has recently been depleted through the death of an adult labourer or the loss of a daughter to another household in marriage. Through early marriage, peasant households aim to ensure a plentiful and steady supply of labour by timing their sons’ marriages and the birth of grandchildren so that potential labourers might be recruited into the labour force about the same time as the older generation or grandparents retire.38 In recent years the premium placed on family labour has been one of the major reasons why parents have continued to control marriage negotiations despite legislation to the contrary, and why the costs of

42

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

marriage are rising in rural areas. In many regions of China, marriage has become a very expensive transaction between two households in which the ‘wife-givers’ have to be compensated for the loss of a daughter’s labour by the ‘wife-takers’. Although the cost of daughters-in-law frequently requires either the accumulation of family savings to meet the cost of the son’s marriage or the marriage-out of a daughter in exchange for a daughter-in-law, it is a means by which a household can increase its labour by delaying family division after marriage so that the household expands to accommodate more than one nuclear unit. Analysts usually distinguish three different types of households ranging in complexity: the nuclear unit made up of parents and children; the stem or three-generational household of parents, one married son, his wife and children and any unmarried sons of daughters; and the larger, complex or joint family household in which more than one married son resides with the parents. According to the stage of their developmental cycle smaller households frequently expand in size and complexity, while larger and more complex households often divide to form a number of smaller nuclear or stem units. Traditionally it has been a mark of mobility for peasant households to expand their size and elaborate the family structure once there was sufficient wealth to support a larger and more complex household.39 The Chinese sociologist, C.K. Yang, likened the Chinese household to a balloon which was ever ready to inflate should the expansion of its economy allow this.40 In the 1950s, a number of novel demographic and economic factors occasioned the expansion of the traditionally small nuclear peasant household41 into a joint household, albeit often for a brief period, which, however short, offered a new and unique opportunity for the peasant household, even within the collective, to make use of its expanded labour resources to diversify the economy and accumulate resources.42 From past experience, then, it might be expected that the recent income-generating opportunities would encourage a peasant household to delay household division indefinitely, or at least for a longer period, now that one of traditional constraints on the expansion of a household - the size of the family estate - has been removed. More than in any other period this century, the majority of China’s peasant households have extended their estate to include lands (de facto ownership), residences, enterprises, tools of production, livestock and household effects that would provide a basis for supporting larger numbers than hitherto. Thus, both the expansion of the family estate and the exacerbated demands on labour could ostensibly lead to the elabora­ tion of greater numbers of peasant households into complex and joint forms. However, and perhaps surprisingly given the rise in numbers of joint family households since the 1950s, there is little evidence that any such expansion has taken place. If anything, there seems to have been a reverse trend with evidence of declining household size in China’s villages. A number of recent surveys of household size have shown there to be a marked rise in the number of smaller, nuclear households of one and two generations, and a corresponding drop in the number of large,

REFORM AND THE VILLAGE ECONOMY IN CHINA

43

multi-generational stem and joint households.43 Several factors may have encouraged this simplification of household structure, including the new degree of material wealth, and particularly of house-building. There has also been new evidence of increased opposition expressed both by members of the younger generation, who in a time-honoured manner object to the authority of the older generation, and by members of the older generation, and particularly grandmothers, who object to the burden of domestic labour required of a large household.44 However, it is difficult to measure the strength and scale of this new opposition and its effect on household division. Instead, it seems likely that one of the main factors contributing to the decrease in household size is the emergence of a new family form that both acquires the resources and yet escapes the disadvantages of the joint family household. The Aggregate Family

Instead of delaying division in order to maximize family labour resources, it may be that households now divide sooner rather than later; however, partition is not as complete as it was in the past when the peasant household was fully incorporated into the collective structures and economy. In other words, at the same time as a large and complex household divides into smaller units - and in many regions the enormous amount of new housing may have encouraged division - its members may continue to hold some property in common and share in economic ventures that include some form of joint investment and exchanges of labour. In addition, close-kin related households that divided in the past may now combine to invest in and develop on a joint basis common income-generating and other activities. The new and emerging family form is thus made up of a number of peasant households related by close kinship ties that have developed new or more intensified forms of associa­ tion and co-operation based on economic, social and political links and exchanges. The new family form is here termed an ‘aggregate’ family. The adjective ‘aggregate’ has been selected because, although families are fragmented into separate households, it is the linkages or the relationships between them of co-operation and assocation which are of major importance to the analyst rather than concern with their internal divi­ sions, boundaries and fragmentation. In taking the single household as the unit of investigation, analysts frequently tend to isolate and conceptualize the household itself, and so minimize the links and exchanges between households and their importance for the household itself. In much of rural China in the future, it may well be that the important unit of analysis is not so much the individual household and its structure, function and boundaries as the aggregate family and the important kinship, neighbourhood and economic, social and political links and relations that underlie its formation and maintenance. The basis for co-operation and association between households within the aggregate family are, first of all, kinship and proximity of residence, and

44

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

secondly, the mobilization of resources to meet the new economic, social and political demands on the household that guarantee mutual obliga­ tions or claims for assistance. The aggregate family is first distinguished by its close patrilateral kinship ties, usually made up of brothers, fathers’ brothers and fathers’ brothers’ sons: that is, of those males descended from a common male antecedent and extending to some three generations. The co-operative kinship unit corresponding to this group is frequently identified by villagers and referred to as ‘own family’ (jiating or zijia) or ‘close kin’ (jinqin). Field investigation in one village in Guangdong province sug­ gested that villagers identified their ‘close kin’ (jinqin) as comprising brothers who had established separate households, fathers’ brothers and fathers’ brothers’ sons; moreover, a line was drawn between them and fathers’ fathers’ brothers and their sons, who were either designated as distant kin or not cited at all. The village itself was characterized by geographically concentrated clusters of agnatic kin, consisting of groups of either brothers or fathers’ brothers.45 In a village in Jiangsu province, residents placed much emphasis on the ‘family’ (zijia) as the co-operative kinship unit.46 It corresponded to a patrilineage, consisting of a group of men descended through males from a single male ancestor, plus their wives and unmarried sisters and daughters, and dispersed among several diffferent households; usually, however, there was a degree of residential proximity among close kin-related households. It is interesting to note that these clusters frequently correspond spatially to the primary units of kinship co-operation identified in field studies by anthropologists in villages before 1949. This is despite the fact that subsequently (until 1978) the economic and political significance of the relations within such units had been reduced, as the individual household was incorporated into larger economic and political structures: these units had remained the main focus of various ritual forms of co-operation, however. Since 1978, by contrast, relations between post-division and close kin-related households have been reinvested with a new economic and political significance. Although the new demand on the material and labour resources of the household may be beyond its capacity, a careful accumulation and distribution of resources may fall within the capacity of the aggregate family. The economic process by which an aggregate family may be formed and then maintained can take one of several forms. An aggregate family may simply continue to operate a number of joint ventures that were developed by the father and his sons prior to the division of the household, and that continue to be jointly operated after the brothers have dispersed into separate households. The operation of these joint ventures may continue to necessitate common investment, management and exchanges of labour between fathers and sons and their household members. Alternatively, one household may initiate an economic activity that becomes so profitable that kin-related neighbouring households are encouraged either to contribute their resources to enlarging the venture,

REFORM AND THE VILLAGE ECONOMY IN CHINA

45

or to set up their own parallel ventures; these also will perhaps involve a certain degree of co-operation at various points in the production, processing and marketing processes.47 A household might, for example, have cultivated mushrooms, raised rabbits or established small industries or services, and then have proceeded either to help close kin establish similar activities, or to incorporate them into the same venture. So far, individual households running successful and lucrative ventures have shown some degree of interest in aiding their kin-related and neighbouring households. There is some evidence to suggest that the richer and particularly specialized households, which have acquired outstanding wealth in the few short years since the economic reforms, have felt their position to be somewhat threatened by a change in government policy or the attitudes and actions of their fellow villagers.48 Rather than draw exaggerated attention to themselves as individuals richer than their neighbours, they would sooner forestall criticism and envy by sharing or pooling resources to develop the local economy. It may be that in the future the constituent households of an aggregate family may evolve a division of labour, whereby one household undertakes to cultivate the lands, another household promotes some kind of commodity production or service, and yet another provides transport, technical or commercial marketing expertise. In this way, the member households would be to a large degree interdependent and self-sustaining. However, if the aggregate family is more self-sufficient, it is also less likely to be spatially defined or its activities localized or bounded by the village. Family Networks

One of the most interesting repercussions of the recent rural reforms is the fragmentation of the village, with the result that its corporate interests, its politics and its productive capacity are now less important to the peasant household. The reduction in the political and economic role of the production team and higher collective has meant that the aggregate family has become less dependent on village facilities and the village govern­ ment. The fact that the aggregate family no longer finds it necessary or so advantageous to focus on inter-household relationships within the village, which in turn no longer possesses the means to meet its major needs, has turned the attention of the aggregate family beyond the village. So kinship ties outside the immediate village - especially those with relatives in small towns and urban centres - have become increasingly important over the past five years. It is interesting to note the growing tendency for peasants to invest in towns and urban centres. Some surveys within villages suggest that the highest earners in the villages are usually cadres, ex-cadres, demobilized soldiers, returned students or educated youth: precisely those individuals who were in a position outside the village to cultivate relations and alliances that give them access to raw materials, markets and market information.49 Thus many close-kin households located within cities, towns and distant villages have been to a

46

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

greater or lesser extent incorporated into the aggregate family economy to aid in the production and marketing processes, thus activating kinship ties outside the village and across urban and rural divides. However, because of the restrictions on migration in the past, many aggregate families have no existing extensive ties beyond the village, and they have commonly set out to establish them. There are several means by which aggregate families without extensive and useful kinship ties have established such relations outside the village. The first of these is the time-honoured device of negotiating the marriage of daughters so as to establish advantageous affinal alliances. The control of marriage by the older generation means that marriage negotiations can be employed to serve a similar economic and political purpose as pre­ existing agnatic kin ties, and there is some evidence that such puiposive alliances have increased in frequency over the past five years.50 Secondly, aggregate families may establish a new household to set up one of its members in a local small town or urban centre, thereby gaining access to a new set of resources and market outlets.51 So long as the aggregate family can provide grain for the subsistence of this town or urban house­ hold, there are now few strictures against the movement or permanent migration of family members to small towns and urban centres. They may find employment there in any of the expanding number of new collectively-operated or state enterprises, or they may establish their own individually-operated enterprises processing or marketing goods produced by the aggregate family in the village. On a more humorous note, it is likely that no urban kin with a ground floor flat out of whose windows produce or articles can be sold will be left unclaimed! It has already proved interesting to follow the movement of the labour force to the small towns and cities. In a survey of young tailors in Chengdu, it was discovered that the majority had come from rural villages of varying distance from the city. Each had been established, set up with tools of the trade and provided with grain by their families residing back in the village.52 Some of their families had even bought a house for them in Chengdu, where it was intended that other family members might also reside. Similarly, informal surveys of market stall personnel in the cities indicate that produce and articles of rural origin are often sold in markets by a representative of a group of closely kin-related households.53 Analysing the chain of migration will prove interesting over the next few years, and it is likely that sometime in the future the study of intra-familial urban and rural relations will come to resemble the dispersed family characteristic of Republican China and Taiwan, as depicted by Lin Yueh Hwa in The Golden Wing for the Republican era54 and Myron Cohen in House United and House Divided for Taiwan.55 The elaboration of these family networks alters both the power relations in the village and the cohesion of the village itself.

REFORM AND THE VILLAGE ECONOMY IN CHINA

47

Family and Village

There is increasing evidence to suggest that peasant households them­ selves have perceived that the balance of power in both production and reproduction has been altered in their favour, and has increased their own bargaining power vis-a-vis local political and economic structures. There is also increasing evidence that these structures themselves have been affected by the fragmentation of the village in the economically developed regions of China as a result of the recent promotion of commodity production. For instance, there are several reports that peasants have disregarded reprimands for, say, damaging village property by local political leaders,56 or resisted their authority to implement unpopular policies such as family planning, because now ‘they cultivate the land and eat their own grain’.57 In some regions cadres, in the interests of maintaining their own authority, may either counter the reforms and impose fines and constraints on the independent development of house­ hold economies58 or take advantage of new positions as village brokers in procuring raw materials and markets. In response, households may mobilize the support of fellow members of the aggregate family in order to resist undue administrative pressures, fines or taxes that may be unlaw­ fully exacted from the richer households. Perhaps more than any other factor, it is their control over the land and its products that has provided peasant households with a new sense of independence, and this affects their relations with local cadres and the new political and economic structures. Even in poor regions, cadres report that they have had to take account of the new independence of the family, and redefine the ways in which they exercise their authority;59 in richer regions that very authority is threatened. One of the reasons peasant households may have acquired new opportunities to exercise their bargaining power in richer regions is that they are now required to operate in a local political arena characterized by new divisions and a greater competition for village and outside resources. One of the characteristics of rural villages in the past few years has been the exacerbation of existing income differentials and competi­ tion between neighbouring peasant households, accompanied by the fragmentation of the village. Although the range of per capita peasant household incomes has risen since 1978, there are still wide variations both in absolute levels of income and in the percentage rise since 1978. In 1982, the government itself had foreseen that in the next few years 30-40 per cent of peasant households would become rich, 40-50 per cent would achieve considerable improvements, and 15-20 per cent of peasant households with little or no planning or business acumen would still encounter difficulties in meeting basic needs.60 In a similar vein the government has forecast that within any one community, it is likely that on average richer households will earn two to three times the income of poorer households; most of the income surveys within villages or counties suggest that there may have been a quantitative increase in the range of

48

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

income within regions.61 Qualitatively, too, there is evidence of a new degree of polarization within the village, suggesting that inter-household relations within the rural community may have deteriorated. There are a number of media reports that note that one of the main problems facing the rich households, and particularly specialized households in villages, has been threats to and attacks on their crops, property and person. In response, kin-related and neighbouring households have shared facilities and combined to protect their crops as they ripen in the fields. In the bid to acquire new resources, there is also increasing competition between households within the villages for their share of resources such as land and other productive tools and assets. As a result of divisions in collective assets and inputs, and the acquisition of individual respon­ sibility for production and remuneration accorded to output, there is a new measure of competition within the village for a share of resources. One or two studies of the allocation and distribution process suggest that former and present cadres are in a position to influence this process63 and thus favour their immediate kin with better quality lands and a larger share of fertilizer, seeds, capital and other inputs.64 Within the village the aggregate family, rather than the individual households, may provide a more effective power base in the competition for such resources, many of which are still scarce. In the past few years there have also been numerous reports of the use of wider kinship and clan ties in the settling of disputes over resources.65The new local political and economic structures, many of which constitute new forms of self-management in the economy, political affairs and social services of the village, may provide yet another opportunity for aggregate families to expand their influence and further their own interests within the village and beyond. This applies especially to those that are large and affluent and have extensive ties outside the village. There is thus a complex social, economic and political process under way in Chinese villages: the increasing incorporation of the peasant household into aggregate families and their expanding involvement in the broader economy is leading to a weakening of local economic and political structures, accompanied by the fragmentation of village cohesion and solidarity. This, indeed, may come to be designated as one of the most significant changes to have been occurring in the People’s Republic of China in recent years.

NOTES Dr Elisabeth Croll is a Research Fellow in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London. She has undertaken regular investigation of village and family in the People's Republic of China, and her many books include Feminism and Socialism in China, The Politics of Marriage in Contemporary China, and Women and Rural Development in China. 1. This article rests on a documentary study of the appropriate resources and incorporates

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49

observations and interview materials from several recent visits to China. 2. This section on political structures is based on extensive interviews in villages in Henan province, Feb. 1987; also, ‘More Township Governments and Villagers* Committees Established’, Beijing Review, 12 March 1984; ‘People’s Communes No Longer Govern*, ibid., 7 Jan. 1985. 3. For elaboration of this thesis, see Elisabeth Croll, The Politics of Marriage in Contemporary China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981). 4. ‘More Township Governments ...’. 5. ‘Reform of the Rural Grassroots Political Power Structure’, Renmin Ribao (‘People’s Daily’), 14 Nov. 1986. 6. For articles on the rural responsibility system, see ‘Quota Fixing at Household Level’, BBC Summary of World Broadcasts (SWB), 28 Dec. 1979; ‘Discussion on the Systems of Responsibility for Output Quotas by Production Team in Rural People’s Communes’, Jingji Yanjiu (‘Economic Research’), 20 Oct 1980; ‘Fixing Output Quotas for Individual Households’, ibid., 20 Jan. 1981; ‘Communist Party Central Committee Discusses Agriculture’, NCNA (New China News Agency), 19 May 1981; ‘Prospects for Development of Double-Contract System*, Renmin Ribao, 9 March 1982. 7. Xinhua News, 5 Aug. 1984; ‘Jilin Implements Contract Purchasing of Grain’, BBC SWB, 21 March 1985; ‘Heilongjiang Decision on Replacing Unified Purchases of Grain with Contracts’, ibid., 28 March 1985; Jingji Yanjiu, 20 Aug. 1984; Zhao Ziyang, ‘Reorganizing Agriculture and Loosening Price Control’, Xinhua, 30 Jan. 1985. 8. For discussion of domestic sidelines, see Elisabeth Croll, ‘The Promotion of Domestic Sideline Production in Rural China, 1978’ in Jack Gray and Gordon White (eds.), China's New Development Strategy (London: Academic Press, 1982), pp. 235-54; ‘Defence of Domestic Sideline Production*, BBC SWB, 27 April 1978; ‘The Encouragement of Domestic Sideline Production’, Jingji Yanjiu, 20 Aug. 1979. 9. NCNA, 14 June 1980; ibid., 16 Aug. 1980; ibid., 30 Aug. 1980. 10. Zhao Ziyang, op. cit.; Renmin Ribao, 1 Aug. 1983. 11. ‘Developing Specialized Households is a Major Policy’, Renmin Ribao, 23 Jan. 1984. 12. In a few regions the majority of peasant households are classified as specialized. For example, in one group of villages in Shanxi province only one-thirdof peasant households remained in diversified farming activities by 1983. Theothertwo-thirds were equally divided between those specializing in industrial and sideline production, or providing services such as transport, commerce and water conservation, and those in commodity grain production. The latter third cultivated about 58 per cent of the responsibility lands allocated, and they supplied grain to most of the households specializing in services and in non-grain commodity production: see ‘Anhui Regula­ tions in Specialized Households’, BBC SWB, 28 April 1984; Nongye Jishu Jingji (Economics of Agricultural Production Technology), N o .ll, Nov. 1983; and ‘Expan­ sion of Rural Production*, BBC SWB, 1 Feb. 1984. 13. ‘More Township Governments and Villagers* Committees Established’, Beijing Review, 13 March 1984; A.R. Khan, ‘The Responsibility System and Institutional Change*, in K. Griffin (ed.), Institutional Reform and Economic Development in the Chinese Countryside (London: Macmillan, 1984), pp. 76-131; ‘Rural Specialized Households in Heilongjiang*, BBC SWB, 21 Jan. 1984; Hongqi (Red Flag), 28 March 1984. 14. See ‘Peasants’ Economic Co-Ordination Societies’, Renmin Ribao, 11 July 1985; Dai Yannian, ‘Beefing up Rural Co-operative System*, Beijing Review, 23 June 1986. 15. Ibid. 16. Renmin Ribao, 11 July 1985. 17. Ibid. 18. Dai Yannian, op. cit. 19. NCNA, 9 March 1982. 20. Dai Yannian, op. cit. 21. Results of 1983 Survey of the Rural Economy, Renmin Ribao, 1 April 1983. 22. Lee Travers, ‘Post-1978 Economic Policy and Peasant Income in China’, China

50

23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

40.

41.

42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA Quarterly, Vol. 98 (1984), pp. 241-60; see ‘Sample Survey of Peasant Household Income and Expenditures’, Beijing Review, 24 Oct. 1983; ‘Report on 1983 Economy’, BBC SWB, 1 May 1984; ibid., 29 April 1985. Tongji (Statistics), 17 June 1984, pp. 12-13. Ibid. For discussion of this aspect see Elisabeth Croll, The Politics of Marriage in Contemporary China; Elisabeth Croll, ‘Production versus Reproduction: A Threat to China’s Development Strategy’, World Development, Vol. 11, No.6, (1983). Interviews in China, 1983-87. Ibid. For example, Liu Fanrong, ‘A Hill Family Goes All Out’, Women of China, July 1983, p.2. ‘The Women’s Movement in China’, China Reconstructs, 1 March 1979; Women in China, 1 May 1985; Cheng Nai-xin, ‘Universal Nine-Year Education’, ibid., 1 Jan. 1986. Liu Fanrong, op. cit.; Xiao Ming, ‘What the Responsibility System Brings’, Women of China, 1 Nov. 1983. Li Zhenying, ‘On a Chicken Farm’, Women of China, 1 July 1983, p.2. For a discussion of this pattern see Elisabeth Croll, Womenin Rural Development: The People's Republic of China (Geneva: International Labour Office, 1979). Xiao Ming, op. cit. ‘Analysis of Reproduction of Rural Population’, Jingji Yanjiu, 20 June 1982. Elisabeth Croll, ‘China Steps up One-Child Campaign*, People (London: Inter­ national Planned Parenthood Federation, Jan. 1984); Elisabeth Croll, ‘China Refines One-Child Family Policy’, ibid., May 1985. Jingji Yanjiu, 20 June 1982. See Croll, The Politics of Marriage. W. Parish, ‘Socialism and the Chinese Peasant Family’, Journal of AsianStudies, VoLXXIV, No. 3 (1985), pp.613-30. Members of peasant households seldom distinguish between fellow residents of the same household and their close kin who do not reside with the same household; they frequently refer to both as members of the ‘same’ family (jia or jiating). For analytical purposes this article follows the usual practice and uses the term ‘household’ to refer to members who are co-resident and ‘family* for close, genetically-related members of different households. C.K. Yang, Communist Society: The Family and the Village (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1959); I.B. Taeuber, ‘The Families of Chinese Farmers’, in M. Freedman (ed.), Family and Kinship in Chinese Society (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1970), pp.63-86; Croll, The Politics of Marriage. For discussion of household division prior to 1949, see M. Cohen, House United, House Divided: The Chinese Family in Taiwan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1976), p.59; Fei Hsiaotung, ‘Peasantry and Gentry’, American Journal of Sociology, Vol. LII (1946), pp. 1-17; M. Freedman, ‘The Chinese Domestic Family: Models’, Vie Congres international des sciences anthropologiques et ethnologiques, Vol.2, Part I (Paris, 1963), pp.97-100; Croll, The Politics of Marriage. Croll, The Politics of Marriage. ‘Chinese Families Getting Smaller*, BBC SWB, 6 April 1984; ‘Nuclear Families Dominate Countryside’, Shehui, quoted in Beijing Review, 1 Jan. 1985. Academy of Social Sciences, Attitudes of Young People in China to Family Formation (Paris: UNESCO, 1984); Wu Ming, ‘Some Older Women in China’s Countryside’, Women in China, May 1982. Elisabeth Croll, ‘Chiang Village: A Household Survey’, China Quarterly, Dec. 1977, pp .786-814. N. Gonzalez, ‘Household and Family in Kaixiangong: A Re-Examination*, China Quarterly, March 1983, pp.76-89. ‘Shanxi Calls for Support for Specialised Households’, BBC SWB, 15 Feb. 1984; Renmin Ribao, 23 Jan. 1984; ‘CCP Document No.l in the Countryside’, BBC SWB, 16

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51

May 1984. 48. ‘Questions and Answers on Rural Work’, Shaanxi Ribao (Shaanxi Daily), 11 Feb. 1984. 49. ‘Assisting the Rural Poor’, Beijing Review, 19 Sept. 1983. 50. ‘Marriage Law and Socialist Morality*, BBC SWB, 4 Feb. 1982; ibid., 14 Dec.1984; ‘Arranged Marriages’, Xinhua, 8 March 1985. 51. Interviews in China, 1984. 52. Ibid. 53. Ibid. 54. Lin Yueh Hwa, The Golden Wing (London: Routledge, 1948). 55. Cohen, op. cit. 56. John Gittings, ‘From Blossoms to Bricks’, China Now, Summer 1984, pp.3-6. 57. ‘Rural Population Policy’, BBC SWB, 18 Feb. 1982; ‘Population and Educationin Family Planning Work’, Renmin Ribao, editorial, 29 Sept. 1981; BBC SWB, 24 July 1984. 58. ‘Relieving the Peasants* Burden’, Liaowang (Outlook), 19 Aug. 1985. 59. Interviews in Henan Counties and administrative villages, Feb. 1987. 60. NCNA, 9 March 1982. 61. ‘Responsibility System Revives Jiangsu Countryside’, Beijing Review, 28 Nov. 1983; interviews in Henan province, Feb. 1987. 62. ‘Protection of Specialized Households’, BBC SWB, 28 Feb. 1984. 63. ‘“Clan” System and Nepotism in Cadre Appointments’, Renmin Ribao, 18 March 1986; ibid., 18 April 1986. 64. A. Chan, R. Madsden, and J. Unger, Chen Village: The Recent History of a Peasant Community in Mao's China (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1984). 65. ‘Ending Clan Fights’, Nanfang Ribao (Southern Daily), 5 Nov. 1981; ‘Clan Strife’, BBC SWB, 5 Nov. 1981; ibid., 19 Nov. 1981; ibid., 23 March 1982; ibid., 5 April 1982; ibid., 2 July 1986.

China: The New Inheritance Law and the Peasant Household Delia Davin

The new Chinese inheritance law gives men and women equal inheritance rights. This article argues, however, that the stability of the peasant household economy would be threatened by any interference with the custom of patrilineal in­ heritance, and that it is therefore unlikely that this clause will be implemented in the countryside.

In the past decade there has been a concerted effort in China to construct the institutional framework now seen as appropriate to a modem state. Prominent among the reforms have been the codification of law, the extension of formal legal institutions, the political rehabilitation of the legal profession after its downgrading in the period of the Cultural Revolution, and attempts to heighten the general awareness of the law. Legal reformers frequently assert that the development of the rule of law, and of legal processes whose outcomes are predictable and fair, is necessary to the future economic development of the country. Not surprisingly, commercial law has received special attention in recent years, as has its implementation. There are other areas where law seems to play a different role and where adherence to the letter of the law is probably not expected, at least for the time being. Those who frame the law are aware that for many in China, and especially for the four-fifths of the population that is still rural, custom is likely to influence behaviour at least as strongly as law. This is particularly true in such areas as family relations, marriage, divorce and inheritance. Inheritance is a vital part in the Chinese family system, for property usually passes between close kin, reinforcing kinship bonds and shaping the relationships between the individuals involved. It is hardly surprising that the state’s attempts to intervene in this process are sometimes ineffective; they are none the less highly significant. China as a socialist state is committed to upholding certain ideals, amongst which is the equality of men and women. However, as the subordination of women is an essential characteristic of the rural family system, attempts to uphold women’s rights have often proved to be socially and economically disruptive. By enshrining equal rights for women in its constitution, and by including them in the legal code, China is able to retain its socialist credentials while officials can frankly admit the obvious truth that, for the

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moment at least, women are far from achieving equality. Thus certain laws have a special role; instead of regulating the way people actually live, they represent the way the legislators think in a better world they would live, and, for the moment, they provide a sort of code of ‘good practice’. The Growing Significance of Property and Inheritance in Contemporary China

Since 1978, with the waning of the collective system in China, the rural household has once more become a major unit of production and ownership. Individuals and family groups are able to accumulate private property on a scale quite impossible in the earlier decades of the People’s Republic. In part this is simply the result of greater prosperity. Where 20 years ago, ordinary people reckoned wealth in terms of quilts, bicycles, watches, vacuum flasks and fountain pens, many now aspire to own such consumer items as transistor radios, televisions, rice-cookers and even refrigerators and washing machines. Much new private housing has been built in the countryside, and even in the city the previously stagnant stock of private housing is now growing. All this is of course a natural accompaniment of economic growth: as people’s incomes rise, they are able to own more. However, the increase in private property has an even more significant side. The new economic reforms allow and indeed necessitate the private ownership of quite significant means of production. In both city and countryside there is now private ownership of small plant and machinery, vehicles for haulage, and at a more mundane level, sewing machines, knitting machines and equipment for other crafts and trades. In agriculture privately-owned property includes tractors and other agricultural machinery, and tools, draught animals and other stock. A contract or contracts may also be important among family or individual assets. Both agricultural and non-agricultural production is now commonly carried out under contract. The party to this contract is most often the head of household acting on behalf of his household, but may also be either an individual or a group of individuals. Contracts are not themselves defined as property, and they are not supposed to be bought or sold, although a market in them certainly exists. They are of great importance to the rural family economy as they give use-rights to the land in an arrangement not unlike a lease, and, in the case of nonagricultural production, give the small entrepreneur a guaranteed outlet for his goods. Household contracts are expected to be taken over by the next genera­ tion when the household head dies. The law also allows contracts made with individuals to be passed on, but this is conditional, and is not referred to as inheritance. The present leadership in China sees property rights guaranteed by the state as essential to its current strategy for economic growth. It is anxious to condemn the attacks on property that took place during the Cultural

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Revolution, and to dissociate itself from any notion that property is theft, or even bourgeois. In keeping with the regime’s proclaimed interest in a codified legal system, this preoccupation is increasingly reflected in law. The 1982 constitution stipulated: ‘The law protects the right of citizens to own lawfully-earned income, savings, houses and other lawful property’ and ‘the state protects by law the right of citizens to inherit private property’.2 A new Inheritance law, the first such law of the People’s Republic, came into force in October 1985.3 As inheritance customs and regulations affect and are affected by kinship structures, the household economy and the relative treatment of men and women within the society, the Inheritance law has extensive implications for the way Chinese society functions. The focus in this article is on inheritance law in relationship to the peasant household. It is claimed that the new law will support both the stability of the household economy and women’s inheritance rights, yet in rural society there is a clear contradiction between the two. A woman’s inheritance rights, if implemented, would produce the transfer of her share of property from the family of her birth to her husband’s family, with effects that could be highly disruptive to the economic activities of the former. The demise of the collective system in agriculture and the devolution of responsibility for production to the peasant household have strengthened the state’s vested interest in the stability of the peasant household economy, so this is potentially a serious problem. The law is also of topical interest because it attempts to deal with the problem of the care and support of the elderly. China’s draconian family planning policies will soon produce an ageing population, and the subject of providing for the old has been widely discussed. A wish to protect the state from having to assume this huge financial burden is reflected in the inheritance law’s provision for rewards to family members or non-related ‘elective heirs’ who undertake the support of an old person. The 1985 Law in Summary The new law defines heritable property as including the citizen’s income, houses, savings, articles for daily use, trees, livestock, and poultry, means of production as permitted by law and rights in copyrights and patents. As to contracts, it stipulates that an heir may continue working under the same contract ‘where the law permits’. Presumably it is envisaged that individual contracts may themselves contain clauses allowing or disallow­ ing this possiblity of passing them on. The law recognizes two classes of natural heirs: first-class heirs, who are spouses, sons and daughters, and parents; and second-class heirs, who are brothers and sisters, paternal grandparents and maternal grandparents. Second-class heirs inherit only when there are no first-class heirs. The law prohibits discrimination between the sexes in the right to inherit. Although generally speaking heirs in the same class inherit equally, an

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heir who has supported the deceased person may be specially favoured, while the heir who has failed to support the deceased may be disadvantaged or disqualified: an heir who has difficulty in earning a living must be taken care of. Someone who would not normally be an heir, but who has supported the deceased or been supported by them, must get an appropriate amount. The law grants considerable testamentary powers to the citizen, who may use a will to discriminate between heirs-at-law or to benefit a legatee who would have had no inheritance rights had the citizen died intestate. Citizens may sign an agreement under which they leave property to an individual or a collective unit in exchange for support and assistance. Family property and conjugal property both receive special considera­ tion. Widows and widowers retain their rights over inherited property even in the event of remarriage. The division of the heritable estate must be favourable to the needs of production. Both the heir and the legatee may waive their rights if they so wish. Some of these points will be discussed in greater detail later. This summary is intended only to show that the inheritance law, like other laws of the People’s Republic of China, lays down general principles, but in many areas leaves matters extraordinarily vague. It is obvious that at times even some of the principles of this law are likely to conflict and that disputes could arise for which the law gives no guidance. Those who have to implement the law in China can in fact refer not only to the law itself, but to explanatory commentaries - a genre that plays an interesting role in the Chinese legal system, as in other communist systems. Commentaries are of course written by people with a certain amount of authority, but they go in and out of print and have a briefer life than the law itself. Divorce is a good example: there were marked differences in the ease of obtaining a divorce between 1950 and 1980, yet during all this time it was governed by the 1950 marriage law. Changes in policy on divorce and in the interpreta­ tion of the law could be made known to legal workers, officials and the population at large by commentaries or question-and-answer materials.4

Property and Inheritance in Traditional China

An important prerequisite to understanding many of the formulations of the new law and some of the problems likely to be encountered in implementing it in rural China is a knowledge of pre-1949 laws and customs in relation to property and inheritance. It is not easy to give a brief account of these. Law, which probably mainly reflected and influenced the practice of the well-off, did not always coincide with custom, by which the mass of the people lived. In custom, of course, one finds significant regional variations and variation across time. None the less certain broad generalizations are possible and may be useful. Both custom and law recognized ownership by the lineage, by the family and by the individual. In rural society, the most important form of

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property was family property (jiating gongtong caichan or jiachan). All members of a family that shared a common budget had a right to use family property and to live on the income generated from it. However, the right to a share of the property was limited to the male members of the family.5 This became apparent at the time of family division, an event that occurred usually once in a generation on the marriage of a young man or the death of an older man with adult sons. A large household would split into two or more units, each consisting of a couple and their young children if they had them. Elderly parents would reside with one of their sons and his wife. Thus household division usually produced one threegeneration household and one or more two-generation ones, each with its own property and its own budget. At the time of a household division, the adult males of the old household - that is, the brothers and their father if still living - each received a share of the family property. The housing, land, domestic and agricultural equipment and so on thus distributed provided the essentials of life to the newly formed households. A widowed mother of the older generation would normally be provided for by a co­ resident son who might receive extra property in recognition of his responsibility. If she set up an independent household, she would receive a share of the property, but it would of course revert to her sons at her death. A widowed daughter-in-law might successfully claim a share of the property in her capacity as representative of her late husband, but this was normally permitted only if she was not expected (or required) to remarry, and she would in effect be holding the property in trust for her sons. Daughters had no right in normal circumstances to a share of family property. Only in the case of girls for whom an uxorilocal marriage had been arranged would inheritance pass through them to their sons, who became, under this arrangement, the continuation of their maternal grandfather’s line. As long as a family group shared a common budget, the earnings of each of the male members of the household were supposed to go into that budget Even when a member of the household lived apart and had a separate income, until division took place he was supposed, in theory at least, to plough it back in. Any attempt at private accumulation could cause great resentment, although the system did begin to break down in some areas well before 1949, under the effects of migration and urbaniza­ tion.6 In rural society sources of legitimate private property were few. One was the wife’s dowry which was not supposed to be pooled but was reserved for the use of the couple. In cases of extreme need, however, the rule was doubtless ignored; after all, even the person of the wife herself could be pawned or sold by her husband - a transaction forbidden by law but not particularly rare in practice. Shuzo Shiga asserts that women were allowed to keep any income that they themselves were able to earn, since they were held to have fulfilled their duty to the household through household work.7 He therefore regards their incomes as a source of private property. This does not tally either with other accounts of rural

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life, or with the obligation felt by women who become workers away from the home in various Chinese societies to remit a considerable part of their earnings to their families.8 It is certainly clear that women’s rights to property in traditional China were insignificant and that this arose from their peculiar relationship to the patrilineal family. Unlike their brothers and husbands, they moved between families and could not therefore be used for the transmission of family property from one generation to another within the same family. In theory, family property was controlled by the family head, usually the father, on behalf of the other members. He had to agree to the division of the property that took place when the decision was made to split a common budget household into two or more household units, an event, as we have seen, usually precipitated by the marriage of a brother, the death of a father or friction within the household. Again, in theory, the father could not bar any son from his share of the property, nor was he supposed to distribute the property inequitably among his sons. In practice, a strong father might break such rules, and even in theory his other powers were considerable. He could choose to consult his sons on the sale or purchase of land, but was not bound to do so; he could refuse a division requested by his sons; and he took the ultimate decision on large purchases and items of expenditure like bride-price and dowry. It is hardly surprising, when this degree of control over the family property was exercised by the father, that it was often referred to as the ‘father’s property’. The confusion was exacerbated by the fact that household division frequently took place on the death of the father when the process might easily be misunderstood as the inheritance by the sons of their father’s property.9 Forms of Property and the 1985 Law If we switch back from the complexities of pre-modem law and practice to what we might expect to be the more clear-cut situation today, the new law can be seen to have some odd omissions and areas of vagueness that will make its application in rural China far from straightforward. The new law deals basically in terms of individual property rights and gives scant attention to the traditional property system. Conjugal property is dealt with in Article 26, which provides that half the property jointly owned by a married couple shall be reserved to the surviving spouse, while half is treated as the heritable estate of the deceased to be divided among the heirs. The same article contains the only reference in the new law to the existence of family property (jiating gongyou caichan): ‘If the estate is part of family property, the property of other family members shall be taken out first when the estate is to be divided. ’ Curiously, no definition of family property is provided by the law, nor is any guidance given as to which family members have rights in it or how it is to be divided. Given the persistence and indeed the recent strengthening of the peasant family as a property-owning group, these omissions seem bound to make the settle­ ment of inheritance disputes in the countryside more difficult.

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Communist Policy and Women’s Property and Inheritance Rights Women’s property rights have been an area of concern for the communist party since the days of the first Chinese soviets. All communist land laws from the 1920s to 1950 stipulated that women were entitled to their share of land, and most communist marriage laws since the first in 1931 have included clauses dealing with women’s property rights.10 Inheritance has not often been a subject for legislation in communist history, although in the 1940s the liberated areas of both Shaan-Gan-Ning and Jin-Cha-Ji (controlled by the CCP throughout the anti-Japanese war and the Civil War) produced regulations guaranteeing women’s inheritance rights.11 There was no inheritance law in the People’s Republic prior to 1985, but printed legal commentaries on inheritance and the courts themselves upheld the principle that there should be no discrimination between the sexes in matters of inheritance.12Both the 1950 and the 1980 marriage laws laid down that husband and wife had equal rights in the possession and management of property, and the right to inherit from each other. They also stipulated that children and parents had the right to inherit from each other.1’ In practice, rural women continued to have a raw deal in regard to both property and inheritance rights. Campaigns in the early 1950s to enforce women’s rights to land, and to allow wives who wished to divorce their husbands and take their share of land with them, resulted in violence on an enormous scale and the murder of tens of thousands of women.14 Once land and the major means of production were collectivized, rather less was at stake, but peasant women still came off badly in the event of divorce or remarriage after widowhood. Although in the course of their married lives they quite clearly contributed to the accumulation of such family property as new housing, consumer durables and savings, they forfeited all right to it when they left the household and were allowed to take with them only personal possessions such as clothing and jewellery.15 Daughters fared no better with their natal family estate, despite the equal rights with their brothers that the law accorded them. As virilocal marriage remained the norm, to concede rights in family property to an unmarried woman would have meant allowing her to take it with her when she left to become a member of another family in another village. Her parents and her brothers would obviously oppose any such arrangements and even local cadres were unlikely to uphold the woman’s rights if she went so far as to appeal to them, since such a transfer would represent a loss of resources to their work-team or brigade. In most cases women themselves probably felt they had no claim.16 Surveys of court records do reveal cases in which daughters successfully asserted their rights. A study of 135 inheritance cases adjudicated by courts in north China in the 1950s showed that the children of the deceased were by far the most numerous of the litigants, and that 62.5 per cent of them were daughters. The report insists: ‘The court always protected the rights of inheritance of the children; even if the daughters were married

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they were classified as first-order heirs’.17 Revealingly, however, most of these daughters were said to be contesting their inheritance not with their brothers but with male cousins, the nephews of the deceased who under the law did not enjoy the status of even second-order heirs. Unfortunately the report is very much a summary and omits the detailed information that would have made it really useful. However, from what it does provide we can infer two characteristics of a daughter’s ability to inherit. First, the fact that there were fewer disputes between brothers and sisters probably means that daughters were unlikely even to attempt to assert their rights of inheritance when they had brothers. And second, a daughter’s right to inherit was still so little accepted that nephews found it worthwhile to attempt to assert their claims to an uncle’s estate over those of a deceased man’s daughter. Other reports of legal judgements make it clear that the fulfilment of legal responsibilities towards deceased parents normally had a bearing on decisions taken in court on inheritance. Thus, a daughter who had contri­ buted to the support of her aged parents had, if she contested it, a good chance of receiving at least a share of the inheritance. In the far more common case where their support had been left to her brothers, it would be more difficult to assert her rights. In most cases she would waive them. The 1985 Law and Inheritance by Females

The new inheritance law appears at first sight to make a fresh assault on the practice of patrilineal inheritance. It explicitly asserts the equal rights of daughters and sons rather than using the collective ‘children’.18 Com­ mentaries on the law call attention to this assertion and spell out that daughters remain first-class heirs even when they have married out and gone to live elsewhere.19Widowed daughters-in-law and widower sons-inlaw are given the right to inherit from their parents-in-law provided they have supported them, and widows and widowers are first-order heirs of their deceased spouses. Moreover, Article 30 gives them control over their property when they remarry after their spouse’s death - a clause specifically intended to protect the widow who remarries. It requires little thought, however, to realize that in the majority of cases thorough implementation of a daughter’s inheritance rights could disrupt the new household-based economy, just as in the past it would have disrupted peasant land-tenure arrangements. In practical terms, in a case where a man left a widow, two sons, and two daughters already married away, and the property he formerly controlled was treated as family property, one quarter of it would be considered his heritable estate of which two-fifths, that is one-tenth of the total family property, would go to his married daughters. In other possible scenarios, for example when daughters were treated as having a direct claim on the family estate, or where there was no surviving widow or where the property was treated as conjugally rather than family-owned, the daughters would stand to inherit more.

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It is obvious that the brothers are likely to oppose any of these scenarios if they can see a way of doing so. The loss of even a tenth share of a family property consisting of housing, machinery, stock and working capital will be deleterious to family enterprises. In many cases the property will be difficult to divide and of little use to a woman in another village. Even commutation to cash could put the household in debt for years or endanger the running of its economy. Another solution, sometimes employed when it proved impossible to divide a family business between brothers, would be to persuade absent daughters ^to leave their part of the inheritance in the family property and treat it as shares on which interest is paid.20 In the majority of cases, however, it seems reasonable to assume that daughters will continue to be deprived of their inheritance. The new law contains several points that have been used against their inheritance rights in the past and could be similarly used again. First, under Article 13, the rights of heirs are affected by the role they have played towards the deceased. Thus an heir who has provided for his aged parent or has lived with him or her may get extra when the estate is divided. An heir who could have provided for the deceased but has failed to do so gets less, or none at all. As we have seen, in earlier court cases, those women who had provided for their parents had the best chance of asserting their inheritance rights. In the majority of cases, however, once daughters have moved out of their natal families, parents expect to live with and rely on their sons, who can then use this stipulation in the law to challenge their sisters’ rights. After consultation, the heirs may agree to divide an estate unequally between themselves (Article 13), while under Article 25, heirs may waive their rights to an inheritance. The evidence we have is that prior to the introduction of the new law, sisters did normally waive their rights in favour of their brothers. These articles will further encourage such action by giving it a recognized basis in law. Article 29 requires that ‘division of heritable estate shall be favourable to production and the needs of daily life and shall not harm the usefulness of the estate’. This again is a stipulation that could be used against the inheritance rights of women resident in other villages. Finally, the new law gives strong support to the right of the citizen to dispose of his or her property by means of a will. A testator may bequeath property to persons other than the legal heirs, the main limitation being that a sufficient share of the heritable estate must be reserved for heirs who cannot work or have no source of income. This clause would seem to allow a parent the testatory power to disinherit daughters in favour of sons. China has a weak tradition of testatory inheritance, and it seems unlikely that millions of peasants are going to start writing wills, but the strategy may well be used to preserve the integrity of small family businesses in circles where the idea of written legal documents has taken hold.

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Care-Legacy Agreements Article 31 provides another way for the property-owner to choose who is to inherit. It allows the citizen to sign a binding agreement with an individual who agrees to support and assist the citizen during his or her lifetime and to bury him or her after death in exchange for a bequest. This is an interesting development. Inheritance in China has customarily taken place between close kin. The care-legacy agreement encourages in certain circumstances the selection of non-kin as an heir, possibly even at the expense of close kin who might otherwise have inherited but who are unable or unwilling to assist an old person. However, the measure is not such a shaip break with custom as it might as first appear. People without any children, or without satisfactory ones, in traditional China sometimes adopted children, or even adults, to support them in old age. Article 31 also allows for similar agreements to be made between the citizen and a collective unit whereby the citizen wills property to the unit in exchange for support, assistance and burial. This represents a clarification of the former system under which the destitute received the ‘five guarantees’: food, shelter, fuel, clothing and burial from the collective. After death the disposal of the property of such people was often disputed between the collective and close relatives.21 Care-legacy agreements thus legitimize the creation of a surrogate filial relationship in which obligations and rewards are defined by contract. They allow old people without support to purchase it, and as far as the state is concerned they provide a private self-financing solution for the care of isolated old people who own enough property to tempt a ‘carer’ or supporter. This last condition does not necessarily confine the agreements to the well-off: many otherwise poor old people in the Chinese country­ side actually own their own housing. The growth in the numbers of elderly people, and the ramifications of the single-child family, have produced a heightened concern for the elderly in China.22 The usefulness of care-legacy agreements to the state and to old people in difficulties is quite apparent. Its effects on women as daughters will not be beneficial. It is old people without sons who are most likely to resort to such agreements. Such old people will not necessarily be childless, but both a lack of control over income and the weight of social custom make it difficult for married daughters to divert resources from their in-laws’ households in order to give financial support to their own parents, while distance may preclude regular practical help. In such cases daughters will inevitably be disinherited in the interests of the contractual ‘carer’. If the new law does not succeed in guaranteeing women inheritance rights in their natal families, is it likely to strengthen their rights to property and inheritance in their husbands’ families? In the collective economy of the Chinese peasant family, these rights are truly tested only when a woman is widowed or at the time of divorce. As we have seen, the inheritance law defines half of the conjugal property as belonging to the

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widow. She is a joint heir of the other half, together with her children and her husband’s parents. A widowed daughter-in-law becomes a first-order heir to her parents-in-law if she has fulfilled her duty of caring for them. Although this insistence on the woman’s rights in her own person is alien to Chinese custom, the practice implied by the law is not necessarily so; in the past, if she had inherited, it would probably have been as the representative of her dead husband, or of her young sons. The point is that in such situations when a woman gains some property she does not take it away from the family. It is remarriage and divorce that are likely to produce the real conflict over the property rights of the wife or daughter-in-law, because both of these events should, if the law is complied with, result in her taking away property regarded as belonging to the family. If any attempt is made to implement the law on women’s rights, it is reasonable to expect it to be in such cases. A majority of families have daughters and the right of the daughter to patrimony is potentially a highly disruptive issue, simply because of the numbers it would involve. Far fewer peasant families are directly affected by widows who remarry or women who wish to divorce. It is not yet clear, however, that any such effort will be made. The inheritance law was drawn up primarily in order to promote a clear and stable system of property and inheritance which it was felt would encourage hard work, high levels of economic activity and the accumulation of wealth. It is probable that a large number of those responsible for implementing it would see women’s rights as a disruptive threat to all this. As households become wealthier and are permitted to own as private property assets that would formerly not have been privately owned, the injustice of women’s lack of rights of ownership or inheritance over the property they have helped to build up is becoming more blatant. In the household-based economy they have a use-right to the means of produc­ tion that is dependent on their relationship to men, and this ceases if they leave the household. Strong or fortunate women, especially those who play a leading role in the economy of specialized households, may be able to use the law to assert their rights. The majority, however, are forced into a position of dependence by the whole structure of the peasant household. That structure has been strengthened by the economic reforms and it is not likely that legislation alone will help them. NOTES Delia Davin is a lecturer in social and economic history at the University of York. Among her publications are Womanwork: Women and the Party in Revolutionary China (1976), and various articles on Chinese society. She is the editor and translator, with W.J.F. Jenner, of Chinese Lives, a volume of 60 life histories collected by the Chinese writers Zhang Xinxin and Sang Ye (forthcoming). 1. Ramon H. Myers, ‘Price Reforms and Property Rights in Communist China since 1978*, Issues and Studies, Vol.21, No.10 (1985), p.20.

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2. Constitution of the People's Republic of China (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1983), Art. 13. 3. Zhonghua Renmin Gongheguo Jichengfa (‘Inheritance Law of the People’s Republic of China*), adopted at the third session of the Sixth National People’s Congress, April 1985, in Zhonghua renmin gongheguo zhongyao falu xuanbian (‘Selected Major Laws of the PRC’) (Shanghai: Shanghai People’s Publishing House, 1986). 4. See Elisabeth Croll, The Politics of Marriage in Contemporary China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), and Delia Davin, Womanwork: Women and the Party in Revolutionary China (London: Oxford University Press, 1976), Ch.3. 5. Shuzo Shiga, ‘Family Property and the Law of Inheritance in Traditional China’, in David C. Buxbaum (ed.), Chinese Family Law and Social Change (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 1978). 6. Olga Lang, Chinese Family and Society (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1949), p.234; Martin Yang, A Chinese Village: Taitou, Shantung Province (New York: Columbia University Press, 1945), p.234. 7. Shuzo Shiga, p. 112; see also Yang, p.76. 8. Lang, p.49. 9. Maurice Freedman, Chinese Lineage and Society (London: Athlone Press, 1966), pp.53-5; Shuzo Shiga, pp. 127-50. 10. M.J. Meijer, Marriage Law and Policy in the Chinese People’s Republic (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1971). 11. ‘Nuzi caichan jichen quan tiaoli’ (‘Regulations on Women’s Property and Rights of Inheritance’), in Shaan-Gan-Ning bianqu zhengce tiaoli huiji (‘Collection of Political Measures and Regulations of the Shaan-Gan-Ning Border Region’) (no publisher, 1949); Administrative Council of the Jin-Cha-Ji Border Area, Xianxingfa huiji (‘Collection of Laws in Force’) (no publisher, 1945). 12. For example, Shi Huaipi, Luelun woguo jicheng zhidu de jiben wenti (‘Brief Discussion of Basic Problems in our System of Inheritance’) (Beijing: Falu chubanshe, 1958), p.18. 13. Marriage Law of the People’s Republic of China (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1950), Arts. 10, 12 and 14; Marriage Law of the People’s Republic of China (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1982), Arts. 13 and 18. 14. Davin, p.87. 15. William L. Parish and Martin King Whyte, Village and Family in Contemporary China (Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 1978), p. 195. 16. See, for example, ‘Planning her Family’, an oral history collected from a Sichuan peasant woman in Zhang Xinxin; also Sang Ye, Chinese Lives (Beijing Ren), English edition edited by Delia Davin and W.J.F. Jenner (London: Macmillan; New York: Pantheon, forthcoming). 17. Quoted by and discussed in Meijer, pp.324—31. 18. Inheritance law, Art. 9. 19. Tang Dehua and Peng Shixiang, Jichengfa jianghua (‘Talks on the Inheritance Law’) (Beijing: Beijing Publishing House, 1985), p.42. 20. For a discussion of these possibilities dating from the 1950s, see Meijer, p.338. 21. Meijer, p.261. 22. See Deborah Davis-Friedmann, Long Lives: Chinese Elderly and the Communist Revolution (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983).

North Korea: The End of the Beginning Aidan Foster-Carter

In surveying the condition of North Korea in the late 1980s, 40 years after the state’s foundation, it is argued that, despite its initial dynamism and considerable social change, Kim D Sung’s regime is now seriously stagnating. The economy suffers from deficiencies in planning, organization, technology, consumer goods and foreign trade. In international relations, friends have been handled more skilfully than enemies, and North Korea has clearly now lost in the competition with the South. The polity and society, in a sense a reductio ad absurdum of tendencies visible in other communist countries (but mostly in the past), are stifled by extreme formalism and the cult of the personality. While this has produced a certain kind of stability in Kim’s lifetime, it has also prevented muchneeded reform, and will pose huge problems for his successor - who may not be Kim Jong II.

In the late 1980s, North Korea1 is an anomaly whether compared with other communist states, or in its regional context, or indeed by global standards. For one thing, Kim II Sung is the world’s longest serving political leader, having been in effective power since 1945. North Korea is thus the only established communist regime other than Cuba still ruled by its original founding leader. Moreover, after Mongolia it is the second oldest communist regime in Asia. As a communist-party state North Korea is characterized by its personality cult, the predominance of the state over civil society, and the relative absence of economic reform. Notoriously, and by its own account,2 Kim II Sung’s regime has carried forward to a unique degree the totalitarian impulse implicit in Marxism-Leninism, to the point where the North Korean state has practically swallowed up civil society. Closely related to this is a personality cult of gargantuan proportions, embracing not only Kim II Sung but also his father, mother, first wife and (since 1980) his son and heir Kim Jong II. If all goes according to plan, North Korea will thus become the first communist state (although not the only modem Asian republic) to experience a dynastic transfer of power. North Korea, in contrast to other communist-party states, almost wholly lacks a commitment to economic reform. At a time when not only China but Gorbachev’s USSR and most recently Vietnam are engaged in far-reaching economic overhaul, things in Pyongyang by contrast appear static indeed. Toes have been put gingerly (and quietly) into the water, but North Korea has not plunged in, nor is it likely to do so under the present regime. This is not to say that it does not need to. On the contrary, despite

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Pyongyang’s incessant Panglossian paeans about living in a paradise on earth, it is clear that the regime’s initial economic dynamism has long since exhausted itself. This makes North Korea in turn a regional anomaly. It is perhaps unfortunate, for Kim II Sung, that his stagnating kingdom sits in the midst of the most dynamic part of the global economy. By other Third World standards, North Korea’s performance remains moderately respectable. Yet to be in north-east Asia, on the eve of the 1990s, and unable to produce a silicon chip4 is problematic indeed. In particular - and quite crucially, in terms of Pyongyang’s own priorities - this indicates that by the fifth decade of Korea’s division the North has definitively and unequivocally lost its competitive battle with the South. A further anomaly might perhaps seem more positive. Both in its regional context and within the communist world, North Korea is very much its own master. It has remained firmly neutral in the Sino-Soviet dispute, a unique accomplishment among Asian communist-party states. It has never joined CMEA, and no foreign troops have been stationed on North Korean soil since 1958. Among communist countries only Albania has shown similar independence - but only in recent years, and rather negatively, in contrast to Pyongyang’s formally good relations with both Moscow and Beijing. Regionally, meanwhile, North Korea’s relatively autonomous (some might call it maverick) status constitutes an important asymmetry, in comparison to South Korea’s close relations with the United States. Is there a pattern to these anomalies? It is important to specify their parameters accurately. Hereditary succession in a republic has non­ communist precedents, some of them close at hand - in India, in Taiwan, perhaps soon in Singapore. As this example suggests, comparative analysis may help avoid the trap of too readily conceding North Korea’s ‘uniqueness’. While nowhere else in the world today is quite like Pyongyang, neither is it a complete ‘one-off’. In this sense, North Korea today represents a reductio ad absurdum of tendencies that are neither peculiar to it, nor perhaps all wholly negative in themselves. Both in its origins and in its accomplishments, Kim II Sung’s regime is comparable to other communist-party states, especially those of Eastern Europe. Like them, it obtained state power through the presence of the Soviet army (even though this crucial fact has been downplayed subsequently).5 Like them, too, its historical role has essentially been to carry out forced-march industrialization and primitive accumulation, in a context where these processes were previously but little advanced. Even the extent of totalitarianism and the cult of the personality have their precedents - in Stalin and Stalinism, which is surely Kim II Sung’s abiding role model. What is distinctive about North Korea is, first, that it adopted Stalin’s system while avoiding (or indeed escaping) Stalin’s embrace. Considering that in 1945 the young Kim II Sung’s almost sole claim to fame was that he was the Russians’ man, his subsequent independence of action - first clearly manifest in June 1950 - is the more

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remarkable. (A limited parallel, but only as regards foreign policy, would be Romania’s Ceausescu.) Most striking of all, however, is the fact that in the late 1980s North Korea is still ploughing a furrow now abandoned by almost all other regimes that were once somewhat comparable to it. (Again, only Albania and Romania spring to mind.) In the 1950s, Kim II Sung’s regime did not seem especially different - economically, politically, ideologically - from many others in the communist ‘bloc’. Thirty years later, by contrast, Pyongyang is very much the odd one out, and not only because it is still playing an old song, while everyone else in the band has changed the tune. Other communist-party states have changed, but North Korea has not stood still either; but while they have got better, it has got worse. Kim II Sung, having divested himself equally of Soviet control and domestic critics, has in the past 20 years cemented a system that patently finds it impossible to institute the changes it knows it requires increasingly desperately. In this sense, Kim II Sung has literally lived too long, and his once dynamic regime is now a dead weight. Further advance, economic or political, is mostly unlikely in his lifetime. Once he is gone, almost anything might happen - despite his strenuous efforts to tie up the succession in advance. The Korean Background While this is no place for a detailed history of Korea,6 some aspects of the Korean background are essential for understanding North Korea today. The sense of being a small country, chronically prey to the designs of powerful neighbours, is one of them. Korea is not only relatively small (more so in area than population), but is also a very old and unusually homogeneous nation; there are virtually no ethnic minorities. Some form of Korean identity goes back at least 2,000 years, and most of the peninsula was unified by a d 668. Formally a tributary of China, Korea came under Chinese cultural influence, especially neo-Confucianism in the last dynasty, the Yi or Choson (1392-1910). Yet Korea always retained a distinct cultural identity, often symbolized by its language and alphabet. The latter was devised in the 1440s, and is now used on its own by North Korea, while the South employs Chinese characters as well. By the late nineteenth century, Korea was firmly in decline.7 Like Japan, its rulers attempted a policy of seclusion (earning the soubriquet of ‘hermit kingdom’). Unlike Japan, however, Korea did not use its isolation to buy time and modernize itself. As a result, by the turn of the century it was clear that whoever established control of north-east Asia would dominate Korea. Having defeated China in 1894-95 and Russia in 1904, Japan gained de facto power in Korea in 1905, formally annexing it in 1910. The four decades of Japanese rule, up to 1945, form a crucial basis for understanding both North and South Korea.8 Psychologically, it was experienced as a massive humiliation: Japan was a neighbour, an old

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enemy, seen as an inferior who had acquired (Chinese) civilization via Korea. There were also more material effects. Japan’s colonial rule was ‘late’ and systematic, and Koreans experienced the typical impact of the spread of capitalist relations of production in a highly concentrated form. Most peasants were reduced to tenancy, often in dire poverty. Many lost their lands, and were proletarianized into the mines and industries that the Japanese developed, especially in northern Korea, which was rich in minerals. There was little effective resistance to the Japanese. Factional conflict was the hallmark of Korean nationalism, both between and within Left and Right.9 In the Comintern, Korea was a byword for factionalism, and several attempts to organize a communist party were rapidly infiltrated and broken up by the Japanese authorities. Outside Korea, activities included the Korean Provisional Government in Shanghai (whose most prominent member was Syngman Rhee); and small skirmishes with the Japanese in Manchuria, in which the young Kim II Sung played a minor part. When the liberation came, in 1945, it was not accomplished by Koreans, and it had a wholly unforeseen twist. Japan having collapsed more rapidly than expected after the two atomic bombs, the USSR and USA agreed a ‘temporary’ division of Korea at the 38th parallel. Interpretation of the 1945-50 period, when both the present Korean states were founded, remains controversial.10It has too often been marred by the implicit use of one of two opposing teleologies, according to which the ‘free world’ and ‘democracy’ are pitted against ‘national liberation’ and ‘socialist revolu­ tion’. The processes that led up to the formal declaration of the ‘Republic of Korea’ and the ‘Democratic People’s Republic of Korea’ in 1948 are none the less essentially similar. Both were ‘projects’, which had to be accomplished, not to say enforced. It is far from certain that most Koreans wanted either of them, or indeed the country’s partition. It is easy to overstate the extent of manipulation by either the USA or the USSR. Neither had a clearly articulated policy, although the Soviet Union proved more adept in practice. Moreover, the rhetoric of ‘satellite’ and ‘puppet’ should not blind us to the capacity for autonomous action exercised from the first by both Kim II Sung and Syngman Rhee. Both proved consider­ able thorns in the flesh of their respective sponsors. In Kim II Sung’s case, that autonomy was clearly exercised in June 1950. The Korean war was a massive gamble, and a disastrous failure. By the time it ended, three years later, North Korea had become the only communist-party state ever to be physically occupied by the USA and its allies.11 It had been saved from obliteration only by the intervention of a foreign power: China. That Kim II Sung’s leadership survived such a monstrous debacle is remarkable in itself. He seems to have accomplished this by pinning the blame on others, especially the Southern communist Pak Hon-Yong, who was subse­ quently executed. The scale of wartime destruction, both human and physical, was immense almost beyond calculation. Indeed, to anyone contemplating the smoking ruins of the Korean peninsula three and a half decades ago, it

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must have seemed implausible in the extreme that any part of Korea would accomplish anything in the foreseeable future. As it turned out, though, not one but two ‘miracles’ of economic growth have occurred in Korea during the past third of a century. The South Korean case is the better known, and ultimately the more impressive (although it was later off the mark), but it is not our concern here.12 The Economy: From Dynamism to Stagnation The current stagnation and indeed crisis of the North Korean economy should not blind us to its earlier dynamism and accomplishments. During the first two decades after 1945, North Korea was transformed from an overwhelmingly agrarian to a mainly industrial economy. According to Joseph Chung’s authoritative work, national income rose by 30.1 per cent per annum during 1954-56, 20.9 per cent in 1957-60 and 7.5 per cent in 1961-70 (the first three post-Korean War planning periods). The gross value of industrial output for the same three periods increased by 41.8, 36.6 and 12.8 per cent, respectively, and went on to average 16.3 per cent for the next decade through 1980.13 (All these, it should be remembered, are annual growth rates.) Evidently, some preconditions worked in the regime’s favour. North Korea was lucky in its mineral endowments, despite lacking oil, gas, or coking coal. Like most small ex-colonial Third World states today, without such mineral wealth it could scarcely even have contemplated a strategy of Soviet-style industrialization. Equally, the legacy of Japanese development of those resources, in mining and industry, was not as wholly negative as Koreans are wont to claim.14 Thirdly, massive aid from the USSR, China and others after 1953 provided a critical early base for accumulation. On the other hand, after 1945 North Korea had to mount a three-pronged drive to reduce sheer economic backwardness, the distor­ tions of a colonial economy, and the impact of losing that half of the country which was the rice bowl as well as the centre for light industry. After 1953, it had to start all over again. Furthermore, it seems clear that the USSR itself had different, less ambitious economic plans for the Pyongyang regime. Kim II Sung’s insistence on doing what the Russians had themselves done, rather than what they now said, became a source of scarcely concealed dispute.15 Primitive accumulation and industrialization were no less harsh in North Korea than anywhere else. Consumption was certainly sacrificed to investment, agriculture to industry, light industry to heavy. None the less, Kim II Sung’s strategy was successful. No other course could have laid a basis for future development, nor preserved the country’s independence.16 On the other hand, this strategy cannot be prolonged indefinitely.17 The regime’s stubborn persistence in the same methods and priorities for a further two decades has been less successful, and it has failed to undertake meaningful economic reform. As a result, North Korea in the late 1980s is still running a seriously overheated 1960s economy, using the 1950s’

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methods of strict central planning coupled with yelling at people when things fail to go according to plan. It will be convenient to examine Pyongyang’s current economic malaise under five headings. Planning Pyongyang’s planners have rarely been precise in hitting their targets. While the five-year plan (1957-61) was fulfilled one year early, the ensuing first seven-year plan (1961-70) was extended by three years ostensibly because of unforeseen defence burdens. The next, the six-year plan (1971-76), was followed by a ‘year of adjustment’ in 1977, while the second seven-year plan (1977-84) was succeeded by two years (1985-86) for which no plan was announced at all. Only from 1987 has a third fiveyear plan (1987-93) been announced. Amidst this distinctly chequered record, two further trends are apparent. First, over the past 20 years Pyongyang has published fewer and fewer actual figures of economic accomplishments. Those for the 1977-84 plan period are particularly thin, inconsistent and unconvincing.18 Second, even the targets for growth rates have tended quietly to decline and recede over time. This is particularly true of the much-touted ‘ten long-range economic goals for the 1980s’, which have now been relaunch­ ed as targets for the current plan (ending in 1993).19 Such problems could have been foreseen: indeed, they were foreseen. Twenty years ago, some North Korean economists were arguing that the pace of economic growth must decline over time, and that ‘the more the economy develops and its scale grows, the less becomes the possibility of increasing production’.20 Such problems - for example, over the transition from ‘extensive’ to ‘intensive’ growth - were already current in other communist countries, and have become more familiar subsequently with the work of Komai and others.21 In North Korea, however, they received short shrift: The ‘theory’ that large-scale economy cannot develop rapidly is but a sophistry brought forward by some people to justify the fact that their technical progress is slow and their economy stagnant because they, talking about ‘liberalization’ and ‘democratic development’, did not educate their working people and, as a result, the latter are ideologically so soft as to fiddle about and loaf on the job.22 Since being in public dispute with the ‘Great Leader’ is unlikely to be conducive to good health and long life, it seems safe to assume that the ‘debate’ ended there. After 20 years, it can be little consolation that Kim II Sung was wrong, and his opponents right: the lot of a planner, or any kind of economist, in North Korea cannot be easy. What is striking about the quotation just cited is not only its note of menace, but the sheer unbridled voluntarism. Kim is perfectly explicit about this: ‘In socialist society, the people’s high revolutionary zeal is the decisive factor which causes the productive forces to multiply.,23 In consequence, the Pyongyang press in

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the late 1980s is still, as it has been for 40 years, urging its readers to scale this or that height of production, complete their targets early (usually in honour of Somebody’s birthday), and so on.24 How rational economic planning can take place in such circumstances can only be wondered at. In this as in other spheres, the doctrine of leader infallibility is a serious handicap. Economic Organization Closely related to planning is the whole question of economic organiza­ tion. It goes without saying, perhaps, that the kinds of dilution of central control pioneered in Budapest and Beijing have not found favour in Pyongyang. Yet changes there have been. For one thing, the whole structure of economic ministries has recently been reorganized - not once but twice in little over a year. First, in November 1985, 13 formerly separate ministries were streamlined into six major new ‘commissions’. Then, in December 1986, the number of ministries was increased again, while the number of commissions was reduced.25 It remains to be seen whether such ‘shuffling of the chairs’ will have the desired effect. More significantly, it is not widely known that there has been some measure of economic reform in North Korea. Pyongyang sources, typically, have said nothing overtly about this, but China has briefly reported it, and there has been unofficial Soviet confirmation. According to Xinhua, Korean ‘factory directors and enteiprise managers will be able to make more independent decisions about labour, equipment, materials and funds’. Also, ‘they will be permitted to allot up to 50 per cent of their excess profits for the expansion of production, welfare benefits or bonuses’. Within enterprises, the new measures include ‘a responsibility system at the team or group level’, under which ‘groups of four to six workers plan their own schedules and set their bonus rates’. Above the enterprise level, control of budgeting is to be transferred to ‘an inde­ pendent or semi-independent accounting system for integrated enter­ prises and government organizations’. Finally, ‘the state will also allow and encourage individuals to undertake small private handicraft produc­ tion such as knitting’ 26 Intriguing yet fragmentary as this report is, in the absence of confirma­ tion from Pyongyang we have no way of knowing how widely such changes are being implemented. Two caveats seem in order, however. First, unofficial Soviet reports are slightly different in emphasis, suggesting that Pyongyang’s model is the East German Kombinat, whereby enterprises organically linked engage in horizontal co-operation at management level within a basically still centralized economic framework. That certainly sounds more likely to appeal to North Korea than any more radical perestroika, or re-structuring. It is also consistent with such little light as Pyongyang occasionally sheds on what it calls ‘complexes’, for example the Kyongsong Ceramics Complex.27 Second, it is hard to imagine that any radical reform could coexist easily with the endless exhortations that still pour forth unabated in the

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Pyongyang mass media, telling everyone (economic functionaries, workers, peasants) to do as they are told, often in so many words; not to think for themselves or question orders from the centre, but uncondi­ tionally to obey party policy.28 Even though juche is translated as ‘having the attitude of a master’, economic risk-taking in North Korea must still continue to carry politcial risks as well. Technology The particular bottlenecks of the North Korean economy are clear enough from constant repetition. In sum, there is not enough of anything: not enough raw materials, especiallly coal and iron; not enough electricity; and not enough transport, to ensure that inputs arrive on time and delivery dates for output are met. A particular constraint, it is increasingly clear, is technology. From the early 1970s this was perceived as a problem, and it inspired North Korea’s well-known large-scale purchases of Western technology at that time. But these backfired in two ways, only one of which has attracted much publicity. Notoriously, North Korea failed to pay for almost everything (as it has earlier failed to pay the Soviet Union, something that one suspects eager Western lenders were not aware of).29 As a result of its default, Pyongyang acquired the world’s worst credit rating, and effectively cut itself off from further technological transfers from hardcurrency countries. The debt and default are notorious. Much less noticed, and no less interesting, is North Korea’s chronic difficulty in absorbing such new technology as it does manage to acquire. Here evidence is of necessity fragmentary or anecdotal. But, to take a key example, North Korea seems unable to produce a silicon chip, despite strenuous efforts to that end, including a United Nations aid project. Part of the reason, it appears, is simple inability to ensure quality control.30 Somewhat speculatively, one might suggest that while ‘guerrilla’ methods may work for ‘old’ indus­ trialization - mining, iron and steel, basic construction - they will not do for the ‘new’ industries of computers and high technology. Korean scientists and engineers, although numerous, almost certainly lack the width and depth of education, the material resources and the peace of mind to be able to ‘deliver’ in this crucial area. Significantly, recent pronouncements have indicated that looking after scientists properly is a problem area.31 Meanwhile, North Korea in practice continues to get the bulk of its technology from an old and trusted source: despite the rhetoric of juche, the USSR has all along provided most of North Korea’s technology, most the training to use it, and most of the money to pay for it. Soviet sources in recent years have been as forthcoming about die extent of this fraternal aid as Pyongyang has kept silent on it.32 Indispensable as such assistance is, it has clear limitations. At least part of the reason for the accelerating gap between the North and the South Korean economies is simply the difference between Soviet and Japanese technology.

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Consumer Goods The continued priority given by Pyongyang to heavy industry has a predictable corollary: consumer goods, in both quantity and quality, are a problem. They are even an admitted problem. With a critical note rare indeed in a pro-Pyongyang source, the president of Pyongyang’s Light Industry University was quoted in 1986 as saying that ‘frankly speaking, our light industry is backward’.33 More commonly, the North Korean media alternate between fatuous claims that all problems have been solved in ‘the people’s paradise’, and frantic exhortations to all and sundry to solve ‘completely’ the problems of food, clothing and the like.34 The reality, so far as one can discern, is that to an unknown but probably unique degree consumer goods are allocated by rationing rather than being sold as commodities. Life in North Korea is, to put it mildly, frugal for most people.35 Interestingly, light industry is one area of the North Korean economy over which there seems to have recently been what almost looks like a debate. In December 1984, an article in the party theoretical journal Kulloja called for a change in the pattern of consumer goods production. Perhaps unexpectedly, light industry to date in North Korea has been relatively decentralized, especially since 1973, with each province supposed to organize its own. Li Tong Ho, the author of the article, accepted that this was satisfactory for foodstuffs but not for major light industrial goods. Their production should be centralized, in order to reap economies of scale, raise skill levels and improve quality while avoiding wasteful duplication.36 While undoubtedly a reform, this would of course increase rather than reduce centralization. Nor is there any role foreseen for markets. Rather, ‘economic guidance functionaries should ... meticulously plan ... to implement party policy on the basis of the principle of absoluteness and unconditionality’37- an all-too-familiar note in the North Korean media. But in any case it looks as if Li’s call has gone unheeded, since the main emphasis recently has been given to a very different line of attack: to encourage ‘sideline teams’, whereby people (mainly women) are urged to produce baskets (and whatever else they can) in their spare time.3 Whether they get paid for this is unclear. What is clear is that this is yet another instance of voluntarist rhetoric and pressure being substituted for a real, organizational solution. Ominously, too, Rodong Sinmun weighed in with the rider that an individual’s commodity production record ‘may be regarded as a scale to measure [his] degree of loyalty to the party’.39 In North Korea, voluntarism has teeth. Foreign Trade In at least one sphere, the North Korean economy has undergone a U-turn in recent years. It used to be Pyongyang’s boast that its economy was free from any fluctuation caused by world economic trends. That note is now heard rarely, if at all. More common are explicit calls to promote produc­ tion for exports. Some new North Korean factories are specifically

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designated as centres of export production, while others, for example in textiles and household goods, declare their willingness to produce goods to buyers’ specifications.40 Unfortunately for Pyongyang, however, the outside world is not interested. This can be seen by the lack of results from Pyongyang’s most tangible volte-face to date: its joint venture law of 1984. Modelled on that of China, its only definite customers so far have come from the much putupon ranks of Chongryon, the Pyongyang-oriented assocation of Koreans in Japan 41At a time of global recession and rising protectionism it really is late in the day to try to break into world markets, especially for a small country with few friends, little clout, a reputation for unpredictability and the world’s worst credit rating. Not for the first time, juche here comes across above all as selfimportance, an inflated ego, excessive self-regard, and a consequent misunderstanding and mismanagement of North Korea’s rather lowly and shabby true place in the global scheme of things. In practice, for trade as for technology (and for aid which links the two), the USSR and its allies will continue for the foreseeable future to loom largest. For a rational North Korea, this would be a second-best. Eastern Europe is far away, and there is - politics aside - little basis or need for trade. One of these days history and geography will overcome politics and ideology, and there will be a big economic breakthrough with Japan. The rumours, and the shopping lists, have been about for two or three years.42 As with so much else about North Korea, however, there is little sign of tangible progress as yet. The Polity As may be imagined, hard evidence concerning politics in North Korea is even more elusive than information on its economy. This information vacuum might be regarded as a challenge to deploy a combination of sensitive comparative analysis and disciplined a priori reasoning. Know­ ing what problems other communist societies have, we can form a plausible picture of Pyongyang’s behind-the-scenes politics also.43 The formal political structures of the North Korean regime are comparable to those of other communist party states and need not be described here.44 There is the customary parallel structure of party and state - except that North Korea since 1972 has had a unique state body, the Central People’s Committee, as the top policy-making body standing above the State Administration Council (cabinet). Within the party, in 1983 membership of the Supreme Presidium of the KWP Politburo was reduced from five to three: Kim II Sung; his son and heir Kim Jong II, who first formally surfaced in 1980 but who still holds no state position; and O Jin U, the elderly minister for the armed forces. North Korea has characteristically taken to extreme tendencies already present in other communist regimes. What might be called the ‘formalization’ of politics is one of these. No other country has dared, as

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North Korea has since 1962, to claim what is statistically impossible: that 100 per cent of the electorate vote in general elections, and all vote yes. The 655 deputies thus elected to the Supreme People’s Assembly (SPA) meet only twice a year, for a few days. In the newly and expensively rebuilt Mansudae assembly hall, they all sit in plush armchairs, facing the same way, gazing down a gentle slope towards a gleaming white alabaster statue of the Great Leader. Little is required of them, except occasional use of their Siemens microphones to say ‘Yes’. Clearly, this is a theatre, and MPs are not actors but audience. The second tendency taken to an extreme is, of course, the cult of personality. Pursuit of power by a single leader is far from unique in the communist world. Kim II Sung in 1945 was by no means an obvious choice of leader, nor did he go unchallenged. It took him a little more than a decade to liquidate other communist factions, both domestic and those with links to the USSR and China. The last major challenge to his rule seems to have come in 1956.45 The past 30 years have seen the construction of an edifice of totalitarian control without parallel elsewhere. How exactly this was accomplished, and how exactly it operates in practice, is not wholly clear. The proportion of party membership is uniquely high - some three million members, or about 15 per cent of the entire population - while women’s, youth and other organizations ensure that no one is excluded from the embrace. The formal face of the North Korean system is thus what it proudly proclaims as Yuilsasang, monolithic ideology, or even ‘ideological monochromaticity’46 - stressing unity and loyalty, ceaselessly and in the most extravagant terms. Nevertheless, the fact that the North Korean polity is officially presented as a kind of blend between a stage spectacular and an act of worship, in permanent session, evidently does not exhaust the task of political analysis. After all, Pyongyang is not exempt from the need to make decisions - strategic and day-to-day, at national and local levels. Moreover, as the state of the economy suggests, some of those choices are difficult and urgent. Quite clearly fierce debates must rage among the North Korean political elite. At least three massively contentious areas - economic policy, international alignments, and the succession - cannot possibly command unanimity of view, even if, as regards the last of these, a kind of unanimity has been imposed for the time being. On economic issues, at least, faint echoes of debate surface from time to time in articles in Rodong Sinmun that, while never explicitly contradicting one another, at least point in somewhat contrary directions. For example, one editorial says Pyongyang must increase exports as a top priority: another warns of the ideological inroads of capitalism. One article trumpets juche\ another preaches the virtues of greater integration into the ‘socialist international division of labour’. One report warns economic cadres to obey orders from the centre unquestioningly; another tells them to consult their workforce before doing anything.47 International relations are discussed later. Here, the most palpable evidence of disarray in Pyongyang is the on-off state of talks - or talks about talks - between North and South Korea. Initiated in late

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1984, these were broken off in early 1986; at the time of writing, there are some indications that they may be resumed. South Korean sources, ironically, take Pyongyang’s claims of ‘monolithism’ too much at face value, and tend to assume that such twists and turns are the devious slitherings of an untrustworthy serpent. Far more plausible, however, is the simple conclusion that they cannot make up their minds in Pyongyang whether to talk to Seoul or not. Attitudes to South Korea constitute one touchstone of a divide between verkramptes and verligtes, diehards and reformers in Pyongyang. Attitudes to economic reform provide another. But economic reform comes in different forms: in Chinese or East German style, and nowadays even a la Russe. So this links to a third divide: partisans of China and Moscow respectively, both in turn opposed by the laager-mentality juche diehards. This still leaves two crucial linked issues. Who is associated with each of these positions? And what about the succession? On the former, there is almost no solid information. The verligtes are likely to include Kang Song San and Kim Yong Nam, appointed as prime minister and foreign minister respectively in the wake of the Rangoon bombing of October 1983 - a serious debacle for the verkramptes. The newly appointed prime minister, Li Gun Mo, is also a probable verligte. Conversely, older and enduring figures in the leadership - Li Jong Ok, Rim Chun Chu, Ho Dam, and O Jin U - might plausibly be cast as verkramptes. Yet all this is very speculative. Moreover, it is noteworthy that recent changes look more like reshuffles than purges. Figures like Kang Song San and Kim Hwan have been moved back and forth between party and government responsibilities, but it seems impossible to detect a clear pattern of vertical ascent and descent. In particular, despite the bizarre rumours of Kim II Sung’s assassination in November 1986, organizational changes a month later do not show the fall from grace of any significant figures. Last, but certainly not least, there is the topmost leadership. Almost nothing that matters is known about Kim Jong II, in particular on the crucial questions of whether he has either a power base or any ideas of his own. On the latter, while Seoul sources (especially at the time of the Rangoon bombing) regarded him as a hard-liner, it seems no less plausible that he is a would-be modernizer. As to the former, one theory has it that Kim Jong II made his power base in the ‘Three Revolution Teams’, a movement somewhat akin to China’s Red Guards, which from 1973 onwards has acted as a ginger group in economic enterprises and elsewhere.48 It is also widely stated that Kim Jong II is now in day-to-day charge of internal affairs, although he still has no formal state, as distinct from party, post. In the end, Kim II Sung will die and then we shall see. As regards that future, it is hard to disagree with James Cotton’s view that the ‘Dear Leader’ is most unlikely to long survive his father’s demise.49 Meanwhile, one might suggest that Pyongyang is afflicted by a strange kind of political paralysis - as indicated, for example, by the two years without a plan.

