The village as a whole was relieved and happy when the decision was announced even though some individuals expressed disappointment that their taxes had not been cancelled altogether. Nobody wasted any time celebrating, however. They were all too busy debating how the unprecedented cut was to be divided. The work team, which made the equitable allocation of the tax burden its last major project, suggested that tzu pao kung yi (self report, public appraisal) was the only fair method. That way each family could report its own crop and offer the same proportion in taxes that they had paid the year before. Their neighbors, in the sectional groups of the Peasants’ Association, could then discuss the amount, judge whether or not it was fair, and draw up a list for the whole group. The lists thus created could be turned over to the Congress for a final decision.
There were many objections to this procedure. Some people did not believe it would work. They thought any effort at self-report in the tax field must end in chaos. They wanted the village leaders to “cut the knot” by assigning points as they had done the year before when there had been no disaster. If it were left to each person to decide, there would be no standard of judgment. Each person would say what pleased him, and who could gainsay him?
“On our land we harvested four bags,” said Cheng-k’uan’s mother. “But Shang Shih-t’ou’s family, on the next strip of land, claims to have harvested but one bag. I don’t believe they got so little. But how can I prove it? Are we going to search their house?”
Others who opposed the idea said that “self report” was useless since it could be overthrown by “public appraisal” anyway. Why not start with “public appraisal” and be done with it?
But the work team stuck to its position. Team Leader Ts’ai Chin pointed out that there was no way that points could be fairly assigned. In previous years points had been set on the basis of the land’s capacity. Since the productivity of each plot over the generations was well known, this presented no great difficulty. But this year, because of the hail, actual yields stood in no relation at all to fertility, size of plot, or any other known factor. The only people who knew how much wheat had actually been harvested were those who did the work. As for standards, these were very clear. People were asked to pay the same proportion of their crop as they had the year before. If they thought all this was too much trouble, they should remember, the team cadres said, that every bit of grain was important for the support of the front. The soldiers needed the grain in order to carry on the liberation fight. If the soldiers failed to win at the front, the whole question would almost certainly become academic. Then it would not be a question of deciding how much taxes each family should pay. Chiang Kai-shek would decide that, and his troops would simply come to every door, throw some empty bags on the ground and say “fill them up.”
These arguments won the day. Most people agreed that in spite of the scattered pattern of the hail, neighbors had a pretty good idea of each other’s crops and, through open discussion, could arrive at a figure. It was obvious that a fair estimate was in the interest of the majority because, regardless of how much any one household paid, the whole village was obligated to collect 20 hundredweight. If anyone got away with less than his fair share, his neighbors would have to foot the bill.
This was without doubt the severest test the “self report, public appraisal” method had experienced. Yields were something that for thousands of years people had tried their best to conceal, for the simple reason that higher yields meant higher rents and higher taxes. The need to conceal actual yields had been burned into the hearts and minds of generation after generation of tenants and small holders. Nobody, if he could possibly help it, had ever been honest about how much grain he actually thrashed out. That is one reason why, in the past, before the establishment of the revolutionary regime, taxes had in fact been collected by the simple method of taking what grain could be found. That was also one of the reasons for the adoption of the standard mou system in the new tax regulations. By basing demands on estimated productivity, the revolutionary government by-passed all need to investigate actual yields. Now it was proposed that the peasants themselves volunteer these vital statistics.
In order to lead the way, the Communist Party had first to activate its own membership. The branch leaders quite rightly calculated that if the Communists promptly and accurately reported their harvests and offered a fair proportion in taxes, others would follow suit. But even in the branch, “self report” ran into difficulty. Some said they would give two pecks, some one peck. Old Kao offered five quarts, and Shih Hsiu-mei, who had harvested but one peck, offered three quarts. But when they came round to Hsiao Wen-hsu, there was silence.
“I don’t want to say it now,” he said. “When the time comes, I’ll bring the grain to the warehouse.”
“How can you talk like that?” asked Ts’ai Chin. “There can be no secrets among Communists.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t offer anything,” said Hsiao Wen-hsu. “When the time comes, I’ll be there with the grain.”
“How much?” ased Ts’ai-yuan, insisting on a figure.
“I got four and a half pecks; I’ll bring it all.”
When he heard this answer, Ts’ai Chin’s face flushed red.
“Is that your answer toward paying taxes? What sort of a Communist are you anyway? You don’t want to tell the branch, but you will show the masses. You make me so angry, I could hit you.” He half stood up and turned toward Hsiao Wen-hsu. “Nobody wants to force you to do anything, but your motives? Your motives?”
“I never said you were forcing me,” replied Wen-hsu growing more stubborn with every word.
“What kind of an attitude is that anyway?” said Ch’un-hsi, joining in the attack. “If you talk this way even in the branch, what would the masses think if they could hear you? They would certainly curse you. We all lose face!”
Wen-hsu’s wife tried to break in.
“We’ll offer five quarts,” she said. But no one heard her above the din. Everyone was talking at once, and all of them were attacking Wen-hsu, who faced them in defiant silence.
