Once the totalitarian regime is established, various disasters are bound to recur. A totalitarian state is diagonally opposite to liberal democracy, which is characterized by prevalence of horizontal connections, the sum total of which constitute a social contract. An ideal totalitarian structure, to the contrary, is like a zero-impedance conductor: orders flow from the top to the lowest level all without any obstacle. It was this totalitarian system that enabled Mao, the charismatic leader, to use his overwhelming social support to overthrow his political rivals within the system when his authority was weakened. Like a courtly struggle, the Cultural Revolution was for the sake of Mao’s personal power, but the cost of social destruction was incomparably greater.

This chapter delves into Mao’s endeavors to reconfigure socialist industrialization from the late 1950s through the mid-1970s. Amid waning Sino–Soviet relations, Mao criticized Soviet-style centralized planning and advocated decentralization during the Great Leap Forward (1958-1961). This policy shift granted local officials increased horizontal control over major state-owned enterprises (SOEs), such as Angang. Following the Great Leap Forward’s collapse, the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) constructed new industrial SOEs within inland “Third Front” regions as a bulwark against potential American and Soviet attacks, thereby reducing resource allocation for Angang and Manchuria. Commencing in 1966, the Cultural Revolution further decentralized power from nationally-owned SOEs such as Angang to local CCP cadres and military forces. Despite these attempts to deviate from the Soviet model, these efforts still preserved essential aspects of socialist industrialization. Nevertheless, the Sino–US rapprochement of 1972 presented China with the prospect of integration into the US-led capitalist global economy.

The new dynamics on the border epitomize how the escalation of the Vietnam War and the Cultural Revolution compounded the already wobbly state building campaign at the border. During the decade from 1965 to 1975, the war and the chaotic sociopolitical movement militarized the Sino-Vietnamese border and made this far-off region more relevant to the decision-making in Beijing and Hanoi about their internal power struggles and national security policies. Yet, these developments also shifted state-society relations on the political periphery in favor of a more porous boundary. Thus, the extension and contraction of state power took place simultaneously. Both Chinese and Vietnamese authorities launched ambitious infrastructure projects in the border area to facilitate the transportation of aid to Vietnam and mobilized the local society against the possible expansion of the war. The Sino-Vietnamese land and maritime border region, as well as the transportation lines running through it, became spaces of frequent interactions between the Chinese and Vietnamese officials regarding the provision of aid and the coordination of border defenses. The efficiency of these interactions, however, was increasingly susceptible to the decline of the Sino-Vietnamese partnership following the Tết Offensive and the start of negotiations between Hanoi and Washington in 1968.

This chapter explores the origins and consequences of national security institutions in the People’s Republic of China during the tenure of Mao Zedong. It first explains the political logic behind Mao’s choice to shift from integrated to fragmented institutions: Mao chose to weaken the bureaucracy to ensure a stable political succession after his death. It then presents a medium-n analysis to show how this shift from integrated to fragmented institutions degraded China’s crisis performance. Detailed process tracing of two cases illustrates how different institutional designs shaped crisis performance through poor bureaucratic information provision at the onset of each crisis. Prior to the 1962 Taiwan Strait Crisis, Mao’s decision-making benefitted from high-quality bureaucratic information that comparatively inclusive and open institutions afforded. By the onset of the 1969 Sino-Soviet Border conflict, however, Mao was forced to make decisions based on incomplete and biased information provided by bureaucrats who feared Mao’s retribution. The chapter thus illustrates how institutional changes can dramatically change the quality of information upon which the same leader bases their choice of conflict.

The Afterword reflects on the peculiarities of the CCP’s politics of historical justice. Placing the results of the volume in the larger context of transitional justice research, it discusses the reasons why the policies of “bringing order out of chaos” (boluan fanzheng) generated short-term cohesion but did not result in meaningful political reconciliation. The party leadership, despite a few alternative statements by high-ranking leaders in the early 1980s, did not allow for multivocal discussions of guilt and responsibility. Instead, it attempted to pacify the populace through financial subsidies, symbolic rehabilitations, and highly selective persecutions of supposed perpetrators. The core strategy under Deng Xiaoping was to overcome the legacies of the past through a focus on economic development and the depoliticization of past conflicts. An increasingly rigid truth regime was installed and enshrined in the 1981 resolution on party history. The contradictions between lived experience and these official formulae resulted in a pronounced shift toward historical amnesia in the following decades, as the legacies of the Mao era have become increasingly incorporated into a larger narrative of national rejuvenation and regaining great power status.

This chapter captures and closely analyzes the multiplicity of narratives developed by designated Gang of Four followers purged from the regime following the end of the Cultural Revolution. The CCP authorities have labeled these so-called followers as “perpetrators” of the Cultural Revolution. Using oral histories, the chapter shows how those officially labeled as “perpetrators” rarely and only indirectly portray themselves as such; more often they see themselves as victims or even heroes. The chapter further illustrates how the party-state has never been able to silence alternative voices on the Cultural Revolution within society, nor can it addresses the issue of responsibility for past violence by categorizing perpetrators and victims, two categories that are often confronted with a complex reality. The chapter argues that the processes of punishing perpetrators in post-Cultural Revolution China, or the absence thereof, have continued to influence the way the past is remembered and not remembered in present Chinese society.