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Perhaps Kim II Sung has semi-abdicated, leaving Kim Jong II partly but by no means wholly in control, thus creating a situation in which neither those two nor anyone else has the capacity to grasp nettles and take firm decisions. Paradoxical as it might seem, Pyongyang’s tight ship looks increasingly rudderless: it drifts, or zigzags, or seems marooned, as if no hand were on the tiller. That, perhaps, is the ultimate irony of North Korean politics. For reasons that are understandable in view of past Korean political history, Kim II Sung has worked on the principle that unity is strength. Yet he has taken this to such extremes as to pose a grave threat to North Korea’s ultimate stability after his death. His personalized absolutism has ultimately suffocated politics, leading a once dynamic system to flounder and stagnate. That which appears as strength will turn out to be extremely brittle, and the facade of monolithic unity will rapidly crumble. The Society Although much has been implicit in the last two sections, it is worth posing explicitly the question of what North Korean society is really like. Clearly it has undergone enormous change since 1945. The dispossession of landlords and (the few) capitalists, the destruction and chaos of war, and the subsequent industrialization and urbanization, add up to a 40-year social transformation no less profound than the preceding 40 years of Japanese colonialism. The result is a society of puzzling contrasts. Much, at the level of reality and ideology alike, is unmistakably modem. As in other communist-party states, the Promethean themes of science and progress, ‘man’ transforming nature, are constantly played. The classic Stalinist imagery of industrialization abounds. The higher education system is strongly technological and vocational in orientation. Most North Koreans live in cities, and work in factories or offices. Another modem theme much trumpeted is welfare. Education is free and compulsory, for 11 years. Health care is also claimed to be comprehensive, although there are likely to exist distributional inequality and qualitative inadequacies. Even such symptoms of modernity (and specifically Western modernity at that) as ties for men and high-heeled shoes for women have been officially recommended in recent years. Yet this modem society is also strikingly traditional. Foreign visitors have remarked on a curiously old-fashioned atmosphere and mores. The anarchy of capitalist modernity is conspicuously absent. This is a Third World country apparently without shanty towns or an informal sector. Pyongyang has very little traffic, and even bicycles are banned as dis­ orderly. Casual street life appears not to exist. Above all, there is no getting away from the neo-traditionalism of authority relations - again, both as they are and as they are portrayed. Although juche is translated as ‘having the attitude of a master’, the reality is that North Koreans must have the attitude of having a master. Kim H Sung’s omnipotence is their impotence. Again and again they are reminded that they are nothing

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without him. Mundane and miserly state rationing over and above the norm - a coat here, a couple of ballpoint refills there - is represented in the terminology of feudalism, as generous gifts from a benevolent monarch to his unworthy subjects. In no other communist-party state has the basis of legitimation, in Weberian terms, become so overtly patrimonial, and indeed patriarchal. But if Kim 11 Sung’s societal project was in itself bizarre, what is still more remarkable is that he appears to have pulled it off. Uniquely in the communist world, there is no trace of dissidence, or of East Europeanstyle irony and political humour. Nowadays even Albania has its graffiti: not so Pyongyang. All the North Koreans one meets really seem to believe in their system. Unsurprisingly, comparisons with Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four have been freely made51 - although Huxley’s Brave New World might be more apt, for a populace seemingly not so much cowed as brainwashed. Caution is in order here, however. Undoubtedly the North Korean regime has gone to unique lengths to quarantine its citizens against influences from and information about the outside world, and then to use its monopoly of the means of socialization (starting in the creche) to push one line and one line only. Should even that fail, there is undoubtedly an intricate and massive network of surveillance, plus a Gulag for those who dare to deviate. Even so, there is one source of anomaly whose emergence and perception cannot be prevented, namely, the yawning chasm between the Panglossian picture of a ‘people’s paradise’ as painted by the Pyongyang media, and ordinary people’s everyday experience of how they live.52 Seen in this light, the shrill and frenzied exhortations that are Pyongyang’s staple media fare take on a different meaning. Despite the absence of overt dissidence, and although people do do as they are told, there is little sign that ordinary North Koreans freely put much effort or commitment into their work. Why should they, when conditions are so spartan and rewards so meagre? Conversely, there is evidence that the visible privileges of the party elite are well known and resented.53 Hence, while the media are frenzied, the people are not. It seems likely that when the post-Kim era finally dawns, we shall leam that many people in North Korea maintained a formal commitment to the regime and did as they were told while privately reserving judgement. Another case in point here is religion. As well as Buddhism, Christianity was strong in Pyongyang before 1945. Although no public places of worship are open in North Korea today, evidence from other communist countries makes it reasonable to suppose that religious belief has only gone underground, rather than having been eliminated. In this as in other respects, it is doubtful whether North Korea is all that it appears and proclaims itself to be. International Relations

If economic stagnation provides an internal source of problems and hence

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pressure for change on the North Korean system, the shifting pattern of international alliances in recent years has led to equivalent pressures from the country’s external environment. The cold war ‘blocs’ that produced the division of Korea are not as they were, and Pyongyang in consequence faces new challenges. As with the economy, however, there is little sign of any unanimity on how to respond to these changes. In the first place, there is no denying Kim II Sung’s nationalism. Despite his initial ‘Russian’ origins and non-existent internal power base, he early freed himself from Soviet control. Firmly neutral in the Sino-Soviet dispute, never having joined Comecon, and allowing no foreign troops or bases on its soil, North Korea must be a deep disappointment to the USSR, especially since the latter has always been Pyongyang’s major source of financial and technological aid. It is important to re-state these themes, at a time when some analysts have made too much of North Korea’s ‘tilt’ towards the Soivet Union in recent years. It is true that both Pyongyang and Moscow have sought, and to some degree established, more effective co-operation in both economic and military terms. It is equally clear that, on the North Korean side, this move not only reflects those economic and military needs in themselves, but also indicates severe displeasure with China for its rapidly expanding and increasingly insouciant unofficial links with South Korea, as for example in trade and sports exchanges. This process has its limits, however. North Korea may grant overflying rights for Soviet planes to spy on China, and engage in joint naval exercises with the USSR, but Kim II Sung could never give the Russians the warmwater bases which they would dearly like. (Whether his successors might do so is another matter entirely.) On broader foreign policy issues, too, North Korea hews to its own line. It recognizes Afghanistan - but also Democratic Kampuchea, and Prince Sihanouk turned up as usual in 1987 at his old friend Kim II Sung’s birthday celebrations. In sum, Kim II Sung has proved adept at avoiding too close an embrace from either of his major allies. By contrast, North Korea’s relations with its ‘enemies’ have been a more or less unmitigated disaster. Admittedly US and Japanese recognition of Seoul as the seat of the only legitimate government of Korea places inherent limitations on what can be accomplished. Yet there is no intrinsic reason why North Korea and Japan should not be enjoying the kind of thriving unofficial economic and other links that now obtain between South Korea and China. Pyongyang desperately needs such relations, to modernize its economy. They will come in the 1990s but they could have come one or even two decades sooner, were it not for North Korea’s excessive and unrealistic prickliness on various political issues. Above all, they have been stymied by the crass decision not to repay to Japan debts incurred in the early 1970s. With the USA, North Korea has spoiled its chances by a mixture of extravagantly venomous rhetoric on the one hand, coupled with some clumsy and transparent manoeuvres in recent years to try to drive a wedge between Washington and Seoul. While it is true that the USA (and Japan)

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might nevertheless have attempted earlier to play the kind of peace­ making role on the peninsula that China has commendably attempted in the 1980s, it must be said that North Korea has offered very little incentive to do so. Recent US gestures55 have in fact been favourably received in Pyongyang; it remains to be seen if there is a substantive response. Finally, there is the other half of Korea, ever the real focal point of Pyongyang’s foreign policy. This too is a major failure for Kim II Sung, who must be haunted by the very different outcome in that other oncedivided East Asian country, Vietnam. Despite partition, the Vietnamese communists never lost their purchase on events in the South. They eventually had their victory, pyrrhic though it turns out to have been. Vietnam really did defeat the USA. North Korea ludicrously claims to have done so, when in fact it was not only all but annihilated (but for Chinese intervention, after 1951 there would have been no North Korea) but also lost all chance of influencing events in the South. In post-war economic competition, North Korea’s initial lead was lost by around 1970, and the South’s far greater dynamism means that the gap grows ever wider. As against this, Pyongyang has scored success of a kind in the Non-Aligned Movement, by keeping Seoul out. Yet the hollow formalism of this ‘success’ is as little beside South Korea’s substantial bilateral economic relations in the Third World, even with such allies of Pyongyang as Libya. Above all, although there is a depressing history of intransigence and posturing on both sides, the major responsibility in the late 1980s for the state of relations (or lack of them) between North and South Korea must rest with Pyongyang. The North’s proclaimed insistence on settling the big issues first - in the form of a ‘Confederal Democratic Republic of Koryo’ - is patently unrealistic, unless preceded by the kinds of small-scale contacts and confidence-building measures that the South would like to start with. (Ironically, 30 years ago this was Pyongyang’s policy, and it was Seoul that refused all contact.) Eventually, there will be a ‘Germanization’ of the Korean peninsula: mutual recognition {de facto or de jure), ‘cross-recognition’ of both Koreas by the other side’s major allies, economic exchange, some degree of family visits and communication, and a general reduction of tension. It is not yet quite impossible that this will happen in Kim II Sung’s lifetime. The dialogue begun in 1984-85, and broken off in early 1986 by Pyongyang, may recommence in 1987. There remains even just a chance of North Korea accepting a deal on the 1988 Olympics, which would finally create an irreversible momentum towards better relations with the South. As with economic reform, however, the fear must be that in the final analysis the present North Korean leadership lacks the imagination or courage to abandon familiar postures, even when these have patently failed. Future Prospects and Evaluation

The late 1980s provide an appropriate moment for an evaluation of North

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Korea, for these are certainly the twilight years of Kim H Sung, and of Kimilsungism. Both man and system alike are showing intimations of mortality. Kim II Sung will die in the 1990s, if not before, and his system with him. Constructing future scenarios for North Korea is an even more speculative exercise than interpreting the present. Once again, none the less, a mix of comparative analysis and logical deduction may help. Other communist countries have managed a relatively painless transition after the death of a dominant initial leader, as for example Vietnam, Yugoslavia or Albania. In North Korea, paradoxically, the survival of Kimilsungism as a system or framework might have been more likely, had it not been for Kim Jong II. The converse may also be true: that if Kim Jong II is to have any chance of retaining power at all, it might only be if he abandons Kimilsungism - not overtly, but by ‘modernizing’ it out of all recognition, rather like China today vis-a-vis the legacy of Mao. In general, as argued above, the personalism of Kim ft Sung’s rule and his failure to establish rational-legal forms of legitimation will be profoundly destabilizing for North Korea once he has gone (even as they have ensured a kind of stability while he lives). In the absence of any ground rules, vicious infighting and power struggles may be expected. Dynastic successions historically have always provided ample scope for discontent and intrigue, in Korea not least. To predict a precise outcome is impossible. Given the great weight of the army in North Korea, some kind of miliary coup is quite conceivable. Its political character could be diverse: pro-Soviet, pro-Chinese, or neo-juche nationalist. Alternatively, if economic logic alone ruled, one might foresee a North Korean equivalent of Deng Xiaoping, or even Gorbachev. This might be some technocrat, at present known or unknown. It might just conceivably be Kim Jong II, at least as a figurehead. Yet even if the ‘dear leader’ wished to be a modernizer, it must be doubted whether he has the charisma, ability or political skills to overcome the acute contradictions of such a role once his father is dead. Whoever or whatever constitutes the successor regime in Pyongyang, both internal and external pressures upon it will be acute. Issues that are at present being hedged or fudged, in economic reform and international relations, will have to be resolved one way or another. A more fulsome acceptance of the Soviet embrace is one option, involving CMEA membership, Soviet bases and a degree of glasnost'. This would alarm China and displease Japan. The USA, however, might privately reckon there were stabilizing gains of a kind: better a predictable satellite than a dangerous maverick. Should the next North Korean leadership wish to avoid the ‘satellite’ option, there remains the strategy of continued neutrality, imitation of China in economic reform and an opening up to South Korea. Any and aft such steps will require political risks, yet they may also reap dividends, as does any regime after a dictatorship which at least eases up a little and lets it subjects breathe. However, for the North Korean state to follow the

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Chinese example, by opening up to the outside world and allowing various spheres of civil society to operate more autonomously, will be a radical Utum indeed. Yet, in some form or other, it has to happen, for there is no future in the present North Korean road. Quite apart from the obvious ethical and political critiques of Kim II Sung’s extraordinary dystopia, the most pertinent criticisms are finally sociological. The type of society that Kim II Sung has striven to create is not only unpleasant, but also ultimately impossible to sustain. The claim of infallibility for leader and party is not only a lie; it also deprives the leadership of any feedback mechanism for correcting error - thereby guaranteeing that mistakes will be made. A proclamation that the people’s zeal is the decisive factor in raising the forces of production leads to a ludicrous voluntarism which ensures that rational mechanisms for resource allocation will wither and the economy will suffer. Above all, a model of society based on Durkheim’s mechanical solidarity - with all hearts beating and minds thinking as one, individua­ tion minimized, and difference penalized as deviance - cannot ultimately run a modem society, whose prerequisite is the institutionalization and celebration of difference. Granted, die growth of a complex division of labour poses new and difficult challenges for a modem society, there are risks of anomie, and an organic solidarity rooted in difference and interdependence cannot easily be created. But nor can the challenge be evaded. In this sense, Kimilsungism can be understood as an attempt to accomplish modernization whilst eschewing modernity. It is striking how much Kim II Sung’s vision of the good society resembles the ‘traditional’ side of most of the classical sociological dichotomies: not only Duikheim’s mechanical solidarity, but also Toennies’s gemeinschaft, and even Spencer’s ‘military society’. Perhaps something of this contradiction is inherent in all socialism, whose efforts to construct a vision of a future different from the chaos of capitalism all too often hark back to the ‘order’ (good or bad, real or imagined) of some kind of past. Yet even if the dilemma is universal, North Korea (as usual) stands out for having taken things to an extreme. Others may lament the world they have lost, but few have attempted so resolutely to push the clock both forward and back simultaneously. The explanation for this behaviour lies in Korea’s particular modem history, or at least Kim II Sung’s reading of it. As seen from Pyongyang today, the taewongun and others in the nineteenth century who pursued the ‘hermit kingdom’ approach were correct: they were right to keep the world out, but wrong (and fatally so) in failing to modernize the country behind the walls they had erected.56 Hence Kim II Sung, a century later (and after decades in which Korea went to hell and back, by any standards) has tried to accomplish what the taewongun could not. It helped, no doubt, that the model of Stalinist autarkic industrialization chimed in so readily with this fierce pre-existing Korean nationalism. Both worked in the same direction, yet this has also had its price. The quest for juche in self-defence against imperialism, independence from the world market, quarantine against contamination

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by ‘pagan’ Western cultural influences, and autonomy even from one’s friends and allies, has ‘succeeded’ to such a degree that North Korea has all but abandoned any kind of universal norms or canons of judgement (including, for all practical purposes, Marxism-Leninism). In a very real and literal sense, Pyongyang is a monumental ego-trip. Nationalism has become chauvinism, ‘socialism’ has been turned into neo-patrimonialism. As anyone knows who has ever tried, one cannot tell the North Koreans anything. They know it all already, because they have it all already, thanks to the Great Leader and the juche idea. This is a very sick body politic indeed, and getting sicker - a kind of political autism, a peasant mentality profoundly ignorant and contemptuous of the world beyond the parish pump.57 North Korea can ill afford such attitudes. Once, perhaps, stubbornness was a virtue - in surviving the ddbacle of war, and in reconstructing. But now the whole of the rest of the world (including even Albania) is marching to a different beat. Or rather not marching, but breaking up into increasingly diverse, pluralistic, and creative forms of activity. Only in North Korea are they still, literally, marching. Yet, for all the square-bashing, they are marking time, notwithstanding the increasingly frenzied yells from assorted sergeantsmajor.

NOTES Aidan Foster-Carter is Senior Lecturer in Sociology and Deputy Director of the Centre for Development Studies at the University of Leeds. He is the author of The Sociology of Development (1985), and has contributed various articles on theories of development. He visited North Korea in 1986. 1. The official name of the country, since 1948, is the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. 2. For instance, in May 1974 Kim II Sung could in all seriousness criticize party officials in Pyongyang for not knowing exactly who had seen which revolutionary operas and films: At the moment the Pyongyang city party committee does not even know how may citizens have seen the revolutionary operas and how many have not seen them. This shows that it is not supervising and guiding the political and cultural life of the citizens as it should ... [I]t must know which of them has seen what films, which of them has seen what operas, and who has not seen what... [Y]ou must not leave the showing of these pieces to chance. See Kim II Sung, Works, Vol. 29 (Pyongyang: Foreign Languages Publishing House (FLPH), 1987), pp. 177-8. 3. ‘Our socialist system thus emerged [sic] under the great leader is the most excellent one .... It is based on the entire people’s political and ideological unity emanating from the great Juche idea ... and its vitality is invulnerable’: The People’s Paradise (Pyongyang: FLPH, 1978), pp.8-9. 4. See my article ‘Smoke and Mirrors’, Far Eastern Economic Review (PEER), 14 Aug. 1986, pp.100-101. 5. North Korean sources have tended to say little or nothing about the Soviet role, unless as a minor sidekick to Kim II Sung and the ‘Korean People’s Revolutionary Army’ (KPRA). For a typical example, see History Research Institute, DPRK Academy of

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6. 7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16. 17. 18.

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Social Sciences, The Outline of Korean History (Pyongyang: 1977), p. 154. With North Korea’s more pro-Soviet tilt in the past two or three years, however, a slightly less grudging approach has begun to surface. On Korean history, see Takashi Hatada, A History of Korea (Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-Clio, 1969); and Lee Ki-Baek, A New History of Korea (Seoul: Ilchokak, 1984). On the late nineteenth century, see Key-Hiuk Kim, The Last Phase of the East Asian World Order (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1980); and Martina Deuchler, Confucian Gentlemen and Barbarian Envoys (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 1977). On the colonial period, see Andrew J. Grajdanzev, Modern Korea (New York: Institute of Pacific Relations, 1944); and Andrew C. Nahm (ed.), Korea Under Japanese Colonial Rule (Kalamazoo, MI: Center for Korean Studies, Western Michigan University, 1973). On nationalism, see Chong-sik Lee, The Politics of Korean Nationalism (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1965). On early Korean comunism, see Dae-sook Suh, The Korean Communist Movement, 1918-48 (Princeton, NJ: University Press, 1967); and Robert Scalapino and Chong-sik Lee, Communism in Korea, Vol.l (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1972). The outstanding source on the 1940s is now Bruce Cumings, The Origins of the Korean War, Vol.l (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981). See also Soon Sung Cho, Korea in World Politics, 1940-50 (Berkeley, CA: Univeristy of California Press, 1967). This point is made by Jon Halliday, in his very valuable ‘The North Korean Model: Gaps and Questions’, World Development, Vol.9, Nos. 9-10 (1981), p.893 and p.903, n.27, p.903. See also his ‘North Korean Enigma’, New Left Review, No. 127 (May-June 1981). On the Korean war itself there is a large and still growing literature. A most useful recent introduction is Peter Lowe, The Origins of the Korean War (London: Longman, 1986). For a comprehensive summary of South Korean development, see Edwin S. Mason et a i, The Economic and Social Modernization of the Republic of Korea (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980), and its several companion volumes. Somewhat different emphases may be found in Kyong-Dong Kim (ed.) Dependency Issues in Korean Development (Seoul: Seoul National University Press, 1987), Part II. Joseph S. Chung, The North Korean Economy: Structure and Development (Stanford, CA: Hoover Institution Press, 1974) is the standard work, but stops at 1970. The figures cited are from his more recent chapter ‘Economic Planning in North Korea’, in Robert A. Scalapino and Jun-yop Kim (eds.), North Korea Today: Strategic Issues (Berkeley, CA: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California, 1983), p.172. A point emphasized by Jon Halliday in his ‘The Economics of North and South Korea’, Ch.3 of John Sullivan and Roberta Foss (eds.) Two Koreans — One Future? (Philadelphia, PA: University Press of America, for American Friends Service Committee, 1987), pp. 19-20. Soviet-North Korean policy disputes are discussed in Gordon White, ‘North Korean Juche: The Political Economy of Self-Reliance’, Ch. 12 of Manfred Bienefeld and Martin Godfrey (eds.), The Struggle for Development: National Struggles in an International Context (Chichester: Wiley, 1982) p.331ff. See also Ellen Brun and Jacques Hersh, Socialist Korea: A Case Study in the Strategy of Economic Develoment (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1976). This case is argued, with unusual cogency for a Pyongyang source, in Economic Research Institutue, Academy of Social Sciences of the DPRK, The Building of an Independent National Economy in Korea (Pyongyang: FLPH, 1977). A point made more generally by Gordon White, in his ‘Developmental States and Socialist Industrialization in the Third World’, Journal of Development Studies, Vol.21, No.l (1984) (Special Issue). See the Economist Intelligence Unit’s Quarterly Economic Review of China [and\ North Korea (EIUIQER), 1985, No.2, pp.30-33; title changed in 1986 to Country Report, China [and] North Korea (EIU/CR).

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19. EIUICR, No.2, pp.37-44. 20. Kim II Sung, ‘On Some Theoretical Problems of the Socialist Economy’ [1969]; Ch. IX of Revolution and Socialist Construction in Korea: Selected Writings of Kim II Sung (New York: International Publishers, 1971), p. 160. 21. J. Komai, The Economics of Shortage (Amsterdam: North-Holland, 1980). 22. Kim II Sung, ‘On Some Theoretical Problems’, p. 165. 23. Ibid., p.161. 24. Thus in 1987 workers were urged to emulate those who pledged to complete first quarter assignments by 16 Febrarary and half yearly tasks by 15 April, the birthdays of Kim Jong II and Kim II Sung respectively: see North Korea News (Seoul), No.357, 26 Jan. 1987, pp. 1-2, quoting a KCBS broadcast of 16 Jan. 25. Vantage Point (Seoul), Vol.VIII, No.12 (Dec. 1985), pp.13-14, and Vol.X, No.l (Jan. 1987), pp. 15-21. 26. See EIUIQER, 1985, No.3, pp.33-4; BBC Summary of World Broadcasts (SWB) FE/7953, B/2 (17 May 1985), citing Xinhua for 14 May. 27. On all this, see my ‘Crisis Mismanagement* and ‘Combining to Boost Exports’, FEER, 14 Aug, 1986, pp. 100-101, and ‘Place Order [sic] for Ceramics with our Complex’, Foreign Trade of the D.P.RX., 1986: 1, pp.8-9. 28. ‘Our people’s trust in our party is an absolute and unconditional belief by which they consider our party the greatest guide in the world for their destinies and by which they follow our party as the most generous and benevolent mother’s bosom! ... It is through our people’s endless loyalty that they firmly belive their party’s policy to be absolutely right at any time, in any place, and do not hesitate even to jump into water or fire if it is the party’s call!*: from ‘A Mother Party’, Rodong Sinmun, 14 Feb. 1987, as broadcast on Pyongyang home service and quoted in BBC SWB FE/8497, B/2, 20 Feb. 1987. It might be added that, while reading stuff like this is bizarre enough, hearing it on the air is something else again: typically with one or more speakers, their voices at once declamatory yet quaking with emotion, and often against a musical background that contrives to sound both martial and marshmallow. 29. On debts to the USSR, see George Ginsburgs, ‘Soviet Development Grants and Aid to North Korea, 1945-1980*, Asia Pacific Community (Tokyo), No. 18 (Fall 1982), pp.42-63. 30. For more detail see, see my ‘Smoke and Mirrors*. The UNDP-aided integrated circuittesting pilot project finally came on stream, years late, in April 1987. 31. EIUIQER, 1986, N o.l, p.41. 32. Soviet broadcasts (many in Korean) giving chapter and verse on aid are legion: see, for example, EIUICR, 1986 No.4, pp.32-4. For an overview, see M. Ye. Trigubenko (ed.), Koreiskaya Narodno-Demokraticheskaya Respublika (Moscow: Nauka, 1985), Part III, Ch.2, pp.170-91. 33. People's Korea (Tokyo), 2 Aug. 1986. 34. Thus the April 1987 ordinance of the Supreme People’s Assembly had a section titled ‘On Solving Problems of Food, Clothing, and Housing for People More Satisfactorily*: see EIUICR, 1987, No.2, p.41. 35. As confirmed by a recent defection of a family of ‘boat people*: see EIUICR, 1987, N o.l, pp.31-3. 36. See EIUIQER, 1985, N o.l, p.41. 37. Ibid. 38. EIUICR, 1986, No.3, pp.34-5. 39. Rodong Sinmun, 2 Aug. 1986. 40. See note 27 above, or any recent issue of the official magazine Foreign Trade of the D.P.R.K.. 41. See the article ‘Pyongyang Increasingly Dependent on Chongryon for Capital*, Vantage Point (Seoul), Vol.X, No.2 (Feb. 1987), pp.21-4. 42. Thus pro-Pyongyang sources in Japan publicized a very extensive North Korean list of would-be joint ventures in late 1985: see EIUIQER, 1985, No.4, pp.42-3. 43. I have attempted this in ‘Reading the Entrails of the Pyongyang Goat’, FEER, 28 Aug. 1985, pp.28-30.

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44. Useful sources are Tai Sung An, North Korea: A Political Handbook (Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, Inc., 1983); and Frederica M. Bunge (ed.), North Korea: A Country Study (Washington, DC: US Government Printing House, 1981), Ch.4; ‘Government and Politics* (by Rinn-Sup Shinn). 45. See Scalapino and Lee, op. cit., Vol.l, pp.510ff. 46. I have been unable to trace this phrase, which is certainly genuine. Possibly it sounds better in Korean. 47. See ‘Reading the Entrails ... ’. 48. This is Rinn-Sup Shinn’s view: op. cit. (note 44 above), pp. 185-6 (see also pp. 133-4). 49. See his contribution to this volume, ‘Ideology and the Legitimation Crisis in North Korea*. 50. A useful overview is Donald M. Seekins, ‘The Society and Its Environment*, Ch.2 of Bunge, op. cit 51. See, for example a South Korean propaganda work, George Orwell's 1984: North Korea (Seoul: Tower Press, 1984). 52. I explore these themes further in a hitherto unpublished paper, ‘North Korea, the Emperor’s Clothes’. 53. Kim Man-chul, the leader of the family of ‘boat people* who defected in January 1987, left behind a letter to Kim II Sung which made this point: ‘People here lead miserable lives ... while ranking Communist party officials are living in luxury’, Vantage Point, Vol.X, No.3 (March 1987), p.17. 54. ‘Samdech, whenever April comes round you come to see us and congratulate us upon our birthday without forgetting i t .... The Korean people will always stand firm by the Cambodian people who are fighting for freedom and independence*: Kim II Sung at a banquet for Sihanouk in Pyongyang on 11 April 1987: BBC SWB FE/8543/A3/1, 15 April 1987. 55. For more details, see EIUICR, 1987, No.2, pp.35-6. 56. The North Korean view of Korea’s history is summarized in a (typically) collectiveanonymous work: History Research Institute, DPRK Academy of Social Sciences, The Outline of Korean History (Pyongyang: FLPH, 1977): see my quasi-review, ‘A Historical Outline of Korean Chauvinism*, FEER, 2 Oct. 1986, pp.96-8. 57. I pursue this theme further in ‘Patriarch and Deity for North Korea’s Peasants’, FEER, 5 June 1986.

Ideology and the Legitimation Crisis in North Korea James Cotton

The origins of Kim II Sung’s contribution to Marxism lie in his struggle to legitimize his leadership position and justify the nationalist practice of his North Korean regime. His son now seeks to buttress his own rise to power by posing as the first exegete of philosophical depths in his father’s ideology unrecognized by former commentators. Juche is the ideology of the present age and an improve­ ment on Marxism not least because it addresses itself to the problem of political succession. Behind this theoretical manoeuvre, which bears some resemblances to the strategy of the ‘Gang of Four’ in China, lies the first improbable attempt in a communist state to create in the political institutions of North Korea as much as in the ideology a hereditary personality cult.

It is now the proud claim of spokesmen for the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (North Korea) that the ideology there affirmed as the guide to all action and policy is unique, owing nothing to external influences and precedents. In bookshops the Marxist classics are not normally to be found, the stock dominated by the works of Kim II Sung (now in their collected form amounting to some 35 volumes; more are in press) and of his son and designated successor Kim Jong II. Kim makes few references to Soviet or Chinese example, although on those limited number of occasions judged appropriate, the assistance given by Korea’s two socialist neighbours during the 1945 liberation and the Korean war receives acknowledgement. China and the Soviet Union have indeed been the major source of armaments, aid and loans given to the regime since its inception, but ideological solidarity cannot be the principal reason for their support. Rivalry and the geo-strategic postion of the peninsula account for their continued sponsorship of the Kim dynasty. The Chinese do not take Kim’s ideological claims seriously, and recently Soviet spokesmen have taken some pains to make public the extent to which key North Korean construction and modernization projects have been made possible as a result of their aid, despite the offence this causes in Pyongyang, where all progress is attributed to self-reliance. In this article, the claims made by the North Koreans concerning the originality, scope and character of their ideology will be subjected to critical scrutiny. It will be argued that the principal function of the ideology is to legitimize the complete dominance of the two Kims, changes to it in recent times serving to justify the planned succession of Kim Jong II

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and the rise of a new party elite of his generation. Particular attention will be paid to the writings of the younger Kim since he is now regarded as an original authority in ideological matters, having newly defined the philosophical basis and alleged uniqueness of his father’s thought. Origins and Functions of the Juche Idea The origins of Kim II Sung’s political ideas may be traced to the circum­ stances of his early life and education, and to the exigencies of the guerrilla struggle against the Japanese.1Kim spent much of his childhood (from age seven to eleven, and from thirteen) in Manchuria where he received something of a Chinese education. His position in those formative years must have presented great difficulties. Although his family had emigrated to China at least partly for patriotic reasons, the growing influence of Japan in that region made the Chinese population doubly suspicious of the Korean community. The early death of Kim’s father placed a heavy burden on the 14-year-old shoulders of this fourth-generation eldest son. The precise details of Kim’s revolutionary activities are disputed, North Korean sources claiming that he founded the Down-with-Imperialism Union at the precocious age of 14, but it is clear that from an early age he was fiercely nationalistic. During his years with the anti-Japanese guerrilla movement Kim was under the control of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). Apart from the influence of his evidently patriotic father, such political education as he received was derived from his contact with the CCP, and from his experience as a guerrilla fighter. This must have generated ambivalent feelings, since, although Kim clearly imbibed much of the CCP outlook, the Koreans in the movement were not fully trusted and were the subject on occasion of expulsions. When Kim with a small group of followers sought refuge in the Soviet Union in 1941 he was a seasoned leader with, it may be assumed, a fixed outlook. Whilst presiding over the creation of the North Korean regime he was under the tutelage of Soviet advisers, but the failure of his erstwhile patrons to give him further support, after the failure of his invasion of the south, undoubtedly rankled. Chinese remained his only foreign language, and there is much in his early pronouncements and programme that shows an awareness of developments in China. Kim’s major claim to originality is founded upon his use of the term juche. For the last two decades this concept (having the literal meaning of self-reliance or independence) has been identified as the core notion in his ideology. The term itself was undoubtedly chosen for a variety of reasons. It is general enough to admit of a number of connotations, permitting the leadership to describe most practical policies as consistent with the regime’s ideological tenets. It is also a term with strong nationalist overtones that simultaneously serves a multiplicity of purposes. The notion that Koreans could build through their own efforts a technologically and socially advanced society undoubtedly appeals to the aloofness, pride, and dislike of outsiders to be found in the political culture. In

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particular it can be interpreted as a manifestation of defiance and selfassertion following the humiliations of the Japanese colonial period, and the devastation inflicted by superior American arms during the Korean war. And it has obviated die need for North Korea to take sides in the dispute between its two socialist patrons, justifying also subsequent North Korean criticisms of both neighbours for actions that were interpreted as unwarranted intrusions in domestic affairs. With the passing of the years, and the growth of the Kim II Sung personality cult, the concept has broadened, and an earlier date has been ascribed to the time at which it came to assume pre-eminence in the leader’s thought. The first important reference to juche in Kim II Sung’s writings occurs in a speech of 1955 made immediately after the purge and execution of Pak Hon-yong, the most notable of the ‘domestic’ faction of the party. Kim uses the occasion to condemn various opponents within the Korean Workers’ Party, asserting that a correct basis for the Korean revolution may be developed only by adopting a strictly national stand: What is Juche in our Party’s ideological work? What are we doing? We are not engaged in any other country’s revolution, but solely in the Korean revolution. Devotion to the Korean revolution is Juche in the ideological work of our Party. Therefore, all ideological work must be subordinated to the interests of the Korean revolution. When we study the history of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, the history of the Chinese revolution, or the universal truth of Marxism-Leninism, it is entirely for the purpose of correctly carrying out our own revolution.2 This passage is strongly reminiscent of Mao Zedong at the time, during the late 1930s, when he was simultaneously establishing his claim to pre­ eminence in the Chinese Communist Party and undertaking what he then described as ‘the Sinification of Marxism’.3In the same speech, Kim spoke also of the need for the whole population to learn from the work-style of the guerrillas. He also complained that until recently former members of his guerrilla band had not been sufficiently honoured in revolutionary Korea. Kim’s position in the party in 1955 may be compared with Mao’s in his early days in Yanan. Both were shrugging off the leadership of Moscow and embarking on the making of a revolution conforming to their own idiosyncratic view and programme. Indeed, the theory was clearly intended to provide a justification for the monopolizing of power in the hands of the Kim faction. The experience of those Korean communists who had served in the Soviet or Chinese revolutions was thereby condemned as inappropriate for the circumstances of Korea, and those who had been active in the communist underground (as opposed to the Manchurian guerrillas) were also condemned for the factional way in which they mechanically applied foreign formulas to the particular problems of the peninsula. The double irony of this position lies in the fact that during his guerrilla days Kim was under the command of the Chinese

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Communist Party, whose regional committee, in the north-east unlike in Yanan, was closedly supervised by the Comintern.4 It should be pointed out, lest too great an importance should be given to the role of ideology, that even while he lacked the theory, Kim II Sung was able to purge many of the domestic faction in the party in 1953 as scapegoats for the failure of the war strategy. This reading of what was portended in the discovery of juche, as well as the fate of Pak Hon-yong, undoubtedly gave an impetus to the members of other party factions to attempt to dislodge Kim II Sung from the leader­ ship. Emboldened by the criticism of Stalin voiced within the Soviet Communist Party, and encouraged by a speech at the third Korean Workers’ Party congress in April 1956 from Leonid Brezhnev, in which he censured the Korean party for over-ambitious economic plans and for the absence of collective leadership, members of the Yanan and Soviet factions attempted at an emergency plenum of the Central Committee to dislodge Kim while he was absent in the Soviet Union.5 This strategy failed, but after direct intervention by Peng Dehuai (who had commanded the Chinese People’s Volunteers in the Korean war) and Anastas Mikoyan, Kim was persuaded for a time to reinstate his critics. This intervention, and the fact that Moscow was apprised of the attempted coup, subsequently increased Kim’s resolve to rely upon his own chosen followers. As a consequence by 1958 Kim had purged his critics, and in agricultural and industrial policy North Korea began to follow something of the new Chinese model of socialist development. In a lecture delivered in 1965 which expands on the importance of juche as the only guide to policy for the regime, Kim makes it clear that in 1955 occurred die turning-point at which ‘our Party set forth the definite policy of establishing Juche’.6 From being an idea discovered at a particular phase of the Korean revolution, juche has been transfoimed into the theoretical core of Kim’s ideology. In recent times the concept has been detected in Kim’s writings of the 1930s (some of them made public only in 1978), and Kim Jong II has now pronounced that it was an independent discovery first expounded (by the 18-year-old Kim II Sung) at a meeting of the communist youth groups in Manchuria in 1930.7 One consequence of this view, of course, is that it has the youthful Kim II Sung Koreanizing Marxism some seven or eight years before Mao came to Sinify it. As the history of the concept has been rewritten, so the potential for its application has been expanded. Now the programme of the Korean Workers’ Party consists in nothing less than ‘modelling the whole society on the Juche idea’,8 and ayuc/ie-oriented policy can be found in every field from agriculture to linguistics. It is, moreover, preached as a panacea for the problems of the Third World whenever Kim II Sung pronounces on this question. Kim Jong IPs Ideological Contribution

So far, the ideological phenomenon described, though unfortunate, is

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also unremarkable. Korean pride and the exigencies of party strife have induced the communist leader of a small and somewhat beleaguered country to claim excessive originality and consistency for an ideology largely drawn from the usual Marxist-Leninist stereotypes. With that leader’s death or decline, history would be reinterpreted to adjust those claims where necessary. But the hereditary succession in North Korea, which has been in hand since 1974, has contributed a new element to this development. Having made no material contribution to the Korean revolution, Kim Jong II evidently seeks to legitimize his position through his contribution to the regime’s ideology. This contribution, however, must be one that underscores his father’s originality, since he owes his candidature solely to his father’s support. He has solved this problem by adopting the pose of his father’s exegete, claiming to find in the elder Kim’s writings subtle and profound truths never before properly under­ stood. Although the content of their ideas differs, something of this strategy was employed a decade ago in China by the ‘Gang of Four’. It is then not altogether surprising to discover that Kim Jong II exhibits a similar obsession with ideological and cultural matters, particularly the cinema and the performing arts. Thus the earliest work of this ideological prodigy now available is a talk he gave (at the age of 29) to film workers in 1970, and visitors to the Korean Film Studio outside Pyongyang are informed with some fervour that he has paid no fewer than 37 visits to give ‘on the spot guidance’. It is necessary to discuss the more important of Kim Jong fl’s ideological writings in order to make clear the scale of the claims made for both members of the dynasty. Expressed succinctly, the elder Kim has made contributions to ideology so profound as to have solved the problems of a new age (these contributions deserving the appellation ‘Kimilsungism’), and the younger Kim has proved his genius by being the first to point out these truths. His treatise On the Juche Idea is the most comprehensive of Kim Jong D’s writings. As all events of any significance in North Korea are linked to the leader’s birthday it is perhaps unsurprising to leam that this work first appeared at a symposium on juche held to mark Kim II Sung’s 70 years. By such actions do North Koreans affirm their loyalty to the regime, and loyalty is now the pre-eminent virtue for the population. But the symbolic importance of this event should not be underestimated. The manipula­ tion of symbols and icons is of great importance to the political system. All over North Korea, by the roadside and in all public buildings, may be found countless murals and tableaux depicting the leader and his followers. He is always at least a head taller than those around him, and the scenes depict at once a nation of plenty and content, and one where the only personality and source of all wisdom is the leader. These have been joined recently by a picture painted in ethereal hues of the two Kims standing before the volcanic lake at the summit of Paektu San. This place has been chosen because it is both the holiest of mountains in Korean mythology, as well as the alleged site of Kim’s revolutionary base in the

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1930s and the birthplace of Kim Jong II. By making his ideological treatise available and thus stating his claim to be a major authority in this field at the leader’s seventieth birthday, Kim Jong II simultaneously affirmed his own loyalty and made the observance of the ideological tenets expressed therein an act of loyalty for others. According to Kim Jong II, juche affirms that ‘man is the master of everything and decides everything’. This sentiment has been expressed many times before, and no arguments old or new are adduced in support of it. But behind this somewhat vacuous observation the younger Kim detects a new and original philosophical conception of man. Alone of the animate creatures, man possesses chajusong (independence); that is, he is a being with ‘creativity and consciousness’ and is desirous of making and shaping the social and natural world. Students of the early Marx would be excused for finding some parallels in Marx’s conception of man as homo faber, but this anticipation receives no mention. History is a struggle for the realization of chajusong, and the masses are the motive force in this struggle. But though the masses make history, they cannot do so correctly without proper leadership: Only when they receive correct guidance from the party and the leader, would the working class and the masses of other people be able to vigorously develop the deep-going and complicated revolu­ tionary struggle to transform nature and society, achieve national and class liberation, build a socialist, communist society success­ fully, and run it properly.9 Whereas it is commonly observed that Lenin’s contribution to Marxism was to render the party leaders indispensable for the success of the revolution, and in practice most Marxist regimes are dominated by a single personality, nowhere before has the need for the dominance of a particular leader been stated in such forthright terms. The juche ideology is original in this respect, if in no other. As Kim Jong II points out with disarming frankness in another work, ‘the revolutionary theory of the working class’ had ‘never systematized as an independent theory’ before what he describes as the ‘correct leadership method’.10 A national stance consistent with chajusong is, it is claimed, one that is ‘independent’. In specific terms (and here Kim Jong II repeats points made many times in his father’s speeches) this implies national inde­ pendence and sovereignty, self-sufficiency in economics and technology, and self-reliance in defence. The most important manifestation of chajusong lies, however, in ideology. What is called for is ‘national dignity and revolutionary pride’ founded on a sound knowledge of the country: Koreans must know well Korean history, geography, economics, culture, and the custom of the Korean nation, and in particular our Party’s policy, its revolutionary history and revolutionary tradi­ tions. Only then will they be able to establish Juche and become true Korean patriots, the Korean communists.11

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These sentiments are, of course, fully consistent with those expressed by the elder Kim in 1955. But they are also a signal for the younger generation of communists to take only Korean materials as their texts for study - in a narrowly nationalist fashion - and to pay attention to the Korean experience alone. That such an attitude is likely to engender an ignorance of and disdain for other nations and their contributions to Korean (or even world) history is to be expected. Thus, this author, on a conducted tour of Pyongyang’s Central History Museum in March 1986, was confidently informed that China had never conquered any part of Korea and that the artefacts on display from the first century AD were all from Koguryo tombs near the city, rather than of Han colonists. Even though the title page of each of Kim Jong ITs writings is emblazoned with Marx’s original slogan, ‘Workers of all countries, unite’, we are some way removed from the assertion also found in the Communist Manifesto that ‘the working men have no country’. And this nationalist stance also affords a stick with which to beat the South Korean regime, which is alleged to be dominated by ‘flunkeyism’ (sadaejuui: dependence upon the great), a particularly heinous sin in Pyongyang’s lexicon. So far, although there is a wide divergence between North Korean ideology and practice, there is little that is new in Kim Jong Il’s argument. In both respects there has been much borrowing from China and the Soviet Union, and even now Soviet aid is crucial for North Korean technological and military modernization. But considering the ideology in its own terms, it is a cruel contradiction that a system which proclaims the complete mastery by man of his fate is also one in which no individual other than the leader can express a personal point of view or make an original contribution. This has been expressed in a recent ideological production from Pyongyang which, with unintended irony, employs two of the metaphors of Hobbes’s Leviathan: The leader of the working class imbues the popular masses with the revolutionary thoughts, unites them into a political force and sets forth the scientific strategies and tactics. He is the brain setting up ideologies and theories, the centre of unity and cohesion.... He also stands for the working people’s will, demand and interest and carries in himself their fate .... In truth, the relation of the youth with the leader and the Party can be likened to that between the living matters and the sun. The sun, with its rays and heat, gives life and light to all the creatures on the earth. The benevolent sun that gives political integrity to the youth and leads them to the bright future is the leader and the party of the working class.12 Hobbes, of course, begins from premisses diametrically opposed to those of Marx. Man in the mass is no more than a collection of proud, selfish and mistrustful beings who can be given form and unity only if they surrender their natural right to a sovereign who henceforth has carte blanche to determine their terms of association. For Marx, however, the common experience and consciousness of the working class gives them a mission for

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the attainment of which particuluar leaders and ideologists are incidental. But this last quotation captures the reality of everyday life in North Korea today. While loudspeaker vans tour the suburbs exhorting the citizens of Pyongyang to save electric power, and unlit and overloaded trolley buses carry workers home slowly through the dimly lit streets, the many monuments and statues dedicated to the leader are brightly illuminated as if to give visible expression to the regime’s priorities. There are, however, noteworthy if not exactly original aspects to this treatise. Although lip service is paid to the ‘mass line’, it is clear that Kim Jong Il’s Marxism-Leninism is singularly ‘voluntarist’ in its expression. In this view ‘the remoulding of ideology’ by direction from above is the most important task, whose execution guarantees success in all other activities. This explains the younger Kim’s early and continuing interest in cultural activities. It is also undoubtedly a reflection of his own life experience. Even while still an undergraduate student (at the aptly named Kim II Sung University) he effected a complete revision of the curriculum, and later while superintending cultural affairs and then occupying a position in the party secretariat (ultimately as his father’s assistant) he would have become accustomed to imposing his will on subordinates with ease. It would be difficult for a person of sensitivity and intelligence, let alone a mediocrity, not to become preoccupied with the most efficient direction of other people whose opinions by definition were unimportant Juche as the Ideology of the New Age

It is in connection with the relationship between these views and existing Marxist theories and writings that Kim Jong II indulges in claims so fantastic that they would be dismissed as hyperbole in any other political system. Having conceded that Marxism-Leninism solved for the first time certain philosophical and historical problems of crucial importance for the advance of mankind, he then dismisses the ideology in its classical form as a thing of the past. History has entered a new era, where the masses are now not the object of history but its subject. A new era requires a new ideology based on a new elucidation of man as the master of the social and natural world. As Kim Jong II expresses it in a talk recently published, but originally given in 1976 while his succession was still a matter for discus­ sion only within the elite of the Korean Workers’ Party: ‘The revolutionary theory of Kimilsungism is a revolutionary theory which provided solu­ tions to problems arising in the revolutionary practice in a new age different from the era that gave rise to Marxism-Leninism.’13 Now this observation on the status of man under socialism is as novel as The German Ideology of Marx and Engels (of 1845-46) and is offered as though Soviet and Chinese ideologists had never tackled this question. Of course, it is one that raises profound difficulties for Marxism, as can be seen from the vexedSdiscussion of humanism and alienation in China in 1983. If the socialist era is genuinely different from what has gone before then the satisfying of human needs and demands must be the principal

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objective of the state. Indeed, it would not be inconsistent to affirm that any deficiency in the satisfying of those needs and demands, if man in the socialist state is really now (from the philosophical point of view) the ‘subject’ and determines all, would be quite illegitimate. North Korean commentators often refer to the country as a paradise where the people want for nothing, but they also concede that many tasks remain unful­ filled in the matter of the people’s livelihood, and crime and selfishness are still to be found. These concessions show that the North Korean state is in actuality much like most other states, in so far as decisions must be made concerning the allocation of relatively scarce resources, and laws must be promulgated and enforced. This in turn implies that some needs and demands are met at the expense of the others, and yet others are judged illegitimate. But, as we have seen, what the ideology gives with one hand it takes with the other, since, in the manner of Rousseau, North Korean man is a ‘subject’ only to the extent that his will and that of the leader coincide. This new outlook, and the example of the Korean revolution which exemplifies it, is relevant not merely to the Korean peninsula but to the world. In a passage reminiscent of Chinese statements during the later phases of ‘the Great Leap Forward’ when the ‘communist wind’ prevailed, Kim Jong II makes the following claim: The Juche idea has led the revolution and construction straight along the new road which had never been trodden by others before. The Korean revolution has paved an absolutely correct path for national liberation in a colony and opened a short cut to socialism. It has created a best socialist new life which the world’s people call a ‘model of socialism’, and is successfully pioneering the untrodden path to socialism and communism. Because the Juche idea illuminates the way, we have been able to advance along the shortest route and thus achieve in a brief period of time a great victory in the struggle for independence, sovereignty and socialism, a success which is amazing to the world.14 In other words, the experience of the Soviet and Chinese revolution counts for nothing, and no model but that of Korea deserves to be emulated by the nations of the Third World. Nothing less than naked expediency could induce the Soviet Union or China to co-operate with a regime with such ideological pretensions. The North Koreans claim that the relationship of their country with China is ‘unlike any that exists between any other two countries on this earth’.15 Now it is true that Deng Xiaoping and Hu Yaobang accorded the younger Kim a rapturous welcome during his ‘unofficial’ visit to China in 1983, as the subsequently released film of the visit showed, but the explanation for the nature of this relationship is not to be sought in ideological solidarity. When Kim Jong II finally makes an official trip to the Soviet Union, rumours of the invitation for which have circulated for the last two years, it will be revealing to see what if anything is said in Moscow of his ideological contributions to Marxism-Leninism.

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Preparing the Way for the New Generation

The emergence of Kim Jong II as his father’s successor has been under way since an unpublicized plenum of the Central Committee of the Korean Workers’ Party in 1974. The techniques adopted to quell opposition within the regime and to render this strategy acceptable to the population are well documented.16 Kim Jong II was not initially mentioned by name, but a mysterious ‘Party Centre’ (hitherto a shorthand designation for the Central Committee) began to give advice and guidance. The Kim family cult, already firmly entrenched in the official political culture, took on an additional aspect with the publicizing of the revolutionary activities of Kim Jong Suk, Kim II Sung’s first wife and the mother of Kim Jong II. From that time the need to ensure the successful continuation of the revolutionary programme ‘generation after generation’ became a major theme in North Korean ideological writings. When the sixth congress of the Korean Workers’ Party was held in October 1980, Kim Jong II, although not previously in the Central Committee, joined the Political Bureau (and its Standing Committee, then consisting of five members) and a rationale was presented for the political succession. As the revolution would take more than one genera­ tion to complete, the leadership would have to be handed on to one from the new generation, personally instructed and moulded by the leader and completely loyal to his precepts.17 Who better suited for this role could there be than the leader’s son? With his usual modesty Kim II Sung was able to say in his address to the congress that the question of succession which is ‘the fundamental question decisive to the destiny of the Party and the revolution has been solved splendidly in our country’.18 Needing no further cue, contributors to the proceedings of the congress lauded this organizational innovation as a discovery of epoch-making proportions, as though no theorist, east or west, had ever characterized traditional East Asia as (in Max Weber’s terms) a ‘patrimonial’ bureaucratic hierocracy: Whether the wise leadership of a leader is available is a basic question determining the ultimate destiny of a revolution. Never­ theless, ... no one had ever dared to put forward the question of inheritance of the leadership - the life-and-death question in the achievement of the socialist and communist cause. The experience of history shows that when the inheritance of the revolution is not guaranteed, the Party may degenerate, and the revolutionary cause pioneered by the leader may face a serious ordeal. This important question of the role of the leader and the inheritance of the leader­ ship in carrying out the cause of the working class, was brilliantly solved for the first time in history only by the great leader Comrade Kim Il-sung, who fully understood the long-standing yearning of the people to be led by an outstanding leader - in unprecedented^ difficult circumstances - and who led our revolution along the single road to victory regardless of difficulties. The great leader Comrade

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Kim Il-sung, basing himself on a comprehensive analysis and understanding of the experience and lessons of the international communist movement, put forward a unique theory and method for the inheritance of the revolution, which would provide a dependable guarantee for our people to ensure wise leadership from generation to generation.19 Here at least is the admission that the study of precedents other than those to be found exclusively in Korea is necessary for the discovery of this correct principle. Once the solution to the succession question was made a matter of public knowledge, the regime began to create a cult around the achieve­ ments and lineage of the younger Kim in much the same way (though with much less to work on) as had been done for his father.20 A multi-volume biography and numerous shorter pieces appeared on the subject of the ‘dear comrade leader’, and within four years of the party congress no fewer than three books (one running to two volumes) had been published on the life and exploits of Kim Jong II’s mother. Of even greater significance was the appearance of ideological material critical of the shortcomings of older cadres and laudatory of the role of youth. This argument can be traced back to the emergence of the ‘three revolution work teams’ of young cadres and intellectuals who, between 1973 and 1975, were sent to units and collectives across the country to provide ‘guidance’ in the ideological, technical, and cultural revolutions. Success in the ‘three revolutions’ was deemed necessary lest the revolu­ tion lose impetus, but with hindsight it can now be seen that this was a stratagem to undermine possible opposition to the political succession. Thus it has recently been asserted, in a manner reminiscent of Marx ’s view of the historical mission of the proletariat, that the youth in North Korea are the ‘vanguard’ force in the construction of the new society. Whereas age brings ‘passivity and conservatism’, youth is the time when people have ideals and energy, though of course young people need the discipline of correct leadership. There is a clear parallel here with some of the criticisms offered of the Chinese Communist Party by the ‘Gang of Four’ whose spokesman Zhang Chunqiao claimed in 1975 that there were party members who had been left behind by the revolution and who were so blinded by their power and privileges that they could not see the necessity of carrying the revolution further.22 But Kim Jong II, although he shares with the ‘Gang of Four’ a fascination with the connection between culture and ideology, does not draw such radical conclusions on the defects to be found (and eliminated) in Korean communism. He does, however, detect a certain lack of interest in maintaining an atmosphere of struggle and vigilance: ‘The working class ... should be made to have a correct viewpoint on war. Trade union organizations must ensure that the industrial workers and other members repudiate war-phobia and war-weariness, eliminate pacifism, and live and work militantly, always alert.’23 And he is scathing on the presence of

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‘senility’ in the leadership of some organizations. There is hope however for sufferers of this malady. Since its basis is as much ideological as physiological, individuals who live in ‘fidelity to the Party and the leader ... will not become senile in thinking even though in an advanced age’.24 Bourgeois ideas, revisionism, and ‘flunkeyism’ must be resolutely opposed, but a failure to conform to the requirements of socialist society may be attributed to a lack of the proper consciousness. This in turn may be traced to the tenacity of ‘outdated ideological remnants’, the cure for which is yet more ideological remoulding. Unlike the ‘Gang of Four’ Kim Jong II finds no fundamental defects in the structure of party or state. This is to be expected given the identity of their architect, and the fact that he has so far enjoyed a clear run to the succession. Political Culture and Political Structure in the Change of Generations

Although the idea of a hereditary leadership may be attributable ultimately to Kim II Sung’s evident craving for adulation, and perhaps to his desire for immortality, these speculations must remain mere hypotheses in the absence of firm information concerning his personality.26 It may be contended with greater confidence that such plausibility as the notion possesses for the North Korean population derives from remnants of the traditional political culture. In Confucian societies the household of the ruler was the focal point of the state, a fact that led Max Weber to interpret the ruler’s governmental authority as an extension of his family authority. Thus the sound moral example of the ruler was taken to be the most efficacious means for achieving the good order of the society. As is often pointed out, the quasi-familial role of lesser bureaucratic functionaries was reflected in the popular description of them as ‘father and mother officials’. Although in contemporary North Korea the customary loyalties to the family have been very much weakened, Kim II Sung has deliberately constructed a myth of the leadership of the revolution by his forebears to reinforce the present dominance of his family and relatives by marriage.27 And as ‘sun of the nation’ and ‘father of the people’ he has manipulated family symbolism to create an atmosphere of unthinking loyalty to the present members of this revolutionary family. This strategy has been facilitated by the strict political division of labour in Confucian societies where the business of government is only a matter for the officials, and where within the governing class a rigid hierarchy prevails. Without employing the past as a complete explanation of the present it should also be noted that from the fifteenth century Korean Confucianism was dominated by a factional spirit so pervasive that the struggle for office led to the monopolization of bureaucratic preferment by one faction to the total exclusion of others. The current ideological obsession with ensuring that the revolutionary inheritance is passed on ‘from generation to generation’ has roots in the political culture, but it also possesses an institutional aspect, which has been documented by Dae-Sook Suh. The Korean Workers’ Party is

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unusual in the very high turnover of its elite. Considering membership of the Central Committee, each party congress produces a Central Committee in which a majority of the members have never served before. Thus, of the sixth Central Committee of 1980 only 67 of the 145 full members were not newly elected, and of the fifth (1970) only 31 of the 117 were not newcomers. Even more significant is the fact that of those Central Comittee members who have served on more than one occasion, only a handful (39 of 317) have served more than twice. Of the existing leadership only Kim II Sung has been a member of all six Central Committees, and no other individual has been a member of any five.28 Even since 1980 a number of young cadres never seen before have taken up senior posts. By comparison, whereas the twelfth Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party elected in 1982 saw the rise (or reappearance after an interval) of an unusually large number of cadres, of the 210 full members 112 had served in that capacity before.29 In the eleventh, tenth, and eighth Central Committees the number of new members drops to one-third, and only in the ninth, convened as a result of the Cultural Revolution, does the membership turnover match what is the normal pattern in the Korean Workers’ Party.30 Although the party conference of September 1985 resulted in significant personnel changes, the new ‘younger’ leaders were individuals predominantly in their fifties or sixties, while a number of veteran cadres remained in the Political Bureau.31 The most revealing comparison of all is to consider the composition of the very upper reaches of the party elites. In China the five members of the Standing Committe of the Political Bureau elected in 1987 (Zhao Ziyang, Li Peng, Qiao Shi, Hu Qili and Yao Yilin) do not comprise a single faction. Indeed, there has been public disagreement at the highest levels in the regime in the past two years concerning the speed of economic policy reform. In the equivalent three-member body in Korea the Kim family are now in a majority, the third member being an old guerrilla comrade of Kim II Sung’s, O Jin U, now apparently in eclipse. This turnover of leadership in North Korea must be supposed to be a device by which Kim II Sung ensures that no faction stays in the elite long enough to constitute itself as an opposition. Kim’s experience in the party, when he found himself at various times opposed by a domestic (southern) faction, a faction of Koreans originally from the Soviet Union, a group who had been in Yanan before returning to Korea, and even some of his old guerrilla comrades, has undoubtedly taught him the efficacy of this tactic.32 Indeed, when his younger brother, Kim Yong Ju, rose in the party elite in the 1960s (becoming number six in the hierarchy at the party congress in 1970 before disappearing due to ‘illness’) many observers linked his appearance with the emergence of new personnel supposed to have been Kim Yong Ju’s supporters. Events in the past ten years may be interpreted as a repetition of the same phenomenon, this time introducing to the upper echelons of the party a cadre of members loyal to Kim Jong II. Although personal data concerning the North Korean political elite are notoriously hard to uncover, there is some evidence that at the top a

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change of generations is taking place in the literal sense. According to Dae-Sook Suh, a significant group amongst the present leadership includ­ ing Kang Son San (KWP Political Bureau member and former premier), O Kuk-yol (Chief of General Staff), Son Song-pil and Yo Yon-gu (ViceChairman of the Supreme People’s Assembly), are all children (or the spouses of children) of members of Kim II Sung’s Kapsan guerrilla faction.33 It is not surprising, then, that so much emphasis is placed on the need to hand on correct leadership ‘generation after generation’. Kim II Sung’s ingenious and original solution to the succession problem in the party is evidently being applied on a scale more extensive than is commonly recognized even in North Korea. Conclusions In recent years Kim Jong II has been described as personally involved in many new construction projects in North Korea. In the capital he has taken a particular interest in the erection of monuments, as the grotesque ‘Tower of the Juche idea’, allegedly symbolic of his loyalty to the leader, bears mute testimony. He has also played an important role in the reconstruction of whole sections of the city, the new shops and 30-storey apartment blocks of the renamed Changwang Street being apparently a model for even more grandiose architectural schemes. As he is reported to have remarked, when attending the opening of a building on the street: ‘It is my ideal to enable all people to live in houses like this’.34From the point of view of aesthetics, some might find these uniform prefabricated structures with their stark coloured panels monotonous if not ugly. The inhabitants, however, are likely to view them from a different perspec­ tive, even if only because they derive advantage from those regulations that provide for only buildings over ten storeys to be equipped with lifts. For the perceptive observer, however, Changwang Street is more remarkable as the exhibition of a political rather than an architectural model. From the junction with Haebangsan Street north right across the capital almost to the Potong Gate the way is closed to ordinary traffic. Armed sentries scrutinize those who approach, and at night a boom is placed across the street to exclude any unwanted vehicle. The new Mercedes limousines at the gates, and the air-conditioning units at windows of these buildings show that no ordinary inhabitants are housed therein. In this quarter of the city live members of that generation who are the chief beneficiaries of the North Korean revolution. It is to justify their position and power that the juche ideology now serves.

NOTES James Cotton is Deputy Director of the East Asia Centre, University of Newcastle upon Tyne. He is at present Visiting Fellow at the National University of Singapore, Department of Political Science. This article is based on research supported by the University of

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Newcastle upon Tyne and funded by the Economic and Social Research Council UK (ref. no. E 00 23 2203). The author is indebted to David Goodman for his comments on an earlier draft. 1. On Kim’s early life, see Sung Chul Yang, Korea and Two Regimes. Kim II Sung and Park Chung Hee (Cambridge, MA: Schenkman, 1981), pp.27-46 and 75-96. On the early history of the communist movement in Manchuria, see: Dae-Sook Suh, The Korean Communist Movement, 1918-1948 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967); R.A. Scalapino and Chong-Sik Lee, Communism in Korea, Part 1: The Movement (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1972). 2. Kim II Sung, ‘On Eliminating Dogmatism and Formalism and Establishing Juche in Ideological Work’, in On Juche in Our Revolution, Vol.I (Pyongyang: Foreign Languages Publishing House (FLPH), 1980), p. 150. 3. Stuart Schram (ed.), The Political Thought of Mao Tse-tung, revised ed. (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969), p.172. 4. Chong-Sik Lee, Revolutionary Struggle in Manchuria. Chinese Communism and Soviet Interest, 1922-1945 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1983), pp.l58ff. 5. Chong-Sik Lee, The Korean Workers’ Party: A Short History (Stanford, CA: Hoover Institution Press, 1978), pp.92-100; Joungwon A. Kim, Divided Korea: The Politics of Development, 1945-1972 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976), pp. 188-201. 6. Kim II Sung, ‘On Socialist Construction in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea and the South Korean Revolution’, in On Juche in Our Revolution, Vol.I, p.470. 7. Kim Jong II, On the Juche Idea (Pyongyang: FLPH, 1982), pp.7-8. 8. Kim II Sung, Tasks of the People’s Government in Modelling the Whole Society on the Juche Idea (Pyongyang: Foreign Languages Publishing House, 1982). 9. Kim Jong II, On the Juche Idea, p. 18. 10. Kim Jong II, On Correctly Understanding the Originality of Kimilsungism (Pyongyang: FLPH, 1984), p.5.

11. Kim Jong II, On the Juche Idea, p.38. 12. Position and Role of the Youth in the Development of Social History (Pyongyang: Kumsong Youth Publishing House, 1984), pp.34—5. 13. Kim Jong II, On Correctly Understanding the Originality of Kimilsungism, p.3. 14. Kim Jong II, On the Juche Idea, p.79. 15. Young C. Kim (ed.), ‘Interview with Yong-nam Kim, Vice-Premier and Foreign Minister of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea’, Journal of Northeastasian Studies, Vol.4 (1985), p.67. 16. M.E. Clippinger, ‘Kim Chong-il in the North Korean Mass Media: A Study of SemiEsoteric Communication’, Asian Survey, Vol.21 (1981), pp.289-309; Chong-Sik Lee, ‘Evolution of the Korean Workers* Party and the Rise of Kim Chong-il’, Asian Survey, Vol.22 (1982), pp.434-48; Dae-Sook Suh, ‘Kim Il-sung: His Personality and Policies’, in R.A. Scalapino and Jun-yop Kim (eds.), North Korea Today: Strategic and Domestic Issues (Berkeley, CA: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California, 1983), pp.43-64. 17. Young C. Kim, ‘North Korea in 1980: The Son also Rises’, Asian Survey, Vol.21 (1981), pp.112-13. 18. Kim II Sung, ‘Report to the Sixth Congress of the Workers’ Party of Korea’, in On Juche in Our Revolution, Vol.III, p.449. Recently, this statement has been amplified in a lecture to party workers: Kim II Sung, Historical Experience of Building the Workers’ Party of Korea (Pyongyang: FLPH, 1986), pp.103-4. 19. Hwang Chang-yop, ‘On Inheriting the Leadership* (Pyongyang home service, 12 Oct. 1980), BBC Summary of World Broadcasts, FE/6554/C1/2. 20. B.C. Koh, ‘The Cult of Personality and the Succession Issue*, in C.I. Eugene Kim and B.C. Koh (eds.), Journey to North Korea: Personal Perceptions (Berkeley, CA: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California, 1983), pp.25-41. 21. Position and Role of the Youth in the Development of Social History, p.3. 22. Chang Chun-chiao, On Exercising All-Round Dictatorship Over the Bourgeoisie

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(Peking: Foreign Languages Press, 1975), pp.18-19. 23. Kim Jong II, On Further Improving the Work of the Trade Unions (Pyongyang: FLPH, 1986), p.6. 24. Kim Jong II, On Further Improving the Work of the Trade Unions, p.21. 25. Kim Jong II, On Increasing Obedience to Socialist Laws (Pyongyang: FLPH, 1986), p.5. 26. The best assessment of the fragmentary information concerning Kim’s personality is to be found in Sung Chul Yang, Korea and Two Regimes, pp.27-46, 75-96, 161-220. 27. On the manipulation of elements of the traditional political culture, see Thomas Hosuck Kang, ‘Changes in the North Korean Personality from Confucian to Communist’ in Jae Kyu Park and Jung Gun Kim (eds.), The Politics of North Korea (Seoul: Institute for Far Eastern Studies, Kyungman University, 1979), pp.61-110. The same volume documents the occupation of positions in the leadership by members of Kim’s family: Jae Kyu Park, ‘Power Structures in North Korea*, p. 137. The strongly ‘patrimonial* character of the North Korean political system may be taken as a partial validation of the recent application of the Weberian thesis to Korea by Norman Jacobs: see his The Korean Road to Modernization and Development (Urbana and Chicago, II: University of Illinois Press, 1985). 28. Dae-Sook Suh, Korean Communism 1945-1980. A Reference Guide to the Political System (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press, 1981), pp.347-9. 29. W. Bartke and P. Schier, China*s New Party Leadership. Biographies and Analysis of the Twelfth Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party (London: Macmillan, 1985), pp.60-61. 30. D.S.G. Goodman, ‘Changes in Leadership Personnel after September 1976*, in J. Domes (ed.), Chinese Politics After Mao (Cardiff: University College Cardiff Press, 1979), pp.37-69. 31. D.S.G. Goodman, ‘The National CCP Conference of September 1985 and China’s Leadership Changes’, China Quarterly, No.105 (March 1986), pp.122-30. 32. Dae-Sook Suh, ‘Communist Party Leadership’, in Dae-Sook Suh and Chae-Jin Lee (eds.), Political Leadership in Korea (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 1976), pp.159-91; Chong-Sik Lee, The Korean Workers’ Party: A Short History, pp.86ff. 33. Dae-Sook Suh, ‘Changes in North Korean Politics and the Unification Policy*, Korea and World Affairs, Vol.9 (1985), pp.704-5. 34. Choe In Su, Kim Jong II, the People’s Leader (Pyongyang: FLPH, 1985), Vol.2, p.330. The best account of living conditions in Pyongyang is by Adrian Buzo, ‘North Korea Yesterday and Today*, Transactions of the Royal Asiatic Society (Korea Branch), Vol.56 (1981), pp. 1-25.

Vietnam: The Slow Road to Reform Michael Williams

Vietnam, the third largest communist state, faces a growing internal crisis because of the country’s virtually complete international isolation, its involvement in Kampuchea, and its ageing party leadership. Within the communist bloc only the Soviet Union offers Vietnam significant assistance. This economic dependence is set to grow in the coming years. At Vietnam’s sixth party congress, in December 1986, the three senior communist leaders all resigned, raising expectations of thoroughgoing change. Subsequent developments indicate, however, that the necessity of retaining a balance between reformists and traditionalists within the leadership has meant that meaningful reform of the country’s economy still remains for the future. The substantial delay in matching changes in government with those in the party leadership indicates that the reformists are still lacking a full mandate for tackling the country’s problems.

The Socialist Republic of Vietnam is the third largest communist country after the USSR and China and has been ruled by the Vietnamese Communist Party since 1975. The party assumed power after an extra­ ordinary straggle not only against the former colonial power, France, but also later against the United States. Twelve years after the conclusion of that conflict, Vietnam’s communist government finds itself in the midst of a profound internal crisis prompted by the country’s dire economic situation, its virtually complete international isolation, the continuing war in Kampuchea and the inability of the communist party to free itself from a now rapidly ailing and ageing group of leaders who have effectively dominated it since 1945. The Impact of Revolution and War

The Vietnamese Communist Party presents a paradox among ruling communist parties in the sense that, although it has been a ruling party for more than three decades, at least in North Vietnam since 1954, no other party has had such an extraordinarily prolonged experience of revolution and war. This has involved it successively in conflicts with Japan, France and the United States, and after reunification in the first inter-communist wars with Democratic Kampuchea and China. This legacy has bequeathed the country with the world’s third largest standing army, and an economy that is hopelessly dependent on the Soviet Union, and condemns its people to one of the lowest living standards in Asia, and certainly in East Asia. This continuing experience of war and revolution - with an estimated

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140,000 troops in Kampuchea, 40,000 in Laos and tens of thousands along the border with China - has postponed Vietnam’s transition to meaningful economic reconstruction. The absorption of South Vietnam’s basically capitalist society in 1975 placed enormous strains on the already inadequate administrative capacity of the government of North Vietnam. This was especially so given the huge toll the war had taken of revolutionary cadres in the south and the speed with which reunification took place - just over 12 months. Full reunification was proclaimed with the establishment of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam on 2 July 1976. The period 1976-80 (the second fiveyear plan) was marked by the euphoria following the fall of Saigon in 1975. Unrealistic plans were adopted, geared towards collectivization of agriculture in the south and rapid development of heavy industry. The government premised these plans on a combination of strict social discipline and large foreign aid inflows, including war reparations from the United States. However, the failure to attract western aid on any significant scale, the withdrawal of Chinese aid in 1978 (in circumstances closely resembling the withdrawal of Soviet aid from China in 1960), the subsequent invasion of Kampuchea followed by the Chinese incursion into Vietnam and the massive exodus of much of the country’s intelligentsia and middle class in the late 1970s laid these plans to waste. Since 1980, the party has veered between tentative steps toward reform, as in 1980-82 (and more recently), and returning to the themes of socialist control and centralization. In 1983, for example, there was a reining-in of the burgeoning free market and a sharp reduction in the de facto independence of enterprises. Although half-hearted attempts were made at economic reform in 1985, and there were other attempts to reduce the level of economic subsidies and to give enterprises a greater degree of individual responsibility, these succeeded only in worsening the country’s economic problems. As a result of price, wage and currency reforms, inflation has been in three figures for most of the last two years. The country also achieved a record budget deficit in 1986, with food produc­ tion lagging seven to eight per cent below target, exports as much as 30 per cent behind, and industrial production 40 per cent below target. Foreign currency reserves are estimated to have reached the point where they are no more than adequate to cover two weeks’ worth of imports. These economic problems have in turn given rise to widespread black marketeering and corruption within the country, so much so that in a significant theoretical article last May, Le Due Tho spoke of corruption ‘tainting every level of the party’.1The country’s economic situation is all the more pressing when it is remembered that since the mid-1970s neighbouring countries such as the members of the Association of South East Asian Nations (ASEAN) - Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, the Philippines and Brunei - and also China have witnessed rapid economic growth.

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The Problem of Isolation

Much of Vietnam’s present economic predicament is of course the result of its almost total international isolation. This is particularly galling for a communist party that has historically always laid great stress on inter­ nationalism, both within the communist movement and in the wider sense in the international community. Throughout the Vietnam War, for example, the Vietnamese Communist Party avoided taking sides in the Sino-Soviet split - one of the few communist countries not to do so - and received aid from both Moscow and Beijing. In a wider sense, Vietnam received much moral and diplomatic support from the Third World and even from some western countries, such as Sweden. There is little doubt too that after the Paris Peace Agreement of 1973, and despite the rapid collapse of the Saigon regime two years later, the Vietnamese leadership genuinely hoped for and expected not only diplomatic relations with the United States but also war reparations. The nearest the United States came to according diplomatic recognition to Vietnam was in 1977, when President Carter sent a mission to Hanoi. This foundered, however, over Vietnamese insistence on war reparations. Despite this disappointment, Vietnam had widespread international support when it entered the United Nations in 1975, and the Non-Aligned Movement at its Colombo conference of 1976. But the tide turned rapidly against Vietnam in the late 1970s as a result of its treaty of friendship with the Soviet Union in 1978, its membership of Comecon dating from the same year, and, of course, its 1978-79 invasion of Kampuchea. Because of these moves, no western aid of any significance has reached Vietnam since 1979, with the exception of the Swedish aid programme now running at US $45-50 million a year. Even social democratic governments such as France and Australia in the early 1980s, when they considered the idea of giving aid, found themselves under pressure from the United States, China and ASEAN not to do so. This isolation from the West has meant that since 1979 Vietnam has also received no financial assistance from the multilateral agencies such as the IMF, the World Bank or the Asian Development Bank.2 If the behaviour of western governments was at least predictable, that of Third World countries was less so. To its bitter disappointment, Vietnam has found that the government it established in Kampuchea in January 1979 - the People’s Republic of Kampuchea, led by Heng Samrin - has even today, eight years after its establishment, been recognized by only one non-communist country, India. In addition, several communist countries such as Yugoslavia, Romania, North Korea and, of course, China, have failed to recognize this regime. The United Nations still accords recognition to the Coalition Government of Democratic Kampuchea (CGDK), and indeed does so by a larger vote each year - in 1986 by 116 votes to 21 - inflicting a humiliating isolation on Vietnam. Just as dispiriting for Vietnam’s leadership has been its stepmotherly treatment by other communist states. It is known that its membership of

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Comecon in 1978 was not without controversy, with several East Euro­ pean countries reportedly objecting. More striking have been develop­ ments of the last few years, with the countries of Eastern Europe failing to offer significant economic assistance or even diplomatic support to Vietnam. Vietnam’s growing isolation within the communist bloc itself has been a bitter blow to the leadership. Hanoi has long had to watch as one delegation after another from Eastern Europe, including the Soviet Union, went to Beijing to sign trade, cultural and economic agreements with China. But during 1986 it became clear that the countries of Eastern Europe were also interested in forging political ties, including party-toparty relations, with China. In September, the Polish leader General Jaruzelski, followed in October by the East German leader Erich Honecker, both visited China. They were the first leaders of East Euro­ pean countries closely aligned to Moscow to do so in more than a quarter of a century. Both leaders also visited North Korea and Mongolia, but not Vietnam. In the case of East Germany, formal party-to-party relations with China have now been restored. In May 1987 the Bulgarian leader Todor Zhivkov bacame the latest in the queue to reach Peking. This process of cementing ties between Eastern Europe and China was sealed in June 1987 with the visit to Poland, East Germany, Czechoslovakia, Hungary and Bulgaria by the Chinese Prime Minister and acting communist party leader Zhao Ziyang. In fact, no signficant communist leader has visited Vietnam in the last five years. Even the Nicaraguan leader Daniel Ortega, who visited Asia in 1986 on a journey that included India, China and North Korea, did not include Hanoi on his travels, even though he said in Beijing that he did not agree with China over the question of Kampuchea. Vietnam’s isolation was also evident at the funeral in July 1986 of the veteran party leader Le Duan. Apart from Vietnam’s close allies, Laos and the Heng Samrin administration in Kampuchea, only the Soviet Union sent a delegation to attend the funeral. In this situation, Vietnam’s relationship with the Soviet Union is clearly critical. The Vietnamese leadership has been unsettled by trends in SinoSoviet relations since Mikhail Gorbachev assumed the leadership of the Soviet communist party. When Gorbachev made an important speech in Vladivostok at the end of July 1986, he offered China important conces­ sions on Afghanistan and on Sino-Soviet border issues.3 On the question of Kampuchea, the Soviet leader took what for Hanoi must have been an alarmingly neutral stance, saying that Vietnam and China should sit down in a comradely manner and discuss the issue. The Soviet Union has also long dropped its public reassurances of the pre-Gorbachev era that SinoSoviet relations would not be allowed to improve at the expense of what were called ‘third parties’. Moreover, the Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping has made it clear in response to these Soviet initiatives that it is Kampuchea that remains the most substantial obstacle to better relations with the Soviet Union. If there were to be an improvement on this, Deng said in September 1986, he would make the last foreign trip of his lifetime

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for a summit with Gorbachev. Vietnam was shocked too by the Soviet Union’s willingness for the first time in October 1986 to discuss the question of Kampuchea with China at the regular twice-yearly normaliza­ tion talks that the two communist superpowers had been holding since 1982. The Soviet Union had always previously refused to discuss this question with the Chinese. Another worrying development for Vietnam has been the invitation extended to the Chinese Communist Party to attend the celebrations of the seventieth anniversary of the Bolshevik revolution in October 1987. All of this must leave the Vietnamese leadership worried that, as with the Sino-American rapprochement in the early 1970s, a dramatic improvement in Sino-Soviet relations could take place at Hanoi’s expense. Regarding Kampuchea itself, the drain on Vietnam remains sub­ stantial. While the security situation has improved markedly from Hanoi’s viewpoint, especially since the Vietnamese offensive in the 1985 dry season, the Democratic Kampuchea forces still pose a threat. The Coalition Government forces comprise the Khmer Rouge, the Khmer People’s National Liberation Front led by Son Sann, and forces loyal to Prince Sihanouk, who is president of the CGDK. Of these three groups, it is the Khmer Rouge that presents the only real mili­ tary challenge to the Vietnamese and their allies, the People’s Republic of Kampuchea. This will remain the case so long as the Chinese continue to supply the Khmer Rouge via Thailand. More worrying, perhaps, from Hanoi’s viewpoint has been the failure of the PRK administra­ tion to establish itself fully within Kampuchean society. The regime’s armed forces, the administration and the communist party itself (the Khmer People’s Revolutionary Party) remain painfully weak. The conjunction of Vietnam’s international isolation and its grind­ ing economic misery - it is classified by the United Nations as one of the 20 poorest countries in the world - has contributed to a grow­ ing disillusionment within the country with the leadership of the com­ munist party. One of the more remarkable developments of 1986 was the spread of this disillusionment within the communist party itself, where an increasingly frank debate ensued about the leadership’s short­ comings. This debate intensified after the appearance in May 1986 of a major act of self-criticism by a senior Politburo member, Le Due Tho, the negotiator of the 1973 Paris Peace Accords.4 Writing in that month’s issue of the party’s theoretical journal Tap Chi Cong San (‘Communist Review’), he was damning about the shortcomings in the party’s ranks, and he ascribed most of these shortcomings to middle and senior-level party cadres. Among ordinary party members indulgence and fear were said to reign, with the present atmosphere leading to sycophancy and opportunism. Amongst the cadres themselves, examples of corruption, bribery, smuggling and dissolute living were said to be common. Not only were these highly critical admissions unusual, but the fact that the author of the article had been at the centre of Vietnamese communist politics for almost

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four decades added tremendous force to what amounted to a damning indictment of party life. One of the most significant aspects of the article was Le Due Tho’s frank admission of the age problem in the party: as he put it himself, many cadres ‘are now too old to be able to do much work’.5 Moreover, there was a partriarchal attitude in the party that discriminated against younger people. People have forgotten, he pointed out, that in 1945 when the Vietnamese Republic was proclaimed, most ministers and senior party officials were little more than 30 years old. The sense of crisis within the party accelerated after a meeting of the Central Committee in May 1986, which, according to General Secretary Le Duan, was marked by a consistent analysis of the shortcomings and weaknesses of guidance of its own leaders.6 The meeting was followed in July by the death of Le Duan, who had been unwell for some time. To the dismay of reformers within the party, his place as general secretary was taken by Truong Chinh, the country’s head of state who, at 79, was the same age as Le Duan. Moreover, Truong Chinh, who has long had a reputation for being a hardliner, had in fact been the party’s general secretary in the mid-1950s, but was dismissed for his over-zealous handling of land reform.7 He thus achieved the remarkable feat, unique in the annals of communist history, of resuming leadership of a communist party he had led 30 years earlier. The Sixth Party Congress Despite the concern that reformists in the party may have felt at the appointment of Truong Chinh, expectations of change were high at the sixth party congress in December 1986, if only because old age and ill health were rapidly catching up with many Vietnamese leaders. Further­ more, the Soviet Union has not hidden in recent years its concern at Vietnamese mismanagement of aid, while the accession to power of Mikhail Gorbachev and the reforms he has instituted within the CPSU are believed to have encouraged Vietnamese reformers. Expectations of change were more than fulfilled by the resignation at the congress of all three senior leaders - Truong Chinh, Pham Van Dong and Le Due Tho - from the party’s highest organs, the Politburo and the Central Committee, in a move virtually without parallel in the history of any mling communist party. There had been suggestions that Truong Chinh might relinquish one of the senior posts he held, but it was thought likely he would retain the party post. Officially the party said that all three men resigned on the grounds of advanced age and failing health. And although the three senior leaders are all in their late seventies, old age has not previously been an obstacle to the holding of high office in the Vietnamese Communist Party. While age and health clearly are a factor behind the resignations, at least in the case of Prime Minister Pham Van Dong, who is 80 years old, the main reason for the dramatic development lies in the fundamental failure of the country’s economic policies, for

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which the leadership has now taken full responsibility. This was openly recognized by Truong Chinh in his political report to the congress.8 Clearly the resignation of Vietnam’s three top leaders does represent a fundamental break with the past. Although they are to be retained as advisers to the Central Committee, they have no formal position now on either of the party’s senior decision-making bodies. Nevertheless, subse­ quent clarification of their role indicates they will still exert a powerful influence over the leadership. An illustration of this was given during the visit in March 1987 of the Soviet Foreign Minister, Eduard Shevardnadze, when all three men were involved in the bilateral discussions that took place. Moreover, while the resigning party leaders, and the party itself, in the unprecedented internal debates it has held in recent months, have openly admitted that their policies have led the country to virtual national bankruptcy, this does not mean that there is a generation of more technocratically-oriented younger leaders waiting in the wings to take over. On the contrary, most of the men now tipped to take over from the resigning leaders are themselves in their early seventies and veterans of the party’s long years of war and revolution. The new Politburo elected at the sixth congress confirmed a definite bias towards economic reformers within the new leadership, and towards men who are either southerners or have experience of administration in the south. The new party leader is, as expected, Nguyen Van Linh. At 73, he is only six years younger than his predecessor Truong Chinh, but is closely identified with attempts at economic reform in the south. He was formerly party secretary in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) and was dropped from the Politburo at the last congress in 1982, after opposition to reforms he had pioneered; he was reinstated in 1985. Two other men closely linked with the new reforms were promoted in the Politburo: Vo Chi Cong moved to become number three, while Vo Van Kiet moved from tenth to fifth position. However, the reformers do not appear to have things all their own way. The second man in the Politburo is Pham Hung, until recently the country’s Interior Minister, regarded as a hardliner. Despite the continued presence of other members of the old guard, the upheaval in the leadership left the way clear for a renewed reform programme; this is likely to include measures aimed at encouraging the private sector, reviving stagnant export industries and decentralizing the rigid bureaucracy. In the economic report to the congress, Vo Van Kiet, Chairman of the State Planning Commission, noted that ‘the economic situation in our country is still rife with difficulties such as unemployment, waste of materials, shortages of new materials and serious economic phenomena’.9 Truong Chinh, in his political report to the congress, fully accepted the Politburo’s responsibility for the economic situation, admitting ‘serious and longstanding shortcomings and mistakes as concerns major view­ points and policies, strategic guidance and the organization of work’.10In a departure from past practice, however, no report on party-building was presented, again an indication of deep-seated malaise within the party.

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As well as the three senior leaders who submitted their resignations, three other Politburo members lost their seats. These were the Defence Minister, Van Tien Dung, General Chu Huy Man and former VicePremier To Huu. The dropping of two senior military figures from the Politburo has led some diplomatic observers to believe that there is unease within the armed forces at the present leadership. Both Van Tien Dung, who led the final offensive against Saigon in 1975, and Chu Huy Man, head of the army’s political department, were reported to have been sharply criticized for their autocratic style at the army congress in October 1986. Initially neither Dung nor Man was elected to represent the army at the party congress, although that was subsequently reversed. To Huu, formerly the deputy minister in charge of the economy, was dismissed from his governmental post in June 1986, so his ouster from the Politburo was no surprise. He is believed to have been held responsible for a disastrous currency change in September 1985, which prompted rampant inflation. Like Chu Huy Man, To Huu also lost his position on the Central Committee. Five new members were elected to the 13-man Politburo, and one candidate member, Foreign Minister Nguyen Co Thach, moved up to the eighth position. The new members were Tran Xuan Bach, formerly on the Central Committee Secretariat; Nguyen Thanh Binh, secretary of the Hanoi party committee; General Doan Khue, deputy defence minister; and Mai Chi Tho, a former mayor of Ho Chi Minh City and younger brother of Le Due Tho. The new candidate member of the Politburo is Dao Duy Trung, chairman of the party’s propaganda department and editor of the party’s theoretical journal. Drastic changes in the Central Committee were also announced at the congress. One-third of the Central Committee elected at the previous congress, some 54 members, were ousted. Nearly half of those removed had been, and in some cases still are, ministers or deputy ministers dealing with the economy. Eighty-four new members were elected to the 173member Central Committee. There appears to be little doubt that the congress strengthened the trend of economic reform and liberalization within Vietnam, although there was little indication of a softening of foreign policy, particularly with regard to Kampuchea. While the congress is important in charting the course of domestic policy, it provides only the broadest outlines of foreign policy. Nevertheless, the political report adopted at the congress made clear that Vietnam’s priority task in external affairs was the maintenance of its pre-eminent position in Indo-China. At the same time, the strength­ ening of Vietnam’s friendship and co-operation with the Soviet Union was said to be the ‘cornerstone’ of Vietnamese foreign policy. Although the party report committed Vietnam to withdrawing its forces from Kampuchea, no specific mention was made of the previously announced pull-out date of 1990. The avoidance of mentioning a time­ table for withdrawal may be a reflection of the continuing difficulties faced

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by the Heng Samrin government in Phnom Penh in building up its own forces and administration. A striking illustration of the increasing isolation of the Vietnamese Communist Party within the world communist movement was the poor and low-level attendance by foreign communist parties. Apart from the Laotian leader Kaysone Phomvihan and the Kampuchean party chief Heng Samrin, the only other senior party leader to attend was the Portuguese communist party General Secretary, Alvar Cunhal. The Soviet communist party, unlike other East European parties, was however represented by a senior Politburo member, Yegor Ligachev. In an address to the congress, Ligachev urged Vietnam to improve relations with China, while at the same time expressing Soviet support for the solidarity of Vietnam, Kampuchea and Laos. But Ligachev’s endorsement was not as strong as the Vietnamese assertion about Indo-Chinese unity being a ‘law of survival’. Nevertheless, the presence of Ligachev at the congress and his assurances that the Soviet Union would neither sacrifice Vietnam’s interests nor mediate in relations with China was welcome news in Hanoi. Indeed, at a press conference in Hanoi after the congress, Ligachev went out of his way to make supportive gestures to Vietnam, and he announced a significant increase in Soviet aid. The Slow Road to Reform For the current five-year plan, 1986-90, Ligachev in his address to the sixth party congress disclosed that between eight and nine million roubles would be disbursed to Vietnam, amounting to approximately US $2,500 million a year. This commitment is equal to the total for all Soviet aid over the previous 30 years. Despite the Soviet Union’s past complaints about mismanagement of its aid, now freely admitted in Hanoi, the role of the USSR in the Vietnamese economy seems set to increase. It is highly unlikely, therefore, that Vietnam will in the foreseeable future be able to reduce its dependence on the Soviet Union, so long as Moscow remains its sole source of external aid and credit. Any doubts on that score were dispelled by the visit of the Vietnamese party leader, Nguyen Van Linh, to Moscow in May 1987. In talks said to have been conducted with ‘frankness’, the Soviet leader, Mikhail Gorbachev, lamented ‘the weaker aspects of economic bonds’ between the two countries. In return for its substantial aid, the Soviet Union made clear the need for major reforms of the Vietnamese economy within the context of a reinforced ‘socialist integration’. The winter session of Vietnam’s National Assembly met only a few days after the close of the sixth congress of the communist party. The expecta­ tion was therefore that Truong Chinh and Pham Van Dong would resign their government positions at the session. Under Vietnam’s constitution, it is the National Assembly that names the president of the State Council

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and the prime minister. Other government changes were expected to be announced, but came only much later, in February 1987. Both Pham Van Dong and Truong Chinh attended the session of the National Assembly, with official media listing them with their present titles as prime minister and president respectively. In many ways die session of the National Assembly was an echo of the party congress, with economic mismanagement, corruption, wastage and excessive bureaucracy coming under strong attack. But the failure to carry out changes in government widely expected after the recent party congress inevitably raised questions as to how firm the reformists’ control of the party really is. Without the reformists also holding the key positions in government, it is difficult to see how a programme of thoroughgoing economic reform involving a decentralization of decision-making, encouragement to the private sector and a reduction of the country’s excessive bureaucracy can actually be implemented. Certainly, the failure to make the necessary changes in government gave the hardliners in the party the opportunity to obstruct reforms; It may well be that the expected shake-up in the government had in fact to be postponed precisely because of opposition from the conservatives in the party, upset at the seeming dominance of the reformists at the party congress. In this respect, it is interesting to note that in the new party Secretariat there is only one prominent advocate of reform among its members - Nguyen Van Linh. By contrast, Gorbachev’s most sweeping changes have been in the CPSU Secretariat. A clear indication that reformists did not have a commanding position within the party leadership was given by the extraordinary delay in replacing Pham Van Dong and Truong Chinh respectively as prime minister and president. Thus for six months after the sixth party congress Vietnam was in the highly anomalous position for a communist country that its head of government and head of state no longer held senior party positions. This anomaly was finally resolved only in June when the National Assembly, meeting for the first time since elections in April, announced the appointment of Pham Hung as prime minister and Vo Chi Cong as president. The two men were respectively ranked second and third in the new Politburo elected at the sixth party congress.11 These appointments show only too well that Vietnam’s ‘road to reform’ will remain a painfully slow one. The top three leaders, all in their mid­ seventies, are on average only five years younger than those they have replaced. Moreover, while the new party leader, Nguyen Van Linh, has impeccable reformist credentials, the election as prime minister of Pham Hung, the party’s leading conservative figure, underlines the delicate balance within the leadership. Indeed, as head of government, charged with the actual implementation of any reform programme, Pham Hung is hardly the most inspired choice. True, those ministers who have in the past been identified with economic reforms remain in the cabinet, whose composition was reaffirmed by the National Assembly in June 1987. But for months much speculation had centred on the figure of Vo Van Kiet,

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the chairman of the state planning commission, as a strong contender for the post of prime minister. Kiet had been, together with Nguyen Van Linh, the architect of economic reforms in the south and, at 65, would have been by Vietnamese standards a young man for the job. In stark contrast to many commentaries in the press that have under­ lined the need for an economic specialist as prime minister, it is more than 20 years since Pham Hung held any economic office. Moreover, as interior minister, from 1980 to 1987, the new prime minister had the reputation of being a hardliner. It remains to be seen whether Pham Hung and Nguyen Van Linh will be able to work closely together in implementing any programme of meaningful economic reform. Indeed, all the indications are that Vietnam’s new leadership represents a careful balance of communist veterans who are still uncertain how far they dare to venture in extricating the country from its current economic plight and the Kampuchean imbroglio. The danger is real that the drive and momentum for reform generated by the sixth party congress will be lost. NOTES Michael Williams is Senior Commentator with the BBC Far Eastern Service. He was formerly Lecturer in Politics at the University of East Anglia, and he has written extensively on South-east Asian politics. His doctoral dissertation is a study of the Indonesian Communist Party in the 1920s. 1. Le Due Tho, ‘Pressing Tasks in Party-Building Work’, BBC Summary of World Broadcasts {SWB\ FE/8257/B7f, 13 May 1986. 2. See Wall Street Journal, 9 June 1987. Vietnam has received no funds from the IMF since 1978. Its membership of the organization was formally suspended in January 1985 for failing to meet deadlines for loan repayments. 3. Mikhail Gorbachev, ‘Speech on Development of Soviet Far East and Asia-Pacific Affairs’, BBC SWB, SU/8324/C/1-18, 30 July 1986. 4. See Le Due Tho, op. cit. 5. Ibid., B/6. 6. On the June Plenum, see ‘Tenth Plenum of CPV Central Committee’, BBC SWB, Part 3, FE/8282/B/5, 11 June 1986. 7. See William J. Duiker, The Communist Road to Power in Vietnam (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1981), pp.182-3. 8. Truong Chinh, ‘Political Report to the CPV Congress’, BBC SWB, FE/8447/C1/1, 20 Dec. 1986. 9. Vo Van Kiet, ‘Economic Report to the CPV Congress’, BBC SWB, FE/8449/C1/1, 23 Dec. 1986. 10. Truong Chinh, op. cit. 11. See ‘Session of Vietnamese National Assembly’, BBC SWB, FE/8598/C1/1-5, 19 June 1987.

The Mongolian People’s Republic in the 1980s: Continuity and Change Judith Nordby

Since the Second World War the Mongolian People’s Republic (MPR) has developed from a nomadic herding society to an industrial-agricultural one by relying extensively on CMEA aid and assistance. The speed and breadth of development in a thinly populated state has resulted in uneven absorption of aid and inefficient production. The leadership has tried to resolve this by encouraging more labour discipline. A spate of lost jobs among high-ranking officials suggests some opposition to existing economic policies. In 1984 the party leader Tsedenbal retired and was replaced by Batmonkh. Recent proposed changes in the Soviet economic system and Soviet foreign policies will affect the further development of the MPR. There are indications of closer contacts with China and further relations with the capitalist world. However, the framework of the Mongol-Soviet relationship, which comprises large amounts of aid, economic integration, ‘learning from the USSR’ and loyalty to Soviet foreign policy, shows little sign of altering in the foreseeable future.

