朱长超 (2009．5写，2009．10修改)
前言
今年，是政协六十周年。这可是一件大事。六十年前，中国共产党与一些兴匆匆赶来或者由中共从各地接到北京来的民主人士们在怀仁堂里济济一堂，共商国是。又是迎接，又是宴请，又是拜会，彼此谈笑风生。大家以为，以后中国是一个民主联合政府了，中国是一个自由民主的共和国了，他们自己也可以在政府里有个一官半职了，可以实现自己的政治理想了。梦做得美美的，甜甜的。
世上事，多风波。甜蜜梦，多难圆。民主人士们的蜜月过了不几天，民主党派们的美梦变成了恶梦。恶梦倒也罢了，不做官可以做民，有口饭吃就行。但是，他们的恶梦却不是一般的恶梦，是当右派，当贱民，被批斗，坐监狱，被流放，其艰难悲苦，一言难尽。更有些人虽然仍然做着花瓶，但是人格上倍受污辱，眼中虽不流泪，内心却在流血。我们当年学苏联，学苏联时，对苏联的微词（例如在东北奸淫妇女，抢我资源）就是右派。（如龙云）等到邓小平批苏联时，如果你
有微词，你也是右派，修正主义分子。总而言之，大而统之，你稍有独立思想，就是犯罪。虽然，这个国家名之为共和，其实，本质上它不像是共和。至少，清朝的专制也不一定比它厉害。苏维埃社会主义联盟和斯大林主义是中国学生的老师，但是，青出于蓝胜于篮，中国
学生远远地超过了老师。中国后来也成了老师，也带博士和博士后了，它的学生如波尔波特、乔森潘之流，也是厉害角色，一二年中，将自己的人民杀了个四分之一，阶级斗争取得了伟大胜利。但是，总体而言，它远远没有老师的成就大，也远远没有老师的水平高。
也许是考虑到这些历史事实，不久前，有领导同志提出不折腾，要是在以前，中国的文人们又会写文章说，这是马克思主义的新发展，是建设现代化的又一个伟大的思想武器，有着多么深远和巨大的理论意义和现实意义。说不定，下次人大开会，又会把领导嘴里说出来的这个不折腾理论写进宪法的前言里，中国特色的社会主义的特色之一是，每一任领导上台，他们都会提出一种新名词，这个新名词都会在宪法中加进去。（下了台的赵紫阳、胡耀邦、华国锋的思想则是例外。）
奇怪的是，这一次报上却没有通常都会有的欢呼、注释文章。上海学者陆震先生写出的研究折腾的文章，没有地方发表，文章被一家杂志登载了一小部分，竟因此引起了一些麻烦。而不折腾理论的提出，是对折腾论的修正。长期以前，中国盛行的是折腾论。折腾的实践和理论已经发展得尽善尽美。毛泽东老人家曾经提出阶级斗争要年年讲月月讲。就是说，年年要折腾，月月要折腾，天天要折腾。并且，每过七八年，就要来一次大折腾。他认为，折腾是推动社会前进的伟大动力。“中国有十亿人口，不斗行吗？”他认为“斗则进，不斗则退，”折腾才有活力，不折腾不行，不折腾就要“卫星上天，红旗落地，”红色江山就会改变颜色。多少年来中国党内斗争人民内部斗争哲学的核心就是折腾。
中国人不仅创造性地提出了折腾的理论，也不断地进行着折腾的实践。回顾那些年头，一个折腾接着一个折腾，一场折腾连着一场折腾。就如大海的波浪，一个潮头接着一个潮头，一个波浪接着一个波浪。反右派，大跃进，反右倾，搞四清，破四旧，大批判。。。。折腾的花样繁多。到了所谓的第二代领导人邓小平手中，虽然名义上结束了文革，但是，折腾的事情仍然此起彼伏。一会儿批精神污染，一会批资产阶级自由化，一会儿真刀真枪地在天安门前摆起了战场。这次折腾超过了毛泽东时代的大折腾。邓后也不断地有折腾的余波翻江倒海，折腾引起的惊涛骇浪此起彼伏。连动刀动枪的事情，也似乎成了家常便饭。
中国是如何折腾的，让我们翻开沾满了灰尘的历史大书，翻到解放之初的一页上，看看为中华人民共和国的诞生作出过各自贡献的第一届政治协商会议的代表们，在一次又一次的折腾中是怎样罢官、戴帽、坐牢、流放、死亡的。从中可以看到瞎折腾所引起的严重后果，反思一下中国特色的大折腾产生的根源，警惕以后再无端惹起新的折腾，是蛮有意义的。
甜蜜的蜜月
蜜月总是美好的。不知道是因为蜜月的甜蜜，还是因为蜜月里要吃蜂蜜，人们把新婚的之月叫做蜜月。不过，无论最初的原因是什么，蜜月总是快乐的幸福的甜蜜的。中国的民主党派也曾经跟着心爱的男人度过了一段美好的蜜月。如果一直那样过下去，白首到老，或者一起恩恩爱爱到今天，也可以庆贺一下金婚了。但是，他们蜜月的时间很短，蜜月过后的日子不仅说不上甜美，简直可以说是黄连般地痛苦。
1948年9月，国共双方几百万军队在东北华北中原等地的大厮杀胜负渐见端倪，一方的胜局渐定，建立新朝的预期指日可待。不过，国民党还有力量，淮海战役尚未打赢，江南还在国民党手里。为了孤立国民党，按照毛泽东建立联合政府的设想，决定召开第一届政协协商会议，一来是共商建国大计，二来是将中国一些民主派和无党派著名人士团结在自己身边，以最大限度地孤立国民党。毛泽东知道，与他争天下最大的劲敌是国民党。有些党派虽然与之也有分歧，但是，大
敌当前，必须团结起来，才有可能最终推翻国民党的统治。基于这种考虑，1948底，毛泽东起草了《中央关于邀请各民主党派代表来解放区协商召开新政协问题的指示》，开列了一批有政治声望的人士，准备邀请他们参加第一届政协，共商建国大计。其名单有李济深，冯玉祥，何香凝，李达，柳亚子，谭平山，沈钧，章伯钧，彭泽民，史良，邓初民，沙千里，郭沫若，茅盾，马叙伦，章乃器，张炯伯，陈嘉庚，简玉阶，施存统，黄炎培，张澜，罗隆基，张东荪，许德珩，吴晗，曾昭伦，符定一，雷洁琼等29人。第二年5月1日，毛又写信给李济深和沈钧儒，说，“拟订民主联合政府的施政纲领，业已成为必要，时机亦已成熟，但欲实现这一步骤，必须先邀集各民主党派，各人民团体的代表开一个会议，在这个会议上，讨论并决定上述问题。”
当时，中国不少著名人士正在香港。一些中共和民主人士一遇危险，就往那里跑。周恩来让潘汉年组织在港的一些抗日名将，民主人士悄悄地乘船北上，准备参加第一届全国政治协商会议。共商建国方略。抗日名将、原国民党19路军军长蔡廷锴、著名大律师"七君子"之一的沈钧儒、三民主义同志联合会中央常委谭平山、农工民主党执委会主席章伯钧等人悄悄登上了轮船。1948年11月23日，化名"丁汝常"的郭沫若、陈尤其、许广平母子等30多人也相继北上，李济深、茅盾、
朱蕴山、章乃器、柳亚子、王芸生等30多位著名的民主人士登上了苏联货轮"阿尔丹"号。中国历史即将展示新的一页，这些民主人士们的人生也将开始新的一页。他们都将在共和国中担任一官半职。一个个心里喜滋滋地。而当时的中共中央隆重迎接，恭敬接待。这是中共与民主党派的蜜月时期，也是这些民主人士精神欢畅的高峰时期。
然而，历史常常喜欢与人们开玩笑。不几年，这些兴冲冲千里北行、共商国是的朋友，不少人开始了比国民党战犯更加悲惨的历史。这一页历史用它凝重的笔墨书写的事实，直到今天，仍然被遮在云里雾里，其悲惨的命运和内在的原因，值得后人们认真地加以总结。
让我们来看看他们中的一些人的命运和遭遇吧。仔细数落起来，历史开了一个太大的玩笑，蜜月过后，中国大地如地震，如海啸，狂风不止，暴雨不息。兴高采烈地民主人士们一个个陷入了人生的灾难中。这些灾难，比起长征中的老山界，比起猎子口来，并不轻松多少。北大荒的右派集中营并不比苏联的古拉格好多少，甘肃的劳改营也不比清朝的宁古塔好多少。有几个民主党派的人士躲过了一次又一次历史的大劫？有几个历尽风波的民主党派落个美终？让我们看看中国社会
的折腾所掀起的波浪怎么将一个个当年的老朋友席卷到灭顶之灾的旋涡的吧。
人们是否知道这历史的一页？人们是否记住了这历史的耻辱？这真实的一页，也是“辉煌六十年”中的一页啊！
宋庆龄忍气吞声
世界上的事，共患难易，共欢乐难。当年特地从香港等地请来的座上客，有的渐渐变成了同路人，更多的则变成了“阶级敌人”。当年邀请民主人士前去共商国是的主人也变了。再也不是礼贤下士、彬彬有礼的主人了。一阔脸渐变，主子的架势越来越足了。
先来看看孙中山的夫人、被称为国母的宋庆龄的遭遇。她是民主人士中命运最好的人士。不过，其实，并不完全是这样。
1949年5月27日，上海解放。宋庆龄此时住在上海林森中路1803号，即淮海中路1843号。6月1日，60师178团一个营进驻海中路，连长指定武康路对面的一所房子作为连队的宿营地，让排长带队前去宿营。当排长敲门要求进去时，遭到了门房的拒绝。这个看门的老人真是不简单。他没有说明不能居住的理由。在他的心中，民宅就是民宅，为什么一定要闯民宅，仁义之师么，理应秋毫无犯。排长没想到，一个看门老人竟敢违反共产党的军令，这还了得。他厉声责问，为什么不能住？他命令说，下午四时前不把房子腾空，他将派士兵搬走东西。这位排长没有说出来的潜台词时，“他妈的，老子解放了上海，你们还不让我们住宿，真是胆大包天。”此时，住在楼上的宋庆龄听到争吵下了楼，对士兵说：“我是宋庆龄，这里是我的公馆，你们部队不能住。要住，请陈司令打电话给我。
连长听说了，连忙前来道歉；陈毅听说了，批评了师团干部，打电话给宋道歉；邓小平和饶漱石听说了，也到宋宅来道歉。考虑到是孙中山夫人独居的家里，宋宅没有成为宿营地。如果，不是孙中山的妻子的住宅，那会是如何呢？会有人前来道歉吗？
闯宅事件让宋感到不高兴。6月25日，邓颖超奉毛周之命到上海，请宋去北京出席政治协商会议第一次会议，邓告诉她，她将被选为国家副主席。会议还没有开，副主席已经选出来了。离京前，周指示邓，对宋的一切要求，要尽量地予以满足，只要她愿意参加政治协商会议。
共和国之初，一切欣欣向荣。1950年3月，这位孙中山的遗孀要求参加中国共产党。毛泽东要她留在党外。对她说，有些事我们做不好。你做合适，我在党内说了，党的高级干部还要向你学习，学习你的革命坚定性。对新中国革命的贡献，你的作用比李济深、沈老还要大。但是，蜜月总是短暂的。
解放后不几年，中国开始对工商业进行改造。人家祖祖辈辈创办的企业，一下就被三下二下赎买了，宋对此不理解，认为你当年制定保护工商业的政策，现在又赎买，是出尔反尔，失信于天下。（顺便说一下，几十年后，这些被赎买的企业，又被各级领导们买了去，第二次成为私有财产。只是成了那些有权有势的人的私有财产，如果说民族工商业主进行的是剥削，后来的又一次私有化，则是由代表先进生产力的干部们来剥削罢了。）1955年月11月，她写信说，“我很不理
解提出对工商业的改造，共产党曾向工商界许诺长期共存，保护工商业者的利益。这样一来，不是自食其言了吗？”宋副主席实在是政治上很幼稚，共产党说过的好话是不能太当真的。在延安的窑洞里，黄炎培问毛如何走出“其兴也勃勃，其亡也忽忽”的兴衰的“周期律”。毛泽东说，他们已经找到了一个好办法，那就是民主。但是，几年后，黄炎培的几个儿子一个个被打成了右派。五七年毛泽东和他的战友邓小平更搞了一回阳谋，号召民主党派帮助党整风，然后再把他们打成右派。此一时彼一时的把戏，中国现代的政治家们用得十分娴熟。
