Disenfranchised: The Rise and Fall of

Industrial Citizenship in China Joel

Andreas
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 Advance Praise for Disenfranchised

“In Disenfranchised, Joel Andreas provides the most thorough account

available of workplace politics in Mao-​era China, as well as an assessment
of the impact of market reforms. Conceptually concise and empirically
rich, this study pushes us to rethink the relationship between democ-
racy and the market in the process of post-​socialist transformation. This
is both a wonderful labor history as well as theoretically engaged political
sociology—​highly recommended!”
—​Eli Friedman, Associate Professor of International and Comparative
Labor, Cornell University, and author of Insurgency Trap:
Labor Politics in Postsocialist China
“Disenfranchised charts the rise and fall of the most sustained experiment in in-
dustrial citizenship anywhere. Andreas documents how serious a commitment
this was for the party/​state, how it resonated with workers, the ways it developed
over the Maoist period, and how structural reform managed—​often against con-
siderable worker opposition—​to dismantle it. This book will redefine our un-
derstanding of factory politics in Maoist China and throw what has followed
into the starkest relief.”
—​Marc Blecher, James Monroe Professor of Politics and East
Asian Studies, Oberlin College, and co-author of Tethered Deer:
Government and Economy in a Chinese County
“Questioning the one-​dimensional conventional wisdom concerning the evo-
lution of Chinese industrial relations, this marvelously researched and analyti-
cally sophisticated book provides a nuanced and richly textured account of the
vicissitudes of grassroots industrial citizenship in China from the late 1940s
to the present. A must read for scholars interested in the history, legacy, and
prospect of China’s socialist experiments in its tumultuous twentieth century.”
—​Yiching Wu, Associate Professor of East Asian Studies,
University of Toronto, and author of The Cultural Revolution
at the Margins: Chinese Socialism in Crisis
“In a highly original account, Andreas shows that under Maoism Chinese
workers developed the capacity to control and discipline their supervisors,
but their lack of autonomy ultimately undermined communism’s professed
goals. Taking advantage of the regime’s restrictions of bottom-​up initiatives,
first bureaucrats and then capitalists obliterated workers’ inclusion. Through
exploring this exceptional case, Andreas raises general—​ and troubling—​
questions for all readers and activists who believe in participatory democracy.”
—​Cihan Tuğal, Associate Professor of Sociology,
University of California, Berkeley, and author
of The Fall of the Turkish Model
 Disenfranchised
The Rise and Fall of Industrial Citizenship
in China

JOEL ANDREAS

1
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 Contents

Preface vii

1. China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 1

2. Enfranchised 27

3. Participatory Paternalism 53

4. Mass Supervision 82

5. Big Democracy 99

6. Revolutionary Committees 128

7. Reforming the Work Unit System 166

8. Disenfranchised 192

9. Lessons and Prospects 220

Appendices 237
A Major Events 237
B Chinese Terms 238
C Acronyms 238
D Interviewees 238

Notes 249
Bibliography 271
Index 295
 Preface

This book was inspired by the same fundamental question that led me to
write my first book: why did the twentieth-​century Communist project
to eliminate class distinctions fail? The most uncomplicated answer—​
and one that is assumed without much inquiry by many scholars—​is
that Communist leaders were never serious about the egalitarian goals
they espoused. I contested this answer in the first book, Rise of the Red
Engineers: The Cultural Revolution and the Origins of China’s New Class,
which recounted the protracted series of harsh class-​leveling campaigns
carried out by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) in the decades after
it seized power in 1949. The book provided an answer to the question but
not one that was definitive. Even if it did not fully explain why the CCP’s
class-​leveling project failed, however, it did help me pose the question more
sharply. To understand the agenda of the present book, therefore, it is nec-
essary to briefly summarize the arguments I elaborated in Red Engineers.
Class-​leveling campaigns in China targeted three types of capital—​
economic, cultural, and political. The express goal was to democratize
power, that is, to radically redistribute capital so that it was dispersed more
equally through the population. The focus shifted sequentially from eco-
nomic to cultural and finally to political capital. In all three fields, I argued,
leveling campaigns were ruthless and violent; the results, however, differed
considerably.
In the early years of Communist power, the main target was economic
capital, that is, private property in means of production. In rural China, land
was redistributed and then collectivized, while in urban China, all private
enterprise was nationalized or collectivized. The propertied classes were
completely, often violently, dispossessed, and economic capital, which had
been the most important mechanism of class differentiation, was completely
eliminated. All productive property was placed in the hands of public enti-
ties, and class differences within these entities, which remained substantial,
were subsequently based largely on cultural and political capital.
After economic capital was eliminated, the focus of leveling shifted to
cultural capital, that is, the educational and cultural resources that served
viii Preface

as means of class differentiation. Under the banner of eliminating the dis-

tinction between mental and manual labor, Communist leaders relentlessly
undermined the status of the old educated elites, attacking the cultural
traditions that underpinned their status, compelling those who worked
in offices to engage in manual labor, and systematically redistributing ac-
cess to education. During the Cultural Revolution decade, the most radical
phase of cultural redistribution, schools were built in virtually every village
and the overarching goal was to have every child study for 9 or 10 years
and then go to work. Higher education was reduced to short-​term tech-
nical training programs, universities built factories and factories built
universities, and admission was governed by a “worker–​peasant–​soldier”
recommendation system, which discriminated against children of the old
educated elites (and, in practice, often favored children of the new political
elites). Although these radical policies did not come close to eliminating
class differences based on education and the harm they caused was substan-
tial, the program was coherent and effective and, during the years it was in
place, substantially reduced inequality in the cultural field.
Efforts to level class differences based on political capital—​credentials
and networks provided by party membership—​were, unsurprisingly, the
most fraught. These were the resources that underpinned the status and
power of party officials, and Communist attacks on economic and cultural
capital can easily be interpreted simply as a means to enhance the power of
political capital; indeed, this was often the explicit purpose. In the course of
dispossessing landlords and capitalists, veterans of the Communist insur-
gency took charge of villages and factories, and political criteria took prece-
dence over education and expertise in promoting new leaders. As power was
steadily concentrated in the hands of Communist officials, however, Mao
Zedong, who was responsible for initiating all class-​leveling campaigns,
increasingly made these officials—​and the political capital on which they
relied—​the focus of attack. By the time he launched the Cultural Revolution
in 1966, the main target had become the cadres of his own party, which he
had determined were becoming a new “bureaucratic class.”
Incited by Mao, students, workers, and peasants formed “rebel” groups
in order to attack the leaders of their own schools, factories, and villages.
The rebel movement was inspired by slogans about democracy and “mass
supervision,” which in communist terminology referred to making leaders
accountable to the masses. Local party cadres were condemned for abusing
their power, seeking privileges, practicing “commandism,” suppressing
 Preface ix

criticism from below, isolating themselves from the masses, and governing
in a bureaucratic fashion. Moreover, they were virtually all thrown out of
office, and rebel groups were invited to help decide who among them were
fit to be rehabilitated.
Ultimately, however, although the upheavals of the Cultural Revolution
succeeded in undermining the authority of party cadres and temporarily
enhancing the power of insurgent students, workers, and peasants, no
institutions capable of effectively deconcentrating political power were es-
tablished. For all their destructive power, the political experiments of this
period failed in the long run to do much to make leaders more accountable
to those below them. Thus, the communist project to level class distinctions,
which had eliminated economic capital and was steadily diminishing
differences based on cultural capital, ultimately foundered due to the failure
of party leaders to democratize political capital.
As I set out to do the research that led to this book, my aim was to dig
deeper into the causes of this failure. This required a different kind of re-
search design. First, I shifted the site of investigation. The site of Red
Engineers was China’s top engineering school, Tsinghua University, which
was appropriate for a project that focused on political and cultural elites.
The university was at the epicenter of early battles that pit political against
cultural capital, and in the post-​Mao years, Tsinghua became the premier
training ground for members of a new technocratic class—​embodying a
merger of political and cultural elites—​that took the helm of the Chinese
state. Institutions populated by elites, however, were not the best place
to look into how power was distributed and redistributed between polit-
ical elites and the masses. I, therefore, shifted the site of investigation from
higher education to industry.
Factory hierarchies provided a particularly instructive setting to examine
the results of Mao’s efforts to make Communist cadres more accountable
to those below them. This was true for two reasons. First, the CCP made
workplaces the main site through which it governed the population. Under
the rubric of “Democratic Management,” the party developed an array of
institutions and practices, including shop-​ floor self-​management and
staff and workers congresses, to foster popular participation in factory
administration. In this book, I investigate how these institutions func-
tioned in practice, identifying fundamental problems that limited their
democratic potential. Second, factories became key battlefields during the
Cultural Revolution. The central chapters of this book are dedicated to
x Preface

examining what happened after Mao, who had little interest in institutional
arrangements, called on workers to form rebel organizations and attack the
leaders of their factories.
I have also employed a different kind of theoretical framework—​
involving citizenship and autonomy—​ designed to analyze problems of
democratic participation. This framework adapts theories about democracy
in state politics in order to fit them to industrial politics. Citizenship, I pro-
pose, is the essential foundation for democratic participation in any type of
organization, while autonomy is required for citizens to effectively partici-
pate in democratic decision-​making and hold leaders accountable. The first
chapters of this book examine the system of industrial governance estab-
lished during the decades following the 1949 revolution. During that period,
Chinese workers gained “industrial citizenship,” that is, secure job tenure
and recognition as legitimate stakeholders in factories, but constraints on
autonomous collective action limited the potential for workplace democ-
racy. The final chapters of the book then analyze changes in industrial gov-
ernance as Chinese factories have been transformed into profit-​oriented
enterprises, subjecting workers to much more precarious employment rela-
tions, while continuing to suppress autonomous collective action.
The research for this book included consulting documents, but the most
important sources were interviews with 121 workers and cadres who have
worked in Chinese factories at some point between the 1940s and the pre-
sent. I owe a great debt to these individuals, who generously spent many
hours detailing their experiences and elaborating their understanding of
events. I am especially grateful to those—​including many who had been
laid off or retired—​who met with me on multiple occasions over many
years, allowing us to delve deeper into issues I came to better understand as
time went on.
My research was greatly facilitated by the close proximity of China’s
industrial and academic worlds during the Mao era, a product of the
Communist program to eliminate differences between mental and manual
labor. Among my first interviewees were professors who in their youth had
worked in factories or mines for a number of years during the Cultural
Revolution decade and were often able to provide not only insightful ac-
counts but also valuable introductions. This group included Dai Jianzhong,
Dong Zhenghua, Li Lulu, Lu Aiguo, Xu Hailiang, Yang Heping, Yin
Hongbiao, and Zhao Dingxin. Important introductions were also provided
by three Johns Hopkins graduate students, Dong Yige, Li Yao, and Yue Yin,
 Preface xi

whose parents had worked in Chinese industrial enterprises. Li and Dong

also accompanied me to visit factory communities in their hometowns, and
they each co-​authored papers that grew out of this project.
Several left-​wing activists, some of whom had been leaders of rebel organ-
izations during the Cultural Revolution, also provided key introductions,
connecting me with retired workers who had been leaders of factory rebel
groups. These leaders, in turn, introduced me to other Cultural Revolution
activists, including leaders of conservative workers’ organizations.
In addition to Dong, Li, and Yue, a number of other Hopkins graduate
students, including Rachel Core, Huang Lingli, Li Yuyu, Liang Guowei,
Zhan Shaohua, and Zhang Lu, have assisted with this project in one way
or another, including summarizing documents and providing criticism and
advice on draft chapters. Several have since begun teaching careers at other
universities. Similar help was provided by Wang Yingyao before she came
to study in the United States and by several Hopkins undergraduates, in-
cluding Crystal Lee, Amy Han, Jaycee Yao, and Gloria Li. I have also been
fortunate that several young scholars at Chinese academic institutions who
study similar questions, including Fan Chunyan, Feng Xiaojun, Li Peiyao,
and Liu Fengwenzhu, were able to visit Hopkins over the past decade. All
provided valuable help and advice, and Li and I ended up co-​authoring
a paper.
Many of the people I interviewed also provided historical documents that
supplied contemporary accounts, chronologies, and statistical data, which
were invaluable in supplementing, complementing, and amending the con-
tent gleaned from interviews. I am especially grateful to Wu Caixia, who not
only gave me access to her considerable collection of Cultural Revolution
factional newspapers but also helped guide me through their content.
I am also indebted to friends and colleagues—​many more than I can
mention here—​ who offered valuable suggestions as I drafted chapters
of this book. These include my colleagues at Hopkins, including Rina
Agarwala, Ryan Calder, Marta Hanson, Ho-​Fung Hung, Mike Levien, Tobie
Meyer-​Fong, Bill Rowe, Beverly Silver, and Kellee Tsai, who provided en-
couragement and constructive criticism. Scholars from a number of other
institutions, including Kathryn Bernhardt, Robert Brenner, Anita Chan,
Vivek Chibber, Julia Chuang, Alex Day, Feng Tongqing, Eli Friedman,
Mark Frazier, Karl Gerth, Gao Mobo, David Goodman, Guang Lei, Guo
Yingjie, He Gaochao, Rebecca Karl, Ching Kwan Lee, Li Huaiyin, John
Logan, Kristen Looney, Vivienne Shue, Dorothy Solinger, Christian Sorace,
xii Preface