The Mongolian People’s Republic is a developing country in Central Asia whose close political and economic ties to the USSR date back to 1921. In that year the Mongols of the region formerly known as Outer Mongolia separated themselves permanently from China, later founding a republic in 1924. It was the world’s second socialist state and Asia’s first. The MPR was to remain underdeveloped, geographically isolated and largely ignored by all but its immediate neighbours until after the Second World War. Political and administrative structures based on Soviet models began to take shape in the 1920s, however. Political power was in the hands of the Mongolian People’s Revolutionary Party (MPRP) which remained under the leadership of founder member Choibalsan from the 1930s until his death in 1952. Great social changes were also taking place. By 1939 the old aristocracy and the Buddhist church were destroyed and a new group of leaders had emerged from the ranks of the common people. They were educated in new westem-style schools, instilled with MarxismLeninism and loyalty to the Soviet Union, and the brightest were sent for training in the USSR. The economy developed more slowly. Even after the Second World War its base was still the traditional herding of livestock, and most animals were privately owned by small family units. Industry and crop-raising were minimal and the MPR had only one trading partner, the Soviet

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Union. Modernization really began only after the installation of the Chinese communist government in 1949 when for the first time the MPR was surrouned by friendly nations. In the 1950s the herding economy was collectivized, a virgin lands reclamation programme was initiated, and there was intense Sino-Soviet competition to provide aid and assistance for advanced industrial development. When die Sino-Soviet friendship fell apart in the early 1960s the MPR felt obliged to abandon one friend or the other. The party chose to go with the USSR. Any who favoured either China or neutrality were disgraced and dismissed on charges of gross error, nationalism (a crime against internationalism, the latter implying loyalty to the USSR), and favouring China. In die subsequent quarter-century the MPR has become (in 1962) a member of the CMEA (Comecon) and embarked on a course of planned development that has been rapid and diverse. The population has become setded in industrial townships or rural centres. The industrial sector has seen heavy investment, especially in mining, and mineral products account for a large share of the export market. The USSR has paid for most of this. Five-year economic plans are drawn up in permanent joint Mongolian-Soviet planning committees, and coordinated with the national plans of other CMEA countries. Soviet citizens, including servicemen, have carried out much of the construction work; Soviet experts put plants into production, and the Mongolian workers are trained by them or in the institutes and industries of the USSR. The general secretaries of the MPRP and the CPSU hold regular, twice-yearly meetings, and the Mongolian political and state offices all have direct links with their Soviet counterparts. The Mongolian economy is being integrated with that of the USSR, and Mongolian planners, managers and workers are continually urged to learn from the advanced experience of the Soviet Union. The presence of so many foreigners in the MPR and the need to put international before national considerations has occasionally proved irksome to some members of the leadership, as well as the ordinary citizen. At the same time, the Mongols are aware of the benefits that have accrued from the alliance with the USSR. They are aware that they enjoy a standard of living that would have been impossible without foreign aid. Health care and education are free to all citizens and there is a wide choice of occupations. The Mongols have also received a great deal of military assistance for the defence of their vast country. This is of considerable importance to them. Independence is valued highly and fears of Chinese claims on their territory are never far from their minds. Loyalty to a benefactor and protector is a centuries-old tradition among the Mongols and they are proud of their relationship with the USSR, which they describe as akh duu (‘elder brother, younger brother’). This dependence on an advanced socialist state has enabled the Mongols, in Lenin’s words, to ‘bypass capitalism’, and they derive a certain status from setting an example to other underdeveloped states of how this is to be achieved. The Mongolian example of economic development has not been

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without its problems, however. The speed of development has severely strained manpower resources in a population of 1,820,400 (1984) where, in addition, one in four is undergoing full-time education. It has also placed heavy psychological demands on a population that was, until recently, used to the tenor of a nomadic herding life-style. Despite central planning, co-ordination of internal development has not been even, and the results have been shortages of materials, delays in construction and problems in transport. These strains and shortcomings were increasingly apparent in the late 1970s, and they demanded solutions in the 1980s if the leadership’s credibility and the appropriateness of the model were not to be called into question. In the remainder of this article, I examine more closely the problems of internal and foreign policy in the 1980s and the way they have been handled between the eighteenth and nineteenth party congresses (1981-86). I then examine the economic plans for the years 1986-90 and the long-term plans up to the year 2000, and consider the effects in the MPR of recent trends in the USSR towards economic reform and increasing ddtente with the West and the current enthusiasm for glasnost' (‘openness’). I argue that present trends are not likely to lead to a break with past policies. The MPR is unlikely to become separated from the USSR in the foreseeable future, to assume neutrality or independence in political and economic affairs, or to engage in any significantly closer relationship with China. The Economy

During the 1970s the CMEA, chiefly the Soviet Union, put considerable effort into exploiting the mineral wealth of the MPR. A number of joint ventures were formed including Mongolsovsvetmet (the MongolianSoviet Non-ferrous Metals Economic Association) in 1973 and an Inter­ national Geological Expedition which the CMEA set up in 1975 to survey and exploit valuable mineral deposits. As a result several new industrial towns have been established, mainly in the central and northern regions. The showpiece is undoubtedly Erdenet, whose copper and molybdenum combine was put into production by Mongolsovsvetmet between 1978 and 1981. By 1980 the plant was producing a large portion of the state’s mining export products, which at the time constituted 26.4 per cent of all Mongolian exports. When reaching full capacity the combine is expected to produce 16 million tons p.a.1In 1984 the fluorspar plant at Bor Ondor went into production and is expected to be one of Asia’s largest when it reaches hill capacity. The new town of Khotol is a centre for cement production. Older centres like Ulaanbaatar (Ulan Bator), whose industrial estates are the largest in the country, Darkhan and Choibalsan have undergone considerable expansion. Essential to these industries is the production of electricity. A number of newly discovered coal mines, such as those at Sharyn Gol, Baganuur and the distant Tavan tolgoi in South Gobi aimag (province), are providing the fuel. At the same time, CMEA aid has helped to provide

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housing programmes and services such as schools, hospitals and radio and television stations for workers in the new towns and in the countryside. Between 1961 and 1980 the Soviet Union alone rendered assistance for 400 projects while a further 280 were added in the period 1981-85. Projects undertaken by other CMEA countries include fruit-growing farms (Bulgaria), a footwear factory (Czechoslovakia), and silicon brickworks (Poland).2 Generous as these gifts are, close examination suggests that too much has been developed too quickly for local conditions to assimilate. Electricity production has not kept pace with demand. Power cuts affect the industrial and domestic consumer alike and electricity has had to be imported from the USSR to keep projects like Erdenet in operation. Industrial, public and domestic building programmes have also lagged behind. Materials have been in short supply and the quality of much construction work has been declared sub-standard. The large Sovietaided projects are actually constructed by Soviet teams, including soldiers. Mongolian soldiers likewise have worked on building sites and Mongolian construction teams are said to be responsible for 40 per cent of the building work being undertaken in the mid-1980s. Inadequate transport also hampers industry. The MPR has only one main railway which crosses the country to link Beijing with the TransSiberian railway.3 It was constructed by the Chinese and the Russians in the 1950s to facilitate the movement of goods on the Sino-Soviet market, and when this trade ceased in the mid-1960s the line became something of a white elephant, expensive for the Mongols to maintain and of limited use. In the present decade, however, the northern parts have been extended with branch lines to serve the new industrial towns, to transport coal to the power stations and ore to processing plants, and to export mineral products to Siberia. In other areas, freight is transported in lorries, often on unmetalled roads. The Mongolian terrain and weather take a great toll of both road vehicles and railway stock. Neither have been well maintained, because of either carelessness, shortage of manpower or lack of parts. Poor schedule planning has resulted in vehicles undertaking many empty journeys. In the 1980s the Mongols have become increasingly aware that much of their industrial plant is outdated compared with that of capitalist countries. Most of the machinery and equipment - which accounts for 35 per cent of all imports - comes from the USSR whose own industry has similar technological problems. Unfortunately the MPR has few hard currency reserves because 97 per cent of its trade is with the CMEA (80 per cent with the USSR) and is therefore unlikely to be able to acquire much new technology from the capitalist West or Japan in the near future. Until the 1980s, livestock herding was expected to produce the surplus for exports to pay for some of the cost of development. High prices for exports and low prices for imported goods were fixed to assist this. However, while the collectivization of the 1950s was politically successful in that it created a socialist society, the economic benefits have not been so

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readily forthcoming. There were 23 million head of livestock in 1960 and this figure has not been exceeded in the 1980s.4 Many collectives were in debt in the 1960s and the problem was still apparent in 1982. Large numbers of Mongolian livestock continue to die each year for the same reasons they have done for many centuries: the shortage of winter fodder and lack of protection from the harsh winter and spring storms. Every year many young stock die, especially in the exposed eastern provinces. The party regularly criticizes the collectives for paying insufficient attention to these matters but the fact remains that there has been little investment in herding compared with industry. There is little mechanization, and construction materials are not readily available, especially locally. The continuing failure to increase the size of the herds must be regarded as a very serious problem for the MPR, whose current rate of population growth is about 26.4 per thousand p.a.5 This situation indicates a steady increase in domestic consumption and a falling surplus for export. Agriculture (crop-raising) is faring better than herding in the 1980s. Grain and vegetables are grown mainly on state farms. In 1940 there were only ten of these, but with CMEA aid the number of farms has increased to 51. In 1970 four-fifths of the state farms were failing to fulfil their plans, and only 320,000 tonnes of grain were harvested, well below the target of 560,000 tonnes.6 Agriculture is, of course, prey to problems of the terrain and weather, just as herding is. Considerable energy and CMEA aid have gone into schemes for irrigation and the prevention of soil erosion, but these have not been enough to meet the need. In the present decade the Mongolian leadership has made use of a number of traditional mechanisms to improve economic performance. These include seeking additional foreign aid, mobilization techniques, sacking responsible officials in areas of low productivity, and political purges. As to the first of these, in fact CMEA aid to Mongolia in 1979 fell to below that given to Vietnam. In the following year, Mongolian-Chinese relations deteriorated drastically, and some believe that the Mongolian leadership manipulated the situation in order to extract more aid from the USSR.7 Whatever the truth of the matter, Soviet aid under the seventh five-year plan (1981-85) was double that of the sixth plan. After 1979 the general secretary of the MPRP, Yu. Tsedenbal, severely criticized those areas of the economy that were performing exceptionally poorly, notably herding, agriculture and construction. The party launched a series of efficiency campaigns, together with other mobiliza­ tion techniques such as socialist emulation, slogans, pledges to fulfil agreed targets or take on special tasks, and unpaid workdays in honour of socialist anniversaries. In 1982 a number of high-ranking officials lost their jobs when Tsedenbal ordered a campaign to uproot so-called ‘weeds’. This was accompanied by considerable reorganization of a number of public offices. Kh. Banzragch, the minister for state farms, lost his job early in the year, and his office, founded only in 1980, was joined with the ministry of agriculture. Higher education also was held to be failing the needs of the

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economy, so the state committee for higher and vocational education was brought under the ministry of education with a new minister, Ch. Sereeter,8 while the Mongolian State University was reorganized and its polytechnic and Russian language institutes became separate establish­ ments. In the middle of the year, just before the trade unions’ congress was to meet, the chairman Ochirbat also lost his job.9 Some of these policies undoubtedly bore fruit. The Youth League, for instance, adopted certain areas for immigration and development, such as the Eastern Provinces and the Gobi. The population of South Gobi province is at present increasing, and camel-herding is flourishing as a result.10 The most heartening improvement was the 1985 harvest, the largest ever achieved in the MPR, standing at 890,000 tonnes of grain or 450 kg. per capita. For the first time the MPR had enough to satisfy home consumption and some for export to the USSR. The supply of other food items was expanded by the introduction of subsidiary farming in public and industrial enterprises and even in family allotments. Despite all this, the food supply still barely kept up with the population increase. In 1985 the Central Committee adopted a ‘Target-Oriented Programme for the Development of Agriculture and Improvement of Food Supply to the Population of the MPR’ to allow for a daily intake of 3,000 calories per head by the year 2000, when the population is expected to reach three million. Yet in the first year, 1985, there was a fall in the potato harvest compared with 1984, and the protein and carbohydrate content of the diet was said to be below target. In 1984 J. Batmonkh replaced Yu. Tsedenbal as general secretary. He emphasized the importance of completing the current plan successfully, and there was the familiar last-minute rush to fulfil targets. Consequently capital investment achieved a growth of 45 per cent over the previous fiveyear period (target 23-26 per cent) and gross social product just reached its target of 41 per cent. Foreign trade overfulfilled its target of 50-55 per cent by growing by 100 per cent, mainly because of the new mining products. Other areas, notably the rural economy, were less successful. Criticisms at the end of the seventh plan were similar to those made at the end of the sixth. Poor discipline, laziness, carelessness and bad management were given as primary causes of failure, and the suitability of Soviet models to Mongolian conditions, or the possiblity that too much was being attempted too rapidly, was not discussed publicly. The change of leadership brought no evident dramatic change in the party’s approach to economic affairs, and Batmonkh personally promised no changes in general policies. Social Trends The study of population throws light on the performance of the Mongolian economy and explains why development truly cannot be hurried. In 1924, the MPR had a total population of 651,700, representing a density of 0.42 per sq.km. Life expectancy has since doubled, with improved health care

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and the elimination of deadly infectious diseases, and the population in 1984 stood at 1,820,400, or 1.16 per sq.km. The most rapid rise has been in the past 15 years, and a quarter of the entire population is now in full-time education. The working population is still very small, however, and has difficulty in spreading itself through the ever-expanding economy. Workers often have to undertake additional tasks: for example, office employees and older schoolchildren help on farms in the sowing and harvesting seasons, and servicemen make up some of the construction teams. The high proportion of youth in the population has direct consequences in the workplace and in the provision of public services: for example, it places heavy demands on maternal and child health care, which are constantly being extended; free medicine for children has recently been introduced.14 Kindergarten places have lagged behind demand, although once a child is accepted in a workplace nursery or kindergarten it is not obliged to leave, even if the parent transfers to another place of work. There are heavy demands on the provision of trained teachers, from kindergarten to university level. Educational equipment and premises have been in short supply in recent years, and some schools have had to operate a shift system to cope with the number of children. Young people are being admitted into the work-force in increasing numbers, so there is an age imbalance in some enterprises: thus, in the new town of Erdenet, the average age of the entire population in 1982 was 24 years, with obvious implications for the demands on particular services and for the structure of the work-force, and perhaps for social relations. It means, of course, that the young work-force is not at present burdened with a large elderly population - even though workers are entitled to pensions, members of herding collectives being the most recent to join the state scheme. It is state policy that the population should rise to three million by the year 2000. Contraception is therefore disapproved of, although abortion is available. Mothers of five or more children are awarded the order of ‘Motherhood Glory’ and given cash bonuses and the chance of early retirement. Large families are more common in the countryside than in the town, however, and the intelligentsia is showing some preference for smaller families, since both parents commonly work full-time. A quarter of the entire population lives and works in Ulaanbaatar, and the urban population has recently overtaken the rural, standing at 51.5 per cent in 1984.15 Ulaanbaatar is a city of civil servants, industrial workers and students, and there are also many illegal residents. This is a strain on housing and public services. The authorities also have to contend with the growing problem of urban crime such as vandalism and theft, much of it the result of alcohol abuse. As in the USSR there is currently an anti­ alcohol campaign. At the nineteenth party congress A. Jamsranjav, minister of internal security, even suggested a total ban on the production and use of alcohol, saying ‘We can do without alcoholic beverages in socialist construction’.16 Urbanization and sovietization have been parallel processes in the

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MPR. The new towns and cities look very like the modem cities of the USSR with their blocks of flats and massive Romanesque public buildings. Soviet styles and methods pervade all apsects of life both public and private, from the organization of work teams to the writing of history. This is partly a political process fostered by the party’s constant encourage­ ment to learn from close contact between citizens of the two states and the steady stream of young people sent to study in the USSR. Sovietization has led the MPR to adopt, at times, extraordinary Soviet models, as, for example, the three-queue system in shops, which is extremely wasteful of both shop assistants’ and customers’ time. Taking on the trappings of Soviet society has not always caused the Mongols to behave as Soviet citizens, however, because Mongol tradi­ tions are totally different from those of Russia. For example, the MPR has not the variety of nationalities that the Soviet Union has. The only appreciable non-Mongol group is the Kazakhs, who comprise 5.3 per cent of the population. The majority is Khalkh Mongol (77.5 per cent) and the remainder are mainly Buriat and Oirat or Western Mongols.17 Mongols of the MPR are not given to defecting and there is no diaspora to speak of. Civil rights do not appear to be an issue, and Amnesty International has never adopted a citizen of the MPR as a prisoner of conscience. Labour camps do exist, although information on them is meagre; but in view of the small size of the population it would be highly uneconomic to keep able-bodied citizens in them for any length of time. Religion in the MPR is a far less contentious issue than it is in the USSR. In recent years the party has monitored the population for religious sentiments and urged that young people be brought up in the spirit of atheism. Organized religion is not seen as a threat, however. One working monastery, Gandan in Ulaanbaatar, exists for worship and the training of monks. Unlike the lamas of earlier times these men are permitted to marry and have families. The present religious institution finds a legitimate place in communist life because it is the headquarters of the Asian Buddhist Peace Conference. It provides the Mongolian state with an additional avenue for its peace activities, especially in those countries of Asia whose contacts with the MPR are otherwise minimal. Amongst the general population there are some signs of religious observance and interest in the traditions of Buddhism, but there is little evidence of the existence of any religious opposition to the ruling authority. Nor is there any real evidence of that other phenomenon of opposition in the USSR, the samizdat, or underground press, although there is in existence a 1984 regulation that all typewriters and photocopiers be registered annually.18 Observers of Mongolian society have always watched carefully for any indication of anti-Sovietism. In the late 1970s, in the towns, there were signs of dissatisfaction with the large number of Soviet citizens who had access to special shops and housing and other privileges.19No one has been able to estimate closely the actual number of foreigners working in the MPR but occasional figures for specific areas have been revealed. Of a total population o f40,000 in Erdenet, for instance, 10,000 are known to be

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Russians.20 A great deal of official effort goes into fostering MongolSoviet friendship, particularly through the Mongolian-Soviet Friendship Society. In recent years a whole month has been given over to celebrating this ‘inviolable’ friendship. An association of students who have studied in the USSR also puts considerable energies into this work. Soviet television is now received in many parts of the country and all children from kindergarten upwards leam the Russian language. On the whole there is little to suggest that Mongolian citizens have intense feelings against citizens of the USSR in the 1980s. The authorities do express periodic concern that Mongolian citizens should be on their guard against foreigners who might seek to undermine Mongolian-Soviet friendship and belittle non-capitalist development.21 However, such remarks do not suggest that Mongols are anti-Soviet but rather that they are becoming more cosmopolitan. More contact with the outside world for ordinary Mongols increases the likelihood of their examining their own state more critically. For the party this is unsettling, to say the least, and must affect the extent of openness it can permit without jeopardizing the legitimacy of its policies. Political Trends

Mongolian political life is directed by the Mongolian People’s Revolu­ tionary Party (MPRP). No other party exists or ever has existed. The MPRP is organized on the lines of other national communist parties, principally the CPSU. It has direct relations with the CPSU, and the respective party leaders meet at least twice a year to coordinate policies. In 1986, MPRP membership stood at 88,150, that is about four per cent of the total population, which makes it rather smaller than the parties of other socialist states.22 As in other communist parties, enrolment involves sponsorship by existing members and a candidate or probationary period, with training and examination in political theory. In recent years this has meant that rather more recruits are intellectuals than workers or herdsmen, and special procedures have been introduced to correct the balance. The party leadership has been relatively stable since the 1930s when Kh. Choibalsan came to power, with the exception of a turbulent interlude 30 years ago. After Choibalsan’s death in 1952, Kh. Choibalsan, in 1952, Yu. Tsedenbal became first secretary, shortly to be replaced in turn by D. Damba. In 1958, Damba was disgraced, and Tsedenbal headed the party from then until his retirement in 1984. This stability among top personnel has led to an actuarial rift between the mass membership, a large propor­ tion of whom are under 35, and the leaders, who are mainly in their fifties and sixties. Prominent among these are Soviet-trained economists (like Tsedenbal himself), specialists in foreign affairs and military men.23 The party’s directing role is written into the constitution of I960,24 and it is evident in all areas of public and economic life. Only about 20 of the 370 delegates to the Great Khural (National Assembly) in 1981 were not party

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or Youth League members. The party controls all organized groups within the state, from the smallest writers’ circle in the Gobi to the largest of all organizations, the Trade Union Confederation. The foremost aim of the MPRP is to create a socialist state, and much party work is aimed at promoting successful economic development. The party also claims to be internationalist and opposed to any nationalist tendencies and aspirations; moreover, the basis of internationalism for the MPR is loyalty to the Soviet Union. Officially, opposition does not exist, and the MPRP itself claims to be monolithic and united. However, there have been periods in its history when it was badly shaken by disputes and differences of opinion. Such matters have been discussed little in the mass media, and observers have been obliged to draw their own conclusions. The year 1958, when Damba was disgraced, and the early 1960s, when the MPR was affected by the Sino-Soviet rift, were clearly such periods. In the 1980s, too, there have been signs of discord arising from a conflict of opinons about how to improve economic performance, and perhaps even from disillusionment with Tsedenbal as leader. Throughout his political career Tsedenbal always displayed extreme loyalty to the USSR. In 1980, the Institute of Party History and the Higher Party School held a conference to mark the fortieth anniversary of the tenth party congress, which had launched the programme of building socialism. Tsedenbal maintained that this conference exaggerated his own political role both in 1940 and on subsequent occasions, and that his contributions to political theory were very small; he wrote several letters to the party newspaper, Unen, criticizing the attempt to turn him into a cult figure.25 That such a thing could have been attempted at all suggests two possibilities: that there was an underlying desire for a more independent Mongolian role in general policy; and that pro- and antiTsedenbal camps were forming in the upper echelons of the party. In 1982 and 1983 Tsedenbal pursued his campaign to root out ‘weeds’. In the case of some officials this seems to have gone beyond straight­ forward disciplining for incompetence, for in 1982 leading members of the Academy of Sciences were removed from their posts. They included Shirendev, the historian and head of the Academy, and two of his deputies: the physicist Chadraa, and Bira, another historian. They were charged with negligence, inefficiency, and failing to put the work of the Academy at the disposal of the economy. Chadraa is said to have made extravagant claims for his projects; yet, out of 38 projects developed by the Academy for industry under the sixth five-year plan (1976-80), only 24 had been handed over, and 15 of those were subsequently abandoned. As head of the Academy, Shirendev was held personally responsible for its shoddy work, absenteeism and poor productivity; but the attack on him within the party was also extremely personal. He was accused of lack of principle, irresponsibility and ambition. More specific charges included ignoring the experience of the USSR and the advice of Soviet specialists, refusing to listen to the suggestions of younger colleagues, allowing his

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head to be turned by honours from foreign institutions, and distorting historical truth in respect of Mongolian-Chinese relations. This last accusation is curious in the light of Shirendev’s fierce media campaign over the previous two or three years against what the Mongols regarded as Chinese militarism and hegemonism towards the MPR. Clearly his opponents sought to make use of almost any chance remark in order to unseat him. It also led some foreign observers to conclude that improve­ ments in Sino-Soviet relations could be expected in the near future, which Brezhnev’s speeches soon afterwards in Tashkent and Baku seemed to confirm. Shirendev was replaced as head of the Academy by Tseren, a nuclear physicist and a much younger man, while he himself went into an obscure retirement. After Tsedenbal’s retirement, however, Shirendev was permitted to resume his research activities at the Academy.26 Shirendev narrowly avoided expulsion from the party but Jalan-aajav, a member of the Politburo and Secretariat and vice-chairman of the Great Khural, was not so lucky. Over a period of six months from July 1983, he was stripped of all his posts and finally expelled from the party for ‘vile intrigues against party unity and breaking party rules’. He was accused of a twenty-year association with an anti-party group which aimed to make him first secretary of the MPRP and he was linked with men purged from the party in 1958 and the early 1960s.27 In August 1984, the 67-year-old Tsedenbal was himself obliged to retire, on a proposal by J. Batmonkh, chairman of the Council of Ministers, at a special meeting of the Central Committee at which Tsedenbal himself was not present The reason given for his enforced retirement was ill health, and the committee said that it had acted with his consent. He was praised and thanked for his years of service and dedica­ tion to the party and the people, and was replaced immediately by Batmonkh. Foreign observers were less convinced that illness was the chief cause, and speculated that Tsedenbal was removed because of his increasingly autocratic manner.28 He was seen shortly afterwards, holidaying on the Lenin Hills outside Moscow, in apparently rude health.29 Tsedenbal’s successor was then 58 years old, an economist by training, and a former rector of the Higher School of Economics and of the Mongolian State University. He had been chairman of the Council of Ministers since 1974, but gave up the post in December 1984 to take over the chairmanship of the presidium of the Great Khural (that is, President), which Tsedenbal had also vacated in August. Sodnom, newly elected to the Politburo, became chairman of the Council of Ministers. Further tributes to Tsedenbal’s work were made at this time, and then he slipped from public view. If Tsedenbal’s retirement was engineered by some of his colleagues or even pressure from the USSR, the reasons for it are not entirely clear. Batmonkh did not succeed him with any obvious change of domestic policy. He confirmed the MPR’s existing relationship with the USSR and showed no greater willingness than Tsedenbal had done for warmer relations with China. Like his predecessor he held that discussion of the

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withdrawal of Soviet troops from the MPR, which was becoming an issue at this time, was interference in Mongolia’s internal affairs and of no concern to China. Batmonkh emphasized the importance of completing the seventh five-year plan successfully through good management and efficiency, and he made further appeals in the same vein as the nineteenth party congress of 1986 drew near. The Eighth Five-Year Plan and Long-Term Economic Planning

In March 1986 the draft plan for 1986-90 was published.30 It began with praise for the achievements of the past five years, and acknowledgement of the contributions of the USSR. There was no attempt, however, to gloss over the obvious shortcomings of a number of branches of the economy. Singled out for particular criticism were the poor completion rates of construction work; food production, which had not kept pace with the rate of population increase; inadequacies in labour organization; shortages of material supplies; and unacceptable waste in many branches of the economy. The proposals for growth in the years 1986-90 were modest by comparison with the previous five years, and a large part is caculated on increased labour productivity, together with savings on materials, electricity and other resources. Large sections of the draft are devoted to improved management techniques, discarding unnecessary personnel and procedures, expanding the use of modem technology in management and production, and training schoolchildren and workers to serve the current needs of the economy. Parallel proposals can be found in the Soviet plan for the same period, reflecting similar concerns to improve the quality and general productivity of existing enterprises. The guidelines give serious attention to. the development of economic regions and the general improvement of the rural economy. Light and food industries, factories for the production of construction materials based on local resources, hospitals, schools and leisure provision are planned to raise the economic status of rural communities, improve the quality of life, and so encourage sufficient young people to work in the collectives and farms. This, it is hoped, will result in greater rural productivity. The general intention of the eighth plan is not to set up large new projects but to consolidate and expand existing ones. It will be supported by an extended electricity programme, the introduction of technological improvements, and improved construction and transport services. The Ulaanbaatar Number Four Power Station is to increase its capacity and new stations will be constructed at Erdenet and Baganuur. More provincial centres are to be linked to the central grid, while Ulaangom in the west will be coupled to the Soviet grid. Ultimately the MPR is not only to be self-sufficient in electricity, but intends to export it to Siberia. The programme for technological improvement was adopted by the CMEA in 1985 and includes extended use of computers, automation, nuclear power

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engineering and biotechnology. Bottlenecks in construction and trans­ port should be improved by the better availability of materials and spares and local provision of machinery servicing centres. The eighth five-year plan and the ‘Long-Term Programme for the Development of Economic, Scientific and Technical Co-operation’ aim to make the Mongolian economy more efficient. By reducing wastage of all kinds it is intended that all basic consumer needs will be produced within the country. The MPR also aims to produce a higher export surplus to pay for the goods, equipment and services it receives from the CMEA. That requirement will undoubtedly rise to meet some of the cost of new technology, especially if it has to be obtained, as it most certainly will, from outside the CMEA. The MPR is now in the second year of the eighth plan. Although it is far too early to assess whether economic development is being consolidated and the economy performing with great efficiency, certain trends may be noted in the domestic scene. The plan was received, as always, enthusiastically. After the nineteenth party congress various organiza­ tions and enterprises met to discuss the new plan and make their pledge. The Youth League, for instance, has undertaken to set up a trolley bus service in Ulaanbaatar, and a new state farm in Khalkhiin Gol in the east of the country. For their part, the trade unions promised to encourage better labour discipline. Changes in the education law were drawn up at the end of 1986. These will extend compulsory education from ten to eleven years from the school year 1988/89. The eleventh year is to be devoted to training in skills appropriate for entry into the work-force. There have been recent wage increases, accompanied by incentives for quality work and some reductions in the price of consumer goods. Moreover, openness has hit the party newspaper, Unen: criticism once restricted to the inner pages can now be found on the front page, and letters from readers are a regular feature. However, the statistics for the first year and a quarter of the present plan do not suggest any great immediate change. Construction is still behind target and there has been no significant increase in livestock. Once again in 1987 large numbers of young animals have perished in fierce storms in Domod province, in the east. The trade balance with the USSR for 1986 still shows a massive difference of 700,000 million roubles between imports and exports. Those improvements that depend on the intro­ duction of new technology are in any case unlikely to occur overnight and may well depend on considerable changes in the MPR’s approach to international affairs.

International Affairs

The MPR’s foreign policy since the 1960s can be characterized as proSoviet; active in support of world peace and security; and suspicious of China. The MPR’s closest allies are the USSR and the other CMEA

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countries. Diplomatic relations exist with about 100 states, the most recent being the United States (see below). The MPR is especially vociferous in the search for peace and elimina­ tion of nuclear weapons. In 1981 the government proposed a mutual non­ aggression convention for countries of Asia and the Pacific.31 This was intended to promote peace and outlaw the use of force in settling disputes and was also intended as a focus of unity for the dynamic but diverse societies in the region. A number of states expressed interest, including Laos, Kampuchea and Vietnam, but ASEAN showed less enthusiasm. A conference is expected to meet in the near future to discuss the conven­ tion. Another Mongolian peace initiative was the ‘Declaration of The Right of Peoples to Peace’ which the United Nations adopted in November 1984. A major aspect of the Mongolian government’s peace work is the support of all Soviet peace proposals, especially the attempts at arms reduction agreements with the USA. The MPR’s role as ambassador for peace on behalf of the Soviet Union may be regarded as predictable but there seems little doubt that these issues are of great personal concern to the Mongols. The MPR’s stand on other international issues is equally predictable. It includes opposition to the actions of the United States government in Central America, suspicion of friendly relations between China and the US, support for the peaceful reunification of Korea, sympathy for the principles of the Non-aligned Movement and the Delhi Declaration of 1985, support for Soviet activity in Afghanistan and opposition to US support of the Afghan guerrillas.32 Only the MPR’s attitude to China suggests anything like an independent approach to a foreign policy issue.33 It is based on a deep, traditional suspicion of the Chinese, and feelings ran especially high at the beginning of the 1980s. In this period a Chinese diplomat was accused of spying and expelled, some 6,000 Chinese labourers were deported, and a fierce press campaign accused China of every kind of evil intent, including infecting the Gobi herds, smuggling weevil-infested soya beans and contraceptives, attempting to wipe out the Inner Mongols, and laying claim to the territory of the MPR. In 1982 Soviet troops in the MPR were reinforced, so that an estimated 65,000 men were ranged along the southern and eastern border with China. Since 1982, however, the USSR has made determined efforts to patch up old quarrels with China. Both Tsedenbal and Batmonkh declared themselves in favour, in principle, but they expressed no confidence in any real change of heart on the part of the Chinese. They continued to attack China in the press, criticizing its policies in Southeast Asia and the growing contacts with the USA. The Mongols particularly objected to any attempt by the Chinese to demand the removal of Soviet troops from the MPR. Nevertheless, Sino-Mongolian contacts have increased since 1983. By 1986 Mongolian criticism of China had abated considerably and at the nineteenth MPRP congress Batmonkh declared a ‘scrupulous policy of normalized relations’. In the spring of 1986 the two countries signed a new trade agreement allowing for die exchange of a much wider range of goods

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than hitherto. In August the Chinese foreign minister Liu Shuiqing visited Ulaanbaatar and signed a consular agreement. Other notable events have been a new cultural agreement, the first joint railway conference in 20 years and the proposed resumption of air services between Ulaanbaatar and Beijing. Joint co-operation in the preservation of the Gobi is planned, and in March 1987 a Chinese women’s delegation celebrated International Women’s Day in the Inner Mongolian city of Erenkhot. Even more significant is the removal of 20 per cent of Soviet troops stationed in the MPR with the full agreement of the Mongolian govern­ ment. It must be pointed out, however, that this still leaves some 52-55,000 remaining. The improved Sino-Mongolian relationship has to be seen in the light of the Soviet Union’s changing relationship with Asia as a whole and not just with China. Brezhnev’s policy towards Asia was one of large-scale militarization until 1982 when the thaw with China began. The most dramatic alterations in the Soviet Union’s present approach to Asia and the Pacific region occurred in 1986. The new Soviet minister for foreign affairs, Eduard Shevardnadze, paid a visit to a number of countries in the region, including the MPR and Japan, in January of that year. This heralded a new spirit of detente towards countries of different ideological systems. It was reinforced when Gorbachev went to the Soviet Far East in July. In his speech at Vladivostok he outlined a policy of far greater Soviet involvement and interest in Asia and the Pacific, not merely from a strategic and defence point of view but also as a bona fide Asian state with legitimate economic and political interests in the area. He expressed intentions of extensive economic development of the Far Eastern province, with Vladivostok becoming an important administrative, economic and cultural centre for that area and for the north Pacific region generally. In this context he looked for joint ventures with countries bordering on the Far Eastern province and with Japan.34 A recent reorganization of the Asian department of the foreign affairs ministry, with extensive changes of personnel, suggests that Gorbachev is serious about his new policy. An active Mongolian economy with increased amounts of goods for exports could have much to offer an Asian regional development and give the MPR a fuller and more satisfying role as an Asian country. The most immediate results of Gorbachev’s new approach to Asia have been increased Mongolian links with China and North Korea. Friendly relations have existed with North Korea since 1948 and both countries maintain embassies. The MPR makes regular statements in support of the peaceful reunification of Korea and against the annual military exercises in South Korea, code-named Team Spirit’. Peace and friendship societies exist in both countries and North Korean films are popular, especially among older Mongolian citizens, although trade and other contacts do not appear to have been extensive. A number of delegations were exchanged in 1986, however. A trade agreement was signed for the period 1986-90 and there was an exhibition of North Korean goods and technical equip­

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ment in Ulaanbaatar. Batmonkh himself paid a visit to Pyongyang in November, at the same time making international news when he was greeted at the airport by the supposedly assassinated Kim II Sung. The present pragmatic approach adopted by the Soviet leader to international problems East and West has made possible more widereaching foreign relations than ever before for the MPR. In January 1987 diplomatic relations were opened with United States. Discussions had been held sporadically over the previous 20 years, but without success. Now, however, since the United States is one of the largest states bordering on the Pacific, it would make nonsense of Mongolia’s claim to desire peace and dialogue as the basis of relations in the region if diplomatic relations did not exist with so large a neighbour. Just how important the agreement is to the Americans is not clear. The announce­ ment was relegated to the inner pages of the New York Times and treated in terms of the suitability of the MPR as a listening post for Chinawatchers.35 The Mongols, on the other hand, could reap a number of benefits. First, the agreement must enhance the MPR’s independent nation status in the eyes of the world, and of China in particular. Second, the agreement serves as an example of principled behaviour towards a state whose politics the MPR would, ideally, hope to change, and is important for the credibility of the MPR’s initiatives for peace and disarmament. Representation can now be made directly to the USA on issues of joint interest or criticism, whereas in the past this was possible only through the mass media. A third benefit for the MPR might be future access to certain items of technology and other trade goods that would be valuable to the drive for economic efficiency. Mongolian-American relations are in fact just one aspect of the MPR’s increasing contacts with Western countries. In the past, these have been limited to the exercise of cultural agreements and a little trade. Now there are signs that Mongolia would like to extend her associations with the West. As the USSR adopts a more flexible attitude to her own dealings with the countries of die capitalist world, Mongolia’s opportunities become wider. The MPR has responded to the recent British proposal for an Anglo-Mongolian Round Table, and the inaugural meeting is expected to take place in the autumn of 1987 in Ulaanbaatar. The Mongolian government seems particularly interested in extending cultural relations and expanding trade, and the recent visit to Britain of a member of the State Scientific and Technical Commission raises speculation that Britain might be a source of the much-needed scientific and technological apparatus. Trade between the two countries was absolutely minimal until the mid-1970s but has since grown to an annual figure of £2-4.5 million in exports to Britain. The import figures are considerably lower and fluctuate from year to year. In 1986 the Mongols exported £4,750,000 worth of textile fibres; they imported British goods of various kinds to the value of £1,031,000, mosdy in the category of dairy produce and birds’ eggs; other goods included chemicals, pharmaceuticals, road vehicles, photographic materials and some electrical equipment.36

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Conclusion In the next 15 years we might expect to see a number of changes in all aspects of Mongolian life. The standard of living will continue to rise and if there are improvements in the co-ordination of economic activities, there should be growth in productivity. However, there is little concrete evidence to suggest that future general policies, internal and external, will by anything other than continuous with those of the past 25 years. The present concern for openness, a word that has no fixed translation in Mongolian, has resulted in a great deal of criticism and discussion but little action. The limits of creativity and initiative are still quite firmly drawn, with all planning done centrally under Soviet guidance. The Soviet example is still paramount, and until the Mongols permit themselves to question it occasionally the opportunities for creative activity will continue to be circumscribed. Questioning Soviet solutions for Mongolian situations need not imply disloyalty but it will require great boldness and new ways of thinking. This is surely not easy for the present leadership, which is largely composed of men who studied first in the monastic schools and who remember life in the turbulent 1930s and 1940s. Glasnost’ in the USSR is being watched not only with interest but also with some wariness by the Mongolian leadership. Unen, the party newspaper, has recently printed a series of front-page articles about the present changes in Soviet life, including the development of small private enterprises. For a nation taught to venerate the bypassing of capitalism this must be exceedingly puzzling, even though for practical purposes it would seem unlikely that the MPR could afford to commit manpower resources to this particular advanced experience. Whatever changes are eventually made in the economic structures of the MPR they are unlikely to be put into practice without the approval of the USSR. For the present, a number of joint ventures with the CMEA exist, and considerable aid and assistance is already earmarked for the period of the present plan and until the end of the century. The USSR is anxious to receive as much of the mineral and livestock surplus as the MPR can ship across the border. This would have particular importance for the proposed development of the Soviet Union’s Far Eastern province, nebulous as that prospect is at the present time. In such a context the MPR could be an increasingly valuable asset within the CMEA. Developments in international relations bom of greater detente likewise suggest continuity rather than change. The MPR’s geographical situation is a constant and imposes practical limits on trade and tourism. The present growth of trade with North Korea and China is certainly to the benefit of each partner, however, even that must have limits, since the bulk of Mongolian surplus will continue to go to CMEA members as long as those countries are supplying development aid. China cannot be considered as a serious contender for the provision of development aid and protection. Before the MPR could accept China as an alternative ally to the USSR, the Chinese would have to demonstrate categorically that

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they have no claims on Mongolian territory. The USSR has not violated the Mongols’ independence in their eyes, nor colonized their country. Furthermore, the Soviet Union is no more likely than the MPR to put full trust in a friendly China for some time to come. The withdrawal of Soviet troops from the MPR is a gesture of goodwill towards China, but many more troops still remain. The foreseeable future is likely to see the continuation of the present close relationship between the MPR and the USSR simply because it serves the interests of both sides so well.

NOTES Judith Nordby is working on a Ph.D. thesis on Mongolian history in the 1920s in the Department of Chinese Studies, University of Leeds. 1. See Alan Sanders, ‘Enter the Future with a Deafening Roar’, Far Eastern Economic Review (FEER), 19 Nov. 1982, pp.43-4. 2. For detailed information on CMEA aid see ‘Peljee Report at Meeting Devoted to the 30th Anniversary of CEMA’, Mongolia Report No.316, JPRS 73963, 6 Aug. 1979, pp.l-15. 3. There is also a branch line between Choibalsan and the Trans-Siberian, built during the Second World War. 4. Narodnoe khozyaistvo MNR za 60 let (1924-1984) (Ulan Bator: Central Statistical Board, 1984), p.87. 5. Ibid., p.23. 6. Alan Sanders, ‘A Dose of Self-Criticism’, FEER, 11 April 1980, pp.56-7. 7. Alan Sanders, ‘A Diplomatic Lesson for China’, FEER, 11 July 1980, pp.34-5. 8. Alan Sanders, ‘Rooting out the Weeds’, FEER, 12 April 1982, p.35. 9. Alan Sanders, ‘Follow the Leader*, FEER, 28 May 1982, pp.36-7. 10. For 1979 figure see Narodnoe khozyaistvo MNR, p.22; 1985 figure supplied by party official, South Gobi province. 11. ‘Target-Oriented Programme - A New Stage in the Development of Agriculture’, News from Mongolia, Aug. 1986, pp. 1-2. 12. Alan Sanders, ‘Mongolia’s Modernizations’, FEER, 29 May 1986, p.109. 13. Narodnoe khozyaistvo MNR, pp. 19, 23, 229. 14. A number of medicines for common conditions are in short supply in the MPR. 15. Narodnoe khozyaistvo MNR, p.21. 16. ‘Mongolian Party Congress: Public Security Minister’s Report: Anti-Sovietism and Drunkenness’, BBC Summary of World Broadcasts (SWB), Part 3, The Far East, FE/827/C1/1, 5 June 1986. 17. Narodnoe khozyaistvo MNR, p.25. 18. Alan Sanders, ‘Lock up your Typewriters’, FEER, 2 Aug. 1983, p.30. 19. T.E. Ewing, ‘Letter from Ulan Bator*, FEER, 14 Sep. 1979, p.88. 20. Alan Sanders, ‘Enter the Future ...’, p.43. 21. ‘Mongolian Party Congress: Public Security Minister’s Report*. 22. The Far East and Australasia 1987 (London: Europa, 1986), p.670. 23. For a description of the MPRP at the present time see ‘The Mongolian People’s Revolutionary Party at its Present-Day Stage*, Far Eastern Affairs, 1983, No.4, pp. 144-6. 24. For a text of the constitution with amendments to 1973 see Mongolian Report, No.319, JPRS 74814, 26 Dec. 1979. 25. Alan Sanders, ‘Undermining the Myths’, FEER, 9 May 1980, pp.35, 37. 26. On the Academy of Sciences affair see O Sostoyanii i Merakh po Uluchsheniyu NauchnoissledovateVskikh Pravot v Strane: Postanovleniya Tsk MNRP 1980-1981

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Godty (Ulan Bator, 1982). 27. ‘S. Jalan-aajavyn namyn esreg ajil yavuulyn tukhai*, Namyn Am’dral, 1984, No.2, pp.12-16. 28. Alan Sanders, ‘Revenge of the Weeds’, FEER, 6 Sept. 1984, pp.16-17. 29. Richard Owen, ‘After the Medals, a Golden Handshake for Chernenko?*, The Times, 9 Oct. 1984, p. 16. 30. For an English text of the draft guidelines sec, Mongolian Report, JPRS-MON-86-003, 18 June 1986. Mongolian text in Unen, 20 March 1986, pp.1-4. 31. Jargalsaikhany Enkhsaikhan, ‘Ensuring Peace in Asia and the Pacific: The Mongolian Initiative’, Asian Survey, Vol. 25 (1985), pp. 1031-8. 32. For a general statement of the MPR’s stand on international affairs see Embassy of the Mongolian People’s Republic Press Release, Oct. 1985. 33. Elizabeth Green, ‘China and Mongolia: Recurring Trends and Prospects for Change’, Asian Survey, Vol.26 (1986), pp. 1337-63. 34. Current Digest of the Soviet Press, 27 Aug. 1986. 35. Richard Halloran, ‘U.S. and Mongolia in Ceremony Establishing Diplomatic Relations’, New York Times, 28 June 1987, p.42. 36. Department of Trade and Industry, Overseas Trade Statistics of the United Kingdom, 1985 (London: HMSO, 1986); ibid., Dec. 1986.

The Soviet Union and the Pacific Century Gerald Segal

As a country that embraces much territory in Asia, Russia’s interest in the Pacific goes a long way back into history, and it has recently been revived under Gorbachev. Yet a number of obstacles threaten to prevent the Soviet Union from playing its potential role, concerning the country’s relationships with and attitudes towards other states in the region: the United States, a rival power in the Pacific as well as in Europe, whose evident attempts to establish military treaties in the Pacific cause concern in Moscow; China, whose reforms threaten to challenge the USSR as a socialist model; Japan, now a highly influential economic superpower in the Pacific; and the smaller states, including the USSR’s allies in Indo-China and the far east. Given the complexities of the various bilateral relationships, the Soviet Union cannot easily match its actions and policies to its aspirations to perform as a Pacific great power.

‘The idea of the Pacific Ocean economic co-operation is under discussion. We have approached it with an unprejudiced attitude and we are willing to join in deliberations about the possible foundations for such co­ operation ... V With those words Mikhail Gorbachev announced in Vladivostok, on 28 July 1986, that the Soviet Union is willing to enter the ‘Pacific Age’. For a country that has the longest Pacific coastline and was the first Pacific power to try to build bridges across its waters, this late entrance is long overdue. Yet there remain serious doubts about how the Soviet Union can take part in the ‘Pacific Century’, and indeed whether its concept of Pacific co-operation can be reconciled with that of other more dynamic states around the basin. Russia in Pacific Waters

It is a truism that the Soviet Union is a power in East Asia, but not a natural East Asian power.2 With one-third of its vast territory lying east of Irkutsk, the Soviet Union is the second largest Asian power. But with only five per cent of its population in that territory, it is not surprising that local East Asians regard the Soviet Union as an outsider and a newcomer. But there is an important distinction between what is East Asian and what is Pacific. By the criteria of population and time of arrival, the Americas, Australia and New Zealand share the Soviet position as nonAsians and late arrivals. Indeed, it is one of the difficulties of building Pacific-wide co-operation that it needs to span vast distances and different

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types of ethnic groups. Nevertheless, if Russia is to be judged in terms of its ‘Pacific consciousness it must be counted as one of the first believers in the idea. As early as 1639, the great explorer Ivan Moskvitin extended Tsarist rule to the Pacific. Russia’s first Pacific port, Okhotsk, was founded in 1647, and a Cossack traveller, Semyon, reached the north-east tip of Siberia a year later. Under Peter the Great, Russia became increasingly interested in establishing a naval presence in the Pacific.3Russia’s expan­ sion was remarkably swift, taking advantage of rivers and open country to reach the Pacific 250 years before Russia explored Central Asia. While Russians gazed out over Pacific waters, British settlers in North America were still struggling to cross the Allegheny mountains. France founded Montreal only in the decade that Russia founded Okhotsk. In 1651 Khabarov established his first port on the Amur river and China suddenly found itself with a rival in the Pacific that was large, land-based, confident, and likely to stay. Under Peter and Catherine, Russia extended its Pacific presence in search of the ‘soft gold’ of sea otter fur.4 In 1799 a charter was granted to the Russian-American Corporation to hunt for pelts far down the American coast into Spanish territory. While China and Japan disdained cross-Pacific contacts, Russia was the first Pacific power to try to link both sides of the newly discovered Ocean. Forts were established in what is now California (Fort Ross was founded in 1811), although the Russians failed to build a supporting fleet. Missions were sent to Polynesia in 1804 and Hawaii in 1809. With the decay of the Tsarist empire, Russia retreated from its Pacific adventure as the United States surged across. In 1867, Alaska was sold to the United States for $7.2 million and instead Russia tried to consolidate its position in East Asia against the awakening Japan and the ‘sick man of Asia’, China. Vladivostok was established in 1860 but by 1904-5 Russia found itself falling victim to a modernizing Japan. Russia was in the thick of the Pacific’s international politics from the earliest days of the concep­ tion of a Pacific basin. Russia was not a natural East Asian power, but it did have a strong claim to be a natural Pacific power. Although Russia was able to pick the bones of the decaying Chinese empire, and a China riven by warlord politics in the early twentieth century, Moscow’s priorities were consolidating a revolution at home, and averting the threat of war in Europe. To be sure, the Comintern was active in East Asia, but the area was only rarely a Soviet priority. It was not until the final days of the Second World War that Russia turned its attention once again to the Pacific. At Yalta, Russia was encouraged to attack Japan and re-establish its Pacific presence. Yet the return of Russia to Pacific waters was not simply a matter of picking up where the Tsars left off. Three major conditions had changed. First, the United States had obtained bases and territory well out across the Pacific up to East Asia itself. Some Americans claimed to see the Pacific as an ‘American lake’, especially after the defeat of Japan when American troops slogged from island to island to the door of Japan.

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Second, Japan, although humbled in war, was put back on its feet by the United States. Its impressive industrial base was rebuilt and the Japanese people worked their country back to at least economic great power status. Japan was the only major non-westem power successfully to transform itself from underdevelopment to become a modem, wealthy state. Third, other great powers from Europe, most notably Britain, France and Holland, retreated from the Pacific. Decolonization was relatively swift in most of East Asia, although not in the Pacific islands. The retreat of colonialism left three types of states. The success stories of white colonists such as Canada, Australia and New Zealand were some of the most prosperous parts of the Pacific. The states of South-east Asia were often typical developing states, sometimes embroiled in nasty wars as in Indo-China. A third category was another type of success story, the Newly Industrialized Countries (NICs) of Taiwan, South Korea, Singapore and Hong Kong. This peculiar collection was not bound by any shared colonial experience, but rather by the success of their rapid industrialization. The challenge to Mosco w was different from each of these three areas. The United States’ influence was dominant in the Pacific, despite the humiliation of the Vietnam experience. Japan was an American ally hostile to the Soviet Union for ideological, economic and national reasons. The majority of decolonized states did not look to Moscow for revolutionary guidance. What is worse, the NICs demonstrated that North-South relations need not always be hostile and that co-operation that excluded the communist states could be fruitful. The NICs offered a model for development that excluded and challenged the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union had few assets in the Pacific. Its once great ally, China, had clearly been ‘lost’. Moscow was left with allies among the poorest states of the region: Laos, Kampuchea and Vietnam, and one of the most hermit-like, North Korea. But so long as the Soviet Union remained conservative and cautious, it was unlikely to be very interested in the novel ideas of development being advanced in the Pacific. The challenge was best ignored. The new administration under Gorbachev is a far from wholehearted adherent of reform, but it does appear to be intrigued by the possibilities for change in domestic and foreign policy. The need for reform in the Soviet position in the Pacific is plain to see. Yet the possibilities and probabilities of a greater Soviet involvement in the region depend on a number of domestic and foreign policy considerations. The Domestic Dimension In his trip to the Soviet far east in July 1986, Mikhail Gorbachev waxed lyrical about the ‘immense challenge’ and opportunity for the Soviet Union in the Pacific. Other Soviet writers are equally capable of matching the recent Western hyperbole about the Pacific’s future.5 Yet Gorbachev was blunt about the need for a new strategy in this region because the Soviet far east is growing more slowly than the rest of an already stagnant

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economy. In this resource-rich territory, even fuel has to be imported from European Russia. Of course, there are huge problems if Siberia and the far east are to be transformed into more than just a dumping ground for dissidents. The unforgiving climate is harsh even by Soviet standards. Hard permafrost makes agriculture difficult and industrial and natural resource develop­ ment more complex. There are undoubtedly massive natural resources to be exploited, but the problem is how to overcome natural hardships, and how to attract people and capital to the region.6 In the decade of detente, the 1970s, Japan was seen as the possible provider of capital and technology that would overcome the hardships and attract the people. But Japan saw the economic problems and the Soviet Union was unwilling to provide acceptable terms.7 In the 1980s, Gorbachev sees the necessity for thorough reforms before any foreign investment can be expected. But he also holds out the prospect of ‘exportoriented development’, ‘progressive forms of economic links with foreign countries including production co-operation and joint enterprises’, and a Chinese-style ‘specialized export base’. Industrial co-operation with Japan and agricultural co-operation with China are seen as two main avenues, even if both would require a modicum of flexibility and ideological reform on the part of the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union is in no doubt that the guiding principle of its development must remain ‘socialism ’, but like China it seems to be increasingly flexible about the meaning of the term. The Soviet Union now views its Pacific territory with optimism, albeit tempered with realism. It recognizes the Soviet far east as an area for the future, and the Pacific rim as an arena for the twenty-first century.8 At least under Gorbachev the Soviet Union no longer pretends that the challenge and opportunity for devleopment no longer exists. But the problems remain nearly as acute as they were under Brezhnev. What are the opportunities for development in a region where the configuration of power and influence seems to be so strongly inimical to Soviet interests? The key to Soviet problems is seen in the form of the United States. The United States and the Pacific The enduring priority for Soviet foreign policy remains the United States. By virtue of the superpower predominance in nuclear weapons, both perceive themselves as having a special responsibility to ‘manage’ the future of international relations. In the Soviet perspective, the Pacific is not the primary theatre of this confrontation, even though it has been the site of more bloody wars than any other region since 1945. Wars in Korea and Vietnam were waged in part because the superpowers had unclear, distorted images of where the cold war lines were best drawn. Unlike Europe, strategies of ‘containment’ or calculations of the ‘correlation of forces’ could not be made with any precision because of the complex local conflicts and the existence of several local balances of power. As a result, and despite the active conflicts in the developing world, the

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Pacific remains less militarized than the Atlantic front. Thus it is a primary concern of the Soviet view of the Pacific century that no artificial set of neat alliances like NATO and the Warsaw Pact should be imposed in the Pacific. Despite the existence of ANZUS and the FPDA, both of which Moscow sees as marginal, the demise of SEATO is seen as a positive trend. The Soviet Union fears the United States’ superior military forces in the Pacific and their ability to operate right up to Russia’s Pacific waters. The Sea of Okhotsk may serve as a ‘sea bastion’ for the Soviet submarinelaunched ballistic missile fleet, and the Pacific fleet may have become Moscow’s largest, yet the Russians remain at a clear military disadvantage in the Pacific. The development of a separate Far Eastern Military theatre in 1978, and a forward theatre military command centre on the Pacific in 1986, suggests that the Soviet Union is serious about defending its Pacific interests and primarily against a United States threat.9 The very concept of a Pacific community is something that, until Gorbachev adopted it, the Soviet Union had seen as American-inspired.10 It was perceived as a way to organize American strategic interests in lieu of an equivalent to NATO, and to cope with the Japanese political and economic challenge to American hegemony. As the United States became fed up with bickering European allies, it turned to the more politely pliant Japan. It was also, so the argument went, a way to shore up declining American economic interests and a faltering capitalist system generally. One Soviet observer saw the shift in the United States to the Pacific as a result of President Reagan’s dependence on military-industrial supporters in California and the West in general.11 TTie link to military affairs features strongly in Soviet analyses of a Pacific community. It is seen as a way of tying up a US-Japan-South Korea (and sometimes Taiwan) alliance and sharing the defence burden. By and large the United States is seen as the leading voice in the chorus. Soviet opposition is also related to the notion that such a community would be based on a ‘capitalist mode of production’ and would not co­ operate with the countries of socialism. Gorbachev’s vision is somewhat less ideologically rigid on these issues. The speech of July 1986 was notable for its inclusion of the United States as a ‘great Pacific Ocean power’. This is part of a change of emphasis that no longer rejects the notion of a Pacific community out of hand. It holds out the possibility of co-operation if it is genuinely on a basis of equality for all Pacific basin states. The new Soviet view also argues that such a community would require a peaceful environment, and that in turn would require the United States to cease its efforts to build anti-Soviet alliances. Thus the thrust of the Soviet Pacific initiative is to propose a Pacific version of a Helsinki-like agreement. The principle is that European stability has been assisted by the Helsinki process, and the Pacific, despite its greater complexity, could similarly benefit. The Soviet Union has made clear that this is not a proposal for immediate consideration. Nor does the Soviet Union hold out much prospect for an agreement of this

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sort. But it is notable as a more constructive approach to Pacific problems and one that suggests a willingness to take part in future planning for the area. The moderation of the conservative ideological line also suggests a greater willingness to consider co-operation with states with different social systems, a crucial step that China understood was the basis for its opening to outside-assisted economic development. The new, more moderate Soviet line towards a Pacific community, and in part towards the United States in the region, is clearly a more sophisti­ cated postion. It is also apparently a position that has yet to be fully developed. So much remains unexplored, especially in the Soviet Union’s own domestic reforms, that it is unrealistic to expect a more polished Soviet vision of the Pacific future. But an area that has seen more coherent, and immediate, change is the Soviet Union’s relations with China. China and the Pacific

The challenge of China to the Soviet Union derives from both its size and its more or less shared ideology. As the first - and long predominant Pacific power, China has now fallen to the rank of a mere ‘great power’. But any Soviet calculation about the future trend of politics in the Pacific quickly moves on from a consideration of the United States’ power to a fear of the potential of China. The course of the Sino-Soviet honeymoon, divorce, and most recently dance of detente, is surveyed elsewhere.12Suffice it to say that much of the cause and course of the past 30 years of the relationship can be accounted for by the shifts in Chinese policy. In the 1980s the Soviet Union found that its reasonably consistent policy of mild overtures to China was finally reciprocated by a more moderate China. Since 1982 when China moved more emphatically to a policy of greater independence of both superpowers, there has been a definite warming of Sino-Soviet relations. Troops and tensions along the frontier have been reduced, political relations have been regularly raised to higher levels, and trade has been booming. By 1985 China became the second biggest exporter to the Soviet Union (after Japan) among the Pacific basin states. In the same year China’s total trade with the Soviet Union made it Moscow’s second biggest trading partner in the region, passing Vietnam, although Sino-Soviet trade still ranks at half the Soviet-Japanese total. By 1985 China took 17.8 per cent of total Soviet trade in the region, up from five per cent in 1980. Agreements on future trade make it plain that China will expand its lead over Vietnam and North Korea as the main socialist trading partner of the Soviet Union in the region. China serves as both a market for Soviet industrial goods and a source of light industrial and consumer items, and of course agricultural produce. In fact it is precisely these Chinese exports that hold the key to raising the standard of living for the inhabitants of the Soviet far east and making further development of the region possible. The Soviet Union and China are also competitors in many economic

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spheres, especially in seeking Western technology and finance to develop natural resources. The two communist powers were, and to some extent still are, also competitors in ideological terms. It was this last realm of competition that added to the fierceness of the original split and made the recent ddtente so difficult to begin. By 1986 it became very difficult to disentangle the Soviet and Chinese comments on the simultaneous, but different reform processes now under way in these two giant communist states. For several years both states have refrained from sharp criticisms of each other’s domestic reforms. China was the first to begin major economic reforms and it was difficult for the Russians, for ideological and nationalistic reasons, to accept that China might be doing something innovative and worth emulating. However, once Brezhnev declared that China was a socialist state, in 1982, the way was open for a stagnant Soviet Union to explore the implications of Chinese reforms. Socialist China had opened its doors to joint ventures and special export zones. In 1985 the Soviet Union sent officials to study the programmes, and in 1986 Gorbachev began to take the Soviet Union down its own, often parallel, road to reform. The restoration of party-to-party ties between the states of Eastern Europe and China, with the Kremlin’s benediction, suggests just how far the Soviet Union is willing to treat China as a genuinely socialist state. Although the Soviet reform process is only beginning and China’s is under constant review, it is increasingly clear that the outcome of these twin reforms is crucial to the Soviet view of the Pacific century. While the Soviet Union is intrigued by reforms and new models in the NICs, these offer no socialist model. The problem for the Soviet Union has been in the past that it is precisely the socialist states that were the laggards. China is now enjoying its fastest, most prolonged period of growth since 1949, a fact that impresses its neighbours, not to mention China’s quarter of mankind. Although the dislocation in the Chinese reform caused by the purge of Hu Yaobang in January 1987 upset many Western observers of China, the Soviet Union apparently viewed the changes in a positive light, referring to the concern for safe and careful reform of socialism. Precisely because Chinese reforms have gone so far and still remained socialist, they are both attractive and a challenge to the Soviet Union. Moscow’s preferred vision of the Pacific century is more likely to be a string of friendly, socialist economies that are booming. China and, it is hoped, a similarly reforming Soviet Union could offer positive examples of a socialist model to the Pacific. If both the Soviet Union and China are successful economically, they may come to be seen by their Pacific neighbours as less of a threat because they are engrossed in economic modernization. They could also serve as models to be emulated in other developing economies. The challenge in this reform is that if China is successful, its reforms may be seen as the most suitable model for other developing economies, rather than the Soviet model of reform in a developed economy. Although the

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Soviet far east is more comparable in standard of development to the rest of the Pacific region, the Soviet Union as a whole is still perceived as a developed superpower. Thus if China gains the kudos from the reform of socialism, the Soviet Union might find itself with a greater problem in the Pacific than it did when China was pursuing more radical and obscurantist policies. Japan and the Pacific

The Soviet Union is clearly impressed with Japan. Mikhail Gorbachev said it ‘has turned into a power of front-rank significance’ and has ‘displayed striking accomplishments in industry and trade’.14 Although it is not quite the language of ‘Japan as Number One’ or the ‘Japanese Miracle’, it is a remarkable statement of approval. By some estimates, 1990 will see the Japanese surpass the Soviet Union in total GDP: an economic superpower indeed. The Soviet Union has also seen Japan serve as an engine for change in the Pacific, fuelling the NICs’ expansion and transforming regional trade relationships. Soviet analysts explain this process as part of a capitalist international system where Japan has joined the exploiters of Third World resources and labour. In Soviet discussions of a possible Pacific community they recognize that Japan has often led the movement. The ASEAN states are seen as subject to Japanese manipulation and even the United States is seen as taking a back seat to Japan in recent years.15 Japan’s dependence on Third World resources leads Tokyo to pretend to be generous in foreign aid so as to guarantee its markets and sources of raw materials. This ‘neo-colonialist policy of plunder’ under the guise of ‘learning from Japan’ is said to be a key Japanese characteristic in the new Pacific community.16 The Soviet Union clearly sees a close connection between Japan’s economic policies and the United States’ military strategy. As the Asian ‘unsinkable aircraft carrier’ for the United States, Japan is said to have a ‘special relationship’ with the United States that makes it a special case in the Pacific. It is thus not a country that can be emulated. In economic terms as well, emulation is not suggested. Gorbachev noted the ‘meticulousness, self-discipline and energy’ of the Japanese, but other Soviet analysts have noted the ‘illusion’ of social harmony. Such orthodox analyses suggest that Japan exploits its workers ‘in a more sophisticated way’, making use of weak trade unions, legions of part-time workers and a strong fear of unemployment. Small firms are the ‘buffer’ for hard times, often going bankrupt so that the larger firms can keep going. These same analysts praise Japan’s hard work, innovation in production, instant use of scientific and technological achievement, the elimination of intermediate stages in management and the utmost participation of the workers in drives for quality.17 Clearly there is something for the Soviet Union to leam; but the Japanese system is seen as too different to be emulated except in isolated cases.

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Nevertheless, Japan remains the key to Soviet economic relations in the area. Japan is by far the largest Soviet trading partner in the region. In 1985 it accounted for twice as much trade as its nearest rival, China, and was the region’s leading exporter to the Soviet Union. In 1985 Soviet exports to Japan were 25 per cent of total Soviet exports in the region, although down from 52 per cent in 1980. Japan accounted for 46 per cent of Soviet imports from the region, a figure that has remained more constant in the past five years.18 Yet even this trade pattern is linked to the United States factor. The decline in Japanese trade with the Soviet Union can be largely attributed to the sanctions imposed after the invasion of Afghanistan in 1979 and martial law in Poland in 1981. Soviet and Japanese dreams from the 1970s of closer co-operation have long been buried by a wave of economic caution and political distrust.19 In the 1980s the Soviet Union still sees Japan as the main potential economic link in the basin, but the Russians have scaled down their expectations.20 The Soviet Union would still like to see increased Japanese investment in Siberia and the Soviet far east. Japan hopes for new markets after the collapse of heavy industrial markets in the Middle East. The coincidence of interests is not huge, but it is stronger than at any time in the past five years. Japanese remark that the ‘smiling offensive’ of Gorbachev offers little that is new, especially on the sensitive issue of the northern territories. The Soviet calculation is presumably that only a cosmetic change in Soviet policy is required to ensure that the territorial issue will be placed to one side. The real stumbling block to greater Japanese investment in Siberia or the Soviet far east is an economic one. A more energy-conscious Japan is now less paranoid about energy sources than in the 1970s and therefore less inclined to sink large sums of money into securing new sources of supply. One of Gorbachev’s first foreign policy initiatives was to send Foreign Minister Shevardnadze to Japan with warm words and, of course, many smiles. The Soviet Union has also sought to join the Pacific Economic Co­ operation Conference and has requested Japanese approval (it attended the November 1986 Vancouver meeting only as an observer). There are signs of new ideas in Soviet policy in its greater interest in Pacific economic co-operation, its warmer attitude towards Japan and its more generally open mind. But compared to the real concessions the Soviet Union has made to China, Gorbachev has yet to show any real inititatives towards Tokyo. If the Soviet Union is serious about taking an active part in Pacific economic co-operation, it will have to be bolder and more encouraging to Japan. From Kiribati to Korea

The Soviet Union is critical of the concept of a Pacific community because it has little to offer, but also because Moscow sees the region as too diverse to be sensibly organized. Apart from the diverging interests of the great

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powers, this diversity is also apparent in the range of policies of the other 25-odd states of the region. In the Soviet view, there are five main types of states, all with different potentials and problems. In July 1986, as part of the change taking place in the Soviet view of the Pacific basin, Gorbachev reorganized the departments of the Soviet Foreign Ministry. Three revamped and upgraded directorates were created. The South-east Asian directorate covers the five South-east Asian non-communist states with which the Soviet Union has diplomatic relations, plus Brunei. A second ‘Directorate for Pacific Co-operation’ groups Japan with Australia, New Zealand, and the Pacific Islands. The third directorate deals with socialist Pacific states, including China, North Korea, and the states of Indo-China.21 In reality the Soviet Union is even more discriminating. The first category of states covers the white, former British colonies of Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Canada is usually assessed in the North American and European context. But Australia is the Soviet Union’s fifth largest trading partner in the region and second among non­ communist states. Overall it is the third largest exporter to the Soviet Union. Yet it is debatable whether the Soviet Union is actually terribly concerned about the events in these distant countries, since they are so obviously close partners in the Western system. The Soviet Union sees Australia as ‘an agrarian, raw material appendage’ of the Japanese economy.22 It is an evocative image for the Soviet Union that fears if it entered a Pacific community on Western terms, it too would be relegated to ‘hewing wood’ for the developed, capitalist world. The recent disputes between New Zealand and its ANZUS colleagues have, of course, been of interest and satisfaction to the Soviet Union.2 But such problems are not seen as offering any major opportunity for Moscow, which in any case is more concerned with military than economic relations. New Zealand figures only on the margin of Soviet Pacific trade. These three states as a whole are thus marginal to the Soviet conception of Pacific co-operation. The second group, the Pacific island states, can be seen as a sub-group of the first, although they are much poorer and have only recently begun to achieve independence and establish diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union (for example, Vanuatu in June 1986). Until recently the Soviet Union paid scant attention to these territories, a tacit recognition of the United States’ intention to retain its influence across these islands up to the rim of East Asia. Yet in recent years the Reagan administration’s miserly attitude towards some Pacific island states’ demands for a better deal on fishing rights gave the Soviet Union an opening to exploit. Kiribati signed a fishing pact with the Soviet Union in the spring of 1986, not out of any love for communism, but more to force the United States to open its purse strings.24 This Soviet fishing in troubled waters may yet bring in a profit,

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but as yet is remains a sideshow to more important events in the Pacific basin. The third group of states, ASEAN, has never been a priority of Soviet foreign policy. Their total trade with the Soviet Union roughly equals that of Australia, with a heavy deficit in the ASEAN states’ favour. As developing states, mostly in the Western camp, the ASEAN countries have given the Soviet Union little reason for optimism about prospects for co-operation. Some, like the Philippines, are politically unstable and offer some prospect for gain. But Moscow was one of the last international supporters of the Marcos regime, hardly an auspicious way to begin wooing the Aquino government. Thailand is firmly tied to the United States. The Soviet Union blames the country’s economic problems on Japanese and American capitalist habits, protectionism and high interest rates.25 Similar explanations are given for the failure of ASEAN to become more effective. The two capitalist superpowers are said to want to keep these developing states docile as useful markets. They also fit into regional military schemes like the FPDA and support the Western position over the Vietnamese invasion of Kampuchea. Only Indonesia and Malaysia are seen in a more favourable light as states fighting for a more moderate position on Kampuchea. Clearly an amelioration in the position in Kampuchea would improve Moscow’s standing in ASEAN, but it would hardly transform the region into a major Soviet trading partner. The Soviet interest in this area is political and military rather than economic. The fourth group of states is the unlikely quartet of NICs: South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong and Singapore. None of these states offer any significant prospects for co-operation, albeit for a variety of reasons. The NICs’ economic success is seen as being due to particular circumstances that pose no real challenge to Moscow because the circumstances cannot be repeated or emulated. Only Singapore has any significant trade with the Soviet Union, involving some $265 million in exports to the Soviet Union in 1985. But both Singapore and Hong Kong are ‘island states’ with economies geared heavily to exports to the capitalist world. Their labour practices are distinctly unsavoury to the Soviet Union. Taiwan has always been out of bounds to the Soviet Union, largely because of Moscow’s ‘one China’ policy. In its current phase of wooing Beijing, it would be unthinkable for the Soviet Union to risk China’s ire by courting an anti-communist Taiwan that in any case is not interested in economic relations with the Soviet Union. South Korea is perhaps the most interesting challenge to the Soviet Union. As an enemy of a Soviet ally in North Korea, it is not accessible for extensive trade (not that China has been similarly deterred). Seoul is seen as closely tied economically and militarily to the United States. It is also seen as a restrictive regime rendered unstable by widespread opposition

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from students. South Korea’s economic policy has resulted in high debts, slums and large wage differentials, and the economic boom is seen as artificially maintained by Japan and the United States.27 Yet the Soviet Union is not oblivious to the ‘relatively rapid industrial growth’ in South Korea (and indeed the other NICs) and their growing impact on international trade. The ‘multinational corporations’ of the NICs have appeared where ‘traditional imperialism’ has been discouraged by some developing states. Soviet and Marxist theoreticians have obviously been debating the meaning of the new East Asian forms of capitalism. They console themselves with the belief that even more intense competition in the capitalist world is creating greater contradic­ tions. But Moscow is also aware that these countries are going ‘from strength to strength’ and their ‘dynamic expansion’ is irrefutable.28 Despite the proud propaganda, the challenge to the Soviet world view is clear. South Korean (and indeed Taiwanese) support for a Pacific community is explained by the phrase ‘he who pays the piper calls the tune’.29The real Soviet interest is therefore the impact that South Korea has on the prospects for stability in the region. The growing gap between the standards of living in the two Koreas and the imminent succession in North Korea has made Moscow worry about the future. Like China, it would prefer to see a peaceful environment on the Korean peninsula. Thus both Moscow and Beijing have stepped up the pressure on Pyongyang to reform its economy, but both are loath to push too far for fear of an irrational response. The real Soviet interest in this area is therefore concentrated on the socialist states. North Korea and the Indo-Chinese states account for twothirds of Soviet exports to the socialist states in the region and about onequarter of total Soviet trade in that area. The Soviet Union imports only 20 per cent of its goods in the region from these states. The vast majority of this trade is accounted for by Vietnam and North Korea. Vietnam became the leading Soviet export market in the region in 1984 and Moscow managed to export three times as much as its imports from these communist states as a whole. But by 1985 Vietnam slipped to third among Soviet trade partners in the region as China regained its place as Moscow’s main socialist trading partner in the Pacific basin. The pressure is on Vietnam, especially as the Indo-Chinese states (and Vietnam in particular) take huge amounts of Soviet aid and are drains on Soviet and Comecon resources. An unprecedented CPSU Central Committee conference on Vietnam was held in January 1987, suggesting that Soviet pressure on Vietnam to reform may be softened by promises of new economic aid.30 Interestingly enough, the Soviet Union does distinguish between the different types of regimes. North Korea is the longest established, but is given somewhat less importance than Vietnam because of its smaller population and its close relations with China. Vietnam is seen as the most important, but still a ‘backward economy’ with small-scale production and a low technological level. But in view of its population, provision of

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bases, and perhaps also its serious economic problems, it has been made a Comecon member, albeit a second-class one. Laos is seen as having similar characteristics to Vietnam, but is far less important in strategic terms. Kampuchea is still said to be in the process of ‘rebirth’ and, because of the continuing war on its soil, is seen as less firmly established.31 As a result, the Soviet Union does not seem to be even hinting at the idea of establishing an East Asian version of Comecon. The notion of the diversity of the Pacific is clearly extended to the socialist sub-section as well. In political terms, these states are an even greater burden to the Soviet Union. North Korea helps create instability in an area where Moscow wants more peace and quiet to facilitate contacts with Japan and China. Vietnam offers Moscow military bases but sullies the Soviet name by its expansionist policies. All these states are to varying degrees in economic difficulties, and therefore a poor advertisement for the Soviet model. Of course, the Soviet Union sees the United States and to some extent China as responsible for this poor state of affairs. In reality, the problem has far more to do with the specific policies of the small states concerned. In the midst of the Gorbachev reforms, this last point is increasingly acknowledged in Moscow. North Korea is being encouraged to experiment with joint ventures and export zones. Vietnam is being pushed to moderate its hard line against economic and social reform. The prospects for building a dynamic socialist bloc in the Pacific are not encouraging. To some extent they depend on the course of reforms in China and the Soviet Union. They also hinge on the changes in leadership in Vietnam and the expected ones in North Korea. Just as the Pacific as a whole is dealt with primarily on a bilateral basis, so it seems the socialist states need to be treated individually. In such an environment it is understandable, not to mention sensible, that the Soviet Union should be sceptical of grandiose theorizing about a Pacific community. Soviet Strategy and the Pacific Century The Soviet Union has natural Pacific horizons, but few realistic means to travel the distance. Until the Gorbachev era, the Soviet Union responded to its limited options with sullenness, a large fleet and an offhand dismissal of the possibility of Pacific-wide co-operation. Most Soviet discussion of the Pacific was set in military-strategic terms. For an area most notable for its economic dynamism, this attitude helped ensure that the Soviet Union made little progress. Gorbachev’s change has been to adopt a more positive attitude to the region as a whole, and in particular to the possibilities of economic reform and international co-operation. It is clear that this change is still in its infancy, and subject to significant ‘back-chat’ in the Kremlin.32 As Gorbachev himself has noted, the Pacific basin itself is ‘in great motion’ and very ‘diverse’, thus providing plenty of ammunition to those who wish to draw contrary conclusions about the implications of specific trends.

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Nevertheless, it is possible to identify a number of more or less clear trends in Soviet strategy towards Pacific co-operation. First, the Soviet Union is determined to be more positive about the possibilities for Pacific-wide co-operation. At a minimum, such an attitude will make life more difficult for the United States and Japan, which might hope to weld an association of capitalist economies in the region. A more positive Soviet attitude might also help bring together its own socialist allies, albeit not into as coherent a bloc as the Soviet Union maintains in Europe. Second, the Soviet Union is likely to remain deeply sceptical about the broad practical possibilities of co-operation in the Pacific. Even Soviet officials appreciate that the idea of a Pacific-wide version of the Helsinki conference is not a major proposal or one that stands even the remotest chance of being implemented quickly. Soviet-style co-operation is likely to be bilateral, and possibly multilateral, on a limited scale among the socialist states. Both Japan and China are the main objects of Soviet courtship, although for different reasons. Third, the Soviet Union is likely to push its socialist allies harder than it has in the past. North Korea and Vietnam are already feeling the pressure. The other two allies are far less important in economic terms, and Kampuchea is certainly hampered by its special circumstances as a state in civil war. But even a marginally more successful and peaceful Vietnam and North Korea will have a major impact on the Soviet image in the region, its economic burden, and its possibilities for wider influence in the Pacific. In the five years since 1980, Soviet trade with socialist East Asian states has nearly doubled from 27 to 49 per cent of total Soviet trade with the region. Between 1980 and 1985 Soviet exports to the socialist states had risen from 42 to 71 per cent of total Soviet exports to the region. There is clearly great scope for a more vibrant socialist trading ‘community’ even if Moscow cannot break into the capitalist community. The Soviet key is expanding relations with China and reform in other parts of the socialist world. Fourth, the byword for Soviet foreign and domestic policy is likely to be reform. The question of how far and how fast the Soviet Union moves is tied up with complex questions of Soviet ideology, bureaucratic politics and economics. But Gorbachev is certainly clear in his appreciation that reform is needed in the Soviet far east, and in the region’s relations with other states nearby. The problems facing the Soviet Union are immense. If these changes are to be anything more than fleeting or simply rhetorical, Moscow will have to be serious in implementing reform, in adopting more flexible policies towards China and Japan, and in pushing its allies to similar flexibility and reform. The great risk is that Moscow will continue to perceive the region primarily in military terms. It is true that it still accounts for only some six per cent of total Soviet trade, and economic policy is not an area where the Soviet Union has obvious attractions to

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other states. But if reform and a more economic-oriented foreign policy are not adopted, then the Soviet Union is sure to remain peripheral to the dynamism that is the Pacific. NOTES Gerald Segal is the editor of the new quarterly journal, The Pacific Review, and is Lecturer in Politics at the University of Bristol. His recent publications include Defending China (1985), Sino-Soviet Relations After Mao (1985), and The Guide to the World Today (1987); he is also editor of The Soviet Union in East Asia (1984) and Arms Control in Asia (1987). 1. BBC Summary of World Broadcasts (SWB), SU/8324/C/15. 2. Malcolm Mckintosh, ‘Soviet Attitudes Towards East Asia*, in Gerald Segal (ed.), The Soviet Union in East Asia (London: Heinemann, 1983). 3. B.N. Slavinski, ‘Russia and the Pacific to 1917’, in John Stephan and V.P. Chichkanov (eds.), Soviet— American Horizons on the Pacific (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press, 1986). 4. Glynn Barratt, Russia in Pacific Waters, 1715-1825 (Vancouver, BC: University of British Columbia Press, 1981). 5. See note 1, and Moscow TV, 2 Aug. 1986, in FBIS-SOV-86-150. 6. Allen Whiting, Siberian Development and East Asia (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1981). The use of the term ‘far east’ follows Whiting’s usage: it refers only to that portion of the USSR that is east of the Urals, and thus is larger than simply the specific administrative region of the Soviet Far East. 7. Kazuyuki Kinbara, ‘The Economic Dimension of Soviet Policy*, in Segal, op. cit. 8. I. G^vrichev, ‘The Asian Pacific Region’, International Affairs (Moscow), 1986, No.7; Aleksandr Bogomolov, ‘Problems of Cooperation in the Pacific Region’, International Affairs (Moscow), 1987, No.l; and ‘Evolution of Pacific Cooperation Ideas’, Far Eastern Affairs (Moscow), 1987, No.l. 9. The question of the military balance is hotly debated: see various discussions in Segal, op. cit., and in Donald Zagoria (ed.), Soviet Policy in East Asia (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983). 10. See note 8, and S. Bilveer, ‘The Pacific Community Concept: The View from Moscow’, The World Today, Jan. 1985. 11. For examples of Soviet commentary, see N. Tripolsky, ‘Plans to Set Up a Pacific Community: A Fresh Threat to Peace*, Far Eastern Affairs, 1985, No.2; Pravda, 3 Sept. 1986, in FBIS-SOV-86-172; International Observers Round Table, on Moscow Domestic Service, 3 Aug. 1986, in FBIS-SOV-1986-150; A. Bovin in Izvestiya, 14 July 1986, in FBIS-SOV-1986-146. 12. Gerald Segal, Sino-Soviet Relations After Mao, Adelphi Paper No.202 (London: International Institute for Strategic Studies, 1985); and most recently ‘Sino-Soviet Detente: How Far, How Fast?’, The World Today, May 1987. 13. Figures are from IMF, Directions of Trade, 1986, The Economist Intelligence Unit, Foreign Trade News (Moscow), 1985, No.4, in JPRS-SEA-85-107; and Vientiane Pasason, 27 Nov. 1985, in JPRS-SEA-86-025. 14. BBC SWB, SU/8324/C/11. 15. FBIS-SOV-86-177. 16. O. Vasiliev, ‘Japan: Behind the Screen of Economic Aid*, Far Eastern Affairs, 1985, No.4. 17. V. Solntsev, ‘The Other Side of the Japanese Miracle*, International Affairs, 1986, No.8. 18. See note 12. 19. Wolf Mendl, ‘The Soviet Union and Japan’, in Segal, op. cit.; Hiroshi Kimura, ‘Soviet Policies in the Asian Pacific Region’, Asian Affairs, Vol.I 1, No.4 (Winter 1985). 20. Literatumaya Gazeta, 6 Aug. 1986, in FBIS-SOV-86-151; Pravda, 31 July 1986, in

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FBIS-SOV-86-148. 21. Far Eastern Economic Review, 14 Aug. 1986. 22. Tripolsky, ‘Pacific Community*, p. 119. 23. Kapitsa in New Zealand, in Wellington Evening Post, 27 Aug. 1986, in FBIS-SOV-86169; Izvestiya, 13 Aug. 1986, in FBIS-SOV-1986-160. 24. Pravda, 19 Aug. 1986, in FBIS-SOV-86-160; Pravda, 2 Sep. 1986, in FBIS-SOV-86175. 25. Moscow Radio in Thai, 14 Sept. 1986, in FBIS-SOV-86-180. 26. V. Andreyev and V. Semenov, ‘Prospects and Opponents of Dialogue in Southeast Asia*, International Affairs, 1986, No.2; Izvestiya, 8 Sept. 1986, in FBIS-SOV-87-177. 27. D. Kapustin, ‘South Korea: Mounting Resistance to the Anti-Popular Regime’, Far Eastern Affairs, 1986, No.8; A. Berenzov, ‘Multinational Companies of Hong Kong, Taiwan, and South Korea’, ibid., 1983, No.l; Peter Berton, ‘The Soviet Union and Korea: Perceptions, Scholarship, Propaganda*, Journal of Northeast Asian Studies, Vol.5, No.l (Spring 1986). 28. Berenzov, ‘Multinational Companies’. 29. Tripolsky, ‘Pacific Community*, p. 120. 30. Moscow Domestic Service, 5 Jan. 1987, in BBC SWB, SU/8459/A3/1. 31. M. Isayev and I. Ognetov, ‘Development of Cooperation Among the Countries of Indochina’, Far Eastern Affairs, 1984, No.4; also M. Ukraintsev, ‘The Soviet Union’s Growing Cooperation with Asian Socialist Nations and Kampuchea’, ibid., 1986, No.l. 32. Far Eastern Economic Review, 14 Aug. 1986.

China and the Asia-Pacific Region Michael B. Yahuda

In the 1980s the People’s Republic of China has sought, and to some extent gained, greater interdependence within the Asia-Pacific region. It has, for example, become a member of the Pacific Economic Co-operation Conference (PECC), a semi-official body that is more a ‘talking-shop’ than an inter-govemmental agency, of which it is the only socialist member. However, China’s involvement in the PECC and its greater interaction with the Asia—Pacific region are not without their problems. China seeks an independent foreign policy, but the maintenance of its strategic outlook depends on the continuity of a stable international environment, which China can influence but not determine. There appears to be room for conflict between the desire for interdependence and China’s search for its own ‘path to socialism’. Moreover, within the Asia—Pacific region other countries have ambivalent attitudes towards closer co-operation with China.

