Few Western academics would aspire to teach political theory in an authoritarian setting. Surely the free, uninhibited flow of discussion is crucial to our enterprise. When I tell my Western friends that I gave up a tenured, high-paying job in relatively free Hong Kong for a contractual post at Tsinghua University in Beijing, they think I’ve gone off my rocker. I explain that it’s a unique opportunity for me: it’s the first time Tsinghua has hired a foreigner in the humanities since the revolution; Tsinghua trains much of China’s political elite, and I might be able to make a difference by teaching that elite; the students are talented, curious, hardworking, and it’s a pleasure to engage with them; the political future of China is wide open, and I’ll be well placed to observe the changes when they happen. Still, I do not deny that teaching political theory in China has been challenging. This has to do partly with political constraints. But it’s not all about politics. Even if China became a Western-style liberal democracy overnight, there would still be cultural obstacles to deal with. In this essay, I will discuss some of these political and cultural challenges.

The willingness to put up with political constraints depends partly upon one’s history. In my case, I had taught at the National University of Singapore in the early 1990s. There, the head of the department was a member of the ruling People’s Action Party. He was soon replaced by another head, who asked to see my reading lists and informed me that I should teach more communitarianism (the subject of my doctoral thesis) and less John Stuart Mill. Naturally, this made me want to do the opposite. Strange people would show up in my classroom when I spoke about “politically sensitive” topics, such as Karl Marx’s thought. Students would clam up when I used examples from local politics to illustrate arguments. It came as no surprise when my contract was not renewed.

In comparison, China is a paradise of academic freedom. Among colleagues, anything goes (in Singapore, most local colleagues were very guarded when dealing with foreigners). Academic publications are surprisingly free: there aren’t any personal attacks on leaders or open calls for multiparty rule, but particular policies, such as the household registry system, which limits internal mobility, are subject to severe criticism. In 2004, state television, for the first time in history, broadcast the U.S. presidential elections live, without any obvious political slant. (I suspect that the turmoil surrounding the 2000 U.S. presidential elections, along with the 2003 U.S.-led invasion of Iraq, discredited U.S.-style democracy among many Chinese, and the government has less to fear from the model.) More surprisingly, perhaps, I was not given any explicit (or implicit, as far as I could tell) guidance regarding what I could teach at Tsinghua. My course proposals have been approved as submitted.

Last spring, I offered one graduate course titled “Topics in Contemporary Political Philosophy.” It was a small seminar, and students freely drew upon “sensitive” cases such as Tibet to illustrate theories about self-determination and multiculturalism. My experiences of political constraints came outside the classroom. One was self-imposed. A student asked me to address a “salon” at Tsinghua on the topic of democracy. I consulted some trusted friends, who suggested that I stay away from it. I found out later that the salon was just a discussion group among graduate students in philosophy, not a trap, and that my fears were likely ungrounded.

I did have one experience with censorship imposed from outside. I gave an interview to a Chinese newspaper that is widely read in intellectual circles. The interview dealt with China’s role in international affairs, and I made some critical comments about the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq that were published. However, I also made some comments about the ancient thinker Mencius—I argued that he justified “punitive expeditions” that were functionally similar to modern-day humanitarian interventions—that were not published. The Chinese government does not support any infringements on state sovereignty, and the newspaper probably worried that readers would draw implications for contemporary debates. To my surprise, the editor of the newspaper phoned me to apologize, explaining that the article was “reviewed” by a party cadre and that he had no hand in the matter. He also offered to publish the interview in full in an academic publication that would not be subject to the same sorts of constraints. In Singapore, by contrast, it is hard to imagine that the editor of the pro-government Straits Times would apologize to contributors whose views were censored: public humiliation is a more common tactic for dealing with those who do not toe the party line.

I presented the same argument about Mencius and just war in extended form at an informal seminar at the headquarters of one of China’s main computer companies. An interesting feature of China’s academic scene is that some prominent reformist intellectuals obtain material support from sympathetic capitalists to organize seminars outside the formal university structure. These seminars are meant to be relatively free-flowing and less subject to political constraints. However, I was advised to delete the part of my paper that drew implications for the mainland’s relations with Taiwan. (I argue that Mencius would justify armed intervention against Taiwan only if its government systematically deprived people of the right to subsistence.) I agreed to do so, thinking that the benefits of exchanging ideas on the topic of just war with a group of influential Chinese intellectuals outweighed the cost of censorship. Besides, the full, uncensored version of my article will appear in my forthcoming book. It seems that the Chinese authorities rarely care about English-language material, which allows more scope for intellectual freedom.