Su Yang, Frederick Teiwes, Tia Thornton, Tong Xin, Jon Unger, Wang Dan,
Jeffrey Wasserstrom, Felix Wemheuer, Wu Yiching, and Yan Hairong, also
offered helpful advice on talks, papers, and draft chapters. I am especially
thankful to participants in a book workshop at the University of California,
Berkeley, who commented on the full manuscript, including Marc Blecher,
Michael Burawoy, Long Yan, and Cihan Tugal.
I am also grateful to James Cook and Emily Mackenzie at Oxford
University Press for expertly shepherding this book through the review
and production processes. This book could not have been written without
financial support for research and writing provided by the Sociology
Department at Johns Hopkins as well as a Fulbright-​Hays Faculty Research
Abroad Fellowship and visiting fellowships from the China Studies Centre
at the University of Sydney and from the Centre for Asian Studies at the
University of Adelaide.
A final word of appreciation goes to my partner, Ay, and my daughter,
Marley, for their companionship and patience through the years I have been
working on this book (which is longer than Marley can remember!).
Joel Andreas
Baltimore, Maryland
April 2019
Disenfranchised
 1
China and the Era
of Industrial Citizenship

Industrial employment in China has changed radically in recent decades,

shifting from a system of permanent job tenure to one that depends largely
on highly flexible, precarious labor. Under the old system, which existed for
four decades, from the 1950s through the early 1990s, the great majority of
urban employees were members of a work unit (danwei 单位), and mem-
bership entailed lifetime employment. The archetypal industrial work unit
was a walled community that included, in addition to production facilities,
apartment blocks for workers and their families, childcare centers, schools,
medical clinics, and recreation facilities. There was little mobility among
work units; it was difficult for an individual to seek work elsewhere and
hard for an enterprise to fire an employee. Workers’ children were often
able to secure jobs in the work unit in which they grew up, and retirees con-
tinued to live in factory apartments, remaining part of the work unit com-
munity until the end of their lives.
Beginning in the mid-​1990s, radical market reforms systematically dis-
mantled the work unit system, replacing it with an industrial order in which
workers have a much more tenuous relationship with the enterprises that
employ them. Tens of millions of workers lost their jobs in the course of
industrial restructuring, and those who remained were given limited-​
term contracts. Chinese factories today strive to retain a small number
of core employees—​management and technical personnel as well as key
skilled workers—​while hiring most workers on a more casual basis. Many
enterprises hire workers through labor contracting agencies or technical
schools, which provide “interns” on short-​term contracts. A large part of
the industrial workforce is now composed of young migrants who follow
shifting employment opportunities and find it increasingly difficult to se-
cure jobs as they get older. As in the past, many large factories provide em-
ployee housing, but today this typically consists of single-​sex dormitories
for young workers.
2 Disenfranchised

These changes are not unique to China. What has happened in Chinese
factories is an extreme manifestation of trends that have reshaped em-
ployment relations across the globe. During the decades that followed
the Second World War, factories in many countries—​both socialist and
capitalist—​ provided stable, long-​ term employment. Economist Guy
Standing has aptly called the postwar decades the “era of industrial citi-
zenship.”1 The term captures essential features of the era, in which indus-
trial employment not only secured economic entitlements but also entailed
political rights and duties. In looking back, most scholars have focused on
the economic characteristics that made industrial relations during this pe-
riod distinct, including employment stability and factory-​provided welfare
benefits. The political characteristics of the era, however, were also remark-
able. Industrial citizenship meant that workers were not simply hired hands
but recognized as legitimate stakeholders. The idea of “workplace democ-
racy” was in vogue, and a wide range of organizational forms were devel-
oped to facilitate workers’ participation in factory management, some more
democratic than others. Industrial workers were highly organized, some
in trade unions of their own creation, others in organizations created by
employers or the state. Workers were also mobilized by political parties to
participate in national politics, and many of these parties styled themselves
as representatives of the working class.
Although the institutions of industrial citizenship reached their zenith
during the decades that followed the Second World War, they were first
forged during and after the First World War, with the spectacular rise of
socialist and labor movements. Industrial workers became a force to be
reckoned with. The institutions of industrial citizenship emerged as a re-
sult of radical demands from below combined with efforts from above to
steer these demands in directions that would enhance rather than under-
mine social and political stability. The First World War gave rise to revo-
lutionary factory-​based “works councils” in several European countries.
In Russia, where a revolution in which industrial workers played a critical
role triumphed, Bolshevik leaders—​suddenly transformed from revolu-
tionaries into rulers—​redirected works councils toward new state-​building
projects. In Germany and other countries where similar revolutions
failed, state officials and capitalists endeavored to turn works councils into
instruments of class compromise. The Second World War brought a second
wave of political upheaval, creating fledgling regimes around the world that
had cause to celebrate—​and fear—​industrial workers. As industrialization
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 3

became a paramount national project for developing countries, states of

many different ideological stripes found reason to offer factory workers
relatively generous economic entitlements and special terms of political
incorporation.
Industrial citizenship took a wide variety of forms. New socialist states
in China and elsewhere followed the Soviet model of rapid industrializa-
tion and worker incorporation, which included elaborate workers’ self-​
management institutions in factories. Capitalist states established tripartite
corporatist arrangements that brought together trade unions, employers’
associations, and state organs to manage industrial conflicts and discuss in-
dustrial policy. West Germany and a number of other Western European
countries established a new generation of works councils. In order to tamp
down labor unrest, industrial enterprises in Japan adopted paternalistic
arrangements, promising core workers lifetime employment and encour-
aging them to manage production on the shop floor. Even the United States,
which rejected the idea of works councils and tripartite arrangements,
encouraged collective bargaining between employers and trade unions. In
the global South, developmentalist and populist regimes created a wide va-
riety of institutions to incorporate industrial workers at the factory level
as well as in national politics.2 The International Labour Organization,
which became an arm of the newly established United Nations, called for
the “decommodification of labor” and promoted the idea of “industrial
democracy.”3
Industrial citizenship did not, of course, necessarily mean industrial de-
mocracy. Even at the height of the era, democratic participation in factory
decision-​making was usually quite limited and often formalistic; in some
places, at some moments, workers enjoyed substantial power, but those
places and moments were exceptional. Of course, the relationship between
citizenship and democracy in citizenship’s quintessential modern domain—​
national states—​is similarly tenuous. Today all countries recognize their
native-​born and naturalized populations as citizens, but the extent to which
citizens actually enjoy democratic rights and powers varies considerably.
Citizenship, however, is hardly meaningless. The transformation of
subjects into citizens was a momentous accomplishment; citizens be-
came legitimate stakeholders in states, enabling them to make claims on
the government that subjects of monarchies could not make. Citizenship
is the essential prerequisite for democratic participation. The same prin-
ciple applies in factories: if workers have not gained citizenship status in a
4 Disenfranchised

factory—​if their jobs are not secure and they are not recognized as legiti-
mate stakeholders—​they can hardly claim the right to participate in enter-
prise decision-​making and hold factory leaders accountable.
Industrial citizenship—​like national citizenship—​involves not only inclu-
sion but also exclusion.4 Citizens enjoy rights that non-​citizens are denied,
and when incumbent workers are able to effectively lay claim to jobs, this
creates barriers to entry for others. Moreover, inside the polity—​the na-
tional state or the enterprise—​some may enjoy full citizenship rights, while
others do not. In this way, part-​timers, temporary workers, and contract
employees are in a position akin to immigrants who lack state citizenship.
States that embrace industrial citizenship often take on corporatist
characteristics, incorporating distinct sections of the population on dif-
ferent terms. During the era of industrial citizenship, in many countries
factory workers were provided with economic entitlements and political
prerogatives not available to others. Left on the outside, or at least in less
advantageous positions, were most of the rural population and informally
employed sectors of the urban population. Moreover, the archetypal indus-
trial citizen was male as domestic duties and prevailing ideas and policies
excluded many women from industry and relegated those permitted en-
trance to subordinate and marginal positions.
The 1970s were the high point of the era of industrial citizenship. Since
then, the rise of neoliberal capitalism has substantially eroded employ-
ment security along with the ideas of industrial citizenship and industrial
democracy. Although the advance of neoliberalism has been uneven, the
institutions of industrial citizenship have been effectively challenged eve-
rywhere as they have been—​accurately—​portrayed as infringements on
private property rights, open labor markets, and profit imperatives. In coun-
tries in which industrial citizenship was only weakly established, there have
been few obstacles to the imposition of neoliberal labor regimes, but even
in countries in which industrial citizenship was more firmly entrenched,
hostile political and economic realities have significantly undermined the
institutions of the previous era. After being rolled back in the 1980s, indus-
trial citizenship faced decimating attacks in the 1990s. Since then, workers
in countries across the globe have increasingly been reduced from indus-
trial citizens to hired hands.
Examining the rise and fall of industrial citizenship provides another
angle from which to consider the relationship between market reforms and
democratization. In the 1990s, as China and other socialist countries were
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 5

reorganizing their economies according to capitalist principles, academics

debated the possible political consequences. In the “dual transitions” lit-
erature that emerged, a common assumption was that market reforms
would—​or at least should—​go hand in hand with the adoption of liberal
democratic political institutions. While few argued that market reforms
would automatically lead to political liberalization, much of the scholar-
ship was underpinned by a deep-​seated belief that there was an intrinsic
link between capitalism and liberal democracy.5 The actual results have
been mixed. In some countries, market reforms have been accompanied by
movement toward more liberal political institutions, while in others they
have not. By now, it is clear that there is no intrinsic relationship between
market reforms and political liberalization; capitalism in post-​ socialist
countries, like capitalism more generally, is compatible with a wide variety
of regime types, both liberal and authoritarian.
The dual transitions literature did not consider the relationship be-
tween market reforms and democracy inside the workplace. This relation-
ship, I will argue in this book, involves a different set of mechanisms and
dynamics and, unlike in the sphere of state politics, the impact of market
reforms on workplace democracy has been direct—​and unambiguously
negative. Because a central goal of market reforms, in China and elsewhere,
has been to give employers greater employment flexibility, the reforms
have inevitably undermined industrial citizenship, the essential foundation
for any kind of workplace democracy. As Chinese enterprises have joined
global markets and adopted capitalist principles, I will show, they have been
compelled to minimize labor costs, spurring them to undermine workers’
influence and concentrate power at the top. Chinese workers, having lost
their secure footing in factories, have been in a poor position to resist. Thus,
while market reforms have done little to promote the democratization of
state politics, they have fundamentally undermined conditions for democ-
racy inside the workplace. Instead, they have fostered extreme regimes of
despotic control.
Among the many countries that have implemented some form of workers’
participation in factory governance, China is a particularly interesting case.
This is not because Chinese factories were at any point an exceptionally
admirable model of workplace democracy; they were not. The Chinese
case, however, is especially instructive for reasons that have to do with the
two basic conditions I highlight as necessary for industrial democracy—​
workplace citizenship and autonomy. The degree to which individuals have
6 Disenfranchised

citizenship rights in their workplaces varies greatly, and this, I propose, has
a critical impact on the possibilities for democratic participation. For indus-
trial democracy to exist, however, workers must not only have citizenship
but also enjoy the right to autonomously pursue common agendas. Without
autonomy, even factories in which workers enjoy citizenship can be charac-
terized by paternalistic—​rather than democratic—​industrial relations.
With regard to both of these conditions, the evolution of industrial rela-
tions in China since 1949 is of particular interest. First, the conditions for
industrial citizenship have gone from one extreme to the other as perma-
nent job tenure has given way to highly precarious employment. Second,
although the problem of lack of autonomy has been particularly acute in
China, so were efforts to confront this problem.

Capitalism, Socialism, and the Chinese Version

of Industrial Citizenship

While the twentieth century socialist experiments in China and other

countries were part of a global wave of industrial citizenship, they were
also distinct in fundamental ways. To describe these differences, it helps to
first review the changes wrought by the rise of capitalism and the modern
state. In both the economic and political realms, modernity has witnessed
the creation of ever larger and more powerful bureaucratic institutions.
These leviathans have displaced organizations that were much smaller in
scale. There was great variation among these smaller organizations, but
they had a number of characteristics in common. They were typically mem-
bership communities—​kinship groups, villages, guilds, and so on—​which
were usually composed of familial units responsible not only for production
but also for consumption and reproduction (raising the next generation).
Moreover, these communities were not only economic entities but also—​
due to their communal nature—​political entities in the sense discussed in
this book, with their members making up their citizenry. Some allowed
considerable room for democratic participation, but most were dominated
by patriarchal power.
The inexorable rise of capital and the state broke down these commu-
nities, incorporating their members as individuals into new hierarchies
of authority. On the one hand, as capitalists concentrated the means of
production into great enterprises, they not only separated labor from the
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 7

means of production but also divided production from consumption and

reproduction. Unlike the traditional organizations they displaced, capitalist
enterprises took charge only of production, leaving responsibility for con-
sumption and reproduction to families (which were largely stripped of their
previous productive functions).
On the other hand, states, which had previously let communal groups
manage their own affairs, gradually claimed jurisdiction over even the most
local matters, enlisting a massive corps of officials to enforce this claim.
Parochial communal organizations were replaced by centralized bureau-
cracies. As the state and capital each expanded their reach, they split the
modernizing world between them, one claiming the political and the other
the economic domain. Thus, politics and economics, which in the past had
been combined within communal entities, were also split into separate
realms.
Communist regimes in some ways reversed these processes. Marx had
proclaimed that socialism would reunite labor with the means of produc-
tion, and the parties inspired by his doctrine did exactly that after they came
to power. Socialist enterprises became industrial communities that featured
long-​term employment, and, like traditional production organizations, they
took responsibility not only for production but also for consumption and
reproduction. Moreover, as victorious communist parties took control of
workplaces, they made them important sites of governance, once again
combining the political and economic domains under one roof. Within
the workplace, they established institutions that fostered worker participa-
tion in decision-​making and while some had little actual power, others had
greater practical impact.
Making the workplace a site of governance was consequential for the
nature of politics. Because workplaces are sources of livelihood and fea-
ture much more intense and sustained interaction than do residential
neighborhoods, when the workplace became a site of governance the state
was brought into more intimate contact with the populace. This enhanced
the potential for participatory democracy but also for tyranny. Large-​scale
production inherently requires a high degree of cooperation and discipline,
and in the factories spawned by the rise of industrial capitalism coopera-
tion and discipline had been accomplished by highly undemocratic means
as authority was concentrated at the top and workers typically had little au-
tonomy. Communist parties were, therefore, promising to cultivate their
brand of democracy on difficult terrain.
8 Disenfranchised