In November 1986 the People’s Republic of China (PRC) participated for the first time in an international organization aimed exclusively at the promotion of co-operation between the countries of the Pacific Basin. The PRC’s participation in the Pacific Economic Co-operation Con­ ference (PECC)1 in Vancouver formalized not only its interest in the Pacific Basin, but also its acceptance by all the other participants as the organization’s only socialist member. The PECC is in many respects well suited to accommodate the PRC. Chinese observers attended the 1979 conference in Canberra that led to the first formal session of the PECC the following year in Bangkok. Begun as the result mainly of Japanese initiatives, the PECC is a semi-official body made up of academics, businessmen and officials representing their respective states, with various international bodies attending as observers. It does not commit governments and the officials claim to speak in a personal capacity. Operating by consensus it avoids voting and majority decisions. The PECC meets every 18 months and the Vancouver meeting was its fifth. Despite its loose structure and non-governmental character the PECC was able to agree at its meeting in Bangkok to set up four working groups or ‘task forces’ on regional trade, on agriculture and raw materials, on foreign investments, and on the transfer of technology. The focus on the more technical aspects of economic exchanges and the avowedly non­ political character of the PECC as opposed to earlier ideas of a Pan-Pacific community all mean that the PRC stands to gain by membership without fear of being committed to positions with which it disagrees. The PRC’s foreign economic relations are heavily weighted towards the

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Pacific Basin countries and it has a manifest interest in not being excluded from the deliberations that will facilitate still more extensive economic transactions in the area. Thus, since the 1970s China’s trade with the PECC countries plus Hong Kong has accounted for between 60 and 67 per cent of the value of its total world trade. This proportion has held good as the value of the PRC’s international trade has grown from US$11.93 billion ($1,193 million) in 1974 to US$69,863 billion in 19852 and to US$73.8 billion in 1986.3 Not only has the significance of this trade grown in the development of the Chinese domestic economy and in the efforts at modernization, but it has also increased China’s weight in the trade of the Pacific Basin itself. For example, in the admittedly exceptional year of 1985 China ranked as Japan’s second-most important trading partner with twoway trade valued at more than US$22 billion. But the PRC’s incorporation into the PECC specifically, and the Pacific Basin more broadly, is not without serious problems both as perceived from with China and as seen by several other member countries. These problems may be examined within the framework of three broad clusters of concerns about the adaptability of the PRC in moving towards ever greater interdependence in the Pacific area. First, China’s geopolitical interests and the strategic outlook of its leaders; second, the adaptablity of its political and economic systems to ever deepening interdependent relationships; and third, the receptivity of other countries in the Pacific rim to a regionalized long-term partnership with the PRC. China’s Geopolitical Position and Strategic Outlook

The proclaimed foreign policy of independence enunciated since 1982 has brought China into a more balanced relationship with the United States and the Soviet Union. It has provided a framework on the Chinese side for a considerable improvement in Sino-Soviet relations.4 But Zhao Ziyang’s observation in 1984 that China was ‘independent but not equidistant’ between the two superpowers is still relevant. Similarly Deng Xiaoping’s remark to Ronald Reagan in the course of his visit to China in April of that year also continues to apply. He stated to the American President: ‘We agree with what you are doing in the Pacific’.5 Not only have the Chinese not protested against American bases in Japan and the Philippines but they tacitly co-operate with the Americans on the Afghan and IndoChinese issues. Both are in effect separate allies of Pakistan and Thailand and they supply different kinds of aid to the resistance forces in Afghanistan and Kampuchea. From their different perspectives they also share concern about increasing Soviet military influence over North Korea, and there is evidence of a degree of Sino-American diplomatic co-operation about some Korean issues.6 PRC leaders have repeatedly stated that their country ‘will never attach itself to any other state or bloc of states’. Nevertheless the tacit tilt towards the United States is evident from the asymmetric character of the PRC’s relations with the two superpowers. Although the immediacy of the Soviet threat may have diminished in

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recent years, the Soviet Union still remains the most direct security threat to China. Its facilities for imposing a military encirclement around China are still in place. And despite different views as to how to handle the Soviet Union and to manage relations with the two superpowers, Deng Xiaoping’s public position that significant Soviet concessions on Vietnam are the preconditions for a meeting between him and Gorbachev appears to be definitive.7 The threat from the United States is perceived as latent and long term apart from the problem of Taiwan. Meanwhile the improvement in Sino-Soviet relations which has led to various agreements on economic, scientific and cultural exchanges and included various institutionalized meetings at the levels of Vice-Foreign Ministers and occasionally Vice-Premier levels does still not compare in either quantity or quality with those of Sino-American relations.8 To take but one example, the value of Sino-Soviet trade has leaped from US $363 million in 1982 to US$3.61 billion in 1986, but that of Sino-American trade in 1986 was US$7.34 billion (that is, more than double).9 Chinese strategic perspectives in the 1980s involve a greater orientation to the Pacific or what they call the ‘Asia-Pacific region’. This is perceived as a region in which Soviet-American rivalry is increasing. Indeed Chinese scholars debate the significance of the economic dynamism of the region. Some argue that as ‘the centre of the world economy has shifted to the Pacific, ... the focus of the rivalry of the two hegemonists will also switch from Europe to the Asia-Pacific region’. Others argue, however, that they expect ‘the focus of rivalry [to] remain in Europe for the next 15 years’. Interestingly, PRC leaders and scholars are prepared to assert in public that China plays an active part in shaping the balance of forces in the Asia-Pacific region. Chinese scholars differ in the significance they attach to what they perceive as growing multi-polarity in world affairs; but whether or not they hold the view that two superpowers are still dominant, they all concur in the rising influence of China.12 China’s role is rarely outlined in detail except to suggest that, alongside other centres such as Japan, Western Europe and the Third World, China too acts as a constraint upon the hegemonic behaviour of the two superpowers. More specifically in the Asia-Pacific region China claims to be contributing to the emergence of a more peaceful and stable structure of relations. Several practical measures have been identified beyond the propa­ gandists: effective opposition to the Vietnamese occupation of Kampuchea and to that of the Soviet Union in Afghanistan; the establish­ ing of an ever-widening network of economic relations with all the countries of the Pacific rim, including the Soviet Union and the ASEAN countries as well as the main industrialized countries; the establishing of long-term agreements for regaining effective sovereignty over Hong Kong and Macao on the basis of ‘one country, two systems’, which, it is claimed, will have far-reaching effects in further stabilizing the region as a whole, in addition to paving the way for a peaceful reunification with Taiwan. However, as we have seen, China still tilts towards the United States on

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fundamental security questions in the region. That tilt is nevertheless qualified. Apart from the problem of Taiwan, there is no doubt that in the long run the leaders of the PRC aspire to a genuinely independent and equidistant relationship between the two superpowers and that their current foreign policy is designed to gain time while domestically the country focuses upon modernization and building up its economic and military strength. As a result China’s immediate policies towards the Soviet Union are to await further significant evidence of the scaling down of the Soviet threat to China.13 Meanwhile, the Chinese have made clear their unwillingness to join a Pacific movement that could become ‘a cover for the Americans to mobilize other countries against the Soviet Union’; and part of the PECC’s appeal to them is that it excludes political and strategic matters from its considerations. In a similar vein the Chinese have indicated that they would not even consider joining the ASEAN post-ministerial dialogue.14 Despite China’s growing orientation towards the Pacific, a glance at the map will show that China does not share a land border with a single one of its fellow PECC members. Even as its broad economic and technological interests combine with China’s long coastline and maritime interests to push it towards ever-closer engagement with the Pacific, China’s leaders must be mindful of its national security interests in Inner Asia. The latter involve not only the 4,500-mile border within the Soviet Union (and Mongolia), but also relations with bordering Afghanistan, Pakistan and India. Although China is not in the position of the United States and the Soviet Union, both of which have stronger orientations towards the Atlantic and Europe, the PRC too cannot be considered to be wholly a Pacific power. The PRC is still engaged in conflict over territories and borders with India and the Soviet Union (notwithstanding the latter’s recent conces­ sion on the river borders), and there are still outstanding minor land border disputes with Vietnam and North Korea. The PRC has also territorial claims to islands and shoals, sea-bed and maritime zones that have led to actual or incipient disputes with South Korea, Japan, Vietnam, the Philippines and Malaysia. From a general strategic and geopolitical perspective the PRC is faced with complex problems of transition as its leaders and foreign affairs specialists struggle with the implications of becoming economically and politically ever more engaged in the Pacific. At present they recognize that their current interests are best served by American predominance in the Pacific, but they have no wish to become locked into an unequal partnership. In any case the Asia-Pacific region is regarded as an area of increasing Soviet-American rivalry and there is uncertainty as to how it may develop.15Much depends, in the Chinese view, on whether the Soviet Union under Gorbachev will respond positively to Chinese fears of encirclement. In addition to the much-noted ‘Three Obstacles’ (the military deployments in the north, Afghanistan and Indo-China), the Chinese will also follow closely Soviet behaviour in Korea. It remains to

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be seen whether the Soviet Union will seek to obstruct attempts to moderate the North-South Korean conflict. In other words, from a Chinese perspective it is still not clear whether the Soviet Union will accept that it cannot consolidate its own security at the cost of Chinese insecurity and still expect the Chinese to distance themselves from the United States. In the context of China’s military weakness relative to the two super­ powers (which is expected to continue into the next century), China’s leaders are acutely aware of the constraints imposed on their indepen­ dence by the character of the relations between the United States and the Soviet Union, both globally and regionally. The assertion of the inde­ pendent foreign policy in 1982 was predicated on a change in that relationship towards a more even balance.16 Even though the Chinese leaders expect this to continue at least for the duration of China’s current five-year plan (until 1990), they recognize a volatility in that balance, and opinions differ among Chinese scholars about long-term trends.17 Ultimately, then, the continuity of China’s independent foreign policy (and perhaps also of the domestic programme of modernization) is dependent upon the continuity of a secure international environment which the Chinese recognize that they can influence, but not control. But China’s current policy of independence is fundamentally different from the isolationism of the late 1960s. Not only is China more deeply engaged and enmeshed in a variety of international relationships, but within the Asia-Pacific region China has developed complex networks of relations with specific countries and sub-regions that are no longer directly linked to its relations with the two superpowers. Until the 1980s it was possible to argue that China’s relations with the countries within its region were a function of its relations with the two superpowers, and as a result it has been suggested that China did not have a regional policy.18It remains to be seen whether the more variegated patterns of relations established with, say, Japan, ASEAN and Australasia would survive a major realignment in China’s relations with the United States and the Soviet Union. The Adaptability of China’s Political and Economic Systems

China is the only socialist member of the PECC. The loose structure of the organization ensures that it can absorb the PRC and that the PRC’s domestic arrangements are not challenged by having become a member. Nevertheless the ethos of the other members is oriented in favour of economic interdependence. Interdependence, or mutual dependence, however, does pose problems for the PRC since it would necessarily compromise the ideal of independence and the search for an authentically Chinese form of socialism. How to balance independence and depend­ ence may be seen as one of the major dilemmas posed by China’s modem historical experience to successive generations of Chinese leaders and intellectuals. Since the unification of the Chinese state in 1949 the issue may be conceived of as a choice between two extremes. At one pole is an

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isolationist stance, according to which within its borders the PRC may develop an ideologically pure native form of socialism based on economic autarky. At the other pole is an independent state devoid of ideological unity and Chinese socialist identity. Both extremes pose dangers of national humiliation and disintegration: the first through increasing technological backwardness that in time would threaten foreign aggres­ sion by technologically superior adversaries, as in the nineteenth century; and the second through the collapse of national cohesion. It is beyond the scope of this article to examine the impact of this dilemma upon the reform process as it has unfolded since 1978. It is sufficient to point out that reform and the policies of the ‘open door’ have involved a process of adaptation to hitherto alien economic and cultural influences. That process not only raised questions about the threat of a capitalist erosion of Chinese socialist values and institutions, but it also raised issues as to whether those values and institutions themselves were truly socialist, since they were said to be too imbued with vestiges of traditional Chinese ‘feudalism’.19 The fact that the latter view has been submerged (perhaps only temporarily) by the current that opposes ‘bourgeois liberalization’ does not mean that the problem is less real. Moreover, as Deng Xiaoping has stated publicly, political reform - which can only mean the diminution of the powers currently exercised by the communist party - is still on the agenda for the thirteenth party congress, due to be held in October 1987. Since these ideological and political struggles are taking place against the background of an impending issue of succession that is at once personal and generational, profound questions remain about the adaptability of China’s political structures to meet the challenges of Pacific inter­ dependence. Meanwhile, the PRC has committed itself to making various domestic economic changes to meet the entry requirements of certain international economic organizations. The fact that not all of these have been openly revealed in Chinese publications is highly suggestive of the sensitivity raised by the issues. For example, after the country joined the World Bank and the IMF, Chinese researchers in economic institutes of the Academy of Social Science were surprised to discover that foreign experts of these organizations were given access to Chinese economic statistics that they themselves had never seen before.20Similarly, the PRC has yet to reveal to its domestic public that as part of its application to join the General Agreements on Tariffs and Trade (GATT), it undertook, in a submission made in February 1987, to continue the process of price reform so as to bring the prices of its commodities in line with true production costs. The issue of price reform in China is extraordinarily sensitive, as it is for other communist countries. The inflationary and destabilizing effects of price reform for China’s urban population were such that in November 1986 Prime Minister Zhao promised to maintain the existing price structure for the whole of 1987. At a deeper level, price reform is at the heart of the difference between the centralist and reformist tendencies in China. The

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kind of price reform that the PRC has undertaken to carry out in order to meet the GATT criteria would entail far greater structural reforms of the Chinese economy than currently envisaged in any of the published economic programmes. The economic, administrative and political problems that would surely arise from any attempt to carry out these undertakings are so great as to cast doubt on the PRC’s capacity to do so. Any attempt to carry out such a fundamental price reform on the grounds of the need to meet international obligations might risk a nationalist backlash against the apparent loss of economic independence. But if the PRC were to continue to insulate its domestic economy and its price structures from the international (capitalist) economy it would limit its access to the international market where the benefits of its comparative advantage and those of freer trade would boost its own economy. On the other hand there is no sign that the PRC is in a position to burst the ‘bubble’ through which the transactions between the domestic and international economy are currently managed.21 These considerations will necessarily limit the degree of the PRC’s engagement in the economy of the Pacific region. Attitudes to China as a Pacific Partner

Chinese scholars and officials like to argue that economically China needs the Pacific and the Pacific needs China. This view is certainly shared in the United States. Indeed the United States was instrumental in assisting the entry of the PRC into the PECC.22 Successive American administrations have held that it is in the American interest for China to become a stable and prosperous country that is fully engaged in the Pacific basin. With the exception of the Taiwan issue Washington argues that there are no major conflicts of interest with China. The enthusiasm for partnership with China (in part to counter-balance the dependency on economic relations with Japan and the United States) is shared by Canada, Australia and New Zealand. The attitudes of China’s putative partners nearer at hand in East Asia are more complex and suspicious. At a general level there is concern about becoming entangled in China’s relations with the superpowers and fear of the instability of Chinese politics. Because of the asymmetries in size and potential there is also long-term concern as to what a more powerful and modernized China might portend for its neighbours, especially in view of the historical legacy of China’s ‘weight’ before the advent of the West. Moreover, unlike its smaller neighbours, the PRC is directly engaged in all the major international security problems of East Asia, including the Korean peninsula, Taiwan and Indo-China. These countries have been anxious not to become engaged in conflicts outside their own immediate sub-region. Even within their own sub-regions there is no sign of the emergence of an approach to regional order that would or could accommodate the PRC.23 Japan, which might have been thought to be at the forefront of those

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with an interest in drawing China into an association of Pacific countries, has in fact been rather cautious. It is true that in 1978 Japan signed a treaty of peace and friendship with China that was perceived in both Moscow and Beijing as helpful to China in its then growing conflict with the Soviet Union; it is also true that the Japanese premier, Nakasone, and the general secretary of the CCP, Hu Yaobang, in 1982 signed an agreement that set up a Sino-Japanese Committee for the twenty-first century. But the Japanese have not responded positively to Deng Xiaoping’s sugges­ tions to establish mutually dependent relations that have been made at various times between 1979 and 1986.24 Japan’s reluctance to institu­ tionalize relations with China still further despite their closeness can be ascribed to several factors.25 First, Japan ultimately seeks relatively equidistant relations with China, the Soviet Union and the United States. For example, in 1978 it explicitly sought to reassure the Soviet Union that its treaty with China was not directed against third countries. Second, Japan is sensitive to residual hostility towards it in China and it is suspicious of China’s tendency to make rapid changes of course in both economic and political matters. Third, it fears possible Chinese economic rivalry, it withholds transfers of the most advanced technologies, and, in comparison with the United States, it is a reluctant investor in China. Finally, Japan is sensitive to ASEAN countries’ complaints that China is favoured against their economic interests. Beyond these considerations there are still influential right-wingers in the Liberal-Democratic Party who lean towards Taiwan, and other Japanese are concerned lest the PRC might involve them in its attempts to reunify with the island. South Korean attitudes towards the PRC are necessarily shaped by the deeper problems of the Korean peninsula. Since the South Korean government and its American ally seek recognition of both North and South Korea by the great powers of the region, it has drawn satisfaction from the PRC’s accession to the PECC, of which it too is a member. By the same token, however, the other smaller states of East Asia have sought to avoid being drawn into the conflicts of the Korean peninsula. For example, the 1981 proposal by the South Korean president, Chun Dooh Hwan, that there should be a meeting of heads of state of the PECC fell on deaf ears. The countries of ASEAN are suspicious of China in the long run. Malaysian and Indonesian leaders have often made it clear that they fear China in the long term, and that they would prefer to think of Vietnam as a kind of buffer between them and China. Meanwhile the ASEAN countries continue to oppose Vietnam’s forcible imposition of a govern­ ment of its choosing on Kampuchea. As long as Thailand, the front-line state, continues to regard Vietnam’s military pressure as a threat to its national security, the other ASEAN states have no alternative but to support it and its quasi-alliance with China. However, should a break in the Indo-Chinese stalemate occur and a settlement become possible, the underlying different regional objectives between China and the ASEAN countries would emerge more clearly.26

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In addition, the ASEAN countries fear China as an emerging economic rival in world markets and they have already protested to Japan and the United States about their relative neglect in favour of China. Interest­ ingly, in the 1980s economic relations between China and the ASEAN countries have expanded - largely, but not wholly, through the com­ mercial activities of the overseas Chinese. The PRC has also sought to persuade ASEAN countries that in many respects their economies are complementary and that they can profitably expand what Beijing calls ‘South-South’ trade.27 Scholars from their respective governmental think-tanks regularly hold conferences, and the earlier void in com­ munications between the two sides is being filled to a certain degree. However, the suspicions of the PRC over the long term are reinforced by concerns about its continued party relations with local communist parties, about its relations with the ethnic Chinese in South-east Asia, and about its maritime territorial claims in the South China Sea.28 Conclusion The incorporation of the PRC into the various economic networks that characterize Pacific relations has been gathering pace in the 1980s. This is above all symbolized by the PRC’s accession to the PECC. However, as analysed above, there are deep-seated problems stemming from the PRC’s special strategic interests, the character of its political and economic system, and the approaches of its East Asian neighbours, all of which stand in the way of a deeper engagement by the PRC in the Pacific Basin. By setting aside the previous ideals of a trans-Pacific community in favour of the more modest forum of the PECC and its various task forces that focus on the technicalities of economic relations, the advanced industrialized countries of the area have made China’s participation possible. But by the same token, the PRC’s membership of the PECC will ensure that the potentialities for the growth of regionalism in the area will remain distinctly modest for the foreseeable future. Nevertheless, the implications for the PRC of becoming more deeply engaged even in these ‘modest’ regional arrangements are very great. Much will depend on whether the process of reform in China will continue or be arrested. A deepening Chinese linkage with the other countries of the Pacific rim could contribute to greater stability and pave the way for the amelioration of the many actual and incipient disputes involving China. Finally, it should be noted that China’s deeper engagement with the Asia-Pacific region is paralleled by growing ties with the Soviet Union and the East European countries. The two developments supplement each other, but they also indicate that China’s open door is open in several directions simultaneously. Clearly China’s leaders seek to develop foreign economic relations of an omni-directional kind that will underpin the assertion of an independent foreign policy. While this may pave the way for closer relations with other socialist countries as well as with the

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countries of the Asia-Pacific region, the extent to which China is success­ ful with both will set limits to its integration with either. NOTES Michael Yahuda is Senior Lecturer in the Department of International Relations at the London School of Economics and Political Science. He is the author of China's Role in World Affairs (1978) and China's Foreign Policy after Mao (1983); he recently edited New Directions in the Social Sciences and Humanities in China (1987). 1. Members of the PECC include Australia, Canada, Japan, New Zealand, the United States, South Korea, the original five (now six) members of ASEAN (Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Singapore, Thailand and Brunei), and the South Pacific islands represented jointly. The Soviet Union attended with observer status, a position normally taken up by other international organizations such as the Pacific Basin Economic Council (PBEC), the Pacific Trade and Development Conference (PAFT&D), and the Asia Development Bank (ADB). 2. Drawn from IMF, Direction of Trade Statistics Yearbook (Washington, IX!: IMF), 1981, pp.121-3, and 1986, pp.137-9. 3. Communique of the State Statistics Bureau, 20 Feb. 1987, in BBC Summary of World Broadcasts (SWB), FE/8500/C1/7. 4. For details see Gerald Segal, Sino-Soviet Relations after Mao, Adelphi Paper 202 (London: International Institute for Strategic Studies, 1985); see also the same author’s ‘Sino-Soviet Relations: Progress and Problems’, in Douglas T. Stuart (ed.), Security Within the Pacific Rim (London: Gower, 1987), pp.8-96. 5. See Jonathan Mirsky, ‘The United States in East Asia: China’s Response’, in Michael Leifer (ed.), The Balance of Power in East Asia (London: Macmillan, 1986), p.28. 6. Nayan Chanda, ‘The China Connection: The US Proposes Better Ties with Pyongyang via Peking’, Far Eastern Economic Review (FEER), 23 April 1987, pp.30-31. 7. For details of different Chinese views see Gilbert Roznan, ‘China’s Soviet Watchers in the 1980s: A New Era in Scholarship’, World Politics, Vol.37, No.4 (1985), pp.435-74. For Deng’s statement on this see his interview with CBS on 2 September 1986 in Beijing Review, 1986, No. 38, p.4. 8. For further elaboration see Jonathan D. Pollack, ‘China’s Changing Perceptions of East Asian Security and Development*, in Stuart, op. cit., pp.54—79. See also Michael B. Yahuda, ‘Foreign Relations’, in John S. Major (ed.), China Briefing, 1985 (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1986), pp. 19-37. 9. In FEER, 19 March 1987, p.86, citing Chinese Customs statistics. 10. For a recent Chinese account see Xie Wenzhuang, ‘Soviet and American Military Strategies in the Asia-Pacific Region*, International Studies (Guoji Wenti Yanjiu) (Beijing), 1985, No.4. 11. See the contribution of Cheng Ruisheng, of the Foreign Affairs Study Association, to the seminar on ‘national defence strategy for the year 2000’ as excerpted from Liaowang, 21 July 1986, in BBC SWB FE/8318 B ll/2 . 12. For a view that China will break through the bi-polar mould to form a ‘tripod’ see Wang Shuzhong of the World Economic and Political Research Centre in ibid. For views of China’s role in a more multi-polar structure see Pei Monong, ‘China’s Position and Role within the Economy in the Asia-Pacific Region’, International Studies, 1986, N o.l, and the same author’s ‘The Situation and Problems of the Asia-Pacific Region’, ibid., 1985, No.4. 13. There are signs that the Chinese believe that the Russians may well withdraw from Afghanistan. For example, the premier journal for foreigners, Beijing Review, 10 November 1986, carried an article on ‘Regional Conflicts Between the Two Super­ powers* by Wang Hexing, which concluded that an agreement on Afghanistan was

158

14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28.

COMMUNISM AND REFORM IN EAST ASIA

possible. Chinese officials privately suggest that reductions in Soviet troop deploy­ ments in the north are less significant since they could be redeployed very rapidly. Hence Indo-China is regarded as the crucial test. Dick Wilson, ‘The Pacific Basin is Coming Together*, Asia Pacific Community, No.30 (1985), pp.1-12. See, for example, Huan Xiang, ‘Some Views on the International Situation’, Contemporary International Relations (Xian-dai Guo-ji Guan-xi), 1986, N o.l, pp. 1-4, for an account of uncertainty in international politics and economics. For an account of Chinese deliberations, see Carol Lee Hamrin, ‘China Reassesses the Superpowers’, Pacific Affairs, (1985), pp.209-31. See Huan Xiang, op. cit., who argues that despite the uncertainty China’s international environment would still be sufficiently tranquil. See, for example, Steven I. Levine, ‘China in Asia: The PRC as a Regional Power’, in Harry Harding (ed.), China's Foreign Relations in the 1980s (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1984), p. 107. For more detailed analysis see Michael B. Yahuda, ‘Contemporary Chinese Concepts of Self-Reliance, Independence and Alignment’, paper prepared for Conference on Patterns of Co-operation in the Foreign Relations of Modem China, August 1987. Guocang Huan, who was then a graduate student at CASS, was ‘shocked’ to see the statistical data compiled in the 1982 World Bank country report on China: ‘I had never seen such complete data compiled in China’. See his ‘China’s Open Door Policy, 1978-84’, Journal of International Affairs, Vol.39, No.2 (1986), p.7. ‘Bubble’ is the term used in the 1982 World Bank report. Dick Wilson, op. cit., records Chinese satisfaction with American help in giving membership of die PECC. For a discussion of the problems of regional order see Michael Leifer, ‘The Balance of Power and Regional Order’, in Leifer, The Balance of Power, pp. 143-54. On 12 December 1979 Deng Xiaoping stated, ‘If Japan and China co-operate, they can support half of Heaven’: BBC SWB FE/6905. Nearly seven years later, on 27 September 1986, he repeated the point in greater detail to visiting Japanese economists: BBC SWB FE/8376. Reinhard Drifte, ‘Japan’s Relations with East-Asia-Pacific Region’, in Stuart, op. cit., pp.22-34. See Michael Leifer, ‘Obstacles to a Political Settlement in Indo-China*, Pacific Affairs, Vol.58, No.4 (1985-86), pp.626-36. See Cheng Bifan and Zhang Nansheng, ‘Institutional Factors in China-ASEAN Countries Economic Relations’ (unpublished paper). For details see Yahuda, The China Threat (Kuala Lumpur: Institute of Strategic and International Studies, 1986).

ROUTLEDGE LIBRARY EDITIONS: MODERN EAST AND SOUTH EAST ASIA

Volume 4

THE MAKING OF SOUTH EAST ASIA

THE MAKING OF SOUTH EAST ASIA

G. CŒDÈS TRANSLATED BY H. M. WRIGHT

Translated from the French Les peuples de la péninsule indochinoise First published in Great Britain in 1966 by Routledge & Kegan Paul Limited This edition first published in 2015 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © Dunod, Paris, 1962 English Translation © 1966 H. M. Wright All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-138-89258-3 (Set) eISBN: 978-1-315-69792-5 (Set) ISBN: 978-1-138-90137-7 (Volume 4) eISBN: 978-1-315-69780-2 (Volume 4) Publisher’s Note The publisher has gone to great lengths to ensure the quality of this reprint but points out that some imperfections in the original copies may be apparent. Disclaimer The publisher has made every effort to trace copyright holders and would welcome correspondence from those they have been unable to trace.

The Making of South East Asia bj

G. CCEDES

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London R O U T L E D G E & K E G A N PAUL

Translatedfrom the Trench LES PEUPLES DE L A PENINSULE INDOCHINOISE

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*43

The Indochinese States after the Thirteenth Century men par excellence), and the commoners were distinguished from the serfs, who were usually non-Mongolian, so a distinction was made between the T ’ai warrior aristocracy and the conquered peoples - and so sharp a distinction, that the ethnic term ‘T ’ai’ acquired the meaning o f ‘free man’ (as opposed to serf) in Siamese, the role of serf in T ’ai society being occupied by the indigenous peoples. With regard to the Khmers, however, the Siamese of Sukhodaya, once they had gained their independence, seem to have made an express effort to go against everything that had been done by their former masters. No doubt they found Khmer rule irksome, since they belonged to an entirely different ethno-linguistic group with a political and social organization and a religion that were in complete contrast to those of Cambodia. Some idea of the political ideals of the kings of Sukhodaya can be gained from Rama Khamheng’s inscription of 1292, from various passages of the Traibhumikatha of King Lu T ’ai, and from an inscription by the latter dating from 1361. Here is what Rama Khamheng has to say about his own government: ‘During the lifetime of King Rama Khamheng the city of Sukhodaya has prospered. There are fish in its waters and rice in its rice-fields. The Lord of the country does not tax his subjects, who throng the roads leading cattle to market and ride horses on their way to sell them. Whosoever wishes to trade in elephants or horses does so; whosoever wishes to trade in gold and silver does so. When a commoner, a noble, or a chief falls ill and dies, or disappears, his ancestral home, his clothes, his elephants, his family, his rice granaries, his slaves, the plantations of areca and betel inherited from his ancestors, all are transmitted to his children. I f com­ moners, nobles, or chiefs have a dispute, the king makes a proper inquiry and decides the matter with complete impartiality. He does not enter into agreements with thieves and receivers. I f he sees rice belonging to others, he does not covet it, and if he sees the riches of others he is not envious. To whomsoever comes on elephant-back to seek him and put his own country under his protection, he will extend his support and assistance. I f the stranger has neither elephants nor horses nor servants nor wives nor silver nor gold, he will give them to him and invite him to regard himself as being in his own country. If the king captures warriors or enemy soldiers, he neither kills them nor beats them. 144

Siam or Thailand In the gateway of the palace a bell is hung; if anyone in the king­ dom has some grievance or some matter that is ulcerating his entrails and troubling his mind, and wishes to lay it before the king, the way is easy: he has only to strike the bell hung there. Every time King Rama Khamheng hears this appeal, he interro­ gates the plaintiff about the matter and gives an entirely impartial decision/ And here is how the pious king, Lu T ’ai, boasts of the way he governs his country: ‘This king rules by observing the ten kingly precepts. He has pity on all his subjects. I f he sees rice belonging to others, he does not covet it, and if he sees the wealth of others, he does not become indignant. . . . When a father dies, he lets the children have his possessions; when an elder brother dies, he lets the younger brother have them. He has never once beaten to death someone who has done wrong, whatever the crime may have been. Whenever he has captured warriors or enemy combatants, he has neither killed them nor had them beaten, but has kept them and fed them so as to preserve them from ruin and destruction. If he catches people who are guilty of deceit and insolence - people who put poison in his rice so as to make him fall sick and die - he never kills them nor beats them, but is merciful to all those who display evil intentions towards him. The reason why he represses his feelings and curbs his thoughts, and refrains from anger when anger is called for, is that he desires to become a Buddha and to lead all creatures beyond the sea of suffering of transmigration.’ If the various features of this programme are compared with what Cambodian epigraphy tells us about Khmer methods of government, it will be seen that they differ on almost every point. The Khmer king was regarded as being on such a superior plane to that of ordinary men that he was designated by the epithet ‘the dust of his sacred feet’. He gave audience within his palace and showed himself at a window framed in gold; and when he went out, all who happened to be on the route had to prostrate them­ selves with their foreheads touching the ground; if they failed to do so, ‘they were seized by the master of ceremonies, who would not on any account release them’.10 A marked contrast to this picture is presented by Sukhodaya, where King Rama Khamheng had a stone dais installed in his garden ‘so that all could see the king receiving homage from tributary peoples’ . Everything points to the existence in Cambodia of a system of extremely 145

The Indochinese States after the Thirteenth Century heavy imposts and prestations, and of corvees which can have done little to conserve the energies of the people forced to carry them out. One has only to think of the amount of effort the Khmer people must have put into constructing the vast number o f build­ ings erected during the twelfth century under Suryavarman II and Jayavarman V II! But the kings of Sukhodaya declare that there commerce was free and exempt from taxation, that imposts were moderate, that corvees must be proportionate to the capabilities of the forced labour employed and that the old must be spared, and that all property was transmitted to the natural heirs without any levy on behalf of the crown. Khmer justice does not seem to have been carried out very expeditiously, and the only means of recourse to the king was through the official hierarchy, which was a complicated procedure; sentences included, apart from the death sentence, appalling corporal punishments. In Sukhodaya, how­ ever, the plaintiff who wished to appeal to the king had only to ring at the gate of the palace, and neither the death sentence nor corporal punishment existed. The contrast is so striking that one is inevitably led to suppose that the kings of Sukhodaya were anxious to do away with a hateful past and to inaugurate a new regime. With the foundation of the new Siamese kingdom of Ayudhya a complete reversal of this trend becomes evident. The new Siamese monarchy seems to have made every effort to continue the traditions of the rulers of Angkor instead of flouting them. Perhaps this was because the new kingdom arose in an area that had been impregnated for the past three centuries by Khmer civilization, and where the T ’ai element was only an aristocratic minority. While it may be true that the ruler of U Thong had married into the T ’ai family of Chiang Saen, he himself may well have belonged to a family of Mon or Khmer origins. However that may be, what now took place in the southern part of the Menam valley was the very opposite of what had happened in the north. In Ayudhya, the king was not at all a fatherly figure. He may not have been a god on earth like the Cambodian king, but he was at least a sort of Living Buddha, to be addressed as ‘Our master the Holy Buddha’, while the Crown Prince was known as Buddhankura, ‘Descendant of the Buddha.’ Like the King of Angkor, the King of Ayudhya was referred to by the epithet ‘dust on the holy feet’, and the whole Khmer vocabulary reserved for the person 1 46

Siam or Thailand and actions of the king was taken over en bloc for the protocol of the Court of Ayudhya. The Siamese king no longer made public appearances seated on a stone dais in his garden as had been the custom of Sukhodaya, but could only be seen in his palace, at a window inserted in the inner wall of the hall of audience; and when he went out, any subject who committed the sacrilege of raising his head to look upon the royal countenance was liable to receive an earthenware pellet in his eye, shot from the bow of one of the guards at the head of the royal procession. The laws that have been ascribed, whether rightly or wrongly, to the founder of Ayudhya seem for the most part, so far as one can judge, to revive the clauses of the old Khmer code. The regulations for the palace guards (jmandirapala), which is a text so difficult to interpret that it has so far defeated the exegetists, would not be understandable at all without a thorough knowledge of the customs at the Court of Angkor. The type of Siamese prang found at Ayudhya is a slimmer version of the Khmer tower, while in sculpture what is known as the U Thong school, which it would be better to call the first school of Ayudhya, is characterized by a return to the Khmer tradition of Lop Buri, or is, rather, a continuation of that tradition with some new features, such as the flame on top of the head (of Sinhalese origin), and the tight curls of the hair. Apart from details such as these, all the features of the Khmer statuary of Lop Buri are found again here. The same thing happens in literature. The first poetic texts of Ayudhya, such as the curse upon the flood waters, the prayers addressed to the gods and the spirits by the clerk of the court before a trial by ordeal, and the oldest passages of the laws for the palace guards - all of them non-Buddhist texts, composed or inspired by Brahmans who inherited the traditions of Angkor were probably very much influenced by Khmer models. Ramadhipati ("Ramth*ibodi 1), the founder of Ayudhya, held effective sway over a territory covering the lower Menam valley and the major part of the Malay Peninsula, the principal towns being Lop Buri, Subarnapuri {Suphan), Rajapuri {Rat Buri), Bejrapuri (.Phet Buri), Tenasserim, Tavoy, Ligor, Signora, and Chandapuri ( *52>

153, 172, 182, 196; extent of, 1 3 1 ; under rule of Ayudhya, 148, 184; relations with China, 139-40 kingdom of Ayudhya: founding and consolidation, 13 4 ,13 7 ,14 0 - 1 , 14652; campaigns against Lan Na, 149, 150, 15 1, 152, 165; wars: with Burma, 152-6 (see also Burma); with Laos, 15 6 -7; annexation of Laos, 165; brilliant period under Paramakosha, 16 0 -1; further con­ flict with Burma, 16 1-2 ; fall, 162 the Bangkok dynasty, 16 5 -7 1; atti­ tude towards European colonial expansion, 168 ff.; modernization, 170 Buddhism in, 140, 142, 143, 146, 161, 169 see also architecture, sculpture; for wars against Cambodia, see Cam­ bodia Siamese: language, 27, 28, 164, 168, 202; people, see Syam, T ’ai; see also civilization, cultural influence, law codes, literature Siem Reap (Cambodian province), 170, 199, 201 Sihasura (son of Narasimhapati), 129 Sihavikrama (king of Shrikshetra), n o Simhasura (king of Pagan), 115 Singu (Burmese king), 187 Sip Song Phan Na (region of Laos), 176 Sisophon (Cambodian province), 170, 201 Sisovath (Cambodian king), 201 Sittang river, 27, 31, 70, 112 slavery, abolition of, in Siam, 170 slaves, 60, 222-3 Smim Htaw Buddhaketi (ruler of Lower Burma), 186 social organization, 2,4, 5,10 , 26, 3 1-3 3 , I02> Io6> x4 3 » T4 4 , 2 * 9 > 222, 230 Sogetu (Mongol general), 127, 128 Sohan prehistoric sites, 12 Soma (daughter of the King of the Naga), 57 Song Gianh river (as boundary between n. and s. Viet-nam), 64, 209, 213 Song Th’am, P’ra Chao (king of Ayudhya), 156, 157, 161 songs, Cambodian, 203 Soriyopear, see Suryavarman

264

4 7 , 94- 9 5 >

Index Sotikakuman, see Jotikakumara source material, historical, 36,53, 65, 73, 74-75, 103, 137; Chinese, 52, 57, 58—61, 63 ff., 74, 81, 88 ff., 101, 103, n o , 131, 137, 193, 196; see also inscriptions Spain, 156, 214; Spaniards, 197 Srei Santhor, see Basan State, development of a centralized, 1, 2, 5. 7 . 67 , 73 . 219, 221 statues: of the Buddha, 67, 70, 79, 93, 94, 108, 122, 126, 143, 149, 150, 151, 163, 173, 174, 176, 179; of Harihara, 94; of Vishnu, 70, 237 n. 5; see also sculpture stele: of Rama Khamheng, 133, 142, 14 4 -5; at Vieng Chan, 172; of Vo Canh, 59, 58; steles of Le dynasty tombs, 212 stupas, i n , 116, 132, 139, 141, 151, 152, 1 5 4 . i 55 » i6 3 . 17 5 . ! 7 9 » 1 9 5 ; bellshaped, 11 6 -17 ; conical, 190 Su Ting (prefect of Chiao-chih), 44 su-quan (feudal lords in n. Viet-nam), 80 Subarnapuri (Suphan, Thailand), 140, 147, 148, 153, 155 Subotai (Mongol general), 126 Sudassana temple (Bangkok), 166 Sudhammavati (Thaton, Burma), 69, 70, in Suk Som (ruler of Luang Prabang), 177 Sukhodaya, kingdom of, see Siam Sukhothai, see Sukhodaya Sulamani, see Chudamani Sumana (Buddhist monk), 149 Sumatra, 95 Sung dynasty (China), 81, 126, 216 Sunt’on Ph’u (Siamese poet), 167, 167-8 Supayalat, Queen (Burma), 189 Suphan, see Subarnapuri Surivong (Laotian poem), 180 Suriyavamsa (king of Lan Ch’ang), 175, 176; see also Shri Varavamsha Suriyodaya, Queen (Ayudhya), 153 Suriyot’ai, see Suriodaya Suryavarman (Khmer kings): I, 99-100, 1 1 3 ; II, 85, 101, 102, 106, 107, 122,

125,146 Suryavarman (title adopted by Ponhea Yat of Cambodia), 196 Suryavarman, Prince (Paramaraja IV of Cambodia), 197-8 Suryavikrama (king of Shrikshetra), n o

Sut’at, see Sudassana Suthiammarach’a, see Shri Sudham­ maraja Suvannabhumi, the ‘gold land’, 58, 69 Suvarnakudya, the ‘gold wall’, 58 Sweden, 170 Syam, 10 1-2, 122, 124, 125, 133 Syriam (Burma), 185, 186, 188 Ta Kev temple (Khmer), 99, 105 Ta Prohm temple (Khmer), 108, 109 Ta Yii (Dai Ngu), (name given to Dai Viet by Ho Quy Ly), 206 Tabinshweti (unifier of Burma), 152, i 53 > i 83 - 4 T ’ai: languages, 25, 27, 28, 29, 30; oldest written text in, 139; kingdoms, see Ayudhya, Lan Ch’ang, Lan Na, Pegu, Sukhodaya; people, 17, 20-21, 33, 42, 129 -31, 132, 133, 142, 180; capacity for assimilation of, 102, 168, 178; southwards infiltration of, 73, 102, 130, 131, 138, 181, 182; see also Syam Tak, P’raya (Siamese general, later king),

, ,

162 164 165,177 Takayupti (Burmese king), 182, 183 Talaing (the Mons), 69 Tamil texts, 52 Tan, Ponhea (Paramaraja II of Cam­ bodia), 197 T ’an Ho-chih (governor of Chiao-chih), 66, 77 T ’ang dynasty (China), 48, 78, 80 tanks, dry-stonework, 19 Tantrism, see Buddhism Taoism, 47 tapasvin (worshippers of the linga), 194 Tarabya (governor of Pegu), 181 Taung-gyi Shin (a Burmese god), 112 Tavoy (Burma), 7, 147, 151, 155, 157, 162, 167, 182, 183, 185, 187, 188 Tay Au, see Hsi Ou Tay-do (Ho dynasty capital), 207 Tay-son rebellion (Viet-nam), 211, 2 1 3 -

14

Tejatisara (Siamese poet), 168 temple-mountains, 10 4 ,14 1,17 5,19 6 ,2 2 1 temples, 70, 77-85 passim, 94, 98, 10 1-2, 104-5, 108, 114, 125, 129, 141, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 158, 165, 166, 173, 174, 176, 177, 188, 195, 210, 221; main features of Siamese Buddhist, 163

265

Index Tenasserim (Burma), 147, 152, 155, 157, 162, 182, 187 T ’ep Kavi, see Devakavi Terrace of the Leper King (Cambodia), 109 Thadominbya (founder of Ava), 182 Thailand, see Siam Thalun (Burmese king), 185 Tham Pong prehistoric site (Laos), 13 ,2 2 Thambula temple (Pagan), 117 T h ’ammath’iket, see Dhammadhipesa Th’ammayut, see Dhammayuttika T h ’ammikarat, see Dhammikaraja Thang Long (present Hanoi): capital of Dai Co Viet, 83; L y dynasty capital, 209 Tharawadi (Burmese king), 188 th’at or reliquary (Laos), 179, 180 Th’at Luang temple (Laos), 174-5 Thatbyinnuy, see Sabannu Thaton (Burma), 113 , 15 5 ; see also Suddhammavati Thayekhettaya (Burmese for Shrik­ shetra), n o Then K ’am (king of Lan Ch’ang), 174 Thibaw (Burmese king), 189 Thieu-tri (emperor of Viet-nam), 214 Thihathu, see Sihasura Thilawuntha (Burmese writer), 191 Thingathu, see Simhasura Thinkhaba (founder of Toungoo dynasty), 183 Thmenh Chei (Cambodian version of Dhananjaya), 203 Thoat Hoan, see Toghan Thommeasokareach, see Dhammashokaraja Thommoreachea, see Dhammaraja Thonburi, see Dhanapuri Three Kingdoms period (China), 58, 64, 166 Three Pagodas Pass, 7, 154, 183 Ti Chen (king of Lin-i), 64 Tibeto-Burman languages, 28, 30 Tich Quang, see Hsi Kuang Tilokamangala temple (Pagan), 117 Tilokaraja (king of Lan Na), 150, 151 Tirchul (the Pyus), 68 To Dinh, see Su Ting T ’o-lo-po-ti (Chinese name for Dvara­ vati), 69 Toa Do, see Sogetu Toghan, Prince (son of Kublai), 127-8

tombs: chamber-, 2 1; Chinese (in n. Viet-nam), 17, 44, 46; Le dynasty, 212 T ’ong Chan (son of Ramadhipati I), 149 Tongking, French protectorate of, 6, 178 Tonle Sap, 2, 3; see also Great Lake Toungoo (Burma), 153, 155, 156, 181, 182, 182-3, i84, 185, 186, 187 Toungoo dynasty (Burma), 182-6, 190, 191 Tra-kieu (site of capital of Lin-i), 65, 77, 81, 91 trade, vi, 5, 39, 43, 48, 49, 51, 58, 59, 60, 77, 95, I03» i 67, 168, 169, 174, 183, 193, 214 Traibhumikatha (treatise by Lu T ’ai), 140, 144 Tran dynasty (Dai Viet), 204-6 Tran Anh-tong (Tran dynasty), 128-9, 129, 204 Tran Canh, see Tran Thai-tong Tran De Nghien (son of Tran Duetong), 205 Tran Du-tong (Tran dynasty), 204, 205 Tran Due-tong (Tran dynasty), 205 Tran Hien-tong (Tran dynasty), 196, 204 Tran Hung-dao (name under which Tran Quoc Toan is worshipped), 128 Tran Ke Xoang (Vietnamese poet), 216 Tran Minh-tong (Tran dynasty), 204 Tran Nghe-tong (Tran dynasty), 205, 207 Tran Nhan-tong (Tran dynasty), 12 7 ,12 8 Tran Quoc Toan (Vietnamese general), 128 Tran Thai-tong (Tran dynasty), 86, 123-4 , 126 Tran Than-tong (Tran dynasty), 126 Tran Thu Do (founder of Tran dynasty), 86, 123 Tran Thuan-tong (Tran dynasty), 205 trapeang (the common pool), 60, 61 Trengganu, sultanate of, 166, 170 trial by ordeal, 60, 61, 63, 147, 152, 194 Tribhuvanaditya Dharmaraja (title of Kyanzittha), 114 Tribhuvanadityavarman (Cambodian usurper), 107 Trieu, see Chao Trieu Da, see Chao T ’o Trinh family (virtual rulers of n. Viet­ nam), 208 ff.

Index Vat Chet Yot, see Mahabodharama Vat Chulamani (temple at Phitsanulok), 150 Vat Jayamangala (temple at Ayudhya),

Trinh Cuong, 2 11 Trinh Dinh, 2 11 Trinh Duy Sam, 208 Trinh Giang, 211 Trinh Hoai Due (Vietnamese historian), 215 Trinh Khai, 2 11 Trinh Kiem, 208, 209 Trinh Phung, 211 Trinh Sam, 2 11, 214 Trinh Tung, 208-9 troglodytes, 3, 14, 16 Trung Nhi, see Cheng Ni Trung Trac, see Cheng Tse Truong Ba-nghi, see Chang Po-i Truong Minh Giang (s. Vietnamese general), 200 Tu-duc (emperor of Viet-nam), 214 Tuc-mac pagoda (Viet-nam), 206 Tusita Mahaprasada palace (Bangkok), 166

155

U Thong (Thailand), 140, 146, 147 Udayadityavarman (Khmer kings): I, 99; II, 100 Udayagiri temple (Orissa), 116 Udumbara (Siamese king), 161, 162 Uma (wife of Shiva), 65 Un K ’am (ruler of Luang Prabang),

177

Unarut, see Aniruddha United States of America, 168, 170 universal monarch, 90, 97, 99, 221 Upali Thein temple (Pagan), 117 uposathagara (Siamese: hot; meeting-hall for monks in a temple), 163 Uriyangadai (Mongol general), 126 Usabarot (Laotian poem), 180 Ussa (former name of Pegu), 11 1 Utei (Cambodian king), 213 Ut’ump’on, see Udumbara Uzana, see Narasimha Uccana Vajrabharna, see Sawlu Van-mieu, ‘temple of literature’ (Viet­ nam), 87 Varavamsha (Siamese kings): (I) 152; (ii) (Prasat T ’ong, q.v.), 157 varna, ‘caste’, used for social classes in Cambodia, 56 Vat Buddhaishvarya (temple at Ayud­ hya), 148

Vat Kukut (temple at Haripunjaya), 125-6 Vat Mahadhatu: (i) at Ayudhya, 148; (ii) at Bangkok, 166; (iii) at Phit­ sanulok, 150; (iv) at Lamphun, 126; (v) at Lop Buri, 122; (vi) at Sawankhalok, 141 Vat Mai (at Luang Prabang), 177 Vat Manorom (Laos), 173, 179 Vat Nak’on Kosa (Lop Buri), 122 Vat Phu, hill of, 89 Vat P’o, see Jetavana Vat P’ra Keo (temple at Bangkok), 165, 166, 174 Vat P’ra P’ay Luang (Sukhodaya), 125, 141 Vat P’ra Yun (Lamphun), 149 Vat Rajapurana (Ayudhya), 149 Vat Si Saket (Vieng Chan), 176 Vat Visun (Laos), 174 Veddas, 21 Veloso, Diogo, 197 Versailles, the Court of, 159, 214 Vessantarajataka, 151, 203 Vidyeshadhimant (Cambodian Brah­ man), 195 Vieng Chan (present Vientiane), 153, 154, 165, 166, 172, 174, 175, 179; State of, 176-7, 178, 200 Vientiane, 107 Viet, see Yiieh Viet su cuong muc (a history of Dai Viet), 206 Viet-nam: origin of the name, 41 prehistoric, 11, 12, 13 -15 , 16, 17-19 , 21, 31, 33 Chinese conquest of Red River delta, 3 3 > 39 - 4 0 , 42-43 kingdom of Nan-yiieh, 40-41, 42, 43 under Chinese rule, 43-49, 77 ff.; rebellions against Chinese rule, 4445, 47-48, 78; raids by Indonesians, 78; attacked by Nan-chao, 79; end of Chinese rule, 80 after independence: Nam Viet and Twelve Su-quan period, 80; Dai Co Viet, 81-84; Dai Viet, 84-85,

267

Index after independence (continued) 86-87, I2 3~4> i 26~9> 204-6; Ho dynasty, 206; Le dynasty, 207-8 expansion southwards, 7, 67-68, 87, 218 conflict with Champa, 66, 77, 79, 8i, 82, 83, 84-85, 121, 123-4, 128-9, 204-5, 208 intervention in Laos, 173-4 , 175, 176, 208 partition, 208-9; conflict between north and south, 2 11, 214 ; n. Viet­ nam: Trinh family in power under nominal rule of Le dynasty, 208-10; s. Viet-nam under Nguyen dynasty, 209-10; rivalry with Siam, 177, 199, 200; infiltration of Cambodia, 198, 199, 200, 210, 2 13 ; French aid sought, 214 re-unification: country known as Viet-nam, 214; French intervention, 2 14 -15 ; colony o f Cochin-china, 215 relations with China after independ­ ence: vassalage, 8 1; wars, 82, 84, 100, 173, 207; Chinese occupation, 207; under Chinese suzerainty, 207; Chinese recognition of unified empire, 214 Buddhism in, 46-47, 206 Confucianism in, 47, 87, 216 see also administrative system, archi­ tecture, cultural influence Vietnamese: Annals, 78, 8 1; language, 27, 28-29; people, 7, 19, 3 1; origins of the, 4 1-4 2 ; see also civiliza­ tion, law codes, literature vihara (Siamese: vihan\ meeting-hall for the laity in a temple), 163 Vijaya (a Cham capital), 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 127 Vijayabahu I (Ceylon), 113 Vikravantavarman (king of Champa),

9i

Vinitaruchi (Buddhist monk), 47 Vishnu, 70, 94, 101, 224; Vaishnavite cult, 61, 91, 94, 98, 104 Visun (king of Lan Ch’ang), 174 Vo Canh, stele of, 50, 58

V o Vuong (Nguyen dynasty), 213 Vong, Chao (ruler of Luang Prabang),

177

Voravong, see Varavamsha Vu Quynh (Vietnamese writer), 212 Vyadhapura (a capital of Fu-nan), 60, 62 Wang An-shih (Chinese statesman), 84 Wang Mang (Han usurper), 43, 44 Wareru (T’ai ruler of Martaban), 18 1-2 Wellesley province (Malaya), 167 wheels, stone, 70 Wu-ti (Han emperor), 42 Wusthoff, Gerrit van, 175 Xieng Khouang (Laos), 175, 179 Xuan-loc megalithic site (s. Viet-nam), 21 Yajnavaraha (Cambodian Brahman), 99 Yamada Nagamasa (commander of the Japanese guards in Siam), 156, 157 Yang Po Ku Vijaya (king of Champa), 82 Yang Shao (Chinese neolithic culture), 24 Yashodharapura (Angkor), 74, 98, 99, 107, 197 Yashodhareshvara (Khmer royal linga), 98 Yashovarman (Khmer kings): I, 98; II, 106, 107 Yat, Ponhea (Cambodian king), 196 Ya^awingyaw (Burmese summary of the chronicle of Ceylon), 191 Yellow River, 16 Yesin Timur (Mongol general), 129 Yiba (king of Haripunjaya), 130 Yii the Great (legendary Chinese emperor), 206 Yuan dynasty (China), 124 Yiieh, country of the, 39-40 Yiieh tribes, 42 Yule, Henry, 189 Yunnan (China), 6, 68, 7 9 ,1 1 2 ,1 2 4 ,1 2 9 ,

133 Zeyatheimhka, see Jayasimha Zokthok, stupa of (Burma), i l l

268

ROUTLEDGE LIBRARY EDITIONS: MODERN EAST AND SOUTH EAST ASIA

Volume 5

PEOPLE’S WAR

PEOPLE’S WAR The Conditions and the Consequences in China and in South East Asia

J. L. S. GIRLING

First published in 1969 by George Allen and Unwin Ltd. This edition first published in 2015 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 1969 George Allen and Unwin Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-138-89258-3 (Set) eISBN: 978-1-315-69792-5 (Set) ISBN: 978-1-138-89263-7 (Volume 5) eISBN: 978-1-315-70863-8 (Volume 5) Publisher’s Note The publisher has gone to great lengths to ensure the quality of this reprint but points out that some imperfections in the original copies may be apparent. Disclaimer The publisher has made every effort to trace copyright holders and would welcome correspondence from those they have been unable to trace.

PEOPLE’S WAR THE CONDITIONS AND THE CONSEQUENCES IN CHINA AND IN SOUTH EAST ASIA

by J. L . S. G I R L IN G

London G E O R G E A L L E N AND UNW IN L T D RUSKIN HOUSE • MUSEUM STREET

F I R S T P U B L I S H E D IN

1969

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention. A part from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright A ct, 1956, no portion may be reproduced by any process without permission. Enquiries should be addressed to the publisher. © George Allen and Unwin Ltd., 1969 sb n

04 325015 7

P R I N T E D IN GREAT BRI TAI N

in 10 on 11 Times type AT THE S H E N V A L P R E S S L O N D O N , H E R T F O R D AND HARLOW

CONTENTS INTRODUCTION

page 11

I T H E SCEN E Revolution and Intervention in South East Asia 17 Communist Revolts: 1948 19 Sino-Soviet Dispute: (People’s) War and Peace 23 us Reaction: the Vietnam Commitment 27 Indonesian Reversal: New Balance of Power? 33 Domino-Land 38 II T H E M O D EL China: Conditions for Success Peasant Revolt: Mao’s Separate Course Protracted W ar: (1) Contradictions (2) Mass Support (3) Base Area (4) Guerrilla Warfare National Appeal: (1) Resistance to the Enemy (2) United Front Tactics Downfall of the Regime: (1) America’s Dilemma (2) The Debacle

95 104

III SUCCESS Struggle for Vietnam August Insurrection Resistance War Unity and Organization Vietminh-Vietcong

115 118 123 135 141

IV F A IL U R E China in Maphilindo Lessons from Malaya and the Philippines Indonesian Exception United States in lndo-China Post-War Policy Confusion in Laos Backing into Vietnam: (1) Commitment and . . . (2) Credibility Peace—and the Tet Offensive

157 157 157 167 173 175 183

ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX

49 58 64 69 74 77 83 90

190 204 215 233 241

MAPS page South East Asia and Southern China 16 China Proper and Manchuria 51 Indo-China: North and South Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia 117

APOLOGIA Despite the subtitle of this book I have not discussed the aftermath of people’s war in China (the ‘consequences’ refer to Peking’s policy on people’s war and to us counter-measures; and the effect of these in South East Asia). But it is relevant to point out that, on the whole, China under Communism (even during the Cultural Revolution) is a better place for the majority of people—that is what I am concerned with: which democrats should be concerned with—than it was under the Kuomintang. In any case there was no real alternative; and the choice was made. Similarly with Vietnam: the choice was between Vietminh and French rule—Bao Dai offered no real alternative. It is true that once in power the Communists have revealed far less attractive features than they did as leaders of popular revolt: ruthlessness, dogmatism and exploitation among them (particularly in their treatment of the peasantry— the very people whose support was needed to win the revolu­ tion). But again it should be pointed out that, while there were evident cruelties in ‘land reform’ in North Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh did backtrack and admit his mistake—something that Ngo Dinh Diem, also led into error with his ‘strategic hamlet’ programme, could not bring himself to do. None of this can excuse condonation of injustice or oppression wherever it may o c c u r ; b u t at least for the period— and the problem— I am dealing with the balance was tilted clearly one way. J.L.S.G.

The guerrilla movement is only the result, not the cause of the problem.’ A. H. Nasution

INTRODUCTION

Insurrection, according to the Concise Oxford Dictionary, is a ‘rising in open resistance to established authority’ or an ‘incipient rebellion’, which is defined in similar terms. Thus insurrection on any scale—which is what matters—can also be considered a civil war, except in the case of a purely national uprising against foreign domination. Insurgency, rebellion, civil war, local conflict, people’s war, are more or less interchangeable terms, irrespective of the type of ‘established government’ whose authority is being contested, regardless of the rights or wrongs of either side. (The Hungarian uprising of 1956 was as much a ‘people’s war’ as the Vietminh campaign in Indo-China.) Insurgency indicates prolonged resistance and thus differs from a coup d'etat, either civil or military, which is a sudden seizure of power; though the result—if successful—may be the same, that is the overthrow of the established authority. (Coups often effect only a change of leaders, not a change of policies; the latter is more likely to be the case with a long and widespread and destructive war.) Insurgency also differs from ‘aggression’, which denotes an armed attack across frontiers. But insurgents may be assisted verbally, diplomatically, economically or militarily from outside to a varying extent, which tends to blur the distinction. However, such aid can only be supplementary and not decisive, for otherwise there would no longer be an insurgency. Both coups and insurgencies are the products of unstable situa­ tions, and this is likely to be a continuing feature of the developing world. Little can be done to prevent coups taking place—except to broaden the basis of government—but there are ways of remedying popular discontent to prevent it taking the form of mass resistance or insurgency. The successful outcome of insurgency in developing countries— to judge from the experience of China, Indo-China and South Vietnam; and from the ‘negative’ experience of Malaya, Greece and the Philippines—depends on the combination of six conditions, which are partly economic, partly military and partly political. (If only some of these conditions are realized an insurgency may still break out, though it is unlikely to succeed.) These conditions are:

12

p e o p l e ’s w a r

1. Peasant support. 2. Ability to sustain ‘protracted war’. 3. National appeal. 4. Leadership. 5. Organization. 6. Breakdown, or severe incapacity, of the opposing regime. The first three are ‘motivating’ factors; the last three, factors of ‘achievement’. Serious economic conditions in the countryside usually provide the underlying motive for taking up arms. ‘Protracted war’—a complex of factors, notably the ‘survival and growth’ of insurgent forces based on ‘liberated areas’, gradually extending from remote jungle or mountainous regions, employing guerrilla tactics to wear down the enemy and thus gradually changing the balance of forces—this is the way for a weak and ill-equipped movement to carry on the war against a more powerful enemy. And a nation-wide appeal helps to crown it with success. In more detail: 1. A peasant uprising is more likely to be the result of over-population, inexorably reducing the limited amount of cultivable land available to farm families (in the absence of other forms of employment), than of traditional ‘feudal’ abuses; though the two are usually combined. This was the case in China under the Kuomintang, which failed to carry out Sun Yat-sen’s policy of ‘land to the tiller’ largely from fear of upsetting its conservative, landowning supporters; it was left to the Communists to do this instead (and thus to rally peasant support against the regime). 2. ‘Protracted war’ flows from Mao’s recognition that a struggling revolutionary movement cannot expect to overcome a government at one blow by Soviet-style urban insurrection, nation-wide general strike, etc. Ho Chi Minh and Vo Nguyen Giap in turn emphasized that immediate victory over France was wishful thinking. Instead the war would be long and hard. In the beginning, the chief need for inexperienced, poorly organized guerrillas is security: a secure base in which to train, equip and build up a ‘main force’ without which the insurgents cannot go beyond the guerrilla stage and therefore cannot seriously threaten the centres of power. Security can be positive—if guerrilla areas are sufficiently remote from (as in China) or inaccessible to (because of mountain and jungle, as in Indo-China) the effective authority of government. Negatively, there is security if the government is prevented from concentrating its forces against the insurgents because of external distractions or internal splits or ‘contradictions’. (It is significant that insurgent bases are often located on or near provincial boundaries. This is partly because rugged country or mountain ranges serve as natural boundaries or frontiers, partly because opposing forces are for this reason often

I N TR OD UC TI ON

13

divided, since they come under separate provincial authorities or separate, possibly hostile, governments.) Divisions within the govern­ ment—or just lack of co-ordination—and unity of the insurgents: these are two sides of the same coin. And the reverse applies. 3. An appeal that is nation-wide both in area and social coverage. The Chinese Communists started with a narrow class appeal—chiefly to landless tenants and poor peasants (after the suppression of the workers’ movement) in a limited area, the south-east of China. It was the Japanese invasion which transformed the Communists from class warriors into vigorous and effective patriots, over an extensive and quite different area—north and central China. France’s attempt to reassert its authority over Indo-China in 1945-46 did the same for the Vietminh. Moreover, the latter had no effective nationalist rival in Vietnam. This was because the French had wiped out most nonCommunist nationalists in the 1930s (the Communists being better trained in conspiratorial methods were more successful in going underground). The Vietminh remained without rivals, because the French refused to grant real powers of independence to the Bao Dai regime, which never acquired the status of a truly national alterna­ tive. (This was also because of its own shortcomings.) Factors of ‘achievement’ : 4. History points to the importance of leadership both to revolu­ tionaries and to governments. The mere roll-call of outstanding Communist leaders—from Lenin, Trotsky and Stalin to Mao Tsetung, Ho Chi Minh and Tito—belies theoretical Marxist insistence on the exclusively determining role of economic conditions. More­ over the failings of leaders like Chiang Kai-shek, Ngo Dinh Diem and General Phoumi Nosavan, and conversely the success of President Magsaysay of the Philippines, were clearly important in the ability or otherwise of their governments to cope with insurgencies. 5. Organization is strongly emphasized both by Communists and by theorists of counter-insurgency. To Mao it marked the difference between the ‘roving guerrilla bands’ of Chinese history and his disciplined and dedicated revolutionary movement. Mao’s aim was the organization of a State within the State. ‘In these base areas,’ as Lin Piao put it, ‘we built the Party, ran the organs of State power, built the people’s armed forces and set up mass organizations.’ He went o n : ‘Our base areas were in fact a State in miniature . . . a grand rehearsal in preparation for a nation-wide victory.’ This shows the importance of an organized basis for insurgency. Guerrillas are not merely destructive forces; the task of armed insurgents is as much to establish, expand and defend their own ‘parallel hierarchies’ of

14

p e o p l e ’s w a r

administration (or ‘infra-structure’) as it is to destroy those of the government. 6. The effect of the breakdown or incapacity of the existing regime hardly needs emphasizing. This is often the result of war, which upsets or ruins living conditions, social and political institutions and the administrative framework. Without the instability or devastation caused by war an initially weak insurgent movement is unlikely to extend beyond the remote areas to threaten the centres of population and power. The havoc caused by the Japanese in China and by their overthrow of the French colonial regime in Indo-China played into the hands of the Communists. Elsewhere in South East Asia, nonCommunist nationalists were strong enough—though in some countries only just—to seize the advantage of the wartime overthrow of colonial rule for themselves. *

*

*

The presence of factors favouring the insurgents in any revolu­ tionary situation—peasant support, national appeal, effective leader­ ship and organization—usually indicates the absence of these factors as far as the government is concerned. In many developing countries there is no adequate ‘third force’ to provide a democratic alternative to a reactionary government or to an extreme revolutionary move­ ment. Thus the problem in coping with an insurgency is how to get a ‘reactionary’ government—since it is usually a reactionary govern­ ment which ‘provokes’ insurgency—to adopt democratic measures; that is, to win popular support away from the rebels, who depend on this for their security. Such governments, or rather their leaders, genuinely dislike democratic reforms, firstly because they consider the ‘people’—that is, in large part the peasants—an inferior species, and secondly because any measure of reform threatens the vested interests on which they (the leaders) depend for support. Personal loyalty to the leader—whether it is Chiang Kai-shek or Ngo Dinh Diem— comes before the security or the welfare of the nation. In such cases, a change of leaders is the only way to ensure a change of policies; and this is not only difficult to achieve, but it may come too late to have any effect. * * * Similar situations of unstable societies and poor leadership are likely to continue. Moreover the motive force of peasant unrest will probably become even more important as rapid increases of popula­ tion outgrow natural resources. India, Pakistan and Java, with extremely low standards of living and densely populated areas, may well become danger spots in Asia. Localized peasant uprisings have

I NT RO DU CT IO N

15

already taken place in India and Indonesia. It does not take much foresight to imagine—in the event of governmental incapacity—a fourth Communist insurrection in Indonesia: this time better pre­ pared and more effectively based on the villages. And it is perhaps surprising that India in the face of such dissension in society and such depths of rural degradation should have gone so long virtually unscathed. The present vulnerability of Congress may mark the end of this phase. Regional and language conflicts may become more threatening, the civil service may crack under growing pressure, peasant passivity may change to violence. . . . This is even more likely to happen in Latin America, where in a number of countries a largely Indian rural proletariat is oppressed by what is almost a caricature of the Marxist picture of a corrupt, selfish and ruthless absentee landlord class. Hitherto, the wretched Hindu outcast and the landless labourer of Latin America have probably been too cowed by poverty to revolt. But should they become affected by some slight improvement of conditions—by ‘rising expectations’—then revolution may well break out. (It is the young men and the more active and enterprising of the villagers, rather than the very poor and downtrodden, who become revolutionaries.) As for Africa, there is even more disorganization there than in Latin America as newly independent governments grapple with tribal and economic problems; but perhaps for this reason (fluidity rather than rigidity) there is less possibility of violent explosion. Moreover Africa is further removed from world power-centres and therefore internal confusion—as in the Congo situation—is less likely to generate outside intervention than in the case of Asia or Latin America. Thus, conditions for revolutionary uprisings not only exist but are likely to become more widespread. They will not necessarily be Communist uprisings. In the next decade or two, ‘Communist’— assuming the existence of a variety of national-Communist regimes— may have lost international significance. But this does not exclude the possibility of outside intervention in civil war situations, though this would no longer need to be justified on Communist or anti­ communist grounds. A change in the internal situation of a large country like India or Brazil or Indonesia would affect any ‘balance of forces’ outside it, if there were such, and this could provoke external intervention on one side or the other. But at least smaller countries of little or no strategic significance to world powers should be spared this fate. And these countries might avoid the risk altogether if they took care—by judicious measures—to prevent insurgencies from breaking out in the first place.

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D E P A R T M E N T O F G EO G R A P H Y , S C H O O L O F P A C IF IC ST U D IE S, A.N.U.

South East Asia and Southern C hina: Peoples, Places, Features

"1 2 0 "

10°

I THE SCENE Revolution and Intervention in South East Asia

History repeats itself, Marx observed, ‘the first time as tragedy, the second as farce’.1 In South East Asia the tragedy is the involve­ ment of the great powers, resulting successively in colonial rule, Japanese occupation, Communist insurrection and American intervention. The ‘farce’ is not so much that the great powers pursue different interests (for so do the countries of the area) but that individual countries’ interests may change over a short period of time and even contradict themselves. What seems reasonable and straight­ forward at one time or from one point of view may, on another occasion or merely by a shift in perspective, take on an entirely different character—cloudy, complex and ominous. Nowhere is this more apparent than in Vietnam—the cause of such profound concern throughout the world. One of the ironies of this tragic situation is that President de Gaulle should now favour the independence and unity of a people whose aspirations he thwarted, with such lamentable results, in the past. Though prepared to negotiate with Ho Chi Minh’s ‘Democratic Republic of Vietnam’ in 1945-46, de Gaulle and his immediate successors refused to con­ cede the principle of independence or to accept the historic unity of Vietnam. In face of the growing power and influence of Ho’s government in Hanoi, the colonial administrators and French settlers were determined not to yield control of the commercial network, the rubber estates and the rice fields of Cochin-China—now the heart of South Vietnam.2 The war which started at the end of 1946 ended eight years later in France’s defeat and ignominious withdrawal from Indo-China. (The present conflict in Vietnam is essentially a continuation of that struggle.) The Americans, who began by criticizing the French in Indo-China, ended by paying eighty per cent of the cost of the war.3In the present conflict in Vietnam, the French have reversed the procedure. Starting from a position of neutrality or support for American policy, they have moved to one of criticism and even outright opposition. One reason for French behaviour, it is suggested, is the desire that America should not succeed where France had failed. A better one is the belief that a neutral Vietnam within a B

18

p e o p l e ’s w a r

neutral South East Asia—guaranteed by the agreement of the great powers, including China—is the only way to insulate the area from the disastrous consequences of the cold war. The French have not only proposed neutrality, they have opted out of responsibility for a western military presence—to check ‘Communist aggression’. In Washington it is believed that the French no longer care what happens to South East Asia: it does not matter to France (whose basic interests, in Europe, are in fact protected by American nuclear power) whether South Vietnam goes Communist or not. Even if it does, the French argue, it might be an advantage. It would accord with the ‘natural’ tendency—artificially obstructed by American ‘interference’—for the more forceful North Vietnamese to dominate the South, the more active and industrious Vietnamese (altogether) to dominate the rest of Indo-China, and indeed, for the Chinese to dominate the area as a whole. Now whether this view is correct or not—and no doubt if South East Asia were left to itself this would occur—it is a far cry from de Gaulle’s original conception of Indo-China under effective foreign—i.e. French—control. Is foreign interference the cause (as the French now consider) or the consequence (as the Americans claim) of the successive crises in South East Asia? In other words, is outside intervention necessary (as the French once argued) to protect a defenceless area—to fill the ‘vacuum’ resulting from the wartime withdrawal of the colonial powers, for example—or does this merely (as the Americans used to think) provoke national unrest and stimulate Communist uprisings? Ironically, the Americans, during and immediately after the Second World War, helped to arm the Vietminh and looked askance at the colonial powers’ attempts to regain control of terri­ tories lost to the Japanese and to national independence movements. Curiously, the Russians were then on the opposite tack. Soviet post-war policy sought to restrain nationalist movements (supported by local Communists) in Indonesia and Indo-China, in the hope of exerting more influence in Western Europe, an area of far greater importance to Russia. Thus French Communists in Saigon were reported to have warned their Vietnamese comrades in 1945 against ‘prematurely’ seeking independence, since this might ‘not be in line with Soviet perspectives’ regarding France as a potential ally of the u s s r .4 As for the French Communist Party, then taking part in a coalition government in France, it was more concerned to ‘make a nationalist appeal to the French electorate than to give overt support to the Ho Chi Minh Government’. Communist members of the French Cabinet actually voted early in 1947 in support of the fight against the Vietminh.5 But the outbreak of the cold war was to change all that.

19

THE SCENE COMMUNIST r e v o l t s :

1948

South East Asia, with its natural resources, discordant national­ isms and unstable regimes, has long served as a lure for outside intervention and intrigue. There is no doubt that Stalin considered it, in the early stages of the cold war, as ripe for revolt—whether under colonial rule or where ‘bourgeois national’ leaders had obtained ‘independence’. By the time the Cominform had been established in September 1947, proclaiming that the countries of ‘new demo­ cracy’ and the workers of all countries must unite with the USSR— ‘the bulwark of anti-imperialism’—against the imperialist camp, the Vietminh had been fighting for almost a year against the French. The Communist-led Huk guerrillas were enlarging their operations in the Philippines. In 1946 and 1947 Malaya and Singapore had seen massive strike activities by Communist trade unions, Indonesia lay torn between nationalists (aided at that time by influential Communists) and the Dutch, and Burmese nationalists (despite the misgivings of ethnic minorities) were demanding independence from the British. Already a trial of strength between Communists and nationalists had begun in Burma. One group of Communists—the fanatical ‘Red Flags’—wanted war against Britain, another and larger group (‘White Flags’) planned to work for Communism within the ranks of the future ruling party, the Anti-Fascist People’s Freedom League: but it was expelled in 1946. In July 1947 the founder of the A.F.P.F.L., General Aung San, was assassinated and his para-military force—the People’s Volunteer Organization—was left leaderless. The main group of Communists, led by Thakin Than Tun, denounced the independence treaty signed by U Nu in January 1948 and called for the overthrow of the Nu Government as ‘tools of the British imperialists’.6 Than Tun, with Chinese, Vietnamese, Indonesian and other Communists, attended the Conference of the Youth and Students of South East Asia Fighting for Freedom and Indepen­ dence, held in Calcutta in February 1948, and a month later led his party into armed revolt. Palme Dutt, the veteran British Communist, summed up the situation in his message to the Calcutta Conference. ‘The whole region of South East Asia,’ he wrote, ‘is today the central arena of the struggle for national liberation against imperialism. The approach­ ing victory of democratic China heralds a new era in Asia. . . .’ The Chinese delegation, echoing the Manifesto of the newly formed Cominform, spoke of the ‘bitter struggle’ between the people’s anti­ imperialist front and the imperialist camp: ‘The people of South East Asia, who have been enslaved by imperialism for many years,

20

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should take advantage of the present moment and strive for complete liberation. . . . [The Chinese struggle] requires the assistance of and association with the liberation campaign of the peoples of South East Asia.’7 The Second Congress of the Communist Party of India was held in Calcutta immediately after the Youth Conference. The Indian Communists accused bourgeois governments of ‘betraying’ the freedom struggle by striking a ‘treacherous deal’ with the imperialists and their allies.8 The Indian Communists were reported to have discussed resorting to outright rebellion, but they recognized that it would be suicidal to attack the Nehru Government in view of the ‘strong ties of loyalty that still bind the people to the Congress’.9 Instead they hoped to undermine the Government by fomenting strikes and peasant disturbances (some of which, notably in the Telengana area, developed into local insurrections). To a certain extent the Burmese and Malayan Communists also sought to come to power by promoting chaos and confusion short of civil war; but when the two governments reacted and attempted to arrest the Communist leaders, the later found they were left with no alternative but to take up arms. In any case, the Burmese and Malayan Com­ munists seemed to view their strikes and turbulence as a prelude to revolt rather than as an alternative to it.10 Certainly, the Malayan Communist Party, after two of its repre­ sentatives had returned from the Calcutta meetings, rejected its former policy of ‘peaceful’ mass struggle. ‘Our party has now already purged itself of the rightist policy of opportunism,’ the Central Committee declared in a report captured later by government security forces, ‘and has correctly established a firm and revolu­ tionary standpoint to lead the revolutionary war.’11 When the party launched its open insurrection in June 1948, it envisaged a protracted campaign in three stages: guerrilla raids on rubber plantations, tin mines and police outposts to sabotage the economy and the administration; increased military activities to deprive the government of effective control of all but the main towns and communications; and finally, ‘liberated areas’ to be established and gradually be extended throughout the country. This plan was set out in the party’s Strategic Problems of the Malayan Revolutionary War, issued in December 1948, and clearly based on Mao Tse-tung’s own Strategic Problems of China's Revolutionary War.12 Indonesian Communists, who had previously been associated with the Republican regime, were also influenced by the ‘militant tone’ of the Calcutta ‘Youth Conference’. But it was not until July 1948 that they realized there was little hope of gaining power through political means and turned more and more to the idea of using military force.

THE SCENE

21

A secret report by the Communist-controlled People’s Democratic Front (later captured by the Government) estimated that over onethird of the armed forces was already under its control. (One of the issues between the newly-formed government under Vice-President Hatta and the Communists and their followers was the decision to rationalize the unwieldy and swollen Indonesian army and bureau­ cracy.) The report stated that if the Front’s mass campaign to dissolve the government or to reform it with Front members in key posts failed—as it did—then ‘we will cut off all relations with the government and continue our struggle under our own leadership either as rebellion or as separate government’.13 In August 1948 the veteran Communist revolutionary Musso (who had been more than a decade in Russia) arrived in Jogjakarta, Central Java, the capital of Republican Indonesia (the Dutch were then occupying most of the towns of West and East Java after their ‘police action’ of July 1947 and they were to attack again in December 1948).* Musso took over the leadership of the Communist Party and expounded his ‘Gottwald Plan’ to win power (as in the February 1948 Czech coup) without the use of armed force if possible, if not, by insurrection. But by mid-September the strengthening and reorganization of the Communist Party had only just begun and Communist leaders did not expect to act with full effectiveness for at least another six weeks. However, on September 19th the matter was taken out of their hands when the local Communist organization and militant youth movement in Madiun, East Java, inspired by dissident military officers, prematurely launched a coup (the parallel with the events of September 1965, is remarkable). President Sukarno appealed to the Indonesian people to choose between Musso, founding the Soviet Government in Madiun and attempting to seize the Republic, and the independent Indonesia led by Sukarno and Hatta. Loyal army forces moved in and by the end of October the last rebel unit had been crushed.14 Throughout South and South East Asia the purely Communist insurrections failed (the Vietminh, by contrast, was a national move­ ment led by Communists). Firm action by the Indian Government suppressed Communist violence in a number of States and thwarted the proposed nation-wide general strike and railway strike of March 1949, by which the Communist Party, according to Nehru, was ‘deliberately seeking to create famine conditions’ to ‘create a general background of chaos, a breakdown of the administration and mass * The Dutch at first accused the Indonesian leaders of being ‘fascists’ because of their wartime collaboration with the Japanese, then of being ‘Communists’ because some Communists were included in the post-war Republican Govern­ ment.

22

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uprising’. In Malaya, the Communists who were almost entirely Chinese, never won the backing of the Malay majority, while adminis­ trative countermeasures—chiefly resettling and controlling dissident Chinese squatters—isolated the guerrillas from their main source of support. The Burmese Government only gradually brought the various insurrections—of Communists, ethnic minorities, former Kuomintang troops—under control, except in the remote areas. A situation of imminent disaster faced the corrupt and inflective government of the Philippines, but the reforms carried out by Magsaysay (as Secretary of Defence and later President)—land for the landless, free and fair elections, prompt action against abuses— undercut the popular appeal of the rebels and dramatically turned the tide. In November 1949 Mao’s second-in-command, Liu Shao-chi, was still advocating armed struggle in the countryside and ‘legal and illegal mass struggles’ in the cities. ‘Armed struggle,’ he told dele­ gates to the Asian-Australasian trade union conference in Peking (another cover for international Communist activities, like the 1948 Calcutta Youth Conference), ‘is the main form of struggle for the national liberation struggles of many colonies and semi-colonies’. . . . ‘It is necessary to set up wherever and whenever possible a national liberation army which is led by the Communist Party and is powerful and skilful in fighting its enemies.’ But by 1952, with the widespread failure of armed revolt to achieve the overthrow of governments of colonies or independent countries (‘semi-colonies’), the emphasis in the Communist world was changing to methods of ‘political struggle’—organization, infiltration and subversion. Communist Parties began to seek recognition as mass movements representing workers and peasants and pursuing national aims—not as tightly organized conspiracies bent on the overthrow of bourgeois regimes. Above all, the nationalist parties or leaders were no longer denounced as ‘lackeys of the imperialists’ but were now considered fellow-members of the ‘anti-imperialist, anti­ colonialist’ camp. As early as December 1950, the Communist Party of India had been criticized by its mentor, Palme Dutt, for waging a ‘proletarian revolution’—i.e. against the bourgeois government— instead of a ‘national democratic revolution’—against the imperialists. In other words, conditions were not yet suitable—or were no longer suitable—for attempting civil war. An interesting critique of the post-1948 policy of insurrection is provided by a Filipino Communist, Jorge Maravilla, writing in the November 1965 issue of the Soviet-oriented World Marxist Review.“ The leaders of the Communist Party of the Philippines, he pointed out, were at first divided on whether to pursue all-out armed struggle

THE SCENE

23

—in response to the spontaneous uprising of cadres and peasants— or to fight the ‘bourgeois nationalists’ through legal channels. Then the party was reorganized in 1948 and became ‘more determined’ on armed struggle. In January 1950 it decided that a ‘revolutionary situation’ existed and that the next two years would be the ‘prepara­ tion for seizure of power’ : the Huk guerrilla forces would be con­ verted into a regular army and a ‘provisional revolutionary govern­ ment’ formed. But an ‘obscure and pliable’ politician, Ramon Magsaysay, became Secretary of National Defence (and later Presi­ dent) : ‘Between 1950 and 1956, under the impact of the imperialist counter-offensive, the Huk armed struggle was defeated, the Com­ munist Party cadres were decimated and the movement for national libration received a major setback.’ Why was the Communist struggle defeated? The author gives four main reasons: (1) It was incorrect to estimate that the government’s situation in 1950 was ‘irrecoverable’; in fact ‘the people were sus­ ceptible to promises of “reform” ’. (2) ‘Once a revolutionary situation was declared, the Party put almost all emphasis and cadres into the armed struggle, to the neglect of legal forms of struggle’; the Party failed to form a broad united front and ‘antagonized’ the national bourgeoisie which allied itself with Magsaysay; and the Huks became isolated. (3) ‘Overconfident’ of victory, the party was ‘careless’ of its security. In October 1950 (one of Magsaysay’s most daring strokes) the entire Communist Party Secretariat ‘and many other top-ranking cadres’ were arrested. Complete files of party documents and cor­ respondence were seized. For months, the author states, the remain­ ing cadres were unable to meet and the initiative which had been lost was never regained. Finally (4) the ‘national liberation struggle’ was ‘physically isolated’ from its international allies and received virtually no support from abroad. As a result of the party’s ‘errors of estimate and tactics’ thousands of its cadres and members died fighting—originally there were nine members of the Politburo in 1950 but all were either killed or cap­ tured and the same fate befell the entire membership of the party Central Committee: thus the Party was left ‘almost without effective cadres’. Only after 1956 did it make a ‘tactical shift’ to forms of underground and legal struggle. SI N O - SO V I E T d i s p u t e : ( p e o p l e ’s ) w a r a n d p e a c e

In the great Communist debate on armed or ‘legal’ struggle it is significant that the Russians, who chiefly inspired the 1948 revolts (the Chinese Communists being occupied with their own liberation), have come down on the side of ‘peaceful’ struggle, while the Chinese

24

p e o p l e ’s w a r

have identified themselves with the cause of ‘national liberation’, or as they prefer it, ‘people’s war’. Towards the end of 1952 Stalin himself was urging Communist Parties throughout the world to support peace, democracy and national independence (allegedly rejected by the West). But it was his successors who brought about a major shift in Soviet policy. This took two main forms. First, instead of attacking the ‘pseudo-indepen­ dence’ attained by bourgeois regimes, the Soviet Union sought to capitalize on feelings of hostility to, or suspicion of, Western policy which influenced men like Nehru, Nasser and Sukarno. Soviet ‘friend­ ship’—support for neutrality, offers of trade and aid, promotion of cultural contacts—was intended to point a contrast to the ‘militar­ istic’ aims of the West and thus attract the non-aligned countries into the orbit of Soviet foreign policy. The next stage would see the gradual acceptance of the Soviet line in internal affairs—‘radical agrarian reforms’, abolition of ‘feudalism’, enlargement of the State sector, expulsion of foreign monopolies, etc.*—and, with this, it was hoped, ‘transition to socialism’ by peaceful means. The second feature of Soviet policy was awareness of the disas­ trous consequences of nuclear warfare in the event of a conflict with the United States. So far from repeating Lenin’s famous prediction that ‘the existence of the Soviet Republic side by side with imperialist States for a long time is unthinkable . . . a series of frightful collisions between the Soviet Republic and the bourgeois States will be inevit­ able’—which the Chinese explicitly reaffirmed—Khruschev in his speech at the Soviet Twentieth Party Congress in February 1956, declared that war was ‘not fatalistically inevitable’ even if imperialism still existed. ‘Peaceful coexistence,’ he maintained, could avert a nuclear holocaust. Khruschev’s aim was thus to achieve Soviet objectives without risking nuclear war, which he feared might be sparked off by local armed conflicts, f The promotion of ‘peaceful transition to socialism’ —i.e. to a Communist type of regime without civil war or violent revolution—was a necessary concomitant of the policy of ‘peaceful coexistence’. But Khruschev’s ‘general line’ was doubly suspect to the Chinese. Not only in Peking’s view was ‘us imperialism’ the most * These are the ‘national democratic tasks’ on which the ‘progressive forces of the nation’ can unite, according to the Statement o f 81 Communist and Workers’ Parties, Moscow, December 6, 1960. t T h e entire experience o f the post-war years . . . shows how great in our time is the danger that local wars will grow into a universal war. Also quite real is the danger of thermo-nuclear weapons being used in local wars if countries possessing such weapons— or countries bound by appropriate allied agreements with the nuclear powers—are involved in them. . . .’— Soviet Government Statement, September 20-21,1963.

THE SCENE

25

ferocious enemy of the people—especially the Chinese people—but America was clearly the major obstacle to the ‘liberation’ of Taiwan and of near-by countries in South East Asia currently under ‘im­ perialist’ control. The militant pursuit of China’s national interests was therefore diametrically opposed to Soviet caution in not con­ fronting America, particularly in an area which was not vital to Russia. (Similarly the United States, despite its crusading sentiments, took care not to intervene in the Soviet sphere of influence, both during the 1963 East German revolt and, notoriously, during the 1956 Hungarian uprising.) The basis of coexistence between the two ‘super-powers’ could not allow for any deviating interests of an ally. Sino-Soviet differences became apparent in September 1959 when the Russians, instead of supporting China on the Sino-Indian border dispute, adopted an attitude of neutrality. The Chinese not unnatur­ ally complained that Soviet aid should go to Communist countries and not be used to build up bourgeois regimes like India, and that the ‘leader’ of the Communist camp should support a fellow member. Moreover, as the Chinese were later to argue, a ‘socialist country’ could not commit ‘aggression’—this could only be the act of im­ perialists or reactionaries. Unmoved by these arguments, the Russians in mid 1960 ‘perfidiously and unilaterally tore up agree­ ments and contracts they had concluded with a fraternal country’— as the Chinese revealed in February 1963—and withdrew from China all their experts and technicians. The Chinese had set out their ideological differences with the Russians as early as November 1957—at the Moscow meeting which produced the ‘Declaration’ of policy of the ruling Communist and Workers’ Parties. In a confidential memorandum, the Chinese dele­ gation headed by Mao Tse-tung admitted that Khruschev’s advocacy of ‘peaceful transition to socialism’ was ‘advantageous from the point of view of tactics’. But, the Chinese pointed out, ‘too much stress’ on it, especially on the possibility of a parliamentary majority winning power, was ‘liable to weaken the revolutionary will of the proletariat’ : ‘What is most important is to proceed with the hard work of gather­ ing the revolutionary forces. To obtain a majority in parliament is not the same as smashing the old State machinery (chiefly the armed forces). . . . Unless the military bureaucratic State machinery of the bourgeoisie is smashed, a parliamentary majority for the proletariat and their reliable allies will either be impossible . . . or undepend­ able ’ And the memorandum bluntly stated: ‘To the best of our know­ ledge, there is still not a single country where this possibility [of

26

p e o p l e ’s w a r

peaceful transition] is of any practical significance.’16 As the Chinese leaders were later to argue, violent revolution is a ‘universal law of proletarian revolution’ : ‘The key question in the proletarian revolution is that of State power . . . the seizure of State power and the smashing of the bourgeois State machine by violence. . . . [Again] It is absolutely impossible to bring about a fundamental social change by relying on bourgeois parliaments or governments.. . . The active leadership [of the ‘prole­ tarian party’] given in day-to-day struggle must have as its central aim the building up of revolutionary strength and the preparations for seizing victory in the revolution when the conditions are ripe.. . . [The struggle is] to prepare for revolution ideologically, politically, organizationally and militarily. . . .’17 In theory, this rigorous pursuit of violence was intended to draw a clear line between the true exponents of Marxism-Leninism and its ‘betrayers’. In practice, the Soviet Union, having lost the support of most of the South East Asian Communist Parties, legal and illegal, which had gravitated towards Peking, was in any case better pre­ pared for ‘governmental’ activities unencumbered by revolutionary baggage. The Russians exploited Peking’s obsession with violence, claiming that ‘the application of the call to armed struggle to countries with national-progressive governments is tantamount to an order for the violent overthrow of those governments which have the respect of the masses and which adhere to an anti-imperialist line’.18 This Soviet statement is misleading on two counts. First by declar­ ing that Peking intended the overthrow of ‘national-progressive’ and not just ‘reactionary’ regimes; second, by implying that Peking’s readiness to use violence was imminent rather than a matter of care­ ful preparation for the time when conditions were ripe. In fact, the Russians, too were opposed to ‘reactionary’ regimes and what was ‘national-progressive’ was a matter of interpretation, India qualifying for the Russians but not for the Chinese. . . . Secondly, the Chinese could in practice be just as ‘revisionist’ as the Russians in their rela­ tions with bourgeois governments, for example with Pakistan—a military regime, a member of s e a t o and c e n t o and an ally of the United States. But the Soviet statement does reveal the tendency of the Russians—faute de mieux—to deal with governments (rather than Communist Parties) in Asia, and vice versa for the Chinese. The Russians also believed that their aim of inducing ‘national progressive’ governments to take the road of ‘peaceful transition to socialism’ (which, being gradual and non-violent, would avoid armed conflict or outside intervention) was endangered by Peking’s cam­

T HE SCENE

27

paign for more ‘revolutionary’ action. Thus, although Moscow was impelled to support ‘national liberation movements’, if only to pre­ vent them from falling under the influence of the Chinese, it preferred to put stress on their economic role once independence had been won. This was in contrast to Peking’s view that the ‘primary and most urgent task’ of the countries of Asia, Africa and Latin America is ‘still the further development of the struggle against imperialism, old and new colonialism, and their lackeys. . . . The struggles in all these spheres [‘political, economic, military, cultural, ideological’] still find their most concentrated expression in political struggle, which often unavoidably develops into armed struggle... .’19 Khruschev himself came to recognize that support for ‘liberation movements’ in South East Asia—an area not of vital importance to the Soviet Union—was not worth the risk of a clash with the Americans. After the Laos settlement of 1962, which had been fore­ shadowed at his Vienna meeting with President Kennedy in 1961, Khruschev virtually withdrew from any active role in South East Asia. But his successors, Brezhnev and Kosygin, anticipating in 1965 an outright military victory by the Vietcong, reversed Khruschev’s policy. This was probably to forestall the Chinese, who would other­ wise stand to gain too much at the expense of the Russians. But Kosygin’s visit to Hanoi to offer military and economic assistance coincided with the start of the us air campaign in February 1965 against targets in North Vietnam. By reasserting their influence in Hanoi the Russians had become inextricably involved in the war in Vietnam. us

r ea c tio n

: t h e Vi e t n a m c o m m i t m e n t

By the time John Foster Dulles had been selected as us Secretary of State after November 1952 and was enunciating his policy of ‘rolling back Communism’ his enemy Stalin had been preparing the shift to a less militant policy, which was taken up more actively by his suc­ cessors. In a strange reversal of roles, the new Soviet leaders pro­ ceeded to woo the non-aligned nations, while Dulles angrily de­ nounced the ‘immorality’ of neutralism. Yet another change was to occur under President Kennedy—marked by the rapprochement with the Soviet Union (begun under Eisenhower) and the settlement of the Laotian crisis*—while the mantle of Stalinist adventurism, * Prince Sihanouk aptly retorted to an American correspondent who criticized his ‘unpredictability*: There was a time when your government, which felt great aversion for our neutrality, went so far as to call it immoral. But since then you have gradually learnt to look realities in the face and you finally arrived at desiring for Laos nothing other than this—a neutrality exactly like that of Cambodia, according to your President. Tell me, if you please, if it is you who are changeable or me?’ (Neak Cheat Niyum, September 3, 1961).