毛泽东见到宋信后批示：“宋副委员长有意见，她代表资本家讲话。”当年，他表示中共高级领导们要向她学习，现在则成了资本家的代表。资本家的代表，离阶级敌人的代表可不远了。
反右运动时，宋庆龄许多昔日的朋友一个个都成了右派分子，右派就是反动派。宋对此表示很不理解。伟大领袖毛泽东说，“宋是民主革命时期的同路人，在社会主义革命时期她和我们就走不到一起了。从不赞成我们的方针路线，到反对我们的方针路线。我们同她是不同的阶级。”你看，宋庆龄在毛泽东的眼中，完全成了反对无产阶级路线的敌对阶级的代表。当然，这些最高指示宋庆龄当时只是风闻，未必如后人了解得那么具体，但她知道自己的想法与革命的潮流格格不入，知道自己成了落伍者，多余者，成了只是在需要装点时摆上台面的一只美丽的花盆。
文革中，她父母的坟墓被掘地三尺，革命革到中国民主革命先行者孙中山先生的丈人老头和岳母大人的身上了。宋的悲痛可想而知。但是，她无法表达。牙龄打落了，只能往肚里咽，不然，让台湾的妹妹和在美国的弟弟看着笑话。但她还是禁不住为那些被打倒的走资派、反动学术权威、牛鬼蛇神们鸣不平。宋副委员长说，“一夜天下来，一些和我一起工作的同事都变成了反党集团的野心家，牛鬼蛇神。。。现在宪法还有效吗？怎么可以乱抓人，乱斗人？”这一次，毛泽东龙颜震怒了。1970年3月，毛泽东说：“她不愿意看到今天的变化，可以到海峡对岸，可以去香港，去外国，我不挽留。”他老人家派周恩来李先念传达他的最高指示。周和李毕竟是老练的政治家，变通了一下，对宋夫人说：“您身体不好，可以出去走走。”这样，最高指示也传达了，听上去也缓和多了。宋听懂了，气愤地说，我到了这把年纪，不想走了，死也就死在这里了。从此，她再也不出场，不再当花瓶。当年，毛泽东周恩来派邓颖超到上海请她参加一届政治协商会议时，那种虚怀若谷、殷殷好客的热情不见了。说得明白的，毛泽东下了逐客令，宋老夫人实在是无路可走，只得忍气吞声。如果孙老先生还在，听了这番翻脸不认人的话，她是会与孙先生一起走路的。
宋庆龄作为孙中山的遗孀，她当年对国民党政府的敌视态度客观上极大地帮助了中共，毛泽东当年称赞她对新中国的贡献，说的是实话。她充当新中国的副主席，也在面子上使这个政权带有一定的联合政府性质，这在客观上也帮了中共的忙。但是，岁月流逝，毛泽东竟绝情地下了逐客令，并请她到海峡对岸去，这明显是宣告，她是大陆不受欢迎的人，是国民党的人，和中共不是一路的人。此时的宋老夫人，丈夫已去，青春已逝，三姐妹天各一方，而一向投靠的人们竟然说出如此绝情的话，宋夫人的内心的震动和悲痛是可以想见的。
毛泽东是很现实的，是易变的。他的易变，不仅表现于他一会将刘少奇视作心腹，一会儿视作睡在身边的赫鲁晓夫；表现于一会儿将林彪当作接班人，林彪不愿意，他也非要把接班人写进党章不可，一会儿又巡视南北，到处吹风，要置之于险地，逼得当年最亲密的战友不得不远走高飞。对宋夫人的一热一冷，正是他一贯的作风。古语说，飞鸟尽，良弓藏，狡兔死，走狗烹。就这样，宋庆龄被冷藏了起来。她在那段漫长的岁月里是怎么想的，她是怎么认识自己的人生的，历史留下了一个巨大的谜。
章伯钧成了全国第一号右派
章伯钧，是民盟的主要领袖，德国留学生，解放初当了一个交通部长。1957年，他被毛泽东说成是章罗反革命同盟，成了全国最大的右派分子。反右运动领导小组的组长邓小平曾经开列了一个高层右派分子的名单，章伯钧是其中之一，按小平的意思，是准备让他当了右派再下狱的。但是，毛主席没有同意。为了了解这个第一号大右派的内心，党派了另一个民盟的右派分子冯亦代装作同情者来到章家，在谈话吃喝之间，套出章的内心想法，然后向有关的领导或电话或书面
汇报，这一项工作坚持了许多个年头。为了工作的方便，冯亦代右派改正了，也没有当众宣布，他有事没事到章家，还与章的女儿章诒和套起了近乎。章诒和后来在四川坐了牢，写信给母亲时竟还惦记着这个经常来他家聊天探望的宽厚的叔叔。可见章家当年门前冷落车马稀。也可见章家对冯的信任。没有想到，把章伯钧打成右派分子之后，还派人前来卧底，刺探情况。由于章是大右派，他的女儿章诒和受牵连坐了十年牢。
章不愧是个政治家。1965年，他看到毛泽东派人组织写的《评新编历史剧海瑞罢官》的文章，沉默良久，说：“中国历史上最黑暗的时代，马上就要开始了。”果然，接下来，就是中国的十年浩劫，这是中国知识分子的浩劫，也是各级领导们的浩劫，也是地富反坏右各类分子的浩劫。文革对章家也是大灾难，他被赶出家门，只有被批斗的命。1969年他得了胃癌，郁郁地死去了。也许，他没有想到，当年兴冲冲地北上共商国是，结果得到个如此的下场。还连累了无辜的女儿锒铛入狱。世上的事情，是多么地难以捉摸啊！20年以后，所有右派分子都平反了，纠错了，摘帽了。但是，章伯钧没有。不平反，不摘帽，不纠错。他是留在国内的五个没有摘帽的右派分子之一。他的右派分子帽子不能摘。他的这顶右派分子帽子具有巨大的历史作用。他以自己的右派帽子论证着小平同志的“反右运
动是必要的正确的”名言，缺点只是扩大化了。无论多么扩大化，毕竟还有5个右派实实在在地没有平反，它们成了泽东同志和小平同志反右运动伟大功绩的纪念碑。50多年过去了，章伯钧还是当着右派。如果他知道那么诚恳地邀请他北上共商国是的人们会如此残酷地于将他当作敌人，他会兴匆匆地北上吗？
其实，章伯钧的遭遇不是误会，不是偶然。早在建政之初，双方关系最热的时候，统战部已经对参加新政协的阵营进行研究。写了一份《新政协的阵营》的综合报告。报告认为，民盟中央常委11人中，右派分子居多数，左派分子仅占2人，总部及各地区的实际领导权已经逐渐转移到进步分子手里。其中的人民救国会，农工民主党及无党派分子，都有左中右，人民救国会中左派分子多些，而章伯钧领导的农工民主党的上层多右派分子。张澜与西南地方势力有联系，罗隆基是亲美分子，等等，报告主张，对民盟须采取改组中央常委、建立进步分子为主导的核心、允许中共党员在内等措施。后来的结果只是既定方针的逐步实施罢了。
梁漱溟成挨批判专业户
梁漱溟也参加了第一届政治协商会议。梁是哲学家，农村建设的倡导者。当年访问延安的时候，毛与他曾在窑洞里作过长夜之谈，交谈甚欢，双方引为知己。不过，他的蜜月也不长，等不到反右运动，就感情失和了。
解放初，在一次政协会议上，他认为中共靠农民打天下，但解放后农民地位过低，他说，“工人在九天之上，农民在九地之下．不能得了政权就不管农民了。”本来，这也是忠言，至少无恶意。但毛泽东听了却火冒三丈，窑洞里的交情全烟消云散了。毛泽东说，“有人认为农民太苦，要求照顾农民，这大概是孔孟之道的施仁政的意思吧。仁政有大仁政，有小仁政．．．发展重工业，打美帝是大仁政．有人班门弄斧，似乎我们共产党搞了几十年的农民运动，还不了解农民。笑话！工人农民的根本利益是一致的，这基础是不容分裂的，不容破坏的。”毛的口气很藐视，很讥讽，口气也很重，说梁是在“破坏工农联盟”。梁算得上是中国现代难得的一条汉子。他当场听了毛的批
评，心里并不服气，站起来说，我并不反对总路线。毛说，“如果明言反对总路线，主张注重农业，虽见解糊涂却是善意，可原谅。而你不明反对，实则反对，是恶意的。”毛又说，“人家说你是好人，我说你是伪君子。你虽然没有用刀杀人，却是以笔杀人的。”当年的朋友成了伪君子，是以笔杀人者。梁要为自己辩护。他说，“现在我唯一的要求是给我充分的说话时间．．．不给我充分的时间，是不公平的．我也直言，我还想考验一下领导党，看看毛主席有无雅量。”毛泽东说，“你要的这个雅量，我大概不会有。”梁说，“主席，你有这个雅量，我更加敬重你，若你真没有这个雅量，我将失掉对你的尊敬。”“因为领导党常常告诉我们要自我批评，我们要看看，自我批评是真的，还是假的。”话虽儒雅，却有正气和胆魄。结果，他在一片口号声中被哄下了台。毛主席最终不给他这个雅量。
他从此不断受批判，文革则更甚。1971年九大党章规定了林彪当接班人，他认为不妥而受批判。批林批孔时，他说，我看不出林彪与孔子有什么关系。至于林彪，谈不上有什么政治路线。他说完了，大家对他又一次批判，批了6个月，分组批，大会批，批了100多次。批判他的，有马克思主义者，有自称是彻底的唯物主义者，也有被中共俘虏宽大处理的国民党人。在批判梁漱溟的人中，杀害瞿秋白的宋希濂批得最卖力，他是想报恩，想邀功。会议领导最后问他可有感想，他说，匹夫不可夺志。1978年否定文革派，让他发言，他说，毛泽东要整刘，绕开了法治程序，搞得天翻地覆，鸡犬不宁，为了夺一个人的权，搞得国无宁日….这样的人治是多么可怕。全体人
员听了，又一次轮番批判了他“反对毛主席”的罪行。可以说，梁的前半生是在国民党统治下进行乡村建设探索的半生，后半生是挨批判的半生。邓小平时代出现的各种专业户早就萌芽了。梁漱溟就是挨批判的专业户。将来，可以考虑在大学里设立一个挨批判专业的博士点。中国社会是很需要这样的专业的。当然，也需要设立一个批判专业的博士点。这样，双方的导师和学生就都会有事情做，不至于一毕业就找不到工作了。
章乃器死里逃生
章乃器也是政协第一届委员。他是著名的七君子之一。他曾在中共艰苦的岁月中，帮过中共的大忙。他利用当着国民政府安徽省财政厅长的官的方便，利用自己的关系给新四军做过不少好事，给了他们很多粮食药品。每月还给新四军三万元军费。这不是一笔小数。他解放后当了粮食部长。他闯祸是在反右运动中。他反对个人神化，说，中国没有一个人是神，包括毛主席在内，毛主席就一贯反对把他神化起来。这话其实一点也不错，但人们从反面解读他的话，结果他被说成
是反对毛主席。他反对以党代政，主张党政分开。他认为党是领导，犹如编导，不必到前台表演，这被说成是反党。他被打成了右派，撤销了部长的职务。他还被毛泽东定为右派中的顽固派。当年，他对东方红的歌词提出意见说，歌词里“没有共产党就没有中国”要修改，建议改成“没有共产党，就没有新中国。”毛泽东很谦虚，对他说，接受他的意见。现在不同了，成了毛泽东所说的顽固派，解除了粮食部长的职务，当了一名右派分子。
文革到了，他面临更大的灾难，从1966年的8月24到31日的8天里整整八昼夜，章乃器受到百般的拷打，凌辱和威胁，北京六中发明的劳改酷刑，十分之八九在他的身上都用过了，用氨水灌他的鼻孔，用辣椒水灌他，用裹着橡胶的鞭子打他，他后来悲愤地说：“我真不知道这些坏人是怎样教育出来的。”他那里知道，这些都是阶级斗争的大学校里培养出来的啊，是中国伟大的红彤彤的思想大学校里培养出来的啊。是革命大熔炉里培养了这些个革命事业的接班人的啊。
周信芳全家受罪
周信芳，中国著名京剧家。他参加了中国的第一届政协，后来悲惨地死于文革。