Moreover, the program and culture of these parties both enabled and
hindered the potential for industrial democracy. On the one hand, the so-
cialist program, which entailed leveling social inequalities and elevating the
political position of workers and peasants, bode well for citizenship. On the
other hand, the determination of party leaders to cultivate a unified collec-
tive will under centralized leadership severely limited the possibilities for
autonomy. After their conquest of power, party leaders continued to jus-
tify monocratic principles—​engendered under the military exigencies of
brutal civil wars—​as an ongoing requirement for radically transforming the
social order.
In sum, all of the variations of the twentieth-​century communist project
shared four features of particular relevance to the prospects for industrial
democracy: 1) they created strong industrial communities that fostered
norms of workplace citizenship, 2) they made these communities a central
site of governance and participation, 3) they took radical measures to level
existing social inequalities, and 4) they insisted on maintaining a political
monopoly. There was, however, a great deal of variation among countries,
and among them China stands out for several reasons.
In terms of industrial citizenship, under the Chinese work unit
system—​in place through the 1990s—​employment was perhaps more
permanent than in any other country. The movement of individuals
was strictly controlled through household registration, food rationing,
workplace-​based welfare provision, and labor assignment policies. The
system was also very extensive, absorbing virtually the entire urban
population, including the vast majority of women; in fact, at the height
of the work unit era in the late 1970s over 90% of working-​age women in
urban China were employed.6 In his perceptive portrayal of the Chinese
system, economist Barry Naughton highlighted the durability of em-
ployment and the welfare entitlements associated with it, observing,
“Employees are not so much contractors with the danwei as they are
citizens of it.”7 Sophia Woodman stressed the political connotations of
membership in both urban work units and rural communes. In China,
she wrote, “the boundaries between work and political engagement
often blurred in the collectives of the past, so the concept of participa-
tion (canyu 参与) retains broader connotations than in the narrowly po-
litical meaning generally used in citizenship studies.”8 I would frame her
observation a little differently: in China, work units themselves became
political entities.
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 9

If all socialist states turned workplaces into sites of governance, this was
especially true in China because of the centrality of the work unit system.
Work units became the main site through which the state exercised so-
cial control over the population. They maintained the all-​important per-
sonal dossiers of their members and managed their residential compounds,
schools, clinics, and recreation facilities. Work units also became the main
venues for popular political participation, both through periodic political
campaigns and through elaborate “Democratic Management” (minzhu
guanli 民主管理) institutions established in factories and other workplaces.
Workers were organized into small teams that met before and after work
and were expected to manage their own affairs on the shop floor. They
elected representatives to staff and workers congresses that nominally had
the power to review factory policies and elect and evaluate factory leader-
ship. Workers were called gongchang de zhuren (工厂的主人), which can be
translated as “masters,” “owners,” or “hosts” of the factory. While they were
certainly not masters or owners, they could be considered to be hosts, that
is, members and permanent stakeholders—​or citizens—​of the factory.
While the Chinese work unit system fostered strong norms of indus-
trial citizenship and participation, however, the second condition necessary
for industrial democracy—​autonomy—​was distinctly lacking. As in other
countries that followed the Soviet model, the Chinese Communist Party
(CCP) created a one-​party state and harshly suppressed forms of inde-
pendent organization. Although party leaders strongly encouraged workers’
participation, the entire Democratic Management apparatus was controlled
by the party, which monopolized power at all levels, including inside fac-
tories, and autonomous organization was normally prohibited.
The experience of the CCP, however, was distinctive because of its excep-
tionally radical program of social leveling, which Mao Zedong extended—​
tentatively—​to include the political power and privileges of party cadres.
Mao’s dissatisfaction with the way the officialdom of his own party behaved
in power led him to conduct fateful experiments with autonomous criticism
of officials from below. The most audacious was the Cultural Revolution,
when Mao—​concerned that party cadres were becoming a privileged “bu-
reaucratic class”—​suddenly called on workers to organize their own “rebel
fighting groups” and attack the party leaders in their workplaces. The battles
of the Cultural Revolution were the consequence of an effort to deal with
the problems created by the lack of autonomy that was particularly in-
triguing, even if ultimately it was largely unsuccessful.
10 Disenfranchised

In this book, I will examine the evolution of industrial relations in China

from 1949 to the present. My investigation has been oriented to answering
the following questions: To what extent have workers enjoyed rights to citi-
zenship and autonomy in their workplaces? How have these rights changed
over this time period, and what has caused these changes? And finally, as
these rights have changed, how much power have workers actually had to
shape their conditions of work, participate in decision-​making, and hold
workplace leaders accountable?

Industrial Citizenship, Autonomy, and Democracy

Before previewing the content of the book and discussing how it fits into
existing scholarship, it is necessary to elaborate in more detail the basic
concepts and theoretical propositions that have guided my investigation.
I start with a simple definition of democracy: that influence over decision-​
making in an organization is widely dispersed among members and that
leaders can be held accountable to members. This is a broad definition
that can be applied to states but can also be applied to non-​sovereign or-
ganizations, including industrial enterprises. It does not require specific
institutional arrangements or strict qualifications and avoids making di-
chotomous determinations about whether or not an organization is demo-
cratic in favor of assessing whether it is more democratic or less democratic.
Although there are persuasive arguments for adopting stricter definitions
of democracy, they would be of limited use in analyzing the governance
of workplaces; even employing the simple and inclusive definition I have
adopted, very few workplaces anywhere in the world can be considered
very democratic.
In analyzing workplace governance regimes, I start with Robert Dahl’s
framework for evaluating the conditions that make democracy possible,
in which he highlighted two dimensions: inclusion and contestation. The
first refers to the extent to which the population is entitled to participate
in democratic processes, while the second refers to the openness of these
processes to competition. Dahl submitted that no existing regime could be
considered fully democratic, but he proposed that democratic claims could
best be evaluated by considering these two conditions. Although he used
this framework to analyze national states, he suggested that it could also be
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 11

applied to other types of organizations, including trade unions, religious or-

ganizations, and firms.9
In adapting Dahl’s basic framework, I have chosen to use the concepts cit-
izenship and autonomy because they help elucidate the conditions necessary
for democratic participation in workplace governance. The first condition,
citizenship, connotes inclusion as it recognizes the elemental qualification
that only members of an organization are accorded rights to participate in
democratic decision-​making within that organization. This is true of any
organization, from small voluntary associations to sovereign states, and it
is certainly true of workplaces. When Dahl turned his attention to democ-
racy in the workplace, he pointed out that this would entail transforming
“employees from corporate subjects to citizens of the enterprise.”10
The second condition, autonomy, is the fundamental requirement for con-
testation as only those who enjoy autonomy are in a position to engage in
contestation. Its meaning, however, is broader. Autonomy is commonly de-
fined as capacity for self-​governance; for my purposes, it refers to the capacity
for independent action at multiple levels, from shop-​floor self-​management
to collective action independent of enterprise and state authorities. When
individuals manage their own work, this does not necessarily involve contes-
tation, but even autonomy at this basic level is absent in despotic systems of
industrial relations, in which even the most minute activities are controlled
by factory authorities. At higher levels, the meaning of autonomy becomes
more collective, more political, and more contentious, including the right to
organize to change policies or capture positions of power.
The proposition underlying this framework is that citizenship rights and
autonomy provide the basic conditions for workplace democracy. Both are
necessary conditions, and strengthening these conditions facilitates dem-
ocratic participation, while curtailing either leads to more coercive gov-
ernance. Like democracy, both are best treated as continuous rather than
dichotomous variables.
Workplace citizenship can vary from full citizenship to non-​citizenship,
with a wide range of intermediate statuses. Strong workplace citizenship
rights, for instance, are typically accorded to family members in kinship-​
based production organizations, as well as members of closed villages,
guilds, and production cooperatives and wage workers with permanent job
tenure. At the other end of the spectrum, very weak citizenship rights are
accorded to casual wage workers, contract employees, and chattel slaves.
12 Disenfranchised

In this basic definition of citizenship rights, I am referring not to any spe-

cific political or economic rights that citizenship might entail but simply to
the durability of an individual’s association with an organization and the
recognition that the individual is a legitimate stakeholder in the organiza-
tion. In addition to this basic right, full citizenship can entail other specific
rights, the content of which depends on the ideological and political frame-
work in which citizenship is embedded. As T. H. Marshall stressed, citizen-
ship implies equal access to these rights and, because equal access is always
compromised in practice, the expectations of citizenship frame conflicts
over inequality:

Citizenship is a status bestowed on those who are full members of a com-

munity. All who possess the status are equal with respect to the rights and
duties with which the status is endowed. There is no universal principle
that determines what those rights and duties shall be, but societies in
which citizenship is a developing institution create an image of an ideal
citizenship against which achievement can be measured and towards
which aspiration can be directed.11

Just as citizenship is intrinsically linked to equality, equality is intrinsically

linked to democracy. Citizenship enables demands for equality, and, as
Dahl observed, inequality among citizens is a fundamental obstacle to the
full development of democracy.12
Citizenship creates a sense of solidarity that enhances the capacity for
collective action, both of an entire organization and of factions within it.
When states are preparing for war, for instance, they can more effectively
mobilize citizens than subjects; at the same time, citizens are more likely
than subjects to make collective demands on the state. The same is true in
an industrial enterprise. If workers are recognized and treated as industrial
citizens, they will be more likely to identify with the enterprise and more
amenable to conscientiously fulfill duties that citizenship entails. At the
same time, industrial citizens are in a better position, practically and ideo-
logically, to organize collectively to make demands on the enterprise.
It should be noted that citizenship and mobility are conversely related.
In systems based on strong workplace citizenship rights, people do not
move around much and, by the same token, systems based on high mo-
bility among workplaces generally feature weak workplace citizenship
rights. Expressed in a different way, workplace citizenship rights obstruct
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 13

open labor markets, and open labor markets undermine citizenship rights.
It should also be noted that because citizenship rights tie members to the
means of production, they encumber property rights. Thus, private owner-
ship rights in land are compromised when villagers enjoy strong customary
use rights (to cultivate land that belongs to others), and private ownership
rights in enterprises are compromised when workers have secure job tenure.
Like citizenship, the extent of autonomy can vary greatly, ranging from
full autonomy to none at all. Some individuals are largely in charge of their
own work, while others work under strict supervision and some workplaces
impose few limits on expression and collective organization, while others
suppress all unauthorized speech and collective activity. With greater au-
tonomy, workplace conditions are determined through negotiation and are
more consensual; with less autonomy, there is not as much room for nego-
tiation, labor discipline is enforced through rewards and punishments con-
trolled by superiors, and labor relations are more coercive.
Based on these two conditions, it is possible to create a diagram with
two dimensions, which facilitates discussion of interaction between the
two. This interaction produces the four quadrants presented in Figure 1.1,
each characterized by a theoretical type of labor relations, which I have il-
lustrated with a concrete example. The combination of strong citizenship
rights and weak autonomy, in the upper left-​hand quadrant, produces re-
lations of paternalism. Paternalism—​typically defined as a system in which

Paternalism Workplace democracy

High
Workplace citizenship

Company town Workers’ collective

Market despotism Individual autonomy

High-turnover Software development firm
Low

electronics factory

Low High
Autonomy in the workplace

Figure 1.1 Workplace citizenship and autonomy

14 Disenfranchised

authorities limit the autonomy and power of subordinates, nominally for

their own good—​is common in kinship-​based production organizations
in traditional societies in which patriarchal authority relations prevail, as
well as in modern factories that feature long-​term job tenure but allow little
room for independent labor organization.
The combination of weak citizenship rights and weak autonomy, in the
lower left-​hand quadrant, creates conditions for market despotism. An ex-
ample would be a modern factory with high labor turnover, in which
workers are easily hired and fired and discipline is enforced by highly
coercive means.
The combination of weak citizenship rights and strong autonomy, in
the lower right-​hand quadrant, which I have labeled individual autonomy,
becomes possible when contract employment is based on strong employee
market power. An example would be a software firm that competes to hire
highly mobile, highly skilled individuals and allows employees a high de-
gree of discretion in conducting their work.
Finally, the combination of strong citizenship rights and strong autonomy
creates the conditions for workplace democracy. One example would be a
workers’ cooperative. Another would be a relatively democratic university,
in which elected faculty councils exercise a degree of influence over some
aspects of university policy and tenured faculty are largely responsible for
managing academic affairs, including curriculum design, graduate student
admissions and degree conferral, appointment of department chairs, and
the hiring and promotion of colleagues. In both cases, citizenship is limited
by member-​controlled barriers to entry, and decision-​making—​to the ex-
tent that it is democratic—​is accomplished through collective deliberation
among members (or their representatives).
It is important to note that power is derived from different kinds of
resources in the bottom half and the top half of the diagram. In systems
based on weak citizenship rights (high labor mobility), the distribution of
workplace power and the extent of labor autonomy are determined largely
by the market resources of individual employers and employees. Those
who possess scarce resources command greater market power, which can
be transformed into power in the workplace. Normally, employers have
greater market power than employees, and their power is enhanced when
jobs are scarce; if labor is in short supply, however, the power of employees
increases. This is a key part of the explanation for the workplace autonomy
enjoyed by some highly skilled professional and technical employees.
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 15