This past fall I taught two courses. I was invited to co-teach a course on contemporary Western political philosophy at Beijing University, China’s other prominent university (located next to Tsinghua). Beijing University has a history of political turmoil, and one might expect political constraints to be more severe: after the student-led political uprising in spring 1989, the government forced Beijing University students to undergo one year of compulsory military training. [1]  Once again, however, I could teach anything—with one exception: Marxist thought. I was told that this area is still too sensitive; the government won’t welcome foreigners putting forward alternative interpretations of Marxism. I was also told that students won’t welcome Marxist teachings under any guise: they’ve been subject to enough, and they want to learn something else. (A former student at Beijing University told me how she used to reserve her seats in the library by putting her Marxist philosophy lessons on her chair, secure in the knowledge that no one would bother to steal her books; two decades later, I’m told, the practice has not changed.)

After the first class, a student stayed behind to ask, in fluent English, if he could audit the course. He introduced himself as a graduate student at the Chinese Communist Party university known as the Central Party School. I asked (half-jokingly) if I could give lectures there, and he said that foreigners weren’t allowed. Then I said he’d be welcome to audit my course if he was interested in the material. He did seem genuinely curious, though I wondered why he would tell me his party affiliation. The next class dealt with Jeremy Bentham’s utilitarianism, and I found myself scanning for his facial reaction when I mentioned Bentham’s disillusionment with benevolent despotism (he could not find monarchs to adopt his Panopticon proposal) and subsequent “conversion” to democracy. After the lecture, I asked an academic friend if the party would send spies to my classroom. He laughed and told me that it was normal for students from the party university to audit classes at Beijing University, that I’m regarded as an academic and nothing else. He also told me not to be so paranoid and reminded me that China’s totalitarian days are long gone.

At Tsinghua, I teach a graduate seminar on “Just and Unjust War.” The “realist paradigm”—the idea that states are motivated by nothing other than self-interest in international affairs and that morality is not and should not be used to judge the international behavior of states—seems to be dominant in China. I think there’s a need to consider theories that allow for moral evaluation of wars, especially as China becomes a more dominant power in the international arena. After the first class, the same student from the party school stayed behind to ask if he could audit that class too. I agreed.

THE SECOND SESSION dealt with humanitarian intervention. It is hard for many Chinese to believe that any sort of intervention might be justified on moral grounds. I asked how they would feel if a massacre occurred in their neighbor’s home—say, a father killing his children—and they had the power to make a difference. Most agreed they would intervene. I drew a comparison with massacres in other states, asking if it would make a moral difference if it were a neighboring state. Most agreed there could be a moral case for intervention, even for a non-neighboring state. Then I discussed the case of the Rwanda genocide, noting that Bill Clinton says his greatest regret is that he did not intervene to stop the genocide. So far, so good.

Next, we moved on to a discussion of Kosovo. Not a single student seemed to believe that NATO’s intervention was justified. “Only” a few thousand had died before the intervention, it wasn’t anything like a Rwanda-style genocide. I tried to explain the context, that Europeans had been watching the Serbs carrying out ethnic cleansing for several years, and most thought they were prepared to do it again. But I doubt that anybody was persuaded. Then the student from the party school raised questions about sovereignty. He noted the Chinese view that human rights should not have priority over sovereignty. I replied that human rights—or at least, the functional equivalent of human rights, whatever we want to call it—is what gives the point to sovereignty. Sovereignty only has moral value because it serves (usually) to protect the fundamental human rights of people in the state, and it loses its value once the state infringes upon, or fails to protect, those rights. I asked the student whether I, as a leader of a sovereign state, could kill millions of my people, then be justified in telling you not to intervene because you’d be trampling on my sovereignty. He agreed that I could not do so. I then asked him what moral value sovereignty could have if not its contribution to securing the fundamental rights of people in the state. He seemed genuinely puzzled, and then repeated out loud, to the whole class, “Mmm, what you’re saying is very different from what we’ve learned.”