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in theory at least, was taken over by the Chinese.20 Moreover, though there is a difference in the means employed by ‘imperialists’ or Communists to attain their ends—corresponding to the different opportunities available to open and closed societies— there is a certain similarity in objectives. Each side, with some justi­ fication, sees the other as striving for world domination. Thus Dulles’s campaign for the liberation of ‘slave States’ from Com­ munism was a counterpart of—as well as a reaction to—the Com­ munist drive to liberate colonies and ‘semi-colonies’ from ‘imperialist oppression’. And given an equal assurance of righteousness, each side could feel justified in going to great lengths—‘brinkmanship’— because of the vital importance—‘inevitability’—of the struggle be­ tween them. In Europe Dulles was unable to take advantage of the oppor­ tunities for ‘rolling back’ Communism afforded by the East German and Hungarian risings (from fear of provoking a nuclear conflict with the Russians), but in South East Asia he had a freer hand. Admittedly his plans for ‘united action’ in Indo-China to save the French at Dien Bien Phu were turned down by his allies (and his President). But after the 1954 Geneva settlement Dulles worked hard to rebuild a position of strength. This policy had three components: to plug the gap in South Vietnam; to roll back Communism in Laos; and to fortify such ‘Free World Bastions’ as Taiwan under Chiang Kai-shek, South Korea under Syngman Rhee and Thailand under Marshal Pibun and his police chief Phao. Meanwhile, in neutral countries, the us Central Intelligence Agency was permitted to encourage and support ‘anti-Communists’, such as the remnants of a Kuomintang army in Burma (even though they were fighting against the Rangoon Government) and the ‘separatists’ in Indonesia (whose 1958 rebellion against Sukarno was suppressed by the army). While Dulles’s policies remained constant, the Asian situation changed. Four out of the five Right Wing regimes supported by the us in East Asia were overthrown: Rhee in South Korea, Diem in South Vietnam, Pibun in Thailand and Phoumi in Laos. Three times in Laos Prince Souvanna Phouma tried to establish a neutralist regime and three times he was thwarted—twice by the Americans* and once by the North Vietnamese. The Americans put their trust in Colonel (later General) Phoumi Nosavan, ambitious leader of the anti-Communist forces, who helped to dismiss the first neutralcoalition government in 1958 and actually drove Souvanna Phouma out of Vientiane by armed force two years later. It was only under strong pressure by the Kennedy Administration that General Phoumi * Interview with Prince Souvanna Phouma in Phnom Penh (New York Times, January 20, 1961).

THE SCENE

29

reluctantly agreed to the formation of a neutralist-led coalition in 1962, which then foundered on the obstructions of the Patnet Lao and North Vietnamese. Phoumi, after some years of apparent moderation, tried to seize power early in 1965, failed and fled. In South Korea, fortunately for Washington, the autocratic Syngman Rhee was replaced in 1960 by an equally anti-Communist, but more representative, civilian (and later military) regime; this had also happened in 1957-58, in Thailand. But in South Vietnam the Communist element—legacy of the Vietminh’s popular resistance against the French—proved too deeply rooted. Non-Communist adversaries of President Ngo Dinh Diem were unable to overthrow him before his repressive and shortsighted policies had provoked such widespread opposition as to undermine the authority of the State, to the major advantage of the Vietcong. How was it possible for violent change to take place, without leading to Communism, in South Korea, Thailand and Burma (after Ne Win’s coup), but not in South Vietnam—nor in Nationalist China and French Indo-China? Briefly, in South Korea—the closest ‘parallel’ to Vietnam—the people had experienced at first hand the brutality of Communist (in Vietnam it was colonial) invasion and military occupation; although they hated Rhee, they hated the Communists still more.* As for Thailand, no real Communist movement has developed in a relatively prosperous and homogeneous country—although both Pibun and his successors invoked us aid to ‘suppress’ it. The excep­ tion is the poor and (for a long time) neglected north-east provinces bordering Laos where, in addition to subversion in the remote vil­ lages encouraged by agents infiltrated from Pathet Lao-held areas in Laos, there are feelings of resentment against (over-privileged) Bangkok. Compared to the situation in Thailand, Malaysia, Burma or even Laos, the enormous growth of the Communist movement in South Vietnam puts that country in a totally different category. Ironically, it was the very completeness of Diem’s initial victories over his opponents in 1954-56—ex-emperor Bao Dai, French supporters, Hoa Hao and Cao Dai religious sects, Binh Xuyen gangsters (con­ * Even the Communists have acknowledged the difference between South Vietnam and South Korea. A North Vietnamese general observed in 1966: ‘In the Korean war, what was different from the situation in South Vietnam was that when the Americans introduced (520,000) troops (including satellite troops) in Korea, they sent them all to the front line because their rear base was secure, whereas in South Vietnam, when the Americans introduce 300,000 or 400,000 troops they cannot send them all to the front line. . . .’ Confiden­ tial address to N.L.F. conference by General Nguyen Van Vinh, recorded in cadre’s notebook captured in 1967. ‘Viet Cong Documents on the War’, Communist Affairs (Univ. of Southern California) Nov.-Dee. 1967.

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trolling Saigon’s police—and brothels), the Vietminh and others— which obscured the underlying reality. South Vietnam was not so much a modem State as a fragmented land, without any real identity, held together by the skill, courage and integrity of Diem at first, but later—and increasingly—by fraud, corruption and repression. Diem imposed the semblance of unity over rival sects, regions and religions, but when he was overthrown the structure fell apart. In a sense, the South still represents ‘unfinished business’. The revolution, whether Communist or nationalist, still has to take place. And although the attitudes and methods of the Dulles era have to some extent been disavowed, the us is facing the consequences of these original policies. In committing the us to Diem, Dulles was building on sand. This commitment was small to start with: Dulles in fact had argued in support of the se a t o treaty in 1954 that the us should deter Com­ munist aggression not by maintaining an army on the Asian main­ land (which indeed would not have been acceptable either to Con­ gress, the American public or to military strategists) but by the use of a mobile striking force. But the commitment inexorably in­ creased as the situation deteriorated. For the problem, unlike Korea, was not one of military invasion (though the us was wise to guard against the possibility) but, essentially, of political subversion leading to insurgency. For many years Communists and Nationalists in Vietnam had struggled against colonial rule, but the Nationalists, less disciplined and organized, had been almost wiped out by ruthless French repres­ sion in the thirties. It was the Communists who led the Vietminh’s successful resistance to the French—both in North and South. Parti­ tion in 1954 along the 17th parallel was an artificial measure, in­ tended as a prelude to reunification. In reality the Vietminli con­ trolled most of the countryside, while the French controlled the towns. Yet by the final stage of the war, even the zones around Hanoi and Saigon had been heavily infiltrated by the Vietminh. Although some 90,000 Vietminh soldiers were transferred to the North after 1954 (they became the chief source of reinforcement for the Vietcong), many Vietminh military units and Communist cadres in the South simply lay low. Diem’s refusal to accept nation-wide elections in 1956, which the Communists had expected to win, was a severe blow.* The Communists in the South then began to reorganize for armed struggle, while Diem, for his part, intensified his campaign * At the time, the Soviet Union, preoccupied with de-Stalinization and the Polish and later Hungarian revolts, could do little to help, while China was anxious to keep up the ‘peaceful’ impression made at the Bandung Con­ ference, which had had a favourable effect on Asian opinion.

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against ‘dissidents’, including those who had fought for the Vietminh as well as liberals, socialists or members of sects who disagreed with his policies. When the Communists stepped up their use of terror— chiefly against village headmen, government informers and local officials—as they had done against the French, so Diem, too, ruth­ lessly sought to suppress all forms of opposition. In March 1959, Diem proclaimed Vietnam as a ‘nation at war’, while special military tribunals were established for ‘repression of acts of sabotage, of infringements of national security and of attacks upon the life or property of citizens’.21 In November 1959, a year after Diem’s Foreign Minister had reported that the threat of internal Communist subversion was under control, the Government of South Vietnam issued a ‘White Book’ reporting that the Vietcong had murdered nearly 200 people in two years. In 1960, towards the end of which the National Liberation Front for South Vietnam was formed, the struggle horrifyingly increased. Government forces lost over 6,000 killed, wounded and captured and the Vietcong—the government term for the guerrillas—even more. Guerrilla attacks on small army units and on isolated or poorly defended outposts, ambushes on roads and canals, the destruction of bridges and sabotage of public works became more and more fre­ quent. The aim of the Vietcong was to paralyse the regime by intimi­ dating or destroying the administration at the local level. The Viet­ cong increased its strength from about 3,000 armed guerrillas in 1955 to 5,000 full-time regular soldiers backed by 30,000 provincial or district troops at the start of 1961—and to 23,000 regulars with 40,000 irregulars a year later.22 Less than one in seven of Vietcong forces in 1961 had been infiltrated from the North (perhaps one in four of the ‘hard core’ units).’23 They were backed locally by ‘many thousands of village guards, political cadres, special agents’, etc.24 At each stage in the grim descent into chaos in Vietnam, the us faced this dilemma: whether to cut its commitments and withdraw from an increasingly difficult, if not irremediable, situation; or to provide more and more support to bolster the regime in the hope of at last turning the corner. ITie first policy would mean handing over a key area to Communism, which would call in question the entire anti-Communist strategy in South East Asia. The second would tie the us to an arbitrary, unpopular and increasingly incapable regime; for so far from being the ‘American puppet’ of Communist allega­ tions, Diem both insisted on aid and at the same time spurned the reasonable advice that the us had to offer. In a two-year cycle, the mounting problems of South Vietnam regularly reached the stage of crisis. First in 1959, when the Vietcong

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guerrillas stepped up their attacks. Then in 1961 when the us decided that only ‘accelerated emergency assistance’—including the forma­ tion of a us Military Assistance Command, early in 1962—could save the situation. Once more in 1963, when the us dissociated itself from the Diem-Nhu repression of the Buddhists and allowed the Vietnamese army to overthrow the Diem regime. Again in 1965, when us difficulties came to a head after a disastrous year symbolized by the antics of General Nguyen Khanh who, with American fore­ knowledge, had ousted the first post-Diem regime. Khanh tried to justify the ‘purge’ of his former chiefs early in 1964 with the promise of greater zeal, efficiency and personal dynamism. The actual result, however, was further to divide the army, weaken the administration, encourage political intrigues, revive the suspicion of the Buddhists and lose ground before the Vietcong. The climax of Khanh’s dizzy career came in August 1964 when as Prime Minister he proclaimed a State of Emergency, declared the suspension whenever necessary of any law, produced a new Consti­ tution (with American approval) and was duly elected President of South Vietnam. This lasted nine days. Alarmed at the possibility of repression under a new dictatorship, Buddhists, political movements, students and agitators mounted massive demonstrations, which forced Khanh to yield. A month later, some disaffected generals briefly occupied Saigon, but the younger officers rallied to Khanh— still Commander-in-Chief—and the coup collapsed. To add to the confusion, a general strike by the trade unions paralysed business in Saigon, and certain mountain tribes, trained by the Americans for ‘special operations’ against the Vietcong, took up arms against the South Vietnamese authorities instead. By the end of the year, the newest military leaders (Air Vice-Marshal Nguyen Cao Ky and Brigadier General Nguyen Chanh Thi, who were to fall out spectacu­ larly in 1966) deposed the acting legislature, the High National Council, to the chagrin of the Americans. Washington protested bitterly against the removal of this constitutional fig leaf—the irres­ ponsible overthrow of the ‘fabric of legal government’ as us Ambas­ sador Maxwell Taylor put it. More ominously, the South Vietnamese Army suffered its worst defeat of the war at Binh Gia, a Catholic refugee stronghold only forty miles from Saigon. Thus 1965 opened for the Americans with the dawning realization that it would not only be impossible to oust the Vietcong as planned,* * The extraordinary unrealism pervading the u s Defence Department— reminiscent of continual French ‘victories’ over the Vietminh—was reflected in Defence Secretary McNamara’s announcement of October 2, 1963, that, assuming the defeat of the Vietcong in 1964, most American forces would be withdrawn by the end of 1965.

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but that they would be hard pressed to hold South Vietnam at all. Yet Washington dared not contemplate negotiations to end the con­ flict—and in fact turned down Ho Chi Minh’s proposal, agreed with U Thant in 1964, for a secret meeting with us representatives in Burma*—for fear that the mere suggestion might unbalance the precarious, but anti-Communist, authority of Saigon. However, the existing policy of ‘advisory’ assistance and the gradual pacification of provinces could no longer be effective, since South Vietnamese government forces had not only lost the initiative (gained with American help after 1961) but faced piecemeal destruction in a protracted war and ‘the possibility—indeed . . . the probability—of a Communist military victory’.25 The only alternative to the prospect of a humiliating us with­ drawal, with all the encouragement this would give to ‘national liberation movements’ elsewhere, seemed to be us pressure on North Vietnam: that is, military action to compel a political settlement. The American bombing campaign, starting in February 1965, was a bold, even desperate, attempt to offset the disintegration of the South by tackling what was facilely believed to be the nub of the problem —‘aggression’ by the North. Since Hanoi was responsible for the war, Washington argued,f so the threat of destruction at the hands of the most powerful nation on earth must surely bring it to heel. Failing in this attempt, the us had no alternative but to intervene in strength in the South—where the war all along had to be fought and won— to avert the imminent defeat of the Saigon regime. INDONESIAN REVERSAL!

NEW

BAL A NCE OF P O W E R ?

The situation in Indonesia provides a remarkable contrast to that of Vietnam. The powerful Communist Party of Indonesia (P.K.I.) which had been built up by new leaders after the disaster of 1948—by 1965 it was the third largest in the world—was against all expectations completely routed. While the us was losing out in Vietnam, or barely holding its own—at the cost of millions of dollars in military and economic aid, the despatch of thousands of troops and the employment of massive firepower and the most advanced military techniques—in Indonesia the Communist movement was over­ thrown, without foreign intervention, almost overnight. * North Vietnam was ready to discuss the formation o f a neutral coalition government in the South, according to United Nations’ sources. The first approach was after the fall of Diem in 1963, the second in September 1964, when Burma was willing to act as host. Both were turned down by the United States. [Manchester] Guardian, August 9, 1965. t It was ‘a systematic aggression by Hanoi against the people of South Viet­ nam’, according to u s Secretary of State Dean Rusk, before the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, February 18, 1966. C

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Yet events had seemed to be playing into Communist hands. In the heady atmosphere of confrontation with Malaysia the Indonesian Communists were preparing a ‘revolutionary upsurge’. D. N. Aidit, the party’s leader, had been touring the villages urging revolt (in the manner of Mao Tse-tung) against landlords and other feudal ‘evils’. As early as December 1963, Aidit had called on ‘Communists and revolutionaries’ to support the peasant struggle against the land­ lords, adding that the revolution in China, Korea, Vietnam, Algeria, Cuba and other countries had succeeded by relying on the peasantry. The peasants and the villages, according to the P.K.I.’s ‘45th Anni­ versary Thesis’ of May 1965, were ‘a source of foodstuffs, a source of soldiers, a place where the revolution can retreat when beaten in the city, and a base to attack the enemy and wrest back the city’. In Djakarta, mobs were demonstrating against ‘bureaucratic capi­ talists’—i.e. the party’s opponents in the army, administration and state enterprises—on the pretext that they were responsible for food shortages, inflation and the ‘sabotage’ of the revolution. The press, radio and official news agency had, by early 1965, been taken over by Communist supporters. The P.K.I. was agitating for the arming of workers and peasants—ostensibly against Malaysia: ‘The P.K.I. has demanded that the workers and peasants be armed. The P.K.I. is convinced that only the armed people, and especially the armed workers and peasants, can halt the invasion by imperialist troops.’ This was Aidit’s ‘demand’ on May 23, 1965. President Sukarno in his Independence Day speech (August 17,1965) announced he would ‘take a decision’ on the proposed ‘fifth armed service’.26 Meanwhile, according to Army sources, Foreign Minister and First Deputy Prime Minister Subandrio was consorting with the Chinese and retailing—through his own intelligence agency, the B.P.I. which reported directly to the President—Communist-inspired slanders against the military leaders.* President Sukarno himself * General Nasution, then Armed Forces Chief of Staff, claimed on October 25, 1965—three weeks after the abortive Communist coup—that the authors of the plot had prepared for years to infiltrate the armed forces and had ‘systematically planted seeds of slander’. He said he had specifically urged President Sukarno to ‘establish order within the State’s Secret Agencies*— the source of the ‘slanderous atmosphere’ against the army. Peris Pardede, a captured P.K.I. Central Committee member, testified before the military tribunal in Djakarta on February 15, 1966, that Subandrio had submitted B.P.I. ‘Documents’ to Sukarno before the coup. Subandrio was sentenced to death by the military tribunal on October 25, 1966 for providing the oppor­ tunity for the P.K.I. to stage the coup.

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had ‘embraced’ the P.K.I., at the huge rally celebrating the P.K.I.’s forty-fifth anniversary in May 1965, as ‘thoroughly progressive and revolutionary’. As the party gathered momentum inside Indonesia, so both President and Foreign Minister seemed to become more and more identified with the ‘Peking-Djakarta axis’, rallying the progressive ‘new emerging forces’ against the ‘imperialists, colonialists and neo-colonialists’ ('nekolim'). The climax to this feverish political excitement was the attempted coup of September 30,1965, carried out by a dissident officer of the Presidential guard, Lt.-Col. Untung, whose men seized and murdered six senior generals, including the Army Commander-in-Chief, General Yani. Nasution, the foremost military leader (who had been relieved of effective power by Sukarno) escaped only through the courage of his aide, while Suharto, then head of the Army Strategic Reserve, was fortuitously away from home. Had it not been for Suharto’s resolution in regaining control of the capital and for the escape of Nasution—the Communists’ most determined opponent— Untung’s plot might have succeeded—if only for a time, since antiCommunist army units were readily available to put down any up­ rising. No doubt the ‘Revolutionary Council’ announced by Untung, including certain leaders of the armed forces, politicians and Com­ munist and other personalities, was intended to serve as a ‘front’, behind which the P.K.I., having eliminated its chief rivals, could (as in Eastern Europe) gradually but effectively take complete control. Thus the P.K.I. daily newspaper Harian Rakjat came out with an editorial on October 2nd declaring that ‘the people will certainly be on the side of the September 30th Movement’ formed by Untung. According to the later testimony of captured Communist leaders, the P.K.I. Politburo had discussed the formation of a ‘Revolutionary Council’ in July 1965. On August 17th, the Politburo was said to have agreed on military operations to frustrate the army’s alleged plans to take over power and liquidate the Communists, in the event of the President’s death, which the P.K.I. believed to be imminent. A series of meetings between dissident officers and high-level P.K.I. contacts were held in September, according to an Air Force Major implicated in the plot, but only on the morning of September 30th did they decide to take action.* Yet the P.K.I. irresolution while Suharto rallied his forces, its failure to bring out the party mass organizations in the capital and other cities to retrieve the situation, and its half-hearted attempts at * Evidence b y : Njono, P.K.I. Politburo member responsible for organizing ‘combat forces’ in the Djakarta area, at his trial by the military tribunal on February 14, 1966; Peris Pardede, February 15, 1966; Major Sujono, February 16,1966.

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guerrilla warfare from its East and Central Javanese strongholds, all these indicate either that the P.K.I. really was ignorant of Untung’s activities (despite later confessions) or, if it was involved at least to some extent (which seems more likely) that it was caught off balance, first, by the premature nature of the coup and, second, by the speed of the army’s retaliation. In reality, the P.K.I. was not in nearly so strong a position as its ‘revolutionary’ propaganda had been making out. It was not so much Sukarno who was the ‘prisoner’ of the P.K.I.—the fear of many Western observers—as the reverse. For the actual power of the P.K.I. was ‘severely restricted’; it was the Army which was becoming ‘a State within the State’ (not the Communists); the P.K.I.—unlike the Army —had no ministerial functions in the Cabinet; yet as the ‘weaker part­ ner’ in Sukarno’s Nasakom (nationalists, religious, Communists) con­ cept, it had to share governmental responsibility without having a major influence on policy.27 Aidit, it seems, was deluded by the sheer weight of numbers—the millions of party members and of the party-controlled trade union, peasant, women and youth organizations—into exaggerating his and his party’s own importance and the effectiveness of the ‘mass organi­ zations’; and this perhaps led him into adventurous courses. Almost a year after the attempted coup, a statement by the P.K.I. Politburo (published another year later by Peking), roundly criticized Aidit’s belief in ‘numerical strength’ and his ‘unprincipled’ reliance on Sukarno and warned: ‘The armed struggle to defeat armed counter­ revolution, as a revolution, must not be waged in the form of mili­ tary adventurism, in the form of a putsch, which is detached from the awakening of the armed masses.’28 It seems clear that the P.K.I. had it been able to choose its moment, would not have resorted to violence at that time. Only after many more months of preparations could it have consolidated its position under Sukarno, perhaps persuaded him to sanction an armed force of workers and peasants and have stepped up its infiltration of the lower ranks of the army to a crippling extent. But time (as at Madiun in 1948) was not its to choose. For Sukarno, according to the Chinese doctors treating him in August 1965, was believed to be mortally ill; with the President removed from the scene, nothing would prevent the army leaders from ending the Communist threat while it still had the capacity to do so. No doubt the army, aware of Sukarno’s illness, had prepared con­ tingency plans to deal with the Communists. But the ease with which Untung was able to kidnap its leaders does not indicate that the army—contrary to later Communist propaganda and to Subandrio’s intelligence—was at any active stage of preparations. All the

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*igns are that Untung (possibly in the belief that the President was on the point of death) acted impulsively, without effective co-ordina­ tion with the P.K.I. Sukarno’s motives remain ambiguous. There seems little doubt (despite his later denials) that he accepted Subandrio’s reports of a coup being planned by a ‘Council of Generals’ on Army Day (October 5th) and was privy to what he understood to be a move to discipline them—or even to ‘eliminate’ the leading Right Wing generals—because of their opposition to his policy of bringing the Communists more effectively into power. It seems unlikely that Sukarno would have supported an all-out Communist coup, since by removing the army leaders this would have undermined the basis of his support, established by balancing between the army and the P.K.I. However, Sukarno was present at the Halim Air Base (where the six generals were killed by Com­ munist fanatics) a few hours after Untung’s coup. He is reported to have approved the activities of the dissident army officers, and to have met the Communist and Air Force leaders in the plot.* Only when he heard of Nasution’s escape and Suharto’s recovery did he apparently abandon his intention to fly with Aidit to Central Java and there to proclaim his support for the ‘Revolutionary Council’.29 While Sukarno indecisively awaited the outcome of the struggle, the army leaders rapidly crushed the revolt in Central and East Java and incited the P.K.I.’s opponents to take their revenge. In a matter of weeks, thousands of Communists were rounded up and massacred and the party organization virtually destroyed. Aidit himself was captured, interrogated by the army, and shot. These shattering events transformed the situation both in Indo­ nesia and abroad. At one blow the Chinese had lost a major ally against the Russians—the P.K.I. had come out in violent opposition to the ‘revisionists’—an important source of international support— through the formation of the ‘Peking-Djakarta axis’—and, most im­ portant of all, the confident expectation of a Communist Indonesia, t Instead of mainland South East Asia being squeezed between China and a Communist Indonesia, the situation has been reversed. * Air Vice-Marshal Dani, the former Air Force Commander-in-Chief impli­ cated in the plot, testified at his trial in Djakarta on December 6, 1966, that Sukarno had arrived at Halim Air Base on October 1st and had received a report from the senior dissident officer, Brigadier General Supardjo, on the coup. t In McNamara’s words: \ . . to the south is what the Chinese Communists may consider the greatest prize of all— Indonesia’s resources, territory, and the world’s fifth largest population, whose strategic location straddles and dominates the gateway to the Indian ocean.’ From his report on ‘us Policy in Vietnam’ of March 26, 1964.

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If General Suharto’s regime can restore order out of chaos, then the foundations may be laid for a regional association of Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand and the Philippines, all with a common interest in opposing Peking. Although there is no evidence that the Chinese leaders were in­ volved in the attempted coup in Indonesia, their repeated insistence on violence and armed struggle could not fail to be linked in people’s minds with the P.K.I.’s attack on the generals and its bloody aftermath. The Chinese found themselves doubly discredited; first among their opponents for having openly encouraged revolutionary violence while the P.K.I. was on the ‘upsurge’ in Indonesia; but above all among their friends for having done nothing to help the P.K.I. in its hour of trial. DOMINO-LAND*

If Indonesia has turned out, perhaps temporarily, to be a failure for the Chinese, Vietnam remains ‘the most convincing current example of a victim of aggression defeating us Imperialism by a people’s war’.30As seen from the other side: ‘It is my unshakeable conviction that, should South Vietnam fall into the hands of the Communists, the floodgates would be open for Communism to sweep across the peninsula to Malaysia, the Phili­ ppines and the rest of South Asia to the South, and through Cambodia, Thailand, Burma and other newly-independent countries to the West.’31 This is a full-blooded expression of the ‘domino theory’ that if South Vietnam falls—before that it was Laos—the rest of South East Asia will follow. And not just South East Asia. According to the us Defence Secretary in 1965, the ‘outcome of this struggle’ in South Vietnam ‘could have grave consequences not only for the nations of South East Asia but for future of the weaker and less stable nations everywhere in the world.’32 Now, although United States’ spokesmen no longer accept the ‘pat simplicities’ of the domino theory—that the fall of one country automatically means the collapse of others—‘What happens in South Vietnam will determine,’ according to President Johnson, ‘Yes, it will determine, whether ambitious and aggressive nations can use guerrilla warfare to conquer their weaker neighbours.’33As if by way of confirming this, us Secretary of State Dean Rusk pointed out * Much of this section has appeared under the title ‘Vietnam and the Domino Theory’ (Australian Outlook, April 1967).

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that the Communists themselves do not see the problem in isolation: ‘They see the struggle in South Vietnam as part of a larger design for the steady extension of Communist power through force and threat.’34 China and the us are at least agreed on this. ‘The us aggressors,’ Lin Piao argues, .. are deeply worried that their defeat in Vietnam will lead to a chain reaction. . . . The people in other parts of the world will see still more clearly that us imperialism can be defeated and that what the Vietnamese people can do, they can do too. . . .’ This is, of course, precisely the reasoning behind the ‘domino theory’. Just as Washington has a ‘crucial stake’ in defeating ‘Com­ munist aggression’ (‘people’s war’) in Vietnam to prevent the habit spreading to other countries—‘the loss of Indo-China will cause the fall of South East Asia like a set of dominoes’, in President Eisen­ hower’s famous phrase—so China insists that the ‘Vietnamese people’s heroic struggle . .. goes far beyond the borders of Vietnam. This contributes enormously to the anti-us struggle of the people in Indo-China and South East Asia, to the national liberation move­ ment in Asia, Africa and Latin America, to the revolutionary movement of the people of the whole world. . . .’35 And the reverse applies. America’s ‘stake’ in holding on to South Vietnam is also China’s ‘domino’ fear of the result of North Viet­ namese and Vietcong defeat. The following passage from the People's Daily, with appropriate substitutions, will qualify for either side: ‘If the us [Communist] aggressors, instead of being driven out, are allowed to hang on in South Vietnam, then us imperialism [Chinese Communism] will still more unscrupulously push forward its plot to subjugate its victims one by one, more furiously suppress the national-liberation [free world] movement in Asia, Africa and Latin America, launch “special [guerrilla] wars” everywhere and more truculently commit aggression and intervention in the new-emerging independent countries in Asia and Africa. . . . This will greatly help us imperialism [Chinese Communism] in its war [insurgent] adven­ tures. It will launch a war [revolution] in one region today and in another tomorrow. It will undermine peace at will in Asia today and in Africa, Latin America and Europe the next.. . .’36 Such a belief inspired the conclusion of the us State Department’s 1961 ‘White Paper’ on Vietnam: ‘For Vietnam’s neighbours the consequences of a Communist victory in all Vietnam would be farreaching. . . . The present balance of forces between independent and Communist States in Asia would be tipped perilously if Vietnam,

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Cambodia and Laos, fell under Communist domination. What then would be the prospects for Thailand and Burma, for Pakistan and India, for Malaya and Indonesia?’ Even Defence Secretary McNamara, who observed in May 1966 that the ‘us has no mandate from on high to police the world’ and that ‘we have no charter to rescue floundering regimes who have brought violence on themselves by deliberately refusing to meet the legitimate expectations of their citizenry’37 (which would seem to apply to South Vietnam), is no less affected by domino considerations. In his important policy statement of February 18, 1965, McNamara asserted: ‘South East Asia remains for us and for the entire Free World the area in which the struggle against Communist expansion is most acute, and, in that area, South Vietnam is the keystone. Here, the North Vietnamese and the Chinese are putting into practice their theory that any non-Communist government of an emerging nation can be overthrown by externally supported, covert armed aggression, even when that government is backed by us economic and military assistance. Indeed, the Chinese Communists have made South Vietnam the decisive test of that theory Thus, the stakes in South Vietnam are far greater than the loss of one small country to Communism. It would be a serious setback to the cause of freedom throughout the world.’ The remarkable feature of the domino theory is the way both China and the United States universalize a specific situation— Vietnam. This is unduly favourable to the Chinese point of view and unfavourable to the American. Vietnam encourages the Chinese to paint a rosy picture of revolutions breaking out elsewhere, while it leads the Americans to view the Asian scene in unnecessarily gloomy tones. Mao Tse-tung in the past had to criticize a similar tendency among his followers to ‘unwittingly generalize and exaggerate their momen­ tary, specific and limited situation’.38 What is important or decisive, he noted, should be determined ‘not by general or abstract considera­ tions, but according to the concrete circumstances’.39 It is just these ‘concrete circumstances’ which are neglected by the domino theorists in Washington and by the present doctrinaire exponents of world­ wide revolution in Peking. Although certain broad tendencies may be common to a number of countries, each country has its unique features. South Vietnam, it is true, would probably have succumbed to Communism without massive American intervention, but there is no reason to suppose that Thailand or Malaysia would automatically follow. Even if it is

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assumed that Communism pursues the same destructive course in every country—a large assumption even for diabolists—the obvious differences in its effectiveness throughout the world indicate that the conditions in which it works do vary, region by region and country by country. Psychologically, of course, the fall of South Vietnam (that is, the collapse of the South Vietnamese army and administration) would clearly encourage revolutionary movements elsewhere and corres­ pondingly depress the existing regimes. The latter might then believe that Communism was ‘inevitable’ and make the necessary accommo­ dation to it. But they might just as well be alerted to a danger greater than they had anticipated and thus be galvanized into taking more effective action. What, after all, is the danger they face? Is it Communist armed aggression, in the style of North Korea’s invasion of the South? Outright invasion would quite probably bring in American, not to speak of United Nations’, armed forces. The danger is much more likely to be one of ‘indirect aggression’ or ‘creeping subversion’, encouraged and perhaps aided and directed, from outside. But it is this that has all along had to be faced in South East A sia: the only difference would be the psychological impetus provided by its successful employment elsewhere. Thus the internal situation determines the action to be taken in response to an external threat—and not, like the domino theory, the other way round. If a government judges that it cannot overcome insurgency backed from outside—presumably because it lacks enough support within the country to deal with the revolt—it may well decide to come to terms with the ‘enemy’. But it is unlikely to do this merely because the psychological pressure has increased. After all, the leading personnel of the regime—the suppressors of the revolution—could hardly expect to retain for long the favour of their opponents’ backers, even after most humble confessions. (This is what keeps the South Vietnamese army in the war.) The belief that when one country falls the rest will fall is sheer defeatism (nor does it show much confidence in the staying-power of the ‘free world’). For it implies that the state of disintegration of Laos or South Vietnam is typical of the situation of other countries.* Only such an assumption could justify McNamara’s plea—in his prepared statement before the us House of Representatives— that the ‘choice is not simply whether to continue our efforts to keep * Though it seems incredible now, Laos once took the place o f South Viet­ nam in domino calculations. ‘If Laos is lost to the Communists,’ as the New York Times expressed it on October 9, 1960, ‘the entire balance of power in South East Asia will be changed.’

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South Vietnam free and independent but, rather whether to con­ tinue our struggle to halt Communist expansion in Asia. If the choice is the latter, as I believe it should be, we will be far better facing the issue in South Vietnam.’ Only a strategist who was not aware that better defensive positions were available would choose to fight on the least favourable ground. If the domino theory is correct, why did the Communist takeover in Czechoslovakia in 1948 not result in the collapse of Western Europe? And why was Castro’s revolution in Cuba not followed by a wave of successful revolts throughout Latin America? If the answer is that the situation in Europe, and in Latin America, is different to that in South East Asia that makes a point. But if a regional difference is conceded, why not differences within that region? Domino theorists, however, have another argument to fall back on—the supposed analogy with Europe at the time of Munich. There was ‘no reaction’ by the democracies to Hitler’s aggression. There­ fore the lesson of appeasement in the 1930s, in the colourful if confusing imagery of a us Government spokesman, is that ‘successful aggression feeds on itself and begets further aggression. . . . If aggression is permitted to occur unchecked it snowballs and soon there is a world in flames.’40 The Munich analogy is also cited from time to time by Dean Rusk to justify American ‘firmness’ in resisting North Vietnamese ‘aggression’.* The same idea underlies President Johnson’s assurance to us troops on his visit to South Vietnam of December 23, 1967: ‘Because of what you men are doing here today, you may very well prevent a wider war, a greater war, a World War III.’ It was expressed in the President’s State of the Union message of January 10,1967: ‘We have chosen to fight a limited war in Vietnam in order to prevent a larger war—a war almost certain to follow if the Communists succeed in taking over South Vietnam by force.’ He had previously implied in his Baltimore speech on April 7,1965, that if the us were not fighting in Vietnam, the ‘battle would be renewed in one country and then another’. For the ‘central lesson of our time is that the appetite of aggression is never satisfied’. But how would the ‘battle be renewed’? An outright invasion—in the Hitler manner—has not taken place in South Vietnam,f so how * e.g. ‘The clearest lesson of the 1930s and ’40s is that aggression feeds on aggression.’ u s policy is to ‘demonstrate that aggression must be stopped at its earliest stages’. Before the u s Council on Foreign Relations, May 24, 1966. See also his statement of October 30, 1967, that the u s was resolved ‘not to repeat the blunders’ which led to the Second World War. t There was infiltration rather than invasion by North Vietnamese regular units, after 1965.

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could it be ‘renewed’ in Thailand, Laos or Cambodia, Vietnam’s neighbours? And if the North Vietnamese have aided and directed an indigenous subversive movement in South Vietnam—and Wash­ ington does not deny that most Vietcong guerrillas are local South Vietnamese*—then for the ‘snowball’ technique to succeed elsewhere the North Vietnamese must have an equally effective indigenous movement of Thais, Malays or others to work on (if they can). If this is ‘aggression’ then it is not Hitler’s form of aggression. Therefore the methods which should have been used against Hitler are not applicable to Vietnam. Invasion is a case in which military methods obviously apply; and since it is a breach of national frontiers it is by definition an international problem. Subversion, on the other hand, is essentially a political matter; and since it occurs within the boundaries of a State, it is a national problem. (‘Incite­ ment’ from outside can only stimulate what is already there.) To sum up: aggression is a clear-cut military problem of a ‘universal’ nature, to which other countries can and should respond. Subversion, which may or may not lead to insurgency, is a complex ‘local’ political problem; it is directly related to the conditions of the country; and it can basically be met only by the government con­ cerned. Subversion which cannot achieve its aims by political means (or where it finds a suitable terrain) may turn to insurgency—the use of armed force. Once insurgency is under way it then becomes a security, and perhaps a military, problem as well. But the tendency, and not only in the United States, is to consider both Laos and South Vietnam, for example, as ‘victims’ of aggression rather than sub­ version, as military rather than as political problems, and as models of what must apply elsewhere—the domino theory—rather than as specific cases, to be treated on their own terms. It is natural to confuse these issues. Most governments prefer to blame outside intervention rather than face the fact that subversion springs from (usually bad) local conditions. But this confusion is compounded in the us State Department brief, as expressed, for example, by the Assistant Secretary for Far Eastern Affairs, William Bundy. In Bundy’s words, the us has a ‘deep stake in preventing the * According to u s official estimates, there were at the start of 1966 between 215,000 and 245,000 Vietcong regulars, irregulars and cadres in South Viet­ nam; the total amount o f these infiltrated from the North—disregarding casualties—from 1959 to 1965 inclusive was 56,100: see Roger Hilsman, To M ove a Nation (Doubleday, 1967) table on p. 529. McNamara himself pointed out on March 26, 1964: ‘Clearly, the disciplined leadership, direction and support from North Vietnam is a critical factor in the strength of the Vietcong movement. But the large indigenous support that the Vietcong receives means that solutions must be as political and economic as military. . . .’

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success of what in this instance [South Vietnam] is a North Viet­ namese effort fully supported by Communist China, which would advance the Communist Chinese view of the need for violence and which, if successful, would not only impel the Chinese Communists towards new aggression but might conceivably induce the Russians to resume a more violent general posture’.41 Considering that it is the us—rightly or wrongly—and not China that is fighting in South Vietnam, what is this ‘aggression’ that Bundy is referring to? It is little wonder that Dean Rusk should have declared, though he intended it against his critics, that ‘much of the confusion about the struggle in South Vietnam has arisen over a failure to understand the nature of the conflict’. In his view, as he told the Senate Foreign Relations Committee in February 1966, it was ‘a systematic aggression by Hanoi against the people of South Vietnam’. Such is the official us line after the start of the bombing campaign against North Vietnam, in February 1965. Before 1965 the emphasis was on the Vietcong insurgency (even if ‘directed’ by the North) in South Vietnam. As late as July 1964 the Prime Minister of that period, General Khanh, was reminded that his demand for an advance to the North was contrary to his agreement in March 1964 with the us to concentrate on the war against the Vietcong, fully mobilize domestic resources and try to win over the peasantry. . . ,42 The conflict in Vietnam is thus a war on two levels. The first is a civil war between the Vietcong and the Saigon regime, the second, overlapping it, is a war between North and South (the South, too, has sent guerrillas and saboteurs against the North, but without success). The first has its origins in the Vietminh ‘liberated areas’ set up during the struggle against the French. The second is the continuation of that struggle, with the resumption of Ho Chi 'Minh’s drive, thwarted in 1954 (the Geneva ceasefire) and in 1956 (Diem’s refusal, for obvious reasons, to accept nation-wide elections), to found a unified, independent Vietnam under Communist control. Neither of these wars is aggression in the Hitler manner, as implied by Rusk.* And it is misleading to characterize either of them as ‘aggression . .. against the people of South Vietnam’. If the ‘people’ had supported Saigon in the first place there would have been no war. For Washington, the notion of a ‘victim of aggression’ is needed to evoke a clear and sympathetic response, both from the us public * O f course, North Vietnam might use the same argument Taiwan does to justify forcible unification. ‘When we do use force,’ according to the Nationalist Chinese Ambassador to Australia, ‘it is certainly not a case of in­ vasion because it will be a case of our own forces returning to our own territory.’ (Canberra Times, January 10, 1967).

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and from America’s allies. Even the term ‘indirect aggression’, which was once in vogue, blurs the distinction between aggression and subversion, since it introduces the complexity of local factors—how else could aggression be ‘indirect’? But in presenting the situation in black-and-white, both in order to justify American intervention and to explain away the successive internal crises in South Vietnam, Washington even in its peace proposals has become the prisoner of its own unreality.* Tactics and strategy are inextricably confused. Are us troops in South Vietnam—and us planes bombarding the North—to fulfil the pledge, as President Johnson says, made by three Presidents to defend the ‘people’ of Vietnam? Or are they there, as President Johnson pointed out in the same policy statement of April 7, 1965, because ‘there are great stakes in the balance’, that is, the need to end the ‘deepening shadow’ in Asia of Communist China? If us policy is usually announced in terms of the first reason—‘defence of the people’ evading the problem of the legitimacy of South Vietnamese governments after Diem—the motives for that policy are largely the second. As liberal Americans have pointed out, America’s aim to support national independence in South East Asia has for years been overlaid by the primary objective of the con­ tainment of China.43 This is where the domino theory fits in. It is not so much the belief that conditions in South Vietnam and the rest of South East Asia are so similar that the fall of one must lead to the fall of others, but the fear that China will benefit so greatly from North Vietnam’s conquest of South Vietnam as to appear irresistible to other Asian States. This is not so much the fear of Communism (Russia, after all, can be accommodated) but the fear of Chinese Communist expansion—a national as well as an ideological contest, f As the * Although written more than two years ago, Max Frankel’s observation (from Saigon) is very much to the point. He noted the complaints of us troops in the field about Washington’s ‘repeated and confusing offers of peace’. The troops ‘believe there is now no easy way out of the morass. . . . They simply cannot imagine any peace until the village-by-village organization of the Vietcong—the infrastructure of political agents and paddy fighters—is first uprooted and eventually replaced. . . .’ (New York Times, internat. ed., November 26-27, 1965). t This was clearly brought out by Dean Rusk at his news conference of October 12, 1967, when he raised the spectre of a ‘billion Chinese on the mainland, armed with nuclear weapons’ within a decade or two. The ‘free nations’ of Asia, he added, ‘don’t want China to overrun them on the basis of a doctrine of world revolution’. The us, he inferred, had a ‘tremendous stake’ in fighting in Vietnam to prevent the world being ‘cut in two by Asian Communism reaching out through South East Asia and Indonesia, which we know has been their objective . . .’. (Department of State Bulletin, October 30 , 1967 .)

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State Department puts it, ‘We are Peking’s great enemy because our power is a crucial element in the total balance of power and in the resistance by Asian States to Chinese Communist expansionist designs in Asia.’44 And in McNamara’s words, ‘South East Asia remains for us . . . the area in which the struggle . . . is most acute, and, in that area, South Vietnam is the keystone.’ Therefore, as an American military commentator frankly described the issue, the ‘reasons we must fight for Vietnam have little to do with making Saigon safe for “democracy” or “freedom” ’, but with the ‘defeat of Communist attempts to extend their control deep into South East Asia’.45 However, there are three points to consider. First, in making Vietnam the ‘test case’ for the defeat of China’s alleged designs, the Americans are facing an uphill struggle in the very area where conditions most favour Communist subversion and people’s war. Second, there seemed little doubt that the might and mobility of us power in Vietnam would eventually prevail—until the Vietcong offensive in the cities from January 1968 demolished over-optimistic expectations.* But whether winning or losing the Americans will ultimately withdraw—either after the cessation of serious fighting (assuming the success of General Westmoreland’s ‘four phases’) or as a result of a political settlement. Then it may still be the Communists, if they can rally the forces of change or discontent, who will win in the end. Finally, for America, the war in Vietnam may not just be a tactical error but a strategic illusion. For the national interests of China and Vietnam are not identical—far from it, in the past. A unified Vietnam, under any system of government, is likely to be an obstacle to Chinese expansionism, t (It might be a threat to its neighbours as well, but is this, for America, a matter of vital concern?) It is a supreme irony, and a tragic one, that in pursuing the lesser objective of blocking—at such heavy cost—the ambitions of the North Viet­ namese, the us is thereby thwarting its major role of halting the Chinese. * ‘I can bring you the assurance of what you have fought to achieve: The enemy cannot win, now, in Vietnam. He can harass, he can terrorize, he can inflict casualties— while taking far greater losses himself. But he just cannot win. . . .’ President Johnson to u s forces at Korat Air Base, Thailand, December 23, 1967. t Consider—in contrast to the u s view of China’s role—Air Vice-Marshal Ky’s assurance that there is ‘no possibility’ of North Vietnam asking for Chinese troops as military aid, ‘because if the Hanoi leaders do so then I am sure that all the Vietnamese from the North and South will unite in one group and stand up and destroy the regime and defend our land’. At a Press Con­ ference in Canberra on January 19, 1967.

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47

REFERENCE NOTES TO CHAPTER I 1. Karl Marx, ‘The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte’, Selected Works (Lawrence and Wishart, 1942), p. 315. 2. See Philippe Devillers, Histoire du Viet-Nam: de 1940 a 1952 (Editions du Seuil, 1952), pp. 299-301, 318. 3. Ellen J. Hammer, The Struggle for Indo-China 1940-1955 (Stanford Univ. Press, new ed. 1966). p. 313. 4. Ibid., p. 117. 5. Ibid., p. 200. 6. Hugh Tinker, The Union of Burma (Oxford Univ. Press, 3rd ed. 1961), pp. 32, 34-5. 7. J. H. Brimmell, Communism in South East Asia: A Political Analysis (Oxford Univ. Press, 1959), pp. 258-9. 8. M. R. Masani, The Communist Party of India (Macmillan, 1954), pp. 89-90, 281-2. 9. Ruth T. McVey, The Calcutta Conference and the Southeast Asian Uprisings (Cornell Univ., Interim Reports series, 1958), p. 19. 10. Ibid., pp. 21-2. 11.The Danger and Where it Lies (Information Services, Federation of Malaya, Kuala Lumpur, 1957), p. 14. 12. Brimmell, op. cit., p. 320. And see Charles B. McLane, Soviet Strategies in Southeast Asia: An exploration of Eastern Policy under Lenin and Stalin (Princeton Univ. Press, 1966), pp. 385-90. 13. George McT. Kahin, Nationalism and Revolution in Indonesia (Cornell Univ. Press, 1952), pp. 269-71. 14. Ibid., pp. 272, 275, 284, 292-3. 15. ‘Upsurge of the Anti-Imperialist Movement in the Philippines’ (World Marxist Review, Prague, Nov. 1965), pp. 40-4. 16. ‘The Origin and Development of the Differences between the Leadership of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and Ourselves . . .’ (joint article by Editorial Departments of People's Daily and R ed Flag, Peking, September 6, 1963). 17. ‘The Proletarian Revolution and Khruschev’s Revisionism’ (People's Daily and Red Flag, March 31, 1964). 18. Pravda, September 16, 1963: Governments of Algeria, Burma, India, u a r were considered to be taking the ‘non-capitalist path of develop­ ment’. 19. ‘Apologists of Neo-Colonialism’ [the Soviet leaders] (People's Daily and R ed Flag, October 21, 1963). 20. ‘Stalin’s Life was that of a great Marxist-Leninist, a great proletarian revolutionary’—People's Daily and R ed Flag, ‘On the Question of Stalin’, September 12, 1963. 21. Philippe Devillers, ‘The Struggle for the Unification of Vietnam’ (China Quarterly, special issue on North Vietnam, January-March, 1962). 22. Roger Hilsman, To M ove a Nation: The Politics of Foreign Policy in the Administration of John F. Kennedy (Doubleday, 1967), table on p. 529, using us official estimate revised in 1966. 23. Loc. cit. 24. u s State Department, A Threat to the Peace: North Vietnam's Effort to Conquer South Vietnam (Washington, December 1961), pp. 9-10. 25. William P. Bundy, u s Assistant Secretary for Far Eastern Affairs, in a speech of May 23, 1966, referring to events ‘a year ago’ (Depart­ ment of State Bulletin [henceforth D.S.B.] June 20, 1966).

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26. Arthur J. Dommen, T h e Attempted Coup in Indonesia* (China Quarterly, January-March, 1966). 27. W. F. Wertheim, ‘Indonesia before and after the Untung Coup’ (Pacific Affairs, Spring-Summer, 1966). The author disbelieves in P.K.I. responsi­ bility for Untung’s actions. 28. ‘Statement by the Political Bureau o f the Central Committee of the Indonesian Communist Party’ (August 1966) in Peking Review N o. 29, July 14, 1967. In the same issue, R ed Flag editorial commenting on the P.K.I. ‘Statement’ and its ‘Self-Criticism’; excerpts from the latter are given in Peking R eview N o. 30, July 21, 1967. 29. Seymour Topping, N ew York Times (internat. ed.) August 23, 1966, reporting army sources. Dommen, op. cit. 30. Lin Piao, ‘Long Live the Victory of People’s War’ (Peking Review, September 3, 1965, and reprinted August 4, 1967). 31. Opening speech at the s e a t o Council meeting in Canberra, June 27, 1966 (Current N otes on International Affairs, Departrr^ent of External Affairs, Canberra, June 1966). 32. Robert S. McNamara, u s Secretary of Defence, before the Armed Ser­ vices Committee of the u s House of Representatives (New York Times, February 19, 1965). 33. Speech at Omaha, June 30, 1966 (D.S.B., July 25, 1966). 34. Before the u s Senate Foreign Relations Committee, February 18, 1966 (D.S.B., March 7, 1966). 35. People’s Daily Editorial, April 16, 1965 (Peking R eview , April 23, 1965). 36. Ibid. 37. Speech at Montreal, May 18, 1966 (D.S.B., June 6, 1966). 38. Selected Works of M ao Tse-tung (Peking, Foreign Languages Press, 1965), Vol. I, p. 120. 39. Ibid., p. 185. 40. Douglas MacArthur II, Assistant Secretary for Congressional Relations in Brussels, October 12, 1966 (D.S.B., November 14, 1966). 41. ‘Vietnam and u s Objectives in the Far East’ (D.S.B., June 20, 1966). 42.N e w York Times, March 14 and July 24, 1964. 43. See Max Frankel, N ew York Times, February 12, 1965. And George McT. Kahin, at a National Teach-in on Vietnam (Marcus G. Raskin and Bernard B. Fall, eds., The Viet-Nam Reader: Articles and D ocu­ ments on American Foreign Policy and the Viet-Nam Crisis, Random House, 1965), pp. 289-96. 44. William Bundy, speaking on the United States and Communist China, February 12, 1966. 45. Hansom Baldwin, ‘u s Choices in Vietnam’, New York Times, Internat. ed., March 2, 1965.

II THE MODEL China: Conditions f o r Success

‘To rely on the peasants, build rural base areas and use the countryside to encircle and finally capture the cities—such was the way to victory in the Chinese revolution. . . . In these base areas, we built the [Communist] Party, ran the organs of State power, built the people’s armed forces and set up mass organizations. . . . Our base areas were in fact a State in miniature. . . . Guerrilla warfare is the only way to mobilize and apply the whole strength of the people against the enemy, the only way to expand our forces in the course of the war, deplete and weaken the enemy, gradually change the balance of forces between the enemy and ourselves, switch from guerrilla to mobile warfare, and finally defeat the enemy. . . . The history of people’s war in China and other countries provides conclusive evidence that the growth of the people’s revolutionary forces from weak and small beginnings into strong and large forces is a universal law of development.. . . Comrade Mao Tse-tung’s theory of the establishment of rural revolutionary base areas and the encirclement of cities from the countryside is of outstanding and universal practical importance for the present revolutionary struggles of all the oppressed nations and peoples, and particularly for the revolutionary struggles of the oppressed nations and peoples in Asia, Africa and Latin America against imperialism and its lackeys.. . . In the final analysis the whole course of world revolution hinges on the revolutionary struggles of the Asian, African and Latin American peoples. .. .n These passages from Lin Piao’s article on people’s war admirably summarize the experience of the Communist movement in China and, based on it, Peking’s expectation of world-wide revolution. People’s war was the way to power in China. And the Communist takeover in China, drastically transforming the balance of power, is of incalculable consequence in Asia. Moreover, the Chinese revolution is seen as a model for the developing countries of the world. There are ‘many similarities’, Lin Piao claims, between the D

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‘basic political and economic conditions’ of ‘old China’ and the AfroAsian and Latin American nations today. Not only are the peasants the main force in the ‘national-democratic’ revolution; but ‘the countryside, and the countryside alone, can provide the revolutionary bases from which the revolutionaries can go forward to final victory’. Finally, the encirclement of the cities from the countryside—the key to Chinese Communist success—is projected on a world-wide scale: ‘If North America and Western Europe can be called “the cities of the world” then Asia, Africa and Latin America constitute “the rural areas of the world”.’ So far these bold generalizations have hardly been vindicated, either as the way to victory in the developing countries or even as a means of weakening the ‘imperialists’. Yet conditions in Latin America would seem remarkably suited—in view of the oppressive contrast between selfish landowners and a poor, exploited peasantry —to an upsurge of people’s war. But apart from sporadic guerrilla fighting in Bolivia—where Che Guevara was killed in October 1967 —Venezuela and Colombia, neither feudal nor democratic regimes have been shaken by peasant revolt. Even in Africa, the disintegra­ tion of the Congo rebellion has largely extinguished the ‘flames of people’s war’. In Asia, the success of people’s war in South Vietnam is more than counter-balanced by its failure to develop in Indonesia —a country of far greater importance than Vietnam. It is ironical that Aidit himself should have originated the theme of Asia, Africa and Latin America being the ‘village of the world, while Europe and North America are the town of the world’—an expression quoted with approval by Peng Chen (another ill-fated personality) at the P.K.I.’s 45th anniversary celebrations in May 1965. Mao Tse-tung sent a personal message to the ‘great and heroic Communist Party of Indonesia’ on this anniversary—‘no force on earth can destroy’, he said, the revolutionary unity of the Chinese Communist Party with its ‘close and staunch comrade in arms’. But Peking’s inability to prevent the subsequent destruction of its ally may well have impaired the confidence of the ‘world’s revolutionary people’ in such judgements. For the Chinese leaders’ doctrinaire application of their revolutionary past to the present situation is in marked contrast to the practical—and flexible—way in which they themselves gained power. The successful outcome of people’s war, judging from the Chinese experience, depends on six conditions: peasant support, protracted war, national appeal, leadership, organization and the breakdown of the opposing regime. (A seventh factor is useful, but not essential: external aid and the existence of a ‘privileged sanctuary’.)

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The March 1946 cease fire agreement soon broke down in the south. The unhappy cycle of Vietminh assassination of village notables, separatists and collaborators of the French, followed by French reprisals, arrests and shooting of suspects, terrorization of villages by both sides, followed by more attacks and reprisals, began.4 This was to be the pattern of the next twenty years. And the end is not yet in sight. AUGUST INSURRECTION

Unlike the gradual accumulation of strength by the Chinese Com­ munists, leading eventually to a change in the balance of forces with the Kuomintang, the initial Vietminh take-over in August-September 1945 was as complete and sudden as that which the early Chinese Communists had dreamed of. It was a revolutionary insurrection, an upheaval, a rapid and total change of authority: the new ‘Man­ date of Heaven’, as the French scholar, Paul Mus, puts it. This swing from one side to the other, ‘proceeding not by compromise as in the West . . . but by a total replacement, is the precise way in which the Confucian spirit, still living in the heart of the Viet­ namese countryside, is accustomed to represent history and to anticipate it. It can be seen as the cosmic or climatic concept of revolution. . . . At times of crisis, institutions, doctrines and the men in power change altogether, just as one season replaces another.’5 The French, overthrown by the Japanese, had lost the Mandate of Heaven. The Vietminh, ‘succeeding like a miracle . . . almost without firing a shot, a whirlwind sweeping away Japanese, foreigners of all kinds and even the national dynasty’, had taken their place.6 According to Chinese conceptions of society, deeply rooted among the Vietnamese—the only people in South East Asia to come under Chinese cultural and political domination—the Viet­ minh had shown itself destined to rule. This conviction that the Vietminh was the ‘true’ successor to the French was to prove extremely important throughout the long years of resistance that were to follow the outbreak of war in December 1946. The Vietminh, by its thorough preparation, organization and leadership, had established its supremacy over all rival nationalist groups. Indeed it represented, for the Vietnamese, the spirit of resistance to renewed French occupation and of the historic deter­ mination of the people to be free. The fact is, as Bernard Fall states, ‘given French policy in 1945-46, Ho Chi Minh could scarcely have acted differently if he had been a nationalist of the extreme Right!’7 The Vietnamese Communists, like their counterparts in China, were not acting as Communists, but as Nationalists: they were the em­

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bodiment of the desires of the nation. If the French, despite their humiliating overthrow by the Japanese early in 1945, had given the Vietnamese what they wanted—independence and unity—as they later were compelled to give it to Bao Dai (but with reluctance, gradually and too late to win approval); if this had been done in 1946 they might still have cut off the Vietminh from its basis of popular support. Instead, as Paul Mus observes, ‘the war created against us [the French] an alliance of nationalism with a moderate Marxism on a programme of socialization—at a time when we were offering this nation, imbued with a sense of unity, no more than a division into three [Tonkin, Annam and Cochin-China were officially considered by the French to be ‘separate’ regions] within a union of five [with Laos and Cambodia in the Indo-Chinese Federation] under our direction and our sovereignty. We have seen what the national reaction was . . .’8 *

*

*

The Vietminh, like the Chinese Communist Party, was a move­ ment based on the villages. ‘In a backward colonial country such as ours where the peasants make up the majority of the population,’ pointed out General Giap, ‘a people’s war is essentially a peasant’s war under the leadership of the working class. Owing to this fact, a general mobilization of the whole people is neither more nor less than the mobilization of the rural masses. The problem of land is of decisive importance. . . .’9 Again like China, the land problem in Vietnam was more one of overpopulation than of ‘feudal’ oppression.* The misery of the Vietnamese peasants in contrast to the wealth of the French settlers and officials and of the gallicized Vietnamese landowners is amply attested. But it was essentially the result of the increasing density of population—inheriting land in ever smaller strips—throughout the small fertile delta regions of Vietnam. The Red River delta in the North—nine million people living in an area of 12,000 square kilo­ metres—has one of the highest population densities in the world. In the North, nearly a million small holders owned only 40 per cent of the cultivated area; 20 per cent was in the hands of 180 land­ owners: the rest was owned by middle farmers or was communal land. As the Vietnamese historian Le Thanh Khoi argues, how could a familv of four or five people live on an average holding of iuct over one acre?10 Cochin-China—southern Vietnam—bv contrast is a reeion of relativelv recen* settlement, less crowded than the North, but with * However, peasant indebtedness to large landowners was a major evil in Vietnam, as in China.

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a far higher proportion of large estates and correspondingly of landless labourers and share-croppers. Nearly three-quarters of those who did own some land in the French period were small holders (the average holding was less than five acres) but they owned only 15 per cent of the total area.* A small number of big landowners (2J per cent) owned 45 per cent of the cultivated area. More than half of the rural population in Cochin-China had been reduced to the status of ‘share cropper’—often handing over half or more of the crop to the landlord—compared to only a quarter of the population in Tonkin. Moreover, the village communal lands, amounting to a quarter of the area in the North, had virtually dis­ appeared in the South.11‘One of the gravest errors of French colonial policy,’ writes Bernard Fall, ‘was to let the communal lands fall into the hands of speculators and dishonest village chiefs, despite the advice of experts on the importance of maintaining, even increasing, the communal rice fields.’13 Economic problems were greatest in North Vietnam, social prob­ lems in the South. The North, despite its industrious population, is a deficit area: it needed a quarter to half a million tons of rice a year from the South. When the supply failed to arrive—as in 1944 with the disruption of communications by us bombing against the Japanese—the North faced starvation. Half a million to a million people (two million, according to the Vietminh) are said to have died. When Giap urged in March 1946 the need to negotiate with the French for independence—rather than to fight it out—one of his main arguments was that the recent agreement with the French did provide for internal autonomy, which would lead to independence. He frankly explained: ‘Above all, we have negotiated to protect and reinforce our political, military and economic position.. . . We have the power and the time to organize our internal administration, to strengthen our military means, to develop our economy and to raise the standard of living of the people. Soon the three ky [regions] of the country will be united. The rice of Cochin-China will arrive in Tonkin, the spectre of famine will disappear.. . ,’13 The complementary nature of Vietnam—the agrarian surplus in the South, the industrial raw materials in the North—is undoubtedly a compelling reason for Hanoi’s continuing drive for unity, under its leadership. * In Thailand, by contrast, 90 per cent o f cultivated land was owned by the cultivator, according to the 1950 agricultural census. See Robert J. Muscat, P evelopm ent Strategy in Thailand (Praeger, 1966), p. 172.

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Famine conditions in the North and a dispossessed peasantry in the South: these were explosive conditions. The Indo-Chinese Com­ munist Party, founded in 1930, organized a few months later the march of 6,000 starving peasants, which the French authorities sup­ pressed, arresting hundreds of militants. ‘For the first time,’ Philippe Devillers records in his history of Vietnam, ‘a [political] party had been able to mobilize the rural population, hitherto aloof from all political activities The traditions of nationalism, the disappointed hopes of the humiliated intellectual elite and the social aspirations of the proletariat had combined.’11 In 1940, a revolt of even greater magnitude broke out in CochinChina. ‘In the towns as well as in the countryside, agitation zones were to be prepared, while Communist-organized Committees were to instigate demonstrations and a general strike, leading finally to the “armed insurrection which would enable the seizure of power”.’ The movement spread rapidly from around Saigon to western Cochin-China (the area of large estates), taking the form of a vast peasant uprising. Again, the French intervened with police and military forces and air bombardment of rebel villages. The revolt was suppressed and some six thousand of the insurgents were arrested.15 Almost a year later, in September 1941, Nguyen Ai Quoc (soon to be known as Ho Chi Minh) announced in southern China the formation of the Viet-Nam Doc Lap Dong Minh, or Vietminh, the ‘Front for the Independence of Vietnam’. Ho had strongly dis­ approved the premature outbreak of revolt in Cochin-China. His objective, working with the Chinese authorities against the Japanese in Indo-China (and against the Vichy regime), was to infiltrate the mountainous areas of northern Vietnam, win over the tribal peoples inhabiting the greater part of the country, organize resistance bases and prepare for the correct moment to launch a nation-wide insur­ rection. In all these objectives, thanks to the Japanese coup against the French administration, followed soon after by their surrender, the Vietminh was brilliantly successful. The ‘August Revolution’, as it was called, is a model for the rapid and effective take-over of a country, virtually without bloodshed—the result more of political than military action. According to Giap’s analysis in People's War, People's Army: ‘Our [Communist] Party continued [in the early 1940s] to do its utmost to step up propaganda and agitation among the people, to gather all patriotic forces into the Vietminh, to build guerrilla bases, set up revolutionary armed forces and make preparations for armed insurrection... .M

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‘Only on the basis of strong political organizations could semi­ armed organizations be set up firmly, guerrilla groups and guerrilla units organized which have close connection with the revolutionary masses. . . . In the early years, as the political mobilization among the masses was not strong enough and the enemy’s forces still stable, the political mobilization among the masses had all the more to be considered as the main task for the preparation of armed insurrec­ tion. The propaganda and organization of the masses carried out everywhere in the country, particularly at the key points, was of decisive importance. Viet Bac [north-eastern Tonkin, bordering China] mountain regions were soon chosen by the Party Central Committee as the armed bases.. . . ‘In the then conditions, the armed bases must be held secret, must be localities where the revolutionary movement was firm and the mass organizations strong Underground operating cadres’ teams, underground militarized teams, armed shock teams and local armed groups and platoons gradually appeared. The most appropriate guiding principle for activities was armed propaganda; political activities were more important than military activities, and fighting less important than propaganda. . . . Once the political bases were consolidated and developed, we proceeded one step further to the consolidation and development of the semi-armed and armed forces... .’17[See p. 156.] ‘Our Party had drawn bloody experience from the Nghe-Tinh [1930] and Nam Ky [1940] insurrections. All these spoke out the decisive importance of the right opportunity for uprising. . . . The instruction on the preparations for the Insurrection issued by the Vietminh Central Committee in May 1944, also pointed out clearly the moment the people should rise up: 1. The enemy’s ranks at that moment are divided and dismayed to the extreme. 2. The organizations for national salvation and the revolutionaries are resolved to rise up and kill the enemy. 3. Broad masses wholeheartedly support the uprising and deter­ minedly help the vanguard. . . . We must always be on the alert to feel the pulse of the movement and know the mood of the masses. .. .n8 ‘Basing ourselves on the powerful political forces of the people, backed by military and para-military forces, and on our skill in neutralizing the Japanese army then in dismay, the [August 1945] insurrection cost little blood and rapidly gained success from North to South. . . . Availing itself of the right opportunity our Party led the August General Insurrection to victory. Had the insurrection broken out sooner, i.e. when the French were still in control, it would

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have certainly met with numerous difficulties. It would have been in a dangerous situation had it broken out later, when the Chiang Kaichek and British [occupation] armies had arrived in our country. The Party led the people to seize power immediately after the Japanese capitulation and before the allied forces arrived in IndoChina. The splendid victory of the insurrection was due to its timely launching.’19 This was a classic example of the revolutionary seizure of power. All the factors of success were operating at the decisive moment: the break-up of the enemy regime and the demoralization of its supporters; the ardent desire of the people for independence; the existence of widespread mass poverty and discontent; the organiza­ tion of an effective political and military instrument; and an ex­ perienced, flexible and skilful leadership. All the factors, except one —protracted resistance. For by an extraordinary combination of circumstances, a decisive blow—rather than the gradual and re­ morseless change in the balance of forces between weak and strong, as was occurring in China—this alone was needed. But protracted war—after the failure to reach an effective compromise between the Vietminh demands for independence and a unified Vietnam on the one hand and the French determination to reassert their authority on the other—this was to come in full measure. R E S I S T AN C E WAR

In November 1946 the French bombarded Haiphong; in December the Vietminh attacked the French in Hanoi. Just as in the South, more than a year before, so French forces quickly mastered the capital and occupied the towns; but the countryside fell into the hands of the Vietminh. Even in the northern Delta region, where the French were to establish a ring of fortifications, the Vietminh within a few years infiltrated thousands of troops within the French lines; the Delta was French by day, Vietminh by night. ‘The reversal of sovereignty at dusk, even where we [the French] are so near,’ concluded Mus, ‘gives to the conflict this cosmic guise, this appearance of an interregnum—when the mandate [of heaven] is in reserve... .’20 French forces had at first driven the lightly armed and inexperi­ enced Vietminh into the mountainous areas north and west of Hanoi, where ‘resistance bases’ had been organized; these were to be Ho’s headquarters until the end of the war. ‘We must win time,’ Ho emphasized. ‘In military affairs, time is of prime importance. Time ranges first among the three factors for victory, before the terrain

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conditions and the people’s support. . . .’21 Time was needed to develop, train and organize the instrument of victory, Giap’s ‘main force’. J ust as Mao had decided, when faced with an overwhelmingly more powerful enemy, so Truong Chinh,* the Secretary-General of the Indo-Chinese Communist Party, also pointed out that the ‘guid­ ing principle of the strategy of our whole resistance must be to prolong the war’.23 ‘Why must the war be protracted? Because if we compare our forces with those of the enemy, it is obvious that the enemy is still strong, and we are still weak. The enemy’s country is an industrial one—ours is an agricultural country. The enemy has planes, tanks, warships; as for us, we have only rudimentary weapons. . . . If we throw the whole of our forces into a few battles to try and decide the outcome, we shall certainly be defeated and the enemy will win 523 This was precisely the French objective: in Giap’s words, ‘the enemy’s strategic principle was to attack swiftly and win swiftly. The more the war was protracted, the lesser would be his strong points and their [French] weak points would grow weaker.’24 The French were confident of success. A few well-timed blows could ‘vaporize’ both Ho and his armed rabble.25 The French commander, General Valluy, expected to reimpose peace in two months.26 Infantry battalions, armoured squadrons and parachutists were massed towards the end of 1947, to throw back the Vietminh from its mountain bases, capture Ho and his Government, destroy the Vietminh regular army and close the frontier with China. The Viet­ minh was taken by surprise by the strength and mobility of the French assault, losing a vast amount of territory, 8,000 dead and 1,000 rifles.27 Truong Chinh, writing in 1947 The Resistance will Win, showed a realistic appreciation of the facts of power. He noted then that even if the strategy were correct, if ‘tactics are consistently wrong, the numerous errors in tactics may lead to strategic failure. . . . After a l l . . . if command is weak and suffers continual losses in all battles, how can strategy succeed? Again, due to a single heavy defeat, which shatters the army’s strength and destroys the morale of the troops, strategy may be confronted with danger 528This is a ♦ Truong Chinh, considered to be pro-Peking (in contrast to Giap, who exemplified traditional Vietnamese distrust o f the Chinese) was appointed Secretary-General o f the Vietnamese ‘Workers’ Party in 1951—the successor to the Indo-Chinese Communist Party, dissolved in 1945. After the wide­ spread abuses of ‘land reform’ carried out in North Vietnam in 1956, Truong Chinh was dismissed as Secretary-General of the Party; but he remains one of its most influential members.

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useful corrective to the Marxist determinism which assumes that if the basic revolutionary strategy is sound the means of victory are assured. Truong Chinh, despite his doctrinaire reputation, actually under­ lines the importance of the ‘talent and subjective efforts of man, which may exercise a great influence on objective conditions’. This, he writes, explains why even a country with objective advantages over another may still lose, because it ‘did not try hard enough, underestimated its enemy and lacked skill’.29 In the war against the French, the enemy’s weaknesses were ‘moral’ ones—the lack of a good cause—but ‘most of his strong points are material ones. . . . Material conditions are quite necessary to victory—even a temporary victory—in any military action, whether in war, or in an armed uprising.’30 And if the Vietminh sought to use the enemy’s disad­ vantages against him, Truong Chinh conceded that the French were not so stupid as to forego the same tactics in return. Other ‘eventu­ alities’ considered in 1947 were these: ‘In the course of the resistance war, some disadvantages may come our way, created by efforts made by the enemy, by our own errors, or by circumstances unforeseen either by us or the enemy. For instance: natural calamities, or famine might occur, there might be interven­ tion by a third country which would first help the French colonialists to fight us and then oust them; again, the loss of a number of our cadres and outstanding men could have a considerable effect on the leadership of the resistance; or grave errors by our officers could lead to serious losses. . . .’31 This is a prophetic statement. More than six years later the United States was on the point of intervention—Dulles’s call for ‘united action’ to save the French. And in a further year or two it had ‘ousted’ France as the new ‘protector’ of Vietnam. Moreover, twenty years after Truong Chinh’s statement, the loss of ‘cadres and outstanding men’ in the South did call in question the entire strategy of the ‘second resistance war’. In 1947 these circumstances were still far from being realized. The French were fighting what they called ‘a handful of prisoners escaped from Poulo Condore’ [the island prison off South Vietnam]; the struggle had not yet been transformed into a war for the defence of the Free World against Communism.* The French still hoped, in * The French were more concerned to stop the spread of nationalism than of Communism. French official circles saw the need to prevent nationalism coming to power in Indo-China in order to prevent it coming to power else­ where, especially in Africa, and thus breaking up the French ‘Empire’—an early example of the ‘domino theory*.

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Giap’s words, ‘to end the war by a quick victory’. As for the Viet­ minh, ‘facing an enemy who temporarily had the upper hand . . . time was needed to mobilize, organize and foster the forces of the Resistance, to wear out the enemy forces, gradually reverse the balance of forces, turning our weakness into strength . . . eventually to triumph over the enemy’.33 Four Factors Vietminh survival and growth depended on four factors: national unity—the ‘moral’ advantage stressed by Truong Chinh; and three ‘material’ factors: the organization of (mountain) resistance bases; the mobilization of the Vietnamese peasantry; and the transforma­ tion of guerrilla fighting into mobile warfare. Balancing the advan­ tages and disadvantages, in the manner of Mao Tse-tung, Truong Chinh established the Vietminh’s ‘strong points’: ‘(a) The aim of the war is just, (b) The entire people are united, (c) The morale of the army and people is high, (d) Our troops fight on their native soil to defend their people’s interests, and they thus enjoy three advantages: They are used to the climate (Thien Hoi the climate is favourable to them), well acquainted with the natural features (Dia lot the terrain is favourable to them) and supported by the people (Nhan Lao the population is favourable to them).’31 This owes nothing to Marxism-Leninism. The three advantages enunciated are—as an editorial note to Truong Chinh’s work observes—‘the three classic principles of Sun Tsu, a great Chinese strategist’. Sun Tsu is the third century B.C. Chinese writer so often quoted with approval by Mao Tse-tung. Vietminh weaknesses were the obverse of French strength. While the French had numerous modern arms, Vietminh weapons were ‘few and rudimentary’; the French had numerous well-trained troops, the Vietminh forces were ‘not numerous and not yet inured to war’. The French had achieved a high level of organization, while the Vietminh’s—especially in military and economic affairs—was low; finally, the French were directing ‘large-scale propaganda’ to foreign countries, while Vietminh propaganda abroad was poor. But French weaknesses, Truong Chinh considered, overcame this strength. Their war had ‘reactionary’ and aggressive aims ‘which arouse hatred for them’; there was ‘internal division’ in France; low morale of the troops ‘waging an aggressive war in a foreign county’; French finance and economy were in a ‘state of exhaustion’ after the Second World W ar: and lastly, French ‘forces are limited and must be scattered throughout the French Union’.34

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Morale Morale inside France and the limited number of French forces were among the deciding factors. The confusion of French public opinion resulted from the fact that the French Government had been com­ pelled in 1949 to concede to Bao Dai the principle of the indepen­ dence and unity of Vietnam, which it had refused in 1945-46 to Ho Chi Minh. Having ‘given up’ the reason for starting the war, there was no valid motive for continuing it. Opinion in France, disgusted at the corruption of the Bao Dai regime, the scandalous fortunes made by French and Vietnamese out of the war and the irresponsible manoeuvrings of the French parliamentary parties, inevitably in­ fluenced the French troops fighting the sale guerre in Vietnam. The lower the morale of the ‘enemy’, including the Bao Dai regime, the higher became that of the Vietminh. Militarily, moreover, the French found themselves insufficiently strong to garrison all the towns and lines of communications against guerrillas and mobile forces; the latter avoided open confrontation but attacked secretly and swiftly at points of their own choosing. The French were never able to master this unconventional war. It was not from lack of skill or judgement—in fact, the French also tried out guerrilla tactics and deployed mobile columns and airborne troops—but because the advantages of this kind of war lay heavily with the ‘home side’.* Vietminh strategy, like that of the Chinese Communists, was based firmly on what was possible. The lightly armed and poorly trained Vietnamese troops had no chance of winning a frontal assault against the cream of the French Union forces, equipped with tanks, artillery and airplanes. In the first desperate months it was all the Vietminh could do to escape destruction. As they had done in Cochin-China, so in Tonkin they simply ‘merged’ into the country­ side or regrouped in almost inaccessible mountain and forest regions. The ‘popular’ forces reverted to their civilian life, as peasants or artisans, until the immediate danger had passed. They formed a nucleus of resistance in the villages and towns—resistance to the enemy which had suonressed their independence. Not as Com­ munists, pledged to Socialist revolution, but only as leaders of the national struggle could the Vietminh retain the allegiance of the people. * For a good account of the war as experienced by a Vietminh military ‘cadre’, see Ngo-Van-Chieu, Journal d'un Combattant Viet-Minh (Editions du Seuil, 1955). And from the ooint of view of the other side, Bernard B. Fall, Street without Joy: Indochina at War, 1946-54 (The Stackpole Com­ pany, 1961).

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Tribes Safe in their mountain hideouts, the Vietminh leaders gained time to train and equip their ‘main force’—the regular troops, protected by guerrilla and regional forces, which probed the weaknesses of the French, struck and rapidly dispersed. Even more than the loyalty of the Vietnamese peasants, it was the support of the mountain tribes that enabled the Vietminh to hold out during those early years, since its base areas were in tribal territory. French intelligence reported in 1953 that an entire Vietminh division was largely re­ cruited from among the half-million Tho tribespeople, two more regiments were composed of Tho and one of Muong tribesmen.35 Chu Van Tan, a Tho leader, was a general in the Vietnamese People’s Army and in 1953 was appointed to the Central Committee of the Lao Dong—Workers’—Party of Vietnam.36 Despite the historic antagonism between the rice-farming, low­ land Vietnamese and the roaming mountain tribes, the Vietminh had in the early 1940s won over a number of influential tribal leaders, some of whom were already at odds with the French ad­ ministration.37 The Vietminh promised to respect their autonomy in an independent Vietnam. The tribes, though few in number—some three and a quarter million compared to nearly thirty million Viet­ namese—inhabited the greater part of the country. Strategically, the mountain areas dominated Tonkin, almost surrounding the thin wedge of the densely populated Red River delta. Southern tribes— though far more primitive than the Tho, Meo, Thai and other tribes living in northern Vietnam and in Laos, north Thailand, Burma and Southern China—occupied an almost equally strategic area: the Annamite mountain chain extending to within about sixty miles of Saigon. The French statutorily protected the ‘Mountain People of the South’; and throughout the war they retained much support from these tribes. But in 1955 their French-protected special status was abolished.38 Thereafter, tribal support for the Vietminh—labelled by Saigon as ‘Vietcong’—played an important part in the disintegration of the Diem regime. Bases On Mao-ist principles, Truong Chinh noted that ‘there are many kinds of bases: mountainous areas, in the delta and in marshy areas’. Favourable natural features were important for the safety of the bases. But Truong Chinh, like Mao, laid more stress on ‘regular troops ready to make sacrifices . . . to stay the enemy’s advance, to safeguard the base and defend the leading oreans and the popula­ tion’; and above all, on an ‘active, widely organized’ people ‘ready to support the army in every field’. The existence of these two

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factors contradicted the opinion held by some ‘people’—unspecified, though Mao Tse-tung himself had held this view—that ‘because our territory is small, it is impossible for us to establish resistance bases’.39 Land In addition to tribal support, which could hardly be acknowledged on Marxist lines, the Vietminh ‘relied on the countryside to build our bases, to launch guerrilla warfare in order to encircle the enemy in the towns. . . . Therefore it was of particular importance to pay due attention to the peasant question. . . .’ ° And in Ho Chi Minh’s words, reminiscent of Mao’s dramatic appeal to the Communist Party to lead the peasant revolution over twenty years before: ‘Our forces lie in millions of peasants who are ready to wait for the Government and Party to organize and lead them in order en­ thusiastically to rise up and smash the feudal and colonial yoke. With skilful organization and leadership, these forces will shake heaven and earth, all the colonialists and feudalists will be swept away. .. .’41 The resistance war, as both Giap and Truong Chinh asserted, was a peasant’s war. ‘Nearly all the fighters of our regular, militia and guerrilla forces are also peasants. . . .’ This, Truong Chinh insisted, was because ‘they love their native soil, their Fatherland. They are deeply attached to their villages, their rice fields and the graves of their ancestors. . . . We see that the people constitute the source of manpower for the army; and for the militia and guerrilla forces we recruit and train our regular forces.’42 Vietminh agrarian policy played a decisive role—according to Giap—in the building of rural bases, the reinforcement of rear areas and the ‘impulse’ given to the resistance. ‘In a colony where the national question is essentially the peasant question the consolidation of the resistance forces was possible only by a solution to the agrarian problem.’43 Vietminh reduction of land rent and rates of interest after August 1945 ‘bestowed on the peasants their first material advantages’. Land ‘monopolized’ by the ‘imperialists and the traitors’—i.e. Vietnamese collaborating with the French—was confiscated and shared out. ‘Communal land and ricefields were more eauitably distributed.’44 Yet the Vietminh could not press ahead with a thorough-going programme of land reform, during the early years, from fear of alienating those landowners who were supporting the struggle for independence. Like their Chinese comrades, the Vietnamese ComI

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munists veered from radical policies of outright seizure of ‘large’ estates—‘to confiscate the whole of the plantations and property belonging to the imperialists and the Vietnamese reactionary capitalist class and distribute them to poor peasants’, according to the inaugural programme of the Communist Party of Indo-China in 193045—to a ‘postponement’ of the agrarian revolution when the ‘Vietminh Front’ was established in 1941. Again following Chinese Communist policy, with the mounting tempo of war and the need for the utmost support from the hard-pressed peasantry, the Vietminh leaders revived the campaign for land reform. The peasants are the ‘eyes and ears of the army, they feed and keep our soldiers. It is they who help the army in sabotage and battle,’ Truong Chinh declared.46 Ho Chi Minh himself acknowledged in December 1953 that ‘in former times we were biased against [sic, presumably it should be ‘in favour of’] unity with landlords for the sake of the resistance war, and have not attached due importance to the peasant question. . . .’47 Yet, as Ho had pointed out a year before, ‘the peasants make the biggest contribution to the Resistance’—provid­ ing soldiers, guerrillas, taxes—and thus the greatest sacrifice to the Fatherland. ‘Nevertheless, they are the poorest people, because they have not enough land to till. . .. This is a most unjust situation.’48 In Ho’s view, the peasants accounted for almost 90 per cent of the people, but owned only 30 per cent of the arable land, worked hard ‘and suffer poverty all their lives’. The goal set for land reform, Ho declared in his Report of December 1953 to the National Assembly, ‘is to wipe out the feudal system of land appropriation, distribute land to the tillers, liberate the productive forces in the countryside, develop production and speed up the Resistance war’. Ho frankly believed, at a time when the enemy was doing its ‘utmost to deceive, divide and exploit our people’, that ‘land reform will exert an in­ fluence on and encourage our peasant compatriots in the enemy rear to struggle more enthusiastically against the enemy in order to liberate themselves, and more enthusiastically to support the Demo­ cratic Resistance Government; at the same time it exerts an influence on and disintegrates the puppet [Bao Dai] army because the absolute majority of the puppet soldiers are peasants in enemy-occupied areas.’49 Land confiscated or ‘requisitioned’, Ho went on, must be ‘dis­ tributed definitely to the peasants who have no land or are short of it. The peasants have the right to ownership of the land thus dis­ tributed’.50 There is no doubt that Vietminh distribution of land to poor peasants, though in the long run no real solution (for the prob­ lem is one of overpopulation rather than the existence of large landowners), did greatly inspire them to help the Vietminh.

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Popular support ‘The people are the water and our army the fish’51—this echo of the Chinese Communist slogan was no empty phrase. As Truong Chinh explained, ‘guerrilla warfare is the method of fighting in partisan units or with relatively small groups of the regular army disguised as civilians and mingling with the people.. . Their task was to ‘cut communication lines, harass the enemy while he is eating or sleep­ ing, wear out his strength, cause him weariness and distress. . . .,52 Further, ‘Experience has taught us that to avoid disintegration [as a result of enemy encirclement], our troops should quickly abandon their uniforms, combine with the people, distribute a part of their arms to them, organize militia forces, arm the entire people, using every means to fight the enemy. They should cling to their ricefields and struggle against the enemy to win the right to live ,53 The very fact that the Vietminh was able in 1953 to infiltrate units of up to division strength, altogether a total of about 35,000 men, within the Tonkin ‘redoubt’—tying up three times their number of French troops51—indicates the effectiveness of peasant support for the Vietminh. Although French ‘pacification’ was more successful in Cochin-China—the reason why the 1954 settlement divided Ho’s North from a non-Communist South—even there the swampy terrain and mountainous or forested regions made French operations ‘exceedingly slow and difficult’ and Vietminh skill at disappearance and infiltration frequently foiled these efforts. In his illuminating study of Vietminh tactics, George Tanham points out that ‘French intelligence was poor and most Vietminh areas seemed to have pre­ warning of the enemy’s armies’. He adds, and this was to characterize the regime to follow, that ‘French soldiers frequently conducted themselves in a manner that alienated the native population, and did not seem to realize the importance of winning the local people to their side through positive acts’.55 The Vietminh, by contrast, laid great emphasis on soldierly dis­ cipline and the need to assist the villagers. This is not to deny Viet­ minh terrorism, which certainly existed, and was even a potent factor in creating insecurity and the disruption of administrative links with the countryside. But terrorism for the Vietminh, as for the Vietcong, was not indiscriminate violence—as it is sometimes por­ trayed in the West—but an instrument selectively applied to attain specific objectives: it was a means of war used against the civil population, or that part of it considered to support the ‘enemy’. This is what is meant by the term ‘people’s war’—the involvement of the people, like it or not, on one side or the other.

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Terrorism apart, the Vietminh (like the Chinese Communists) took great care to conciliate the villagers, whether tribal or lowland peasants. In 1948 Ho Chi Minh issued ‘Twelve Recommendations’ to his soldiers: e.g. ‘1. Not to do what is likely to damage the land and crops or spoil the houses and belongings of the people. 2. Not to insist on buying or borrowing what the people are not willing to sell or lend.. . . 3. [Not to offend mountain peoples.] 4. Never break our word. 5. Not to give offence to people’s faith and customs. . . ,’56 The positive recommendations were: ‘1. To help the people in their daily work (harvesting, fetching firewood, carrying water, sewing, etc). 2. Whenever possible to buy commodities for those who live far from markets (knife, salt, needle, thread, pen, paper, etc). 3. In spare time, to tell amusing simple and short stories useful to the Resistance, but betraying no secrets. 4. To teach the population the national script and elementary hygiene. 5. To study the customs of each region. . . . 6. To show to the people that you are correct, diligent and disciplined.’57 Guerrillas The Vietminh guerrillas depended on the country people: ‘More than 90 per cent of soldiers in the National Defence Army, local guards, militia men and guerrillas are of peasant stock. Most of the taxpayers and volunteer workers are peasants. The peasants make the biggest contribution to the Resistance,’ as Ho acclaimed.58‘When the enemy comes we fight, when he goes, we plough,’ as Truong Chinh put it. Actually this refers to the basic level, the village ‘self defence’ militia, or part-time soldier. The middle level—and the same applies to the ‘Vietcong’—consists of regional troops who ‘do not participate in production any longer and move about in a specific region’. Their task, according to Truong Chinh, is to defend a region or district, supporting the villagers in their farm work, ‘carrying out armed propaganda, repressing traitors and bandits, laying ambushes to attack the enemy, and launching sudden attacks on his isolated posts’.59 The regular army or ‘main force’ forms the highest level; it is recruited from the best elements of the regional forces (themselves recruited from the ‘most enthusiastic and thorough-going’ of the village militia). This ‘endless process of development’, in Truong Chinh’s words, from peasant auxiliaries to regional forces to regular troops, exactly matched the development of strategy; ‘people’s war, long-term war, guerrilla warfare developing step-by-step into mobile war’, as Giap described it.60 The different types of warfare were designed for the three stages of revolutionary war: ‘defensive, equilibrium and offensive’—the Vietminh equivalent of Mao’s

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‘strategic defensive, consolidation and counter-offensive’, outlined in his 1938 lecture On Protracted War. Three stages Vietminh practice was exactly in line with Mao’s celebrated advice: The enemy advances, we retreat—the first stage of protracted war. In Giap’s words, the bulk of Vietminh forces were ordered to ‘fall back towards our rear in order to keep our forces intact with a view to a long-term resistance’.61 The enemy camps, we harass—the second stage: This is the period of consolidation, when the enemy, having occupied the towns and major lines of communication, launches ‘mopping up operations’, seeking to re-establish order in the occupied zones. ‘He strives to encircle and raze our guerrilla bases . . . or chop up our free zones into many parts. . . . Their [the enemy’s] political aim is to set up a puppet national government. . . at the same time fostering the puppet power in the localities and the organizations of reactionary notables [traditional village leaders] in order to divide and deceive our people. . . . They count on this puppet power and its “armed forces” to repress our movement for liberation. . . .’ The Vietminh response was to ‘wear out the enemy forces, annihilate them piecemeal; sabotage, disturb, give the enemy no peace . . .’, Truong Chinh declared.62 The second stage is also one of guerrilla warfare developing into mobile war: ‘guerrilla war must multiply’, as Giap put it, it must keep up its momentum. ‘If guerrilla warfare did not move to mobile warfare, not only the strategic task of annihilating the enemy man­ power could not be carried out but even guerrilla activities could not be maintained and extended.’63Vietminh tactics were to operate ‘in small pockets, with independent companies penetrating deeply into the enemy-controlled zone to launch guerrilla warfare, establish bases and protect local people’s power. . . . We gradually formed a network of guerrilla bases. . . . The soil of the fatherland was being freed inch by inch right in the enemy’s rear lines.’6* During this time Giap’s ‘main force’—secure in the resistance bases—was being trained for mobile w ar: The enemy tires, we attack. This is still the second stage, but it is the ‘key’ period when the balance of forces gradually changes and the revolutionaries prepare for the final stage of counter-offensive: The enemy retreats, we pursue. As Giap described the sequence of events: ‘In 1947, with the plan of independent companies operating separ­ ately and concentrated battalions, we began to move to more con­ centrated fighting, then to mobile warfare. In 1948, we made relatively great ambushes and surprise attacks with one or several battalions. In 1949, we launched small campaigns not only in the

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North but also on other battlefields. From 1950, we began to launch campaigns on an ever larger scale enabling mobile warfare to play the mam part on the northern battlefield while entrenched camp warfare [positional warfare, the last stage] was on the upgrade. This fact was clearly manifest in the great Dien Bien Phu [April-May 1954] campaign.’63 After 1950* when the Vietminh overran most of the garrisons along the frontier with China, the French were faced with an in­ soluble problem. ‘The enemy found himself face to face with a contradiction: without scattering his forces it was impossible for him to occupy the invaded territory; in scattering his forces he put himself in difficulties. His scattered units would fall easy prey to our troops. . . . On the other hand, if he concentrated his forces to . . . cope with us with more initiative . . . it would be difficult for him to hold the invaded territory.’66 Trying to protect ‘thousands of posts and garrisons’ all over the country from guerrilla raids, the French inevitably had to disperse their troops; but this left them dangerously exposed to Giap’s ‘main force’. Once the latter had been organized, trained and augmented—the first Vietminh divisions appeared in 195067—the French found themselves with insufficient troops to meet both the guerrilla and the regular army threat. By mid-1951 there had been a striking increase in the number of regular Vietminh battalions, especially in Tonkin (seventy-eight battalions, largely the result of the ‘transformation’ of regional forces) and to a lesser extent in Annam (twenty-one battalions) and Cochin-China (eighteen regular, twenty-five regional battalions).68 This indicated, in a period of just over two years, a nearly four­ fold increase in regular strength. General Navarre, the French Commander-in-Chief during the latter stages of the war (French C.-in-C.s changed almost as rapidly as French Governments), esti­ mated in mid-1953 that he was facing some 125,000 full-time regular Vietminh troops, organized in six divisions, actively sup­ ported by over 75,000 regional troops and backed by 200,000 to 350,000 village militia. The French Expeditionary Force amounted to 189,000 men—just over a quarter being French troops, the rest were Legionnaires, Vietnamese and North Africans. About half of this Force was tied down in a static defence role. The untried Viet­ namese national (Bao Dai) army nominally amounted to 150,000 men but could deploy less than 100,000 in the field.69 With local * Giap launched a premature ‘counter-offensive* in 1951 and suffered a serious reverse. Thereafter the Vietminh avoided any major engagement with French forces—which the French tried in vain to bring about—until the advantage was clearly on the Vietminh side, as at Dien Bien Phu.