Under extraordinary conditions, however, even unskilled workers can con-

vert labor shortages into workplace power.
In contrast, in systems featuring strong citizenship rights (and dimin-
ished labor mobility) labor markets play a more limited role. Instead, the
workplace becomes a political entity with a stable membership, and the
distribution of workplace power is determined politically. That is, power
is based on organizational resources and can be contested through collec-
tive action. Usually, organizational power is concentrated at the top, and
workers are relegated to subordinate positions in hierarchies of authority
dominated by management. If workers gain the capacity to organize auton-
omously, however, they can acquire greater power over decision-​making
and greater capacity to hold leaders accountable.
These two sources of power—​ market resources and workplace
organization—​are, of course, related. Workers who enjoy greater market
power are in a better position to organize, and workers who are able to
organize usually lay claim to their jobs, protecting themselves from the
vicissitudes of the labor market. Moreover, to the extent that workers have
won workplace citizenship rights, they are in a better position to convert
workplaces into polities and workplace conflicts into political struggles, that
is, struggles based not simply on individual market resources but also on
collective action and democratic negotiation and deliberation within the
workplace.
The situations on the right side of Figure 1.1, individual autonomy and
workplace democracy, are rare. Their characteristics are also very dif-
ferent. In the situation at the bottom, individual autonomy, an individual
has won—​based on market power—​greater capacity to control the terms
of his or her employment, determine working conditions, and manage his
or her own affairs within the workplace. Individual autonomy, however, is
not democracy because it does not entail collective influence over decision-​
making or the capacity to collectively hold leaders accountable. Workplace
democracy requires not only autonomy but also citizenship. Workplace citi-
zenship and autonomy, of course, can be mutually reinforcing. Advances in
securing one can facilitate securing the other; by the same token, the ero-
sion of one often leads to the erosion of the other.
Historically, workplace power has usually been concentrated at the
top, producing the situations on the left side of Figure 1.1, paternalism or
market despotism. Production units in pre-​capitalist societies, which were
often based on kinship or communal relations, typically featured strong
16 Disenfranchised

membership rights, but power was usually concentrated in the hands of

patriarchal authorities, creating relations of dependency. These organiza-
tions were often quite autocratic, severely restricting members’ freedom
of action, but there was significant variation. Because they were based on
strong membership rights, they generated robust community norms, and
although these norms reproduced social hierarchies, those at the top had
social duties as well as privileges. There were often mechanisms that held
them accountable to their subordinates, and social conditions sometimes
allowed for the creation of kinship and communal norms that empowered
those at the bottom.
Compared to most traditional societies, capitalist societies have featured
much greater labor mobility and much weaker workplace membership
rights. When labor has been abundant, the owners of capital have often es-
tablished highly coercive labor regimes that feature great flexibility in hiring
and firing and little worker autonomy in the workplace. At times, however,
political and market conditions have allowed workers to effectively claim
citizenship rights in the workplace, including job security and a say in
workplace affairs. As was evident during the decades following the Second
World War, capitalist regimes have been capable of accommodating em-
ployment arrangements based on industrial citizenship and forms of labor-​
management consultation, at least temporarily and in a limited fashion.
Dahl’s two-​dimensional framework leaves out an important dimension—​
the scope of democratic decision-​making. With regard to states, suffrage
rights may be extensive and elections contested, but elected parliaments
may have limited power over civilian and military bureaucracies, and dem-
ocratic influence may be much greater at a local level than at higher levels
of the government. Likewise, in industrial enterprises, employees may have
influence on the shop floor and even at the factory level, but their sway may
be much more limited at higher levels, and the issues subject to union nego-
tiation or works council purview may be quite restricted. It is also necessary
to distinguish between formal rights and powers, which may exist only on
paper, and actual practices.
Of course, the scope of democratic decision-​making and the extent to
which formal powers can actually be exercised depend on the relative power
of subordinate groups. As their collective power grows, these groups can
expand the areas over which they have influence, turn rights that existed
only on paper into actual prerogatives, and even claim powers beyond those
that are legally recognized. Conversely, if their collective power is eroded,
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 17

they can lose what they had gained and institutions of democratic partic-
ipation can be reduced to hollow formalities. It should be stressed that al-
though strong citizenship rights and autonomy are necessary conditions, the
actual accomplishment of democracy is a contentious process and a fragile
outcome.
This endeavor to create a typology of labor relations systems shares
much in common with Michael Burawoy’s influential typology of “factory
regimes” as both analyze workplaces as political entities and are concerned
with the relative power of workers and managers.13 Moreover, both seek to
explain the same historic trajectory, which is identified in this study as the
rise and fall of industrial citizenship and in Burawoy’s work as a shift of
factory regimes from despotic to hegemonic and back to despotic. In both
schemes, unsurprisingly, “market despotism” is a basic type and paternal-
istic systems can arise under conditions in which market competition is at-
tenuated. Burawoy’s model is quite a bit more complex as he considers more
causal variables, which determine an even greater number of regime types.
The simpler model adopted here sacrifices some of the analytic power de-
rived from complexity in favor of focusing on the two conditions I consider
most fundamental to workers’ power—​citizenship and autonomy.

Interpreting the Impact of Long-​Term Job Tenure

in China

To fully understand the political realities produced by the socialist exper-

iment in China, it is necessary to go down to the grassroots level; for my
purposes, that means examining power relations among workers and cadres
inside factories. This study joins a small genre of ethnographic research that
has done this. The best of these studies have recognized that under China’s
work unit system industrial relations were fundamentally shaped by the
durability of employment, but they have interpreted its impact very differ-
ently. These interpretations have been connected with distinct normative
perspectives and research agendas.
The most influential monograph on labor relations during the work unit
era is Andrew Walder’s classic treatise Communist Neo-​Traditionalism: Work
and Authority in Chinese Industry. In this masterful book as well as a se-
ries of articles, Walder cogently described a system of “organized depend-
ency” that featured clientelist relations between workers and cadres. Two
18 Disenfranchised

conditions, he argued, made workers particularly dependent on work unit

leaders: they had little opportunity to transfer to another unit and they
relied on their own unit for most of their material needs. In discussing the
lack of labor mobility, Walder stressed impediments that prevented workers
from changing jobs, rather than obstacles that prevented managers from
firing workers, an emphasis that reinforced his theme of managerial power.
“Work units have, in effect, a form of property rights over their employees,”
Walder wrote. “The dependency created by enterprise-​centered systems
of distribution, and by this notable lack of mobility, provides the basis for
personalized forms of dependency that are created by systems of rewards
and punishments.”14 Thus, permanent job tenure appears in Walder’s work
mainly as a millstone that made workers toe the line. At the same time,
he observed that factory managers were hamstrung by strong “pressures
from below,” which stemmed largely from the fact that they could not fire
workers. As a result, he argued, industrial relations in China were burdened
by a “mutual dependency” between managers and workers, which could
only be unraveled by opening up closed labor markets.15
While in Walder’s account permanent employment is associated essen-
tially with dependency, other scholars have observed the problem from a
different angle, pointing out that secure job tenure enhanced the power
of workers. Several have argued that the employment security provided
by China’s work unit system fostered a culture of assertiveness. Elizabeth
Perry wrote that the system gave rise to a “politics of place” that under-
pinned a “politics of protest.”16 Ching Kwan Lee found that workers were
nostalgic about the Mao era not only because of the job security and relative
economic equality in state-​run factories but also because of memories of
the “political power of ordinary workers over cadres.”17 In a case study of a
state-​run distillery, Jonathan Unger and Anita Chan also stressed the extent
of workers’ influence, highlighting instances during the first two decades of
the post-​Mao era in which workers were able to impose decisions—​against
the will of workplace leaders—​that distributed material benefits according
to more egalitarian principles.18 This kind of deliberative democracy, they
stressed, was based on workers being members of an “all-​encompassing
workplace community” in which “they held a strong bond and material
interest” as well as the existence of “deliberative forums . . . embedded in
institutions that were established from above.”19
Several insightful accounts have directly engaged Walder, suggesting that
his dependency thesis was one-​sided. Lu Feng, while acknowledging merit
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 19

in Walder’s depiction, gave his own account a different tilt, stressing that
industrial relations during the Mao era were characterized by “a balance
between the patriarchal-​type authority and workers’ confrontational force
derived from their employment status.”20 In his critique of Walder’s book,
Brantley Womack pointed to a similar dynamic, arguing that the work unit
system featured a “tension between the irresistible power of the state and
the immovable permanence of work unit membership.”21 In a recent article
based on extensive interviews, Huaiyin Li also contested Walder’s central
thesis, arguing that during the Mao era the discretion of cadres was con-
siderably constrained by the power of workers. Because they had “taken-​
for-​
granted rights as full members of their work unit,” he contended,
workers “would not hesitate to defend themselves against potential abuse
by cadres.”22
There is no question that long-​term job tenure can foster relations of de-
pendency, but it can also enable workers to have a voice in workplace af-
fairs and challenge the power of leaders. As proposed in Figure 1.1, both
dependency and democracy are founded on stable membership; the extent
to which one or the other prevails depends on the degree to which workers
are able to act collectively in an autonomous manner.

Overview

While the topic of this book is broadly similar to those tackled by the
scholars just mentioned, my analytical framework—​focusing on citizen-
ship and autonomy—​offers a theoretical perspective intended to shed new
light on the topic. At the same time, the temporal scope of the book—​
encompassing the turbulent evolution of industrial relations in China over
seven decades—​is longer than that of previous scholarship. I return to se-
riously re-​examine the Mao era but then extend the investigation to cover
the post-​Mao era, which has been the focus of most recent scholarship. The
longer historical sweep allows for instructive comparisons and reveals long-​
term trajectories less evident in accounts with shorter time frames.
While the concepts and theoretical propositions outlined in the previous
section—​ regarding industrial democracy, citizenship, and autonomy—​
set up the fundamental questions and the analytical framework at the
center of this book, I will also introduce other concepts drawn from the
laws, policies, and institutions developed by the CCP under the rubric of
20 Disenfranchised

Democratic Management. The participatory institutions built by the CCP

were always considerably short of genuinely democratic, but they were not
simply window dressing. I will argue that for party leaders Democratic
Management had three main objectives. The first was to mobilize workers
behind the party’s goals, encouraging them to work conscientiously, partic-
ipate in party-​led activities, and carry out management responsibilities on
the shop floor. The second was to maintain channels for input from below,
allowing leaders to solicit suggestions and learn about, address, and defuse
employees’ grievances and concerns. The third was to enlist workers’ partic-
ipation in the task of “mass supervision,” that is, to help the party monitor
and criticize the behavior of its own cadres. Much of the analysis in the fol-
lowing chapters will involve comparing the actual practices and outcomes
in Chinese factories with the CCP’s own objectives.
The organization of this book is largely chronological. The initial
chapters, which treat the Mao era, are organized to a large extent around a
series of tumultuous mass political campaigns as these campaigns shaped
factory politics during this period. The second chapter recounts how the
CCP reorganized industrial enterprises after taking power in 1949. Small
numbers of party cadres, typically peasant veterans of the rural insurgency,
were dispatched to factories to mobilize workers to attack capitalists and
incumbent managers. Through a series of aggressive mass campaigns, the
party established its control, recruiting workers to serve as factory leaders
and creating party-​led institutions of participation. After nationalization
was completed in 1956, Mao—​concerned that Communist cadres were
becoming autocratic and arrogant—​ initiated a new Party Rectification
campaign in which he encouraged unusually freewheeling criticism of
“bureaucratism” among party officials. This opening unleashed a torrent of
criticism by intellectuals as well as strikes by workers and inspired union
leaders to push for greater independence from the party. The campaign,
however, was quickly aborted, and during the subsequent Anti-​Rightist
movement those who had spoken out were harshly punished, squelching
prospects for autonomous activity.
Chapter 3 describes the institutional foundations of the Chinese work
unit system and the practices of worker participation in the early 1960s,
after the system was fully established and before the onset of the Cultural
Revolution. Participatory institutions included self-​managing teams on the
shop floor, technical innovation groups, factory elections, and representa-
tive congresses. Despite high levels of participation, predicated on lifetime
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 21

job tenure and relatively egalitarian distribution, industrial governance was

democratic only in a very limited sense. The party insisted on maintaining
a political monopoly and harshly suppressed any hint of independent polit-
ical activity. Not only was the scope of workers’ influence restricted largely
to the shop floor, they also had little autonomy. Although participation was
extensive, the system was more paternalistic than democratic.
Lack of autonomy presented a problem even for accomplishing the CCP’s
own goals, especially its effort to enlist workers to monitor and criticize
Communist cadres. The fourth chapter examines the Four Cleans move-
ment (1963–​1966), the largest and most protracted campaign carried out to
that point to mobilize “supervision from below” of party cadres. Supervision
from below had been hindered by the CCP’s inclination to tightly control all
aspects of participation as it was impossible for workers to effectively play
their role if they did not have a degree of autonomy from the factory cadres
they were expected to supervise. Mao attempted to mitigate this problem
by sending in teams of outside party cadres to organize workers to criticize
factory party leaders. The Four Cleans campaign was effective in combat-
ting corruption but less effective in dealing with Mao’s main concern—​the
transformation of the party officialdom into a privileged “bureaucratic
class” unaccountable to their subordinates. Dissatisfaction with the results
led Mao to launch a much more radical attempt to introduce autonomy into
mass supervision.
Chapter 5 recounts the initial upheavals of the Cultural Revolution, when
Mao called on workers to form “rebel” organizations to challenge the au-
thority of the party leadership in their factories. Mao called this unbridled
political participation “Big Democracy,” which he contrasted to more civil
and institutionalized forms. By fomenting a movement independent of the
party organization and loyal to no one but himself, Mao was able to intro-
duce greater autonomy into mass supervision, with lasting consequences for
cadre behavior. Local party cadres were criticized for abusing their power,
seeking privileges, suppressing criticism from below, isolating themselves
from the masses, and governing in a bureaucratic fashion. Virtually all
were thrown out of office, and rebel groups were invited to help decide who
among them were fit to be rehabilitated. After the party organization was
paralyzed, however, factories polarized into rebel and conservative camps,
and the country descended into increasingly violent factional contention.
Ultimately, Mao was unwilling to countenance the establishment of per-
manent autonomous organizations. Instead, as recounted in Chapter 6,
22 Disenfranchised