他的主要罪名是因为演出了《海瑞骂皇帝》。有一段时间，毛泽东号召人们提意见，号召要像海瑞那样，要向海瑞学习。这样，北方的吴晗写了《海端罢官》，南方的周信芳演出了《海瑞骂皇帝》。后来，毛泽东认为海瑞罢官的要害是罢官，是为彭德怀鸣冤，让姚文元批判。周信芳演《海瑞骂皇帝》，也被认为是矛头直指毛主席。皇帝是影射毛主席，骂皇帝是骂毛主席。这还了得，“是可忍孰不可忍？”他的命运早就被决定了。
文革刚开始，周信芳与儿子周少麟就被扣在京剧院交待问题。红卫兵则直冲周宅，用砖头石块砸死了周家的大犬，用军用的皮带抽打儿媳敏祯，揪住孙女玫玫要给她剪头发示众。敏祯被打昏，玫玫被吓疯。没想到，演了一个戏，结果会全家遭难。
1967年初，周信芳被押在高架电线修理车上游街示众。周的鼻孔里，嘴角上，都流着血，头发被紧紧揪住，脸青一块紫一块的。（引自沈鸿鑫、何国栋：《周信芳传》第276页）周夫人裘丽琳被造反派抓去打得皮开肉锭，终于卧床不起。68年，有关方面正式拘捕了周信芳。接着，又一次抄了周家，并拘捕周少麟。父子同时坐新中国的牢，直到1969年，周氏父子才获释，但周夫人已被迫害致死，没能见上最后一面。死的死了，牢也坐了，但是，事情还没有到此了结。
1970年，周少麟因说了江青就是电影演员蓝苹这样一句实话，就被判5年徒刑，解往安徽劳改营。74年，周信芳被正式戴上反革命分子帽子，交群众监督。75年3月8日含冤逝世。我相信周信芳演海瑞的戏是无恶意的，他只是因为当时领导鼓吹海瑞，就演了海瑞，演海瑞骂皇帝，只是因为这样的戏有点戏剧性而已。谁也想不到，一出戏害了一家人，一个好端端的家，因为一出戏而家破人亡。
人们常说“辉煌六十年”，这样受受害事件，林林总总的怕有不少，现在都被幸运地升级为辉煌六十年的一部分了。真要感谢党的领导，如果没有当年那悲惨的一些经历，这些人有机会成为辉煌六十年的光辉一页吗？他们吃了点小亏，却占了个大便宜。追根寻源，实在还要感谢一番呢？没有这样一次折腾，你们怎么会有“第二次生命”呢？
吴晗:家败人亡一出戏
吴晗当年是个穷书生，在他困难的时候，胡适帮了忙，支持他的学术研究，还为他介绍了工作。胡适对吴晗是有恩的。
解放后当了北京市副市长，春风得意。吴晗一直是很紧跟形势的好同志。批胡适的时候，他批胡适；批胡风的时候，他批胡风；北京旧城改造时，梁思成主张保护北京的古建筑，彭真主张拆城墙，拆一切影响交通的“封建的遗留物”。吴晗是站在权大气粗的一方的，他积极地批判了梁思成；右派分子向党“进攻”的时候，他又一次次义愤填膺地批判了许多右派分子。他批章伯钧，批罗隆基，他批判的人，林林总总地也有几大箩筐。他是民盟北京市委的领导，却揭发、批判章
伯钧，他是立了大功的，他是一个不是共产党的共产党员。他的表现十分革命。
没有想到，像吴晗这样一贯紧跟的人，也会身遭不测之祸。1962年以后有段时间，毛泽东突然鼓吹起了海瑞精神。胡乔木将此信息带给了吴晗，因为吴是明史专家，就在报上发表了几篇海瑞的文章。马连良想排个海瑞的戏，让吴晗执笔编了个海瑞罢官，这戏当时许多人说好。但后来文革开始后，成了文革的导火线。
文化革命开始后，吴晗屡遭批斗，被打伤。后被投进监狱，遭受种种摧残和迫害，他被打伤得很厉害，忍受着巨大的肉体痛苦和精神痛苦。肉体痛苦因为他被打伤了胁骨，打得全身青紫，当时，什么组织都可以批判他，什么人都可以打他斗他。他是文革初期最有名气的阶级敌人。他没有想到，当年，他积极地批判党点了名的阶级敌人，真是党指向那里，他请批向那里。那里知道，今天革命又以他为对象了。无产阶级文化大革命，不仅是一场触及肉体的革命，也是一场触
及灵魂的革命。他想不明白，自己好端端紧跟，怎么又成了凶恶的阶级敌人了？
吴晗挨批判还不算，他的莫须有的罪名侵害了全家。他的夫人袁震也被送去“劳改”，袁、吴二人于1969年先后含冤而死。他们的女儿小彦深受刺激，精神失常，后被抓进监狱，也于1976年去世。吴晗一家四口，竟死了三个，仅儿子吴彰幸存。
马寅初含泪焚稿
马寅初，著名经济学家，当过北京大学校长，参加了第一届政协会议。
解放后，中国人口迅猛增长，他担忧中国人口增长过快，在调查研究后，提出了新人口论，主张及早节制生育，控制人口。这本来只是一种学术思想，对不对，可以讨论。即使是错误的理论，也是一家之说，用不着认真。
但是，新人口论却不能见容。因为毛泽东相信，人多好办事，热气高，认为马寅初的人口理论要批判。而马寅初则坚持自己的学术理念，他竟抖擞精神，出来应战。这就是仅是学术争论，而是对抗皇上了。周恩来想息事宁人，他是捣浆糊专家，应付了一辈子，最后也没有应付周全。这一阵，他找马寅初，好意地劝他检讨，认错，给自己一个台阶，给权威一个面子，都被他坚决拒绝。并且在《新建设》杂志上发文声称，“我对我的理论有相当把握，不能不坚持，学术的尊
严不能不维护！”“我虽年近八十，明知寡不敌众，自单身匹马，出来应战，直到战死为止，决不向专以压服不以理说服的那种批判者们投降。”“我个人被批判是小事，没什么，不过我想的是国家和民族的大事，我相信几十年以后，事实会说明我是对的。”他不断地受到批判，1960年３月马寅初被迫辞职，离开北京大学，回到嵊州老家。
这个老人，脾气太犟了。怪不得国民党不喜欢他，共产党更不喜欢他。他回老家以后，又开始研究中国的农业问题。经过多年调查和探索，写成了100万字的农业论巨著，用小楷字端端正正地抄于纸上。马寅初受到批判后，他无法发表自己的研究成果，只能小心存放，让家人经常晒晒太阳，以防霉变和虫蛀。
不久，无产阶级文化革命的烈火燃遍神州，中国进入历史上最黑暗的时期，抄家、破四旧、打人之风刮向全国，马寅初知道知识分子的大劫到了，自己能不能幸免，他实在没有把握。连郭沫若这样死心塌地地紧跟的文人都在表示要学黛玉焚稿，马寅初看到风声越来越紧，横扫一切牛鬼蛇神的革命越来越热火。他心想，与其让别人来烧，还不如自己先烧了，终于让家人将自己百万字的农业论手稿及多年来收藏的字画、信扎，统统付之一炬。当烈火燃起，当辛苦着术的文稿、辛
苦收集的字画在烈火变成飘飘的烟灰的时候，这个汉子禁不住滴出几滴眼泪来。
他的命运还算幸运。历史的发展证实了马寅初《新人口沦》的正确性和预见性。1976年后，马寅初得到了历史客观的评价。他成了北大的名誉校长，过了一百岁才去世。
王明避祸莫斯科
王明曾是中国共产党的高层领导，他是路线斗争的失败者，也是第一届政协的参加者。
陈绍禹即王明。王明是第三国际器重的人物，毛泽东认为他是一个教条主义者，在延安整风时就受到了批判。他的马克思主义水平，也许不低。但是，王明不了解中国农民，不了解中国实际，他在延安时，就受到严厉批判。解放后，更是一直受到冷遇。1956年，他利用治病的机会到了苏联。开始的时候，还与国内保持着联系，第二年，中国进行反右派运动，反右倾运动，右派分子，右倾机会主义分子，运动搞了一次又一次，当年革命的战友整倒了一批又一批。高岗，彭德
怀，饶漱石，潘汉年，一批批当年的功臣成了贱民、敌人，自杀的自杀，罢官的罢官。王明有自知之明，他知道他如果留在国内，会有一个怎样的结果，因此，他终于没有回来。1974年，王明客死于莫斯科。说也奇怪，国内的马克思主义者虽然很多，却一个个拥护着文化大革命；王明虽然是个一直挨批判的教条主义者，却很早就批判毛泽东的文化大革命的。王明不算第一个，至少可以算是第一批批判文化大革命的先觉者。后来，毛主席的亲密战友林副主席也批判起文化革
命来。这就是由他的儿子俗称老虎的林立果主持起草的五七一工程。王明死后，葬在莫斯科的一个公墓里。
王明躲过了反右的大关，也躲过了文革的难关，但是，逃得了和尚逃不了庙。文革中间，他的家也被抄了，他的父亲陈聘之，早已死了，当年葬于八宝山，也被人从坟墓里掘了出来，从地下翻出一堆白骨。文化大革命的彻底性由此可见一般。死人都要批判，如果王明在国内，他会是一个怎样的命运呢？他算是一个老同志，老革命，他的命运尚且如此，文化大革命成了无数人的炼狱，这就一点也不奇怪了。
罗隆基众叛亲离
罗隆基是清华美生，五四学生运动运动之一。在美国哥伦比亚大学留学，获哲学博士学位。他发表过大量的抗战文章。也反对国民党的一党专政，他写文章，编杂志，组织中国民主同盟，配合和帮助中共反对国民党。为此被国民党软禁于上海，脱险后到达北京，朱德，李维汉等党国要人带了郭沫若、李济深、黄炎培等到车站迎接。他参加了中国人民政治协商会议第一届全体会议，并被选为常委。解放后当了森工部长。
反右运动党号召鸣放的时候，他主张成立平反委员会，这本来也不算什么大恶，甚至算不上什么错误，因为确实有冤案有冤情。因为一元化领导而冤沉海底的事情屡屡发生。但是，这成了他当右派的一个重要根据。另外，当局也批判他建立章罗同盟。章伯钧迫于压力，承认了这个同盟。罗隆基那天从国外访问回国，一下飞机，听说章罗同盟的事，立即打电话给章伯钧，责问他与章什么时候有过同盟，组织上没有，思想上也没有。并且亲自到章家，对着章伯钧，一脸严肃地
说，以前不跟你联盟，以后也不会与你联盟。如果跟你同盟，以后就如这根手杖。说着用力将手杖一折两断。可见，章罗同盟是不存在的，是当局强加的，而这个章罗同盟是毛主席在文章中白纸黑字写下的，毛主席说的，自然不会有错。这样，没有章罗同盟，也得造一个章罗同盟。不然，难道伟大领袖错了？为了证明伟大领袖的正确，这次只能委屈一下章罗两位了。章伯钧开始也否认这个同盟，后来终于挡不住持久而沉重的压力，终于承认了事。而折断过手杖的罗隆基最
后也承认了章罗同盟，虽然内心觉得莫须有。
罗隆基当了右派分子后，部长不当了，汽车没有了，朋友也很少了。而检讨、挨批判却成了经常性的工作。与他同居十年之久、对他崇拜的女友，那个批判国民党勇敢的女记者浦熙修，也在压力下揭发起罗隆基来，她将罗写给她的私密的信件交给了领导，供他们寻找批判罗隆基的炮弹。罗的女友倒戈了，他的别的亲密的朋友，助手，也一个个倒戈了，大家纷纷指鹿为马，对罗乱批一气，以表示与右派的不共戴天的无产阶级觉悟和革命义愤。罗隆基真是四面楚歌。楚霸王四面
楚歌时还有个虞美人安慰他，罗隆基的虞美人已经叛楚降汉，成了批判他、揭发他的有力的反戈一击者。这对罗隆基的心理可能是致命的一击。可惜，这个勇敢的批判者（批判国民党和罗隆基，她都很勇敢）自己虽然立了功，在帮助党批判他的同居男友过程中起了颇为重要的作用，最后，她自己也未能幸免，同样当上了右派，戴上了右派分子的帽子。不几年，她也郁郁而死。
罗隆基当了右派，孤零零地生活着，女友走了，反目为仇，从此再也没有见过面，说过话。他没有妻子，没有儿女，只有年迈的母亲，还有一个同父异母的小弟弟罗兆麟。他郁郁不欢，没有人说话，终于在一个夜里，因心脏病发作而去世。那天夜里，他发病时去拿救命的药片，却没有拿到，药片洒了一地。