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superiority, Vietminh mobile forces could strike almost at will, as they demonstrated in the 1953-54 campaigns in Laos, Tonkin and the central highlands, culminating in the battle of Dien Bien Phu. Trying both to stave off the constant guerrilla depredations and to confront the main thrust of the Vietminh divisions, the French met disaster. Undoubtedly Chinese aid contributed to the Vietminh success. It has been estimated that up to 40,000 Vietminh soldiers received training in China by the time of the cease-fire in mid-1954.70 The Chinese supplied 3,000 to 15,000 tons a month of war material,71 notably rifles, machine guns, mortars and field artillery (used with devastating effect at Dien Bien Phu). But there were no supplies of tanks, aircraft or heavy artillery. It has been suggested—and this would be similar to the presumed Soviet attitude towards the Chinese Communists—that ‘the main objective of Chinese policy seemed to be not so much to enable the Vietminh to win a military victory as to maintain it at fighting strength’.72 An important Lien Viet* official, who fled to the Bao Dai zone late in 1952, related the existence of an agreement providing for Chinese intervention only in the case of the Vietminh suffering a decisive defeat.73 UNI TY AND ORGANIZATION

‘In the face of an enemy as powerful as he is cruel,’ wrote Giap, ‘victory is possible only by uniting the whole people within . . . a firm and wide national united front.’74 The ‘factors of success’, he continued, were these: first, ‘it was a just war, waged for indepen­ dence and the reunification of the country’; second, the ‘revolu­ tionary armed force . . . adopted the tactics and strategy of a people’s war’; third, the national united front comprised ‘all the revolutionary classes, all the nationalities living on Vietnamese soil’; fourth, ‘people’s power [was] established during the August Revolution and thereafter constantly consolidated . . . it devoted its efforts to mobilizing and organizing the whole people for the Resistance’; fifth and ‘above all’, the war was ‘organized and led by the Party of the working class: the Indo-Chinese Communist Party, now the Vietnam Workers’ Party’,f 75 * The Vietminh was absorbed into the Lien Viet—National United Front— in February 1951. t The Communists were the strongest, the most skilful and ruthless element in the Vietminh Front. The longer the war continued, the more powerful that element became. Even within the Communist Party, which although ‘voluntarily dissolved’ in November 1945 ‘continued to lead the administra­ tion and the people’, according to Ho Chi Minh (Vol. Ill, p. 248), the bitter­ ness of the war favoured the extremists and the doctrinaires. [See also p. 156.]

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This was the order in which Giap analysed the factors of success. To put them in another way: first, it was a national struggle; second, it had to be fought by guerrilla methods; third, the Vietminh, put­ ting nationalist objectives first, attracted the support of Vietnamese and tribal peoples, of peasants and townsmen, Buddhists and Catholics: ‘by force alone’, writes Hammer, ‘the Vietminh, at best a small minority in the country, could never have remained in power; the strength of the Vietminh in the fall of 1945 lay in the wide popular following it commanded among non-Communist Viet­ namese’; for example, the ‘majority of the two million Catholics made common cause with the Vietminh Government and the four Vietnamese bishops appealed to the Pope to support Vietnamese independence’.76 Fourth, an independent Vietnamese Government, sanctioned by the ex-Emperor Bao Dai himself, had been established in September 1945. Though it had been physically removed from power by the French—first in Southern Vietnam, a year later in the North—its authority remained. Moreover, if the French were nominally in control of the institutions of the State, it was the Viet­ minh—through the countryside—which possessed much of the reality. Finally, the Vietminh was led, not just by ardent patriots, but by men whose dedication, ability and disciplined restraint far outclassed their anti-Communist rivals in the various ‘nationalist’ parties and groups. Ho Chi Minh’s practical disposition,* his organizational skill and his years of revolutionary experience had deeply impressed the Kuomintang military government of Kwangsi province, during the war against Japan. Although the Chinese preferred the VNQDD (Nationalist Party) leader to Ho—who was even imprisoned for a time—the former, however trustworthy, was old and ineffective. It was Ho who was appointed in 1943 leader of the Chinese-sponsored ‘Revolutionary League’, thereby taking over the Kuomintang sub­ sidy of 100 Chinese dollars a month for spying and sabotage in Tonkin.77 It was under Nationalist Chinese auspices—the local Kuomintang leaders hoped to use Ho for their own purposes against both Japan and France—that the Vietminh organized and estab­ lished resistance bases in northern Vietnam. Similarly it was with the Vietminh, rather than with the fanatically anti-French Nationalists, that the French, early in 1946, sought to reach agreement on the future of Vietnam. There is no doubt that the Vietminh was genuinely prepared to accept a compromise at that time, provided it led to the independence and unity of Vietnam, which all nationalists were demanding. To secure what was possible, * H o Chi Minh’s Selected W orks reveal little of the brilliant analytical studies of society characteristic of Mao’s ‘Thought’,

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this was the Vietminh objective. Thus, despite vehement popular opposition, the Vietminh accepted in March 1946 the stationing of French forces in northern Vietnam in return for French recognition of the ‘free State’ of the Republic of Vietnam, within the IndoChinese Federation and the French Union (France and her overseas possessions). Under the agreement, French forces were to be re­ placed each year by Vietnamese—one-fifth at a time—thus leaving the Vietnamese army in full control at the end of five years. The conciliatory attitude of the Vietminh could hardly be better shown than in Giap’s explanation, before a huge crowd in Hanoi, of the reasons for signing the agreement. Giap pointed out that some aspects were satisfactory—recognition of Vietnam’s internal free­ dom, ‘though it is not yet independence’—while others were not: the return of French troops. But he went on: ‘Those who are not satisfied consider total independence as if it were only a slogan or word of command, either spoken or on paper. They do not understand that the country’s independence is the result of objective conditions and that in our struggle to achieve it there is a time when we must be firm and a time when we must yield. In present circumstances, there were three possibilities: long­ term resistance; a shorter resistance; and negotiation, when the time came. We did not choose long-term resistance because the inter­ national situation was no longer favourable to us. France had signed a treaty with China, America had joined France’s side. . .. Thus we were practically isolated. . . . By continuing a military struggle we would have lost our forces and our land. We could only have held certain regions. To resist in this way would have been very heroic, but our people would have endured terrible sufferings. . . . Equally we would have succumbed if we had attempted a few months’ resistance, because France is armed with modem weapons. There­ fore we chose the third way, that of negotiations.. . . In this way, we have the ability and the time to organize our internal administration, strengthen our military means, to develop our economy and to raise the standard of living of the people The agreement [with France] opens the way to total independence, which is not far off, and this remains our aim.’78 This spirit of realism was shared by the French negotiators at that time—Jean Sainteny and General Leclerc, Commander of the French forces. Leclerc, according to Devillers, who was a member of his staff, realized that French reconquest of Vietnam was im­ possible with the limited means available, He could seize the cities

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and ports, but to penetrate further would require a major effort by France, resulting in an exhausting war, whose length could not be foreseen and which would absorb the French Army for years.* Moreover, a Vietnamese Government—led by Communists, it is true, but representing a powerful national movement according to all the evidence—this existed in Hanoi.79 Leclerc believed that Viet­ namese nationalism was a real force—not merely the propaganda creation of the Vietminh, as local French officials and settlers claimed.80 French interests could best be served by negotiating with Ho—and Leclerc even urged the French Government to recognize Vietnam’s ‘independence’81—rather than risk losing all in a longdrawn-out war. These views were not shared by the French High Commissioner, d’Argenlieu, a former Carmelite monk, later admiral in the Free French Navy, enthusiastic supporter of de Gaulle and a man, as Devillers describes him, ‘imbued with the traditions of French grandeur’.82 It was d’Argenlieu who, convinced that the Vietminh leaders were no more than a bunch of Communist agitators, com­ plained in March 1946 to General Valluy (later to command French forces against the Vietminh) that he was ‘astonished that France has such a fine expeditionary corps in Indo-China and yet its leaders prefer to negotiate rather than fight’. D’Argenlieu’s tactics, on his return to France a few months later, were to sound the alarm that if Indo-China were lost, the whole French Union would be threatened. This gloomy prediction had its effect on the French deputies of the Right and Centre who were haunted by the spectre of France’s weak­ ness—political, military and financial.83 In their view, France could only reassert her authority by standing up to the Vietminh; by ‘teaching it a hard lesson’,84 as General Valluy put it, before the French bombardment in November 1946 of the port of Haiphong. Even when the war broke out, a month later, the French were confident that they could quickly disperse the ‘handful’ of Vietminh supporters, who were deemed totally unrepresentative of Viet­ namese opinion. ‘The immense majority of the Vietnamese people fears and rejects the oppression of the Vietminh’; ‘against us [the French] there are only a handful of prisoners escaped from Poulo Condore [the convict settlement] and who impose their role by terror’: this was the constant refrain of the French Press, from the ♦A fter six months o f fighting, the French War Minister reported in May 1947 the complete success o f French arms, the occupation of major cities and control of communications. But, he added, ‘it is evident that the greater part of the country remains in the hands of the Vietminh. I do not think we should undertake the conquest of French Indo-China. It would necessitate an expedi­ tionary corps of at least 500,000 men [m 1947, it was only 115,000 strong]*. Ellen Hammer, The Struggle for Indo-China 1940-1955, p. 207.

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centre-Left all the way to the Right.85 Ih e French Government simply could not envisage any genuine demand for independence. Cut oft from Indo-China by the occupa­ tion, the Gaullists were unaware of the growth and intensity of Vietnamese nationalism, encouraged as it had been both by the Vichy administrators and still more so by the Japanese. Thus all the de Gaulle Government could bring itself to offer in 1945 was autonomy, not independence. But these illusions were also shared by French vested interests within Indo-China. ‘They [the Viet­ namese] only await our return,’ was the opinion of Albert Torel, legal counsellor to the High Commissioner, expressing the common attitude of French officials and settlers.88 Similar to the evolution of Japanese policy in central China during the war, the French discovered to their cost that Vietminh resistance and the evidence of widespread nationalist support for it necessitated a change of tactics. Their aim therefore became to rally the Vietnamese people to the ‘authentic’ national leader Bao Dai (Wang Ching-wei had been the Japanese choice). The French conceded the principle of Vietnamese nationalism—rather than con­ tinued colonial rule—but they still would not concede the practice. The ‘Elysee Agreements’ of March 1949 confirmed the ‘internal sovereignty’ of the Vietnamese Government under the Head of State, Bao Dai, but French permission was required for any change in status of French property and enterprises, French forces were given the right to circulate freely among the bases and garrisons assigned to them, and French nationals retained special legal privileges.87 The continued presence of French troops on Vietnamese soil and of French officials in the Vietnamese administration,’ writes Hammer, ‘was enough to convince the average Vietnamese and the Emperor [Bao Dai] that they all had still to achieve independence. . . . As a result most of the intellectuals and young people either continued to work with the Vietminh or remained aloof from politics.’88 Their attitude was epitomized by the Right Wing nationalist Ngo Dinh Diem, who in 1949 refused offers to head Bao Dai’s Cabinet: ‘The national aspirations of the Vietnamese people will be satisfied only on the day when our nation obtains the same political status which India and Pakistan enjoy. . . . I believe it is only just to reserve the best posts in the new Vietnam for those who have merited most of the country: I speak of the resistance elements.’89 The unhappy experience of the Bao Dai ‘solution’—independent in theory, but under French military and administrative control in fact—prevented any rallying of the people against the Vietminh. On

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the contrary, the scandals, corruption and incapacity of the Bao Dai regime repelled and disgusted the majority of non-Communist Viet­ namese. ‘In Vietnam, where political office and economic advantage were inevitably linked, the resultant profiteering helped further to discredit the regime . . . and to raise the prestige of the Vietminh___ Not only was there no national assembly in the zones nominally ruled by Bao Dai, but there were no political parties—merely selfinterested groups, like the Cao Dai and Hoa Hao in the South or the newly-formed Dai Viet in the North, which carved out their own zones of influence in exchange for lending their support to Bao Dai.’90 This disunity and fragmentation of non-Communist forces in Vietnam was to prove of major significance, not only in the downfall of the Bao Dai regime, but of its successors. As Ho Chi Minh realized, the only effective way of competing with the Vietminh would be the achievement of true independence and the implementation of political and economic reforms. In December 1953, Ho had to warn his followers against theFrancoAmerican ‘policy of deceit’ which took the form of: ‘Declaring sham “independence” and “democracy”, holding fraudulent elections. Pretending to carry out land reform to deceive the peasants in tem­ porarily occupied areas. Setting up “yellow” trade unions to mislead the workers. Advancing a fable of peace . . . to deceive our people.’91 In other words, Ho was denouncing the French and the Bao Dai regime for carrying out—or rather stating that they would carry out—precisely the policy the Vietminh was advocating: indepen­ dence, parliamentary elections, land reform, establishment of trade unions, and proposals for a peaceful settlement. There is nothing ‘Communist’ about this programme;* what ‘saved’ the Vietminh was that the French authorities, first of all, and their Vietnamese supporters, secondly, never got beyond the initial stage—indepen­ dence—and even this was hedged with practical limitations. The most important of these, of course, was that Bao Dai was dependent on the French Army for his survival. Moreover, the Bao Dai regime could not, or would not, proceed to the stage of ‘democratic4reforms, because it was equally dependent for political support on gallicized Vietnamese, wealthy landowners, traditionalist village notables and the virtually autonomous Hoa Hao and Cao Dai sects, who would not accept any drastic change. The way Truong Chinh saw the situation—as early as 1947, before ♦Paul Mus points out that from 1946 [but why not before?] the French administration in Cochin-China tried to carry out agrarian reform and create a class of small and middle peasant proprietors. This, he writes, seemed ‘very near’ to Vietminh proposals. Viet-Nam: Sociologie d'une Guerre, p. 242.

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the French had even conceded independence—was like this: This resistance war is a revolutionary war of the entire people led by our government. It is not a private war concerning only the Com­ munists or the Vietminh Front. The Communists or the Vietminh Front have the sole aim of gaining freedom and independence. . . Now, we know, of course, that this was not their ‘sole’ aim: but it was, like Mao Tse-tung’s attitude to the Japanese in China, their main aim; and in this they were unrivalled. It was the same with the Vietminh programme of reforms, intended to achieve what Mao called ‘national democracy’. What is important in this regard is not so much that the Communists had ulterior motives —they were not simply ‘agrarian reformers’—but that their reform policy was based on what the people—the majority of people— wanted; and it was the only policy that was. It was not even a very ‘radical’ policy. Take, for instance, the Vietminh attitude to the land. Only French property and that of Vietnamese ‘traitors’ (opponents of the Vietminh) was actually confiscated and distributed to poor peasants: this was hardly a revolutionary move. Even in 1953, the land reforms proposed and carried out by the Vietminh went no further—except for confiscation instead of purchase—than the successful programmes sponsored by the Americans in post-war Japan and Taiwan. It is true that when the Communists achieved undisputed power in North Vietnam, they revealed their real aims in a merciless parody of land reform, a prelude to collectivization. This should surely have given their ‘democratic’ opponents in the South the opportunity to show that they could do better. The tragedy is that they did not. Diem’s 1956 land reform only affected properties above the absurdly high figure of nearly 250 acres, compared to an average holding of less than five acres; and even this reform was only carried out in part. After 1961 land reform remained virtually a dead letter; as it still does, up to the present day. Thus, it is not a question of comparing the merits of a democratic and a totalitarian system; but of two types of authoritarian regime— one of which, at a certain period of time, achieved something for the people, while the other did not. VIETMINH-VIETCONG

Diem and his entourage were good nationalists; so were the supporters of the Vietminh. This was not an important issue between them. What was important was the huge difference between their social and political attitudes and ability. The Vietminh, dependent on peasant support, distributed land to the tenants; after 1954 this land was handed back to the original owners. The Vietcong’s sub­

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sequent appeal to the villagers centred on the right of the fanners to own their land. Diem, himself, recognized the need for reforms. But his measures were inadequate, improperly executed, easily thwarted and soon overtaken by events.* The Vietcong promised a ‘social revolution’ to the people of Vietnam; Diem, creating new administration on the wreckage of French rule, ‘turned back’ to old mandarin traditions. The thorough, well-planned organization of the Vietcong made a remarkable con­ trast to the personal confusion and bureaucratic ineptitude charac­ teristic of the Diem regime (and still more so of its successors). Despite an overwhelming technical superiority and massive American economic (and later military) assistance, the government was unable to make headway against a few thousand rural guerrillas. Once the insurgency had started in earnest in 1959 it was only three years before the regime was in serious trouble. The paratroopers’ coup of November 1960 was a portent. According to the Army rebels, ‘the Ngo Dinh Diem Government has proved itself incapable in the national salvation and reconstruction work. While the Communists have daily increased their pressure, Ngo Dinh Diem has applied a blind dictatorial, feudal and family rule policy. He has placed the family interests above the national interests... .’93 In 1963, in an access of folly, the regime turned against the Buddhists and indulged in wholesale arrests of students and highschool children—sons and daughters of civil servants and army officers among them. Tran Van Chuong, Vietnamese Ambassador to the United States and father of Madame Nhu, resigned from his post in protest. He voiced the common opinion of disillusioned ex­ supporters (strikingly reminiscent of the views of people in respon­ sible positions about Chiang Kai-shek): ‘There is no possibility at all of victory over the Communists under the present regime . . . which has become the greatest asset of the Communists and the greatest obstacle to victory.’94 What is surprising is not that the Diem Government should have collapsed ‘like an empty shell’ in 1963, but that it should have lasted so long. Credit for this should perhaps be given to the United States, which propped up the ‘family regime’ diplomatically, politically, economically and militarily—until finally it was virtually the only prop that was left. When President Kennedy at last recognized that the war could not be won with Diem—though the American * ‘. . . Diem went through the motions of a leader interested in the living con­ ditions and the opinions of those he led. But his heart was not in social reform. . . . The land reform programme was the classic exam ple: it lasted but three years and aided only about 10 per cent of the landless.’ Douglas Pike, Viet Cong (M.I.T. Press, 1966), p. 60.

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military still believed that the ‘shooting war’ was ‘going well’95—the regime could no longer survive against the mass of opponents it had rallied against itself. All the fissiparous forces of South Vietnam, too long repressed, were now released: resulting in religious disputes, regional rivalries, army ambitions, political intrigues, student indis­ cipline, trade union unrest, tribal revolt—and in the background the Vietcong, infiltrating demonstrations, exploiting administrative anarchy (thanks to the successive purges of officers and officials), and launching ambushes and attacks on an ever-larger scale. Thus by early 1965, according to the Americans, Vietcong units were advancing ‘with total freedom’ in Central Vietnam and ‘moving unimpeded’ between their ‘war zones’ just north of Saigon and the ‘critical delta areas’.96 Again there is the resemblance to the last days of Nationalist China—though not yet to the point of mass defections from the armed forces—when the us Embassy in Nanking reported that ‘scattered Communist bands operate throughout the countryside creating confusion and disorder’ and ‘guerrilla units operate more or less at will’.97 Two quotations indicate the rooted strength of the Vietcong and the flawed nature of the regimes it faced. Denis Warner writes: ‘Out in the remote villages of mud and wattle, the Government was identified as the man in uniform who came on a punitive raid, or with a heavy bodyguard, and who always wanted something—money, labour, or even those suspected, sometimes incorrectly, of working for the Vietcong. The Vietcong cadre, on the other hand, was bare­ footed and dressed in black like every other peasant. He made tax demands, but they were not excessive. He was meticulous about paying for food and lodging. . . . To begin with, he did not talk Communism, or Marxism, but exploited local grievances.’98 And from the Vietnamese editor, Ton That Thien: ‘[Vietcong] cadres were drawn mostly from the peasant milieu, and they lived and worked in the countryside The Communist cadres were constantly reminded that they must stay close to the people, and live and work among them. Another habit instilled into the Communist cadres was that they must keep away from the corrupting influence of the cities. . . . In a sense, the Communist leaders and cadres had replaced the Confucian mandarins. . . Two ‘worlds’ were involved—either apart or in conflict: the world of the peasants, the great majority of the Vietnamese people, more or less remote in their villages. ‘The Emperor’s laws,’ in the traditional saying, ‘yield to the customs of the village.’ And the world of the

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wealthy Western-educated urban or land-owning elite, often barely touched by the war being fought in the countryside. In fact, ‘to villagers in Vietcong villages,’ as an American scholar has noted, ‘the Vietcong is the protection association against the government.’ Elsewhere in the country, ‘the choice is not whether to get involved but merely on which side to do so. Young men know that they are going to be drafted on one side or the other.’100Even the Vietcong cadres represent a rural response to the urban-based administration: ‘The cadres are village-based active competitors to the civil servants recruited on the basis of education. Their concern is for the protec­ tion of their village community against exploitation from the city.’ These ‘cadres . . . understand politics among villagers in a way the g v n [Government of Vietnam] never will. . . .’101 As the struggle intensified, so villagers became increasingly caught up in the clash between the two sides. ‘Without battle lines, without an identifiable enemy,’ writes Gerald Hickey, ‘the war was everywhere Although most villagers did not take sides actively, accusations of being on one side or the other were rampant. . . . [The] effect has been to turn many villagers inward. They now are primarily concerned with survival for themselves and their families.’102 From the Communist point of view—authoritatively expounded by the North Vietnamese party theorist Truong Chinh in September 1963—the ‘armed struggle’ in South Vietnam is characteristic of the ‘outbreak of national liberation revolution’, similar to the Viet­ minh uprising against the French: ‘In a country like Vietnam, which was a backward agrarian country dominated by foreign imperialism, an uprising for seizing power must, in general, be launched in the countryside and then in the cities [This was] because the enemy was weaker in the countryside than in the cities, and the peasants of our country were ardently revolutionary and warmly supported the slogan of national indepen­ dence and of land to the tiller. . . . Under the circumstances . . . an armed uprising may be launched by stages, guerrilla bases or even liberated areas may be set up and then, in accordance with the situation, the uprising may be expanded into a national one for the seizure of State power. . . . In the countryside [‘a vast expanse of mountains, forests’ and regions with poor communications] it was difficult for the enemy to concentrate his forces and his administration was weaker. There­ fore the countryside provided easy concealment for the revolutionary cadres and facilitated the building up of the revolutionary forces; moreover it had favourable conditions for guerrilla activities. From the point of view of the distribution of population, the countryside

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possessed the enormous strength of the people and a very reliable ally—which is the main force of the revolution—the peasant. . . .’103 The point is not so much that all or even most of the peasants were ‘ardently revolutionary’, but that a sufficient number were— for good reason. Before the Vietminh war, two-thirds of the rural population in Southern Vietnam (Cochin-China) were tenants, pay­ ing some 40 per cent of their crop to the landlords.104Of the one-third or less who owned rice land, a tiny proportion (2^ per cent) owned nearly half of it (altogether over two and a half million acres); the 183.000 small-holders (averaging under five acres of land a family) owned about one-seventh.105 According to Diem’s 1956 land reform programme, less than two million acres were to be expropriated— that is, properties of over 100 hectares (247 acres), with some exceptions. About one million acres were actually expropriated (over half this amount was in French-owned estates, for which com­ pensation was provided by the French Government). By the time the land reform had been officially ‘completed’ in 1961, some 580.000 acres had been distributed.106 A quarter of a million tenants had expected to become owners; by 1961 those who became new owners numbered 109,000107 and five years later only another seven thousand had received their titles to land.108‘In short, of an estimated 1 to 1.2 million tenant households existing in 1955, about 10 per cent obtained land under the government’s land transfer programme.’109 Given these circumstances, it is not surprising that the ‘land policy of the [National] Liberation Front is: to confiscate the land belonging to the imperialists and their agents and distribute it to the labouring peasantry: to purchase land from the patriotic landlords [i.e. those who co-operate with the Vietcong] . . . to be distributed to the poor peasants without payment. . . .’no The N.L.F. claimed that by early 1965 two million hectares (nearly five million acres) of cultivated land had been distributed among the peasants111 out of eight million acres in all—three times more land than was distributed ‘during the war of resistance against the French’.112The N.L.F. claim is certainly exaggerated; the total amount of cultivated (if not cultivable) land in South Vietnam, 84 per cent of which is under rice, is only six and three-quarter million acres,113 not eight. But what is significant is that the land distributed by the Vietminh—over one and a half million acres*—is nearly three times the amount distributed by Diem and his successors. In other words, something like two in every three of the peasants who had been given land by the Vietminh found it * This figure is probably accurate, given that nearly two million acres were subject to expropriation under Diem’s reforms. K

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taken away from them after 1954, handed back to the former owners and not subsequently returned. Indeed, from the record of the past fourteen years, observed a us Congressional committee in March 1968, there is ‘scant hope’ that the Government of Vietnam will ‘institute a meaningful programme of land reform in the near future’. Since 1962, it pointed out, the Government had acquired no land for the land reform programme and only limited distribution of Government-held land had taken place. Yet ‘perhaps more than any other single programme, land reform offers the opportunity for the Government of Vietnam to secure the allegiance of the Vietnamese people’.114 The Vietcong readily linked the ‘peasant land problem’ with the ‘basic problem of the present revolutionary tasks in the South’. In October 1963, the N.L.F. argued, ‘a solution [to the land problem] could not only mobilize the people in the liberated areas to participate in the struggle for . . . revolutionary results but could also mobilize the masses in the oppressed [i.e. government-controlled] areas to rise up and struggle . . . to liberate themselves’.115 By May 1965 the People’s Revolutionary Party—the ‘Marxist-Leninist’ vanguard of the N.L.F.—was declaring that ‘this year, all our armed forces and people must exert every effort to liberate the greater part of the rural areas, to destroy the [remaining] network of strategic hamlets, to abolish the landlords’ ownership of rice fields and to restore all lands to the toiling peasant. . . .’ In this ‘May Day Letter’ to the peasants of South Vietnam, the P.R.P. hammered away at the four ‘valuable lessons’ they had been taught: ‘(1) Backed b y . . . the u s imperialists and puppet [Saigon] army and administration, the landlord class has increased the land rents and has struggled to restore its ownership of rice fields If our peasants want to own a piece of land and to lead a happy life . . . they must struggle to exterminate the imperialists and overthrow the landlords---(2) Thanks to their solidarity and unity, our peasants have managed to win back their rice fields in the past [To preserve their owner­ ship and strengthen themselves] our peasants must unite very closely in the peasant associations and work exchange teams. . . . They must neglect neither the struggle for class liberation nor their duties to their country. . . . (3) We must constantly step up violent action, carry out armed revolution and resolutely crush the enemy if we want to recover our rice fields and our right to live. If we lay down our weapons we shall lose all our rice fields and live in poverty If our peasants

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do not encourage their children to join the liberation army to kill the enemy, if they do not work for our military recruitment. . . they will be failing in their sacred duty. . . . They will have neither land nor freedom. . . . (4) [Peasants must have] confidence in the Party and revolution . . . only the Communist Party, the party of the working class, is loyal to the interests of the peasant class. .. .’116 ‘The key to peasant loyalty,’ as Ton That Thien wrote from Saigon two years later, is simply this: ‘The Vietcong tell the peasants that the land they till is still theirs and they will get more after victory . . . the peasants therefore tend to believe that a Govern­ ment victory is not to their advantage . . . because under their [Government troops] cover the landlords may come back and wrest the land from them.’ He referred to landowners ‘co-operating with local authorities’ to delay the disposal of land ‘while enforcing the collection of rent in “secure” areas’. As a result, ‘the peasants often look upon the troops and police agents in their areas as allies of the landlords’. The new Constitution of 1967, upon which the Americans have set such hope, pledges (in Article 18) to ‘recognize and guarantee private property’, but as Ton That Thien rightly states, no land reform if it is to be capable of winning over the peasants can avoid taking drastic expropriation measures against the landlords.117 Where land reforms were successful—in Taiwan and Japan—Wolf Ladejinsky points out: ‘Reforms were not designed to satisfy the claims of both contending parties: the tenant was to gain at the expense of the landlord.’118 In Nationalist China and Japan, however, the ruling classes had suffered a catastrophic defeat. Those who remained, or who replaced them, realized the vital need for reforms if the new regimes were to survive. This situation faces the South Vietnamese authori­ ties; but spared the shock of disasters (thanks to American inter­ vention) they have not been forced into an awareness of the problem —that is, the drastic nature of the sacrifices required of them. Without having this desperate sense of urgency, the ‘old order’ cannot be expected to carry out fundamental improvements. This is because reforms, if they are to be effective, are bound to strike at the vested interests on which the regime depends for its (limited) support. If the regime were more widely based it could afford to take such measures: but a more representative government does not usually face these problems. Nor can the existing ‘system’ be changed without violence (from one quarter or another) since an authoritarian regime normally does not encourage the possibility of peaceful change: it is at the top and intends to stay there. Any

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outside appeal for reforms—unless the regime can understand, or be made to understand, that these are the only alternative to destruc­ tion—is so much wasted effort. (Since it is the regime’s own policies which are chiefly responsible for getting it into such a precarious position in the first place, it is unlikely that the leaders of the regime will have the capacity to take the enlightened point of view required of them.) Thus in wartime Nationalist China, Chiang Kai-shek had thwarted General Stilwell’s plan to train and reform the Chinese armies to meet more effectively the Japanese threat. To Chiang the Chinese armies were political forces. He owed his power to armies commanded by his supporters; these were not the most efficient— indeed, successful commanders were considered dangerous rivals— and would have been displaced in any thorough-going reform. Chiang Kai-shek, like Diem, ‘looked upon loyalty to himself rather than effectiveness in fighting the war as the most important criterion in allocation of equipment and supply and in promotion and advance­ ment’.119 This attitude may work if the regime is not under pressure; but if it is, it is likely to prove fatal. Towards the end of the Diem regime the us Administration realized that it was losing ground. But Washington still clung to the belief (a) that if the ‘sinister’ influence of Ngo Dinh Nhu were removed all would still be well, and (b) that Diem could be persuaded to get rid of his brother. Yet, as Nguyen Thai, a senior official who broke with the Diem regime in 1961, pointed out at that tim e: ‘All the talk of having Diem reform his regime by getting rid of Mr and Mrs Nhu is just wishful thinking.’ The Nhus were by then inseparable from Diem; they were ‘three sides of a triangle’.120 In the ‘family regime’, Nhu, the Political Counsellor to the Presi­ dency, was the ‘organizer and decision-maker’ : ‘Whereas Diem remembers vaguely, Nhu has facts and documents.’ These were provided by the ‘Political and Social Research Service of the Presidency’ managed by Nhu—the ‘miniature real government which guides, directs, supervises and controls the official government appointed by Ngo Dinh Diem’.121 Nhu was French-trained, more methodically organized than Diem; he worked more efficiently, got things done faster. As a result the senior administrators often channelled important documents to Nhu instead of to the President, knowing that they would be dealt with. Thus, Nhu, given ‘valuable information which serves him well’, more and more acted as a screen between his brother and the administration,122 effectively isolating the President (who was by nature stubborn, proud and heedless of ‘outside’ advice) from all but narrow and distorted views. By 1963 the policies of this regime—the constant manipulation

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of anny commands, the ‘blind eye’ turned to Communist infiltration in the delta region, the frenzied pace of the strategic hamlet pro­ gramme, the senseless attack on the Buddhists—all indicated that it was heading for disaster. President Kennedy, in September 1963, publicly urged ‘changes in policy and perhaps with personnel’ on the Vietnamese Government; unless it regained popular support, he doubted that the war could be won.123 There were fundamental weaknesses in the Diem regime. Politi­ cally it restricted freedom, not extended it. In 1956 the elected village and municipal councils were abolished and replaced by appointed officials.124 National election campaigns were subject to strong Government pressures,* particularly in the countryside where, as Scigliano writes, ‘candidates were screened and undesirable ones pressured to withdraw . . . the government did not hesitate to tamper with the ballots’ and ‘waves of civil servants were sent out in each election to propagandize in the countryside’.125 The National Assembly, composed almost entirely of pro-government members, was ‘excluded from meaningful action’ in important financial matters.126 Legally, no opposition party was allowed; there were no opposition newspapers after 1958.127 Ex-Northerners and those from the centre predominated in senior levels of the administration;128 one result was that almost all the ‘information and civic action agents who serve as spearheads in the central government’s effort to win the [Southern] villagers to its side’ were Northerners—many of them Catholics.129 The military was trained in conventional warfare;! but it also began to take over the provincial administration: by 1962, there were thirty-six military officers and only five civilians left as province chiefs.130 However, personal loyalty to Diem remained the chief criterion in military appointments; capable commanders were frequently shifted to less important, but safer (for the regime) positions.131 Most of the leading military plotters, who eventually overthrew Diem, had been treated in this way. The Diem regime had ‘amply proved’ that it could be as oppressive as the Communists, Nguyen Thai observed; where they differed was in the ‘political spirit and zeal’ of the Communists compared to the ‘haze of imprecise lipservice and external obedience’ proffered by a demora­ * Right from the beginning: T h e campaign preceding this referendum [on Bao Dai or a Republic in October 1955] was conducted with such a cynical disregard for decency and democratic principles that even the Viet Minh professed to be shocked.’ Donald Lancaster, The Emancipation of French Indochina (Oxford Univ. Press, 1961). p. 398. t The adverse effects are brilliantly discussed in Dennis J. Duncanson, Government and Revolution in Vietnam (Oxford Univ. Press, 1968) pp. 304-7.

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lized bureaucracy and in the lack of ‘political substance’ in Diem’s regime.132 In contrast to the fragmented nature of Diem’s support—which his policy of playing off military, police and provincial administrators one against the other (and against themselves) did little to improve —the Vietcong developed on the mass basis founded by the Viet­ minh. An estimated two million (of 14 million) Southern Vietnamese had lived under this system, Pike states, while another five million lived in areas contested with the French.133 The Vietminh—which ‘attempted to solve local land tenure problems and to improve living conditions for the people’ with ‘fair and just’ administration in many areas—however failed to achieve an alliance wth Southern nationalists, particularly the Cao Dai and Hoa Hao religious sects, which came to terms with the French.134 Ironically, Diem’s obstinate refusal to seek a reconciliation with the sects (after breaking their power in 1955-56) drove their followers, in self defence, to join ranks with the Vietcong. The most ardent supporters of the original N.L.F., Pike points out, were, in addition to the sects and the Vietminh, ‘a scattering of minority group members, primarily ethnic Cambodians and Montagnards [hill-trlbes]; idealistic youth, recruited from the universities and polytechnic schools; representatives of farmers’ organizations from parts of the Mekong delta, where serious land tenure problems existed; leaders of small political parties or groups . .. intellectuals who had broken with the [government].. . military deserters; refugees of various sorts from the Diem government. . .’; and they were soon joined by Southern members of the Vietminh who had gone North after 1954 and infiltrated back. Some 90 per cent of these were Vietnamese from the poor areas, especially in Central Vietnam—‘some of the most desolate land and destitute people in all of Indo-China’.135 Four years of tireless effort, from 1959 to 1962, converted the N.L.F. organizational structure from a loose collection of dissident groups, often with nothing more in common than hostility to the Diem regime, into a ‘tightly knit movement able to demonstrate a co-ordinated efficiency rare in a developing nation’. From 1960 the N.L.F. ‘grew into a structure that reached to some degree into virtually every village in the country’.136This is illustrated by simple, basic information on the N.L.F. leadership in some twenty Mekong delta districts and provinces, captured by the South Vietnamese army in 1962, which identified as chairmen of provincial central committees: eight Marxists (i.e. cadres or officials of the Vietminh organization), five Cao Dai, five intellectuals and two notables (the traditional village ruling group). The vice-chairmen were: eight farmers, four Buddhists monks, three women, two teachers and one

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each Marxist, Cao Dai and businessman. The secretaries-general were ten youths, four farmers, three workers, two Cao Dai and a woman. Pike comments: the chairman was either a Communist or an experienced member of a non-Communist nationalist group. Notables and intellectuals, mostly teachers, held postions of status in the village—as did Buddhist monks. The Cao Dai and the intellectuals were the first major social groups to be alienated by Diem. Above all, the ‘N.L.F. placed heavy emphasis on youth, entrusting them with great responsiblities. In the secretary-general the N.L.F. sought the eager, the zealous, the dedicated, die hard­ working, the young.’137 ‘In today’s war,’ reaffirmed a North Vietnamese journal in 1964, ‘political factors have a decided significance; the side that can hold the people . . . is the victor.’138The Vietcong sought to win the people by providing them with ‘material benefits’; and to hold them by engaging them in ‘struggle’. A widely-used cadre handbook entitled Needs of the Revolution, dated July 1962, points o u t: ‘. .. Set clear purposes and realistic goals for the struggle in terms of the people’s interests. Use realistic slogans that reflect the people’s demands.. . . Choose the right moment to launch [the struggle, such as] .. . the enemy committing a mistake and the population being in a state of preparedness . . . or when the people’s rights have been endangered . . . by corruption, high taxation, forced money dona­ tions, land robbing, building strategic hamlets, forced membership in reactionary organizations, terror or killing, military draft [conscrip­ tion]. . . . Struggle movements can also be launched in favour of freedom to travel and work, freedom of trade, freedom to move to a new part of the country, and for village council elections. . . . Use every form of struggle to create public opinion . . . the demonstration, petition, complaint. The demonstration may use small or large groups, a few persons, several villages, or tens of thousands of people. . . ,’139 The criteria for a struggle, another N.L.F. document declared, was that it must be justified; it must be profitable; and it must be ‘kept within bounds’.140 The early years of the N.L.F. were dominated by two major activities: propaganda to ‘advertise’ the Front and the existence of the ‘Revolution’ to the villager; and agitation to convert grievances into organized hostility.141 The objective was to paralyse govern­ ment administration at the village level: local officials were driven out (or neutralized by agreements to ‘live and let live’142), troops were harassed, and government efforts were sabotaged. The N.L.F. goaded

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the government into increasingly repressive measures, which widened the gulf between it and the villagers.143 Military activity formed a relatively small part of the day-to-day work of the ‘liberation armed forces’, whether village guerrillas or ‘main force’ units. Vietnamese government officials estimated that a main force unit in the 1962-63 period spent an average of only one day a month on military mis­ sions; much of the rest of the time was taken up with training, indoctrination and propaganda work, and food production.144 ‘Army political tasks are fundamental,’ emphasized an indoctrination book­ let captured in 1963; it is of ‘prime importance’ that ‘military action is subordinated to political action’.145 In the three great crises faced by the Vietcong—in 1961,1963 and 1965—this was shown to be the case. The first and last were military crises brought about by American intervention; but the effects of both were nullified by political developments. The second was the unexpected overthrow of Diem, which for a time left the N.L.F. at a loss. A notorious regime was replaced by one which was, at least momentarily, popular; moreover, the N.L.F. had badly underesti­ mated the strength and appeal of the Buddhist movement. But the opportunity for Saigon to create a viable political alternative to the N.L.F. soon foundered in a welter of rivalry and suspicion, while the administrative framework established under Diem, inadequate as it might be, was almost completely destroyed in the purge of Diemists. As us Defence Secretary McNamara reported, thirty-five of the forty-one province chiefs were replaced; nine provinces had three chiefs in three months; one province had four. Almost all major military commands changed hands twice. ‘The confidence of the peasantry was inevitably shaken by the disruptions in leadership and the loss of physical security. Army and para-military desertion rates increased and the morale of the hamlet militia . . . fell.’ The Vietcong exploited the ‘confusion’; and it ‘regained the initiative’.146 As Nguyen Thai had predicted before the fall of Diem, echoing Dean Acheson’s sombre warning on Nationalist China: ‘Massive injections of military equipment and foreign technical help can only produce a temporary morale-boosting effect on the Vietna­ mese population; it cannot be a long-range substitute for adequate political and administrative leadership.’147

REFERENCE NOTES TO CHAPTER III 1. Philippe Devillers, Histoire du Viet-Nam de 1940 a 1952 (Paris, Editions du Seuil, 1952), p. 140. 2, H o Chi Minh, Selected W orks (Hanoi, Foreign Languages Publishing

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House, 1961), Vol. Ill, p. 20. 3. Devillers, op. cit., p. 225. 4. Ibid., pp. 251-2. 5. Paul Mus. Viet-Nam: Sociologie d ’une Guerre (Paris, Editions du Seuil, 1952), p. 26. 6. Ibid., p. 31. 7. Bernard Fall, Le Viet-Minh: La Republique Democratique du Viet-Nam 1945-1960 (Paris, Librairie Armand Colin, 1960), p. 37. 8. Mus, op. cit., p. 270. 9. Vo Nguyen Giap, People's War, People's Army (Hanoi, Foreign Lan­ guages Publishing House, 1961), p. 27. 10. Le Thanh Khoi, Le Viet-Nam: Histoire et Civilisation (Paris, Editions de Minuit, 1955), p. 422. 11. Ibid., pp. 422-3. 12. Fall, op. cit., p. 265. 13. Devillers, op. cit., p. 230. 14. Ibid., p. 61. 15. Ibid., pp. 79-80. 16. Giap, op. cit., p. 71. 17. Ibid., pp. 78-9 (Giap’s italics). 18. Ibid., pp. 82-3 (Giap’s italics). 19. Ibid., p. 85. 20. Mus. op. cit., p. 291. 21. Ho Chi Minh, Vol. Ill, p. 224. 22. Truong Chinh, The Resistance Will Win (written in 1947, published in Hanoi, Foreign Languages Publishing House, 1960), p. 35. 23. Ibid., p. 36. 24. Giap, op. cit., p. 99. 25. Mus, op. cit., p. 301. 26. Devillers, op. cit., p. 405 (n. 10). 27. Ibid., pp. 413-14. 28. Truong Chinh, op. cit., p. 104. 29. Ibid., p. 95. 30. Ibid., p. 96. 31. Ibid., p. 100. 32. Giap, op. cit., pp. 100-1. 33. Truong Chinh, op. cit., p. 88. 34. Ibid., pp. 88-90. 35. Fall, op. cit., p. 90. 36. Ibid., p. 91. 37. Devillers, op. cit., p. 102. 38. Fall, op. cit., p. 90. 39. Truong Chinh, op. cit., p. 112. 40. Giap, op. cit., p. 94. 41. Ho, Vol. Ill, p. 428. 42. Truong Chinh, op. cit., pp. 116-17. 43. Giap, op. cit., p. 31. 44. Ibid., p. 31. 45. Ho, Vol. HI, p. 148. 46. Truong Chinh, op. cit., p. 40. 47. Ho, Vol. Ill, p. 419. 48. Ibid., p. 378. 49. Ibid., pp. 421-2.

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50. Ibid., p. 423. 51. Truong Chinh, op. cit., p. 40. 52. Ibid., p. 38. 53. Ibid., p. 65. 54. George K. Tanham, Communist Revolutionary Warfare: The Vietminh in Indochina (Praeger, 1961), p. 102. 55. Ibid., p. 99. 56. Ho, Vol. HI, p. 146. 57. Ibid., p. 147. 58. Ibid., p. 378. 59. Truong Chinh, op. cit., pp. 116-17. 60. Giap, op. cit., p. 49. 61. Ibid., p. 19. 62. Truong Chinh, op. cit., pp. 74-5. 63. Giap, op. cit., p. 108. 64. Ibid., p. 21. 65. Ibid., p. 107. 66. Ibid., p. 159. 67. Tanham, op. cit., p. 41. 68. Ibid., p. 49. 69. Edgar O’Ballance, The Indo-China War 1945-1954: A Study in Guerrilla Warfare (Faber and Faber, 1964), p. 195. 70. Tanham, op. cit., p. 63. 71. Fall, op. cit., p. 196. 72. Ellen Hammer, The Struggle for Indochina 1940-1955 (Stanford Univ. Press, new ed. 1966), p. 253. 73. Loc. cit. 74. Giap, op. cit., p. 33. 75. Ibid., pp. 34-5. 76. Hammer, op. cit., p. 140. 77. Devillers, op. cit., p. 105. 78. Ibid., pp. 228-30. 79. Ibid., p. 207. 80. Ibid., p. 208. SI. Ibid., p. 214. 82. Ibid., p. 149. 83. Ibid., pp. 340-1. 84. Ibid., p. 336. 85. Mus, op. cit., p. 55. 86. Ibid., pp. 50-1. 87. Hammer, op. cit., p. 235. 88. Ibid., p. 245. 89. Loc. cit. 90. Ibid., p. 273. 91. Ho, Vol. Ill, p. 417. 92. Truong Chinh, op. cit., p. 43. 93. Nguyen Thai, Is South Vietnam Viable? (Carmelo and Bauermann, Manila, 1962), p. 157. 94. John Mecklin, Mission in Torment: An Intimate Account o f the u s R ole in Vietnam (Doubleday, 1965), p. 235. 95. Roger Hilsman, To M ove a Nation: The Politics of Foreign Policy in the Administration of John F. K ennedy (Doubleday, 1967), p. 502.

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96. General Earle Wheeler, Chairman of u s Joint Chiefs o f Staff, January 17, 1967, Department of State Bulletin, February 6, 1967. 97. United States Relations with China (State Department, Washington, 1949), pp. 885-6. 98. Denis Warner, The Last Confucian: Vietnam, South-East Asia and the West (Angus and Robertson, 1964), p. 32. 99. Ton That Thien [editor-in-chief Vietnam Guardian, later suspended], ‘Vietnam: a Case of Social Alienation’, International Affairs, London, July 1967. 100. Ithiel de Sola Pool, ‘Political Alternatives to the Vietcong’, Asian Survey, August 1967 (Vietnam: A special issue), p. 559. 101. Ibid., pp. 560, 564. 102. Gerald Cannon Hickey, Village in Vietnam (Yale Univ. Press, 1964), p. 279. 103. Truong Chinh, Hoc Tap, September 1963, reported in N ew China News Agency, October 29, 1963. 104. Douglas Pike, Viet Cong: The Organisation and Techniques of the National Liberation Front of South Vietnam (M.I.T. Press, 1966), p. 62. 105. Le Thanh Khoi, Le Viet-Nam: Histoire et Civilisation (Edits, de Minuit, 1955), pp. 422-3. 106. Bernard B. Fall, The Two Viet-Nams: A Political and M ilitary Analysis (Praeger, 1964), p. 311; and Ton That Thien, ‘The Key to Peasant Loyalty’, reprinted in Canberra Times, May 10, 1967. 107. Loc. cit. 108. Ton That Thien. 109. Robert Scigliano, South Vietnam: Nation under Stress (Houghton Mifflin, 1964), p. 123. 110. Vietnam N ew s Agency, Hanoi, July 3, 1964. I l l .Ibid., July 22,1965. 112. Ibid., March 30,1966. 113. South Vietnamese Government figures o f 1964, in Pike, op. cit. p. 277 note. 114. Government Operations Committee (us House of Representatives) re­ ported in International Herald Tribune, March 4, 1968. 115. Liberation radio [N.L.F.] October 16, 1964, monitored in B.B.C. Summary of W orld Broadcasts (Far East). 116. Liberation radio, May 2, 1965, in B.B.C. Summary of World Broadcasts. 117. Ton That Thien, ‘Key to Peasant Loyalty’. 118. W olf Ladejinsky, ‘Agrarian Reform in Asia*, Foreign Affairs, April 1964. 119. Tang Tsou, America's Failure in China 1941-50 (Univ. of Chicago Press, 1963), pp. 50, 76. 120. Nguyen Thai, op. cit., p. 180. 121. Ibid., pp. 197,207. 122. Ibid., pp. 198,201. 123. J. F. Kennedy, September 2, 1963, D.S.B. September 30, 1963. 124. Scigliano, op. cit., p. 32. 125. Ibid., pp. 94,96. 126. Ibid., pp. 42-3. 127. Ibid., p. 80. 128. Ibid., p. 51. 129. Ibid., pp. 53-4. 130. Ibid., p. 166. 131. Ibid., p. 203.

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132. Nguyen Thai, op. cit., p. 265. 133. Pike, op. cit., p. 47. 134. Ibid., pp. 48-9. 135. Ibid., p. 83. 136. Ibid., p. 44. 137. Ibid., p. 222. 138. Thong Nhat, June 26, 1964, in ibid., p. 90. 139. Pike, op. cit., p. 97. 140. Ibid., p. 98. 141. Ibid., pp. 154-5. 142. Wilfrid G. Burchett, Vietnam: Inside Story of the Guerrilla War (Inter­ national Publishers, New York, 1965), pp. 59, 198. 143. Pike, op. cit., p. 155. 144. Ibid., p. 238. 145. Ibid., p. 232. 146. Robert S. McNamara, March 26, 1964, D.S.B., April 13, 1964. 147. Nguyen Thai, op. cit., p. 18. Extra notes 1 .‘Armed propaganda’ (p. 122): a sinister term, but one which covers a variety of forms from assassination and intimidation to making a show of force and demonstrating authority; but the political aspect is most important. 2. ‘Led by . . . the working class’ (p. 135): paying lip-service—as in China— to Marxism-Leninism. The working class in Vietnam was minute; most Vietminh leaders were of landlord or bourgeois origin or of mandarin descent like Pham Van Dong and Ho Chi Minh. 3. Catholics (p. 136): most wanted independence; later, many went over to the Bao Dai ‘solution* in return for the virtual autonomy of Catholic regions in the North (similar to the autonomy given the ‘Buddhist’ Hoa Hao and Cao Dai sects in the South). After 1954 over 600,000 Catholics moved or fled to the South, and became President Diem’s main source of support. But their influx— and the preferential treatment they received— introduced a further element of discord into an already divided society.

IV. FAILURE China in M aphilindo *

L E S S O N S FROM MALAYA AND THE P H I L I P P I N E S

In both countries the early insurgent situations were ominous; they bore striking resemblance to insurgencies which had succeeded or were to succeed. Revolt against colonial rule in Malaya could be likened to the Vietminh struggle for independence; peasant revolt against the corrupt and incompetent government of the Philippines could be likened to the Communist struggle against the Nationalists in China—or to the Vietcong struggle against the Saigon regime. Yet the differences proved to be even more important—and a large factor in these differences (in the Philippines, thanks to a change in leader­ ship, the decisive factor) was the ‘enlightened’ nature of the govern­ ment under attack: that is, it assessed the situation realistically and worked out effective remedies for existing weaknesses. This is in contrast to the obstinate pursuit of selfish interests by Chiang Kaishek and the dominant reactionary wing of the Kuomintang in China; by the French settlers, officials and some soldiers in IndoChina; and by Diem and his successors in Vietnam. For the insurgent situation involves the people, most of whom are peasants. The struggle is a competition for their loyalty (the active support of a minority, the acquiescence of the majority); but if one side realizes this and the other does not, the latter is half way to losing the battle. In the Philippines the basis for popular support through demo­ cratic constitutional government had been prepared for many years by the Americans and had not been eroded; it was not being observed, but it could be reactivated. But in China, especially in the last degenerate stages of the Empire and during the anarchic years of warlord rule, there was no sort of nationally representative govern­ ment (despite Sun Yat-sen’s assertions, his party in practice was only one clique among many). French rule in Indo-China had not pre­ pared the people for independence, while it had bred among those * ‘Maphilindo’ was coined by President Macapagal of the Philippines and President Sukarno of Indonesia in 1963 to symbolize co-operation between their countries and Malaysia—the three ‘Malay’ States o f South East Asia. Here it is used to encompass Mao-ist, rural insurgencies in Malaya and the Philippines and Aidit’s attempt to follow Mao’s course in Indonesia.

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working for government a ‘fonctionnaire’ mentality (following the rules and avoiding responsibility) which, combined with the sup­ pression of political movements, had either demoralized or decapi­ tated the country’s natural leaders—except for those who later joined the Vietminh. Diem continued, and even intensified, this process. Ramon Magsaysay (Secretary of Defence in 1950, elected Presi­ dent of the Philippines in 1953) actually carried out what the Huk (rebel) slogans promised: ‘Land for the landless’, ‘equal justice for all’ and an end to ‘inefficiency and corruption in government’.1 He was able to do this because a sufficient number of the Filipino people, although disgusted by the previous regime, were not hopelessly alienated from the system of rule; they were more than willing to support a government which was adopting good measures. Magsaysay himself was a ‘man of the people’—not a mandarin like Diem or a militarist like Chiang. He had started work as a mechanic, later became manager of a provincial bus company, was a promi­ nent guerrilla leader in the war against the Japanese and in 1945 was elected an independent congressman. Appointed—almost at the last hour—as Secretary of Defence, Magsaysay and his followers within fifteen months had broken the back of the Huk insurgency. Resigning as Secretary in 1953, when he was no longer allowed to act freely, Magsaysay wrote to the President: ‘You must realize that we cannot solve the problem of dissidence simply by military measures. It would be futile to go on killing Huk, while the Administration continues to breed dissidence by neglecting the problems of our masses. . . . The need of a vigorous assault on these problems I have repeatedly urged upon you, but my pleas have fallen on deaf ears. . . .’2 Magsaysay went on to stand as President and was elected by an overwhelming majority.* In Malaya the absence of feudal and political abuses which were prevalent in the Philippines more than offset the anti-colonial stimulus to revolt. Moreover Malaya, with its small population (under five million in 1947 compared to twenty-five million in the Philippines) and its rich tin and rubber resources, was by far the most prosperous country in South East Asia. There were conditions in Malaya making for revolt, but they were not ‘sufficient’ conditions. Nationalism played a part, but it was the * But the ‘problems of our masses’ continued to be neglected. N o effective attack on the landlord-tenancy system was undertaken by Magsaysay (who died in an air crash in 1957) or his successors: and there has been a resur­ gence of the Huk movement in Central Luzon.

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nationalism of a minority—the 40 per cent of Chinese in Malaya. Even then, as an observer pointed out in 1949, a year after the ‘Emergency’ had been proclaimed, ‘the Chinese population, by and large, sat on the fence during the early stages of the rising. Some Chinese gave active co-operation to the insurgents, but nearly all withheld co-operation from the government.’ However, the Malays, ‘seeing in this Communist rising a threat by the Chinese as a whole to their position in Malaya, flocked to the aid of the government’. The United Malay National Organization—later the ruling party in the ‘Alliance’ with its Chinese and Indian associates—supported the call for Malay recruits, particularly in the police forces. These were special constables defending the estates and mines, auxiliary police patrolling with the regulars (also largely Malay) and many thousands of kampong (village) guards.3 There were economic grounds for unrest. But again they affected chiefly the Chinese, or rather that proportion of it (about half the rural Chinese) who were ‘squatters’, nearly half a million people in all. These were Chinese who had either fled to the jungle fringes to avoid persecution by the Japanese or poor people who had no other way of making a living. But the Malays, over 80 per cent of whom were villagers (and therefore much the largest element in Malaya’s rural population) were hardly affected by Communism4— unlike the Chinese squatters, whose support for the revolutionaries was initially far stronger than it was, for example, among the South Vietnamese peasants.5 Finally there were administrative weaknesses—but again nothing like the paralysis which developed in large parts of rural Vietnam, and in much of Central Luzon in the Philippines, which was effec­ tively under Huk control. The weaknesses in Malaya sprang directly from the large number of squatters who, as the ‘Committee to Investigate the Squatter Problem’ reported in January 1949, were outside the normal processes of administration. Squatters’ assistance to the rebels was not an indication of their commitment to the revolutionaries, the report noted, for most of them were without sympathies either way, but they ‘necessarily succumb to the more immediate and threatening influence—the terrorist on their doorstep —against the vague and distant authority of the government’.6 The first two years, government forces thrashed about blindly trying to bring the terrorists to battle. ‘The predilection of some army officers for major operations seems incurable,’ comments General Clutterbuck, although neither the giant encirclement operations when a camp was known to be in the area nor the wide sweeps ‘based on no information at all’, had any success.7Meanwhile, the Communists were more than making up their losses by recruiting and they were

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murdering more than one hundred civilians a month with impunity. The Government was losing, Clutterbuck points out, because the guerrillas could get all the support they needed—food, clothing, information and recruits—from the squatters, whom it was impos­ sible to police or to protect.8 A new strategy was needed—not just military operations but co­ ordinated civil-police-military measures. This was the basis of the ‘Briggs Plan’ to resettle the Chinese squatters in carefully planned New Villages, where they would be brought under administrative control and be freed from the attentions of the guerrillas. The Plan set out these aims: (a) To dominate the populated areas and to build up a feeling of complete security, which would in time result in a steady and increasing flow of information coming from all sources. (b) To break up the Communist organizations within the popu­ lated areas. (c) To isolate the bandits [guerrillas] from their food and supply organizations in the populated areas. (d) To destroy the bandits by forcing them to attack the security forces on their own ground.9 These measures were successful. The number of police had already been rapidly expanded (9,000 to 45,000 in six months).10 Police posts provided protection to the villages and they were backed up by army units. At the height of the insurgency there were twice the number of police (70,000 plus 40,000 on call from the much larger village Home Guard) to regular army forces—40,000 British and Commonwealth. (The ratio in South Vietnam was just the opposite,*) Resettlement brought law and order to the squatters—and a degree of prosperity they had previously lacked. The New Villages provided schools, dis­ pensaries, better public services; the sites were defensible and were chosen to give sufficient opportunities for agriculture; a census of occupations was undertaken before resettlement to ensure continued employment.11 (All these preparations were lacking with the strategic hamlet programme in Vietnam.) One factor was fortuitous: the boom in rubber and tin created by the Korean war which guaranteed high wages. But the clearest justification of the New Villages is that virtually none of the people have moved away from them, once they were free to do so.12 A Communist document captured in 1949 admitted: ‘Our greatest weakness is that we have not sufficient strength to protect co­ operative villages because our environment becomes more and more difficult, especially from the financial and provision [of] supply * 85,000 police, 300,000 regular army, 15,500 air force (South Vietnam, April 1968).

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aspects. We suffer from unreliable information, non-co-operation of the people and difficulty of movement,’13 In other words, with the government providing good administration and security (and not the insurgents) the situation is reversed. This is when the ‘war is turned round’—a situation the Americans hoped to achieve in Vietnam. Information increasingly flows to government forces, enabling them to lead more successful operations against the guerrillas, which in turn confirms villagers’ confidence in the outcome, and thus encour­ ages them to give still more information and co-operation. Intelligence is vital if the security forces are to make contact with the guerrillas—otherwise it is hitting out in the dark. Intelligence is obtained at least partly through restrictions (registration of vil­ lagers, food controls in deficit areas, curfew and so on) which force the guerrillas’ suppliers to take risks; thus they can not only be more easily captured (and often be persuaded to work secretly for the government side, to avoid punishment or to gain rewards14); but are given a valid excuse not to co-operate further with the guerrillas, because they say the chance of capture is too great. This throws all the more onus on the committed guerrilla supporters, who have to work far harder (to make up for the defection of their colleagues) and thus expose themselves to still greater danger in the process.15 Secondly, intelligence can be obtained because it is in the interest of at least the more prosperous villagers to co-operate with the government, provided either they can do so secretly or be protected from reprisals. The same applies to the bulk of the villagers (unless in real poverty) who simply want to be left alone—that is free from political pressure; material assistance is another matter. But villagers will not take sides, naturally enough, until they are sure who is winning. Finally, intelligence is earned by patient, painstaking watching and waiting: again, more a matter of police methods than of military operations. Sir Robert Thompson underlines the disadvan­ tages of entrusting internal security intelligence to the army (this was done in South Vietnam, but not in Malaya): ‘The army will have had little concern with subversion before the open insurgency breaks out; [and] it will have had very limited experience of contact­ ing the people, particularly rural communities, which are inherently suspicious of troops. . . ,’16 The army may indeed be clumsy—or even, as in South Vietnamese villages, indulging in ‘operations and actions which might just have been excusable as acts of war if carried out in enemy territory’.17 However, the police itself, in many countries, is hardly above suspicion. The latter may be an ‘organiza­ tion reaching out into every comer of the country’ with ‘long experiL

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ence of close contact with the population’, as Sir Robert says, but this contact may be far from appreciated by the villagers.* The state of discipline, order and good administration among the police forces in Malaya may well be exceptional: it is one of the reasons why the ‘turning point’ was reached in a matter of only four years after the outbreak of the Emergency; and why in its absence the situation in South Vietnam instead grew worse. Yet the com­ bination of local officials’ corruption, social and economic abuses and government incapacity which alienated the South Vietnamese villagers undoubtedly faced the Philippines. In their noted counter­ insurgency study, Colonels Valeriano and Bohannan confirm this from their description of the three areas where outbreaks of violence chiefly occurred. First, south of Manila, where half the people worked little farms and the rest were labourers on large estates, share-croppers and cottage industry workers, the ‘region has been systematically victimized for 150 years by land reformers and demagogues, unscrupulous politicians and land racketeers’. In Manila itself the Communists had an ‘easy success’ in infiltrating labour unions and in appealing to intellectuals, students, the discon­ tented and the unemployed. Finally, in Central Luzon, ‘well over half the farmers in the rich rice lands are share-croppers, farming large estates, often held by absentee landlords. So keen is the com­ petition for land . . . that the average farm runs from four acres in some provinces to eight in others. . . . The tendency is to borrow, often at ruinously high rates of interest ’18 Altogether some 40 per cent of the cultivated land in the Philip­ pines is owned by 10 per cent of the population. More than half the country’s farmers are tenants.19 Under Spanish rule—when huge estates were granted to the Conquistadores and their native colla­ borators—as under the Americans, the power of the local constabu­ lary was used to support the interests of the landlords.20 On top of continuing rural poverty and resentment came the brutal Japanese occupation of the Philippines. This met resistance by American and Filipino guerrillas and there was tremendous destruction. In the words of an American observer: ‘Manila lay prostrate, a jungle of wreckage Looting and banditry made life and property unsafe. . . . War casualties had decimated capable leadership. Government bureaux were completely dis­ * In a number of developing countries the police are known more as bullies and extortionists than ‘protectors of the people’. Poorly paid (like the army, which helps to explain why troops seize food without paying for it) the local police often harass the villagers at checkpoints or blackmail them with the threat o f prosecution for the infringement o f minor regulations.

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organized. There was no equipment, no personnel and in many instances no records.’21 At the end of the war, Huk guerrillas moved out of their fastness They appeared as protectors of the people. They consolidated theii rule by collecting taxes and a share of the rice harvest, and they liquidated government officials and agents. From 1946 to 1950, the Huks had some 150,000 supporters and 12,000 armed soldiers.22 But the Philippine Army had been reduced from a wartime strength of 132,000 to only 37,000: ‘Government troops, poorly trained, underpaid and hardpressed were sent out to eradicate the Huk menace. Barrios [villages] shielding Huk units were shelled. In a desperate effort to secure information the troops were sometimes guilty of maltreating suspects in an attempt to make them talk. This indiscriminate terrorism turned the people against the government and strengthened the Huk move­ ment. . . . Even in the area where the government troops patrolled during the day, the Huks took charge after dark.’23 The security the government offered to life and property in the rural areas was almost nil, recalls General Jesus Vargas, who was appointed Armed Forces Chief of Staff by Magsaysay. The toll exacted by Huk depredations continued to mount. Many people— caught up in the conflict—abandoned their farms and fled to the densely populated urban areas. This mass flight from the country­ side wreaked havoc on the rural economy. Travel on the highways became perilous. The Huks stepped up their raids and occasional, scattered clashes with government forces did little to stop them. In 1949 the Huks envisaged that within three years they would have an active and armed strength of 173,000 and a mass base of two and a half million, at which time they were to seize national power.24 Parallel to the disintegration of authority in the countryside went the decay and corruption of government at the centre. The general election of 1949 was known as the ‘dirty election’. Armed ‘goons’ guarded the voting places, according to Carlos P. Romulo, later Ambassador to the United States, and Marvin Gray, a Manila news­ paper publisher, and by constant gunfire kept the cowed citizens from casting their ballots. Hundreds who had the courage to go to the polls were shot down and killed.25 By 1950 the Huks had virtu­ ally taken over the city of Manila. Armed bands roamed the capital at will. President Quirino was a virtual prisoner in the Presidential Palace—advised by his generals not to leave the palace grounds lest he be liquidated by the Huks.26In many respects, Romulo and Gray

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observe, conditions were even worse than during Chiang Kai-shek’s last hours on the Chinese mainland: ‘Quirino’s party—the party in power—was in hopeless disrepute. Army morale was so low that the soldiers were no longer interested in risking their lives for corrupt, lazy officers and politicians. The people, without whose effort the Huks could not subsist, had all but lost faith in the democratic way of life. The Filipinos feared pillaging army units more than they did the Communist bands. . . . The Filipinos did not want Communism. But they wanted agrarian reform. They wanted clean government. They wanted armed forces that could protect them, rather than steal from them 527 Many officers were grafting, accepting bribes or promoting one another to high rank in exchange for money or favours. ‘They stayed in their homes while their soldiers were expected to go into the field and combat the Huks.’28 In the face of such disinterest on the part of their superiors, soldiers saw no reason why they should emperil themselves hunting determined guerrilla bands. The civilians in their turn saw no reason why they should risk their lives by giving infor­ mation concerning the Huks. The latter were winning by default.29 As a last hope, President Quirino appointed the ‘obscure Con­ gressman’ Ramon Magsaysay in September 1950 Secretary of National Defence. Magsaysay vigorously cleaned up the army and police. Broad powers were given to field commanders to discharge or discipline their men. Frequent inspections were made by senior officers and by Magsaysay himself. He dismissed the chief of the Constabulary, discovered at a gambling party, followed by the armed Forces Chief of Staff, whom no one had previously been able to dislodge; because it was he who had provided Army ‘co-operation’ to Quirino’s Party when it ‘won’ the last elections.30 Within a month after his appointment, Magsaysay in a daring coup arrested the entire Communist Politburo in Manila—a devastating blow to the insur­ gents, as Communist sources later acknowledged.31 From Magsaysay’s own studies and experience the national policy of ‘allout force and all-out friendship’ was evolved. He promised mercy and assistance to those who voluntarily renounced their allegiance to Communism and sincerely sought to live in peace. Resettlement of dissidents on their own land—the Economic Development Corpora­ tion (e d c o r ) farms—was one of Magsaysay’s most telling achieve­ ments for it effectively countered one of the main grievances exploited by the Huks. Magsaysay also showed his determination to use ‘all-out force’ against those who continued to defy the government. The Army was

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expanded to 56,000; with superiority in numbers, equipment and renewed morale, it defeated the enemy wherever he could be found. On an average one soldier was killed for every eight Huks.32But as a result of these successes, it became more and more difficult to find sizeable concentrations of dissidents. Whereas formerly a hundred or more were grouped in a fairly well organized camp, afterwards they split up into wandering teams of from twenty to twelve men— and later into isolated bands of three to five men. By 1951 the tide of battle had turned and the State was reasonably secure against internal threats. But there was still the question of dealing with the guerrillas: ‘Soon enough we realized,’ General Vargas observed, ‘that the enemy had superior knowledge of the terrain; that our forces were inadequate to achieve effective coverage of the area; and that real good intelligence was vital for success.’ It was the same process in Malaya. The large Communist bands, which were picking off police posts in overwhelming strength, were becoming increasingly vulnerable to jungle penetration tactics by small but experienced security patrols.* In fact Communist losses in 1951 were double those of 1950. Since the big jungle camps were no longer secure, the guerrillas were ordered to split up from regi­ ments and companies into platoons.33They were safer, but they could not attack the villages so effectively; for the police posts could hold off a small number of attackers until relief came. As a direct result, monthly police losses dropped from one hundred in 1951 to twenty in mid-1952. In the same period, civilian losses fell from 90 a month to fifteen.34 In both Malaya and South Vietnam there had been a rising trend in civilian casualties in the first three years of insur­ gency; but whereas in Malaya it then fell dramatically, in South Vietnam it continued to rise. As Clutterbuck points o u t: ‘Once this kind of terror begins to get out of hand, it becomes progressively harder to restore confidence and reverse the trend.’35

* ‘Patrols proved to be by far the most effective weapon for applying force to the Huk. . . . The most effective patrols were the smaller ones,’ Valeriano and Bohannan, Counter-Guerrilla Operations, p. 130. As Clutterbuck rightly observes, the failure to apply this lesson in Vietnam is not because South Vietnamese soldiers are ‘temperamentally unsuited for small scale raids against large enemy units’, since they are of the same stock as the Vietcong, but ‘it must be from lack o f motivation and leadership’, The Long, Long War, p. 73. He also points out that the ‘effective jungle strength’ in Malaya of army and police combined, at the turning point of the war in 1952, was only 2:1 over the guerrillas and was ‘never anywhere near the 10- or 12to -1 ratio so often quoted by commentators’ (p. 43). Valeriano and Bohannan confirm that with civilian co-operation ‘military forces need not greatly exceed the number o f the guerrillas’ (p. 104).

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In Malaya two-thirds of the 8,000 to 10,000 guerrillas were wiped out in two years (1952-53);36it was much the same in the Philippines, a year earlier. But in South Vietnam the Vietcong nearly doubled its armed strength in one year (from 35,000 to 63,000 by the begin­ ning of 1962) and doubled it again by the beginning of 1965.37 This sizeable increase was dependent on the parallel growth of the Vietcong’s village infrastructure, for as Sir Robert Thompson has reiter­ ated, both insurgent growth and outside infiltration is limited by the ‘absorptive capacity’ of the area under insurgent control.38 When this area expands the number of troops it can ‘support’ also expands. For this reason the ‘government must give priority to defeating the poli­ tical subversion—not the guerillas’ (Thompson’s ‘Fourth Principle’*). ‘Unless the Communist subversive political organization in the towns and villages is broken and eliminated, the insurgent guerrilla units will not be defeated’;39 otherwise as soon as government forces withdraw from an area the guerrillas will simply return (as they do repeatedly in South Vietnam) and the process will start all over again. The fundamental importance of the village infrastructure to the insurgents was strikingly revealed during the Emergency in Malaya. By 1957, when heavy casualties had far outweighed recruitment, the number of fighting guerrillas was only 200 men, compared to 5,500 in 1951. But the strength of the political and supply organization was roughly maintained at the same level—it stood at 1,800 men com­ pared to 2,500 in 1951. The fighting strength fell because General Templer (High Commissioner and Supreme Commander, 1952-54) ‘so decimated the political and supply organization, particularly the M.C.P. [Malayan Communist Party] branches, that the fighting units had to be milked to keep the branches going’. By 1957, the M.C.P. was forced to employ 90 per cent of its men in branch duties.40 The Party Central Committee had issued strict orders that while fighting platoons could be mobile, the M.C.P. branches must stay in their districts, whatever the pressure.41Only when the party branches were eliminated, through government ‘priority operations’ undertaken in concentrated strength after ‘months of intelligence build up’, could these areas be considered secure.42 Political achievements at the national level are needed to comple­ ment the patient work among the people undertaken at the village

* The others are: (1) A ‘clear political aim: to establish and maintain a free, independent and united country. . . (2) Functioning in accordance with law. (3) Overall plan, including political, social, economic, administrative, police and other measures. (5) Security of base areas.

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level.* When General Templer arrived in Malaya he brought with him the directive: ‘The policy of the British Government is that Malaya should in due course become a fully self-governing nation.. . . To achieve a united Malayan nation there must be a common form of citizenship for all [i.e. Chinese and Indians] who regard the Federation or any part of it as their real home and the objective of their loyalty Malays must be encouraged and helped to play a full part in the economic life of the country, so that the present uneven economic balance may be redressed.’43 General Templer commented: ‘I could win this war within three months if I could get two-thirds of the people on my side’. The problem was not that of fighting a national movement, as in Indo-China or Vietnam, but of winning over the great majority of the people from a state of apathy, insecurity or discontent into posi­ tively supporting both the authorities and the new political leaders being thrown up among the Chinese and the Malays. Chinese loyal to Malaya were assured of their stake in the nation, while the Malays themselves were promised greater economic opportunities. Thus was formed the basis of the ‘Alliance’ between Tunku Abdul Rahman’s United Malay National Organization and the Malayan Chinese Asso­ ciation (later to include the Malayan Indian Congress). At the 1955 elections the Alliance won all but one of the elected unofficial seats —i.e. just over half the total number of seats on the Legislative Council. The Alliance went on to win convincingly the 1959 general elections, the first to be held after Independence. A year later the Emergency was over. I N DO N E S I A N E X CE P T I O N

Armed struggle based on a supposedly revolutionary peasantry: this is the Mao-ist way now being advocated by Indonesian Communists in exile. But is this any more likely to succeed in Indonesia than Aidit’s ‘political’ approach? This has yet to be proved. However, Aidit and his policies are certainly being made the scapegoat for the debacle of 1965: the crushing of the Indonesian Communist Party (P.K.I.) and the mass slaughter of its followers; the extraordinary failure to mount any real resistance in the towns or to develop guerrilla warfare in the countryside. * In the Philippines Magsaysay’s crowning achievement was to guarantee free elections (in 1951) by using the Army to guard the polls. This finally convinced the people that ‘the government was indeed their government, responsive to their will, effective in their interest. . . .* Valeriano and Bohan­ nan, op. cit., p. 240.

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The ‘Self-criticism’ adopted by the P.K.I. ‘Politburo’ in 1966* blames Aidit’s emphasis on ‘peaceful’ policies for not preparing the party or the masses to ‘face the possibility of a non-peaceful road’ : ‘The most striking proof of it was the grave tragedy which happened after the outbreak and the failure of the September 30th [1965] Movement. Within a very short space of time, the counter-revolution succeeded in massacring and arresting hundreds of thousands of Communists and non-Communist revolutionaries who found them­ selves in a passive position, paralysing the organization of the P.K.I. and the revolutionary mass organizations. Such a situation never would happen if the Party leadership did not deviate from the revolu­ tionary road.’44 Paradoxically, the P.K.I. under Aidit, though given to revolu­ tionary slogans (a weakness shared by others), was actually pursuing a reformist course: ‘It gradually got bogged down in parliamentary and other forms of legal struggle’, according to the ‘Self-criticism’. Similarly, while violently hostile to ‘Soviet revisionism’ the P.K.I. itself followed revisionist practices from 1951 until the disastrous aftermath of the 1965 attempted coup. There is no doubt that Aidit’s policies deserved criticism, being tainted by the ‘black line of Right opportunism’. The P.K.I. was the prisoner of the alliance with Sukarno and the ‘national bour­ geoisie’ rather than the other way round. Not in control of the ‘national united front’—Sukarno’s Nasakom concept of nationalists, religious groups and Communists—but only a junior partner in it, the P.K.I. was subject to the ‘penetration of the bourgeois ideology’ both through its contacts with the dominant members and, more insidiously, ‘through the bourgeoisification of Party cadres, especi­ ally the leadership, after the Party obtained certain positions in governmental and semi-governmental institutions’.45 These were largely formal positions, lacking the substance of power. Thus Aidit and his deputy, Lukman, were made Ministers in 1962 (flanked by Army officers, nationalists and religious leaders) but they were Ministers without portfolio. They assumed part of the responsibility for government policy, which was Sukarno’s intention, without being in a position to decide on policy. As the ‘Self-criticism’ argues, ‘the Party lost its independence in the united front’ and became an ‘appendage of the bourgeoisie’. Aidit’s ‘wrong political line’—the attempt to achieve socialism by peaceful means; by ‘class collaboration’ and not by class struggle * Jusuf Adjitorop, who has been in Peking since 1964, is the only member of the Politburo to have escaped arrest or execution. Aidit was killed in Central Java in November 1965.

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—was ‘followed by the wrong line in the organizational field’. The creation of a ‘mass Party’ with ‘as large a membership as possible’ was basically intended to ‘increase the influence of the Party in the united front with the national bourgeoisie’. As a result: ‘The stress was no longer laid on the education and the training of Marxist Leninist cadres to prepare them for the revolution, for work among the peasants in order to establish revolutionary bases, but on the education of intellectuals to serve the needs of the work in the united front with the national bourgeoisie, and to supply cadres for the various positions in the state institutions that were obtained thanks to the co-operation with the national bourgeoisie. In the light of this policy, the slogan of ‘total integration with the peasants’ had become empty talk. What was being done in practice was to draw cadres from the countryside to the cities, from the regions to the centre, instead of sending the best cadres to work in the rural areas.’46 This is a damning indictment of Aidit’s political course.. The con­ sequence: a flabby, mass party, not a disciplined, revolutionary organization; leaders increasingly absorbed into the bourgois system and ‘wallowing in the mire of opportunism’; advocating a peaceful, gradual approach, not stirring up the workers and the peasantry; collaborating in a bourgeois alliance led by Sukarno, not creating a ‘revolutionary united front’ led by the Party; finally, succumbing to the ‘illusion among the people about bourgeois democracy’ and not realizing the ‘danger of attacks by the reactionaries who were constantly on the look for the chance to strike’. Hence, in the P.K.I. exiles’ view, the Party’s ‘paralysis’ when it came to a crisis. This is largely true. The long period of revisionism from 1951 to 1965—had sapped the Party’s revolutionary will. But what practical alternative did Aidit have? The brutal fact of the situation was that the Communists had been crushed in 1948 when they came out prematurely in revolt; that they were in a minority compared to nationalists and religious elements in Indonesia; and that the army leaders were not only in positions of power (though not the sole holders of power) under Sukarno, but were determined to use it to harass and if possible suppress their Communists rivals. Any resort to outright violence, as the ‘Peking-P.K.I.’ now advocates, would have been just as fatal as it turned out to be in 1965, but it would have been earlier. Aidit’s policy, in these circumstances, made sense: the gradual infiltration of political power—using the parliamentary process so long as this was possible; under Sukarno’s patronage (since Sukarno needed the Communists as a counterbalance to army strength) when it was not; the organization of a base in the countryside, especially

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by supporting the landless and the poor peasantry; and the attempt to infiltrate the lower ranks—and subvert the higher ones—of the armed forces. This was a long-term programme which, if thoroughly prepared, promised the best chance of success when conditions were ‘ripe’ : that is, when the work of organizing (and possibly arming) the peasantry and infiltrating the army was sufficiently advanced to have undermined the power and resistance of the anti-Communists. The weakness of Aidit’s position was that several crucial factors were beyond his control—Sukarno’s health, the attitude of the Army— and that, in addition, he increasingly came to believe in his own ‘revolutionary’ propaganda. ‘The peasants,’ Aidit announced after investigating the situation in Java early in 1964—a self-conscious emulation of Mao’s famous ‘investigation’ in Hunan nearly forty years before—‘are the source of food supplies for the revolution, the source of armed fighters for the revolution.’47 Despite these fine phrases, the P.K.I. evidently neglected the organization of the peasants in favour of trying to influence the ‘national front’; and it failed to take account of the fact that the peasants themselves, however poor and oppressed, ‘are basically passive and conservative in their political outlook’, neither militant nor revolutionary, as Donald Hindley observes in his study of the P.K.I. And he makes the point: ‘Precisely by pursuing moderate non-revolutionary tactics since it gained control of P.K.I., the Aidit leadership has indeed succeeded in winning the support of a substantial segment of the peasantry. But by the same token it has failed so far to develop any significant degree of militancy among them.’48 Does the present reversal of Aidit’s policies by the exile P.K.I.— the emphasis on ‘armed agrarian revolution of the peasants under the leadership of the proletariat’—does this offer any better chance of success? The Politburo ‘Statement’ and ‘Self-criticism’, summarized by Peking, acknowledges that the ‘way out’ is not easy: ‘At present, a severe white terror continues to reign over Indonesia. The Indonesian Communist Party is faced with an extremely diffi­ cult and complex task. The Party’s struggle is undergoing a major change: a switch from the cities to the countryside, from peaceful struggle to armed struggle, from legal to illegal, from open to secret. For a Party whose main work over a long period of time was open and legal activity in the cities, this change is not easy indeed. It is bound to meet many difficulties. But the objective realities of the revolutionary situation compel people to make the change and compel them to learn armed struggle, and there is no alternative [but] for them to master it. . . .’49

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There are two precedents for the success of armed struggle under such conditions: the guerrilla warfare conducted by the Indonesian Republicans against the Dutch; and Mao Tse-tung’s protracted war against the Chiang Kai-shek regime after 1927. Indeed the latter has certain ominous parallels with the Indonesian situation. In both cases the Communists were the weaker partner in an alliance of convenience with the nationalists, led by an outstanding political personality—Sun Yat-sen and Sukarno. As the Communists deve­ loped their mass support, organizing trade unions and rousing the peasantry, so the military and the Right Wing nationalists became increasingly alarmed. The split widened with the removal of the great leader—the death of Dr Sun, the illness and (after 1965) displacement of President Sukarno. The Communists, who had been advocating moderate policies in order to maintain the alliance, were caught out by the violence and sweep of the military repression. Their political structure, their mass organizations and thousands of their supporters were destroyed. A few minor leaders escaped the massacre to organize guerrilla warfare among the desperate peasantry in remote areas. . . . But if history is to repeat itself, the military regime in Indonesia must (a) be incapable of solving the peasant problem—in both countries this centres on a limited amount of cultivable land for a dense population,* (b) permit soaring inflation to ruin the urban middle classes, (c) alienate, by its repressive measures, the political parties and the intellectuals, and finally (d) be subjected to—if the parallel is to be strictly observed—a devastating foreign occupation. This trend is discernible in Indonesia, but the conditions, as yet, are still far from fully realized. Meanwhile present P.K.I. strategy is based on Mao’s precept— shared by General Nasution, who has been both guerrilla and counter-guerrilla leader—that ‘guerrilla warfare is the war of the weak against the strong’.50 If the Indonesia Republicans could effec­ tively harass the Dutch in this way—and ultimately win their objec­ tive cannot the P.K.I. expect to do the same against their military opponents? But, to quote Nasution again, ‘the principal requirements for guerrilla warfare are a people who will give assistance, sufficient geographical room, and a war of long duration’.51 A guerrilla move­ ment has its base within the people: ‘The people support, care for and conceal the guerrillas and spy for them,’52 writes Nasution, * Indonesia’s population (1968) is some 112 million, two-thirds in Java. Java has a dense rural population of which about 50 per cent is landless (Hindley, The Communist Party of Indonesia, p. 5). Nearly 80 per cent o f wet rice cultivators own less than half a hectare (just over one acre) of land (Bruce Grant, Indonesia, pp. 146-7). Redistribution, under the 1960 government land reforms, would only provide land for under 10 per cent of the landless.

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drawing on his experience in fighting the Dutch. But, he points o u t: ‘Only a strong ideology, a strong inner spirit, can make a guerrilla war explode. That spirit must be sufficiently courageous to tread the long and difficult road of suffering up to the moment when the enemy in power is finally defeated.’53 Do the P.K.I. cadres have the ‘devotion’, their peasant followers the determination, to ‘withstand difficult trials, such as enemy bombardments and all the cruel retaliatory measures to which the family is subjected, including the burning of villages and the torture of civilians’?54 Secondly, the terrain. As Nasution explains, it ‘should consist of few highways, many mountains and hills, and if possible, forests and undergrowth’; these provide bases for the guerrillas which offset the ‘enemy’s superiority in technology and equipment’.55Confronting a powerful opponent, whose ‘extremely intensive and active mopping up operations’ were intended to ‘break up and destroy’ the guerrilla units and to demoralize their supporters—the aim of the Dutch in 1947 and 1948—the guerrillas made use of the favourable terrain ‘to prevent annihilation in open battles, to retreat and hide’. As a result, ‘the enemy was compelled to chase us until he became exhausted, the enemy was compelled to patrol everywhere’.56 The Republican guerrillas had much popular support in the struggle for indepen­ dence—Nasution indicates the widespread ‘pockets’ of rural resis­ tance in Java.57 But this would not necessary apply in a sectarian conflict. ‘Significantly,’ Hindley remarks, ‘the few relatively exten­ sive areas of mountains and forests, suitable for guerrilla warfare, are strongly santri* [the devout Muslims, opposed to the P.K.I.].58 Outside Java there are rugged areas in abundance, but these are not, except in one or two cases, Communist strongholds. ‘In order to fulfil the third condition, that of a long war,’ Nasution continues, ‘it is necessary that the people and the guerrilla army are truly determined and will patiently fight while suffering until victory is achieved.’59 But as Nasution admits, the Republican guerrillas were only in the ‘first stage’ of the defensive phase and ‘very seldom’ could they destroy isolated enemy posts or patrols.60 ‘The reason that the Dutch were finally willing to withdraw their forces from Indonesia was not because they were defeated by our army, but because they were weakened and stymied by us so that there was no longer any hope for them to destroy the Republic. When their efforts to do this were frustrated, international pressure hastened the transfer of sovereignty [in 1949].’61 ‘Consequently, we did not have to prolong our guerrilla war. . . ,’62Thus if the military struggle was important, it was the political context that proved decisive. Such was the case—and to a still greater extent—in Algeria. The French army had actually broken up the ‘National Liberation Front’

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into ‘tiny ineffective bands’ isolated from the people by the end of 1960, when French Government policy changed and de Gaulle agreed to Algeria’s independence.63 It seems unlikely that political or international pressures will operate to such effect in Indonesia, even if the P.K.I. suceeds in mounting its rural insurgency. *

*

*

FAILURE: United States in Indo-China ‘The struggle in which the forces of the French Union and the Associated States [Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam] are engaged against the forces of Communist aggression in Indo-China is an integral part of the world-wide resistance by the Free Nations to Communist attempts at conquest and subversion’—United StatesFrench joint communique, Washington, June 18, 1952.64 ‘The sending of men and arms across international boundaries and the direction of guerrilla war from outside a sovereign nation is aggression; and this is a fact which the whole international com­ munity must confront and whose consequent responsibilities it must accept.. .. The operation run from Hanoi against Viet-Nam is as clear a form of aggression as the violation of the 38th parallel by the North Korean armies in June 1950’—W. W. Rostow, Deputy Special Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, June 28, 1961.65 ‘It is not a question of winning the South Vietnamese people’s support for a government friendly to the United States, but of relieving them of the burden of North Vietnamese aggression and subversive insurgency’—Secretary of State Dean Rusk interviewed by Dagens Nyheter, Stockholm, July 2, 1967.66 Such is the melancholy process of misconception about IndoChina and its successor states—Laos, Cambodia, North and South Vietnam. Yet it is hard to tell whether the repeated emphasis on external aggression (as opposed to internal dissension) reflects a genuine belief that this is the case; or whether it is not largely an attempt to justify before American public opinion (and the ‘inter­ national community’) United States’ participation in a conflict which, pace Rostow, is far from ‘clear’. For these successive statements of policy, which mark the deepen­ ing involvement of the United States in the Indo-China area, raise a number of important questions. Is it realistic to consider the situation

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of one small country, for example, in terms of a world-wide struggle for power? Does not concentration on the ‘larger issues’ entail a corresponding diminution of attention to the specific features of the country concerned—particularly if these do not conform to pre­ conceived opinions? And if there is a growing divergence between the actual situation and what should be happening according to expectations, does this not eventually—when the discrepancy can no longer be ignored—create a crisis of policy? A crisis which may provoke far more dramatic and indeed agonizing reappraisals than if the particular situation had been faced and accurately assessed at the beginning? Rostow’s statement shares this element of unreality (though to a lesser degree than the French-us and Rusk statements). Rostow’s view is that the ‘sending of men and arms across international boundaries . . . is aggression’. Legally this is no doubt correct, but in practice it is almost meaningless unless we know the quantities and types of men and arms being sent and what proportion they bear to the forces already in conflict. If the amount is very small then perhaps ‘interference’ would be a better description than ‘aggression’. The important point, which is obscured by emotional language, is that in 1961, and for several years thereafter, the North Vietnamese did not need to intervene with more than limited assistance: the Vietcong was doing well enough with its own forces recruited in the South and with the huge amount of weapons captured from army depots, police outposts and village supplies. Large-scale intervention by the North only began in 1965, the year the Americans themselves intervened in force. To put it briefly, it is quite impossible to carry on for years an artificially incited insurgency. Protracted resistance against heavy odds in troops and equipment depends on indigenous support. The greater this support—and the weaker the machinery of government (this was and is the case in South Vietnam)—the less the need for external involvement. Conversely, the smaller the opposition and the more effective the government, the less the need for any form of Western assistance. To repeat: there was no need for Soviet inter­ vention in China, for Chinese intervention (other than in training and equipment) in Indo-China and similarly for North Vietnamese intervention, until 1965, in South Vietnam. To speak of ‘aggression’ —the way the Kuomintang blamed ‘Soviet aggression’ in China or the Americans blamed ‘Communist aggression’ in Laos, Guatemala, Cuba and other trouble spots—is more than irrelevant, it is harmful. For it distracts attention, sometimes deliberately, sometimes uncon­ sciously, from the real state of affairs. It is hard to know which is worse.