he called for factories to be governed by new “revolutionary committees,”

which were to include veteran cadres and rebel leaders, as well as military
officers assigned to oversee this volatile combination. Rebel leaders were
supposed to serve as “mass representatives,” but after their organizations
were disbanded, they lost the political base that had given them autono-
mous power and were no longer accountable to their constituencies. With
the masses sidelined, the subsequent factional contention between “new”
and “old” cadres hardly served as effective mass supervision. Moreover, this
institutionalized form of contention was entirely dependent on Mao’s per-
sonal authority and was dismantled with the purge of the radical faction
that followed his death in 1976. For all their destructive power, the polit-
ical experiments of this period failed to do much to make leaders more ac-
countable to those below them.
Chapter 7 looks at the impact on factory governance of the initial reforms
carried out during the first decade and a half after Mao’s death. These
reforms left the fundamental features of the work unit system—​public
ownership and permanent job tenure—​in place, and institutional forms
of participation, including staff and workers congresses, were revived and
enhanced. During the “long 1980s,” from 1976 to the early 1990s, workers
enjoyed substantial influence, especially with regard to the distribution of
wages and bonuses, housing, and other welfare entitlements. Although the
CCP had by then renounced its original class-​leveling mission, workers ef-
fectively resisted new distribution policies that violated the egalitarian ethos
that had long prevailed under the work unit system. The latter years of this
period, however, also marked the beginning of the erosion of industrial cit-
izenship as temporary employment was expanded and the power of the fac-
tory director was reinforced.
Chapter 8 examines the process and consequences of industrial restruc-
turing, beginning in the early 1990s and continuing to the present day. The
great majority of state-​run and collective enterprises have been privatized,
and all firms—​including those in which the state has retained a stake—​have
been turned into shareholding companies. Tens of millions of workers have
lost their jobs, and permanent job tenure has been replaced by much more
precarious employment relations. As work unit communities have been
transformed into profit-​oriented enterprises, workers have been reduced to
hired labor, losing their status as legitimate stakeholders and eroding the
foundations for workplace participation. Shop-​floor self-​management has
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 23

been replaced by harsh disciplinary regimes enforced by bonuses, fines,

and the threat of dismissal, and staff and workers congresses have been
sidelined. Workers, whose influence is now explicitly seen as compromising
efforts to maximize profits, have been disenfranchised.
The final chapter looks back over China’s history since 1949 and considers
prospects for the future. Chinese workers are beginning to reorganize, this
time largely outside the confines of party-​controlled institutions, and their
strikes and protests have won important victories. I conclude, however, that
until they are able regain some form of workplace citizenship rights, their
gains will be limited and precarious. The chapter closes with an overview of
parallel developments around the globe, chronicling the rise and fall of an
era of industrial citizenship.

Research Design and Sources

When I began research for this book my initial plan was to do a case study
of a single factory, much as I studied a single university for my first book.
I found, however, that Chinese factories are much less open places than
universities. As a result, I turned to interviewing workers and cadres from
many different factories. In the end, I was happy with this shift as there
was tremendous variation among factories. What I lost in depth I gained
in breadth. My main method ended up being similar to that adopted by
Andrew Walder when he interviewed émigré workers in Hong Kong in
the 1980s, only I was able to camp out in several industrial cities for ex-
tended periods and interview a range of retired workers and cadres, as well
as current employees, from a variety of different kinds of factories. It was,
of course, valuable to interview a number of people from the same factory
in order to compare how different individuals experienced and interpreted
the same events.
Altogether, I interviewed 128 people (for a list of interviewees and
their characteristics, see Appendix D). These included 121 individuals
who worked in a Chinese industrial enterprise at some point between
1949 and the present (most of the seven others had been leaders of stu-
dent factions who had helped workers organize rebel groups during
the Cultural Revolution). They were not a random sample. Friends
and colleagues introduced me to people who had worked in factories,
24 Disenfranchised

and I then asked these people to introduce me to others. I tried to find

individuals with a variety of backgrounds, experiences, positions, and
perspectives—​ordinary workers, technical staff, management cadres,
political leaders, party members and non-​members, men and women,
activists and non-​activists, employees of large and small enterprises,
and members of different Cultural Revolution factions. The sample
I ended up with was skewed in several ways—​more employees of large
than small factories, more men than women, more activists than non-​
activists, and more rebels than conservatives. The great majority—​91—​
started their factory careers as workers, although 27 were later promoted
to cadre positions. Twenty-​seven began working as cadres (five as office
staff, 11 as doctors or technical cadres, and 11 as management or po-
litical cadres). Altogether, 31 interviewees eventually served in factory-​
level leadership positions.
I especially sought to interview workers and cadres who had several
decades of work experience, and I worked hard to find individuals who had
entered the workforce during the first decades of the Communist era. Three
interviewees began their factory careers in the 1940s, 25 in the 1950s, 34 in
the 1960s, 20 in the 1970s, 23 in the 1980s, 11 in the 1990s, and two in the
2000s. I was also interested in talking to individuals who had worked both
before and after enterprise restructuring began in the 1990s. Altogether, 47
interviewees had substantial experience during both eras, facilitating their
own comparison of the two.
Interviewees had worked in over 50 different industrial work units, in-
cluding textile mills, locomotive and railroad car manufacturing plants,
steel mills, aluminum mills, electronics factories, coal mines, machinery
factories, chemical plants, industrial equipment factories, the railway
system, a port, a tractor factory, a ball bearing factory, a shipyard, a wood
products factory, a brick kiln, a fertilizer plant, a pharmaceutical factory, a
meatpacking plant, a pipe factory, a carpet factory, a truck repair facility,
and a glass factory. The workplaces ranged from huge complexes with tens
of thousands of employees to small shops with several dozen. Most were
located in several large cities in northern and central China—​Beijing,
Zhengzhou, Luoyang, Qinhuangdao, and Wuhan.
All introductions were informal, and interviews were almost always
conducted outside the workplace, usually in the homes of interviewees
or their friends. Most were already retired or had been laid off, and many
generously spent long hours—​in some cases several days—​telling me their
 China and the Era of Industrial Citizenship 25

stories. I use pseudonyms for interviewees and refer to the position they
occupied during the period they were discussing, rather than their current
status.
I also collected written materials, both official and unofficial. Official
materials were published by government, party, union, and enter-
prise offices, including People’s Daily, the flagship periodical of the CCP;
Workers Daily, the national newspaper of the All-​ China Federation
of Trade Unions, which is run by the CCP; as well as local newspapers.
These publications provided contemporary descriptions of party poli-
cies as well as a timeline of events and official accounts of these events.
Laws, regulations, directives, and speeches documented the evolution of
policy changes. Factory gazetteers provided official statistics, event chro-
nologies, historical narratives, and enterprise-​level perspectives on institu-
tional developments, policy implementation, and changes in management
and employment practices. For the early Cultural Revolution years, in ad-
dition to these official publications, I had access to fliers and newspapers
published by factory-​based factional organizations. Although these unof-
ficial publications were also produced under narrow political and ideolog-
ical constraints, for a brief period they reflected the diverse perspectives of
contending groups.
These two types of primary data sources—​interviews and published
documents—​were complementary. From the latter, I learned dates, num-
bers, and official policies, goals, and accounts, as well as the unofficial
perspectives of Cultural Revolution factions. From the former, I learned
about what actually happened on the shop floor and in factory communi-
ties, from different viewpoints, although the specifics were subject to the
vagaries and interpretative filters of individual memory.
In order to focus on comparing different periods, I give less attention to
variations between geographical regions and industrial sectors. The latter
are substantial and important, but it is difficult to incorporate within one
study both temporal changes over seven decades and regional/​sectoral
differences. Thus, in both research design and presentation, I have chosen
to concentrate on the former, rather than the latter. In two chapters, how-
ever, I will examine specific cases in order to provide more detailed pictures
of complicated events as they transpired in particular places. In the first
section of Chapter 6, which deals with factional struggles that accompa-
nied the formation of factory revolutionary committees during the Cultural
Revolution, I focus on Henan and Hubei Provinces and compare the two.
26 Disenfranchised

Then in sections of Chapters 7 and 8, in order to better capture the dra-

matic conflicts surrounding the reform and restructuring of industrial work
units, I focus on a single enterprise, the Brilliant Glass Factory.23 In all three
chapters, I discuss ways in which these cases reflect broader trends as well
as ways in which they were particular.
 2
Enfranchised

When the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) took control of Chinese cities
in 1948 and 1949, wresting them one by one from the collapsing Nationalist
regime, it took possession of state-​owned enterprises and those owned by
foreign companies, but for the time being, it left private Chinese enterprises
in the hands of their owners.1 In both public and private factories, the CCP
generally allowed the incumbent leadership to remain in place, along with
the managerial and technical staff, because it was unable to run indus-
trial enterprises without them. Communist leaders, however, trusted nei-
ther the private capitalists nor the managers of the state-​owned enterprises
it inherited from the old regime, so it endeavored to subordinate them to
party supervision, mobilizing workers to assist in this undertaking. Over
the course of the next decade, the CCP established a new urban order or-
ganized around the party. It nationalized or collectivized all economic ac-
tivity, suppressed all opposition, and systematically crushed the power of
the old political and economic elites, including the owners and managers of
industrial enterprises.
Until 1949, the CCP had been based largely in the countryside, but after
it took charge of cities, it forged strong links with industrial workers, who
were cultivated as the party’s key constituency in urban areas. Party leaders
dispatched a small group of cadres, mainly peasant veterans of the civil war,
to each factory. As representatives of the new regime, these cadres had great
power, but they were outsiders—​not only to the factory but to industry and
to urban life—​and they relied on sympathetic workers inside the factory to
assist them in consolidating control. They gradually built a party organiza-
tion that extended into every workshop. In some enterprises, they were able
to build upon small underground organizations created before the party
took power, but in most they had to start from scratch. Because the party
distrusted the incumbent managerial and technical personnel, it cultivated
sympathetic and capable workers to serve as the nucleus of the factory party
organization.
28 Disenfranchised

While a small minority of workers were recruited into the party, all workers
were incorporated into the All-​China Federation of Trade Unions (ACFTU),
which was run by the party and served as a key part of its political apparatus
in factories. The ACFTU played a critical role during the period of socialist
transformation but one characterized by sharp contradictions. Because union
leaders were Communist cadres bound by party discipline, they were com-
pelled to carry out decisions made by party authorities, but they were also ex-
pected to represent the needs and concerns of the workers. This often placed
them in a difficult position, and during this period of transformation the
union was at the center of conflicts over the extent to which workers would
be able to engage in autonomous collective action in the new industrial order.
As the CCP consolidated its control over China’s industrial enterprises
during its first decade in power, largely through mobilizing workers in a series
of mass political campaigns, the position of workers within factories changed
substantially. In the past, employment for most workers had been unstable
and their relationship with factories was highly tenuous. During the 1950s,
as factories were converted into industrial work units, employment became
much more stable and workers became work unit members. At the same
time, compensation improved dramatically as wages steadily increased and a
series of welfare benefits were introduced. Moreover, workers were systemat-
ically drawn into factory management and politics, through the recruitment
of a small number of individuals to take over leadership positions, the mobi-
lization of larger numbers to participate in mass movements, and the promo-
tion of shop-​floor self-​management. Hired hands became industrial citizens.
While the CCP’s reliance on sympathetic workers empowered them,
it also brought them under the patronage of the party, which demanded
ever more exacting compliance with its leadership. Although the party
encouraged—​ and increasingly required—​ the active participation of
workers, it would become clear over the course of a highly contentious
decade, particularly during the tumultuous events of 1957, that there was
little room for independent activity.