罗隆基去世后，他的小弟请求组织上给罗摘帽，让他别把右派分子的帽子带到棺材里，（准确一点讲，是别把右派帽子带到火葬场）组织上没有同意。因为罗是右派分子，他的骨灰没有适当的寄放处。只能暂时存放在火葬场的一个临时存放处。他的小弟弟对此表示不满，希望能妥善安置其哥哥的骨灰。为此，罗隆基所在的组织中国民主同盟以民主同盟中央的名义发信给罗兆麟的单位，这个正规的文件叙述了罗兆麟对处理其兄骨灰过程中的种种“落后表现”，目的是要说明他
与右派哥哥没有划清界限。在那个折腾的年代，一个民主党派的中央，不去为自己的呵护自己的成员，不去维护那怕是轻微的正义，却也学起了阶级斗争的手段来，给同情罗隆基的小弟弟背后射了一箭。可见，那年头的折腾深入人心。有些民主党派也成了折腾派。
罗隆基死得早了一些，他的早死，是当右派后境况恶化后的结果。他被打成右派后，长期处于心理封闭状态，这是非常有损健康的。不过，正如毛主席所说的，事物都有两重性。正如老子所说，塞翁失马，安知祸福。他的早死，固然是不幸，但却避免了后来更大的不幸。他去世后不久，轰轰烈烈的无产阶级文化大革命的烈火熊熊地点燃起来了。全国人民发疯一样地紧跟着投入了文化大革命的狂潮。中国人是个容易发疯的民族。大跃进时代，全民大疯狂；文化革命年
代，全民又一次大疯狂；在商品大潮中，全民又一次大疯狂。当然，这是题外话了。许多活到那个文革年代的右派分子，其命运大都十分悲惨。参加过第一次政治协商会议的人们，大都在风声鹤唳中过着风雨飘摇的日子，被打、被斗、坐牢的不在少数。而罗隆基因为死得早，没有经历下一场更大的灾难。
翦伯赞服药自尽
翦伯赞是著名历史学家，北京大学教授，历史系主任。对翦伯赞，解放后一直对有所照顾的。他住的是独家小院，配备了保姆，司机和厨师。他也是第一届政治协商会议的成员。
他一直与党合作等很好。他也一直比较左。他顺利度过了反右运动，顺利度过了大跃进年代。一切都是顺顺当当的。文化大革命的风暴来了，这次，他没有躲过去。他先是作为反动学术权威被批判，被扣上“反对马克思主义”的帽子，备受肉体摧残，人格凌辱。他也与别的教授一样，被赶出宽敞舒适的家，他除了不断地挨批判和斗争之外，还要完成扫地拔草等任务。
斗教授风渐渐平息了。大家渐渐明白，文化革命运动是要打倒党内走资本主义道路的当权派，而翦伯赞不是当权派，只是个反动学术权威。人们对他的兴趣渐渐淡薄了。
他后来受到了毛泽东的保护。毛曾在中共八届十二中全会上，特别提到“对北京大学的翦伯赞、冯友兰要给出路”。所谓给出路，是予以保护的意思。翦于是又回到了自己的住所。对他的批判其实是结束了。但是，刘少奇专案组却对他产生了兴趣，因为1935年刘少奇与国民政府谈判时，翦伯赞曾是个知情者。刘少奇专案组非常希望他能提供刘少奇此时与国民党当局有什么勾搭行为，逼翦伯赞交代刘少奇
的变节行为。当时虽然全国批刘少奇蔚然成风，但翦伯赞却不敢造国家主席的谣，交代不出什么问题来。翦伯赞专案组有个来自军宣队的成员，以为翦不肯交代是压力不够，只要施加足够的压力，他自然会交代刘少奇的问题。因此，对他声色俱严，警告他如果拒不交代，后果自负，并且解下了手枪，意在对翦施加压力，进行逼供，要求他证明刘少奇有变节行为。对他说，第二天要交出交代材料。如果不交代，一切后果由他自己负责。翦觉得自己无路可走了，于1968年12月18日夜，夫妻双双吃下大量安眠药自杀身亡。第二天，前来索取交代材料的专案组成员发现翦家大门紧闭，开门一看，翦与他的妻子已服毒自杀而死。从他的口袋里发现了两张纸条，一张说，他实在没有什么可交待的；另一张写了句口号：毛主席万岁，毛主席万岁，毛主席万岁。
参加第一届政治协商会议的知名人士，后来又被打成反革命、右派的人士还有很多很多。其所占的比例也很大。可以说，参加第一届政协的，无论是当年的抗战将领、起义的国民党高官、还是曾与共产党一起反对国民党的民主党派头面人物，甚至是共产党的高层人物，几乎没有一个不在以后的一次一次运动中受到巨大的政治冲击的。即使像刘少奇、朱德、陈毅这样的人，也或者被打倒，或者被批判，或者被批斗，有的成了右派分子。有的成了右倾机会主义分子，有的成了文
革的走资派。即使像周恩来这样紧跟毛泽东极左路线的人，也被说成是离右派只有50步的分子了。有的自己倒没有当成右派，但是，一家好几个人打成右派。黄炎培是个比较忠厚的人，在抗战胜利后曾去延安拜望过毛主席，他的《延安访问记》给延安说了不少好话，在国统区产生过很大的影响。并且，他与毛曾在窑洞作过长谈，讨论共产党掌权后如何走出“其兴也勃勃、其亡也忽忽”的周期律的办法。两人说得非常投机，只恨相见太晚。但是，此一时彼一时，反右运动中，黄炎培一家出了几个右派分子。右派分子、水利专家黄万里就是他的儿子。他因为反对三门峡工程而被打成右派，但是，他预言的三门峡水库的后果一一变成事实。过了几十年，国家花费了大量金钱而建造的三门峡水库成了渭河流域灾害的原因，结果被下令炸毁。可以说，在人类的折腾史上，中国特色的折腾，折腾的面最广，折腾的时间最长，折腾的代价也最大。有幸参加第一届政治协商会议的中国的精英们，几乎没有一个人不被折腾的。中国人是多么喜欢折腾啊。仿佛不折腾一番，日子就会过得太平淡似的。
折腾的后果：
这么折腾来折腾去，对中国好不好呢？有些人认为，我们辉煌六十年，这些折腾算不了什么。有人甚至认为，大破才能大立，折腾是事业前进的动力。
其实，折腾就是折腾。世界上没有好折腾，只有坏折腾。折腾是破坏，是倒退，是毁灭，是劳民伤财，是伤筋动骨，所有的折腾都是大伤元气的。如果折腾好，那我们就应该出版折腾学的教科书，建立折腾学的博士点，并且，要向世界人民传播中国特色的折腾学理论。可惜，全世界没有一个国家喜欢瞎折腾。
折腾的第一个坏处是，折腾违背自然规律，破坏自然，破坏生态，结果是遭受大自然严厉的报复。有些人对大自然瞎折腾，蔑视自然规律，提倡唯意志论，认为“不怕做不到，只怕想不到，只要能想到，一定能做到”。他们围湖造地，乱建大坝，乱伐森林，高山水稻，六月种树。有的领导将外国买来的热带雨林的树木引种到自己辖区的北方干旱沙漠地带，结果是名贵的外国树种变成了一堆干柴，百万美金付之东流。更可叹的是，他们不管黄河的泥沙有多大，不考虑每年沉积的泥沙有多厚，不听劝阻，在黄河上建立三门峡大坝，结果，不几年，泥沙就把水库填满，不得不又炸坝增建泄洪洞。又过了四五十年，大坝造成了鱼米之乡渭河平原上年年黄水倒灌，不得不炸掉了大
坝。建造一个坝，多少农民汗？建成一个坝，多少农民泪？（大坝造成了富庶的渭河平原年年被淹）炸掉一个坝，多少人民钱？从1949到2009，我们对大自然搞了多少穷折腾，瞎折腾？每一场折腾，不知浪费了多少民脂民膏。
折腾的第二个坏处是，伤害了一大批好人。本来中国正是用人之际，急需要各种人才。但是，中国特色的穷折腾、大折腾制造了一批又一批人造的阶级敌人，首当其冲的总是有才华的人，有棱角的人，有独立思想的人。这些人本来好好地过着日子，好好地为国效力。但是，有些人没有事情总喜欢找点事做，没有阶级敌人总喜欢制造几个出来。于是，一批批好人成了敌人，有的被关，有的被杀，有的被管，有的流放。。。有个教授折腾了许多年，折腾期间得改选世界观，就
不断地被安排打扫厕所。以至后来组织上为他落实政策、要他填写专业和专长时，他填写了“打扫厕所”。因为组织上安排他从事打扫厕所的时间比做科学研究的时间要长得多。我们总不能在总结伟大成就时说，由于我们的瞎折腾，全国又增加了具有高级职称的厕所清洁工若干名。折腾更是将许多无辜者打入地狱，使他们身心遭受长时期的折磨，也使他们的家族受到株连。折腾的受害者往往不仅是被折腾者个人，父母妻子儿女，甚至妻子的姐妹的儿子和女儿，都可能受到影响。曾当过中宣部长的陆定一，曾关在秦城监狱十几年，他的妻子，他的儿子，他的岳母，也都关入大牢。全家关在牢里的时间超过了半个世纪，也算创造了一项具有中国特色的新记录。直到许多年后，才由胡耀邦力除阻力，将一批批折腾的受害者一一平反，落实政策。
折腾的第三外坏处是，折腾者折腾了别人，自己也同样受到折腾的影响。自己被孤立了，缺少了监督者、帮助者，在错误的路上自由自在起来，最终犯下极大的错误，也给国家造成了极大的灾难。折腾对于被折腾者固然是不幸，对于折腾者本人，也没有多少好处。折腾者与被折腾者相比，似乎是胜利者。但是，最后也会身受其害。首先，折腾者得罪天下，使自己大大独立。毛泽东是喜欢折腾的。他的折腾，把民主党派得罪了，把知识分子损害了，把老干部整苦了，也把军队整损了。他真的成了孤家寡人。1976年春节的时候，毛泽东中南海里游泳池住所里，只有几个亲蜜的工作人员，没有一个电话向他问一声好，没有一个人来向他拜年。他虽然整倒了许多人，但是，也就孤立了自己。贺子珍让女儿去看他，女儿问毛一个问题。女儿说，“妈妈要我问一下爸爸，相比于文化革命前，您的威信是提高了，还是降低了？”这个问题不简单。毛泽东倒没有发脾气，低头沉思一下说，“下降了。”六十年代的大饥荒，一个原因是毛反右和大跃进折腾后，许多人不想告诉他真实情况。他晚年生了病，在床头安排身后党政军的大事时，他预见说，他死后可能会有一场腥风血雨，军心民心，不在我们这边。折腾并没有给折腾的胜利者带来新的成就和新的光荣而带来新的折腾。更严重的是，大折腾后，整个民族看到正派者、正直者被打入地狱，人们都会趋利避害，中国之大，难得听到有人讲真话了。如果指鹿为马，大家都会说那是马；如果指马为鹿，大家也会齐声说那是马。正是因为折腾怕了，亩产13万斤的奇迹才那么轻而易举地创造出来了。你看，美国人英国人法国人不大瞎折腾，因此直到如今，还没有在国家的报纸上创造这样的奇迹来。
至于这样的折腾对于国民性的损害，也是一个值得研究的课题。中国人的国民性，一次又一次的折腾，得到了一次又一次的塑造。中国打小报告者之我，中国投井下石者之多，中国说假话者之多，我相信在国际上一定遥遥领先。有些是折腾教出来，有些折腾逼出来的，有些是折腾示范出来的。
总而言之，折腾对于受害者，折腾者，社会风气，国家进步，都是非常不利的。
折腾是怎么造成的
折腾，并不是我们所独有的，世界上许多国家有折腾。斯大林统治下的苏联，也是一个好折腾的国家。单是中央委员，就被斯大林杀掉了90%以上；军队里的元帅、将军，被他折腾了一半以上。折腾，也并不是现代才产生的。我们有着很悠久的折腾的历史。它是中华民族留给后人的一份沉重的文化遗产。中国历史上外儒内法，表面上的王道，实质上是霸道。法家是讲究法术势，喜欢搞诡计。折腾是必然的。中国的历史几乎就是一部折腾史。秦始皇死后，李斯赵高伪造诏
书，骗扶苏自杀，立胡亥为皇，胡亥掌权以后，又杀死了自己的一大批兄弟姐妹。刘邦统一天下后，开始杀淮阴候韩信，杀彭越，杀英布。明太祖朱元璋掌权后，也大杀了许多开国之臣。他认为，不这样不能维护自己后代的统治，他是在为后代子孙清除障碍呢？
