On Sunday 5 September 1976, very early in the morning, I arrived in Pakistan at Rawalpindi. The following evening I was entertained by Prime Minister Bhutto. He was the best kind of host, never allowing his left-wing views to get in the way of a first-class dinner and serious but amusing conversation. Gordon Reece accompanied me and Mr Bhutto’s daughter, Benazir, and some of her friends were present too. Prime Minister Bhutto and I had both been to Oxford and had trained as barristers at Lincoln’s Inn.
Mr Bhutto had been an indifferent Prime Minister in difficult circumstances. He helped Pakistan achieve some self-respect after the previous military regime had lost Bangladesh in its disastrous war with India; Pakistan’s relations with its powerful neighbour were now on a better footing. But he failed to tackle seriously the country’s deeply rooted economic difficulties. Like many other Third World socialist leaders of the period, he tried to escape from domestic economic problems by calling for a ‘just’ new international economic order, which was shorthand for larger transfers of foreign aid from the West. Indeed, he had backed a Third World initiative for this purpose.
Though I expressed my views politely, I was known to be a critic of this kind of international socialism. It was somewhat to the surprise of his civil servants, therefore, that we immediately struck up a rapport. I even found him remarkably understanding — in private at least — about the need to curb Pakistani immigration into Britain.
Mr Bhutto’s ideas of a new international economic order eventually foundered in the 1980s, when the Third World began to understand that free-market economics were the key to prosperity. Long before then, however, he had been overthrown by a military coup. Perhaps, like the Shah, he had become too detached from the religious and cultural values of his own people.
No one may ever know the whole truth about his overthrow, trial and subsequent execution. As Prime Minister I intervened in vain with his successor to spare his life. But the military was determined. So it was a strange feeling when I subsequently met President Zia-Ul-Haq at Tito’s funeral in 1980. He was much more pro-Western than his predecessor, but I had also expected to meet a cold, even brutal, figure. Instead, I found him polished and he made every effort to be friendly. When my son Mark was lost for days in the North African desert in January 1982, General Zia was one of the first to telephone personally to express his concern. And under his rule Pakistan was to prove exceptionally generous to the millions of Afghan refugees driven out by the Soviet occupation.
At the time of my visit, however, Pakistan was enjoying better relations with its neighbours, including India. Indeed, by now the Indian Prime Minister, Mrs Indira Gandhi, and her Government were almost exclusively concerned with domestic problems. The first half of 1975 had seen a massive campaign of opposition against her, leading to the proclamation in June of a State of Emergency, the banning of some political parties, the suspension of fundamental human rights, severe censorship and the arrest of thousands of opponents, including some thirty Indian MPs. At the time I arrived there was a kind of eerie calm. The economy was doing quite well after several bad years, though there were disagreements about whether this was as a result of government policy or of good harvests. But it was not, of course, possible to know the real conditions of the country without a free press; even parliamentary speeches were subject to censorship.
Still, I felt no inhibitions about making my planned visit. India’s ambivalent relationship with the Soviet Union, its strategic significance, as well as the traditional links with Britain which provided huge sums of overseas aid, marked out India as of special importance to me. I did, however, insist that there should be no censorship of my press conferences and that I should be able to meet representatives of the opposition. No objection was made and both conditions were fulfilled. As a consequence, I found myself with a larger British press entourage than usual on these trips, partly because some British papers sent in reporters who would otherwise have been subject to the emergency censorship regulations. They wrote not only about my visit, but about the condition of India more generally, including the sterilization campaign.
I lunched with Indira Gandhi in her own modest home, where she insisted on seeing that her guests were all looked after and clearing away the plates while discussing matters of high politics. Both her sons, Sanjay and Rajiv, were present, although it was the former who had most to say for himself. He had, indeed, allegedly been responsible for many of the abuses such as forced sterilization and compulsory rehousing which had provoked such bitter opposition. But in spite of everything I found myself liking Mrs Gandhi herself. Perhaps I naturally sympathized with a woman politician faced with the huge strains and difficulties of governing a country as vast as India. But, in spite of a long self-justificatory account she gave me of why the State of Emergency had been necessary, I could not approve of her Government’s methods. She had taken a wrong turning and was to discover the fact at her party’s devastating election defeat in 1977.
From India I flew to Singapore for a brief stopover on my way to New Zealand and Australia. Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew was an old friend from my days as Education Secretary. He and I thought similarly about education. He was a great believer in selection and could never understand why even a socialist wanted to destroy the grammar schools. And the schools and education in Singapore reflected this. More significantly, he was the most important Asian statesman of his generation, an achievement all the more remarkable for being based on the small state of Singapore. He had his own kind of democracy to be sure, but his strong commitment to free-market capitalism had done wonders for the tiny island which he governed. For me, the success of Singapore demonstrated how, given the right economic framework favourable to enterprise, living standards could be transformed. Not surprisingly, Professor Milton Friedman saw in economies like that of Singapore a model which the West should follow. Of course, Lee Kuan Yew enjoyed the advantage of the Chinese people’s cultural predisposition to trading and commerce: the spirit of entrepreneurship comes more easily to some peoples than to others. But I found in my discussions with him now that what really united us was common concern about the advance of Soviet influence throughout the region, which was being exerted through naval deployments disguised as trade or fishing. I was to find myself often relying on Lee Kuan Yew’s wise advice and vast knowledge of world politics in my time as Prime Minister.