The student noted that my view on justified intervention is also espoused by defenders of the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq. I had been discussing Michael Walzer’s theory of just war, and I noted that Walzer’s theory would bar intervention in this case, because there was another alternative to war (the UN inspectors), and war should not be launched unless other alternatives are seriously pursued. I reminded him of the other conditions of just war, and I noted that in most cases today measures such as economic sanctions might be more appropriate to deal with injustices in foreign lands.

He then asked me if I thought economic sanctions should have been used in China after June 4, 1989. I was shocked. It was the first time any student had mentioned that fateful day in a classroom setting (as opposed to private discussion). I couldn’t ignore the question, neither could I answer it directly. I mumbled a bit, until finally I thought of the “right” answer: that our seminar deals with the morally justified use of violence, and that nobody argues that foreign powers should have intervened militarily after June 4, because the costs of intervening against a nuclear power would likely outweigh the benefits. It’s the same reason no sane person calls for military intervention against Russia to protect the people of Chechnya. Another student intervened and noted people weren’t killed on June 4 for ethnic or racial reasons, so the case doesn’t compare to most cases of humanitarian intervention. I wanted to respond that the moral case for foreign intervention turns more on the number of people killed than on the reason they were killed, [2]  but I held my tongue. The seminar ended, and on the way out, I thanked the visiting student for his contributions to making the discussion more interesting. He said, “You’re the one we should thank, we hope for more debate and we want to hear more of your own views.”

The next day, I sent an e-mail to the whole class that included the following paragraph:

In the debate, the students raised an interesting argument not covered in the reading: namely, that most soldiers sign up to defend national interests, and it would be hard to justify putting their lives at risk in another country if the intervention does not benefit their own country in any way (in other words, the convergence of national and humanitarian interests makes the moral case for humanitarian intervention stronger, not weaker). Of course, I was also curious about the performance of the student from the party school. He did well representing both sides of the debate, including a defense of the view that human rights abuses can justify infringements of sovereignty. He also steered clear of provocative comments.

In subsequent classes, I learned to relax with the students and to go over the material without worrying about sensitive political implications. We discussed Christian, Realist, Confucian, and Islamic perspectives on just and unjust war, with the students doing presentations and debating more issues among themselves. The student from the party school did an excellent presentation on the Maoist perspective. In debate, he made thoughtful and constructive comments, as one might expect of a talented student. To the extent he had a political motivation, it seemed to be the desire to learn theories that may be useful for China’s future reform.

Let me sum up these reflections on the challenges of political constraints. Constraints on writing are easier to tolerate if censorship is carried out in an open and apologetic manner and if there are alternative opportunities for publication within one’s country and outside. Constraints on teaching are easier to tolerate if one has the experience of more severe constraints, but it is difficult to prevent students from steering discussion into precisely those sensitive areas that may lead to trouble. The constraints on political talk may also lead to unjustified paranoia, particularly for new arrivals uncertain of the boundaries of political correctness. Perhaps I should be more positive. The very fact of operating in a restrictive political environment does have some psychological benefits. If political authorities care about what I do, then I do not have to worry about the practical utility of my work. It is commonly remarked that Russian intellectuals felt somewhat demoralized after the Soviet Union collapsed, because people seemed to have lost interest in their work. If their dreams had been realized, then they should not have felt demoralized. But there usually remains a large gap between one’s ideals and the reality, even after the revolution, and it is something to worry about if political freedom means that critical intellectuals begin to feel irrelevant.

It’s not all about politics. With or without political constraints, there will be cultural particularities in different settings to which the foreign teacher needs to adjust. I will set aside such philosophical issues as the commensurability of terms to focus on the personal issues. I’ve had to adjust to the Chinese language as well as to different methods of teaching and ways of dealing with colleagues and students. These challenges require strategies that are not necessarily specific to teachers of political theory.