而我们是由无产阶级领导的、由战无不胜的马克思主义理论、毛泽东思想武装起来的，为什么也会重蹈这个历史的周期律呢？为什么也会出现历史的大折腾呢？这个问题是值得研究的。一方面，它有学理上的意义。从理论上搞清楚这个问题，很有理论价值；另一方面，研究这个问题也可以促使我们吸取教训，避免重蹈覆辙。
第一，农民的狭隘性。由于中国革命的主要成员是农民，工人是少数，知识分子也是少数，就自然带有农民的局限性。农民世代在一小块土地上耕作，阻碍了他们的视野和胸怀。农民的文化水平普遍不高，无法从历史的、社会的、世界的高度认识问题，他们容易从狭小的心眼出发认识问题。因此，猜疑，心胸狭窄，妒忌，眦瑕必报，耿耿于怀，你争我斗，是革命队伍中经常见到的现象。党内一次又一次残酷斗争、无情打击的历史，就是无事生非、自我折腾的历史。整AB团时，成批成批的革命者被另一伙革命者杀害。各根据地几次肃反运动，也都是同室操戈，自相残杀。因为折腾被说成是两条路线的斗争，因此杀起人来一点也不手软。被内部斗争而杀害、被迫害的人数究竟有多少，没有一个精确的统计数。但是，从各根据地肃反人类之多、从延安整风所整出的国民党特务数量之大，就可以判断其数不会是小数。直到粉碎四人帮后，福建有些党内斗争中被杀害的人才获得平反，在延安年代，整得坐牢的、自杀的、秘密处理的人数也不小。革命者柯庆施，陈传纲、李锐、许世友等等，都坐过牢，可见阶级斗争是多么残酷了。革命党内部尚且如此，党外的民主人士的命运，就更可想而知了。一段时间中也许会合作、相处得不错，但是，长期相处就很难了。另外，农民自己没有文化，对于知识分子有一种天生的戒备和防范，而有些社会影响和声誉的民主人士以知识分子居多。农民心态所造成的猜疑，也是引起折腾的重要原因。毛泽东个人的襟怀狭窄，带有严重的农民心理。例如，长征路上林彪曾写信给中央，对毛的指挥表示不满，毛怀疑是彭德怀指使林写的，一直耿耿于怀。二三十年后在庐山会议上，此事又重提，可见心胸之狭。有个中共早期的革命家张申府，曾是周恩来的入党介绍人。后来因故离党。张在北大时是著名教授，毛泽东是一个图书馆管理员，因为事迹潦草，受到张的一次批评。几十年后，毛当了国家主席，张无工作无收入，周曾提议给张安排一个能拿工资生活的工作，请求毛，毛讥讽地说，他怎么敢为大教授安排工作呢？对于三十多年的细枝末节的事，还是牢记于心。
第二，我们这个民族所具有的民族劣根性所致。
现代的折腾是历史上折腾的延续，而长期不息的折腾与中华民族的民族性中的劣根性可能有一定的关系。中华民族的国民性，有其优良的成分，例如勤劳，刻苦，节约，等。但是，国民性中又有劣质的成分。美国学者明恩溥在《中国人的素质》一书中指出，中国人有省吃俭用，辛勤劳作，遇事忍耐，知足常乐等优点外，还有不少不良的品格，如面子第一，拐弯抹角，柔顺固执，麻木不仁，缺乏公共精神，因循守旧，缺乏同情，互相猜疑，言而无信等等病态素质。他举例
说，中国人很讲究面子。信纸如何折，信上的字如何写，都大有讲究。有的汉字要高一格，写在顶上，如果不这样做，收信人就会认为是存心冒犯，心里就会记仇，就会把对方作为冒犯自己的冤家。潘光旦认为，中国人“一部分的民族特性，我以为不妨当做民族的病象看。”他认为，中国北部“荒年淘汰”是这种民族性缺点产生的原因。中国北方人民生存条件恶劣，饥荒不断。处于饥荒压力下的人，生存是第一位的，他们自然养成一种不良的品格以求得生存。这是个值得研究的领域。但是，不能否认，中国国民性的落后的一面，是产生折腾的重要原因。例如，有些折腾事件，是起源于缺乏诚信，是出于不必要的过度防范，是因为缺乏宽容精神。美国曾经发生过一场南北战争。按照中国人的理解，这场战争，是统一与分裂的战争，是南方一小摄农场主和分裂主义分子妄图分裂国家的一场战争。按照中国特色的处理方式，在战争结束后，一定得反反复复地清查，一定得隔离个几十万人，关押个十几万人，枪毙个几千到几万人，至于审查、检讨、处分、“戴帽子”的人数将不可胜数。由北方政权或美国执政党派遣的掌握着被审查对象生杀大权的工作组将布满南方叛乱地区的每一个城镇和村庄。那里可能会形成一种白色恐怖。但是，林肯却一点也不这样做。他不算旧帐，在南北战争中战死的北方军队的士兵固然给予礼葬，对于南方所谓叛乱部队的死亡将士，也同样给予礼葬。他们同样受到尊重。这种大度和襟怀，大大促进了美国的团结。而相比较而言，我们在全国平定后，又不断地进行镇反。天安门事件发生后，全国又进行了大通辑和大清查，几乎到了风声鹤戾的地步。南非白人曾经镇压过黑人的民主要求，但是，黑人掌权后，并没有对白人进行报复，从而避免了国家的折腾。我们什么时候有过这样的度量呢？
第三，民主制度没有建立，缺乏相互和平相处的制度保证。
革命过程中，强者为王，丛林法则，既缺乏人文精神的自律，也缺乏有力的制度保证。在缺乏民主制度的情况下，掌权者很容易以个人好恶代替法律规章。法是保障社会正常运用的规则。我们搞一场运动，搞一场战争，并不需要经过一定的程序。即使有一定的法律，那也只是纸上的东西，可以轻易地置之一旁。文化革命中，可以轻易地罢免国家主席，可以轻易地抄家，可以轻易地打死人，可以轻易地人身污辱。参加第一届政治协商会议的代表后来轻易地被整到十八层地狱，一个原因是我们的法律很软弱，很不健全，它不能保障社会个体的基本权利。如果法制健全，即使有谁想要折腾，也不是轻易折腾得起来的。
第四，中国知识分子天生的软弱性助长了折腾者的气焰，为折腾推波助澜。
折腾在中国，常常一经发动，就变成汹涌的狂潮，掀起折腾波浪的人不仅不为人所切齿，反而成为了英雄。而被折腾的浪潮掀翻在地的不幸的人们，一段时间则成了人们批判嘲讽的对象。人们歌颂折腾者，嘲弄受害者，甚至再对他们踏上一只脚。而推动折腾成为狂潮的动力中，有一部分来自被折腾者。折腾的掀起者开头也有些担心，有时没有掌握道德制高点。但是，知识分子们通常的态度是向权力大者倾斜。这些人推动了折腾的前进。一些折腾的受害者，也会纷纷表现臣服，高唱是我错，使折腾者又成了道义的得胜者。中国历来有一种理念，叫识时务者为俊杰。一些知识分子以此为立身之本，他们见风使舵、俯服强者、欺凌弱者，紧跟形势。有相当多的人，自己被折腾后，也起劲地自我批判，以讨好折腾者，以求自己过关。中国知识分子很少在折腾的狂潮中坚持信念的。这当然也有中国文化的影响。明明自己是对的，但是，遭到相当多数人或者相当大权力的人的折腾的时候，在形形色色的人的说服下，最后会认为自己是错了，或者认为，为了维持大局，自己承认错了。例如，参加第一届政治协商会议的民主人士中，后来相当多的人被罗织罪名，他们面对强大的对手时，基本的态度是自我批判，或者是揭发和批判别人。例如，章伯钧罗隆基的所谓章罗同盟，本来是子虚乌有事情，正如罗隆基所说的，章罗聪明组织上没有，心理上也没有这个同盟。但是，民盟中的许多人顺着当权者的口气批判章罗同盟，章伯钧在强大的压力下，也承认了这个同盟，罗隆基最后也承认有这个同盟。这样，本来是假想的罪证，最后获得了许多想立功者的证明，也获得了受害者的证明。这样，本来缺乏道德理性和社会正义的折腾，成了正确的，必要的革命运动，具备了某种程度的正义性。正是在这个基础上，毛泽东才理直气壮地提出了阳谋论。第一届政治协商会议的折腾的受害者们，如果相当多的人有一点俄国十二月党人的精神，或者有一点东汉党人的气质，至少折腾的巨浪会小些，折腾的潮流要小些，被掀翻的受害者也要少一些，这个潮流也不至于那么汹涌澎湃。如果多数被整的人都能
像章乃器那样自我辩护，无论怎样，折腾整人的运动不会搞得那么得心应手，不会随意地那么呼风唤雨。可惜，中国知识分子太软弱了，而折腾者太强大了。反右运动一来，在强大的压力下，被整的人几乎迅速地人格摧毁，也起劲地跟随着投入了折腾地潮流。
当年从香港、从国统区、从海外搜寻回来的参与筹建国家的一些中国知名人士，与执政党度过短暂的蜜月，共同分享了一点甜美的果实。之后不久，就开始进入艰难的岁月。它并不如新婚夫妇之间开始吵架，开始冷战。不是的，双方几乎没有什么要争吵的预兆，倒是他们非常真诚地响应了党中央的帮助党整风的号召，随后就被对方打了猛棍，一下被打倒在地。多数人在其后的岁月中几次三番地被折腾。中国不断折腾的历史，值得认真地总结和反思。
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
書到用時方恨少...
書到用時方恨少... 哭笑不得 國小造句升級版-高中試題 - 我覺得這些孩子的反應還真是不錯
1.__________，為伊消得人憔悴
同學答：寬衣解帶終不悔
（正解為"衣帶漸寬終不悔"，偶承認這個是思想有問題）
2.何當共剪西窗燭，__________
同學答：夫妻對坐到天明
（語 文 老師閱卷時笑暈。後在課堂時說此事，又暈！正解為"卻話巴山夜雨時"）
3.蚍蜉撼大樹，__________
同學答：一動也不動
（正解為"可笑不自量"。一動也不動，赫赫，很符合事實阿）
4.君子成人之美，__________
同學答：小人奪人所愛 （直接暈死）
5.窮則獨善其身，__________
同學答：富則妻妾成群
（正解：達則兼濟天下）
6.後宮佳麗三千人，__________
同學答：鐵棒也會磨成針~~~~~~
（正解為"三千寵愛在一身"）
7.東邊日出西邊雨，__________
同學答：床頭打架床尾合 還有個同學答：上錯花轎嫁對郎
8. __________，糟糠之妻不下堂
同學答：結髮之夫不上床 （語文老師暴怒！）
9. 但願人長久，__________
同學答：一顆永流傳
（當時狂笑，現在覺得挺經典的。正解為"千里共嬋娟"）
10. 西塞山前白鷺飛，__________
同學答：東村河邊爬烏龜 （對的挺工整的）
11. 天生我才必有用，__________
同學答：關鍵時刻顯神通, 又有同學答：老鼠兒子會打洞
12. 天若有情天亦老，__________
同學答：人不風流枉少年！ （正解為"月若無恨月長圓" )
13. 洛陽親友如相問，__________
同學答：請你不要告訴他 （正解為"一片冰心在玉壺"）
14.期末考試出對聯、上聯是英雄寶刀未老
該初三同學對下聯為：老娘丰韻猶存
15.人生自古誰無死，__________
同學答：只是死的有先後
16.床前明月光，__________
同學答：李白睡的香
17.管中窺豹，__________
同學答：嚇我一跳 （哈哈哈！正解為"可見一斑")
18.葡萄美酒夜光杯，__________
同學答：金錢美人一大堆
19.__________，路上行人欲斷魂
初一學生的傑作：半夜三更鬼敲門 .