From Singapore I went on to New Zealand. It was my second visit and I felt very much at home. Robert Muldoon had recently won a general election. He was a mixed grill of a politician: robust and no-nonsense in manner, but surprisingly confused in economic and political philosophy, and accordingly much more interventionist than the Labour Government which succeeded him eight years later. He was something of a bruiser alongside Malcolm Fraser, the tall rancher who in 1975 had become Prime Minister of Australia after the Governor-General, Sir John Kerr, had controversially dismissed Gough Whitlam, the previous Labor Prime Minister. Although I was pleased to see a right-wing government in power in Australia as in New Zealand, I never struck up any real friendship with Malcolm Fraser. Our views and attitudes were too different.
Neither Bob Muldoon nor Malcolm Fraser was committed to the reforms required to create an effective free-enterprise economy. They were both shaped by political cultures which for almost all of this century had been built upon protectionist economics and an advanced welfare state. Ironically, within a decade the Labour Party began to dismantle radically these statist institutions in both countries. But it may be that when I arrived in 1976 public opinion had not yet shifted sufficiently to make this practical politics. I suspected this might be true when I delivered a speech to the Australian Liberal Party (the equivalent of the British Conservative Party) Federal Council in Canberra. I included in my speech some of the more philosophical assertions which I always inserted in such speeches in Britain. Indeed, I was extra keen to do so because I had been reading into the small hours Solzhenitsyn’s novel The First Circle, which I bought at the airp
ort, and which made me reflect on the complex relationship between freedom and democracy. The applause at the end was far from deafening, and from the subsequent comments it became clear to me that conservative-minded audiences in Australia were not used to this sort of unapologetic conservatism.
Another straw in the wind was provided by my visit to Broken Hill, an outback town dominated and largely owned by the miners’ union. The union leaders were delighted and rather surprised to see me. They informed me proudly that no one could live or work in the town without belonging to the union. A bar in the town which had recently challenged the rule had simply been boycotted and forced to close down. My guides were completely unabashed, indeed perversely pleased, about this blatant infraction of liberty. I could not help wondering whether I had had an insight into Britain’s future.
One memory I treasure from this Australian visit was my only meeting with Sir Robert Menzies, Prime Minister for many years and a great friend of Britain. He was ailing and could no longer walk, but one saw immediately the power and strength of character of Australia’s leading statesman and former member of Churchill’s Imperial War Cabinet, though less of the sarcastic wit that had made him a famous political pugilist. I was flattered when he revealed that he had read most of my recent speeches, especially those warning against renewed aggression by the Soviet Union. I was reminded not for the last time that the political generation that had come to maturity when the British Empire was still a world power retained a global perspective that its more parochial successors lacked. When I found myself complimented by this remarkable man it strengthened me in my conviction that I was right and that the détente establishment was wrong.
I had the same kind of encouraging confirmation from a very different source in April the following year (1977) when I visited China. I was already much better known to the Chinese than they were to me. They had relished my Helsinki and Kensington speeches and regarded me as a valued recruit in opposition to what they described as Soviet ‘hegemonism’. My daughter Carol came too: she had decided to start her career in Australia and I had persuaded her to travel out via China. It was fun having her with me and she was a great antidote to too much official solemnity. There were two others in the party — one of my PPSs, John Stanley, and Douglas Hurd, who had served on the staff of our Embassy in Peking and had a vast store of knowledge and anecdote about China. Douglas christened us ‘the Gang of Four’.
I was greeted at Peking Airport by the Chinese Foreign Minister, Huang Hua, before being driven into Peking itself. It was the middle of the dry season — hot and dusty, with so much static that I had been warned not to bring silk dresses. That evening I was guest of honour at a banquet in one of the side halls of the Great Hall of the People. A Chinese orchestra played a succession of Western old favourites, including the inevitable ‘Greensleeves’. I had more or less mastered the advanced use of chopsticks, but I Still found some Chinese delicacies unappealing. On this occasion, I allowed the sea slugs and fish bellies to pass me by. The Chinese habit, which I was glad to see the British journalists present appreciated, of drinking innumerable toasts of Mao-Tai, a strong grain spirit, posed a more hazardous social problem. Fortunately, however, I gathered that women were permitted to sip rather than down the lethal spirit.
The anti-Soviet rhetoric of Vice-Premier Li Hsien-nien was equally strong. He described the Soviets as ‘sharpening their swords on the sly and stepping up their arms expansion and war preparations’. After this, my own comments about the need for strong defence sounded almost pacifist. This first banquet set one of the themes which was to continue throughout the visit — a fierce verbal assault by the Chinese against the Soviet Union. The following morning’s meeting with various local politicians provided the second theme — a scathing denunciation of the misdeeds of the real ‘Gang of Four’ headed by Mao’s widow. Mao had died in September the previous year, and the disgrace and imprisonment of his widow and the three other radicals the following month dominated the political scene.