Mobilizing Workers to Supervise Capitalists and

Incumbent Managers

In order to establish control over China’s industrial enterprises, the CCP

used mechanisms of state authority from above, but it also mobilized
 Enfranchised 29

factory workers to exercise “supervision from below,” known in the party’s

lexicon as “mass supervision” (qunzhong jiandu 群众监督). In both pri-
vate and public enterprises, newly arrived CCP cadres created committees
to supervise the factory administration. In private enterprises with at least
50 employees they established “labor–​ capital consultative conferences”
(LCCCs; laozi xieshang huiyi 劳资协商会议). LCCCs were composed of an
equal number of representatives from “labor” and “capital,” and the position
of LCCC chair alternated between the two sides. The capitalist side was typ-
ically represented by the factory owner, the top managers, and sometimes
the chief engineer, while the labor side was represented by the secretary
of the party committee, the chair of the trade union committee, as well as
other union cadres (that is, local workers recruited by the party to be union
leaders). This setup reflected the party’s conception of itself as the vanguard
of the working class.
According to state regulations, in private factories LCCCs were to dis-
cuss topics related to labor, including production, worker training and
safety, workers’ wages and promotion, and administrative rules affecting
employees, and the representatives were supposed to reach agreements that
were acceptable to both sides. When discussions ended in gridlock, how-
ever, cases were referred to local labor bureaus, which usually favored the
labor (that is, the party) side.2 The CCP, thus, was able to use the LCCCs as
an instrument to monitor and control capitalists. Xie Chenglei, an ACFTU
leader who was involved in organizing factory unions during this period,
explained the purpose of the committees this way: “In private enterprises
we organized labor–​capital consultative committees. It was very impor-
tant then that the workers had a say in things, and in this way the inten-
tion of the government could be realized.” Mobilizing workers through the
ACFTU, he explained crisply, was an important way “to make capitalists to
do what the government wanted.”3
In state-​run enterprises, “factory management committees” (FMCs;
gongchang guanli weiyuanhui 工厂管理委员会) were established. In these
firms, the new regime had direct administrative authority, and it typically
appointed a Communist cadre as factory director. Nevertheless, the di-
rector still had to rely on managerial and technical employees inherited
from the old regime, and the FMC became an important tool to exercise
supervision over them. According to policy documents and descriptions
of widely promoted model factories, the committee typically included the
factory director, the deputy director, the chief engineer, the party secretary,
30 Disenfranchised