20. 老吾老以及人之老，__________
同學答：妻吾妻以及人之妻
21.五年級的一次考試就考到了"三個臭皮匠，__________"
同學答：臭味都一樣
22.兩情若是長久時，__________
同學答：該是兩人成婚時
23.書到用時方恨少，__________
同學答：錢到月底不夠花
24.天若有情天亦老，__________
同學答：人若有情死得早 （正解為"月若無恨月長圓"）
25.人生自古誰無死，__________
同學答：有誰大便不帶紙 （沒有語言了....）
26.有次考李清照的如夢令，"知否？知否？___________"
同學答：SORRY、I DON'T KNOW.... （正解為"應是綠肥紅瘦"）
27.千山萬水總是情，___________
同學答：多給一分行不行 （批卷老師對了一句：情是情，分是分，多給一分都不行）
1.__________，為伊消得人憔悴
同學答：寬衣解帶終不悔
（正解為"衣帶漸寬終不悔"，偶承認這個是思想有問題）
2.何當共剪西窗燭，__________
同學答：夫妻對坐到天明
（語 文 老師閱卷時笑暈。後在課堂時說此事，又暈！正解為"卻話巴山夜雨時"）
3.蚍蜉撼大樹，__________
同學答：一動也不動
（正解為"可笑不自量"。一動也不動，赫赫，很符合事實阿）
4.君子成人之美，__________
同學答：小人奪人所愛 （直接暈死）
5.窮則獨善其身，__________
同學答：富則妻妾成群
（正解：達則兼濟天下）
6.後宮佳麗三千人，__________
同學答：鐵棒也會磨成針~~~~~~
（正解為"三千寵愛在一身"）
7.東邊日出西邊雨，__________
同學答：床頭打架床尾合 還有個同學答：上錯花轎嫁對郎
8. __________，糟糠之妻不下堂
同學答：結髮之夫不上床 （語文老師暴怒！）
9. 但願人長久，__________
同學答：一顆永流傳
（當時狂笑，現在覺得挺經典的。正解為"千里共嬋娟"）
10. 西塞山前白鷺飛，__________
同學答：東村河邊爬烏龜 （對的挺工整的）
11. 天生我才必有用，__________
同學答：關鍵時刻顯神通, 又有同學答：老鼠兒子會打洞
12. 天若有情天亦老，__________
同學答：人不風流枉少年！ （正解為"月若無恨月長圓" )
13. 洛陽親友如相問，__________
同學答：請你不要告訴他 （正解為"一片冰心在玉壺"）
14.期末考試出對聯、上聯是英雄寶刀未老
該初三同學對下聯為：老娘丰韻猶存
15.人生自古誰無死，__________
同學答：只是死的有先後
16.床前明月光，__________
同學答：李白睡的香
17.管中窺豹，__________
同學答：嚇我一跳 （哈哈哈！正解為"可見一斑")
18.葡萄美酒夜光杯，__________
同學答：金錢美人一大堆
19.__________，路上行人欲斷魂
初一學生的傑作：半夜三更鬼敲門 .
20. 老吾老以及人之老，__________
同學答：妻吾妻以及人之妻
21.五年級的一次考試就考到了"三個臭皮匠，__________"
同學答：臭味都一樣
22.兩情若是長久時，__________
同學答：該是兩人成婚時
23.書到用時方恨少，__________
同學答：錢到月底不夠花
24.天若有情天亦老，__________
同學答：人若有情死得早 （正解為"月若無恨月長圓"）
25.人生自古誰無死，__________
同學答：有誰大便不帶紙 （沒有語言了....）
26.有次考李清照的如夢令，"知否？知否？___________"
同學答：SORRY、I DON'T KNOW.... （正解為"應是綠肥紅瘦"）
27.千山萬水總是情，___________
同學答：多給一分行不行 （批卷老師對了一句：情是情，分是分，多給一分都不行）
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Obama's Summer of Discontent
Obama's Summer of Discontent
The politics of charisma is so Third World. Americans were never going to buy into it for long.
By FOUAD AJAMI
So we are to have a French health-care system without a French tradition of political protest. It is odd that American liberalism, in a veritable state of insurrection during the Bush presidency, now seeks political quiescence. These "townhallers" who have come forth to challenge ObamaCare have been labeled "evil-mongers" (Harry Reid), "un-American" (Nancy Pelosi), agitators and rowdies and worse.
A political class, and a media elite, that glamorized the protest against the Iraq war, that branded the Bush presidency as a reign of usurpation, now wishes to be done with the tumult of political debate. President Barack Obama himself, the community organizer par excellence, is full of lament that the "loudest voices" are running away with the national debate. Liberalism in righteous opposition, liberalism in power: The rules have changed.
It was true to script, and to necessity, that Mr. Obama would try to push through his sweeping program—the change in the health-care system, a huge budget deficit, the stimulus package, the takeover of the automotive industry—in record time. He and his handlers must have feared that the spell would soon be broken, that the coalition that carried Mr. Obama to power was destined to come apart, that a country anxious and frightened in the fall of 2008 could recover its poise and self-confidence. Historically, this republic, unlike the Old World and the command economies of the Third World, had trusted the society rather than the state. In a perilous moment, that balance had shifted, and Mr. Obama was the beneficiary of that shift.
So our new president wanted a fundamental overhaul of the health-care system—17% of our GDP—without a serious debate, and without "loud voices." It is akin to government by emergency decrees. How dare those townhallers (the voters) heckle Arlen Specter! Americans eager to rein in this runaway populism were now guilty of lèse-majesté by talking back to the political class.
We were led to this summer of discontent by the very nature of the coalition that brought Mr. Obama, and the political class around him, to power, and by the circumstances of his victory. The man was elected amid economic distress. Faith in the country's institutions, perhaps in the free-enterprise system itself, had given way. Mr. Obama had ridden that distress. His politics of charisma was reminiscent of the Third World. A leader steps forth, better yet someone with no discernible trail, someone hard to pin down to a specific political program, and the crowd could read into him what it wished, what it needed.
The leader would be different things to different people. The Obama coalition was the coming together of disparate groups: the white professional liberals seeking absolution for the country in the election of an African-American man, the opponents of the Iraq war who grew more strident as the project in Iraq was taking root, the African-American community that had been invested in the Clintons and then came around out of an understandable pride in one of its own.
The Obama devotees were the victims of their own belief in political magic. The devotees could not make up their minds. In a newly minted U.S. senator from Illinois, they saw the embodiment of Abraham Lincoln, Franklin Delano Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. Like Lincoln, Mr. Obama was tall and thin and from Illinois, and the historic campaign was launched out of Springfield. The oath of office was taken on the Lincoln Bible. Like FDR, he had a huge economic challenge, and he better get it done, repair and streamline the economy in his "first hundred days." Like JFK, he was young and stylish, with a young family.
All this hero-worship before Mr. Obama met his first test of leadership. In reality, he was who he was, a Chicago politician who had done well by his opposition to the Iraq war. He had run a skillful campaign, and had met a Clinton machine that had run out of tricks and a McCain campaign that never understood the nature of the contest of 2008.
He was no FDR, and besides the history of the depression—the real history—bears little resemblance to the received narrative of the nation instantly rescued, in the course of 100 days or 200 days, by an interventionist state. The economic distress had been so deep and relentless that FDR began his second term, in 1937, with the economy still in the grip of recession.
Nor was JFK about style. He had known military service and combat, and familial loss; he had run in 1960 as a hawk committed to the nation's victory in the Cold War. He and his rival, Richard Nixon, shared a fundamental outlook on American power and its burdens.
Now that realism about Mr. Obama has begun to sink in, these iconic figures of history had best be left alone. They can't rescue the Obama presidency. Their magic can't be his. Mr. Obama isn't Lincoln with a BlackBerry. Those great personages are made by history, in the course of history, and not by the spinners or the smitten talking heads.
In one of the revealing moments of the presidential campaign, Mr. Obama rightly observed that the Reagan presidency was a transformational presidency in a way Clinton's wasn't. And by that Reagan precedent, that Reagan standard, the faults of the Obama presidency are laid bare. Ronald Reagan, it should be recalled, had been swept into office by a wave of dissatisfaction with Jimmy Carter and his failures. At the core of the Reagan mission was the recovery of the nation's esteem and self-regard. Reagan was an optimist. He was Hollywood glamour to be sure, but he was also Peoria, Ill. His faith in the country was boundless, and when he said it was "morning in America" he meant it; he believed in America's miracle and had seen it in his own life, in his rise from a child of the Depression to the summit of political power.
The failure of the Carter years was, in Reagan's view, the failure of the man at the helm and the policies he had pursued at home and abroad. At no time had Ronald Reagan believed that the American covenant had failed, that America should apologize for itself in the world beyond its shores. There was no narcissism in Reagan. It was stirring that the man who headed into the sunset of his life would bid his country farewell by reminding it that its best days were yet to come.
In contrast, there is joylessness in Mr. Obama. He is a scold, the "Yes we can!" mantra is shallow, and at any rate, it is about the coming to power of a man, and a political class, invested in its own sense of smarts and wisdom, and its right to alter the social contract of the land. In this view, the country had lost its way and the new leader and the political class arrayed around him will bring it back to the right path.
Thus the moment of crisis would become an opportunity to push through a political economy of redistribution and a foreign policy of American penance. The independent voters were the first to break ranks. They hadn't underwritten this fundamental change in the American polity when they cast their votes for Mr. Obama.
American democracy has never been democracy by plebiscite, a process by which a leader is anointed, then the populace steps out of the way, and the anointed one puts his political program in place. In the American tradition, the "mandate of heaven" is gained and lost every day and people talk back to their leaders. They are not held in thrall by them. The leaders are not infallible or a breed apart. That way is the Third World way, the way it plays out in Arab and Latin American politics.
Those protesters in those town-hall meetings have served notice that Mr. Obama's charismatic moment has passed. Once again, the belief in that American exception that set this nation apart from other lands is re-emerging. Health care is the tip of the iceberg. Beneath it is an unease with the way the verdict of the 2008 election was read by those who prevailed. It shall be seen whether the man swept into office in the moment of national panic will adjust to the nation's recovery of its self-confidence.