The first question I’m usually asked is, “What language do you teach in?” I wish I could say that I lecture in Chinese, but I use mainly English. The proportion of Chinese is increasing as my academic oral Chinese improves, and I set aside time for discussion in Chinese. I also take questions in Chinese (usually answering in English) because I can understand most of them. The key word is “most.” If the questioner has a heavy regional accent or gives a long speech on a topic only distantly related to the teaching material, then I may not be able to catch everything. What do I do in such cases?

Sometimes, I ask the questioner to repeat the question. Occasionally, however, even that doesn’t work. Then I answer the part of the question that I understood. Or I make inferences and answer what seems like a pertinent question. At Beijing University, I co-teach the course with a Chinese professor, and I may let him take the question. Of course, there’s a risk of missing interesting details, [3]  but relying on a translator would be too disruptive of the ebb and flow of discussion. The challenge of lecturing in a foreign language environment also affects my syllabus. [4]  In my first term, the course was an exercise in comparative political philosophy. I took certain themes—such as utilitarianism, liberalism, and communitarianism—and discussed both Western and Chinese thinkers who shed light on those themes. But my lectures on the Chinese thinkers did not go well. I could tell that many students felt they weren’t learning much. Some of the students had memorized the classics, most were familiar with the history of interpretations, and they probably felt that a Western political philosopher should be teaching Western thinking. [5]  So I’ve changed my approach. At Beijing University, I use the excellent Chinese translation of Will Kymlicka’s Contemporary Political Philosophy as the main text. [6]  And to fill in some of the required background, I lecture on Western historical thinkers before discussing Kymlicka’s themes (for example, I lecture on Mill and Bentham before looking at Kymlicka’s chapter on utilitarianism). I draw some comparisons with Chinese thinkers along the way (for example, comparing Mozi’s ideas with utilitarianism), but less than last term. For my seminar on just war at Tsinghua, I do not spend time introducing the thoughts of well-known Chinese thinkers. I dive right into comparison and critical evaluation, on the assumption that most students are familiar with the basics.

One of the benefits of being a teacher in China—and even more so, a professor at a well-known university—is the relatively high social status that one enjoys. The Cultural Revolution’s antipathy to intellectual elites seems to be long forgotten. Tsinghua, once the bastion of ultra-left politics, now has a statue of Confucius on campus. The state officially recognizes the social importance of teachers by means of such policies as travel discounts for teachers.

The high social esteem translates into understandings of the teaching profession that have challenged my prior ways of doing things. In the past, I’ve tried not to let my own views color my presentation of the material (though a certain bias always shows through). I’ve tried to present the ideas of various thinkers in their best possible light, then let students debate and make up their own minds. In China, however, such an approach invariably disappoints students. I’ve been told over and over again to state my own views. Students want their teachers to present and defend their own outlooks, perhaps because they are supposed to serve as exemplars to follow (or reject) in the traditional Confucian mode. In my class on Mill’s utilitarianism, for example, a student asked me whether the government should promote higher or lower pleasures or both. Normally, I would have asked him for his own views, but that would have made him unhappy. So I said any decent government should try to enact measures that provide means of subsistence for the poor as well as policies that allow for a flourishing intellectual life. I didn’t elaborate, and I avoided hard questions about limited resources and trade-offs between values.

The high social status of professors also translates into distinctive ways of dealing with students outside class. For one thing, the professor is supposed to be both an intellectual authority and an ethical person who cares about the student’s emotional development. Thus, my one-on-one encounters with students typically begin with questions about the student’s well-being and that of family members. At the end of term, I invite the students to my home, and they pepper my family members with questions. The students, for their part, sometimes bring gifts from home after long vacations. It would be the height of rudeness to refuse a gift. In early September, the whole country celebrates “Teachers’ Day,” and students often present their teachers with flowers. On that day, the side streets of the Beijing University campus are lined with flower sellers.

THE BOUNDARIES between private and public are challenged in other ways. Graduate students do much more than help with research. They also help with personal tasks: in my case, the department appointed a graduate student to help me with my visa and settling-in procedures. On the other hand, the boundary between economic and academic spheres is more rigidly enforced. I’ve asked graduate students to help me with classical Chinese. We do regular tutorials, going through the classical texts slowly and carefully. No matter how much I try, they refuse to be compensated. So I’ve had to exchange their work for work of my own, such as help with their English studies. The truth is that what I do for them rarely matches what they do for me. They claim that they’re also learning during the tutorials, but they’re probably just being polite. I’d almost prefer a market relationship that would be fair for both sides, but perhaps the idea of the teacher paying the student to teach the teacher is just too far removed from ordinary conceptions of proper roles.