Village Head Ch’un-hsi took Ho-ch’ueh aside and asked her why her husband was so stubborn. “Is it because you have great difficulties at home, or what?”
Ho-ch’ueh only shook her head and wept. She begged Ch’un-hsi to talk to Wen-hsu after the meeting and reason with him, but the village head looked doubtful.
“He must be publicly criticized; I can’t stand his attitude. How can I reason with him patiently?”
The Communists’ problems with their comrade Hsiao Wen-hsu was but a preview of things to come when the people met in the neighborhood groups of the Association. Although the eastern group sailed through its whole list easily, the north and southwest groups found appraisal extremely difficult. Some people really had nothing left to eat in the house; yet they offered substantial amounts. Others, who could afford to pay, made ridiculous token offers in lieu of taxes.
The poor peasant Jen-kuei, for instance, when his name was read out, said:
“I’ll give one peck.”
“Why you?” asked Ts’ai-yuan. “You harvested very little and everyone knows that you have nothing left.”
“That’s true,” said Jen-kuei, “but the members of my small group here all stare at me, just waiting for my report, so I have to speak out.”
“How much did you really harvest?”
“Two hundredweight from an acre and a half. But I had a lot of debts. It’s all gone. In order to pay taxes, I’ll have to borrow a peck from somewhere.”
Four families that had no wheat of their own but only gleaned a little in the fields of others offered several quarts apiece.
“They shouldn’t have to pay anything,” said Cheng-k’uan’s mother.
But several men disagreed with her. “Though they were in great difficulty, they have reported according to their own consciences so of course we must accept the offer.”
As village head Ch’un-hsi read on down thr
ough the list of names the selfish ones also revealed themselves. One family that harvested six bags offered less than a family that had harvested three. Yet nobody spoke out. Nobody wanted to lose face or undermine another by challenging the figures. Once again it became clear that democracy hinged on the willingness of people to speak and argue.
Ken-ming offered only one peck, even though he himself admitted that he had harvested seven hundredweight. His group wanted him to add another five quarts at least, but he lost his temper.
“I have democracy now, and that’s all I will give,” he said.
After that rebuff his neighbors just said “all right” to everybody else. “Why should we offend old friends?” they asked. “Even when we give an opinion, they don’t accept it, so why should we persist? Better keep silent.”
“What is actually in the minds of those who did well this year,” explained Fa-liang to Ch’i Yun and me afterward, “is that it was their good luck that the hail didn’t hit, and as long as they were so lucky they ought to enjoy it. ‘Self report,’ they think, is self willingness. They want to give only as much as suits their fancy and ignore the ‘public appraisal.’”
Such attitudes prevented a full discussion of the actual situation, and the meetings had to be called off until the following day. In the intervening hours, the cadres, the village leaders, and the Communist Party members spoke to people individually. In the morning the sectional groups of the Association were reassembled for a second try. This time the discussion developed more freely, and a tentative list was drawn up by each group for submission to the Congress.
Whatever reluctance the rank-and-file peasants had to discuss their harvests and their taxes was not shared by the Congress delegates. They took the lists and really studied them. When they had doubts about any family’s report, they called the head of that family in and questioned him or her until they had the facts straight. They slashed the amounts offered by some and added to those offered by others with a confident sense of right and wrong. Those who had harvested nothing at all, but had gleaned a few odd quarts, were struck from the lists regardless of their willingness to contribute to the support of the fighting front. The same was true of those who had nothing left to eat. Hsiao Wen-hsu, for instance, was relieved of all obligations, even though his wife protested that her offer was genuine and that people would not respect her word in the future if she did not make good on it. Investigation showed that she and her husband were gathering herbs in the hills in order to eat.
A sharp argument flared up over a rich peasant widow. One delegate wanted her to pay a lot because she had originally been rich. But others said flatly, “No. This has nothing to do with her class origin. This is a matter of how much one harvested. They got almost nothing. Therefore they should pay nothing. The land reform is over. There are no rich peasants anymore.”
When the situation justified it, on the other hand, the delegates did not hesitate to add to the tax. Ken-ming, who had been so stubborn in the meeting, admitted to his neighbors afterwards that he had refused to add even a quart to his original offer because he didn’t like Chin-hung, who had proposed it. The Congress added a whole peck to his tax.
When the task was completed, all contributions were tallied and totalled. They came to 21 hundredweight, just one hundredweight above the amount required of the village by the county government.
On the following evening, August 13, 1948, the list was read to a mass meeting of the village and was approved as read. A major test of democratic rule had been passed. The way in which the Congress had handled this problem left no doubt as to its ability to run the affairs of the village. The work team decided that its work was done.
67
Long Bow Tsai Chien*
There is no Jade Emperor in heaven.
There is no Dragon King on earth.
I am the Jade Emperor.
I am the Dragon King.
Make way for me you hills and mountains,
I’m coming!