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This attitude is revealed in the persistent attempts made during the Dulles era and revived as a result of the present embroglio in Vietnam to ‘internationalize’ the problem. The activities of every country and government were, and are now again, seen in terms of the ‘world-wide struggle’ between freedom and Communism. (Now, of course, it is Chinese rather than Soviet Communism.) According to President Eisenhower’s (1953) Committee on International Infor­ mation Activities, ‘every significant act of virtually every depart­ ment and agency of Government has its effect, either positively or negatively, in the global struggle for freedom’.67 In the Far East ‘the lines of the free world-Communism struggle are more clearly drawn . . .’, stated a 1956 ‘Review of United States Policy’,68 and Taiwan was of ‘key importance in the free world’s island chain... ,’69 The Thai people were warned against Chinese attempts to ‘overthrow their free government’70 [the military had been in control since the 1947 coup]', however, ‘the leaders of Free China and Free Korea . . . have bent every effort to build up their military strength’. In 1955 the only hope of survival for the ‘Free Vietnamese’ seems ‘to be on a basis of continuing resistance to all forms of Communist power... .’71 And in Dulles’s own ‘Threat of a Red Asia’ speech of March 1954, ‘if the Communist forces won uncontested control over Indo-China, or any substantial part thereof, they would surely resume the same pattern of aggression against other free peoples in the area’.72 This is strikingly reminiscent of recent statements by President Johnson and Dean Rusk. The same argument is reflected in Rostow’s view that the ‘whole international community’ must ‘confront’ the fact of Hanoi ‘sending men and arms’ to the South and accept its ‘consequent respon­ sibilities’. Does this mean that it should send armed contingents to drive back the invaders, since North Vietnam’s activities are ‘as clear a form of aggression’ as North Korea’s ‘violation’ of the parallel? In that case, similar action would have to be taken against many countries of the ‘free world’ which are carrying on Hanoi’s type of operation against their neighbours. Or does it only apply to Communists? P O S T - W A R POLI CY

Despite Dulles’s attempt to seize the ‘initiative’73 in world affairs, the tendency of American foreign policy—as of most foreign policies—has been to react to events. Reaction to Soviet pressure on Europe brought forth the extremely successful countermeasures of the Truman era, notably the European Recovery Programme and the formation of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, Reaction

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to the Soviet-inspired invasion of Korea also stimulated a series of measures, effective in halting aggression but far less so in dealing with the problem—and the consequences—of Chinese intervention. Least successful of all was the reaction to French defeat in IndoChina. The instrument with which Dulles hoped to gain the initiative —‘massive retaliatory power’ to deter aggression—could not be used in Indo-China. But the state of alarm engendered by Communist success in this area blinded Washington both to the specific con­ ditions which had made this possible and to the general lack of success of Communist ‘expansion’ elsewhere. As a result of the ‘loss’ of China and the conviction that stopping the Communists, first in Laos and then in Vietnam, was vital to America’s security, there has been a marked shift in us foreign policy, away from Europe and towards Asia. During the TrumanAcheson era, America’s main concern was to prevent the imminent economic collapse of Western Europe, which would render it an easy prey to Soviet pressure. Should this happen, in Acheson’s words, ‘the very survival of the United States would be more seriously at stake than at any other time in its history’.74 Asian affairs were peripheral. Nationalist China was left to succumb to its own internal weaknesses (and to Communist assaults), while no figure of any influence in America, Republican or Democrat, was prepared to commit us troops to ‘save’ the foundering regime. During the Eisenhower-Dulles era, Asian and European affairs were of equal concern. Agonizing reappraisal of European defence measures (after France’s rejection of the integrated European army) was balanced by the ‘deadly serious threat’ of Communist ‘encircle­ ment’ of the us which Dulles found particularly alarming in Asia and the Middle East.75 By the end of this period, Laos—an ‘outpost of the free world’76—was said to be almost as vital to us security as Berlin. After President Kennedy’s brief interlude, which encom­ passed a political solution for Laos by international agreement, a climactic test of will with the Russians over the missiles in Cuba, renewed efforts at rapprochement with Moscow and the first direct involvement in the Vietnam crisis, the gloom deepened. Confronted with a desperate situation in South Vietnam the Johnson Adminis­ tration, after first attempting to compel Hanoi to negotiate, intervened in massive strength. The inter-linked problem—bombing in the North, underpinning the South—came to absorb Washington’s energies to the detriment of almost every other consideration. The first stages in the us shift towards Asia, formally denoted by the change-over in 1953 to a Republican Administration, had actually been set in motion as a result of Stalin’s ‘invasion by proxy’ of South Korea, nearly three years before. ‘Communist imperialism’

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had turned, in Truman’s words, ‘from the familiar tactics of infiltra­ tion and subversion to a brutal attack.’77 This came as all the greater a shock since the Truman Administration was convinced, early in 1950, that the ‘greatest danger has receded—the possibility which faced us three years ago that most of Europe and the Mediterranean area might collapse under Soviet pressure’.78This hard-earned sense of relief was shattered by the North Korean attack. America’s response was to insist on ‘rapid building up of military strength at home and among our allies . . . [since] the period of greatest danger is before us’.79 In December 1950 the President feared that Chinese intervention in Korea showed that the ‘Communists . . . are now willing to push the world to the brink of a general war to get what they want’.80 He annnounced that us armed forces, which in June 1950 were \ \ million men, had reached 2\ million and would be increased to nearly 3\ million.81 It was decided, on the one hand, that ‘German resources and manpower’ were needed to contribute to Western Europe’s defence;82 on the other, that a peace treaty should be signed with Japan to complete ‘special defence arrange­ ments’.83 By this time—late 1951—danger signs of ‘further Com­ munist aggression’ were seen in Indo-China and Burma.84 ‘The same menace—the menace of Communist aggression— threatens Europe as well as Asia,’ declared President Truman in December 1950. But he believed that the ‘free nations’ could present a common front.85 Collective security methods, which had served so well in Europe, were to be employed by the Republican Adminis­ tration in Asia. Ironically, while the Republicans were sweeping into power on a wave of anti-Communist militancy both at home and abroad, the target of their opposition, the Soviet Union, was already switching, even before the death of Stalin, from using brutal pressure and force to the pursuit of economic and political influence and ‘friendship’ instead. Thus the Republican drive to build up collective security in Asia—similar to that achieved in Europe and equally motivated by fear of Communist aggression—tended to confront an Asian opinion which was mostly indifferent or hostile. The concept of the ‘free nations’ of Western Europe was something of a reality on which to base an alliance. Unfortunately for the Republicans the free nations of Asia—those which had adopted and were carrying on democratic processes—were deeply suspicious of any attempt to make them take sides in the cold war. Those whom the Republicans called ‘free’ were almost invariably countries whose governments were least representative (the Philippines under Magsaysay was a notable exception) and for this very reason— from fear of popular opposition, whether or not the Communists were ‘exploiting’ it—chose to range themselves with the United M

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States. The protection they sought was as much internal—against the forces of change—as external. But to the Republicans such con­ siderations were irrelevant in face of the overwhelming threat of Communism. There were three main drawbacks to this attitude. First, it failed to take sufficiently into account the instability of narrowly-based autocratic regimes. Second, and following from this, it misconceived the situation: the chief danger to these regimes turned out to be— naturally enough—internal dissidence or subversion and not external aggression. And third, in these changed circumstances, the principal American means to preserve security—reliance on a military pact to deter aggression—was unsuited to the problem. Moreover Dulles, although far more alarmed than his predecessors about Communist expansion in Asia, wanted security on the cheap. If America’s allies would provide the manpower, this would avoid the costly commitment of us combat forces which had taken place in Korea. Tt is not sound strategy,’ Dulles argued in January 1954, ‘permanently to commit United States land forces to Asia to a degree that leaves us no strategic reserves.’ The Dulles solution was to reinforce local—and later collective—defence ‘by the further deterrent of massive retaliatory power . . . able to respond vigorously [to aggression] at places and with means of its own choosing’. He also claimed, which was important to an economy-minded Congress, that the nuclear deterrent provided ‘more basic security at less cost’.86 Unfortunately for the new doctrine the Asian situation did not develop along Korean-type lines. Although Dulles wished to ‘respond vigorously’ on behalf of the French during the seige of Dien Bien Phu—because ‘the imposition on South East Asia of the political system of Communist Russia and its Chinese Communist ally, by whatever means, would be a grave threat to the whole free com­ munity’87—he was not supported either by his President or his allies. Belatedly, as the Geneva Conference was meeting on Indo-China, he recognized that the situation was ‘not that of open military aggression by the Chinese Communist regime’ which could call for the use of a massive deterrent. Rather it was a problem of restoring ‘tranquility’ in an area where ‘disturbances are fomented from Com­ munist China’, but there was ‘no open invasion’. And ‘this task of pacification cannot be successfully met merely by unilateral armed intervention’.88* * The Chairman of the us Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Radford, argued that intervention to meet the threat was preferable to a negotiated ‘surrender’. But General Ridgway, the Army Chief of Staff, believed that intervention could not succeed without committing ground troops—the minimum being ten divisions, or more than required in Korea. ‘The military saw the appal-

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The collective security system, patched up in South East Asia after 1954—Britain’s quid pro quo to Dulles for accepting, however reluctantly, negotiations on Indo-China—may well have served its purpose in deterring ‘overt military aggression’. But it was unable to cope with—indeed for a long time unable to recognize—the threat posed by political instability and internal unrest. And even though Dulles passed on, his rigid attitude to Communism left its mark. The logic of his commitment to prevent the tide of Communism from sweeping over Asia left his successors, in a deteriorating position, with little choice. When a ‘free’ government found itself unable to cope with its own internal problems the United States felt obliged to intervene—risking being embroiled, by definition, in an unfavour­ able situation—or else to back down, with consequent loss of face, and indeed, so it was believed, with danger to its own security. Both Kennedy over Laos and Truman over Nationalist China opted for the lesser evil—but the Democratic ‘betrayal’ of ‘free China’ itself created a backlash of American opinion, which clamoured for more effective, and hence more militant, action against Communism. The hysterical attitude exemplified by the Republican Presidential campaign platform of 1952— ‘We shall again make liberty into a beacon light of hope . . . it will mark the end of the negative, futile and immoral [Democratic] policy of “containment” [of Communism] which abandons countless human beings to a despotism and godless terrorism. . . .’89 exerted a baleful influence throughout the Dulles era. For it prevented the Republicans from assessing dispassionately the possible ‘appeals' of Communism to Asians and from understanding the type of environment in which Communist methods and organizations could function to advantage. Instead, the new us Administration chose to confront the ‘evil’ force of monolithic Communism—‘controlling all life and resources found between the Elbe and the Chinese sea’, bent on world domination90—and believed that all right-minded peoples and nations must do likewise. Thus it failed to comprehend the reasoning of Governor Stevenson, the defeated Democratic Presidential candidate: ‘When we think of Communism, we think of what we are going to lose. When many of the Asian peoples think of Communism, they think of what they are going to gain—especially if they believe they have nothing to lose.’91 ling prospect that the United States would either become bogged down in a jungle war that had little prospect of decisively affecting world Communist power’ or be plunged into a full-scale war involving China: G. Arthur Dommen, Conflict in Laos (Pall Mall, 1966), p. 49. There was the same ‘appalling prospect’ ten years later. . . .

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To Dulles, on the contrary, Communism was a ‘gigantic con­ spiracy designed to overthrow our government by violence’.92 This was a reflection of the 1950 us Congress resolution on internal security (passed by a two-thirds majority over Truman’s veto): ‘There exists a world Communist movement which in its origins, its development and its present practice, is a world-wide revolutionary movement whose purpose it is, by treachery, deceit, infiltration into other groups (governmental or otherwise), espionage, sabotage, terrorism, and any other means deemed necessary, to establish a Communist totalitarian dictatorship in the countries throughout the world through the medium of a world-wide Communist organization.’93 According to these views, the spread of Communism in the ‘free’ world could only be the result of ‘artificial’ incitement, force or fraud. Dulles himself spoke of a ‘Bolshevik organization’ working in every free country of the world to ‘gain political control so as to add that country to the list of those who are subject to the will of international Communism’.94 Moscow’s world strategy, Dulles warned in his first speech as Secretary of State, was making ‘very great progress’. The object was to ‘encircle’ the United States by picking up ‘one country after another by getting control of its government, by political warfare and indirect aggression’. Already one-third of the peoples of the world were under ‘complete domina­ tion’; and the (population) odds against America were seven to one. This alarming picture of the forces of good and evil locked in global conflict—incidentally the way the Communists also saw the situation—bore little resemblance to reality. In Asia, at least, it would be difficult to demonstrate which leaders were ‘good’—Chiang Kai-shek? Syngman Rhee?—if not which were ‘bad’. Moreover the undifferentiated contrast between ‘freedom’ on the one hand and ‘slavery’ on the other (which had some point in North America and Western Europe, but was misleading, if not meaningless elsewhere) served to obscure two significant aspects of Asian insurgencies. These were applicable to China and Indo-China in the past and to Laos and Vietnam in the future. First, the great majority of the insurgents are not Communists (even if their leaders are). And second, they are fighting for popular, democratic reforms—land for the tiller, freedom from colonial rule, properly chosen representatives. It is a hard fact, but it must be faced, that in a number of Asian countries the Communists—whatever their ulterior motives—are closer to the peasants, who comprise after all the overwhelming majority of the population, than are the representatives or officials of an urbanbased regime.

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The unhappy paradox of the Dulles era is that those who were least democratic in Asia were considered the best allies of the United States. But, except where unconcealed abuses and blatant trickery were connived at, for the sake of larger ends, this attitude seems more the result of ignorance and illusion than of a deliberate attempt to deceive. President Eisenhower’s Committee on Information Advisory Activities, for example, testified in 1953 to America’s ‘important advantages in the world conflict’, which should receive greater attention. There were ‘fundamental beliefs and values’ shared by the people of America with the millions of others ‘we are attempt­ ing to win to our side’. They included: ‘belief in God, belief in individual and national freedom, belief in the right to ownership of property and a decent standard of living. . . .’ Also common humanity, a peaceful world and the United Nations.95 Apart from the fact that South East Asian Buddhists do not believe in God, the question of individual freedom and ownership of property—not to speak of a decent living—was precisely what was at issue between many of the Asian peoples ‘to be won over’ and their governments, backed by the United States. Excessive fear of Communism and of strategic consequences of Communist takeovers undoubtedly contributed to Washington’s distressing failure to distinguish between formal professions of democracy and freedom by anti-Communist leaders and the reality only too often of inequitable societies. As a result the us tended to become involved in disturbing situations which it could have avoided —or withdrawn from in good time—had it adopted a calmer and more rational approach. This was the advice of Dean Acheson in 1951, which was scorned by his successors as ‘appeasement’ : To avoid impatience; to realize that problems will be ‘with us for a very long time’. The object is not to remove problems, which are not removable, but to reduce them to manageable proportions. ‘To avoid over-dramatizing any particular problem or over­ emphasizing it. That is always our danger.’ Not to force a show­ down—nor to let our opponents do so. In fact, a ‘proper sense of proportion about the problems and difficulties which come before us’. The ‘need to match our strength with the interests which we must defend’. A balance between commitments and capabilities. Not to rely solely on governments. ‘The idea that we can make arrangements with this, that or the other government, without regard to popular support founded on free consent would all too probably involve us in excessively brittle alliances.’96 As Acheson warned, so it happened. Obsessed by the menace of Communism, us official efforts to repel it in Asian countries tended to go through three—or, in bad cases, four—successive stages. First

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was the decision to intervene, usually with varying degrees of economic and military assistance. Second came the period of adjust­ ment between donor and client. Third, and overlapping the second, was the stage of appraisal and reappraisal, depending on the trend towards stability or instability. And fourth, in the event of deteriora­ tion, came the brutal choice between commitment to underpin a failing regime or extrication from an unsatisfactory and perhaps irredeemable position. Much of the responsibility for America’s ‘physical’ intervention in Asia, the Middle East or Latin America, was, moreover, simply the result of a misreading of Communist intentions and capabilities. Thus, even though the Soviet leaders had turned away from the aggressive posture of post-war Stalinism in favour of a more subtle and—as far as Afro-Asia was concerned—more effective policy of seeking to win over newly independent nations by friendship, trade and aid, the Republican Administration continued to act as if it were still fighting the cold war. To Eisenhower, as late as April 1959, ‘the first and most important fact is the implacable and frequently expressed purpose of imperialistic Communism to promote world revolution, destroy freedom and communize the world’. And, he added, ‘since the Communist target is the world, every nation is comprehended in their campaign for domination.’97 Now, on this occasion, the President was trying to whip up domestic support for the us Mutual Security Aid programme by underlining the threat to America if money were not forthcoming to counter it. But the constant repetition throughout the 1950s of the ‘Communist menace’, its diabolical skill in manoeuvre and its apocalyptic aims, without serious qualification or interpretation, clearly came strongly to influence if not to dominate the formulation of u s policy and, what is perhaps more important, us reaction to (presumed) Soviet policy. Thus Dulles himself emphasized the danger to the peace and security of ‘all American nations’ if ‘international Communism should gain control of the political institutions of any one of them’. This was to justify what was later revealed to be covert us inter­ vention to overthrow a pro-Communist regime in Guatemala. In November 1954 Dulles claimed that ‘international Communism had in fact got control of the government’, but the ‘Guatemalan people themselves backed loyal elements who cut out the cancer of Com­ munism. The Communist-directed President [Arbenz] of Guatemala ignominiously fled, and the leader of the liberation movement is now the President of Guatemala.’98 This was surely a dangerous argument to use. To approve of a ‘liberation movement’ overthrowing the legitimate government of a country—let alone to finance and direct this movement, as the us

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Central Intelligence Agency is reported to have done*—was later to backfire against America. What else is North Vietnam doing, although like the us Government it does not openly acknowledge this, in directing and supporting the National Liberation Front of South Vietnam? Moreover Dulles’s attempt to justify America’s reaction to Communism in Latin America could also be used to explain the Chinese reaction to us intervention in South East Asia. As Dulles put it, in a nation-wide radio and television address in June 1954, ‘the master plan of international Communism is to gain a solid political base in this [Western] hemisphere, a base that can be used to extend Communist penetration to the other American governments If world Communism captures any American State, however small, a new and perilous front is established which will increase the danger to the entire free world.’ It was in response to this threat that ‘patriots arose in Guatemala to challenge the Com­ munist leadership—and to change it’.99 Now as China and North Vietnam observed the growth of American influence in Laos in the late 1950s—with the same intermingling of ideological and strategic fears as the Americans watched the growth of Communist influence in Guatemala—they, too, reacted against what they called the us ‘blueprint’ in South East Asia, using Laos as a ‘springboard for aggression’. And they also had ‘patriots’ available—in fact the Pathet Lao or ‘Lao Patriots’ —who successfully arose to ‘challenge’ the country’s leadership. C O N F U S I O N IN LAOS

us intervention was effective in Guatemala. It was not effective in Laos. For American assistance, as Acheson recognized, could only be the ‘missing component’ in a situation which otherwise could be solved. The us itself could not furnish these other components: ‘it cannot furnish determination, it cannot furnish the will, and it cannot furnish the loyalty of a people to its government. But if the will and if the determination exists and if the people are behind their govern­ ment, then, and not always then, is there a very good chance. In that situation, American help can be effective. . . .’lco In Laos, America’s ‘forward policy’ went against the grain. The us opposed Prince Souvanna Phouma’s attempts in 1956 and 1957 to live up to the * Former President Eisenhower revealed on June 10, 1963: ‘There was one time when we had a very desperate situation, or we thought it was at least, in Central America, and we had to get rid of a Communist Government which had taken over, and our early efforts were defeated by a bad accident and we had to help, send some help right away.’ (David Wise and T. B. Ross, The Invisible Government [C.I.A.], Random House 1964), p. 166. (see also pp. 165-183).

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spirit of the 1954 Geneva Agreements—by bringing in neutralists and pro-Communists (Pathet Lao) into a coalition government with the conservatives and by assuring China and North Vietnam that Laos would not be used as a base against them.101Washington feared the ‘crumbling’ effects of neutralism in Laos and on its ‘committed’ neighbour, South Vietnam. To prevent this, the us Administration covertly supported a vigorous anti-Communist movement. Souvanna Phouma later protested that the us ‘did everything possible to prevent the integration of the Pathet Lao with the govern­ ment in 1957 and when, despite their efforts, I succeeded, the United States continued to sabotage me’. He said that Washington was responsible for his resignation as Prime Minister in 1958 and had ‘planted the seeds for destruction’ when it forced his successor, Phoui Sananikone, to be pro-West and strongly anti-Communist.102 Phoui dismissed the Pathet Lao representatives from the government and inaugurated ‘mopping up operations’ against its supporters, notably in the tribal areas near North Vietnam. (Shaken by the reaction of Pathet Lao guerrillas in 1959 and the threat of intervention by North Vietnam, Phoui, at the prompting of the United Nations’ Secretary-General, Dag Hammarskjold, proposed a return to neutralism. So he, too, was overthrown at the end of 1959.) Washington’s persistence in an anti-Communist course in Laos was marked by the emergence to power of the Right Wing ‘strong man’ General Phoumi Nosavan in 1959, his clash with the Neutralist Commander Kong Lae in 1960 and the disastrous defeats suffered by Phoumi’s forces in 1961 and 1962. The us forward policy—and its failure—was the result of an extraordinary misconception of the importance of the country. ‘The cold war is turning hot in the tiny Kingdom of Laos, strategic heart of South East Asia,’ insisted a report by the United Press International as early as August 7, 1959. The us Administration saw the situation in Laos as part of the Communist drive for world domination: ‘Laos Key to Defence of South East Asia’ as the New York Times put it. The fall of Laos ‘would have incalculable consequences, both psychological and strategic’, us officials were reported as saying. ‘It would give the Communists direct access to Thailand and Cambodia across an indefensible frontier, allow them to flank South Vietnam and possibly open the way to the rest of South East Asia.’103 The ‘international Communist conspiracy’ theory was given free rein. The ‘hand of Peiping’ was visible, warned the us Assistant Secretary of State for Far Eastern Affairs, Walter S. Robertson, in September 1959.* * Robertson’s attitude, as Eden discovered at Geneva, was ‘so emotional as to be impervious to argument or indeed to facts . . Full Circle, The M emoirs o f Sir Anthony Eden (Cassell, 1960), p, 113.

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‘The sudden attacks in Laos last month came on the heels of a lengthy visit to Communist China by Ho Chi Minh, Chief of the North Vietnamese regime.’101 The us State Department ‘demon­ strated’ evidence of ‘outside Communist intervention’ in this manner: ‘(1) the assistance evidently being received by the Communist forces within Laos, including supplies and military weapons . . . (2) the false—and ridiculous—Communist propaganda emanating simultaneously from Hanoi, Peiping and Moscow, to the effect that the Lao Government has been instigated by the United States to stir up a civil war within its boundaries; (3) the continuing flow from Moscow, Peiping and Hanoi, of propaganda and false information about the situation in Laos aimed at confusing world opinion and stating that the United States is using Laos as a military base; and (4) the fact that the military outbreak in Laos has followed con­ ferences in Moscow and Peiping between Ho Chi Minh and Soviet and Chinese Communist leaders and also conferences in Moscow between two members of the north Vietnam Politburo and Deputy Prime Minister Anastas Mikoyan. . . .’105 To take the second and third points first: Phoui Sananikone’s crack-down on pro-Communist elements, given the fact that until recently they were members (even if obstructive ones) of the coalition government of Laos, did suggest a ‘civil war’ approach. Moreover, Joseph Alsop, a well informed observer with close contacts in the us State Department and Pentagon at this period, commented with obvious approval that ‘the American Government did everything possible to bring the [Phoui] Sananikone government into being. . .. The commitment [to defend Laos against Communist aggression] was then greatly deepened when American influence was also used to encourage the anti-Communist campaign rapidly launched by Prime Minister Sananikone.’ The arrest of leading Communists and the summary execution of the ‘more flagrant terrorists’ in the provinces, Alsop went on, were measures ‘taken with explicit American approval’.106 And in a further report, he added: almost all these actions were taken with American approval and ‘often as a result of American suggestions’.107A statement by Phoui Sananikone suggests that the ‘rebels’ may have had some cause for apprehension of Lao Government policy: ‘Many inhabitants of the provinces on the northern border, especially former members of the Pathet Lao forces, have, since a group of the former Pathet Lao forces fled to join North Vietnam

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and later attacked our military posts and violated our territory, fled to the forest. Some have joined the rebels. It is believed that they have done so because they are ill-informed about the situation of the Kingdom and the Government’s great concern for the people’s welfare and because they blindly believe the propaganda of Hanoi and Peking radios and of the rebels. They fear that the authorities might arrest them if they stay at home. [Prince Souphanouvong and fifteen other former Pathet Lao leaders in Vientiane had been arrested at the end of July.] The Government greatly regrets this. The police and the army will arrest no one who is innocent. . . ,’108 The ‘main objective’ of the Pathet Lao ‘offensive’, the Royal Lao Army General Staff reported on August 20, 1959, was actually to recapture its old base—the two provinces of Sam Neua and Phong Saly, adjoining North Vietnam—in order to ‘force a return’ of the International Control Commission for Laos, set up (as also for Vietnam) according to the 1954 Geneva Agreements. This was, of course, basically a political manoeuvre. In fact the Pathet Lao—or rather its newly formed party organization, the Neo Lao Hak Xat— preferred a political approach, since it stood more chance of coming to power in this way than by fighting. Fear of the consequences of the electoral success of the N.L.H.X. in May 1958109had prompted the Phoui Government, with American backing, to dismiss the Pathet Lao from the coalition; and it rejected Souvanna Phouma’s con­ ciliatory policy in favour of a ‘hard line’ against Communism.110Thus it was the Laotian Government, and not the Pathet Lao, which had excluded a political solution. It was in these circumstances that the Chinese and North Vietnamese urged the return of the International Control Commission (actually suspended by Souvanna Phouma before his fall) in order to ensure a measure of international protection for the supporters of the outcast Pathet Lao. During the September 1959 ‘crisis’—the result of guerrilla fighting between Pathet Lao and Government forces*—the Soviet Union proposed the immediate recall of the Geneva Conference. But the us State Department turned this down, claiming that settlement of unrest in Laos ‘is not to be found in international conferences but in the cessation of intervention and subversion of the Kingdom of Laos’. * The Pathet Lao drew most of its support from the mountainous tribal areas (especially in regions near North Vietnam, partly because of the more con­ ciliatory Communist policy towards minorities) while the Government was supported by the Lao people (not quite half the two or three million total population of Laos) living in the lowlands and valleys. See Hugh Toye, Laos: Buffer State or Battleground (Oxford Univ. Press, 1968), pp. xv, 116-17, 164.

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(Two years later, when government forces were being defeated in Laos, Washington was to change its mind about the value of international conferences; there was a similar change of mind, after 1965, about negotiations on Vietnam.) The reason advanced by the State Department for its negative attitude was that a new Geneva Conference would ‘inevitably suggest to the Royal Lao Government the imposition of new disabilities and new external interferences’. Precisely. For it would mean a return to the prohibition on reprisals and to the participation of ‘all citizens’ in the national community, through general elections, affirmed by the Governments of Laos and Cambodia in the Final Declaration of the 1954 Geneva Conference.111 But the State Department saw no reason why the ‘Lao Communists and their outside supporters’ should further profit ‘through the disruptive influences’ of a new Geneva Conference.112 If the situation in Laos in 1959 was confusing, it was to become even more tangled in 1960. This was a result of the polarization of internal forces and the deepening involvement of both Russians and Americans, bringing the country to the verge of an international conflict. For although Washington had ‘no doubt’, in the words of a State Department official, that ‘aggression had been taking place [in Laos] in a now-familiar pattern’,113 it was not quite as simple as that. As the perceptive American reporter Arthur Dommen noted, the initial American build-up in Laos was the result of a policy decision by the State Department contrary to the military advice of the us Joint Chiefs of Staff. Instead of reducing the Lao territorial Army from its wartime strength of 15,000 men to the level needed for routine internal policing, as the Joint Chiefs advised, the Army was actually increased in 1956 to 25,000 men114 and three years later, to 29,000. To strengthen the Lao Army in its task of ‘containment’ of Communism, Dommen points out, ‘the State Department set up an American military mission in disguise in Vientiane’, known as the Programs Evaluation Office, attached to the us [aid] Operations Mission. The P.E.O. was headed by a us Army General, whose presence only became known in 1961, and its members were officially described as ‘technicians’.115The ‘P.E.O. not only controlled the bulk of the aid funds spent in Laos,’ Dommen adds, ‘but also possessed its exclusive channel of communication to Washington, through the Commander in Chief, Pacific Forces . . . and the Defence Depart­ ment.’116 For a time all went well, until Kong Lae’s neutralist coup of August 1960 threw into utter confusion the policy of building up Laos into an anti-Communist bastion. For the young paratroop captain turned on the ‘unscrupulous’ leaders who he said had been exploiting the struggle against Communism in Laos as a ‘pretext for

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their own advantage’. ‘Money which should have been spent on economic and social improvements has gone instead to pay for wars, and to a minority group of politicians. . . . If we adopt neutrality as declared to the Parliament . . . but never implemented, we shall certainly achieve peace,’ Kong Lae declared. ‘Otherwise we shall fall right in the middle of the cold war between two sides and find that we are fighting among ourselves as is happening now. . . .’117 The Americans were in a dilemma. Prince Souvanna Phouma had been re-appointed Prime Minister—to work for neutrality, a coalition government and negotiations with the Pathet Lao—a solution that Washington bitterly opposed. But the Prince’s rival, and butt of Kong Lae’s charges, General Phoumi Nosavan, echoed American (and Thai) policy when he accused the Prime Minister of exposing Laos to ‘Communist aggression’. Phoumi then went into open rebel­ lion, setting up his own ‘revolutionary committee’ to ‘seize power and abrogate all constitutional rights of the present Government’.118 The us Embassy in Laos decided to observe ‘strict neutrality’ and con­ tinued to act as paymaster to both parties. But since nearly all us aid went to the army and as most of the army was under Phoumi’s control, this was rather one-sided. Moreover, while Washington still claimed to be striving for ‘unity’ in Laos it meant unity against the Communists. For Souvanna Phouma, however, unity meant an end to the civil war. Divergent views within the various American agencies reflected the differences within Laos. The American Ambassador in Vientiane proposed that the us should support the Souvanna Phouma Govern­ ment. The State Department ‘felt that Kong Lae should be gotten rid of, but it had no means to achieve this’. And the Pentagon and C.I.A., ‘consistent with their past efforts in Laos and with their interpretation of the current situation’, immediately set to work to build up General Phoumi.119 An agreement was reached with Souvanna Phouma that us military aid to General Phoumi would only be used against the Pathet Lao.120 This did not deter Phoumi. In December 1960, heavily armed with American tanks and artillery, he forced his way into Vientiane. Souvanna Phouma fled to Cambodia, leaving behind one of his senior Ministers who made a deal with the Russians: the latter would arm and supply joint Pathet Lao-Neutralist resistance to Phoumi’s forces.121 The Soviet massive airlift in support of the ‘legal’ government of Laos—the Communist and non-aligned countries still recognized Souvanna Phouma—now matched American assistance to Phoumi, who set up his own govern­ ment under a figure-head, Prince Boun Oum. Soon after the forma­ tion of the Right Wing government, combined Pathet Lao and Neutralist forces seized the heavily fortified Plain of Jars, the

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‘most important military complex in northern Laos’.122 Phoumi’s ‘offensive’ had crumbled. In Washington the Republican Administration was at its last gasp. Faced with the disastrous consequences of its ‘forward policy’ in Laos all the State Department could do was to denounce, in familiar terms, ‘Communist intervention . . . [and] determination to take over the country in line with the Communists’ well-known and indeed oft-stated objective of ultimate global domination. . . .’123 The Department continued to trot out a version of events in Laos made up of evasions and half-truths: Despite Communist actions, ‘Laos had been making steady progress in welding itself together as a nation’. The Lao Army was achieving a capability ‘adequate to deal with domestic Communist guerrillas’. Successive governments from 1958 on had ‘issued repeated state­ ments’ of the intention to follow a neutralist policy. The crisis in 1959 was the result of the Communists’ ‘evident’ conclusion that opportunities to gain control of Laos by subversion, propaganda and small-scale guerrilla activity ‘were being foreclosed by the country’s increasing stability’. This ‘progress towards domestic stability and tranquillity continued until August 9, 1960, when the Kong Lae coup plunged the country into chaos’. Initial doubts about Kong Lae’s ‘inspiration for action’ were soon ‘dispelled’ by his ‘clandestine co-operation with foreign Communist governments’. ‘This series of events [not retailed] culminated in the abandonment of the capital by the Prime Minister [Souvanna Phouma].’ ‘If Laos should be seized by the Communists, the effects would be farreaching. . . ,’124 The Kennedy Administration brushed aside this musty apologia for an abortive policy. Laos, President Kennedy declared, was the ‘most immediate problem’ he faced on taking office. He appealed to the Communists to agree to constructive negotiations—internation­ ally as well as among the leaders of Laos—to help the country back to ‘independence and genuine neutrality’. What we want ‘is a truly neutral government, not a cold-war pawn’; a ‘settlement concluded at the conference table, not on the battle-field’.125Two months later, in June 1961, Kennedy reported the ‘sombre mood’ of his famous meeting with Khruschev in Vienna. The one area which afforded some immediate prospect of accord was Laos. Both sides, he said, recognized the need to ‘reduce the dangers’ in the situation and endorsed the concept of a neutral and independent Laos.126 This sensible agreement, formalized at the 1961-62 Genva Conference on Laos, averted the danger of an international conflict over Laos.

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Both Russia and America realized that the land-locked, mountainous, sparsely populated country was not worth a war. They also agreed that neutrality offered Laos the best prospect of living in peace with its neighbours. What other choice was open? Washington’s ‘abandonment’ of Laos however, brought bitter reproaches from American advocates of a ‘hard’ line towards Com­ munism. ‘It is wrong to say that the [us] military do not want to fight in Laos,’ a ‘wise retired Army General of vast renown’ told an American reporter in June 1962. ‘They know in their minds that Laos is geographically vital and that we must fight rather than give up.’ According to the General, ‘it is doubtful that America would need more than two divisions in Laos, properly, gradually, perhaps stealthily, deployed. . . ,’127 What these divisions were supposed to do in Laos remains a mystery. Obviously they,could control most of the little towns, villages and rice lands—at least in the day time— as the French did in Indo-China. But could they pursue the guerrillas into the mountains—and most of Laos is mountainous—find and defeat them and then prevent further infiltration? And would North Vietnam and China, with plenty of tribal warriors ideally suited for these conditions, stand idly by? If it took some 40,000 British and Gurkha troops—and 70,000 police—twelve years to drive 8,000 Communist terrorists out of Malaya—a country with an efficient administration, good system of communications and completely separated from any Communist state—how long would it take American troops, even with the doubtful aid of Phoumi, to pacify Laos? The idea of military intervention was an emotional response to an admittedly frustrating situation, but it never really faced the problem. BACKI NG I NTO V IETNAM

(1) Commitment and . . . If, in Laos, us policy was both ‘wrong’—because it was contrary to the Geneva Agreements—and unrealistic—given the nature of the country—in South Vietnam it was simply unrealistic. Washington could legitimately support an anti-Communist government in the South in answer to the Communist allegiance of the North. And if, despite the provisional nature of the Geneva settlement, a stable regime had emerged in the South, there would have been no problem. But North Vietnam, which in turn was ‘wrong’ to exploit Laos, also had a legitimate cause—reunification of Vietnam. The 1954 Geneva Agreements specified general elections in 1956 ‘which will bring about unification of Vietnam’; this was what the Vietminh had been fighting eight years of war to achieve. Moreover it was laid

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down at Geneva that the ‘provisional military demarcation line’ between the ‘zones’ of North and South ‘should not in any way be interpreted as constituting a political or territorial boundary’.128 Yet the us was entitled to salvage what it could from the wreck of Indo-China. Similarly, the Vietminh was entitled to work for the completion of its national aims. But once peaceful processes were barred—by the refusal of the Diem regime to accept nation-wide elections—it is not surprising that North Vietnam and Vietminh elements in the South should seek to attain their objectives by other means. The Vietnam situation is a conflict of ‘rights’: the right to reunification; the right of one zone (or part of it) to resist domination by the other. The Diem regime never accepted the validity of the Geneva Agreements, whose provisions were broken—and repeatedly broken—by both sides. Diem refused even to consult about nation­ wide elections; and the North started to infiltrate trained guerrillas and cadres into the South. Both carried out reprisals in their own ‘zones’ against supporters or sympathizers of the other: the North against Catholics, rich farmers and ‘bourgeois’ elements; the South against ex-partisans of the Vietminh, whether Communist or nationalist, against the dissident sects (Cao Dai and Hoa Hao), and eventually against any form of organized opposition. Given the propriety of the us commitment to an existing South Vietnam—which under the Republicans, contrary to their Laos policy, was indeed both cautious and limited—the question was how best to carry it out. For the Americans faced three major obstacles to the creation of a viable South. These were, and are: the difficulty in dealing with an unpopular but obstinate client regime; the lack of unity in the region; and the strength of the Vietminh (Vietcong). The apparent success of Ngo Dinh Diem in smashing the opposition to his rule in 1955-56 and in consolidating his power served to obscure the fragmentation of South Vietnam. But the Americans, in the early years of the regime, were at least aware of its fragility. President Eisenhower’s letter to Prime Minister (later President) Diem in October 1954, marked the first formal us commitment to South Vietnam. It has since been much cited, though not in detail, particularly during and after the crisis of 1964-65. This was when the Democratic Administration sought to represent American armed intervention in Vietnam as flowing from the same commitment as that undertaken by Eisenhower ten years before—see, for example, Dean Rusk’s statement of April 25, 1964129—and as consistent with the ‘pledge’ made by ‘three Presidents’—according to President Johnson’s State of the Union address in January 1965130 and sub­ sequent remarks.

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Eisenhower’s message was not so much a ‘pledge’ as a declaration of intent. His ‘commitment’ to aid South Vietnam was both cautious and conditional—on the Saigon Government carrying out ‘needed reforms’. The motives for us assistance were, of course, similar. As Eisenhower put it, it sprang from America’s ‘grave concern’ for the future of a country ‘temporarily divided’, weakened by war and ‘faced with enemies without and by their subversive collaborators within’. The us, he wrote, would therefore ‘examine’— ‘how an intelligent programme of American aid . . . can serve to assist Vietnam . . . in developing and maintaining a strong viable state, capable of resisting attempted subversion or aggression through military means. The Government of the United States expects that this aid will be met by performance on the part of the Government of Vietnam in undertaking needed reforms. . . . Such a government would, I hope, be so responsive to the nationalist aspirations of its people, so enlightened in purpose and effective in performance, that it will be respected both at home and abroad and discourage any who might wish to impose a foreign ideology on your free people.’131 This was a valid ‘hope’, but when the Diem regime turned out to be neither responsive, nor enlightened nor effective—though it was not until the eve of its downfall that Washington would fully admit this—what was the United States to do? The answer is suggested in President Eisenhower’s view of the ‘international facts of life’ : that if ‘aggression or subversion’ should win against the weaker free nations the Communists would ‘step by step’ overcome other ‘once-free’ areas. Then the danger, even to the strongest, would be ‘increasingly menacing’. This ‘truth’ he— and his successors—applied to South Vietnam: ‘Strategically, South Vietnam’s capture by the Communists would bring their power several hundred miles into a hitherto free region. The remaining countries in South East Asia would be menaced by a great flanking movement. The freedom of twelve million people would be lost immediately and that of 150 million others in adacent lands would be seriously endangered. The loss of South Vietnam could set in motion a crumbling process that could, as it progressed, have grave consequences for us and for freedom.’132* This strategic-ideological concept had dominated us Government * President Johnson quoted this passage word for word in his ‘San Antonio’ speech of September 29, 1967 (Department of State Bulletin, October 23, 1967).

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policy towards the Far East at least since the Korean war. What was once considered an anti-colonial struggle—even if Communist-led— became part of a holding operation by ‘free nations’ against ‘aggres­ sion’, to quote President Truman in 1952.133And the final about-turn was revealed in Dulles’s statement of September 1953, that the ‘Communist-dominated armies in Indo-China have no shadow of a claim to be regarded as the champions of an independence move­ ment’.134 us obsession with the global threat of Communism had as its natural counterpart a conviction of the righteousness of the antiCommunist cause. But it was to create serious difficulties for Washington with regard to the post-1954 situation in Vietnam. First of all it inhibited the Administration from pressing for effective action and ‘needed reforms’ by the Diem regime. For the us Govern­ ment either failed to realize or consistently under-estimated both the extent of popular opposition to the ‘free’ regime and the inroads being made by the Vietcong. Second, in the much-publicized belief that South Vietnam (led by Diem) was indispensable to America’s security, the us forfeited any real leverage over the regime. The latter took every advantage of this weakness; it not only begged for us aid but insisted on its full right to use (or abuse) it as it wished.135 And finally, taking on an ever-growing commitment, the us found itself bogged down in a deteriorating situation, unable to extricate itself—both before and after the fall of Diem—for fear of the alarm­ ing consequences it had itself conjured up; and in due course obliged to intervene in far greater strength in order to ‘underwrite’ the entire structure. This was the ‘brink’ from which the Americans had recoiled in China nearly twenty years before. As Secretary of State George Marshall had then pointed o u t: ‘Direct armed intervention in the internal affairs of China runs counter to traditional American policy towards China and would be contrary to the clearly expressed intent of congress which indicated that American aid to China under the $25,000,000 grants did not involve the use of United States combat troops nor United States personnel in command of Chinese troops. . . . The United States Government must be exceedingly careful that it does not become committed to a policy involving the absorption of its resources to an unpredictable extent.. . . To achieve the objective of reducing the Chinese Communists to a completely negligible factor in China in the immediate future, it would be necessary for the United States virtually to take over the Chinese Government and administer its economic, military and governmental affairs. . . . It N

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would be impossible to estimate the final cost of a course of action of such magnitude. . . . It would involve the United States Govern­ ment in a continuing commitment from which it would practically be impossible to withdraw, and it would very probably involve grave consequences to this action by making China an arena of inter­ national conflict. . . .’135 How is it—besides the difference of time (attitudes only three years after a major war may vary considerably from those twenty years after)—that America could stand aside from the ‘loss’ of China, a country of very great importance, and yet feel impelled to intervene, presumably aware of the probable consequences of such a step (as expressed by Marshall), in Vietnam? There seems no convincing answer to this question. But it is worth pointing out that the us administration was well informed of the weakness and failings of the Nationalist regime in China, whereas it suffered severely from ignorance and wishful thinking about Vietnam. Secondly, the climax in China came barely two or three years after the end of the Pacific war; but this stage was not reached in South Vietnam for some eight or ten years after independence. A more gradual deterioration was marked by a more gradual—and hence more insidious us involvement. Instead of facing a desperate plunge into unknown waters, which could be resisted, the Americans in Vietnam were already half immersed and perhaps felt themselves getting accustomed to the swirling currents around them. The us reacted to the threat of North Vietnamese invasion after 1954 by building up conventional forces in the South, and it ignored the unrest in the countryside. So consistently did it follow this policy that by April 1962, when the Vietcong was controlling large areas of the Mekong delta and the Central Highlands, the head of the us Military Advisory Assistance Group, General O’Daniel, reported that because the South Vietnamese ‘units are trained for fighting conven­ tional armed forces’, they ‘find it quite a problem to bring the Com­ munist Vietminh to battle’.137 Until almost the end of this period optimism abounded. According to a South Vietnamese Government handout in 1957, the ‘Vietminh authorities have disintegrated and been rendered powerless’.138 When President Diem visited Washington in May 1957, a joint statement declared that a chaotic situation had been transformed into one of progress and stability, while ‘internal security had been effectively established’.139 A year later, the South Vietnamese Foreign Minister, Vu Van Mao (who was to resign in 1963 in protest against the regime’s repression of the Buddhists) reaffirmed that the ‘Govern­ ment had the threat of internal Communist subversion under

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control’.140 After President Eisenhower had reached the ‘inescapable conclusion’ in April 1959, that ‘some help’ was required for the us ‘in sustaining the morale, the economic progress and the military strength necessary to its [South Vietnam’s] continued existence in freedom’,141 the us deputy military chief in Vietnam, Major-General Myers, blandly asserted that ‘the Vietminh guerrillas . . . were gradually nibbled away until they ceased to be a major menace to the Government’. Two territorial regiments reinforced occasionally by one or two regular regiments he considered would be able to cope with their depredations.142 As late as October 1960—though admittedly the us was then engaged in tackling Laos—Eisenhower found it ‘refreshing’ to observe ‘how clearly the Government and the citizens of Vietnam have faced the fact that the greatest danger to their independence was Communism’. But ‘You and your countrymen,’ he wrote to President Diem, ‘have used your strength well in accepting the double challenge of building your country and resisting Communism.’143 So serious had the situation actually become that the new us Secretary of State, Dean Rusk, was obliged to warn in May 1961, that guerrilla raids, armed attacks and terrorism had reached an ‘unprecedented level’. In 1960, he declared, over 3,000 local officials, soldiers and civilians had been killed or kidnapped. The Vietcong, he said, was attacking isolated garrisons and new townships, ambush­ ing roads and canals, destroying bridges and sabotaging public works and lines of communication. There had been ‘urgent’ discus­ sion in Washington, and the us would give ‘every possible help’ to Vietnam.144 In December 1961 President Diem himself appealed to President Kennedy for further help. ‘The level of their [Communist] attacks is already such,’ he wrote, ‘that our forces are stretched to die utmost. . . . The forces of international Communism now arrayed against us are more than we can meet with the resources at hand.’145A senior State Department official later admitted that ‘to be frank, the war was being lost fast in the fall of 1961’. He said there was a real threat that the Vietcong might ‘liberate’ and hold a remote area in Vietnam, possibly as a ‘seat of government’ which Communist countries could recognize and aid.146 Another senior American, deputy director of the ‘Vietnam Working Group’ in 1963, reported that in the first half of 1962 the Vietcong had launched over 3,000 armed attacks, including a number in battalion strength.147Units of such size—up to 500 men—could overwhelm any locally defended village or isolated military post with impunity. And for the first time Vietcong units of a thousand or more troops went into action, overrunning district— and even a provincial capital—in the Central Highlands, the

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northern provinces and near Saigon. The Vietcong in 1962 numbered over 60,000 armed men, with 100,000 peasants actively supporting their campaign. The crisis appeared so threatening that Vice-President Lyndon Johnson, visiting Saigon in May 1961, was said to have raised the possibility of sending American troops to Vietnam; but, according to Scigliano, ‘this offer was rejected by President Diem on the grounds it would be contrary to the Geneva Agreements and would provide strong propaganda to the Communists’.148 However General Maxwell Taylor’s further investigation for President Kennedy in October 1961 bore the seeds of American intervention—and the bombing of the North. Publicly General Taylor recommended a bigger American role in training and advising the Vietnamese army and administration. As a result, the us Military Assistance Advisory Group was greatly enlarged, a new Military Assistance Command was established under General Harkins and the first us helicopters and fighter bombers arrived in Vietnam. General Taylor is also said to have proposed—though this was not made public—the commitment of an American military ‘task force’ of perhaps 10,000 men to maintain ‘perimeter security’; and if the South Vietnamese army were hard pressed it could act as an emergency reserve. But according to Schlesinger, the President rejected this proposal.149 No doubt his reasoning was similar to that of the State Department’s Deputy Under-Secretary for Political Affairs, U. Alexis Johnson (later Deputy-Ambassador, under Taylor, in Saigon). He pointed out in 1962 that in every case where Com­ munist insurgency had been defeated ‘it has been primarily by the forces of nationalism within the country’. Johnson concluded: ‘We can assist and advise, as we are doing in South Vietnam, but we do not and should not wage “American wars” against insurgent forces.’150 A further recommendation in Taylor’s 1961 report—according to Schlesinger’s account—was to stop the infiltration of troops and supplies from North Vietnam, which Taylor believed would otherwise jeopardize in the South both the proposed programme of civil reforms (which it was envisaged that Diem would carry out) and the increased military effort. Taylor reportedly advocated a contingency policy of retaliation against North Vietnam, graded to match the intensity of Hanoi’s aid to the Vietcong. This, too, was rejected151— at the time. Infiltration from the North in 1961 and for several years to come was far from being a major factor. The Director of Intelligence and Research in the State Department, Roger Hilsman, analysed in September 1962 the relative importance of the two major supply lines—internal and external—used by the guerrillas in South Vietnam. The infiltration routes from the North

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were used chiefly to provide the Vietcong with trained officers, non­ commissioned officers and ‘specialized equipment’. The main supply line was the network of internal jungle trails connecting the thousands of South Vietnamese hamlets. ‘It is from these villages,’ Hilsman reported, ‘that the Communists get food, recruits and raw materials with which to manufacture arms and ammunition.’ Food, of course, had to come from the South. As for weapons, an examination of those captured from the Vietcong showed that they were either arms left over from French colonial days, or home-made guns, mines and grenades, or weapons seized from the South Vietnamese forces. ‘By hitting army, security and police units suddenly and in superior force, the guerrillas are able to assure themselves a local supply of arms and ammunition and reduce their dependence on long supply lines from the north’; these, Hilsman suggested, should in any case be vulnerable to interdiction, at various points within South Vietnam, by the South Vietnamese forces.152 This is not to suggest that infiltration from the North was simply a myth. In December 1961 the us State Department published its ‘White paper’, A Threat to the Peace: North Viet-Nam s Effort to conquer South Vietnam, which documented some individual case histories of agents and ‘military personnel’ who had been captured in the South after infiltration from the North. But the publication did not attempt to estimate the total numbers involved. In its own words, it was a ‘study of Vietcong activities in South Vietnam and of the elaborate organization in the North that supports these activities’.153 The s e a t o Council of Ministers, meeting in March 1961, expressed the same point of view by referring to the ‘efforts of an armed minority [in South Vietnam] again [as in Laos] supported from outside. . . .’154 Rusk himself, in answer to a question whether the Communists were opening up a ‘new theatre’ in Vietnam since the war in Laos was closing, explained that the ‘most active’ part of the Communist efforts in South Vietnam occurred not in the north of the country—near the Communist-infiltrated areas of Laos—‘but in the south, the far south, in the Saigon area’.155 (Two years later it was evident that the greatest successes of the insurgents were in the Mekong delta—the most heavily populated region of South Vietnam —where entire provinces were virtually under Vietcong control.) Rusk added that a ‘considerable number’ of personnel and some supplies were being infiltrated from the North. But he also agreed that the quality of society in South Vietnam, the mobilization of energies and the satisfaction of the people had a ‘great deal’ to do with security and the ability to withstand assault, penetration and sub­ version from ‘outside’.156 Hilsman and some of his colleagues were aware that local con­

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ditions were a sufficient explanation of the guerrilla resurgence in South Vietnam (as of the Huk resurgence in the Philippines, which is far apart from any Communist country). But this was not under­ stood—or if understood, not admitted—in the higher reaches of the State Department and the Pentagon. Increasingly preoccupied with ‘aggression’ from the North* they failed to observe the marked deterioration of the situation in the South. Indeed, as a result of the temporary stimulus of us assistance, ‘optimism’ resumed its sway. This was most strikingly revealed in the White House statement of policy on Vietnam of October 2, 1963, shortly before the collapse of the Diem regime: ‘Secretary McNamara and General Taylor reported their judgement [after a further investigation of the situation in South Vietnam] that die major part of the us military task can be completed by the end of 1965, although there may be a con­ tinuing requirement for a limited number of us training personnel.’157 It must be admitted that the us faced great difficulty in obtaining accurate information about the situation in Vietnam, and especially in the countryside. No us military advisers operated below divisional level before 1962 and, in the words of an American aid official working in the field, ‘thus had tended to be remote from the village security problems’.158 General Taylor himself recalled that ‘President Diem had originally opposed the presence of Americans outside of Saigon, but we eventually broke down his resistance’. When a ‘large number of Americans’ began to be established in the provinces and districts—as a result of the American army build-up from 700 to some 10,000 advisers by the end of 1962—‘we began to improve the quality of our information’. Writing in 1966, Taylor candidly admitted this ‘lesson’ of Vietnam : ‘We must have good information on the internal situation in countries in which we have a present or potential interest This kind of infor­ mation was sorely lacking in the early days of our involvement in Vietnam. . . . I am not talking about military information about the enemy but rather that bearing on the internal conditions in South Vietnam itself. When I visited Saigon in the fall of 1961 to survey the conditions there at the directive of President Kennedy, I became progressively impressed with the fact that the data upon which our * Every time things went badly in Vietnam, President Kennedy told Hilsman early in 1962, there would be more reports about the increased use o f the Ho Chi Minh trails: ‘N o matter what goes wrong or whose fault it really is, the argument will be that the Communists have stepped up their infiltration and we can’t win unless we hit the north. Those trails are a built-in excuse for failure, and a built-in argument for escalation.’ Roger Hilsman, To M ove a Nation (Doubleday, 1967), p. 439.

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government had been basing its plans in Washington were of little value. . . . I found that the information needed at home frequently did not exist, or if it existed, its reliability was highly suspect. Often when American officials, prodded by Washington, pressed their [Vietnamese] counterparts for information, they received either inaccurate data hastily put together to meet the American require­ ment or data doctored to cover up an embarrassing situation from the prying Americans. As a result, in Washington we were often solemnly drawing graphs and preparing reports and recommenda­ tions that had very little relation to the actual conditions in the country.’159 Wishful thinking—the belief so often expressed that the ‘comer has been turned’—added to the lack of experience of Americans on the spot (largely because of the one-year tours of duty, prescribed for reasons of morale) has continued to make this a problem. As late as November 1967—six years after Taylor’s first report—General Westmoreland, the us Commander in Vietnam, and Ambassador Ellsworth Bunker were reported to be ‘privately critical of past us intelligence estimates made by an American officer who has been transferred to another post’ and to be ‘confident’ in the estimates they were now getting of America’s ‘steady progress’.160 General West­ moreland announced in Washington on November 22, 1967, that a ‘new phase’ in the war would begin in 1968 with us efforts to bring South Vietnamese armed forces to ‘combat effectiveness’ and that some time thereafter the ‘Communist infra-structure will be cut up and near collapse’. The interlinked problem of American unawareness and Vietnamese Government ineffectiveness ruined the first serious attempt to get to grips with the political, social and military deterioration in the Vietnamese countryside. This was the application of ‘counter­ insurgency’ measures—a doctrine re-formulated in the Kennedy era as America’s response to the ‘unconventional’ challenge of Khruschev’s ‘wars of national liberation’ and of Mao’s ‘people’s wars’. Counter-insurgency experts argued, reasonably enough, that only after understanding the conditions which enabled guerrilla, ‘shadow’ or ‘internal’ wars to arise in developing countries would it be possible to undertake the positive military and political measures required. In practice, these boiled down to the best way to prevent supplies of food, arms and recruits from swelling the insurgent force. A classic exposition of the theory and intended practice of counter­ insurgency appeared in Hilsman’s ‘A Report on South Vietnam’ of September 1962.161 Isolation of rural communities from the central government through lack of communications and difficulties of

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terrain, ‘but more importantly . . . in a psychological and political sense’. Hilsman explained, was the usual setting for guerrilla war­ fare, as in South Vietnam. One result of such isolation, often over hundreds of years, was that villagers were ‘turned in’ on themselves; ‘they appear rarely to have strong political convictions one way or the other’. Another was insecurity. Cut off from contact with govern­ ment officials, villagers usually had no choice but to ‘go along with’ the armed guerrillas; it was not surprising in these circumstances that villagers would give or sell rice and that some of the young men would be recruited ‘with promises of adventure and good things to come’. The counter-measures needed were therefore interlinked: a military presence to provide security and a ‘social new deal’ to win village support. ‘The principle is that in fighting guerrillas, military operations must be so conducted as to achieve political ends.’ The aim was to create a system in which ‘information about the needs of the villagers can flow upward and government services can flow downwards’. But to do this, the military must move away from cumbersome, conventional military operations designed to take and hold territory, which failed to counter the political motivation of guerrilla tactics. For the guerrillas’ objectives were not to take territory but to ‘win recruits and alienate the people from their government’. As Hilsman explained: ‘The guerrilla’s purpose is well served when large military formations sweep the countryside, for this tends to make life difficult for the vil­ lagers and hence to make the villagers turn against their government. [This remains a major criticism of current us military operations.] Thus, for political reasons the military tactics used against guerrillas should be those of the guerrilla himself—small roving units con­ stantly patrolling and ambushing. Finally, these tactics should be designed to cut the lines of communication between the guerrilla and the thousands of villages to which he goes for food and recruits.’ ‘Strategic hamlets’, based on British experience in Malaya, would be the answer. For the army itself could not garrison all the outlying villages (over 2,500 in South Vietnam—subdivided into some 16,000 hamlets); while if the latter were not protected they would be obliged, from fear of retaliation, to provide food and shelter for the guerrillas. And ‘without protection the villager is afraid to pass on information about the Communist guerrillas to the government’. The prime pur­ pose of properly armed and fortified ‘strategic hamlets’ was to enable the villagers to defend themselves. A second was to control the movement of people and supplies. Strategic hamlets would form a

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‘hedgehog of defended villages’ interdicting the network of local supply routes used by the Vietcong. As Hilsman saw i t : ‘The barbed wire and curfews deny the guerrilla easy access to the villages. If the guerrillas need rice, they must attack a defended village. Thus the whole war is turned round. Instead of the govern­ ment forces chasing the Communists and falling into ambush, the Communists must attack the villages and fall into ambush them­ selves.’ The concept was brilliant; the execution muddled; the conditions unsuitable; and the result, after an initial upsurge, was disastrous. The Americans considered the strategic hamlet programme the ‘heart of the war effort in Vietnam’.162 As the Deputy Director of the ‘Vietnam Working Group’ in Washington described it in August 1963—at the height of the Buddhist crisis—‘it is also the first time in Vietnamese history that the national government has been effectively “plugged in” to hamlet-level society’. Schools, dispensaries, clinics, agricultural extension work and cheap credit ‘are provided’; access roads and irrigation works ‘also come from the government’. This he concluded, was an ‘economic and political stake which they [the villagers] will want to defend’.163 Morale in the countryside was up, affirmed the deputy Secretary of State for Political Affairs in April 1963; ‘to date about half the population—nearly seven million people—live in about 5,000 strategic hamlets. . .. Perhaps the most important result is the intangible knitting together of Government and people’. . . ,164 ‘Both the Vietnamese and we recognize,’ declared Dean Rusk, ‘that this is a political and social struggle as well as a military conflict. . . . We are confident that they [the South Vietna­ mese Government] are on the right track.’165In April 1963, according to Rusk, ‘the “strategic hamlet” programme is producing excellent results’.166 On the contrary the Vietnamese Government and particularly the ‘master mind’ of the programme, Ngo Dinh Nhu, had different ends in view. They intended the strategic hamlet not just as a base for launching attacks against the guerrillas but as a ‘control device’ to facilitate Government manipulation of the rural Vietnamese. Douglas Pike comments: ‘One can search in vain through governmental directives and the speeches of Diem and his brothers for a listing of the benefits or rights that the rural Vietnamese could expect within the strategic hamlet.5167 Nhu’s attitude was expressed to strategic hamlet cadres in October 1962 where he told them that ‘participation [in combat] is considered a citizen’s duty’. ‘Do not rely on foreign aid,’ he added, ‘but on your own internal means. . . . Try to improve

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your own virtue and behaviour.*68 The then Public Affairs Officer at the us Embassy reports that Nhu was adamant against any slogan implying material benefits for the peasants.169 General Duong Van Minh confirmed on November 8, 1963, after the overthrow of the Diem regime; ‘Nhu used strategic hamlets for political rather than pacification purposes. That is why the people in the villages suffered very much.’ Diem himself referred to the ‘irresistible movement’ of the strategic hamlet programme, which had ‘already gone far beyond the original tactical objective’. He saw it as laying the foundations for the ‘Personalist revolution’ in the countryside ‘bringing the certainty of vic­ tory for the Just Cause’.170 Because of the powerful insistence on the programme by their leaders, subordinate officials could not afford to lag behind. An American provincial representative reported that ‘the Division commander [in Danang], eager to please Diem, acceler­ ated the schedule for completion to a work span of two and one-half months instead of six months, as previously programmed’.171 Diem declared in his speech to the National Assembly on October 7,1963, that ‘in the construction of the strategic hamlets, we have held firm to the criterion of speed rather than solidity’ and expected that ‘at the end of 1963, almost all the hamlets planned will have been built’. But he also admitted to an Australian correspondent that the reason he favoured speedy completion was that building slowly gave the Communists too great an opportunity to mobilize the people to destroy the hamlets; this, as Osborne comments, indicates the extent of government control in rural areas.172 In complete contrast to the methodical, carefully planned and well-organized resettlement of half a million Chinese squatters in Malaya during the Emergency, the feverish construction of strategic hamlets for some ten million Vietnamese was pushed ahead regard­ less of practical considerations. The ‘Inter-Ministerial Committee for Strategic Hamlets’ was not set up until February 1962, seven months after the first official references to the programme.173 The British adviser, Robert Thompson, who had had great experience of security operations in Malaya, warned President Diem against going ahead too fast, as it would create a grave risk of over-extending the forces available to protect the hamlets.174 But, he reported later, strategic hamlets were set up haphazardly, there was no solid nucleus in any one area, military operations were not co-ordinated to support them, particularly in the Mekong delta, and no real effort was made to eliminate Vietcong agents and supporters or to impose proper con­ trols. Whereas it had taken the British, under far more favourable conditions, over three years to resettle half a million Chinese squatters in some 500 defended villages, the Vietnamese authorities had rushed

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through the ‘construction’ of 8,000 strategic hamlets—with a popu­ lation of nearly ten out of a total of fourteen millions—in under two years, and most of these in less than one year.175 Abuses and disorganization flourished. In Quang Nam province in Central Vietnam, for example, the Vietcong chose the newly com­ pleted hamlets as special targets, because they had co-operated with the Government. ‘Often there were no fences, no weapons, and no radios to call for help as the Vietcong arrived. It became obvious later that these delays [in supplying equipment], often involving months of waiting, gave the Vietcong ample time to establish “agreements” with the villagers not to oppose their propaganda or their calls for taxes and recruitment.’ And as the situation worsened ‘evidence of embezzlement of pacification funds by the Province Chief [a militant Catholic officer from Hanoi, without civil experi­ ence, in a predominantly Buddhist area] and several District Chiefs was discovered 5176An informal paper written by the us economic mission in Saigon—‘Some comments on the Counter-Insurgency Programme of Vietnam and u s o m [u s Operations Mission]’— reported in 1964: ‘From the very inception of the Strategic Hamlet programme it was apparent that many of these [provincial Vietnamese] officials did not fully understand the concept, and were so frightened by the pressures from the President [Diem] and his brother that they would employ any measures from forced labour and confiscation to false reporting, to achieve the quantitative goals set. . . ,’177 After the overthrow of Diem, the new Military Revolutionary Council decided on December 2, 1963, to call a temporary halt to the strategic hamlet programme. The Council ordered province chiefs to stop forcing peasants to move into hamlets and stop insisting that they contribute financially.178As an American correspondent pointed out, villagers in the Mekong delta region (a contrast to the compact villages of Central Vietnam) were widely scattered and all too often the pressure to bring them into strategic hamlets meant removing them from their land and homes. ‘By and large the population of the delta had been on the fence, but the very act of relocation turned thousands of peasants against the Government.’179 There the Viet­ cong, who were usually local Southerners—as opposed to the exNorthem and Central Vietnamese predominant in the Diem adminis­ tration180—were able to infiltrate insecurely established hamlets, often through the help of an embittered peasantry. Defence Secretary McNamara confirmed that because of the administrative disruption and ‘loss of physical security’ in the countryside, ‘many over­

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extended hamlets have been overrun or severely damaged’.181Despite the ambitious ‘paper’ plans of 1964, the programme in many areas was in a state of collapse. (2) Credibility United States’ policy towards Vietnam continued to be an uneasy mixture of occasional outbursts of realism— at times of crisis when the deteriorating situation could no longer be ignored—against a general background of indiscriminate optimism. Thus after the twoday visit to South Vietnam of Defence Secretary McNamara, C.I.A. Director McCone, Major-General Krulak, ‘Special Assistant for Counterinsurgency and Special Activities, Joint Chiefs of Staff’—an ‘optimistic’ supporter of the strategic hamlet programme182—and others in December 1963, the White House reported that the mission had reviewed ‘in great detail’ the 1964 operation plans of the South Vietnamese and us military advisers and ‘we have every reason to believe they will be successful’.183 Secretary McNamara and General Taylor, then Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, went on a five-day ‘inspection trip’ in March 1964. ‘There have unquestionably been setbacks,’ they admitted on their return to Washington, but ‘General Khanh and his Government [Khanh had ousted General Minh two months before] are acting vigorously and effectively. They have pro­ duced a sound central plan for the prosecution of the war. . . .’ Further American assistance was needed, they recommended, but with ‘continued vigorous leadership’ the ‘situation can be signifi­ cantly improved in the coming months’.184 McNamara in his first major statement on ‘us Policy in Vietnam’, eulogized Khanh: ‘Today the Government of General Khanh is vigorously rebuilding the machinery of administration and reshaping plans to carry the war to the Vietcong. He is an able and energetic leader. He has demonstrated his grasp of the basic elements—political, economic and psychological as well as military—required to defeat the Viet­ cong. He is planning a programme of economic and social advances for the welfare of his people. He has brought into support of the Government representatives of key groups previously excluded. He and his colleagues have developed plans for the systematic liberation of areas now submissive to Vietcong duress and for mobilization of all available Vietnamese resources in the defence of the homeland.’185 This was in March 1964. By August the New York Times cor­ respondent in Saigon was reporting that the early progress made in ‘pacification’—the concept now in vogue—was being threatened by

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Vietcong terrorism and its deadly practice of ambushes. Many Americans working in the provinces doubted if Vietnamese officials in the countryside either understood or cared about the tedious business of pacification—an American programme in which they showed little confidence.186 Khanh himself was ousted as ‘President’ at the end of August—he had been appointed a few days before under his own new Constitution—following violent demonstrations by students and Buddhists. After nine more months of mounting confusion—of demonstrations, riots, frequent changes of govern­ ment, coups and abortive coups—Air Vice-Marshal Ky, the new Prime Minister, pointed in June 1965 to the effects of the ‘crisis in leadership’ : ‘The administrative machinery has been impaired and parts of it dismantled. . . . In many rural areas, the collapse of administrative agencies has frustrated the government’s effective control and the fighting efficiency of the armed forces. . . . In view of these circum­ stances, it is only natural that the economic and financial systems should also be in a state of collapse. The uncertainty prevailing has provoked alarm among the people.. .. Inflation has caused prices to spiral constantly and the cost of living to soar. . . . Similarly tragic is the picture of the social, educational and cultural fields. . . . The social evils which already existed at the time we were bom still appear rampant, unchanged, and compounded with new ones. . . . Pupils and students rely on their parents for help, but the latter are helpless because of the miserable state of a highly divided society ’ As for the war : ‘That the Vietcong have succeeded in bringing into the Republic of Vietnam such a large force as they have today has mainly been due to errors, errors which became increasingly serious, committed under the old [Diem] regime. But the biggest failure has been the lack of appropriate and timely tactics to prevent the conquest through Com­ munist wars of subversion. . . . Under successive governments, the errors of the past, far from being corrected, were compounded by new errors. This crisis of tactics has brought about the result that the Vietcong have now succeeded in staging co-ordinated attacks in which they have been able to deploy several regiments against areas defended by only one or a few of our battalions... .n87 At the same time General Thieu, Chairman of the newly formed ‘Council for the Leadership of the Nation’, revealed that ‘at the moment half of Vietnamese territory is controlled and morally domi­ nated by the Vietcong’. Direct general elections were impossible. The

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security of the towns was being sabotaged, with large scale military operations not far away. . . ,188 So in March 1965 the first American combat units were sent to Vietnam. In May there were over 40,000 us troops, in June over 50,000. The bombing of North Vietnam started in February 1965. Yet in April President Johnson was still speaking of ‘calculated action’ rather than sudden escalation against the North; of building up South Vietnamese ground forces to cope with the Vietcong, rather than bringing in us combat units. . . ,189 ‘The South Vietnamese Government has not asked for international ground forces to support their effort in South Vietnam.’ The South Vietnamese felt this is ‘not what is needed’, said Dean Rusk.190 ‘Instead of entering the war directly,’ observed in 1963 a perceptive American historian who had worked in Vietnam, ‘the United States backed into it.’191 He continued: ‘What American officials failed to grasp in 1959 was that Communist political activity and terrorism were the visible signs of a deteriorating security situation. American miscalculation of the Communist threat continued well into 1961’192— and into 1963,1965 and 1967. It was not for lack of warning. Nguyen Thai, for over five years director of the official news agency Vietnam Press, resigned in 1961 to draw ‘urgent’ attention to the ‘desperate situation’ in South Vietnam. He wrote: .. the Ngo Dinh Diem regime has been unable to rally any popular support. Even its early supporters can no longer tolerate the climate of corruption, hypocrisy and inefficiency created by the various cliques of sycophants who try to exploit the regime before its collapse. . . . Thus in South Vietnam today, a well trained, well equipped Vietnamese army and a relatively large administration cannot effec­ tively fight Communist political subversion. . . . Instead they are making a massive effort to hide the truth about South Vietnam, misleading even the Americans into thinking there is no political alternative to the present situation.’193 Washington’s commitment to the ‘indispensable’ anti-Communist leader was reinforced with optimism— first about Diem, then Khanh, then Ky. Thus Admiral Felt, Commander-in-Chief, us Forces in the Pacific, declared on July 14,1963, that the war in Vietnam was going very well: ‘The Vietcong are definitely on the run.’ Senior American officials in Saigon were reported two months later as saying that the war could be won in nine months, that the border with North Vietnam was 95 per cent closed and ‘Vietcong guerrillas are being starved out.’194 General Harkins, the American Commander in

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Vietnam, added in November 1963: ‘Victory in the sense it would apply to this kind of war is just months away and the reduction of American advisers can begin any time now.’195Yet, as the New York Times correspondent in Saigon reported a month later, November had been disastrous for the South Vietnamese Government. Casual­ ties and loss of weapons were higher than in any previous period. For a long time, he wrote, the Vietcong had been building up guer­ rilla capabilities, especially in the Mekong delta, and if no change took place the area would be swallowed up in six months.196 While the Vietcong was gaining control of the delta almost by default—President Diem believed it reflected badly on his regime if his army suffered casualties*—us officials were claiming that the ‘tide has now turned . . . the Communist threat has been stopped and is beginning to be rolled back’.197 Rusk himself argued early in 1963 that ‘government forces clearly have the initiative in most areas of the country’, that ‘defections from the Vietcong have grown rapidly’ and that the ratio of arms captured to those lost had ‘shifted drama­ tically in favour of the government troops’.198 If so, this was a tem­ porary phenomenon. However no attempt was made (until much later) to rectify this assessment and so a misleading impression re­ mained. In fact—according to us official estimates published in 1966—desertions from the Vietcong amounted to over 11,000 in 1963, 5,400 in 1964 and just over 11,000 in 1965.199 But this should be compared to 36,000 who deserted from government forces in 1963,200 72,000 in 1964201 and 96,000 in 1965202. As for weapons losses the trend against the government had set in as early as 1962. In 1963 the Vietcong—according to us Defence Department figures lost 5,400 weapons while government forces lost 8,500. In 1964 the guerrillas lost 4,900 to the government’s 13,700.203By late 1964 it was estimated that the Vietcong completely controlled one-third of South Vietnam’s over 200 administrative districts and ‘contested’ —government-controlled by day, Vietcong at night—most of the rest.201 Hanoi-trained infiltrators actually formed quite a small element of total Vietcong strength— in late 1964 there were some 34.000 Vietcong regulars with some 90,000 regional and local guerrillas—thus about 15 percent at most.205They were facing about 400.000 South Vietnamese troops, half of them regulars. McNamara fitfully recognized, as in his March 1964 policy speech, that the ‘large indigenous support that the Vietcong receives means that solutions must be as political and economic as military. Indeed there can be no such thing as a purely “military” solution to the war * Diem frequently fired commanders reporting unpleasant news or who had too many casualties. (Mecklin, p. 10. And see the consequences in Halberstam, p. 141.)

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in South Vietnam’. But there is little to show that the State Depart­ ment was (and is?) thinking in these terms. Rusk’s public statements consistently minimized adverse political—and military—develop­ ments, but exaggerated the ‘optimistic’ ones. To Rusk in April 1963, the four ‘national elections’ held by the Diem regime (which most observers agree were rigged) and the elected hamlet councils and proposed village council elections (Diem himself had abolished these in 1956) ‘show steady movement towards a constitutional system rest­ ing upon public consent’. The war in Vietnam, he concluded, was ‘a battle to the end between freedom and coercion’.206 The official impression of the South Vietnamese regime presented to Americans was, as Vice-President Johnson put it in May 1961, that of ‘dedicated leadership’ by the President, recently re-elected by the ‘overwhelming majority’ of his countrymen (he received over 99 per cent of the votes in one Communist-dominated province207) ‘in the vanguard of those leaders who stand for freedom on the periphery of the Communist Empire’.208 The protests of the opposition in South Vietnam were ignored. Yet a year before Johnson’s visit to Saigon, a highly respectable group of Vietnamese including eleven exMinisters and four former senior officials—one of whom was to become Head of State and two to become Prime Minister after the fall of Diem—had ‘beseeched’ the President to remedy the situation, lest the people ‘burst forth in irresistible waves of hatred’ to sweep away the ‘ignominies and injustices which surround and oppress them’. As the ‘Manifesto’ of April 26,1960, declared: ‘The people do not know a better life or more freedom A Consti­ tution has been established in form only; a national assembly exists whose deliberations always fall into line with the government; anti­ democratic elections—all those are methods and “comedies” copied from the dictatorial Communist regimes . . . continuous arrests fill the jails and prisons. . . . Public opinion and the press are reduced to silence. . . . Political parties and religious sects have been elimi­ nated. . .. Effective power is . . . concentrated in fact in the hands of an irresponsible member of the [Ngo] “family”, from whom emanates all orders. . . . Favouritism based on family or [the regime’s] party connections should be banished; the selling of influence, corruption and abuse of power must be punished... .’209 This statement appeared in the American press. It was not allowed to be published in South Vietnam. After the fall of Diem, the chair­ man of the Military Revolutionary Council, General Minh, spoke of the realities of ‘free’ Vietnam : ‘No one can deny that this [Diem] administration gradually led to

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the unavoidable consequences of all dictatorial regimes: the sup­ pression of individual freedoms, the destruction of nationalist opposition forces and the development of abuse and exploitation. At the same time they fooled world public opinion by pretending to be supported by the masses. Through the so-called people’s organiza­ tions, associations and services, which were similar to fascist organizations, they established an intelligence and secret police net­ work in the service of their administration. . . . The loss of the people’s confidence and the division they deliberately created between the Army and the people led to extremely dangerous consequences. During the last six months, lies and the barbarous repression of monks, students and Buddhist laymen marked the last phase of their corruption. . . ,’210 How could Washington have ignored or evaded such issues for so long? Was it ‘operating in a world of illusion’, as the us Embassy in Saigon was said to be in 1962-63?211 As one of its senior officials later wrote, much of what the American newsmen took to be ‘lies’ about the political and military situation in Vietnam was exactly what the Mission genuinely believed.212 But after the 1963 upheaval did the us Administration still not understand what was happening in South Vietnam? Did it know and try to hide this information? Or was it simply hoping against hope that things would get better— and thus could keep putting off painful decisions? The tentative answer—in the absence of such published policy documentation as has appeared, for instance, in United States Relations with China— seems to be that Washington could not have been unaware that the military and political position was deteriorating; the Administra­ tion tried to conceal the gravity of the situation; but this was more a reflection of helplessness than of deliberate bad faith. Even so, some of the State Department appraisals strain credibility. Do you share Ambassador Lodge’s ‘qualified optimism’, Rusk was asked at his News Conference on July 1,1964? ‘Yes, I must say that I do,’ he replied. ‘I am one of those people in town who read every day the complete and detailed operational report that comes in every day from South Vietnam—reports that cover the military operations, the political and psychological situation. And I must say, as I read those reports on a day-by-day basis, I find myself wondering about the morale of the Vietcong.’ The Vietcong, in Rusk’s view, was facing a ‘very serious problem’ in terms of losses, disruption and morale.213 Be this as it may, the us Government decided that month to increase its forces in Vietnam by about 30 per cent. Why was there not a ‘full and public explanation’ of the new us build-up’, Rusk was asked at the end of July? Because it was ‘primarily a matter for the o

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Department of Defence’, came the reply, and in any case there was ‘not much magic’ in theoretical numbers and strength tables.214 Three weeks later, a ‘working paper’ on Vietnam by an official of the Central Intelligence Agency, which had leaked to the Press, was published. It was dated June 8, 1964, and had received the ‘general approval’ of the ‘Board of National Estimates’ of the C.I.A. These were its conclusions: ‘The guerrilla war in South Vietnam is in its fifth year and no end appears in sight. The Vietcong in the South, dependent largely upon their own resources but under the direction and control of the Com­ munist regime in the North, are pressing their offensive more vigorously than ever___ The counter-guerrilla effort continues to flounder, partly because of the inherent difficulty of the problem and partly because Diem’s successors have not yet demonstrated the leadership and inspira­ tion necessary. There remains serious doubt that victory can be won, and the situation remains very fragile. If large-scale United States’ support continues and if further political deterioration within South Vietnam is prevented, at least a prolonged stalemate can be attained. There is also a chance that political evolution within the country and developments upon the world scene could lead to some kind of negotiated settlement based upon neutralism.’215 A critical month elapsed between Rusk’s news conferences at the end of July and the end of August 1964—there were also crises in the Congo and in Cyprus and the Democratic Party was nominating Johnson for the Presidency. During that month the New York Times reported, chiefly from Vietnam: Aug. Aug. Aug. Aug.

1: 2: 4: 7:

Vietcong strike at a village only four miles from Saigon. North Vietnamese attack U.S.S. Maddox in Tonkin Gulf. us retaliation against North Vietnam. Khanh orders State of Emergency; “temporary suspen­ sion” of “all laws and regulations”, as necessary. Aug. 16: Khanh appointed President (General Minh removed as Head of State) under new Constitution voted by Military Revolutionary Council. “War Cabinet” to be announced. Senior American officials informed. Aug. 17: Vietcong battalion inflicts over 100 casualties on Govern­ ment troops ambushed in Mekong delta. Aug. 18: Cyrus Vance, us Deputy Defence Secretary: Khanh’s “broad new powers” should improve governmental

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organization and make for greater unity of effort in pacification. Aug. 20: South Vietnamese troops ambushed in delta, 200 killed or missing. Aug. 21: Student demonstration against Khanh’s “military dicta­ torship”. Aug. 23: Students demand end of emergency restrictions; Buddhists demand religious freedom, removal of “anti-Buddhist” elements in the regime. Aug. 24: us State Department reaffirms support for Khanh; any­ thing of a “divisive nature” is not in the interest of the South Vietnamese Government or people. Aug. 25: Khanh yields to pressure, pledges to liberalize regime, revise Constitution and step down after election of new Head of State. “Power struggle” reportedly under way in Saigon as us officials look on “in apparent helplessness”. Military Revolutionary Council votes to withdraw Con­ stitution. us Embassy in Saigon “hopes” this will lead to greater unity in the country and more effective prosecution of the war against the Vietcong. Aug. 26: Military commanders fail to agree on new Head of State. Khanh: “Situation is very serious.” Aug. 27: “Provisional leadership” of Khanh (Prime Minister), Khiem (Khanh’s rival) and Minh (victim of Khanh’s first coup). Aug. 27: Khanh, suffering “physical and mental breakdown”, leaves Saigon: Acting Prime Minister Oanh. Washington “relatively optimistic” that new appointment will end tensions. This was the depressing situation that confronted Rusk when he met the Press on August 30, 1964.216 Yet the us policy, he told the meeting, was ‘utterly simple’ : for the past ten years it was assistance —‘large assistance’—to the government and people of South Vietnam, who were defending themselves against aggression from the North represented by ‘guerrillas called the Vietcong’. As for recent events in Saigon, ‘nothing behind the scenes’ from the us Embassy suggested anything different from what was in the extensive newspaper reports. He elaborated: ‘What has been happening there has been an attempt to work out on a long-range basis some changes in the constitutional situation, along the lines that General Khanh has been thinking about and working on for some time.’ As for the nine-day President, ‘General Khanh is taking a few days’ rest. Just how long we don’t know.* (Khanh returned to Saigon on September

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4, foiled a coup by two ‘disgruntled’ generals on September 13, and handed over to a civilian government in November, which lasted three months.) The explicit assumptions of the Administration were, first, that the political situation was not a ‘main issue’ in South Vietnam and second, that even if there was political confusion it was not affecting the conduct of military operations. Both assumptions were wrong. But Rusk saw it in a different light. The ‘fundamental’ point to him was that no group other than the Vietcong wanted to turn to Hanoi. Therefore the differences among religious groups and ‘rivalries of one sort or another’ among the South Vietnamese ‘ought to be put aside until the main issue against the Vietcong has been resolved’. The us Government was urging a ‘moratorium on lesser matters’ until the ‘great national victory over the Vietcong can be achieved’. Among these ‘lesser matters’, according to Rusk, were the ‘differences of view’ as to ‘how Government ought to be organized’ and who ought to hold particular positions in it. These matters were surely of very great importance to the Viet­ namese, who had suffered under former governments, even if less important to the Americans, who had not. It is impossible to explain how the insurgency was able to develop so strongly without regard to the insufficiencies of the Diem and successive regimes. The strength of the guerrillas reflects the weakness of the government. Thus the popularity of the one—in the absence of a democratic, or at least more representative ‘third force’, which an authoritarian regime could not permit to emerge—was directly related to the unpopularity of the other. For the Vietnamese it was ‘performance’ that counted: ‘performance’ was of course the criterion for granting us assistance in 1954—a point that was ignored in later presentations of the case for commitment. The Vietnamese peasant in particular wanted more land, less taxation, relief from official abuses: this was what the Vietcong both promised and performed. The argument that ‘there is no popular wave of interest in the political solutions that are offered by Hanoi, no desire to pick up Communism as a way of life’, which Rusk found ‘one of the most encouraging elements of the situation’ in July 1964,217 is simply beside the point. Communism was not being offered by the Vietcong. The Administration’s second assumption followed from the first: that political disunity—being a ‘lesser matter’—did not affect military security. That this was not so had been evident at least from 1963, if not before. General Minh had spoken of the ‘deep influence’ of Diemist repression of the Buddhists on the countryside: ‘We know it. because we all have relatives in the villages.’ And he rightly con­ cluded that ‘we must first win the support of the people before we

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can win against the Communists’. This did not prevent Rusk from claiming on August 30, 1964: ‘This [political confusion] does not seem to affect what is going on in the field against the guerrillas.. . . These problems in Saigon have not yet affected the operations against the Vietcong in the field.’ He said there were two thousand ‘small unit’ actions every day looking for the Vietcong and twenty-five to thirty battalion-sized operations every day.218 But Sir Robert Thompson has pointed out that the ratio of ‘contacts’ with the Vietcong to government operations launched was ‘lamentable’. In a typical month of 1964 only 451 contacts resulted from 60,000 small unit operations.219 Military, if not political, optimism remained an article of faith for the Administration. On September 10,1964, Rusk not only reaffirmed that ‘events have not interfered with the prosecution of the war against the Vietcong’ but maintained that the army’s problem was to ‘find and fix’ the guerrillas ‘because the Vietcong habitually does not attack the armed forces of South Vietnam’.220 At a ‘high level review’ of the Vietnam situation the day before, Ambassador Maxwell Taylor ‘was able to report [to the President] continued progress in the field in the Vietnamese Army’s fight against the Communist Vietcong’.221 General Westmoreland, newly appointed head of the us Military Assistance Command in Vietnam, felt there was a ‘general upward trend’.222 Events in Saigon, added Rusk a few days later, ‘have not brought about dislocation and changes in the provinces’ where ‘considerable headway’ had been made in the last few months.223 There were no further official statements on Vietnam for nearly two months—during the us Presidential campaign. But on December 1, 1964 a White House statement sounded the first gloomy notes. It reported that ‘security problems’ had increased ‘over the past few months’ in the northern provinces, ‘with uneven progress elsewhere’. As for the economy, ‘increased interdiction of the communication routes by the Vietcong is interfering to some extent with com­ merce. . . .’ And there was ‘accumulated evidence’ of ‘increased North Vietnamese support of the Vietcong’. Therefore the us would ‘consult urgently’ with the South Vietnamese Government to ‘improve the situation in all its aspects’.224 On December 20,1964, the High National Council of Vietnam— the ‘fabric of legal government’, as Taylor pointed out—was purged by ambitious young generals, headed by Ky and Thi. Rusk now conceded that unity was a ‘primary requirement’ for a solution in Vietnam. ‘Unity,’ he said, ‘would be worth many, many divisions.’285 ‘The political situation today is critical,’ confirmed William Bundy, Assistant Secretary of State for Far Eastern Affairs towards the end

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of January 1965; resolution of this crisis was ‘central to turning the war around and restoring an independent and secure South Vietnam’.226 But America had come to the end of the road with a policy of advice and assistance. The drastic change for the worse in Vietnam, both militarily and politically, forced a drastic change in American policy. For as William Bundy stated in May 1966, if the United States had not massively intervened in 1965 ‘the vicious arithmetic of guerrilla warfare would have brought victory to the Vietcong and their North Vietnamese masters’.227 Thus force of necessity compelled Washington to reverse its longstanding opposition to engagement in a war on the Asian mainland. For, as Eisenhower had pointed out, involvement in all-out war in Indo-China ‘would be no greater tragedy’ for the United States.228 Four ‘options’ had been variously canvassed during 1964: us withdrawal (advocated by certain critics of the Administration); neutralization of South Vietnam (de Gaulle’s proposition); military action against North Vietnam (foreshadowed by the Tonkin Gulf attacks); and continued support for Saigon against the Vietcong. Washington rejected outright the first tw o: withdrawal would mean virtual abandonment of South East Asia to the Communists,229 while neutralization could only be an ‘interim device’ prior to a Communist takeover.230 Throughout the year the possibility of ‘expanding the war’ to North Vietnam—the third option—had been conveyed, ‘if the Communists persist in their course of aggression’, as Rusk put it.231 But the Administration’s basic policy—expressed as late as January 1965—was that the ‘root of the problem’ was in South Vietnam.232 ‘The fact is that only the Vietnamese can win this war,’ it was argued before. ‘It is the struggle for the loyalty of a whole people We can help the Vietnamese but we can’t do their fighting for them.’233 Action against the North ‘would only be a supplement to, not a substitute for, progress within South Vietnam’s own borders’, McNamara reaffirmed in 1964.234 The ‘central problem’ of pacification was in South Vietnam, agreed Rusk, ‘and no miracle in the north is going to suddenly transform or eliminate the problem in South Vietnam’.235 It was only when faced with the imminent collapse of South Vietnamese authority*—and with it of a decade of ‘helping’ Saigon * How bad the situation was early in 1965 was revealed by the Chairman of the u s Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Earle Wheeler, two years later. Report­ ing from north to south: ‘In the I Corps area, the Vietcong had moved into the coastal lowlands and were beginning to isolate D a Nang and Hue. In the II Corps region, the Vietcong and North Vietnamese units moved with total freedom and were on the verge o f overrunning several provincial capitals. In

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to win its war—that the us sought a ‘miracle’ in the North. Rather than ‘underwrite’ the struggle in the South, Washington counted on the threat of aerial destruction to force North Vietnam—since it ‘directed’ the Vietcong—to call off the war. Since threats had no effect the us had to step up the pressure. The Tonkin Gulf incidents had already produced the required blank cheque in the form of a Joint Congressional Resolution authorizing the President, as Commander-in-Chief, ‘to take all necessary steps, including the use of armed force, to assist any member or protocol State [e.g. South Vietnam] of the South East Asia Collective Defence Treaty requiring assistance in defence of its freedom’.236 Plans for a ‘limited air war’ against North Vietnam, prepared in 1964, were put into effect in February 1965. (Ironically the first strike, unrelated to previous Vietcong ‘provocation’, had to be postponed because of the uncertain situation in Saigon following an attempted military coup.) When force, even though rapidly intensified, had no effect on Hanoi—and no lasting effect, after the initial elation, in the South— President Johnson tried inducement. Previously Washington had insisted that negotiations were out of the question until ‘Communist aggression’ had ceased: ‘We are not going to negotiate to reward aggression,’ according to Rusk.237 But in his Baltimore speech of April 7, 1965, Johnson appealed for ‘unconditional discussions’ to lead to a ‘peaceful settlement’;238 and even ‘neutralization’ was later considered possible, though not by Saigon which had labelled it a crime.239 However it was too late. Just as the Americans had turned down a negotiated settlement in 1964,240 when they believed they still had the upper hand, so the North Vietnamese and the Vietcong spumed Johnson’s offers in 1965. The Americans, who rejected withdrawal—the only terms really offered by the Communists— were forced back to their fourth option; and with the Saigon regime cmmbling there was no way out but armed intervention. America’s response, and with it the character of the war, had changed. P E A CE — AND THE TET O F F E N S I V E

For the first time in nearly two years, early in 1968, the Vietcong went over to the offensive. A force of between 100,000 and 120,000 men was secretly organized—half of them in fighting units—which struck a devastating and surprise blow to thirty-eight (out of fortyfour) provincial capitals and some sixty district towns hitherto virtuIII and IV corps [around Saigon and the Mekong delta, respectively] the Vietcong were moving unimpeded between war zones C and D, their sanc­ tuaries, and the critical delta areas. . . .’ Speech on January 17, 1967 (Department of State Bulletin, February 6, 1967.)