This is not to deny that graduate students need money. They are paid a stipend of US$50 or so per month by the university. Not surprisingly, they don’t buy English-language books. I was shocked at first by the unabashed flouting of intellectual copyright laws: students openly sell or distribute photocopied versions of whole books. But it’s unrealistic to expect them to pay for English-language books (Chinese-language books, in contrast, are much cheaper, typically around US$2 or $3 per book). For what it’s worth, fellow authors, I lend my own books to students so that they can be photocopied.

Lest there be any misunderstanding, I would like to emphasize that norms of respect and cordiality and the concern for affective well-being do not necessarily mean sacrificing intellectual rigor. True, aggressive debate in seminars is usually frowned upon. I was invited to present a lecture on communitarianism last year, and the host professor proceeded to comment on my views, noting that Western-style communitarianism should be seen as an extension of Western-style liberalism. He hit a sore spot. I’ve made a (not very successful) career of trying to distinguish communitarianism from liberalism, and I jumped in, arguing that he was “wrong.” I felt bad after. The professor is a kind and polite elderly scholar. I was not invited again.

I’ve since learned to observe norms of cordiality during the course of debate. In my political theory class at Beijing University, my co-teacher might claim that he needs to “supplement” some of what I’ve just said. He goes on to criticize my views and defend his own preferred alternatives. I then reply that I need to “supplement” some of what he has just said. This way, we can argue without, Oxford-style, tearing each other to shreds. And I refer to my fellow teacher as “Teacher,” [7]  never using his full name in class.

The students also raise questions in class. They are no slouches: it’s probably harder to be admitted, statistically speaking, into Tsinghua and Beijing University than into leading American universities. My students are supposed to be leaders of society: I’m told that the Communist Party student members at Tsinghua prepare the educational curriculum for all the young Communists in China. They are intellectually confident and often well versed in the Chinese and Anglo-American (if not French and German) philosophical traditions. Nonetheless, they often communicate their most critical comments via e-mail, not in the classroom. Of course, the e-mails are cordial, but the substance is often harshly critical of what I’ve said in class.

There are other out-of-classroom settings for debate. To promote affective ties between students and professors, my department at Tsinghua organizes weekend excursions. This term, thirty-five graduate students and four “young” (under fifty) professors took a three-hour bus ride to the foot of the Great Wall. We climbed the “wild” part of the Wall and settled down for an excellent dinner of local produce. The dinner involved lots of drinking, with the professors going from table to table to toast the students. [8]  To my surprise, the group then proceeded to debate the merits of Alasdair MacIntyre’s critique of liberal modernity. Two graduate students had prepared papers, which they read before the discussion. Another group of tourists was engaged in Dionysian revelries just outside our dining/seminar room, and some students could not help glancing over, but it was an otherwise orderly debate. I was grilled with questions about communitarianism, even though I had consumed my share of spirits. The next morning, I told our team leader that I was surprised that such a serious debate had taken place after so much drinking. He responded, “It’s because of the drinking that we could have this kind of debate.”

LET ME SUM UP these reflections on the challenges of cultural difference. Teaching in a foreign language environment is perhaps the biggest challenge of all. Ideally, the foreign teacher would converse in the local language that best lends itself to critical exchanges, but this may require years of immersion. In the short-to-medium term, there may be less-than-ideal compromises, such as the “passive bilingualism approach” (each speaks in the preferred language) that also characterizes some European Community meetings. In China, the long tradition of high esteem for learning is an obvious blessing for the teacher, though it means that teachers (and students) have nonacademic obligations that go beyond the usual Western ideas of teacher-student relationships. But these obligations can also be a source of emotional gratification. And intellectual activity doesn’t stop at the classroom door: fueled by the right sorts of rituals, critical debate with teachers and students can take place in various settings with no loss of face by anyone.