Peasant Song, 1958
ON AUGUST 24, 1948, Ch’i Yun, Hsieh Hung, and I left Long Bow. The contrast between our departure and our arrival six months before could hardly have been more striking. The day was warm but not excessively so, and a golden sun shone down like an old friend on a village at peace. Not a biting wind but a refreshing morning breeze, not a menacing overcast but a blue eternity, not a frozen lifeless street but the warm salutations of many friends greeted us as we emerged for the last time from the gate of the district compound. Tall Hsin-fa, with the poise and assurance of the community leader which he had in fact become, was there to see us off. Beside him stood Cheng-k’uan, his serious face offset by a brand-new towel on his shaven head, and Ch’un-hsi, with a broad smile that indicated among others things that his mother was cooking for him again. Hu Hsueh-chen and Little Mer stood behind them. The women had abandoned their spinning for the occasion, and Ts’ai-yuan had forsaken his store. The cadres of the work team came out of the gate with us—Han, Li, Ts’ai Chin, and Hou Pao-pei. They had long since given up wearing side-arms for protection, and now the very memory of guns and holsters, tensions and fears, seemed like some fragment out of a nightmare.
The peasants of the southwest corner, among whom we had worked for so long, did not turn out en masse to say farewell—we had already visited almost every family in its own courtyard and had taken formal leave—but those who saw us going came down into the street and walked with us southward to the point where the fields began. Among them were the children who had been my constant companions during those odd moments of leisure that had been left to us between meetings. The first of the rascals to run up held both my hands as we went forward, while those latecomers who could not find a finger or a thumb to grab ran around our procession in circles. Hu Hsueh-chen and Ch’i Yun likewise held hands and talked earnestly to one another, Ch’i urging the women’s leader to look joyfully to the future, and Hu, in her turn, promising to spare no effort in service to the people.
As we emerged from the street into the open country, the peasants, with friendly goodbyes, turned back one by one. Finally only the cadres of the work team remained with us. We stood momentarily in the road together not knowing what words to say, not knowing quite how to dispel the poignancy of parting. Then we went our separate ways, we three from the University over the hill to Changchih where Secretary Wang would arrange transportation for us back to the new campus in distant Shihchiachuang; the district cadres back to the village where they still had final reports to write before they could move on to other jobs in Lucheng County.
In the days that followed, Ch’i Yun, Hsieh Hung, and I had ample time to think and talk about the extraordinary experience we had been through, for we walked or rode mule carts all the way to our new home in the plains, a journey that took eight days. On the way we discussed the land reform movement with Secretary Wang in Changchih and again with Secretary Lai Jo-yu, leader of all work in 500 “basic villages.” His headquarters were at Yehtao, the black pepper center of North China and the revolutionary administrative center of the Taihang Subregion.
What concerned us most at the time was the “poor-peasant line” and the fact that the whole movement had temporarily gone so far astray. Secretary Lai, after making a concise analysis of the wrong line, tried to put our experience in proper perspective by looking at the sweep of the movement as a whole. “Such mistakes,” he said, “must be seen for what they are, ripples on the surface of the broad Yellow River. The most important thing is that feudalism has been thoroughly uprooted throughout the whole of the Taihang.”
We felt that Secretary Lai was right. Feudalism had indeed been uprooted, and nothing could ever be the same again in Southeast Shansi. Not only had the land system of imperial times at last been completely done away with, but the political and cultural superstructure, and beyond that the very consciousness of men, had also been remade. Of the fall of 1948, one could hardly write as I had written of 1947, that the process begun by the expropri
ations of the Settling Accounts Movement might be reversed, that the gains inspired by the May 4th Directive might be lost. The democratic reforms, the consolidation of the Party, and the establishment of new organs of political power now guaranteed the new equalitarian base of rural society and set the stage for a great advance.
In Long Bow, it is true, we left behind a few loose ends. Police Captain Wen-te was still attending the school for unreformed cadres in Changchih; his wife, Hsien-e, was still waiting to hear the outcome of her appeal for a divorce; what punishment Yu-lai would receive had not yet been decided upon by the Village People’s Congress; Little Ch’uer’s assailants had not been apprehended; and the land certificates which would legalize the distribution of the land had not yet been handed out. But, with the basic questions such as land ownership and political power settled, the people of the village were fully capable of tying up any loose ends.
Problems which had deeply agitated the community in March stirred barely a ripple in August. Whether Yu-lai received punishment or not no longer seemed important once the people ceased to fear him. Who bound and gagged Little Ch’uer and dragged him to the brink of the well did not matter very much either, once it became clear that the power of the landlords had truly been uprooted. No matter how vicious such an act might have been, it could no longer be interpreted as a harbinger of burgeoning counter-revolution but only as an isolated instance, a rearguard retaliation. As such it was not significant.
Such was the measure of the transformation which had occurred.
Could it then be said that all the basic problems facing Long Bow’s people had been solved? Far from it. Successful completion of the land reform marked but one step in the 10,000-li “long march” which the Chinese people had embarked upon when they dumped the opium into Canton Harbor in 1840.
Land reform only removed the feudal barriers to production. The latent productive forces still had to be mobilized, a great new rural market established, and a prosperous new China built up step by step.
Fanshen Page 77