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ally untouched by war. Less than one-third of these armed men were regular North Vietnamese troops.241 Thus Joseph Alsop, himself a ‘hard-liner’, challenged the old ‘aggression from the North’ theory when he pointed o u t: ‘The great bulk of the attacking troops were true Vietcong in the old sense—local units composed of Southerners. . . .’242 If as General Westmoreland, us Commander in Vietnam since 1964, reiterated, ‘this whole campaign is a go-for-broke proposition’ and the enemy ‘has put forth a maximum effort’,243 and, as President Johnson claimed, the offensive was intended as a ‘general uprising’ to ‘overthrow the constitutional government in Saigon’,244then clearly once the Vietcong had been driven out of Saigon, Hue and the high­ land and delta towns, its ‘desperate’ final effort had failed. It had shot its bolt. In this belief, ‘reports brimming with confidence and satisfaction over the outcome of that [first] stage of the offensive have been sent to the White House both by General William C. Westmore­ land . . . and Ambassador Ellsworth Bunker [in Saigon]’.245After the ‘second wave’ of Vietcong mortar and rocket attacks on cities and bases, in mid-February 1968, President Johnson and his senior advisers publicly doubted that the Vietcong could soon mount another offensive on a nation-wide scale. General Walt, the us Marines’ Deputy Commander, believed that the enemy’s failure to take-over the citices amounted to a ‘real defeat’, while W. W. Rostow, the President’s Special Assistant, told reporters that the South Vietnamese army had given such a good account of itself in the Tet offensive that it was ‘riding high’, full of pride and confidence that it could defend the cities.246 Only ten days later, General Wheeler, Chairman of the u s Joint Chiefs of Staff, brought back from Saigon General Westmoreland’s request for another 200,000 men—a 40 per cent increase in us forces —needed if he was to ‘regain the initiative’ from the Vietcong and the North Vietnamese.247 General Wheeler, in contrast to the opti­ mistic statements expressed before and after the Tet offensive—for example in Ambassador Bunker’s ‘Report on Vietnam’, ‘today the initiative is curs’248—admitted on his return from Saigon: ‘I think the initiative now lies on both sides. In certain areas where the North Vietnamese and Vietcong have sizeable uncommitted forces, of course they can move. They have tactical flexibility. In other areas, particularly in areas where they have been repulsed, I would say that General Westmoreland’s forces have the initiative.’249 This was a very different story from General Westmoreland’s own ‘Progress Report on the War in Vietnam’ (delivered in Washington in Novem­ ber 1967). This anticipated ‘Phase III’ of the war, ‘when the end begins to come into view’, as starting in 1968 with the employment

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of ‘us and free-world forces to destroy North Vietnamese forays while we assist the Vietnamese to reorganize for territorial security . . . [and] help the Government of Vietnam single out and destroy the Communist shadow government’. Allied forces were said to have completed Phase II (mid-1966 to end 1967) when they: ‘Drove the enemy divisions back to sanctuary or into hiding.. . . Raised enemy losses beyond his input capacity. . . . Discovered and thwarted the enemy’s battle plans before they could be executed.’250So if, as Alsop says of the Tet offensive, ‘the enemy’s plan went horribly wrong’— expecting a general uprising and disintegration of the South Vietna­ mese army251—so, it seems, did Westmoreland’s. The verdict had actually been given three years before by Major General Edward Lansdale, former adviser to Presidents Magsaysay and Diem, in his article, ‘Vietnam: Do we understand Revolution?’ : ‘The harsh fact. . . is that, despite the use of overwhelming amounts of men, money and material, despite the quantity of well-meant American advice and despite the impressive statistics of casualties inflicted on the Vietcong, the Communist subversive insurgents have grown steadily stronger, in numbers and in size of units, and still retain the initiative to wreak their will in the very areas of Vietnam where Vietnamese and American efforts have been most concentrated.5252 General Westmoreland’s recall—announced on March 22, 1968— and President Johnson’s decision nine days later not to stand again for the Presidency, only confirm this verdict, us policy had reached a dead-end in Vietnam. The addition of only 24,000 troops to level off at 550,000, the limitation of bombing of North Vietnam and John­ son’s plea to Hanoi to join in peace talks, mark a turning point in the war. For Johnson it is the last chance. He is staking his future— with some possibility of success now that the military balance has once more (as in 1964) evened out—on a negotiated settlement.* The question is whether Hanoi and the Vietcong consider the change in us policy to be a fatal sign of weakness which they can ruthlessly exploit or—under pressure from the Russians and perhaps with only verbal opposition from the Chinese—they are prepared to com­ promise, as Washington at last is, in the belief that the alternative * There is ‘considerable evidence’ that the N.L.F. leaders seriously con­ sidered taking part in an authentic coalition government in 1962, in 1963, and again in mid-1964 when it ‘put forth feelers for a proposal for what appeared to be an authentic coalition government’ [of Left-Wing, Right-Wing and Neutralists similar to the Laos arrangement]. Interestingly, part of the 1964 settlement was to ‘involve de facto partition of South Vietnam, with the N.L.F. having exclusive control over the five southern provinces adjacent to the Cambodian border. . . .’ Douglas Pike, Viet Cong (M.I.T., 1966), pp. 359-61.

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of continued hardship and destruction would be worse. Hanoi’s attitude to negotiations may be gauged from a confidential report by General Nguyen Van Vinh, head of the Lao Dong (North Vietnam Communist Party) Reunification Department in April 1966 —recorded in the notebook of a Vietcong cadre, captured in Ninh Thuan province on January 28, 1967: \ .. Fighting continues until the emergence of a situation where both sides are fighting indecisively. Then, a situation where fighting and negotiations are conducted simultaneously may arise.. . . At present there are three viewpoints with regard to war and peace : The Americans find it necessary to negotiate, but negotiate from a strong position. . . . A number of countries want us to enter negotiations, any form of negotiations—so that a big war does not break out and this war can be ended—regardless of the interests of Vietnam. Some other countries wonder whether we can defeat the Americans, and if not, we should enter into negotiations. (Most of these countries are nationalist countries in Asia, Africa and Latin America). . . . China holds the view that conditions for negotiations are not yet ripe, not until a few years from now and, even worse, seven [several?] years from now. In the meantime we should continue fighting to bog down the enemy. . . . Our policy: to continue fighting until a certain time when we can fight and negotiate at the same time. . . .’253 Johnson’s about-turn from intensification to de-escalation is in recognition that the military conflict has indeed reached a stale­ mate—‘both sides are fighting indecisively’—although the pacifica­ tion struggle—‘the heart of the matter’ as Cabot Lodge has rightly said—has suffered a shattering reverse. This was probably the real aim of the Tet offensive: (1) to destroy the confidence of the towns­ people in government protection, (2) to divert government forces from the countryside into maintaining permanent garrisons in the towns, (3) by the threat of renewed attacks to aggravate popular insecurity, and (4) to make the most of the freedom of movement in the countryside to consolidate and enlarge Vietcong control of the villages. To reverse this situation, as Westmoreland desired, would require the mobilization of an additional 200,000 us soldiers —at a cost of $20,000 to $40,000 a man*—over and above the * An estimated $40,000 each soldier for the first u s combat troops in Viet­ nam, but nearer $20,000 each for their successors, since much of the basic construction and equipment has been provided. Testimony o f u s Director o f Budget, Charles Zwick, before the Senate Finance Committee (Inter­ national Herald Tribune, March 14, 1968).

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present half million troops and the current $30 billion annual budget: a virtual impossibility in election year. But even these drastic measures were far from certain to ‘regain the initiative’. For the one obvious fact—ever since the American build-up in 1965— was that the North Vietnamese were prepared and able to match every increase in us strength; not in numbers, but in effective capacity to tie down American units. Already the heavy losses suffered during the Tet offensive have been made up, first, by increased infiltration from North Vietnam—a further 20,000 or 30,000 in the two months since the end of January 19682M—and second, by the greater scope for recruitment open to the Vietcong in presently undefended rural areas. Above all, the North Vietnamese have ample reserves of manpower to draw on to maintain a ‘reasonable ratio’ of strength to whatever level of forces the us may decide on.255 As for pacification, it had been lagging well behind plans and expectations, even before the Tet offensive. The main reason for this is that the us military command is still fighting a conventional war: Westmoreland’s strategy of ‘attrition’ gives priority to massive sweeps to ‘search and destroy’ the enemy main force units rather than to attempt to ‘clear and hold’ newly secured areas. Second, and following from the first, the us military seriously under-estimated the village-based strength and organization of the Vietcong. This was a failure of intelligence on a large scale and over a long period of time, culminating in the evident ‘massive failure of intelligence’ to discover the extent of the enemy’s preparations for the Tet offen­ sive. The puzzlement of Americans in face of an unconventional war is well brought out by a ‘senior us officer responsible for policy making’ in Vietnam, interviewed in July 1967: ‘We keep on destroy­ ing them [the Vietcong] yet they always come back. And in the mean­ time nothing changes in the enemy position among the population. . . . We hoped at one time [the Manila Conference, October 1966] that the Vietnamese Army would handle the guerrillas and thereby destroy the military arm of the Communist political organization. That was part of our misconception. Few realized the depth and scope of this threat. I didn’t think that the threat was as bad, or that Saigon, for example, was as close to being strangled, or that the enemy was so deeply embedded in the fabric of the country ’256Yet shortly after Ambassador Bunker’s arrival in Saigon in May 1967, the pacification programme was actually removed from civilian respon­ sibility—‘pressure’ which the State Department had resisted during 1966—and placed under General Westmoreland’s command.257 The South Vietnamese leaders recognized at the Manila Con­ ference that the ‘tactics of search and destroy, so often employed by allied forces in the past, had been shown to be inadequate without

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follow-up civic action and reconstruction. This search-and-destroy type of action left the Vietcong in the area to engage in sabotage after the military forces had moved on. . . .’258 Australian troops amply confirmed from their experience in Phuoc Thuy province (as the British had found out in Malaya): that continual small opera­ tions, harassment, constant patrolling and systematic searches for guerrillas and supplies were far more effective than major searchand-destroy operations; the latter were generally rejected as Very costly in manpower and casualties, and unproductive, given the Communist troops’ capacity for dispersion and evasion’.259 A recent example was the ‘biggest combined operation of the war’ launched by over 50,000 us and South Vietnamese troops six weeks after the Tet offensive. The aim was to destroy two divisions of Vietcong and North Vietnamese menacing Saigon—fresh units uncommitted in the Tet fighting. But after a few days, according to intelligence reports, the Vietcong eluded pursuit and withdrew to their old war zones ‘C’ and ‘D’ to the north west of Saigon.260 us search-and-destroy missions have evidently inflicted heavy casualties on the North Vietnamese and Vietcong (17,000 killed in 1964, 35,000 in 1965, 55,000 in 1966 and 88,000 in 1967, according to probably inflated us estimates).261 But it is no less evident that Communist strategy is to accept these losses as the price of luring the Americans away from populated regions (which thus remain not properly pacified) into the remote and rugged country near Laos, Cambodia and the demilitarized zone (where, into the bargain, the North Vietnamese and Vietcong are able to regroup in comparative safety). Thus the threat to Khe Sanh—helped by ominous hints of another Dien Bien Phu—drew off forty of the ninety us combat battalions in South Vietnam, before the Tet offensive, into the five northern provinces of I Corps.262 Alsop, vigorously backing West­ moreland’s plea for more troops, reported in March 1968 that nearly half the forces at the general’s disposal were still concentrated in I Corps area (which had previously been ‘quiet’) with the result that II Corps (the Central Highlands), where there had previously been ‘great progress’, was now ‘stripped of troops to a potentially danger­ ous degree’. Further, Vietcong and North Vietnamese units in III Corps (around Saigon), which had been lurking in safety near Cam­ bodia for over a year, had taken the opportunity to ‘infiltrate’ close to Saigon, where they were more exposed to risk but also in a better position to threaten the capital.263It was to eradicate this threat that the ‘biggest combined operation of the war’ was launched, in vain. Thus, us forces are becoming ever more thinly stretched—just as the French were against Giap who is still the North Vietnamese commander—in an effort to cope with every potential threat, which

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may be only ‘diversionary’—Giap’s great skill was in creating the semblance of a major offensive—but which cannot be ignored in case it turns out to be the reality. Yet as there are insufficient us forces, according to Westmoreland, to deal effectively with the military threat, which is the major priority, so there are all the fewer troops available for pacification. The Tet offensive had a ‘serious’ effect on pacification efforts in thirteen provinces—particularly in I Corps and the delta region— a ‘moderate’ effect in sixteen provinces and a ‘light’ effect in the remaining fifteen, according to the Americans.264 Eighteen of the fifty-five South Vietnamese battalions assigned to pacification duties had to be withdrawn to help defend provincial and district towns; and half the ‘Revolutionary Development’ (pacification) teams in the rural areas were also withdrawn both to help defend the towns and to organize relief work.265 Because of the continuing threat of another offensive, it is uncertain how many of these have returned. But even before the Tet offensive, pacification was ‘in deep trouble’, according to a classified report prepared by the Institute for Defence Analysis under contract to the us Defence Department.266 Indeed, Maxwell Taylor considered results were ‘not satisfactory’ in January 1967 while McNamara added in July that progress ‘has been very slow’.267 Insecurity grew worse after that date. The Vietcong re­ portedly killed more than 3,000 civilians in 1967, twice the number killed the year before. And the number killed in December 1967 (584) was more than in any other month of that year.268(This worsen­ ing trend in security was also reflected in a decrease in the number of defectors from the Vietcong: 18,000 in the first half of 1967 to 9,600 in the second half.269) Thus, even before the Tet offensive, the deterioration in rural areas cast doubt on the optimistic official reports that more than two-thirds of the 17 million people of South Vietnam were under government control (compared with about half in 1965)270 The official us analysis of these proportions indicates how mis­ leading is the notion of ‘relative security’ on which the assumption of government control is based. It is obtained by ‘evaluating’ rural hamlets according to five levels of security— from ‘A’, ‘secure with high development’, down to ‘E \ ‘insecure with no development’— while the sixth level (nearly 3 million people) is under Vietcong con­ trol. Categories ‘A’ to ‘C’—altogether 8J million villagers—in addi­ tion to 3^ million townspeople* (including refugees) make up the * ‘The Hamlet Evaluation System is only used to measure Government of Vietnam control in the countryside. The large urban areas are, of course, under the Government’s control.’ Foreign Policy Briefs, u s Information Service, Washington, January 1, 1968.

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grand total of 67 per cent of the people of South Vietnam.271 How­ ever, by examining the official definition of these categories it is clear that part at least of these villagers—‘graded’ three months before the Tet offensive—lived in ‘contested’ rather than ‘secure’ hamlets, while up to a million or more of those reported to be in ‘contested’ areas lived more under Vietcong control. Thus category ‘E’, comprising 330,000 villagers, is defined as indi­ cating a ‘government presence, usually military’, but ‘the Vietcong are active there, too . . . there is vc political and subversive activity; their infrastructure is operating; friendly security is inadequate; government of Vietnam officials are present only in daytime; and health, education and welfare programmes are non-existent’.272 This to all intents and purposes amounts to Vietcong control, even if it also indicates ‘accommodation’ by local officials. Category ‘D’ (over two million villagers) ‘is a little better. Vietcong military activities have been reduced, and external vc forces have been cut back by about 25 per cent. Local participation in hamlet management has begun, the medical teams are visiting periodically, and there is a beginning of education and welfare activity. Also, a certain amount of economic development is taking place. However, there is still vc activity in the hamlet at night and there is vc terrorism and taxa­ tion.™ The later, of course, is the heart of the matter, revealing the continued existence—and functioning—of the Vietcong political and supply structure. In category ‘C’ (over four million villagers, i.e. half the ‘relatively secure’ rural population) Vietcong military control has been broken, "most of the hamlet’s infrastructure identified and no overt vc inci­ dents motified’, officials remain overnight, primary education is carried out in permanent classrooms and full-time medical facilities are available; but even there ‘continuing vc taxation is suspected’. In strategic terms this area has been ‘cleared’, but not yet firmly ‘held’. Finally, the ‘B’ category (nearly 3J million people) is ‘still more secure’ and in ‘A’ (650,000) ‘everything is going right’.274 From the official explanation that emerged in October 1967 the situation was as follows: Vietcong control—2} million villagers in nearly 4,000 hamlets. Government control [A,B,C]—8J million villagers in over 5,000 hamlets. Contested [D,E]—2 \ million villagers in some 2,700 hamlets. Adding the urban population this gave the figure of 67 per cent under government control. But considering the definition of these categories, the situation at the end of 1967 was more like this (assuming, which is open to doubt, that the evaluations were correct):

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Vietcong control [E + VC]—3 million villagers in 5,000 hamlets. Government control [A,B]—4 million villagers in 2,000 hamlets. Contested [C,D]—6 million villagers in 5,400 hamlets. This left the government in control of 44 per cent of the total population, 38 per cent being contested.* Now the confidence of a large proportion of the villagers formerly under government control or in ‘contested’ areas would have been badly shaken by the post-Tet withdrawal of one-third of the South Vietnamese military and one-half of the pacification teams—even if most of them subsequently returned. Nor is the present uncertainty about the us commitment likely to reassure the rural population. The situation, from Saigon’s point of view, is almost certainly worse than it was in September 1966 when Robert Komer, sponsor of the ‘Hamlet Evaluation System’, estimated there were proportionately 4 | million villagers under the Vietcong, less than 5 million under government control (excluding the urban population) and some 3 | million in contested areas. 275 Even in 1967, according to an American specialist, ‘the only province [out of 44] to enjoy wide-scale security is An Giang, where the militantly anti-N.L.F. Hoa Hao sect was already maintaining local defence and police functions 5276(The Hoa Hao was alienated from Diem but rallied to Khanh in 1964.) The importance of popular commitment—in this case to a religious group which is felt to repre­ sent the interests of the local people—could not be better demon­ strated. In the absence of such commitment, pacification depends, as in Binh Dinh province, on ‘exceptional local leadership’ by government officials and on the ‘availability of large, permanently assigned military screening forces’.277 As Robert Komer explained in September 1966: ‘Insecurity, poverty, low health standards, lack of opportunity, social injustice and land inequities, have enabled the Vietcong to exploit a rural feeling of alienation from the government. The Revolutionary * The present situation is much more fluid than it was during the Vietminh war, when distinct ‘liberated zones’ were established, especially in northern and central Vietnam. ‘The essential feature of the Vietcong adaptation of the revolutionary method was that they did not set up a zone apart from government territory this time; as a result, supporting them entailed no definite and irrevocable act like taking to the hills to “join the resistance”.’ The rank and file mostly carried on their everyday existence, performing only certain services, as directed by the cadres. The Vietcong ‘enmeshed itself into the economic and political life o f the government and of the com­ munity it proposed progressively to take over’. Duncanson, Government and Revolution in Vietnam, pp. 295, 297.

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Development programme must change all that—or else ultimately be judged a failure like its predecessors.’278 But the ‘first pre-requisite’ of pacification, he pointed out, was ‘adequate local security and elimination of the remaining Vietcong threat, after main enemy military forces have been driven from an area’. And the reason the forerunners of ‘Revolutionary Develop­ ment’ failed was primarily ‘because the Vietcong/North Vietnamese Army destroyed the Government of Vietnam’s ability to provide essential local security’.279 In August 1965 a ‘dynamic new Minister’, Major-General Nguyen Due Thang, was put in charge of pacification. ‘Thang’s incorrupti­ bility and enthusiasm’ won high praise from the Americans.280 But this rather exceptional ability only served to highlight the basic weaknesses of the programme—personal and family aggrandizement, local rivalries, ‘inept or corrupt leadership’, and conflict of loyalties between immediate superiors and Corps Commanders281—when General Thang resigned in January 1968 as Army Deputy Chief of Staff in charge of pacification and local security forces. The General had apparently given up hope that the government would take the necessary ‘vigorous and prompt action to stem corruption, and nepotism, reward competence and set an austere, responsible example of duty and dedication’. Progress in rural pacification would only be ‘illusory’,* he considered, until the local population came to believe that the government was serious in attacking corruption and other social ills.282 The Saigon Government’s inability or unwillingness to respond to popular needs is again revealed in President Johnson’s momentous March 31, 1968, announcement, when he spoke of ‘further efforts’ required by the South Vietnamese authorities: ‘—to move back into the countryside; —to increase their taxes; —to select the very best men they have for civil and military responsibility; —to achieve a new unity within their constitutional government; —and to include in the national effort all those groups who wish to preserve South Vietnam’s control over its own destiny.9283 * General Thang—appointed Commander of IV Corps (Mekong delta region) following the Tet offensive—expressed little faith in the statistical approach to progress in pacification (Komer’s Hamlet Evaluation System). A correct assessment by computers depended on asking the right questions and pro­ viding the right data: ‘You must be careful about input.’ Thang was replaced as IV Corps Commander in June 1968—in the purge by President Thieu of Vice-President Ky’s supporters.

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These—particularly the last—have never yet been achieved by any South Vietnamese regime: and this alone makes it unlikely that the present system—or whatever emerges from a settlement reflect­ ing the realities of power—will have much control over the objective for which so harsh and fruitless a struggle has been fought—the destiny of South Vietnam.

REFERENCE NOTES TO CHAPTER IV 1. Colonel Napoleon D . Valeriano and Lt. Colonel Charles T. R. Bohan­ nan, Counter-Guerrilla Operations: The Philippine Experience (Praeger, 1962), p. 48. 2. Cited in ibid., p. 107. 3. Ian Morrison, ‘Aspects of the Racial Problem in Malaya’, Pacific Affairs, September 1949. 4. Lucian W. Pye, Guerrilla Communism in Malaya: its social and political meaning (Princeton Univ. Press, 1956), p. 49. 5. Richard Clutterbuck. The Long, Long War: The Emergency in Malaya 1948-1960 (Cassell, 1967), p. 69. 6. Cited in Milton E. Osborne, Strategic Hamlets in South Vietnam: a Survey and a Comparison (Cornell Univ., Data Paper 55, Southeast Asia Program, 1965), p. 12. 7. Clutterbuck, op. cit., p. 51. 8. Ibid., pp. 55-6. 9. Harry Miller, Menace in M alaya (Harrup, 1954), p. 139. 10. Clutterbuck, op. cit., p. 44. 11. Osborne, op. cit., p. 16. 12. Clutterbuck, op. cit., p. 61. 13. Published by Malayan Government on May 12, 1949, cited in Osborne, op. cit., p. 15 (italics added). 14. Examples in Clutterbuck, op. cit., pp. 96-9. 15. Sir Robert Thompson, Defeating Communist Insurgency: Experiences from Malaya and Vietnam (Chatto & Windus, 1966). p. 146. 16. Ibid., p. 85. 17. Ibid., p. 60. 18. Valeriano and Bohannan, op. cit., pp. 33-4. 19. F. Sionil Jose, ‘Land is the Philippines’ Public Problem No. 1*, Asia Magazine, March 11, 1962. 20. Alvin H. Scaff, The Philippines’ Answer to Communism (Stanford Univ. Press, 1955), see note 7, p. 148. IX .lbid., p. 25. 22. Valeriano and Bohannan, op. cit., p. 23. 23. Scaff, op. cit., p. 28. 24. Jesus M. Vargas, ‘Communism in Decline: The Huk Campaign*, pub­ lished by the South East Asia Treaty Organisation [1958]. 25. Carlos P. Romulo and Marvin M. Gray, The Magsaysay Story (Pocket Books ed. 1957), p. 85. 26. Ibid., p. 92. 27. Ibid., p. 93. 28. Ibid., pp. 112-3.

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29. Loc. cit. 30. Ibid,, p. 119. 3 1 .‘Upsurge o f the Anti-Imperialist Movement in the Philippines’, W orld M arxist Review (Prague), November 1965. 32. Vargas, op. cit. 33. Clutterbuck, op. cit., p. 63. 34. Ibid., p. 64. 35. Ibid., p. 70. 36. 8,000 guerrillas in ibid., pp. 80, 87; over 10,000 in Thompson, op. cit., p. 44. 37. Official u s figures estimated in 1966, cited in Roger Hilsman, To M ove a Nation (Doubleday, 1967), table on p. 529. 38. Thompson, op. cit., p. 57. Foreword to Clutterbuck, op. cit. 39. Thompson, op. cit., pp. 55-6. 40. Clutterbuck, op. cit., pp. 87-8. 41 .Ibid., p. 118. 42. Ibid., pp. 116-18. 43. Miller, op. cit., p. 203. 44. ‘Self-criticism’ adopted September 1966, reportedly published in Indonesian Tribune of January 1967, excerpts printed in Peking Review, July 21,1967. 45. Loc. cit. 46. Loc. cit. 47. Cited by Suharjo ‘Indonesia’s Communist Party and the Peasantry’, W orld Marxist R eview (Prague), July 1965. 48. Donald Hindley, The Communist Party of Indonesia 1951-1963 (Univ. of California Press, 1964), p. 180. 49. Editorial of R ed Flag, theoretical journal of the Chinese Communist Party, reprinted in Peking Review, July 14, 1967. The P.K.I. ‘Statement’ was reportedly issued on August 17, 1966. 50. Abdul Haris Nasution, Fundamentals o f Guerrilla Warfare: A nd the Indonesian Defence System Past and Future (Information Service of Indonesian Armed Forces, Government Printing Office, Djakarta, [I960?]; Author’s foreword May 1953), p. 14. Also reprinted Praeger, 1965. 51. Ibid., p. 46. 52. Ibid., p. 34. 53. Ibid., p. 23. 54. Ibid., p. 25. 55. Ibid., p. 46. 56. Ibid., pp. 185-7. 57. Ibid., map on p. 198. 58. Ibid., p. 12. 59. Ibid., p. 47. 60. Ibid., pp. 78-9. 61. Ibid., p. 15. 62. Ibid., p. 20. 63. David Galula, Counter-Insurgency Warfare: Theory and Practice (Pall Mall, 1964), p. 98. 64. Documents on American Foreign Relations, 1952 [henceforth D.A.F.R.] for Council on Foreign Relations (Harper Bros., New York, 1953), p. 284. 65. [us] Department of State Bulletin [henceforth D.S.B.] (Washington), August 7, 1961.

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66. D.S.B., July 24, 1967. 67. D.A.F.R., 1953, p. 81. 68. D.S.B., November 5,1956. 69. Walter S. Robertson, Assistant Secretary of State for Far Eastern Affairs, D.S.B., April 30, 1956. 70. Ibid. 71. D.S.B., November 7,1955. 72. D.S.B., April 12,1954. 73. D.A.F.R., 1954, pp. 8-9. 74. Acheson, February 8, 1949. D.A.F.R. XI (1949) (Princeton Univ. Press), p. 589. 75. Dulles, January 27, 1953. D.S.B., February 9, 1953. 76. D.S.B., August 22,1955. 77. Truman, September 1, 1950. D.A.F.R. XII (1950) (Princeton Univ. Press), p. 10. 78. Truman, State of the Union. D.A.F.R. XII, p. 1. 79. Acheson, November 29, 1950. D.A.F.R. XII, p. 13. 80. Truman, December 15, 1950. D.A.F.R. XII, p. 16. SI. Ibid., p. 18. 82. D.A.F.R. XII, p. 214. 83. Acheson, December 30, 1951. D.A.F.R. XIII (1951) (Princeton Univ. Press), p. 13. 84. Ibid., 85. D.A.F.R. XII, p. 17. 86. D.A.F.R. 1954 (Harper Bros.), pp. 9-10. 87. Threat of a Red Asia’, March 29, 1954. D.S.B. April 12,1954. 88. ‘Security in the Pacific’, June 11, 1954. D.S.B. June 28, 1954. 89. D.A.F.R. 1952, p. 83. 90. Eisenhower (then Supreme Allied Commander, Europe) April 2, 1952. D.A.F.R. 1952, p. 140. 91. Stevenson, Sept. 9, 1952. D.A.F.R. 1952, p. 96. 92. Dulles, Radio and T.V. address, January 27, 1953.D.S.B. February 9, 1953. 93. D.A.F.R. 1950, p. 61. 94. Dulles, April 23, 1951. D.A.F.R. XIII, pp. 462-3. 95. D.A.F.R. 1953, p. 83. 96. Acheson, June 29, 1951. D.A.F.R. XIII, pp. 6-9. 97. Eisenhower, April 4, 1959. D.S.B. April 27, 1959. 98. Dulles, November 29, 1954. D.A.F.R. 1954, p. 20. 99. Dulles, June 30, 1954. D.A.F.R. 1954, pp. 416, 418. 100. Acheson, January 12, 1950. D.A.F.R. XII, pp. 432-3. 101. Arthur J. Dommen, Conflict in Laos: The Politics of Neutralisation (Praeger/Pall Mall, 1964), p. 96. 102. Souvanna Phouma, interviewed in Phnom Penh, N ew York Times, January 20, 1961. 103.N e w York Times, August 30, 1959. 104. Robertson, September 21, 1959. D.S.B. October 12, 1959. 105. On September 5, 1959. D.S.B. September 21, 1959. 106. Alsop, N ew York Herald Tribune, September 3, 1959. 107. Ibid., September 6,1959. 108. Phoui, August 22,1959. Lao Presse, August 26,1959. 109. Dommen, op. cit., p. 109. 110. Ibid., pp. 110-11.

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111.Cited in Sisouk na Champassak, Storm over Laos: A Contemporary History (Praeger, 1961), appendix. 112. On September 15, 1959. D.S.B. October 5, 1959. 113. D.S.B. September 28, 1959. 114. Dommen, op. cit., pp. 98-9. 115. Ibid., p. 102. 116. Ibid., p. 103. 117. Kong Lae, reported by Vientiane radio, August 10, 1960. 118. Dommen, op. cit., p. 154. 119. Ibid., p. 158. 120. Ibid., p. 160. 121. Ibid., p. 167. 122. Ibid., p. 179. 123. On January 7, 1961. D.S.B. January 23, 1961. 124. Ibid. (emphasis added.) 125. Kennedy, March 23, 1961. D.S.B. April 17, 1961. 126. Kennedy, radio and TV address, June 6, 1961. D.S.B. June 26, 1961. 127. Marguerite Higgins in N ew Y ork Herald Tribune. 128. Agreement on Cessation o f Hostilities in Vietnam and Final Declaration o f the Geneva Conference. D.A.F.R. 1954, pp. 283, 287, 313. 129. D.S.B. May 11,1964. 130. D.S.B. January 25,1965. 131. Eisenhower’s letter to Diem, delivered October 23, 1964. D.A.F.R. 1954, pp. 366-7. 132. Eisenhower, April 4, 1959. D.S.B. April 27, 1959. 133. Truman, March 6, 1952. D.A.F.R. 1952, p. 33. 134. Dulles, September 17, 1953. D.A.F.R. 1953, pp. 38-9. 135. Robert Scigliano, South Vietnam: N ation under Stress (Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1964), p. 209. 136. Marshall’s reply to u s Embassy, Nanking, October 1948. United States Relations with China (Washington, 1959), pp. 280-1. 137. Bernard Fall, The Two Viet-Nams (Praeger, 1964), p. 325. 138. Ibid., p. 324. 139. May 11,1957. 140. Washington, November 18,1958. 141. D.S.B. April 27,1959. 142. Fall, op. cit., p. 327. 143. Eisenhower’s message to Diem on fifth anniversary of Republic, October 22,1960. D.S.B. November 14,1960. 144. Rusk, May 4, 1961. D.S.B. May 22, 1961. 145. D.S.B. January 1, 1962. 146. U. Alexis Johnson, Political Under-Secretary of State, April 8, 1963. D.S.B. April 29,1963. 147. Theodore Heavner, August 25, 1963. D.S.B. September 9, 1963. 148. Scigliano, op. cit., p. 150. 149. Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., The Bitter Heritage: Vietnam and American Democracy, 1941-1966 (Deutsch, 1967), p. 29. 150. U. A. Johnson, September 15, 1962. D.S.B. October 1, 1962. 151. Schlesinger, op. cit., p. 29. Confirmed by William Bundy, August 15, 1967. D.S.B. September 4, 1967. 152. Roger Hilsman, ‘A Report on South Vietnam’, September 18, 1962. D.S.B. October 8, 1962.

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153. A Threat to the Peace . . . (Washington, December 1961), p. 1 (emphasis added). 154. s e a t o Council, Bangkok. D.S.B. March 30, 1961. 155. Rusk, May 4, 1961. D.S.B. May 22, 1961. 156. Ibid. 157. White House Statement, October 2, 1963. D.S.B. October 21, 1963. 158. William A. Nighswonger, Rural Pacification in Vietnam (Praeger, 19b6), p. 54. 159. Maxwell D. Taylor, Responsibility and Response (N.Y., Harper and Row, 1967), pp. 56-7. 160. James Reston of N ew York Times (reported, Canberra Times, Novem­ ber 24, 1967). 161. Hilsman, D.S.B. October 8, 1962. 162. Heavner, August 25, 1963. D.S.B. September 9, 1963. 163 .Ibid. 164. U. A. Johnson, April 8, 1963. D.S.B. April 29, 1963. 165. Rusk, February 13, 1963. D.S.B. March 4, 1963. 166. Rusk, April 22, 1963. D.S.B. May 13, 1963. 167. Douglas Pike, Viet Cong: The Organisation and Techniques of the National Liberation Front of South Vietnam (Cambridge, Mass., M.I.T. Press, 1966), pp. 65-6. 168. Ibid., p. 67. 169. John Mecklin, Mission in Torment: An Intimate Account of the U.S. Role in Vietnam (Doubleday, 1965), p. 36. 170. Milton Osborne, Strategic Hamlets in South Vienam (Cornell Univ. Data Paper 55, 1965), p. 32. 171. Nighswonger, op. cit., p. 98. 172. Osborne, op. cit., p. 39. 113. Ibid., p. 27. 174. Sir Robert Thompson, Defeating Communist Insurgency: Experiences from M alaya and Vietnam (Chatto and Windus, 1965), p. 134. 175. Ibid., p. 141. 176. Nighswonger, op. cit., pp. 102-3, 78. 177. Cited in Osborne, op. cit., p. 35. 178. N ew York Times, December 4,1963. 179. David Halberstam, The Making of a Quagmire (Bodley Head, 1964), p. 185. 180. Scigliano, op. cit., pp. 51-3. 181. McNamara, March 26, 1964. D.S.B. April 13, 1964. 182. Halberstam, op. cit., pp. 176, 254. 183. White House Statement, December 21, 1963.D.S.B.January 13, 1964. 184. White House Statement, March 17, 1964. D.S.B.April 6, 1964. 185. McNamara, March 26, 1964. D.S.B. April 13, 1964. 186. Peter Grose, N ew York Times, August 12, 1964. 187. Nguyen Cao Ky, presenting the new ‘Council for the Leadership of the Nation’, Saigon, June 19, 1965. 188. Nguyen Van Thieu, June 24, 1965. 189. York Times, April 25, 1965. 190. Rusk, March 7, 1965. D.S.B. March 29, 1965. 191. Scigliano, op. cit., p. 150. 192. Ibid., pp. 214-15. 193. Nguyen Thai, Is South Vietnam Viable? (Manila, Carmelo and Bauermann, 1962. p. xi.

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194. Marcus Ruskin and Bernard Fall (eds.), The Viet-Nam Reader (N.Y., Vintage Press, 1965), pp. 391-2. 195. Loc. cit. 196. N ew York Times, December 16, 1963. 197. Heavner, D.S.B. September 9,1963. 198. Rusk, News Conference, March 8, 1963. D.S.B. March 25, 1963. 199. u s official estimate, November 1966 (Canberra Times, January 6, 1967). 200. Wesley Fishel, Asian Survey (Univ. of California), January 1966. 201. A.P., November 23,1965. 202. Canberra Times, January 6,1967. 2 0 3 .1. F. Stone, March 8, 1965 (1Viet-Nam Reader, p. 156). 204. Malcolm Browne, The N ew Face of War: A Report on a Communist Guerrilla Campaign (Cassell, 1965), p. 147. 205. Ibid., p. 146. Hilsman, To M ove a Nation, p. 529. 206. Rusk, April 22, 1963. D.S.B. May 13, 1963. 207. Scigliano, op. cit., p. 97. 208. L. B. Johnson, May 13, 1961. D.S.B. June 19, 1961. 209. Viet-Nam Reader, pp. 116-23; also Fall, The Two Viet-Nams, appendix. 210. Duong Van Minh, January 2, 1964. 211. Mecklin, op. cit., p. 100. 212. Loc. cit. 213. Rusk, D.S.B. July 20,1964. 214. Rusk, News Conference, July 31,1964. D.S.B. August 17,1964. 215. Willard Mathias, reported in N ew York Times, August 23, 1964. 216. Rusk, D.S.B. September, 21,1964. 217. Rusk, D.S.B. July 20,1964. 218. Rusk, D.S.B. September 21,1964. 219. Thompson, op. cit., p. 88. 220. Rusk, D.S.B. September 28, 1964. 221. D.S.B. September 28,1964. 222. Loc. cit. 223. Rusk, September 14, 1964. D.S.B. October 5, 1964. 224. D.S.B. December 21,1964. 225. Rusk, News Conference, December 23, 1964. D.S.B. January 11, 1965. 226. W. Bundy, January 23, 1965. D.S.B. February 8, 1965. 227. W. Bundy, D.S.B. June 20, 1966. 228. Eisenhower, February 10, 1954. 229. W. Bundy, September 29, 1964. D.S.B. October 19, 1964. 230. McNamara, March 26, 1964. D.S.B. April 13, 1964. 231. Rusk, D.S.B. June 8,1964. 232. W. Bundy, D.S.B. February 8,1965. 233. Heavner, August 25, 1963. D.S.B. September 9, 1963. 234. McNamara, March 26,1964. 235. Rusk, February 27, 1964. D.S.B. March 16, 1964. 236. Joint Congressional Resolution (unanimous vote House of Representa­ tives, Senate 88-2), August 7, 1964. D.S.B. August 24, 1964. 237. Rusk, March 7,1965. 238. L. B. Johnson, D.S.B. April 26, 1965. 239. Decree Law, outlawing propaganda in favour of Communism and neutralism, February 1, 1964. 240. L. B. Johnson, April 20,1964. 2 4 1 .‘Vietnam Allies Take Stock’, Canberra Times, February 21, 1968.

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242. Joseph Alsop, ‘General Giap’s Costly Assault’, International Herald Tribune, February 8, 1968. 243. General Westmoreland, February 1, 1968 (LH. Tribune, February 2, 1968), reaffirmed in interview with Associated Press, February 26, 1968. 244. L. B. Johnson, February 2, 1968 {LH. Tribune, February 3-4, 1968). 245. Murrey Marder, Washington {LH. Tribune, February 12, 1968). 246. LH. Tribune, February 20,1968. 247. Hedrick Smith, Neil Sheehan, N ew York Times (I.H. Tribune, March 11.1968). 248. New York, November 17, 1967. (D.S.B. December 11, 1967). 249. Washington, February 29, 1968. 250. Address to National Press Club, Washington, November 21, 1967. (D.S.B. December 11,1967). 251. LH. Tribune, February 20,1968. 252. Foreign Affairs, October 1964. 253. ‘Viet Cong Documents on the War*, Communist Affairs (Univ. of Southern California), November-December 1967. 254. LH. Tribune, March 9-10, 1968. 255.C.I.A. assessment reported LH. Tribune, March 11 and 25, 1968. 256. Peter Arnett, Associated Press {Bangkok World, July 24, 1967). 257. John C. Donnell, ‘Pacification Reassessed’, Asian Survey (‘Vietnam: A Special Issue’), August 1967 258. Harold Holt, late Prime Minister of Australia, commenting on the Manila Conference {Canberra Times, October 28, 1966). 259. Bulletin, Sydney, October 21, 1967. 260. Canberra Times, March 16 and 21, 1968. 261. R. Hilsman, op. cit., p. 529; Gen. Westmoreland (D.S.B. May 15, 1967); L. B. Johnson (D.S.B. April 3, 1967); McNamara, {The Times, February 13.1968). 262.1.H. Tribune, March 25,1968. 263. Joseph Alsop, ‘The Argument for More Troops’, l.H. Tribune, March 7, 1968. 264. The Times, February 26, 1968. 265. Loc. cit.; also M. Marder and Chalmers Roberts, Washington Post {Australian, March 1, 1968); R. Evans and R. Novak, I. H. Tribune, March 14,1968. 266. Report for period September 1966-April 1967, cited by R. Schweiker {Canberra Times, March 26, 1968). 267. Taylor, January 30, 1967; McNamara, July 12, 1967. 268. Robert Komer, Ambassador in charge of pacification (Saigon Daily N ew s, January 6, 1968). 269. Neil Sheehan, l.H. Tribune, March 22,1968. 270. Ellsworth Bunker, ‘Report on Vietnam’ (D.S.B. December 11, 1967). 271. ‘New Hamlet Evaluation System’, Foreign Policy Briefs, u s Information Service, Washington, January 1, 1968. 272. Loc. c/7.(italics added). 273. Loc. cit. (italics added). 274. Loc. cit. (italics added). 275. ‘The Other War in Vietnam—A Progress Report’, Robert Komer, then Special Assistant to the President, September 13, 1966 (D.S.B. October 10,1966). 276. Donnell, op. cit. 277. Ibid.

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278. Komer, T h e Other War in Vietnam . . 279. Ibid. 280. Donnell, op. cit. 281.Ibid. 282. N ew York Times news service, Saigon, January 27, 1968. 283. President Johnson’s ‘de-escalation’ speech, announcing that he would not seek re-election as President.

A N N O T A T E D BIBLIOGR AP HY CHINA Brandt, Conrad, Schwarz, Benjamin and Fairbank, John K. A D o cu m en ­ tary H isto ry o f C hinese C o m m u n ism . Harvard U.P., 1952. Transla­ t io n s from original documents with commentary. Ch’en, Jerome. M a o and the C hinese R e v o lu tio n . Oxford U.P., 1965. Good detailed study of Mao up to 1949. Fairbank, John K. The U n ited States and China. Viking, 1962. Lucid and informative general survey, particularly useful on China. Feis, Herbert. The China Tangle. Princeton U.P., 1953. American policy towards China during the Second World War. FitzGerald, C. P. The B irth o f C om m u n ist China. Penguin, 1964. Praeger, 1966. Revised ed. of R evo lu tio n in China. Cresset, 1952. Masterly account of traditional and contemporary forces in China. Isaacs, Harold R. T he T ragedy o f th e C hinese R evolu tion . Stanford U.P., rev. ed. 1961. Bitter description of Stalinist betrayal of the Chinese Communist Party in the 1920s. Johnson, Chalmers A. P easant N ation alism and C om m u n ist P ow er: The Em ergence o f R evo lu tio n a ry C hina, 1937-1945. Stanford U.P., 1962. Pioneering study of Chinese Communist Party during the war against Japan, making full use of captured Japanese documents. Lin, Piao. ‘Long Live the Victory of People’s War’, Peking R eview , September 3,1965. Summary of Chinese Communist experience in the war against Japan and the Kuomintang with (intended) lessons for struggling insurgents elsewhere. Mao Tse-tung. Selected W orks o f M a o Tse-tung. Foreign Languages Press, Peking, 1965. Brilliant and lively analyses of the ‘concrete con­ ditions’ in China and the revolutionary opportunities for peasantbased guerrilla fighters. Particularly important for the study of insur­ gency are the earlier pieces, notably \ .. Investigation of the Peasant Movement in Hunan’, ‘A Single Spark can start a Prairie Fire’, ‘Problems of Strategy in China’s Revolutionary War’, ‘Problems of Strategy in Guerrilla War against Japan’ and ‘On Protracted War’. North, Robert C. M o sco w and C hinese C om m unists. Stanford U.P., 1953. Clear and useful account of Russia’s ‘China tangle’. Schwarz, Benjamin. Chinese C om m u n ism and the R ise o f M ao. Harvard U.P., 1951. Illuminating, thoroughly documented study of Mao’s early years, in opposition to the official party line. Smedley, Agnes. The G reat R oad: The L ife and T im es o f Chu Teh. Monthly Review Press, 1956. Recounted by Chu himself before ‘Liberation’ : A good picture of the old warrier—war lord, k m t chief and inspired Communist military leader. Snow, Edgar. R e d Star o v e r China. Gollanez, 1937. Grove Press, 1961 (paperback ed.). Celebrated report of a visit to the ‘Red’ areas includ­ ing interviews with Mao and other Communist leaders. Tang, Tsou. A m erica's Failure in China, 1941-56. Chicago U.P., 1963. Q

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Excellent and detailed account of conditions in China and us attitudes; though it is doubtful if any other policy by the A m erican s (than that of seeking a compromise settlement) could have ‘saved’ the Nationalist regime. us Department of State. U n ited S tates R elation s w ith China: W ith Special R eferen ce to the P erio d 1944-1949. Washington, 1949. us ‘White Paper’, quoting extensively from policy statements and Embassy despatches, issued shortly before the collapse of the Kuomin­ tang. INDO-CHINA Devillers, Philippe. H isto ire du V iet-N a m d e 1940 a 1952. Eds. du Seuil, 1952. Detailed, sympathetic study by former Press Attach^ to General Leclerc. Essential reading. Fall, Bernard B. L e V iet-M in h : L a R ep u b liq u e D em o cra tiq u e du V ietN a m 1945-1960. Lib. Armand Colin, 1960. Valuable account of the Vietminh regime. S treet w ith o u t Joy: Indochina a t W ar, 1946-54. Stackpole Co., 1961. Realistic picture of campaigns based on French military files. Hammer, Ellen. T h e Struggle fo r In doch in a 1940-1955. Stanford U.P., new ed. 1966. A lively narrative; critical of French official policy and of the Bao Dai regime (with good reason). Ho Chi Minh. Selected W orks. Foreign Languages Publishing House, Hanoi, 1961. No theoretical brilliance, but practical guidance issued to party and Vietminh members by a professional revolutionary and ardent nationalist. Lancaster, Donald. T h e E m an cipation o f French Indochina. Oxford U.P., 1961. Fascinating history, expressed in rolling periods and Gibbonian irony (ends with Diem’s establishment of the Republic). Le Thanh Khoi. L e V iet-N a m : H isto ire e t C ivilisation. Eds. de Minuit, 1955. Standard account by a Vietnamese historian. Mus, Paul. V iet-N a m : S ociologie d'une G uerre. Eds. du Seuil, 1952. By a distinguished scholar of Vietnamese culture; rather opaquely written but shows penetrating and sympathetic insight into French and Viet­ namese attitudes and circumstances. Essential to an understanding of the Vietminh (and hence the present) period. Ngo-Van-Chieu. Journal d u n C o m b a tta n t V iet-M inh. Eds. du Seuil, 1955. How it all began—the story of one man’s war. Tanham, George K. C o m m u n ist R evo lu tio n a ry W arfare: T h e V ietm inh in Indochina. Praeger, 1967. Brief but well-informed analysis by a r a n d specialist. Truong Chinh. The R esistan ce w ill W in. Foreign Languages Publishing House, Hanoi, 1960. An early work (written in 1947) by North Viet­ nam’s foremost theorist and later doctrinaire organizer of ‘land reform’; shows a realistic grasp of problems. Vo Nguyen Giap. P eople's W ar, P eople's A rm y . For. Lang. Pub. House, Hanoi, 1961. Praeger, 1962. A classic of revolutionary warfare by the

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‘Trotsky’ of Vietnamese Communism (rival of Truong Chinh) who still directs military strategy in North and South. VIETNAM (SOUTH) Browne, Malcolm. T he N e w Face o f W ar: A R e p o rt on a C om m u n ist G uerrilla C am paign . Cassell, 1965. A sceptical look at us reliance on gadgetry in Vietnam. Burchett, Wilfrid G. V ietnam : Inside S to ry o f the G uerrilla W ar. Inter­ national Publishers, 1965. Valuable report on ‘liberated zones’ around Saigon and in the Central Highlands marred by too much propaganda. Duncanson, Dennis J. G overn m en t and R evolu tion in V ietnam . Oxford U.P., 1968. The most remarkable book to have emerged from the second Vietnam war, matching—though in a different field—Paul Mus’s work (see above) in insight and understanding: the fruit of administrative experience, knowledge of Chinese, and six years (as member of the British Advisory Mission) in Vietnam. Conservative in temper—a common trait among administrators—the author cannot bring himself to admit the part played by idealism (nationalism, Communism) and economic grievances in the growth of Vietminh and subsequently of the Vietcong; and he attributes the obvious failings of the Saigon regimes—brilliantly dissected—chiefly to the corrupting influence of American aid and to administrative ignorance and mal­ practice. Fall, Bernard B. The T w o V iet-N am s: a P olitical and M ilitary A nalysis. Praeger, 1963 and subseq. eds. A clear and comprehensive picture, understandably critical of both regimes. The author’s foresight has been abundantly justified by events. Gettleman, Marvin E. (ed.). V iet N a m : H isto ry, D ocu m en ts and O pinions on a M a jo r W o rld Crisis. Fawcett Premier, 1965. Useful compilation of articles, speeches and excerpts from books—tends to be critical of Saigon r6gime(s) and of us policy but is not unduly selec­ tive : presents various points of view. Halberstam, David. T he M akin g o f a Q uagm ire. Random House and Bodley Head, 1965. By the N e w Y o rk Times* correspondent in Saigon whose acute—and accurate—reporting roused the ire of Mme Nhu and the us State Department. Hickey, Gerald Cannon. V illage in V ietnam . Yale U.P., 1964. An American anthropologist’s report on the customs, religious obser­ vances, economic activities and social life of villagers in a Mekong delta community. Knoebl, Kuno. V icto r Charlie: The Face o f W ar in V iet-N am . Praeger and Pall Mall, 1967. Vigorous report by a European journalist, in the firing line with both sides. Mecklin, John. M ission in T orm ent: A n In tim ate A ccou n t o f the U.S. R o le in V ietnam . Doubleday, 1965. By the Public Affairs Officer at the us Embassy in Saigon, caught between official ‘optimism’ and a critical Press. Nighswonger, William A. R u ral Pacification in V ietnam . Praeger, 1966.

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Personal experience of the impediments to pacification, especially the strategic hamlet programme, by a former us official in the provinces. Nguyen, Kien. L e S u d-V ietn am depu is D ien-Bien-Phu. Francois Maspero, 1963. By a Vietnamese exile in Paris, opposed to Diem, favouring the n l f . Nguyen Thai. Is South V ietn am Viable? Carmelo & Bauermann, Manila, 1962. Despairing plea for reform by disillusioned ex-official of the ‘family’ regime. A rare account of the working of ‘Diemocracy’ from within. Osborne, Milton. Strategic H a m lets in South V ietnam : a Su rvey an d a C om parison [with Malaya]. Cornell Data Paper, 1965. The comparison is convincing. Pike, Douglas. V iet C ong: T h e O rganisation and T echniques o f the N a tio n a l L ib era tio n F ro n t o f South V ietnam . M.I.T. Press, 1966. A massive survey by an experienced and well-informed us information official using extensive (captured) documentary material. Basically up to 1964, it tends to overlook the reasons for Vietcong successes in 1965. But the evidence is invaluable. Raskin, Marcus and Fall, Bernard (eds.). The V iet-N a m R eader: A rticles and D o cu m en ts on A m erican Foreign P olicy and the V iet-N a m C risis.

Random House, 1965. A well-selected compilation. Scigliano, Robert. South V ietnam : N a tio n under Stress. Houghton Mifflin, 1964. Critical but penetrating analysis of the Diem regime. Shaplen, Robert. The L o st R evo lu tio n : V ietnam 1945-1965. Harper & Row, 1965; Deutsch, 1966. Harper, 1965, pap. Persuasive and wellwritten lament for opportunities lost by the regimes and by the us. Tanham, George K., and others. W ar W ith o u t G uns: A m erican C ivilians in R u ra l V ietnam . Praeger, 1965. Personal reports from the Mekong delta, the tribal Highlands and Central Vietnam with a stimulating introduction and conclusion by Tanham. Thompson, Sir Robert. D efea tin g C o m m u n ist Insurgency: E xperiences fro m M alaya and V ietnam . Chatto & Windus, and Praeger, 1966. The author was head of the British Advisory Mission to Vietnam and acted as adviser to President Diem on the strategic hamlet programme. A first-rate study of the techniques of counter-insurgency. Emphasis on the village subversive organization rather than the guerrilla recom­ mended: on patient, methodical, co-ordinated action, not ‘crash programmes’. Warner, Denis. T h e L a st C onfucian [Diem]: V ietn am , South E ast A sia and the W est. Angus & Robertson, 1964. Fluent, thoughtful and per­ ceptive reporting by a veteran correspondent. BURMA Cady, J. F. A H isto ry o f M o d ern Burm a. Cornell U.P., 1958. A good account of developments from British rule to Independence. Tinker, Hugh. The U nion o f Burm a. Oxford U.P., 1957 and subseq. eds. Authoritative analysis—political, diplomatic, economic and military (insurgencies).

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CAMBODIA Leifer, Michael. C am bodia: The Search fo r Security. Praeger and Pall Mall, 1967. Well-informed and sympathetic study of the Prince and his policies. INDONESIA Brackman, Arnold C. Indonesian C om m un ism : a H istory. Praeger, 1963. Readable and clear narrative by an American correspondent. Grant, Bruce. Indonesia. Melbourne U.P., 1964. Penguin, 1967 (paper­ back ed.). A useful survey. Hindley, Donald. The C om m u n ist P arty o f Indonesia 1951-1963. Univ. of California, 1964. Authoritative analysis of p k i problems and policies under Aidit’s leadership. Kahin, George McT. N ation alism and R evo lu tion in Indonesia. Cornell U.P., 1952. Admirable study of the independence struggle. Kroef, Justus van der. T h e C om m u n ist P arty o f Indonesia: Its H isto ry , P rogram and Tactics. Univ. of Brit. Columbia, 1965. Much useful material, thought not too well organized. (With hindsight) takes too alarmist a view of the threat from the p k i . Nasution, A. H. F undam entals o f G uerilla W arfare: and the Indonesian D efen ce S ystem P ast and Future. Djakarta (I960?). Also Praeger facsimile ed., 1965. Theory and practice from the point of view of a guerrilla (and later a counter-guerrilla) commander bears out the essential need for popular support. LAOS Dommen, Arthur J. C onflict in L aos: The P olitics o f N eutralisation. Praeger, 1964. An experienced American reporter’s critical—but not unduly so—survey of us policy and activities (clandestine and other­ wise) in Laos during the Eisenhower era and after. Sisouk Na Champassak. S torm o ver Laos: A C on tem porary H istory. Praeger, 1961. Written by a prominent member of the Right-wing ‘Young Turks’, but a not unfair impression of personalities and events; the author is now Minister of Finance in Prince Souvanna Phouma’s Government. Toye, Hugh. Laos: Buffer State o r B attleground. Oxford U.P., 1968. An absorbing historical picture of Laos, divided between tribal peoples in the mountains (now supporting the Pathet Lao) and the Lao ricecultivators in the lowlands (mainstay of the Government). Up to 1965. MALAYA Clutterbuck, Richard. The L o n g, L on g W ar: The E m ergency in M alaya 1948-1960. Praeger, 1966, and Cassell, 1967. Clear and convincing account of early British failures (the conventional military approach) followed by well-deserved successes in tackling intelligently the crux of the matter—the Communist political and supply organization in the villages. Hanrahan, Gene Z. The C om m u n ist Struggle in M alaya. Inst, of Pacific

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Reis., 1954. Valuable historical study of the strategy and tactics of the Malayan Communist Party (to 1953). Miller, Harry. M enace in M alaya. Harrap, 1954. Lively and effective account of the Emergency by an experienced Straits T im es’ reporter. Osborne, Milton. Strategic H a m lets in South V ietnam : a S urvey an d a C om parison [with the Malayan ‘New Villages’]. Cornell, 1965. (See under Vietnam.) Purcell, Victor. M a la ya : C o m m u n ist o r Free? Gollancz, 1954. Notable report on the Emergency by a former Malayan Civil Servant specializ­ ing in Chinese affairs; opposed to General Templer’s ‘Coercive’ policy. Pye, Lucian W. G uerrilla C om m u n ism in M alaya: Its Social a n d P olitical M eaning. Princeton U.P., 1956. Case studies of ‘Surrendered Enemy Personnel’ preceded by a brilliant analysis of revolutionary Com­ munism and its applicability to Malayan conditions. Thompson, Sir R. D efea tin g C o m m u n ist Insurgency: E xperiences from M a la ya and V ietnam . Chatto & Windus, and Praeger, 1965. A former Malayan Civil Servant, latterly Secretary for Defence (until 1961), stresses the importance of co-ordinated civil-police-military opera­ tions, a unified plan, sound administration and good intelligence—this was developed in Malaya, but not in South Vietnam (see also under Vietnam). PHILIPPINES Romulo, Carlos P. & Gray, Marvin M. The M agsaysay S tory. Pocket Books, 1957. Colourful account of a decisive leader. Scaff, Alvin H. T h e P h ilippin es' A n sw e r to C om m unism . Stanford U. P., 1955. Brief survey of the Huk revolt, the Army’s civic action pro­ gramme, including the EDCOR scheme, and points from interviews with ex-Huks. Valeriano, Napoleon D. & Bohannan, Charles T. R. C ounter-G uerrilla O perations: The P hilippines E xperience. Praeger, 1962. Useful study, emphasizing the importance of the political aspects of insurgency and counter-measures; but not quite the authoritative work which the subject requires. Vargus, Jesus M. C om m u n ism in D ecline: The H u k C am paign, s e a t o (1958). An effective, concise report by the Armed Forces Chief of Staff under Magsaysay, later Secretary of Defence. THAILAND Darling, Frank. The U n ited States and Thailand. Cornell U.P., 1965. A former C.I.A. official picks on the weaknesses of us support for military-controlled regimes, but his accusations are exaggerated. Neuchterlein, Donald E. T hailand a n d the Struggle fo r Southeast A sia. Cornell U.P. 1965. A counter to Darling. Sympathetic view of Thai foreign policy, particularly during the Laotian crisis. Sounds a remark­ ably Dullesian note. Wilson, David A. P olitics in Thailand. Cornell U.P., 1962. First

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thorough account by a Western writer, using Thai sources, of the contemporary scene. US POLICY D ocu m en ts on A m erican F oreign R elations. Harper, formerly Princeton

U.P., for Council on Foreign Relations. Annual selection of important speeches and official reports. Fifield, Russell. S outheast A sia in U n ited States P olicy. Praeger, 1963. Useful but not very inspired. Good bibliography. Hilsman, Roger. T o M o v e a N ation : The P olitics o f Foreign P olicy in the A dm in istra tio n o f John F. K en n edy. Doubleday, 1967. Valuable source of information on us policy towards Laos and Vietnam— attitudes of President, State Department and Pentagon—by the former Director of Intelligence and Research, and Assistant Secretary for Far Eastern Affairs at the State Department, who resigned (was dis­ missed?) early in 1964. Challenges the conventional military approach to insurgency. Kahin, George McT. & Lewis, John W. The U n ited States in V ietnam : A n A n alysis in D ep th o f the H isto ry o f A m erica's In volvem en t in V ietnam . Delta Books, 1967. Useful survey, not particularly ‘deep’

(impossible in such short space), by an authority on Indonesia and on China respectively. Critical, objectively presented. Taylor, Maxwell D. R esp o n sib ility and R esponse. Harper & Row, 1967. Two lectures by the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and ex-Ambassador to Saigon, an advocate of bombing the North. Discusses question of us intervention and commitments; points out difficulties in accurate assessment of the situation (as in Vietnam). us Department of State. A ggression fro m the N orth : The R eco rd o f N o rth V iet-N am 's C am paign to C on qu er South V iet-N am . Washing­ ton, 1965. The ‘massive evidence of North Vietnamese agression’ pub­ lished, not very convincingly, to justify us bombing of the North. A T hreat to the Peace: N o rth V iet-N am 's E ffort to C on qu er South V ietN am . Washington, 1961. Issued to explain the need for increased us

assistance to the Government of South Vietnam; useful account of Vietcong organization and guerrilla activities. D ep a rtm en t o f State Bulletin. Texts of foreign policy statements, speeches, interviews, news conferences by the President, Secretary of State, etc. COMMUNISM AND INSURGENCY Brimmell, J. H. C om m u nism in Southeast A sia: A P olitical A nalysis. Oxford U.P., 1959. Still one of the best surveys of this period, particu­ larly on the 1948 uprisings. Galula, David. C ounter-Insurgency W arfare: T h eory and Practice. Praeger and Pall Mall, 1964. Brilliant and lucid discussion with examples from Algeria, Indo-China, Greece and Vietnam. Kennedy, D. E. The Security o f Southern A sia. Chatto & Windus, and Praeger, 1965. An excellent exposition of the problems of defence ranging from India to Japan

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McLane, Charles B. S o viet S trategies in Sou theast A sia: A n E xploration o f E astern P olicy under Lenin and S talin . Princeton U.P., 1966. Detailed study by a Soviet specialist making good use of Russian sources. Sun Tsu (trans. Samuel B. Griffith). T he A r t o f W ar. Oxford U.P., 1963. More than 2,000 years old, but relevant today (much quoted by Mao Tse-tung). Thus: ‘Know the enemy, know your self; your victory will never be endangered’ and ‘those skilled in war avoid the enemy when his spirit is keen and attack him when it is sluggish. . . . ’ Trinquier, Roger. M o d ern W arfare , Praeger, 1964. Rather fanatical approach to insurgency, especially in the use of informers and popula­ tion control, but good advice on pacification. PERIODICALS A sia Su rvey (California); C hina Q uarterly (London); F ar Eastern E con om ic R e v ie w (Hong Kong); Foreign A ffairs (New York); In ter­ n ational A ffairs (London); Journal o f A sian Studies (Ann Arbor); Pacific A ffairs (Vancouver); P eking R eview ; S um m ary o f W o rld B roadcasts (Far E ast )—B.B.C. Caversham; W o rld M arxist R e vie w (Prague).

INDEX Acheson, Dean, 95, 97, 152 176, 181, 183 Afro-Asia, 15, 39, 49-50, 182, 218 Aggression, 11, 25, 30, 38-45, 83-90, 178, 198, 211,214-15 Agrarian problems (see Land prob­ lems) Aidit, D. N., 34, 36-7, 50, 167-73 Algeria, 34, 41-2, 44, 173 Alsop, Joseph, 185, 216-17, 220 d’Argenlieu, Admiral, 138 Army-guerrilla ‘ratio’, 165n Army (methods, problems), China — 60, 63, 65, 67-70, 81, 95, 99-101, 103, 105-7, 148. Indo-China-7 8 -9 , 124, 127, 131, 134, 138, 138n, 178n. South V ie tn a m -143, 149, 161, 194, 199-200, 205-7, 209, 212-13, 216-17, 219-20. P h ilip p in es-165. M a la y a -159, 161, 165-6. L a o s 187, 189. Indonesia-16 8 -7 0 Aung San, 19 Barr, Gen., 104, 106 Base areas, 12-13. China- 4 9 , 52, 65-71, 75-7, 79-80, 91-2, 102. Viet­ n am -115-16, 123, 126, 128-9, 133, 143-4, 223n Bao Dai, 29, 89, 116, 119, 127, 136, 139-40, 149n Bohannan, Col., 162, 165 Briggs Plan, 160 Buddhists in Vietnam, 32, 136, 142, 149-52, 194, 20111 Bundy, William, 43-4, 213-14 Bunker, Ellsworth, 199, 216, 219 Burma, 19, 22, 29, 33, 38, 40, 56, 128, 177 Calcutta Conference, 19-20 Cambodia, 38, 40, 43, 173,184,187-8,

China (Chinese, ‘Peking’, People’s Republic), 23-7, 36-8, 44-6, 49-109, 135, 174ff, 183-6, 193-4, 217-18 Chinese in Malaya, 159-67 Chingkang mts., 59, 64, 71, 75 Chu Teh, 69, 72, 75, 80 C.I.A., 28, 183, 183n, 188, 204, 210 Clutterbuck, Richard, 159-60, 165 Cochin-China, 17, 116, 119-21, 127, 131, 134, 145 Cominform, 19 Comintern, 63-4 Communism (ideology —not tactics), 23-4, 57, 63, 66, 74, 86, 93, 96, 100. u s v ie w -2 8 , 175-83, 192-3, 212 Corruption, China —56, 99, 101-2, 106-7. Indo-China-1 2 0 , 127, 140. South Vietnam —30, 142-3, 147-8, 203, 206, 208, 224. Philippines158, 162-4. L a o s - 188 Dani, Omar, 37n d’Argenlieu, Admiral, 138 de Gaulle (see Gaulle, de) Democratic League, 99n, 101, 106 Devillers, Philippe, 121, 137 Diem, Pres. Ngo Dinh, 13-14, 29-32, 44-5, 98, 139, 141-52, 157-8, 191-212, 217, 223 Dien Bien Phu, 82, 134-5, 178, 220 ‘Domino theory’, 38-42, 45, 125, 184, 192 Dommen, Arthur, 179n, 187 Dulles, J. F., 27-8, 30, 175ff Duncanson, Dennis, 149n, 223n Dutch in Indonesia, 19, 21, 56, 171-2 Dutt, Palme, 19, 22 Eisenhower, Pres. (Gen.), 27, 39, 175-6, 181-2, 183n, 191-2, 195, 214 ‘Emergency’, 159-67, 202

220 Canton, 60-1, 76 Cao Dai, 29, 140, 150-1, 191 Catholics in Vietnam, 32, 136, 149, 156n, 191, 220 ‘C-C Clique’, 99, 105 Central Committee (Chinese C.P.), 59, 64, 66 Chen Tu-hsiu, 63 Chiang Kai-shek, 13, 14, 28, 53, 56, 60ff, 108, 142, 148, 157, 164, 180

Fall, Bernard, 118, 127n French in Indo-China, 13, 17-18, 30, 32, 56, 65, 82, 115ff, 157, 173-4, 176 Galula, David, 55-6 Gaulle, de, Pres. (Gen.), 17, 138-9, 173, 214 Geneva Conference (Agreements), 44, 82, 178, 184, 186-7, 189-91 Giap, Gen. Vo Nguyen, 12, 65, 67,

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77-8, 85, 119ff, 220-1 Guatemala, 174, 182-3 Guerrilla tactics, 12, 31, 50. China — 49, 52, 55, 77-83, 87-9, 107. V ie tm in h -126-7, 132-4, 136. Viet­ c o n g - 142, 171-2, 200, 207, 210, 214 Hammer, Ellen, 136, 139 Hilsman, Roger, 43, 196-7, 199, 200-1 Hindley, Donald, 170-2 Hitler, 42-4 Hoa Hao, 29, 140, 150, 191, 223 Ho Chi Minh, Pres., 12-13, 17-18, 33, 53, 89, 116, 118, 121ff, 185, 198 Huks, 23, 158-66, 198 Hunan Prov., 61-2, 69n, 71-3, 75, 170 Hurley, Amb., 96 India, 14, 20-1, 25, 40, 56, 139 Indo-China, 12, 14, 29, 39, 56, 67 79, 98, 115ff, 157, 173-6, 177, 180, 190, 193, 214 Indo-Chinese C.P., 121, 124, 124n, 135, 135n Indonesia, 15, 20, 33-8, 45, 56, 167-73 Infiltration (Vietnam), 30-1, 43, 43n, 149, 174-5, 196-8, 207, 220 Infrastructure (insurgent), 14, 45, 166, 199, 222 Insurgency, 11, 14, 41, 43-4, 52, 150, 157, 180ff, 197, 213 Intelligence (methods), 55, 80, 131, 161, 165-6, 174, 199, 200, 209 Japan (Japanese), 13-14. China —53, 56, 70, 74, 78, 80ff, 96-7, 100, 115. Philippines —158-9. Malaya —159 Johnson, Chalmers, 86 Johnson, Pres. L. B., 38, 42, 45-6, 175-6, 1 9 1 ,192n, 196, 206, 208, 210, 215-18, 224 Juichin (Juikin), 69, 75 Kennedy, Pres. J. F., 27-8, 142, 149, 176, 179, 189, 195, 198 Khanh, Gen. Nguyen, 32, 44, 204-6, 210-11, 223 Khruschev, Nikita, 24, 27, 189 Kiangsi Prov., 59, 69, 72, 75-6, 87 Komer, Robert, 223, 224n Kong Lae, 184, 187-9 Korea (North), 41, 173, 175, 177 Korea (South), Korean War, 28-30,

41, 160, 175-8, 193 Kuomintang (Nationalists), 12, 22, 28, 56, 60ff, 68ff, 78-109, 116, 136, 143, 148, 157 Ky, Vice-Pres. (Air V-M) Nguyen Cao, 32, 46, 205-6, 213, 224n Land laws, Chinese C.P. —71-2, 84, 103-4. Vietminh (N. Vietnam) 124n, 129-30, 141, 150 Land problems, China —58-64. Viet­ n am -119-21, 140, 140n, 141-7, 150. Philippines —158n, 162, 164. Indonesia—170, 171n Lansdale, Gen. E., 217 Lao Dong (Workers’ Party), 128, 218 Laos, 27-9, 38, 40-1, 43, 98, 128, 135, 173ff, 183-90, 195, 197, 217n, 220 Leadership, 13-14. China —53-5, 57, 66-8, 93-5, 104. Vietminh - 1 1 8 , 124-5, 136. V ie tc o n g -150-1, 165n. Philippines -1 57-8. Malaya -1 6 0 Leclerc, Gen., 137-8 ‘Left Adventurist’ (‘Ultra-Left’), 59, 73, 90, 94 Lenin, 13, 24, 53, 74 Le Thanh Khoi, 119 Li Li-san, 63-4, 66 Lin Piao, 13, 39, 49, 50, 52, 74, 77, 85 Li Tsung-jen, 107-9 Liu Shao-chi, 22 Long March, 60, 69, 77, 83 Luzon, 159, 162 Madiun, 21, 36 Magsaysay, Pres. Ramon, 13, 23, 158, 163-4, 167, 177, 217 Malaya, 22, 40, 43, 55-6, 79, 157-67, 190, 200, 202, 220 Malayan C.P., 20, 22, 166 Malaysia, 29, 34, 38 Manchu dynasty, 60 Manchuria, 70, 84, 102, 105-8 Manila, 162-3 Mao Tse-tung, 12, 13, 20, 25, 34, 40, 49, 50-108, 124, 126, 133-4, 141, 167,170-1 Maphilindo, 157n Marshall, Gen. George, 98, 100, 104-5, 108, 193-4 Marx, Karl, 17, 74, 125, 129 McNamara, Robert S., 32, 37-8, 41-3, 46, 152, 198, 203-4, 207, 214, 221

I NDEX Mekong delta, 143, 150, 194, 197, 202-3, 207, 210-11, 215n, 221, 224n Military-Guerrilla ‘ratio’, 165n Minh, Gen. Duong Van, 202, 204, 208, 210-12 Moscow ‘Declaration’, 25 Mus, Paul, 118-19, 123, 140n Musso, 21 Nanking, 65, 83-4, 86-7, 89, 98, 107-9 ‘Nasakom’, 36, 168 Nasution, Gen. A. H., 10, 34-5, 37, 171-2 Nationalism, 13, 22, 30. China —52-3, 70, 83, 85-6, 90-3. Vietminh- 8 5 , 115, 118-19, 121, 125n, 136, 139. S. V ie tn a m -141, 192, 196. Malaya - 1 5 9 , 167 Navarre, Gen., 134 Negotiations, China —61-3, 99, 99n 100, 108. In d o -C h in a -116, 136-7, 176 (and see Geneva). S. Vietnam - 3 3 , 33n, 187, 215, 217, 217n, 218. L aos-1 8 8 -9 Nehru, 20, 24 N eo Lao Hak Xat (N.L.H.X.), 186 ‘New Villages’ in Malaya, 160, 202 Nguyen Thai, 148-9, 152, 206 Nhu, Mme (Tran Le Xuan), 142 Nhu, Ngo Dinh, 32, 148, 201-2 N.L.F. (National Liberation Front for South Vietnam), (see also Vietcong), 29n, 31, 145-52, 183, 217n

243

People’s Revolutionary Party, 146 Philippines, 22, 38, 157-67, 177, 198 Phoui Sananikone, 184-6 Phoumi Nosavan, Gen., 13, 28-9, 184, 188, 190 Pike, Douglas, 142n, 150, 201 P.K.I. (Indonesian Communist Party), 33-8, 50, 167-73 Police role, 30, 90, 107, 147, 150, 160-2, 165, 174, 190, 197, 209 Popular support, 14, 41, 44, 157. China- 5 2 , 55, 57, 65, 69-72, 74, 78-80, 86, 86n, 87-8, 102-4. Viet­ m inh-1 1 9 , 127, 129, 131-2, 136, 141. V ie tc o n g -141-4, 147, 151, 174, 197, 206-7, 212, 213, 219, 221-3, 223n. Philippines —157-8, 164, 167n. Malaya —167. Indonesia -1 7 1 -2 Protracted war, 12, 52, 54, 59, 64-83, 124, 133-4, 174 Quirino, Pres., 163-4

Organization, 13. China- 4 9 , 52, 55-6, 57, 59, 65-7, 74, 85, 91-2, 102, 116. V ie tm in h -118, 122, 126, 128, 135. V ie tc o n g -144, 150, 166, 223n. M a la y a -160, 162, 166, 202. Indonesia —130

Red Army (China), 54, 59, 64-6, 68ff, 87, 94, (P.L.A.), 104-5 Reforms (or need for them), China -1 0 2 , 148, 188. V ie tm in h -140-1. S. V ie tn a m -193, 196, 200, 204, 206, 212, 224. Philippines—22-3, 164, 167n. Malaya- 1 6 7 Revolution, 15, 20-2, 25-7, 36, 39-40, 49, 54, 58-9, 62, 64-6, 71-2, 77, 84-5, 121-3, 171 Rhee, Syngman, 28-9, 180 Robertson, Walter S., 184, 184n Romulo, Carlos, 163 Rostow, W. W., 173-5, 216 Rusk, Dean, 33, 38, 42, 44-5, 173-5, 191, 195, 197, 201, 206-15 Russia (see Soviet)

Pacification, Japanese —86, 89, 90. F r e n c h -131, 178. u s - 3 3 , 202-3, 204-5, 211, 219-24 Pakistan, 26, 40, 139 Pathet Lao, 29, 183-8 Patrol operations, 165, 165n, 220 Peasant uprising, 12, 34, 50, 52, 57-64, 66, 69, 81, 87, 119, 124, 131-4, 167, 170, 180ff Peng Teh-huai, 57, 69, 69n, 70, 75, 80 ‘People’s Daily’, 39

Saigon, 30, 32 Schlesinger, Arthur, 196 Scigliano, Robert, 149, 196 s e a t o , 26, 30, 197, 215 ‘Search and destroy’ (Mil it. sweeps), 87, 159, 219-20 Shanghai, 59-60, 64, 66, 76, 88, 109 Shensi Prov., 83-4 Sian incident, 83-4 Sihanouk, Prince, 27 Smedley, Agnes, 80 Snow, Edgar, 54, 57, 61, 72, 80

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Souphanouvong, Prince, 186 Souvanna Phouma, Prince, 28, 183-4, 186, 188-9 Soviet Union (Russia), Misc. —18, 19, 30, 70, 89. Sino-Soviet R eis.— 23-7, 37, 57-8, 61-3, 93, 96-7, 100, 106, 108, 135, 174-5. S o v ie t-u s27, 44-5, 175-7, 180, 182. L a o s 185-90. V ie tn a m -18, 27, 217. Indonesia —37, 168 Spaniards in Philippines, 162 Squatters in Malaya, 159-60 Stalin, 19, 24, 27, 53, 58, 63, 176-7 Stevenson, Adlai, 179 Strategic Hamlets, 200-4. Hamlet security—221-4 Stuart, Leighton, 98, 106-7 Subandrio, Dr., 34, 36-7 Subversion, 22, 29-31, 41, 43, 45, 76, 161, 170, 178-9, 189, 192, 196-7, 205, 217 Suharto, Gen., 35, 37-8 Sukarno, Pres., 21, 24, 34-7, 168-71 Sun Tsu, 78, 126 Sun Yat-sen, 12, 62, 71, 92, 100, 157, 171 Szechwan Prov., 88 Taiwan, 25, 28, 44, 90, 141, 147, 175 Tanham, George, 131 Taylor, Gen. Maxwell, 32, 196, 198, 204, 213, 221 Templer, Gen. (Field Marshal), 166-7 Terrain, 12, 43, 65, 75-6, 78-80, 1045, 126, 128, 131, 144, 171-2 Terrorism, 31, 35, 37, 54, 64, 72-3, 86, 108, 118, 131-2, 160, 163, 165, 168, 172, 191, 195, 205-6, 221-2 Thailand, 28, 29, 38, 40, 43, 46, 79, 120n, 128, 175, 184, 188 Thakin Than Tun, 19 Thang, Gen. Nguyen Due, 224, 224n Thieu, Pres. (Gen.), Nguyen Van, 205, 224n Thi, Nguyen Chanh, 32, 213 Thompson, Sir Robert, 55, 161, 166, 202, 213 ‘Three Stage* War, 81-2, 132-3, 214n ‘Three Thirds’ system, 92 Tonkin, 119-22, 127-8, 131, 134-6 Ton That Thien, 143, 147

Tribes (Hill-tribes), 32, 121, 128, 132, 150, 186n, 190 Trotsky, 13, 53, 63 Truman, Pres. H., 98, 175-7, 179-80, 193 Truong Chinh, 124-41, 144 United Front (national united front), China- 6 2 , 74, 83-5, 88, 90ff. Vietnam —85, 135ff, 169 United Malay National Organization (U.M.N.O.), 159, 167 United Nations (u n ), 41,106,181, 184 United States of America (u s a ), Reis, with S. Vietnam —17, 18, 30, 32, 33, 39-40, 44-6, 142-52, 173-5, 190225. China-3 9 -4 0 , 45-6, 95-109. V ie tm in h -17, 120, 125, 137, 140. Soviet U nion—27, 44-5, 175-7, 180, 182. Laos —183-90. East Asia — 28-9. Pakistan—26. View of Com­ munism—28, 175-83, 192-3, 212 Untung, Lt.-Col., 35-7 U Nu, 19 U Thant, 33 Valeriano, Col., 162, 165 Valluy, Gen., 124, 138 Vargas, Gen. Jesus, 163, 165 Vietcong (see also N.L.F.), 29-32, 43-6, 82, 128, 141ff, 157, 166, 174, 191-225 Vietminh, 13, 18, 21, 30-1, 44, 65, 67, 82, 85, 115-41, 145, 150, 158, 191, 194-5 Vietnam (North), 27-9, 33, 42-6, 11920, 173ff, 183-6, 190, 194, 196-8, 206-7, 210, 214-20 Vietnam (South), 28-31, 33, 38-45, 55, 79, 90, 98, 141ff, 162, 165, 174ff, 184, 191-225 Violence (see Aggression, Revolu­ tion, Terrorism) Wang Ching-wei, 86, 89-91, 139 Warner, Denis, 143 Wedemeyer, Gen., 102, 106 Westmoreland, Gen., 46, 199, 213, 216-21 Yangtse river, 61, 90, 104, 107, 109 Yani, Gen., 35 Yenan, 70, 105

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Making a Nation o f Communities in Taiwan Hsin-Yi Lu

C h in a ’s C iv il A v ia tio n In d u s t r y

Christianity in South China, 1860-1900 Joseph Tse-Hei Lee A n A m e r ic a n E d i t o r in E a r l y R e v o l u t i o n a r y C h in a

John William Powell and the China Weekly/Monthly Review Neil L. O’Brien B e tw e e n S a c r i f i c e a n d D e s ir e

National Identity and the Governing o f Femininity in Vietnam Ashley Pettus

J a p a n ’s F o r e ig n P o l i c y M a t u r a t i o n

A Quest for Normalcy

N e w C u l t u r e in a N ew W o r l d

Kevin J. Cooney

The May Fourth Movement and the Chinese Diaspora in Singapore, 1919-1932

E n g in e e r in g t h e S t a t e

The Huai River and Reconstruction in Nationalist China, 192 7-193 7

David L. Kenley

David A. Pietz

A ll ia n c e

Ja p a n e s e D i r e c t I n v e s t m e n t in C h in a

Detente and the Sino-American-Japanese Triangle

Locational Determinants and Characteristics John F. Cassidy

A n x ie t y

Go Ito S t a t e a n d S o c i e t y in C h in a ’s D e m o c r a tic T r a n s itio n

S h o k o - K en

A Late Medieval Daime Sukiya Style Japanese Tea-House Robin Noel Walker F r o m T r a n s it io n A l t e r n a t io n

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Confucianism, Leninism, and Economic Development Xiaoquin Guo In S e a r c h o f a n I d e n t i t y

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Edward Vickers

T h e Pro spects fo r a R e g io n a l H u m a n R ig h ts M e c h a n is m in E a st A sia

Hidetoshi Hashimoto

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THE STAKES OF DEMOCRACY IN SOUTHEAST ASIA

jungles of Luzon, Borneo, Sumatra, and Indo-China. Those who came afterwards and had attained a much higher stand­ ard of civilization and social integration were apt to settle as soon as they reached a sufficiently fertile country and the pressure that had dislodged them was reduced. This difference in civilization found a typical expression m the cultivation of rice, the staple food of almost the whole area. There are few fragmentary tribes left that still live ex­ clusively by hunting and fishing and collecting products of wild growth. The great majority of the people learned some form of agriculture ages ago, with cattle breeding as an ac­ cessory to farming. But as long as rice and vegetables were planted on patches of cleared forest, shifted every few years, the tribal organization would persist and the forest would remain a valuable source of additional food and income. But the people who had learned to cultivate rice on ter­ raced and irrigated fields or in drained stretches of swamp­ land needed closer settlements and wider co-operation. The village or district became, in most cases, their social and com­ munal centre, and the collective interests of adjoining vil­ lages forced them to combine and made for an intercourse that broke through the tribal divisions and taboos. The ter­ ritorial bond became stronger than the tribal ties; the vil­ lage and the farmer s family replaced the tribe and the clan as fundamental units of the social structure. But at the same time their interdependence, their increased vulnerabil­ ity, and a gradual specialization of production created the necessity of a larger and more powerful governmental super­ structure. When history began to be preserved in legends, inscriptions, and chronicles, these mass migrations had practically ceased. The Indonesians had spread over the Philippines, the major part of Indonesia, and Malaya; the Burmese, the Thais, the Khmers, and the Annamites populated Burma, Thailand, Cambodia, and Annam. On the outskirts of this region the

THE ORIGINS OF SOUTHEAST ASIA

33

Indonesian wave may have reached Japan, to lose its identity in the Mongol torrent from East and Northeast Asia. In For­ mosa the Indonesians were gradually being isolated in the interior by invading Chinese. At the other extremity, in Mada­ gascar, they imposed themselves as the ruling race of the Hovas on the African inhabitants. And on the northeastern fringe of Indo-China, particularly in Tonkin, constant infiltra­ tions from the Chinese Empire created a mixed population with strong Chinese traits and characteristics. In many ways Ceylon presented a similar picture. The Singhalese, it is true, came from the Indian mainland rather than Indo-China; but otherwise its history and its position are so much akin to those of the other Southeast Asiatic coun­ tries that it can be included in these considerations. Even a cursory glance at a map of Southeast Asia, covering Ceylon, Burma, Thailand, French Indo-China, Malaya, Indo­ nesia, the Philippines, and the smaller territories of British Borneo and Portuguese Timor, must impress us with the broken character of the country, as well as with its penetra­ tion by the sea. To begin with, more than half of its land sur­ face consists of islands. In Indo-China and on the larger is­ lands, including the Malay Peninsula, high longitudinal or radiating mountain ranges further subdivide the country. Swamps along the coast and tropical jungle in the interior bar the way; the valleys of the numerous rivers, which provide ac­ cess to the higher levels, are often separated from each other by almost untraversable ridges. Stretches of extremely fertile volcanic or alluvial soil alternate with poor forest mould, spread thinly over loam, marl, gravel, and rock. The heavy monsoon rains, while supplying plenty of water, often flood the plains and cause rapid erosion wherever the mountain slopes are laid bare by primitive cultivation. As a consequence the political units in this area remained, as a rule, comparatively small. When a monarch wished to extend his dominion beyond the island or the river valley