A few weeks into term, the student from the party school phoned to ask if I’d give a talk there. “I thought you said foreigners can’t go there,” I responded. He said that they were trying to change that policy and he thought that students from the school should be exposed to the ideas of foreign professors. He then asked if I could do it the next day. I said, “I’d love to, but what should I talk about?” He suggested I give a lecture on how to improve one’s English. I laughed and said, “I know nothing about the topic, I learned English as a kid, that’s not a very useful lesson for Chinese students.” He responded, “Come on, you’re a professor, you’ll think of something. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 5 p.m.”

The next day, we took a taxi from Tsinghua, and he told me it was the first time that the students had invited a Westerner to give a talk at the Central Party School. [9]  It took much effort to get me invited. He had to get approval from the vice president of the school. We’d have to proceed slowly, by beginning with a less controversial topic than political philosophy. I asked about his family, and he said that he was from Qufu, Confucius’s home town. I said I’d been there, and he nodded: “Yes, I know, we checked on the Internet and we saw pictures of you addressing the Confucian university.” He also told me that one of his professors had read my book East Meets West (the last chapter puts forward a constitutional proposal for post-communist China). When I showed my surprise, he told me that their classes are very open at the party school; they can talk about anything without restrictions, even more so than at Tsinghua University. [10] 

When we arrived at the school, he took me on a tour. He told me that the university is directly administered by the Central Committee of the Communist Party. It is Beijing’s most beautiful university campus, with an unnamed lake in the middle. [11]  One of the buildings once housed the Japanese military’s headquarters during the occupation (now it houses a party periodical). We encountered a group of Tibetan-speaking young women, and my student noted, “Those are the future rulers of Tibet.” As I waited in line at the student cafeteria, I received the sort of looks—half-bemused, half-curious—that I had encountered only in the most remote parts of the Chinese countryside.

HE UNIVERSITY has about six hundred graduate students (no undergraduates), and several have experience serving in government. My student, for example, worked in the economic affairs bureau of a local government and has traveled abroad extensively. About a hundred students came to my talk. As I walked in to the hall, the largely female audience giggled, and my student informed them that I was married to a woman from China. The student—now I call him my friend—introduced me as a political philosopher and said I’d talk about learning English. My presentation consisted of tips I’d learned during the ongoing process of learning Chinese, and I just substituted “English” for “Chinese” in my mind. I explained the need for a Middlebury College-style language school in China, where students would be forced to speak English during a period of at least two months. [12]  I said that if I were a capitalist—“which I’m not”—I would invest money to build that kind of school in Beijing. I also said that it helps to have an English-speaking boyfriend or girlfriend. I noted that advanced students should not simply learn about economics and politics, but also literature, poetry, and philosophy, in order to develop appreciation for the culture that is expressed in the language.

The discussion period began with some questions about learning English. One student asked whether she should listen to the British Broadcasting Channel or the Voice of America. I replied that because VOA is American government propaganda, she would enjoy the learning process more by listening to the BBC. Another student asked which social science book she should read to improve her English. I replied that she should read what she enjoys, and improving her language skills would be a by-product. I asked what her major is, and she said “party-building,” to some laughter in the crowd. I suggested that she could read some of Marx’s works in English. (Only a fraction of Marx’s works have been translated into Chinese.) A female student then asked for more practical tips on learning English. Having run out of ideas, I repeated my point about finding an English-speaking boyfriend. My host interjected that the young man (in military garb) sitting next to the questioner was her boyfriend.

To my relief, the questions then shifted to political philosophy. I was asked about communitarianism, Marxism, and Confucianism, and I did my best to provide academic responses, steering clear of overt political content. The discussion took place in a mixture of English and Chinese, and it was a genuine pleasure to discuss ideas with such curious students. After the lecture, a couple of female students stayed behind for further discussion. One student criticized Westerners who read Sunzi’s The Art of War to get ideas for defeating China in war. I agreed that of course that was not a good reason to read the Chinese classics. Then she asked the other student if she would leave the country and find an English-speaking man and not return to China. I interjected with the thought that she might find a man and return to China with him, as in my case.