Mr. Ajami teaches at the School of Advanced International Studies, The Johns Hopkins University. He is also an adjunct fellow at Stanford University's Hoover Institution.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
小市民奇遇记
小市民奇遇记
【转贴】
作者：十七只猫和鱼
http://www.douban.com/note/35475329/
昨天是几号啊，昨天是几号啊？已经忘记了，最近记忆力真差，但无论昨天是几号，昨天从下午5点到晚上8点发生在我身上这三个小时的奇遇我大概是忘不掉的了。
北京六月的天气就像一个唐氏综合症儿童的脸，说变就变，4点过半，黯然间，不详的黑云化作狂风和尘土笼罩了北京的街道。这雨却一点也不清爽，反而闷热，压抑，好像一个悲愤的醉鬼，而且有点血腥的臭味。
我，一个普普通通的小市民，走在非机动车道上，脑子里正在琢磨要不要去宣武门外吃碗卤煮还是去新街口吃延吉冷面啊，吃面的对过儿有卖打折的袜子，不过吃卤煮还可以顺便参观参观被拆迁的南城啊……等等，反正都是一些俗人想的俗事。
但，一辆靠站的46路公交车改变了我庸俗的思想，因为上面传出了世界上最优美华丽的旋律————————
“什么什么红旗，（忘了）我为你自豪，为你欢呼为你祝福，你的名字比我生命更重要！”
这歌声赶走了卤煮和打折的袜子，也击溃了我庸俗的心。啊，原来这世界上有一个名字比吃喝玩乐更重要，甚至比一个人的生命更重要！这一块普普通通的天意批发十块一米的红布，画了几个几何符号，居然有此等神奇的魔力！竟然能让一个人开开心心去送死，不，错了，是牺牲。这种魔力不得不另人扼腕，哦不，是幸福！是感动！
那我也去吧！我也去吧！我也要拜倒在这血一般的图腾下，为它欢呼，为它祝福！告诉它说，您的名字比我的生命更重要！可是去哪儿找它呢？哦，对了，似乎在大一路公共汽车中间儿有那么一站，叫什么站来着？反正里面住着这么一帮子人，整天干的就是这码子事，每天日出而作日落而息，跑到马路对面升旗降旗。旗杆下面还有个专门供人们膜拜这种仪式的地方。叫什么什么广场来着？忘了，最近记性太差了。好，那我就去那儿看吧！让卤煮和延吉冷面见鬼去吧！我要做一个和彭丽媛姐姐一样自豪的人！
于是我趁46路关门的一瞬间跳了上去，可是发现这车不到什么什么广场，就到西单，算了先坐着吧，再换。反正是空调车。到了西单那堵墙的旁边，我换了地铁，一个卖花的姑娘清秀但脏的脸蛋引起了我的注意，出于同情和无耻，我买了一只白色的菊花，没想到，这支菊花十分钟后给我带来了一连串滑稽的麻烦。
“这位先生，请等一下，您衣服上写的是什么字？”一位和蔼的police拦住了我。
“啊？我不知道啊，你看看”我答道。
“哦，没事，走吧”police转身。
那只不过是一件学校发的衬衫，上面的字写的扭曲了一点罢了。不知道他在执行公务的时间怎么会有闲工夫对T恤的设计感兴趣？开小差真不应该啊！
算了，不管他，啊！那就是什么什么广场了吗？真是壮观美丽啊，那块越来越大的黑云可真煞风景，我所爱的旗帜就不远了罢，我带着崇敬走进了广场。
在搜查恐怖分子的小棚子里，我把手上拿的东西---，一本书和一朵白菊花放进了x光机里，神奇的事情发生了，在出口的履带上只有一本书。而菊花竟然消失了！我的乖乖，这竟然是一台魔术机！要么就是里面藏着一个爱吃白菊花的怪兽！
哦，原来只不过是卡在了里面而已，我冒着被辐射的危险伸手进去把白菊花掏了出来，转身就走，却惊然发现，我对面站着四个完全被吓傻了的police和两个什么什么军，一朵花也能杀人吗？还是我长得像本拉登？
“你们有几个人？”一个police走上来问
“啊？您什么意思？”这回换我纳闷儿了，他如何判断出我不是自己来的，他如何做出这个判断的？这不会就是周星驰电影里经常当作笑料的大陆特异功能者吧。
“你们有几个人？你们有几个人？”特异功能者好像死机了。
“我们？没有我们，我就一个人啊”
“拿花做什么？”
“为什么不能拿花？”（我更加困惑了）
“身份证”
“没带”
“请等一下，我们要核实你的身份”
“我的身份证号是11……”
我话还没说完，特异功能者竟转身走了，他根本不需要我的身份证号就去核实我的身份了！果然是名不虚传的大陆特异功能人士！在他离去的当儿，一个穿着和我一样普通但在和什么军聊天的人凑了过来。
“你拿的什么书”
“陀思妥耶夫斯基”
“哪国的，能给我看看吗”普通人很有礼貌的问。
“当然，请”
“哦，（粗粗翻了几页）没事，来广场做什么？”
“看降旗”
“您带白菊花做什么”
“法律禁止人带白菊花进入广场吗”
普通人陷入了沉默，旁边的什么军在努力咬着嘴唇，似乎想笑。
“您做什么工作的”
“无业，您呢，您来旅游的？”
“不是，我在北京工作”
“哦，您在哪儿工作”
普通人指了指x光扫描机
“那儿”
“您在x光机里工作？”
什么什么军没忍住，扑哧笑了出来。普通人瞪了他一眼。
“您哪儿人”
“我北京人，您哪？”
“我辽宁人”
“葫芦岛？”
“马鞍山”
“哦，我去过，那个地方……”
正在我结识一个新朋友的对话关键时刻，特异功能者回来打断了我并对我说，他的特异功能暂时失效了，希望我能去一下一个叫“局里”的地方，在电脑上核实一下我的身份。于是我匆匆拿起我的书和菊花，和他走进广场，上了一辆停在那儿依维柯警车。
警车里冷气很足，很舒服，但有股子劣质烟草味。一个面色阴郁的带着一只卷线耳机的阿姨坐在车里，我冲她点了个头，心想，她不会也是没带身份证吧，这下是两个倒霉蛋了。谁曾想，我一坐下，她竟然凑了过来。笑着问：
“你多大了”
“二十五”
“上学吗”
“毕业了”
“带花来广场做什么”
“看降旗，您也对花感兴趣？”
“我能看看吗”
“当然”
“这白菊花在哪儿买的”
“西单，五块钱”
阿姨拿起了对讲机“注意注意，西单有人卖白菊花”，这个举动把我从对特异功能人的思考中彻底拉了出来，陷入了更大的困惑。---
为什么一个穿着花裙子的和我母亲年龄相仿的女人要坐着警车里消磨时间？为什么她对白菊花如此感兴趣？为什么她要通过对讲机告诉别人她很感兴趣？卖花的小姑娘城管都懒得管，又关她什么事？还有，一个普通人要对讲机和耳机做什么？……
“这菊花有什么含义吗？”她回头问
“含义……没想过”
“一定有一些含义的，每一种花都有含义，比如，玫瑰象征着爱情，菊花……”
“哦，那就是美好，纯洁，幸福？”
“可是这是白菊花啊”
“菊花本来就有白色，黄色，紫色……”
“白菊花是祭奠用的”她突然抛出了一个理论
“哦？是吗，这可是您说的，祭奠？祭奠什么？”
阿姨无语了，正好特异功能和他的几个练健身的兄弟上车了，阿姨对他们说她吃饭去了，下车的时候看了我一眼，如同祥林嫂般喃喃的说道“这孩子，跟我儿子一样大。”
特异功能人走了，留下了健身者，晒得很黑的南戴河爱好者，和一个叔叔。
南戴河爱好者要走了我的基本信息后下了车，似乎在这群人里地位最高的叔叔凑了上来。
“带花来广场做什么”
“看降旗”
“你有两种选择，把花留下，去看降旗，要么带着花离开。”
“也就是说法律禁止人民带着花去看降旗咯”
“没有，我不是这个意思，我只是执行命令”
“您的意思是您的领导命令您拦住带着花来看降旗的人？”
“不是，根据你的情况，领导是这么批示的”
“理由是什么，一朵白菊花能伤害谁？似乎不在你们的违禁品名单上啊”
“没有理由，戒严需要理由吗！”叔叔的耐心和礼貌突然消失了
“广场戒严了吗？没看到通知啊”
叔叔刚想说话，突然沉默了………………
“你尊不尊重我，你到底尊不尊重我？”叔叔突然问了一个关于感情的问题
“我很尊重您啊，您有没有发现，我一只在对您使用敬语‘您’，而您一直在说‘你’……”
“你要是尊重我，就赶快照我说的做”
“我尊重法律，当然，也尊重您，但我不能按您说的做，除非您给我一个法律条文的理由，哪一条禁止人带菊花上街”
我们还是略去中间与这位警号051911名叫王坤的police叔叔关于纳税人纳税多少才有发言权的谈话和各种上车来好事者问的消磨时间的各种车轱辘话和一个人究竟要不要带身份证出门的重复问题不表，反正我带着对于他们为人民服务的效率低下（一个小时竟然查不出一个身份证号码）和无法按时看降旗的不满拿着白菊花和书随着依维柯（一路逆行）来到了“局里”。
这个叫“局里”的地方并没有门牌号，而且进进出出有面有菜色的乡下人，一些挺着肚子尾随他们的police，带着耳机在门口晃来晃去的不明身份者，和第四种人，他们不属于上面任何一类，但都靠在墙上斜眼看人，而且都晒得很很黑，我心想还是离他们远点吧，万一是攻击型神经病怎么办。正想着，后面有两个人叫我的名字。
“进去核实身份”南戴河爱好者指着一个昏暗的楼道说
“你们不是都知道了吗”
“我知道什么了我？”
“你的POS机几秒钟就能查出我的身份”
“pos机坏了，网络不通”南戴河爱好者眨了眨眼睛
“不要撒谎，一个大老爷们儿不要撒谎”
“真坏了，不信您……”南戴河爱好者快哭了
“好好好，行吧”
我怕他一个大男人真哭了我反而下不来台，就走进了那个卫生搞得十分糟糕的楼道，由健身爱好者尾随，绕过几个带着哭腔的乡下人，进入了一个有趣的房间，这个房间没有任何看上去能核查身份的设备，只有几把椅子，几个摄像头，一张桌子上放着一摞白纸和红色的印泥盒。一扇窗户上有铁栅栏和防盗门。
“坐吧”健身爱好者指了指一个凳子
“怎么了？”出现了一个新人物，他年纪不大，三十上下，穿着警服，对健身爱好者说。（就叫他警服小子吧）
“带白花的”健身爱好者抬头看了一眼我。
“为什么来广场”警服小子微笑着拉了把椅子坐着我旁边
“我希望你们抓紧时间，去核实身份，我只是来看降旗，没带身份证”
“带白菊花做什么”警服小子还是笑
“喜欢菊花”
“喜欢菊花?”
“喜欢，家里也养了不少”
“家哪儿的？”警服小子渐入佳境，此时走进来一个穿军装的干部模样的人，没有说话，只是坐在了健身爱好者的旁边。
“海淀”我答道
“为什么今天来看降旗”
“因为昨天没时间，明天也不想来”
“带着花今天来看降旗是不是要纪念什么？”警服小子有点急躁了
“啊？您什么意思，我完全不明白，请您说明白点。”我大惊
“今天是六月罒日”警服小子目光如炬
“六月罒日是什么日子？有什么特别啊？”我直视着他反问
警服小子一下子不说话了，
“诸位，今天是什么日子，有什么特别？”我站起来大声的问，但房间里没有一个人能回答这个问题，健身爱好者还装作看手机。这时，门开了。
“你现在是否住在海淀区xxxxxxx”闯进来一个秃头，没打招呼就问。
“不是，我住在xx”
“详细地址？”秃头掏兜找笔
“我需要先看您的警证”
“没带在身上，你就说吧”秃头不耐烦的说
“我需要先看您的警证”我重复
秃头自知违反了操作流程，气喘吁吁的跑回去拿来了警证05114？？ 王xx，因为后面俩字我不认识，是生僻字。我就告诉了他我的住址。
“单位？”
“没单位，自由职业”
“父母单位”
“我早成年了，又不是监护人，他们过他们的，我过我的”
秃头嘟嘟囔囔的走了。
漫长的等待中，看完了半本书。这中间来过两个人，一个是轻微精神病的妇女，自称梦到了某领导人，让她来什么门前面找他。另一个是一个拎着写有“22界教师节留念”的中年男人，很紧张，police让他做什么他就做什么。最后这两个人都被自称是什么什么办的人带走了。
“人真是奇怪啊！”我放下手中的书大声说
“人有什么奇怪的”健身爱好者和军装干部都看着我
“随随便便，心甘情愿的就跟一个陌生人走了”
俩人又没说话
出于无聊，我想起了很多劫机电影里面的经典对话，反正看降旗的时间还早，我就说
“查我身份的人怎么还没回来？”我说
“该回来就会回来的”
“早就查完了吧，在做什么”
“那不是，赶上了，系统就是这么慢”
“你有孩子吗？”我对对面的人说
“没有”军装干部笑了
“你会有的，你有孩子的时候，你将怎么对他们描述自己呢”
军装干部沉默了
“骗子，你的父亲是一个骗子”我慢慢的说
不知为何，所有的人都不出声的笑了。
“你还能看书，我只能干呆着陪着你”健身爱好者说
“你想看吗，我给你看”我把书递给他，他摆摆手拒绝了
“你能把花留下吗，留下你就能走”警服小子插话
“不能，但如果你喜欢，我可以送给你”
“你能送给我吗”警服小子一脸纯真
“不能，因为我不喜欢你”我嘲讽的看着他