The return of personal belongings has the potential to anchor the lofty rhetoric of historical justice in people’s everyday material realities. However, in the case of the Chinese government’s efforts to return belongings seized by Red Guards in the house raids of 1966 it is necessary to separate the history of restitution from the politics of history to understand how one relates to the other. This chapter analyzes the structure put in place by the Shanghai Revolutionary Committee, on orders of the Chinese Communist Party, to begin returning possessions less than a year after the house raids. By reassembling documents that have survived from this process, it shows that the scope of early restitution, which occurred when the Chinese Communist Party was still affirming the actions of the Red Guards, was far more important than has previously been assumed. In fact, the policy of restitution went through not one but two moments of transition: the first when the Cultural Revolution entered its corrective phase and the second when the post-Mao leadership declared the house raids illegal. Each moment saw an expansion of restitution informed by a shift in how the Chinese state defined entitlement and membership in the political community. It is important to avoid interpreting early restitution through the explanatory framework that emerged after Mao’s death not only because it distorts the facts and motivations of the earlier process, but also because the separation of the two allows for a better understanding of both, and in particular of how restitution became, in the end, concrete proof of what it meant to come to terms with the Cultural Revolution.

This chapter demonstrates how the genesis, growth, and evolution of the Sino-Pakistani nexus has impinged on India’s security interests since the early 1960s. Since then, the Sino-Pakistani strategic partnership has steadily deepened. By the late 1980s, for all practical purposes, Pakistan had emerged as a strategic surrogate for the Peoples Republic of China (PRC) in South Asia. Given the PRC’s reliance on Pakistan to pursue its security interests in South Asia and Pakistan’s goal of balancing against India, the relationship is likely to persist in the foreseeable future.

The chapter provides an overview of the burgeoning historiography of the People’s Republic of China, especially of the early period between 1949 and 1978, and suggests how we might integrate this new work into narratives of the Chinese past and present. In working through the research of the past thirty years the findings not only help us identify new areas of research, bur also rephrase some of the initial questions. The chapter highlights areas in which reconsidering PRC history seems especially necessary: transnational flows, violence and social transformation.

Using the example of 1950s historiography, this chapter aims to analyze why the CCP has not succeeded in dominating China’s collective memory. In doing so, it will identify four main reasons for the party’s failure: first, the weaknesses of the resolution from 1981; second, the phase(s) of intellectual and academic freedoms in the 1980s; third, the CCP’s inability to overcome inner-party disagreements on the question of how the Party should assess its own “historical mistakes”; fourth, the fact that memories cannot be suppressed permanently. The chapter shows that the historiography is an ongoing process that is not yet completed, and that China’s current president Xi Jinping’s politics of history has led the CCP into a dead end since this political approach attempts both to suppress alternative views of post-1949 history and to finally establish official narratives on a long-term basis.

East Asia had incorporated Western music well before dodecaphony was introduced. Its foray into atonality and dodecaphony is unsurprising. Japan, as the first country to fully embrace Westernisation, played a major role. Developments of dodecaphony in China and Korea were connected to Japan through an active network of ideas, print media, and movement of people in the region. Despite their shared resources, however, wars and politics determined whether or not (and when) composers in different East Asian countries had the liberty to explore dodecaphony. China was close to developing dodecaphonic compositions before being stopped after the founding of Communist China in 1949. The post-Mao introduction of dodecaphony, led by Luo Zhongrong, was a late ‘arrival’. Japanese composers’ initial enthusiasm for dodecaphony did not gain in significance. Yoritsune Matsudaira and Joji Yuasa were representative. In Korea, led by Isang Yun and Sukhi Kang, serialism was employed thoughtfully by several generations of composers throughout their creative output.

This chapter defines serialism in terms of dodecaphonic technique, beginning with a discussion of the role of analysis in relationship to performance. Whilst Webern’s Variations op. 27 have been the subject of exhaustive analysis by other commentators, the present discussion takes a somewhat different approach, considering the interpretive insights gained by a study of sketch material. The composer’s drafts are examined in relation to the published score for their potential to enrich the performer’s perceptions. The second part of the chapter traces the movement to integral serialism in the post-war period, and the challenges of ‘pointillist’ scores with their profusion of agogic and dynamic marks, which leave seemingly little scope for interpretation in the traditional sense. The contributions of Boulez and Stockhausen to the piano repertoire are considered, and a discussion of the role of the interpreter in indeterminate scores of the period occupies the final section of the chapter.

During the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976) and the Sent-Down Youth Movement (1968–1980), the latter bringing millions of urban youth to the countryside, the city and the countryside converged in unprecedented ways. Focusing on the period from 1966 until the establishment of the One Child Policy in 1979, this chapter uses rare court records, medical guides, and memoirs to analyze the evolving tensions among national directives, local policy implementation, and grassroots sexual realities. Although the deployment of minimally trained “barefoot doctors” helped integrate state-led family planning into the rural healthcare system, local authorities used the court system to arbitrarily police abortions. By creating unprecedented opportunities for sex among unmarried youth with limited access to prophylactics, the state paved the way for the contemporary reliance on abortion as a primary tool for family planning.

Societies are transformed by total wars, which mobilize entire populations, penetrate society as a whole, and involve both civilian and military populations as direct targets of aggression, as well as resources for inflicting harm and destroying the enemy. Total wars bring about enormous (forced) movement of populations, as well as changes in gender roles and social class relations. Because most men are directly involved on the front lines of the war effort, new opportunities are created for women to become active in areas from which they were previously excluded. Also, because of the enormous sacrifices made by the general population and the real possibility of national defeat at the hands of the enemy, the rich also become more ready to make some sacrifices. During total wars, the rich–poor divide becomes smaller, as the rich make larger contributions toward the war effort. However, as discussed in this chapter, evidence suggests that this increase in political plasticity is only temporary. The rich–poor divide has increased enormously since World War II.