My student/friend (along with two other students) accompanied me by taxi back to the Tsinghua University campus. We had the usual argument about whether the Beijing haze was fog or pollution. They dropped me off, and I asked how they would be getting back to their campus. They said they’d be taking public transport. I felt guilty, saying there had been no need to accompany me all the way back to Tsinghua. But deep down, I was grateful that my hosts had been so gracious.
Daniel A. Bell’s most recent book is Beyond Liberal Democracy: Political Thinking for an East Asian Context (forthcoming, Princeton University Press, 2006). He can be reached at daniel.a.bell@gmail.com.

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FOOTNOTES:

• [1] The pre-university compulsory military training at Beijing University has since been reduced to one month, in line with other Chinese universities. It is worth noting that mainland China does not have an extended period of compulsory military service (unlike Taiwan, Korea, and Singapore), but periods of military training are widespread in schools: my own son, who attends grade five at the primary school attached to Tsinghua University, underwent a military training period of one week prior to the start of the school year.
• [2] To be more precise, huge numbers (tens if not hundreds of thousands) would have to be killed (or under imminent threat of being killed) before the moral case for foreign military intervention would begin to seem plausible. (That’s another reason nobody called for foreign military intervention after June 4; the number of people killed was small in comparison to Rwanda or the former Yugoslavia.) State sovereignty does serve, on the whole, to secure people’s vital interests in life and security, and the barriers to foreign military intervention should be high. But I don’t see any moral difference if, say, huge numbers are being killed because they belong to a certain class (as in Stalin’s liquidation of Kulaks) rather than an ethnic group.
• [3] There is no such risk in written communication. Some students write papers and send e-mails in Chinese (I usually comment and respond in English), and if I’m missing something I can consult the dictionary.
• [4] It’s worth noting that the idea of a “syllabus,” with the particular week’s reading and discussion decided long before term-time, is less common in Chinese universities. Most teachers assign a general reading list of a few topics and related books and articles, without trying to fit X amount of material in a particular week.
• [5] This expectation may be partly due to the fact that my first book on (Western) communitarianism has been translated into Chinese, and some students know me as a (Western) communitarian. But after my interest in Chinese philosophy becomes more apparent, there is more willingness to discuss Chinese material. And there is no such prejudice among Chinese academics when I discuss Chinese and comparative philosophy.
• [6] With the exception of Kymlicka’s chapter on Marxism: the normally curious and critical students did not object to (or even mention) this discrepancy.
• [7] There is a literal translation for “professor,” but I once introduced myself as a professor and my (Chinese) wife said it sounded arrogant, I should say that I’m a “teacher.” I’ve since learned that most professors refer to each other as “teacher,” the same term that is used to refer to teachers of all levels. The term is also used to refer to departmental administrators (for example, students would call our departmental administrator “Teacher Bai”). Such linguistic practices may stem from a mixture of Confucian humility and Maoist egalitarianism.
• [8] There is also an order to the seating arrangement. The senior professor should sit at the part of the round table that gives him (or, more rarely, “her”), a view of the whole dining room.
• [9] A few weeks after I gave my talk, U.S. Defense Secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld gave a talk to mid-career Communist Party officials preparing for senior leadership positions at the Central Party School (the school has two parts—one for graduate students and one for mid-level cadres—but both groups meet on Friday mornings for a joint lecture). The Pentagon specifically requested this setting for Rumsfeld’s talk. Rumsfeld criticized China’s military expansion saying that it prompted “questions [about] whether China will make the right choices—choices that will serve the world’s real interests in regional peace and stability,” though one wonders if he was so self-deluded as to think members of the crowd would look to his administration for guidance regarding “the world’s interests in regional peace and stability.” The only defense of the invasion of Iraq I’ve heard in China came from a party official who was pleased that the U.S. forces were stretched in Iraq, thus reducing the likelihood that the United States would lend military support to pro-independence forces in Taiwan.
• [10] The main reason for the relative freedom of speech at the Central Party School may be that students and professors can be trusted as committed nationalists and communists. They are not likely to rock the boat no matter what kind of critical information they are exposed to.
• [11] The lake at nearby Beijing University is called “Unnamed Lake,” but this lake really doesn’t seem to have a name.
• [12] Middlebury College in Vermont is famous for its intensive summer language programs: students live on campus and must sign a language pledge that bars them from speaking English the whole summer.