Again and again I heard almost identical speeches made on these themes. This itself was significant. The Chinese knew that they had been weakened by the Cultural Revolution at the very time that the Soviets were embarking on an expansion of their influence. In spite of the apparent smiling self-assurance of those I met, there was also an underlying insecurity: would they be purged next, or would the Gang of Four return and wreak revenge? Two days before my arrival official ceremonies to mourn past leaders — ‘The Day of the Dead’ — were cancelled in case demonstrations in favour of the ousted leaders were made under the guise of demonstrations mourning Mao.
It was unclear how many supporters the disgraced radicals still had. Deng Xiao Ping, the symbol of opposition to the Cultural Revolution, though released from prison, was still in internal exile. Official posters showed the late Mao Tse Tung saying to China’s present supreme leader, Hua Guo Feng ‘With you in charge my heart is at ease.’ The Government had allowed people to put up their own posters expressing their views, though only in permitted places and within limits. In fact, though there seemed to be general agreement that the bad old days must not return, no one was quite sure as yet what would succeed them.
The most important talks I had were, naturally, with Chairman Hua Guo Feng. An enamel spittoon was placed between our two chairs, but neither of us, I am glad to say, had occasion to use it. The talks concentrated on the international situation and we found ourselves in broad agreement. The Chinese wanted to see Britain and Western Europe support the United States in balancing Soviet power. There was even a touch of humour, when Chairman Hua complimented me on my energy when visiting the Great Wall of China.
‘He who cannot climb to the top of the Great Wall of China is no true man,’ he said.
I ventured to correct this thought of Chairman Mao: ‘I prefer no true leader.’
I came away feeling that Hua’s position in China was probably secure, and indeed he survived long enough to be one of my first official visitors as Prime Minister. Although in the end he was too closely identified with the old regime and was ousted in 1981, the policies of anti-Sovietism and allowing a measure of free enterprise were not only continued, but intensified.
After three days I flew south to the city of Soochow, a beautiful historic city of parks and gardens, famed for its cuisine which featured the ancient art of carving vegetables. It was good to get out of the heat and bustle of Peking. Thousands of people turned out to greet me in the tree-lined streets. I saw women making silk portraits of Mao, fed the ducks and wandered in the appropriately named Garden of the Futility of Politics. But the peaceful and contemplative atmosphere was deceiving. That evening as we left a banquet given by the Soochow City Revolutionary Committee some photograph displays caught my eye and we left our guides for a moment to look at them. The pictures showed the denunciation of a former local official. A crowd was ‘cross-examining’ him — cat-calling and spitting at the terrified man. The guides quickly bustled us away.
From Soochow I flew to Hangchow, the scene of riots during the Cultural Revolution and full-scale fighting the previous year. Perhaps I was invited there to show to the outside world how thoroughly peace had been restored. It was certainly peaceful enough boating there on the West Lake, where Mao had had a country villa.
From Hangchow I went by train to Shanghai. My first appointment was a visit to a university. Before I left for China two disillusioned former communists who had spent some time in that country had come to see me. They told me that everything I saw on my trip would be specially set up and quite unrepresentative of reality. By chance I was able to put this to the test. I knew that some British students were on an exchange programme at the university. I asked about them and one duly appeared. Everywhere we went the floors were swept and the furniture brightly polished. The university library displayed copies of The Economist and even Hansard. It all seemed too good to be true. And of course it was. I suddenly asked my companion to show me the dormitory in which she
lived, and so I left the beaten track. The dormitory was highly uncomfortable and extremely dirty. So were the other rooms. My companion had sheets only because they had been sent from home. She washed them herself. She had never seen a copy of The Economist in the library before.
In appearance, Shanghai was the most Western of the cities I visited: our party was taken up the river by boat and we were all very struck by the Western-style buildings of the old International Settlement, looking much as they must have done when the Japanese invasion effectively ended the colonial concessions in 1941. But the atmosphere in the city was disturbing and alien. There were microphones in the trees blaring out political messages. Shanghai had been the home of three members of the ‘Gang of Four’, but the new regime had been able to establish its authority there with surprising ease. I had lunch with the new mayor who was busy rooting out political opponents; he spoke with a bland ruthlessness. When I raised the question of dissidents he said: ‘We try to show them the error of their ways.’ I remembered the photographs of Soochow.
Through all the excesses of the Cultural Revolution — which included the burning of the British Embassy library, with its irreplaceable collection of Chinese books and manuscripts — some of the greatest treasures had been quietly preserved. My interest in Chinese drawings led me to ask to visit the city museum and gallery. The scrolls and hangings I was shown were too fragile to be on view in sunlight and I saw them in a darkened room. There was also ancient porcelain, which had a special appeal to me, and metalwork. After all the upheavals of Maoism something of the essential China had survived.
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