the union chair, and a number of worker representatives who were elected
by employees for six-​month terms. The FMC was supposed to meet every
two weeks, while its standing committee—​composed of the leaders but not
the worker representatives—​met daily. Similar committees were established
at the workshop level. The factory-​level FMC was charged with deciding
major questions relating to production and management such as adminis-
trative regulations, the organization of production, personnel assignments,
as well as wages and welfare policies. Committee decisions, however, were
subject to veto by the director.
In addition to establishing LCCCs and FMCs, in both public and pri-
vate factories CCP cadres convened staff and workers congresses (SWCs;
zhigong daibiao dahui 职工代表大会) composed of representatives
elected by the workers. These larger bodies were originally expected to
meet twice a month, but subsequent regulations reduced the meetings to
four per year, and in practice they usually met less often. In public fac-
tories, in addition to electing worker representatives to serve on the FMC,
the SWC was charged with “supervising” the FMC and the factory lead-
ership, which meant that factory leaders were to present reports to the
congress, accounting for their activities and offering self-​criticisms for
problems, and then invite discussion and criticism. The congress could
make recommendations, but SWC resolutions had to be approved by the
FMC before implementation.4
During these early years, the main role of the union and these repre-
sentative organizations was to mobilize workers to assist party leaders in
gaining control of the factories, both private and public. This was accom-
plished through a series of mass political movements, the most important
of which were the Democratic Reform movement (1950–​1953), the Three
Antis campaign (1951–​1952), and the Five Antis campaign (1952).
The Democratic Reform movement, which in factories was also called
the campaign to “Oppose Feudalism and Labor Gang Bosses” (fan fengjian
fan batou 反封建反把头), was mainly directed against shop-​floor leaders
who played a direct role in recruiting, organizing, and managing workers.
These included labor contractors (who in many industries not only
recruited but also supervised workers), shop-​floor supervisors, Nationalist
Party–​affiliated union cadres, and leaders of the hometown associations,
protective societies, and criminal gangs that were ubiquitous in fac-
tories and mines and often involved in labor contracting and supervision.
The campaign, carried out in conjunction with the campaign to Suppress
Another random document with
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that and the second shoe were gone. Yussuf was much pleased and
rewarded Abou with a new coat later, but for the present he was not
done. Judging by long experience that the peasant had either bought
the sheep and was taking it home or that he was carrying it to market
to sell, he said to Abou: ‘Let us wait. It may be that he will return with
another.’”
“Ah, shrewd,” muttered Ajeeb, nodding his head gravely.
“Accordingly,” went on Gazzar-al-Din, “they waited and soon the
peasant returned carrying another sheep. Yussuf asked Abou if he
could take this one also, and Abou told him that when he saw the
sheep alone to take it.”
“Dunce!” declared Chudi, the baker. “Will he put another sheep
down after just losing one? This is a thin tale!” But Gazzar was not to
be disconcerted.
“Now Yussuf was a great thief,” he went on, “but this wit of Abou’s
puzzled him. Of all the thieves he had trained few could solve the
various problems which he put before them, and in Abou he saw the
makings of a great thief. As the peasant approached, Abou motioned
to Yussuf to conceal himself in a crevice in the nearby rocks, while
he hid in the woods. When the peasant drew near Abou placed his
hands to his lips and imitated a sheep bleating, whereupon the
peasant, thinking it must be his lost sheep, put down behind a stone
the one he was carrying, for its feet were tied, and went into the
woods to seek the lost one. Yussuf, watching from his cave, then ran
forth and made off with the sheep. When the peasant approached,
Abou climbed a tree and smiled down on him as he sought his
sheep, for he had been taught that to steal was clever and wise, and
the one from whom he could steal was a fool.”
“And so he is,” thought Waidi, who had stolen much in his time.
“When the peasant had gone his way lamenting, Abou came down
and joined Yussuf. They returned to the city and the home of Yussuf,
where the latter, much pleased, decided to adopt Abou as his son.”
Gazzar now paused upon seeing the interest of his hearers and held
out his tambour. “Anna, O friends, anna! Is not the teller of tales, the
sweetener of weariness, worthy of his hire? I have less than a score
of anna, and ten will buy no more than a bowl of curds or a cup of
kishr, and the road I have traveled has been long. So much as the
right to sleep in a stall with the camels is held at ten anna, and I am
no longer young.” He moved the tambour about appealingly.
“Dog!” growled Soudi. “Must thy tambour be filled before we hear
more?”
“Bismillah! This is no story-teller but a robber,” declared Parfi.
“Peace, friends,” said Gazzar, who was afraid to irritate his hearers
in this strange city. “The best of the tale comes but now—the
marvelous beauty of the Princess Yanee and the story of the caliph’s
treasury and the master thief. But, for the love of Allah, yield me but
ten more anna and I pause no more. It is late. A cup of kishr, a
camel’s stall—” He waved the tambour. Some three of his hearers
who had not yet contributed anything dropped each an anna into his
tambour.
“Now,” continued Gazzar somewhat gloomily, seeing how small
were his earnings for all his art, “aside from stealing and plundering
caravans upon the great desert, and the murdering of men for their
treasure, the great Yussuf conducted a rug bazaar as a blind for
more thievery and murder. This bazaar was in the principal street of
the merchants, and at times he was to be seen there, his legs
crossed upon his pillows. But let a merchant of wealth appear, a
stranger, and although he might wish only to ask prices Yussuf would
offer some rug or cloth so low that even a beggar would wish to take
it. When the stranger, astonished at its price, would draw his purse a
hand-clap from Yussuf would bring forth slaves from behind
hangings who would fall upon and bind him, take his purse and
clothes and throw his body into the river.”
“An excellent robber indeed!” approved Soudi.
“Yussuf, once he had adopted Abou as his son, admitted him to
his own home, where were many chambers and a garden, a court
with a pool, and many servants and cushions and low divans in
arcades and chambers; then he dressed him in silks and took him to
his false rug market, where he introduced him with a great flourish as
one who would continue his affairs after he, Yussuf, was no more.
He called his slaves and said: ‘Behold thy master after myself. When
I am not here, or by chance am no more—praise be to Allah, the
good, the great!—see that thou obey him, for I have found him very
wise.’ Soon Yussuf disguised himself as a dervish and departed
upon a new venture. As for Abou, being left in charge of the rug
market, he busied himself with examining its treasures and their
values and thinking on how the cruel trade of robbery, and, if
necessary, murder, which had been taught him, and how best it was
to be conducted.
“For although Abou was good and kind of heart, still being taken
so young and sharply trained in theft and all things evil, and having
been taught from day to day that not only were murder and robbery
commendable but that softness or error in their pursuit was wrong
and to be severely punished, he believed all this and yet innocently
enough at times sorrowed for those whom he injured. Yet also he
knew that he durst not show his sorrow in the presence of Yussuf, for
the latter, though kind to him, was savage to all who showed the
least mercy or failed to do his bidding, even going so far as to slay
them when they sought to cross or betray him.”
“Ay-ee, a savage one was that,” muttered Al Hadjaz, the cook.
“And I doubt not there are such in Yemen to this day,” added
Ajeeb, the cleaner of stalls. “Was not Osman Hassan, the spice-
seller, robbed and slain?”
“Soon after Yussuf had left on the secret adventure, there
happened to Abou a great thing. For it should be known that at this
time there ruled in Baghdad the great and wise Yianko I., Caliph of
the Faithful in the valleys of the Euphrates and the Tigris and master
of provinces and principalities, and the possessor of an enormous
treasury of gold, which was in a great building of stone. Also he
possessed a palace of such beauty that travelers came from many
parts and far countries to see. It was built of many-colored stones
and rare woods, and possessed walks and corridors and gardens
and flowers and pools and balconies and latticed chambers into
which the sun never burst, but where were always cool airs and
sweet. Here were myrtle and jasmine and the palm and the cedar,
and birds of many colors, and the tall ibis and the bright flamingo. It
was here, with his many wives and concubines and slaves and
courtiers, and many wise men come from far parts of the world to
advise with him and bring him wisdom, that he ruled and was
beloved and admired.
“Now by his favorite wife, Atrisha, there had been born to him
some thirteen years before the beautiful and tender and delicate and
loving and much-beloved Yanee, the sweetest and fairest of all his
daughters, whom from the very first he designed should be the wife
of some great prince, the mother of beautiful and wise children, and
the heir, through her husband, whoever he should be, to all the
greatness and power which the same must possess to be worthy of
her. And also, because he had decided that whoever should be wise
and great and deserving enough to be worthy of Yanee should also
be worthy of him and all that he possessed—the great Caliphate of
Baghdad. To this end, therefore, he called to Baghdad instructors of
the greatest wisdom and learning of all kinds, the art of the lute and
the tambour and the dance. And from among his wives and
concubines he had chosen those who knew most of the art of dress
and deportment and the care of the face and the body; so that now,
having come to the age of the ripest perfection, thirteen, she was the
most beautiful of all the maidens that had appeared in Arabia or any
of the countries beyond it. Her hair was as spun gold, her teeth as
pearls of the greatest price, lustrous and delicate; her skin as the
bright moon when it rises in the east, and her hands and feet as
petals in full bloom. Her lips were as the pomegranate when it is
newly cut, and her eyes as those deep pools into which the moon
looks when it is night.”
“Yea, I have heard of such, in fairy-tales,” sighed Chudi, the baker,
whose wife was as parchment that has cracked with age.
“And I, behind the walls of palaces and in far cities, but never
here,” added Zad-el-Din, for neither his wife nor his daughters was
any too fair to look upon. “They come not to Hodeidah.”
 “Ay-ee, were any so beautiful,” sighed Al Tadjaz, “there would be
no man worthy. But there are none.”
“Peace!” cried Ahmed. “Let us have the tale.”
“Yea, before he thinks him to plead for more anna,” muttered
Hadjaz, the sweeper, softly.
But Gazzar, not to be robbed of this evidence of interest, was
already astir. Even as they talked he held out the tambour, crying:
“Anna, anna, anna!” But so great was the opposition that he dared
not persist.
“Dog!” cried Waidi. “Wilt thou never be satisfied? There is another
for thee, but come no more.”
“Thou miser!” said Haifa, still greatly interested, “tell thy tale and
be done!”
“The thief has rupees and to spare, I warrant,” added Scudi,
contributing yet another anna.
And Zad-el-Din and Ahmed, because they were lustful of the great
beauty of Yanee, each added an anna to his takings.
“Berate me not, O friends,” pleaded Gazzar tactfully, hiding his
anna in his cloak, “for I am as poor as thou seest—a son of the road,
a beggar, a wanderer, with nowhere to lay my head. Other than my
tales I have nothing.” But seeing scant sympathy in the faces of his
hearers, he resumed.
“Now at the time that Abou was in charge of the dark bazaar it
chanced that the caliph, who annually arranged for the departure of
his daughter for the mountains which are beyond Azol in Bactria,
where he maintained a summer palace of great beauty, sent forth a
vast company mounted upon elephants and camels out of Ullar and
Cerf and horses of the rarest blood from Taif. This company was
caparisoned and swathed in silks and thin wool and the braided and
spun cloth of Esher and Bar with their knitted threads of gold. And it
made a glorious spectacle indeed, and all paused to behold. But it
also chanced that as this cavalcade passed through the streets of
Baghdad, Abou, hearing a great tumult and the cries of the multitude
and the drivers and the tramp of the horses’ feet and the pad of the
camels’, came to the door of his bazaar, his robes of silk about him,
a turban of rare cloth knitted with silver threads upon his head. He
had now grown to be a youth of eighteen summers. His hair was as
black as the wing of the duck, his eyes large and dark and sad from
many thoughts as is the pool into which the moon falls. His face and
hands were tinted as with henna when it is spread very thin, and his
manners were graceful and languorous. As he paused within his
doorway he looked wonderingly at the great company as it moved
and disappeared about the curves of the long street. And it could not
but occur to him, trained as he was, how rich would be the prize
could one but seize upon such a company and take all the wealth
that was here and the men and women as slaves.
“Yet, even as he gazed and so thought, so strange are the ways of
Allah, there passed a camel, its houdah heavy with rich silks, and
ornaments of the rarest within, but without disguised as humble, so
that none might guess. And within was the beautiful Princess Yanee,
hidden darkly behind folds of fluttering silk, her face and forehead
covered to her starry eyes, as is prescribed, and even these veiled.
Yet so strange are the ways of life and of Allah that, being young and
full of the wonder which is youth and the curiosity and awe which
that which is unknown or strange begets in us all, she was at this
very moment engaged in peeping out from behind her veils, the
while the bright panorama of the world was passing. And as she
looked, behold, there was Abou, gazing wonderingly upon her fine
accoutrements. So lithe was his form and so deep his eyes and so
fair his face that, transfixed as by a beam, her heart melted and
without thought she threw back her veil and parted the curtains of
the houdah the better to see, and the better that he might see. And
Abou, seeing the curtains put to one side and the vision of eyes that
were as pools and the cheeks as the leaf of the rose shine upon him,
was transfixed and could no longer move or think.
“So gazing, he stood until her camel and those of many others had
passed and turned beyond a curve of the street. Then bethinking
himself that he might never more see her, he awoke and ran after,
throwing one citizen and another to the right and the left. When at
last he came up to the camel of his fair one, guarded by eunuchs
and slaves, he drew one aside and said softly: ‘Friend, be not
wrathful and I will give thee a hundred dinars in gold do thou, within
such time as thou canst, report to me at the bazaar of Yussuf, the
rug-merchant, who it is that rides within this houdah. Ask thou only
for Abou. No more will I ask.’ The slave, noting his fine robes and the
green-and-silver turban, thought him to be no less than a noble, and
replied: ‘Young master, be not overcurious. Remember the
vengeance of the caliph.... ‘Yet dinars have I to give.’... ‘I will yet
come to thee.’
“Abou was enraptured by even so little as this, and yet dejected
also by the swift approach and departure of joy. ‘For what am I now?’
he asked himself. ‘But a moment since, I was whole and one who
could find delight in all things that were given me to do; but now I am
as one who is lost and knows not his way.’”
“Ay-ee,” sighed Azad Bakht, the barber, “I have had that same
feeling more than once. It is something that one may not overcome.”
“Al Tzoud, in the desert—” began Parfi, but he was interrupted by
cries of “Peace—Peace!”
“Thereafter, for all of a moon,” went on Gazzar, “Abou was as one
in a dream, wandering here and there drearily, bethinking him how
he was ever to know more of the face that had appeared to him
through the curtains of the houdah. And whether the driver of the
camel would ever return. As day after day passed and there was no
word, he grew thin and began to despair and to grow weary of life. At
last there came to his shop an aged man, long of beard and dusty of
garb, who inquired for Abou. And being shown him said: ‘I would
speak with thee alone.’ And when Abou drew him aside he said:
‘Dost thou recall the procession of the caliph’s daughter to Ish-Pari in
the mountains beyond Azol?’ And Abou answered, ‘Ay, by Allah!’
‘And dost thou recall one of whom thou madest inquiry?’ ‘Aye,’
replied Abou, vastly stirred. ‘I asked who it was that was being borne
aloft in state.’ ‘And what was the price for that knowledge?’ ‘A
hundred dinars.’ ‘Keep thy dinars—or, better yet, give them to me
that I may give them to the poor, for I bring thee news. She who was
in the houdah was none other than the Princess Yanee, daughter of
the caliph and heir to all his realm. But keep thou thy counsel and all
thought of this visit and let no one know of thy inquiry. There are
many who watch, and death may yet be thy portion and mine. Yet,
since thou art as thou art, young and without knowledge of life, here
is a spray of the myrtles of Ish-Pari—but thou art to think no further
on anything thou hast seen or heard. And thou dost not—death!’ He
made the sign of three fingers to the forehead and the neck and
gave Abou the spray, receiving in return the gold.”
“Marhallah!” cried Soudi. “How pleasant it is to think of so much
gold!”
“Yea,” added Haifa, “there is that about great wealth and beauty
and comfort that is soothing to the heart of every man.”
“Yet for ten more anna,” began Gazzar, “the price of a bed in the
stall of a camel, how much more glorious could I make it—the
sweetness of the love that might be, the wonder of the skill of Abou
—anna, anna—but five more, that I may take up this thread with
great heart.”
“Jackal!” screamed Ajeeb fiercely. “Thou barkst for but one thing—
anna. But now thou saidst if thou hadst but ten more, and by now
thou hast a hundred. On with thy tale!”
“Reremouse!” said Chudi. “Thou art worse than thy Yussuf
himself!” And none gave an anna more.
“Knowing that the myrtle was from the princess,” went on Gazzar
wearily, “and that henceforth he might seek but durst not even so
much as breathe of what he thought or knew, he sighed and returned
to his place in the bazaar.
“But now, Yussuf, returning not long after from a far journey, came
to Abou with a bold thought. For it related to no other thing than the
great treasury of the caliph, which stood in the heart of the city
before the public market, and was sealed and guarded and built of
stone and carried the wealth of an hundred provinces. Besides, it
was now the time of the taking of tithes throughout the caliphate, as
Yussuf knew, and the great treasury was filled to the roof, or so it
was said, with golden dinars. It was a four-square building of heavy
stone, with lesser squares superimposed one above the other after
the fashion of pyramids. On each level was a parapet, and upon
each side of every parapet as well as on the ground below there
walked two guards, each first away from the centre of their side to
the end and then back, meeting at the centre to reverse and return.
And on each side and on each level were two other guards. No two
of these, of any level or side, were permitted to arrive at the centre or
the ends of their parapet at the same time, as those of the parapets
above or below, lest any portion of the treasury be left unguarded.
There was but one entrance, which was upon the ground and facing
the market. And through this no one save the caliph or the caliph’s
treasurer or his delegated aides might enter. The guards ascended
and descended via a guarded stair. “Anna, O friends,” pleaded
Gazzar once more, “for now comes the wonder of the robbing of the
great treasury—the wit and subtlety of Abou—and craft and yet
confusion of the treasurer and the Caliph—anna!—A few miserable
anna!”
“Jackal!” shouted Azad Bakht, getting up. “Thou robbest worse
than any robber! Hast thou a treasury of thine own that thou hopest
to fill?”
“Give him no more anna,” called Feruz stoutly. “There is not an
anna’s worth in all his maunderings.”
“Be not unkind, O friends,” pleaded Gazzar soothingly. “As thou
seest, I have but twenty annas—not the price of a meal, let alone of
a bed. But ten—but—five—and I proceed.”
“Come, then, here they are,” cried Al Hadjaz, casting down four;
and Zad-el-Din and Haifa and Chudi each likewise added one, and
Gazzar swiftly gathered them up and continued:
“Yussuf, who had long contemplated this wondrous storehouse,
had also long racked his wits as to how it might be entered and a
portion of the gold taken. Also he had counseled with many of his
pupils, but in vain. No one had solved the riddle for him. Yet one day
as he and Abou passed the treasury on their way to the mosque for
the look of honor, Yussuf said to Abou: ‘Bethink thee, my son; here is
a marvelous building, carefully constructed and guarded. How
wouldst thou come to the store of gold within?’ Abou, whose
thoughts were not upon the building but upon Yanee, betrayed no
look of surprise at the request, so accustomed was he to having
difficult and fearsome matters put before him, but gazed upon it so
calmly that Yussuf exclaimed: ‘How now? Hast thou a plan?’ ‘Never
have I given it a thought, O Yussuf,’ replied Abou; ‘but if it is thy wish,
let us go and look more closely.’
“Accordingly, through the crowds of merchants and strangers and
donkeys and the veiled daughters of the harem and the idlers
generally, they approached and surveyed it. At once Abou observed
the movement of the guards, saw that as the guards of one tier were
walking away from each other those of the tiers above or below were
walking toward each other. And although the one entrance to the
treasury was well guarded still there was a vulnerable spot, which
was the crowning cupola, also four-square and flat, where none
walked or looked. ‘It is difficult,’ he said after a time, ‘but it can be
done. Let me think.’
“Accordingly, after due meditation and without consulting Yussuf,
he disguised himself as a dispenser of fodder for camels, secured a
rope of silk, four bags and an iron hook. Returning to his home he
caused the hook to be covered with soft cloth so that its fall would
make no sound, then fastened it to one end of the silken cord and
said to Yussuf: ‘Come now and let us try this.’ Yussuf, curious as to
what Abou could mean, went with him and together they tried their
weight upon it to see if it would hold. Then Abou, learning by
observation the hour at night wherein the guards were changed, and
choosing a night without moon or stars, disguised himself and
Yussuf as watchmen of the city and went to the treasury. Though it
was as well guarded as ever they stationed themselves in an alley
nearby. And Abou, seeing a muleteer approaching and wishing to
test his disguise, ordered him away and he went. Then Abou,
watching the guards who were upon the ground meet and turn, and
seeing those upon the first tier still in the distance but pacing toward
the centre, gave a word to Yussuf and they ran forward, threw the
hook over the rim of the first tier and then drew themselves up
quickly, hanging there above the lower guards until those of the first
tier met and turned. Then they climbed over the wall and repeated
this trick upon the guards of the second tier, the third and fourth, until
at last they were upon the roof of the cupola where they lay flat.
Then Abou, who was prepared, unscrewed one of the plates of the
dome, hooked the cord over the side and whispered: ‘Now, master,
which?’ Yussuf, ever cautious in his life, replied: ‘Go thou and report.’
“Slipping down the rope, Abou at last came upon a great store of
gold and loose jewels piled in heaps, from which he filled the bags
he had brought. These he fastened to the rope and ascended.
Yussuf, astounded by the sight of so much wealth, was for making
many trips, but Abou, detecting a rift where shone a star, urged that
they cease for the night. Accordingly, after having fastened these at
their waists and the plate to the roof as it had been, they descended
as they had come.”
“A rare trick,” commented Zad-el-Din.
“A treasury after mine own heart,” supplied Al Hadjaz.
“Thus for three nights,” continued Gazzar, fearing to cry for more
anna, “they succeeded in robbing the treasury, taking from it many
thousands of dinars and jewels. On the fourth night, however, a
guard saw them hurrying away and gave the alarm. At that, Abou
and Yussuf turned here and there in strange ways, Yussuf betaking
himself to his home, while Abou fled to his master’s shop. Once
there he threw off the disguise of a guard and reappeared as an
aged vendor of rugs and was asked by the pursuing guards if he had
seen anybody enter his shop. Abou motioned them to the rear of the
shop, where they were bound and removed by Yussuf’s robber
slaves. Others of the guards, however, had betaken themselves to
their captain and reported, who immediately informed the treasurer.
Torches were brought and a search made, and then he repaired to
the caliph. The latter, much astonished that no trace of the entrance
or departure of the thieves could be found, sent for a master thief
recently taken in crime and sentenced to be gibbeted, and said to
him:
“‘Wouldst thou have thy life?’
 “‘Aye, if thy grace will yield it.’
“‘Look you,’ said the caliph. ‘Our treasury has but now been
robbed and there is no trace. Solve me this mystery within the moon,
and thy life, though not thy freedom, is thine.’
“‘O Protector of the Faithful,’ said the thief, ‘do thou but let me see
within the treasury.’
“And so, chained and in care of the treasurer himself and the
caliph, he was taken to the treasury. Looking about him he at length
saw a faint ray penetrating through the plate that had been loosed in
the dome.
“‘O Guardian of the Faithful,’ said the thief wisely and hopefully,
‘do thou place a cauldron of hot pitch under this dome and then see
if the thief is not taken.’
“Thereupon the caliph did as advised, the while the treasury was
resealed and fresh guards set to watch and daily the pitch was
renewed, only Abou and Yussuf came not. Yet in due time, the
avarice of Yussuf growing, they chose another night in the dark of
the second moon and repaired once more to the treasury, where, so
lax already had become the watch, they mounted to the dome. Abou,
upon removing the plate, at once detected the odor of pitch and
advised Yussuf not to descend, but he would none of this. The
thought of the gold and jewels into which on previous nights he had
dipped urged him, and he descended. However, when he neared the
gold he reached for it, but instead of gold he seized the scalding
pitch, which when it burned, caused him to loose his hold and fall.
He cried to Abou: ‘I burn in hot pitch. Help me!’ Abou descended and
took the hand but felt it waver and grow slack. Knowing that death
was at hand and that should Yussuf’s body be found not only himself
but Yussuf’s wife and slaves would all suffer, he drew his scimitar,
which was ever at his belt, and struck off the head. Fastening this to
his belt, he reascended the rope, replaced the plate and carefully
made his way from the treasury. He then went to the house of Yussuf
and gave the head to Yussuf’s wife, cautioning her to secrecy.
 “But the caliph, coming now every day with his treasurer to look at
the treasury, was amazed to find it sealed and yet the headless body
within. Knowing not how to solve the mystery of this body, he
ordered the thief before him, who advised him to hang the body in
the market-place and set guards to watch any who might come to
mourn or spy. Accordingly, the headless body was gibbeted and set
up in the market-place where Abou, passing afar, recognized it.
Fearing that Mirza, the wife of Yussuf, who was of the tribe of the
Veddi, upon whom it is obligatory that they mourn in the presence of
the dead, should come to mourn here, he hastened to caution her.
‘Go thou not thither,’ he said; ‘or, if thou must, fill two bowls with milk
and go as a seller of it. If thou must weep drop one of the bowls as if
by accident and make as if thou wept over that.’ Mirza accordingly
filled two bowls and passing near the gibbet in the public square
dropped one and thereupon began weeping as her faith demanded.
The guards, noting her, thought nothing—‘for here is one,’ said they,
‘so poor that she cries because of her misfortune.’ But the caliph,
calling for the guards at the end of the day to report to himself and
the master thief, inquired as to what they had seen. ‘We saw none,’
said the chief of the guard, ‘save an old woman so poor that she
wept for the breaking of a bowl!’ ‘Dolts!’ cried the master thief. ‘Pigs!
Did I not say take any who came to mourn? She is the widow of the
thief. Try again. Scatter gold pieces under the gibbet and take any
that touch them.’
“The guards scattered gold, as was commanded, and took their
positions. Abou, pleased that the widow had been able to mourn and
yet not be taken, came now to see what more might be done by the
caliph. Seeing the gold he said: ‘It is with that he wishes to tempt.’ At
once his pride in his skill was aroused and he determined to take
some of the gold and yet not be taken. To this end he disguised
himself as a ragged young beggar and one weak of wit, and with the
aid of an urchin younger than himself and as wretched he began to
play about the square, running here and there as if in some game.
But before doing this he had fastened to the sole of his shoes a thick
gum so that the gold might stick. The guards, deceived by the
seeming youth and foolishness of Abou and his friend, said: ‘These
are but a child and a fool. They take no gold.’ But by night, coming to
count the gold, there were many pieces missing and they were sore
afraid. When they reported to the caliph that night he had them
flogged and new guards placed in their stead. Yet again he
consulted with the master thief, who advised him to load a camel
with enticing riches and have it led through the streets of the city by
seeming strangers who were the worse for wine. ‘This thief who
eludes thee will be tempted by these riches and seek to rob them.’
“Soon after it was Abou, who, prowling about the market-place,
noticed this camel laden with great wealth and led by seeming
strangers. But because it was led to no particular market he thought
that it must be of the caliph. He decided to take this also, for there
was in his blood that which sought contest, and by now he wished
the caliph, because of Yanee, to fix his thought upon him. He filled a
skin with the best of wine, into which he placed a drug of the dead
Yussuf’s devising, and dressing himself as a shabby vendor, set
forth. When he came to the street in which was the camel and saw
how the drivers idled and gaped, he began to cry, ‘Wine for a para! A
drink of wine for a para!’ The drivers drank and found it good,
following Abou as he walked, drinking and chaffering with him and
laughing at his dumbness, until they were within a door of the house
of Mirza, the wife of the dead Yussuf, where was a gate giving into a
secret court. Pausing before this until the wine should take effect, he
suddenly began to gaze upward and then to point. The drivers
looked but saw nothing. And the drug taking effect they fell down;
whereupon Abou quickly led the camel into the court and closed the
gate. When he returned and found the drivers still asleep he shaved
off half the hair of their heads and their beards, then disappeared
and changed his dress and joined those who were now laughing at
the strangers in their plight, for they had awakened and were running
here and there in search of a camel and its load and unaware of their
grotesque appearance. Mirza, in order to remove all traces, had the
camel killed and the goods distributed. A careful woman and
housewifely, she had caused all the fat to be boiled from the meat
and preserved in jars, it having a medicinal value. The caliph, having
learned how it had gone with his camel, now meditated anew on how
this great thief, who mocked him and who was of great wit, might be
taken. Calling the master thief and others in council he recited the
entire tale and asked how this prince of thieves might be caught. ‘Try
but one more ruse, O master,’ said the master thief, who was now
greatly shaken and feared for his life. ‘Do thou send an old woman
from house to house asking for camel’s grease. Let her plead that it
is for one who is ill. It may be that, fearing detection, the camel has
been slain and the fat preserved. If any is found, mark the door of
that house with grease and take all within.’
“Accordingly an old woman was sent forth chaffering of pain. In
due time she came to the house of Mirza, who gave her of the
grease, and when she left she made a cross upon the door. When
she returned to the caliph he called his officers and guards and all
proceeded toward the marked door. In the meantime Abou, having
returned and seen the mark, inquired of Mirza as to what it meant.
When told of the old woman’s visit he called for a bowl of the camel’s
grease and marked the doors in all the nearest streets. The caliph,
coming into the street and seeing the marks, was both enraged and
filled with awe and admiration for of such wisdom he had never
known. ‘I give thee thy life,’ he said to the master thief, ‘for now I see
that thou art as nothing to this one. He is shrewd beyond the wisdom
of caliphs and thieves. Let us return,’ and he retraced his steps to
the palace, curious as to the nature and soul of this one who could
so easily outwit him.
“Time went on and the caliph one day said to his vizier: ‘I have
been thinking of the one who robbed the treasury and my camel and
the gold from under the gibbet. Such an one is wise above his day
and generation and worthy of a better task. What think you? Shall I
offer him a full pardon so that he may appear and be taken—or think
you he will appear?’ ‘Do but try it, O Commander of the Faithful,’ said
the vizier. A proclamation was prepared and given to the criers, who
announced that it was commanded by the caliph that, should the
great thief appear on the market-place at a given hour and yield
himself up, a pardon full and free would be granted him and gifts of
rare value heaped upon him. Yet it was not thus that the caliph
intended to do.
“Now, Abou, hearing of this and being despondent over his life and
the loss of Yanee and the death of Yussuf and wishing to advantage
himself in some way other than by thievery, bethought him how he
might accept this offer of the caliph and declare himself and yet,
supposing it were a trap to seize him, escape. Accordingly he
awaited the time prescribed, and when the public square was filled
with guards instructed to seize him if he appeared he donned the
costume of a guard and appeared among the soldiers dressed as all
the others. The caliph was present to witness the taking, and when
the criers surrounding him begged the thief to appear and be
pardoned, Abou called out from the thick of the throng: ‘Here I am, O
Caliph! Amnesty!’ Whereupon the caliph, thinking that now surely he
would be taken, cried: ‘Seize him! Seize him!’ But Abou, mingling
with the others, also cried: ‘Seize him! Seize him!’ and looked here
and there as did the others. The guards, thinking him a guard,
allowed him to escape, and the caliph, once more enraged and
chagrined, retired. Once within his chambers he called to him his
chief advisers and had prepared the following proclamation:

“‘BE IT KNOWN TO ALL

“‘Since within the boundaries of our realm there exists
one so wise that despite our commands and best efforts
he is still able to work his will against ours and to elude
our every effort to detect him, be it known that from having
been amazed and disturbed we are now pleased and
gratified that one so skilful of wit and resourceful should
exist in our realm. To make plain that our appreciation is
now sincere and our anger allayed it is hereby covenant
with him and with all our people, to whom he may appeal if
we fail in our word, that if he will now present himself in
person and recount to one whom we shall appoint his
various adventures, it will be our pleasure to signally
distinguish him above others. Upon corroboration by us of
that which he tells, he shall be given riches, our royal
friendship and a councillor’s place in our council. I have
said it.
“‘Yianko I.’
 “This was signed by the caliph and cried in the public places. Abou
heard all but because of the previous treachery of the caliph he was
now unwilling to believe that this was true. At the same time he was
pleased to know that he was now held in great consideration, either
for good or ill, by the caliph and his advisers, and bethought him that
if it were for ill perhaps by continuing to outwit the caliph he might
still succeed in winning his favor and so to a further knowledge of
Yanee. To this end he prepared a reply which he posted in the public
square, reading:

“‘PROCLAMATION BY THE ONE WHOM

THE CALIPH SEEKS
“‘Know, O Commander of the Faithful, that the one
whom the caliph seeks is here among his people free from
harm. He respects the will of the caliph and his good
intentions, but is restrained by fear. He therefore requests
that instead of being commanded to reveal himself the
caliph devise a way and appoint a time where in darkness
and without danger to himself he may behold the face of
the one to whom he is to reveal himself. It must be that
none are present to seize him.
“‘The One Whom the Caliph Seeks.’

“Notice of this reply being brought to the caliph he forthwith took

counsel with his advisers and decided that since it was plain the thief
might not otherwise be taken, recourse must be had to a device that
might be depended upon to lure him. Behind a certain window in the
palace wall known as ‘The Whispering Window,’ and constantly used
by all who were in distress or had suffered a wrong which owing to
the craft of others there was no hope of righting, sat at stated times
and always at night, the caliph’s own daughter Yanee, whose tender
heart and unseeking soul were counted upon to see to it that the
saddest of stories came to the ears of the caliph. It was by this
means that the caliph now hoped to capture the thief. To insure that
the thief should come it was publicly announced that should any one
that came be able to tell how the treasury had been entered and the
gold pieces taken from under the gibbet or the camel stolen and
killed, he was to be handed a bag of many dinars and a pardon in
writing; later, should he present himself, he would be made a
councillor of state.
“Struck by this new proclamation and the possibility of once more
beholding the princess, Abou decided to match his skill against that
of the caliph. He disguised himself as a vendor of tobacco and
approached the window, peered through the lattice which screened it
and said: ‘O daughter of the great caliph, behold one who is in
distress. I am he whom the caliph seeks, either to honor or slay, I
know not which. Also I am he who, on one of thy journeys to the
mountain of Azol and thy palace at Ish-Pari thou beheldest while
passing the door of my father’s rug-market, for thou didst lift the
curtains of thy houdah and also thy veil and didst deign to smile at
me. And I have here,’ and he touched his heart, ‘a faded spray of the
myrtles of Ish-Pari, or so it has been told me, over which I weep.’
“Yanee, shocked that she should be confronted with the great thief
whom her father sought and that he should claim to be the beautiful
youth she so well remembered, and yet fearing this to be some new
device of the vizier or of the women of the harem, who might have
heard of her strange love and who ever prayed evil against all who
were younger or more beautiful than they, she was at a loss how to
proceed. Feeling the need of wisdom and charity, she said: ‘How
sayst thou? Thou are the great thief whom my father seeks and yet
the son of a rug-merchant on whom I smiled? Had I ever smiled on a
thief, which Allah forbid, would I not remember it and thee?
Therefore, if it be as thou sayst, permit it that I should have a light
brought that I may behold thee. And if thou art the rug-merchant’s
son or the great thief, or both, and wishest thy pardon and the bag of
dinars which here awaits thee, thou must relate to me how it was the
treasury was entered, how the gold was taken from under the gibbet
and my father’s camel from its drivers.’ ‘Readily enough, O Princess,’
replied Abou, ‘only if I am thus to reveal myself to thee must I not
know first that thou art the maiden whom I saw? For she was kind as
she was fair and would do no man an ill. Therefore if thou wilt lower
thy veil, as thou didst on the day of thy departure, so that I may see,
I will lift my hood so that thou mayst know that I lie not.’
“The princess, troubled to think that the one whom she had so
much admired might indeed be the great thief whose life her father
sought, and yet wavering between duty to her father and loyalty to
her ideal, replied: ‘So will I, but upon one condition: should it be that
thou art he upon whom thou sayst I looked with favor and yet he who
also has committed these great crimes in my father’s kingdom, know
that thou mayst take thy pardon and thy gold and depart; but only
upon the condition that never more wilt thou trouble either me or my
father. For I cannot bear to think that I have looked with favor upon
one who, however fair, is yet a thief.’
“At this Abou shrank inwardly and a great sorrow fell upon him; for
now, as at the death of Yussuf, he saw again the horror of his way.
Yet feeling the justice of that which was said, he answered: ‘Yea, O
Princess, so will I, for I have long since resolved to be done with evil,
which was not of my own making, and will trouble thee no more.
Should this one glance show me that beloved face over which I have
dreamed, I will pass hence, never more to return, for I will not dwell
in a realm where another may dwell with thee in love. I am, alas, the
great thief and will tell thee how I came by the gold under the gibbet
and in thy father’s treasury; but I will not take his gold. Only will I
accept his pardon sure and true. For though born a thief I am no
longer one.’ The princess, struck by the nobility of these words as
well as by his manner, said sadly, fearing the light would reveal the
end of her dreams: ‘Be it so. But if thou art indeed he thou wilt tell
me how thou camest to be a thief, for I cannot believe that one of
whom I thought so well can do so ill.’
“Abou, sadly punished for his deeds, promised, and when the
torch was brought the princess lifted her veil. Then it was that Abou
again saw the face upon which his soul had dwelt and which had
caused him so much unrest. He was now so moved that he could not
speak. He drew from his face its disguise and confronted her. And
Yanee, seeing for the second time the face of the youth upon whom
her memory had dwelt these many days, her heart misgave her and
she dared not speak. Instead she lowered her veil and sat in silence,
the while Abou recounted the history of his troubled life and early
youth, how he could recall nothing of it save that he had been beaten
and trained in evil ways until he knew naught else; also of how he
came to rob the treasury, and how the deeds since of which the
caliph complained had been in part due to his wish to protect the
widow of Yussuf and to defeat the skill of the caliph. The princess,
admiring his skill and beauty in spite of his deeds, was at a loss how
to do. For despite his promise and his proclamation, the caliph had
exacted of her that in case Abou appeared she was to aid in his
capture, and this she could not do. At last she said: ‘Go, and come
no more, for I dare not look upon thee, and the caliph wishes thee
only ill. Yet let me tell my father that thou wilt trouble him no more,’ to
which Abou replied: ‘Know, O Princess, thus will I do.’ Then opening
the lattice, Yanee handed him the false pardon and the gold, which
Abou would not take. Instead he seized and kissed her hand
tenderly and then departed.
“Yanee returned to her father and recounted to him the story of the
robbery of the treasury and all that followed, but added that she had
not been able to obtain his hand in order to have him seized
because he refused to reach for the gold. The caliph, once more
chagrined by Abou’s cleverness in obtaining his written pardon
without being taken, now meditated anew on how he might be
trapped. His daughter having described Abou as both young and
handsome, the caliph thought that perhaps the bait of his daughter
might win him to capture and now prepared the following and last
pronunciamento, to wit:

“‘TO THE PEOPLE OF BAGHDAD

“‘Having been defeated in all our contests with the one
who signs himself The One Whom the Caliph Seeks, and
yet having extended to him a full pardon signed by our
own hand and to which has been affixed the caliphate
seal, we now deign to declare that if this wisest of