这时都八点多了，我在这个叫“局里”的鬼地方呆了两个钟头了，陪我逗闷子的只有警服小子，健身爱好者，军装干部三人，查我信息的秃头一去不复返，我对看降旗，实现为它自豪，为它欢呼祝福的念头已经不抱希望了，多么神奇，只因为我没带身份证和一朵花！秃头说来就来，不是一个人来，又带了俩人，活脱从茶馆里第三幕里蹦出来的一样。a,b哥俩一进门儿就横着肩膀。
“走吧”a说
“去哪？”我问
“去xxx啊，你不是住那吗，我们就是xxx派出所的”b说
“我自己可以回去”
“别啊，我们都开车来了，怎么能白跑一趟”a又说
“谁让你们来的，你们自己愿意来！再说，你们是谁，给我看你们的证件”我说
“没证件，没证件”b突然失控了，口水都出来了
“喊什么喊，没证件你们跑这儿干嘛来了”我看了眼秃头，秃头没说话
“你也不看看这是什么地方，让你走就走”a说
“你也不看看这是什么地方，你们敢假冒警察，我马上打110”我反问
“穿着一样的制服，区别真大啊”我对秃头说
秃头转身把两个人拉出了房间
“你可以走了，你打车走是吧”过了半晌，秃头回来对我说
“这就是本大爷的证件！”a冲了回来，揪着衬衫上自己的警号对我说
“不要激动，041128”我平静的说
秃头又把他拉了出去，对他说“没事了你们走吧”
“你可以走了，记住，以后如果想献花先去管理处备案”
“谁说我来献花了，我来看降旗”
“我说如果！”秃头大声说
“我一辈子都不会来献花”
“那最好”秃头随口说
“你说什么？为什么不献花最好？好在哪？”我没有准备放过他的反动言论
“当我没说吧，你可以走了”
我向健身爱好者打了个招呼，感谢他陪我发了一下午呆，他坐在那儿都快哭了，什么都干不了，只能看我，而我一直在看书，也没有要逃跑。练那么多肌肉也没派上用场。几个人起身送我走出了“局里”这个神秘又滑稽的地方。秃头还好心的为我指了能打到出租车的方向。
“再见”
“再见”
太奇怪了……派出所的人开车穿越半个北京来送我回家是一种什么程序呢？我的身份到底被核实了没有？为什么我没有在任何文件上签字他们就让我走了？到底今天是什么日子呢？警服小子有什么秘密呢？为何不肯告诉我？难道他们知道什么我不知道的事情？那他既然知道还问什么呢？今天对于他竟然是这么特别，但原因又是什么呢？看来得回去找回中学历史书看看，到底什么日子会令一群大老爷们对一朵鲜花如此恐惧呢？这些问题是永恒的迷！
唉，受诅咒的46路汽车，你何必经过一个普通人身旁，唉，彭丽媛，您何必唱那首歌。你们毁了一个小市民的下午。他本来应该去吃碗卤煮或面条，买点便宜货再逛逛胡同！可是他带着崇敬走向广场去向那面旗帜致敬，在他的人生终于要做出改变的时候，却被一群业余喜剧爱好者围着强迫排练了一下午达里奥佛，等他们过完戏瘾天都黑了，黑得另人害怕，他出来了，他站在长安街上，他该走哪条路回家呢？
【转贴】
作者：十七只猫和鱼
http://www.douban.com/note/35475329/
昨天是几号啊，昨天是几号啊？已经忘记了，最近记忆力真差，但无论昨天是几号，昨天从下午5点到晚上8点发生在我身上这三个小时的奇遇我大概是忘不掉的了。
北京六月的天气就像一个唐氏综合症儿童的脸，说变就变，4点过半，黯然间，不详的黑云化作狂风和尘土笼罩了北京的街道。这雨却一点也不清爽，反而闷热，压抑，好像一个悲愤的醉鬼，而且有点血腥的臭味。
我，一个普普通通的小市民，走在非机动车道上，脑子里正在琢磨要不要去宣武门外吃碗卤煮还是去新街口吃延吉冷面啊，吃面的对过儿有卖打折的袜子，不过吃卤煮还可以顺便参观参观被拆迁的南城啊……等等，反正都是一些俗人想的俗事。
但，一辆靠站的46路公交车改变了我庸俗的思想，因为上面传出了世界上最优美华丽的旋律————————
“什么什么红旗，（忘了）我为你自豪，为你欢呼为你祝福，你的名字比我生命更重要！”
这歌声赶走了卤煮和打折的袜子，也击溃了我庸俗的心。啊，原来这世界上有一个名字比吃喝玩乐更重要，甚至比一个人的生命更重要！这一块普普通通的天意批发十块一米的红布，画了几个几何符号，居然有此等神奇的魔力！竟然能让一个人开开心心去送死，不，错了，是牺牲。这种魔力不得不另人扼腕，哦不，是幸福！是感动！
那我也去吧！我也去吧！我也要拜倒在这血一般的图腾下，为它欢呼，为它祝福！告诉它说，您的名字比我的生命更重要！可是去哪儿找它呢？哦，对了，似乎在大一路公共汽车中间儿有那么一站，叫什么站来着？反正里面住着这么一帮子人，整天干的就是这码子事，每天日出而作日落而息，跑到马路对面升旗降旗。旗杆下面还有个专门供人们膜拜这种仪式的地方。叫什么什么广场来着？忘了，最近记性太差了。好，那我就去那儿看吧！让卤煮和延吉冷面见鬼去吧！我要做一个和彭丽媛姐姐一样自豪的人！
于是我趁46路关门的一瞬间跳了上去，可是发现这车不到什么什么广场，就到西单，算了先坐着吧，再换。反正是空调车。到了西单那堵墙的旁边，我换了地铁，一个卖花的姑娘清秀但脏的脸蛋引起了我的注意，出于同情和无耻，我买了一只白色的菊花，没想到，这支菊花十分钟后给我带来了一连串滑稽的麻烦。
“这位先生，请等一下，您衣服上写的是什么字？”一位和蔼的police拦住了我。
“啊？我不知道啊，你看看”我答道。
“哦，没事，走吧”police转身。
那只不过是一件学校发的衬衫，上面的字写的扭曲了一点罢了。不知道他在执行公务的时间怎么会有闲工夫对T恤的设计感兴趣？开小差真不应该啊！
算了，不管他，啊！那就是什么什么广场了吗？真是壮观美丽啊，那块越来越大的黑云可真煞风景，我所爱的旗帜就不远了罢，我带着崇敬走进了广场。
在搜查恐怖分子的小棚子里，我把手上拿的东西---，一本书和一朵白菊花放进了x光机里，神奇的事情发生了，在出口的履带上只有一本书。而菊花竟然消失了！我的乖乖，这竟然是一台魔术机！要么就是里面藏着一个爱吃白菊花的怪兽！
哦，原来只不过是卡在了里面而已，我冒着被辐射的危险伸手进去把白菊花掏了出来，转身就走，却惊然发现，我对面站着四个完全被吓傻了的police和两个什么什么军，一朵花也能杀人吗？还是我长得像本拉登？
“你们有几个人？”一个police走上来问
“啊？您什么意思？”这回换我纳闷儿了，他如何判断出我不是自己来的，他如何做出这个判断的？这不会就是周星驰电影里经常当作笑料的大陆特异功能者吧。
“你们有几个人？你们有几个人？”特异功能者好像死机了。
“我们？没有我们，我就一个人啊”
“拿花做什么？”
“为什么不能拿花？”（我更加困惑了）
“身份证”
“没带”
“请等一下，我们要核实你的身份”
“我的身份证号是11……”
我话还没说完，特异功能者竟转身走了，他根本不需要我的身份证号就去核实我的身份了！果然是名不虚传的大陆特异功能人士！在他离去的当儿，一个穿着和我一样普通但在和什么军聊天的人凑了过来。
“你拿的什么书”
“陀思妥耶夫斯基”
“哪国的，能给我看看吗”普通人很有礼貌的问。
“当然，请”
“哦，（粗粗翻了几页）没事，来广场做什么？”
“看降旗”
“您带白菊花做什么”
“法律禁止人带白菊花进入广场吗”
普通人陷入了沉默，旁边的什么军在努力咬着嘴唇，似乎想笑。
“您做什么工作的”
“无业，您呢，您来旅游的？”
“不是，我在北京工作”
“哦，您在哪儿工作”
普通人指了指x光扫描机
“那儿”
“您在x光机里工作？”
什么什么军没忍住，扑哧笑了出来。普通人瞪了他一眼。
“您哪儿人”
“我北京人，您哪？”
“我辽宁人”
“葫芦岛？”
“马鞍山”
“哦，我去过，那个地方……”
正在我结识一个新朋友的对话关键时刻，特异功能者回来打断了我并对我说，他的特异功能暂时失效了，希望我能去一下一个叫“局里”的地方，在电脑上核实一下我的身份。于是我匆匆拿起我的书和菊花，和他走进广场，上了一辆停在那儿依维柯警车。
警车里冷气很足，很舒服，但有股子劣质烟草味。一个面色阴郁的带着一只卷线耳机的阿姨坐在车里，我冲她点了个头，心想，她不会也是没带身份证吧，这下是两个倒霉蛋了。谁曾想，我一坐下，她竟然凑了过来。笑着问：
“你多大了”
“二十五”
“上学吗”
“毕业了”
“带花来广场做什么”
“看降旗，您也对花感兴趣？”
“我能看看吗”
“当然”
“这白菊花在哪儿买的”
“西单，五块钱”
阿姨拿起了对讲机“注意注意，西单有人卖白菊花”，这个举动把我从对特异功能人的思考中彻底拉了出来，陷入了更大的困惑。---
为什么一个穿着花裙子的和我母亲年龄相仿的女人要坐着警车里消磨时间？为什么她对白菊花如此感兴趣？为什么她要通过对讲机告诉别人她很感兴趣？卖花的小姑娘城管都懒得管，又关她什么事？还有，一个普通人要对讲机和耳机做什么？……
“这菊花有什么含义吗？”她回头问
“含义……没想过”
“一定有一些含义的，每一种花都有含义，比如，玫瑰象征着爱情，菊花……”
“哦，那就是美好，纯洁，幸福？”
“可是这是白菊花啊”
“菊花本来就有白色，黄色，紫色……”
“白菊花是祭奠用的”她突然抛出了一个理论
“哦？是吗，这可是您说的，祭奠？祭奠什么？”
阿姨无语了，正好特异功能和他的几个练健身的兄弟上车了，阿姨对他们说她吃饭去了，下车的时候看了我一眼，如同祥林嫂般喃喃的说道“这孩子，跟我儿子一样大。”
特异功能人走了，留下了健身者，晒得很黑的南戴河爱好者，和一个叔叔。
南戴河爱好者要走了我的基本信息后下了车，似乎在这群人里地位最高的叔叔凑了上来。
“带花来广场做什么”
“看降旗”
“你有两种选择，把花留下，去看降旗，要么带着花离开。”
“也就是说法律禁止人民带着花去看降旗咯”
“没有，我不是这个意思，我只是执行命令”
“您的意思是您的领导命令您拦住带着花来看降旗的人？”
“不是，根据你的情况，领导是这么批示的”
“理由是什么，一朵白菊花能伤害谁？似乎不在你们的违禁品名单上啊”
“没有理由，戒严需要理由吗！”叔叔的耐心和礼貌突然消失了
“广场戒严了吗？没看到通知啊”
叔叔刚想说话，突然沉默了………………
“你尊不尊重我，你到底尊不尊重我？”叔叔突然问了一个关于感情的问题
“我很尊重您啊，您有没有发现，我一只在对您使用敬语‘您’，而您一直在说‘你’……”
“你要是尊重我，就赶快照我说的做”
“我尊重法律，当然，也尊重您，但我不能按您说的做，除非您给我一个法律条文的理由，哪一条禁止人带菊花上街”
我们还是略去中间与这位警号051911名叫王坤的police叔叔关于纳税人纳税多少才有发言权的谈话和各种上车来好事者问的消磨时间的各种车轱辘话和一个人究竟要不要带身份证出门的重复问题不表，反正我带着对于他们为人民服务的效率低下（一个小时竟然查不出一个身份证号码）和无法按时看降旗的不满拿着白菊花和书随着依维柯（一路逆行）来到了“局里”。
这个叫“局里”的地方并没有门牌号，而且进进出出有面有菜色的乡下人，一些挺着肚子尾随他们的police，带着耳机在门口晃来晃去的不明身份者，和第四种人，他们不属于上面任何一类，但都靠在墙上斜眼看人，而且都晒得很很黑，我心想还是离他们远点吧，万一是攻击型神经病怎么办。正想着，后面有两个人叫我的名字。
“进去核实身份”南戴河爱好者指着一个昏暗的楼道说
“你们不是都知道了吗”
“我知道什么了我？”
“你的POS机几秒钟就能查出我的身份”
“pos机坏了，网络不通”南戴河爱好者眨了眨眼睛
“不要撒谎，一个大老爷们儿不要撒谎”
“真坏了，不信您……”南戴河爱好者快哭了
“好好好，行吧”
我怕他一个大男人真哭了我反而下不来台，就走进了那个卫生搞得十分糟糕的楼道，由健身爱好者尾随，绕过几个带着哭腔的乡下人，进入了一个有趣的房间，这个房间没有任何看上去能核查身份的设备，只有几把椅子，几个摄像头，一张桌子上放着一摞白纸和红色的印泥盒。一扇窗户上有铁栅栏和防盗门。
“坐吧”健身爱好者指了指一个凳子
“怎么了？”出现了一个新人物，他年纪不大，三十上下，穿着警服，对健身爱好者说。（就叫他警服小子吧）
“带白花的”健身爱好者抬头看了一眼我。
“为什么来广场”警服小子微笑着拉了把椅子坐着我旁边
“我希望你们抓紧时间，去核实身份，我只是来看降旗，没带身份证”
“带白菊花做什么”警服小子还是笑
“喜欢菊花”
“喜欢菊花?”
“喜欢，家里也养了不少”
“家哪儿的？”警服小子渐入佳境，此时走进来一个穿军装的干部模样的人，没有说话，只是坐在了健身爱好者的旁边。
“海淀”我答道
“为什么今天来看降旗”
“因为昨天没时间，明天也不想来”
“带着花今天来看降旗是不是要纪念什么？”警服小子有点急躁了
“啊？您什么意思，我完全不明白，请您说明白点。”我大惊
“今天是六月罒日”警服小子目光如炬
“六月罒日是什么日子？有什么特别啊？”我直视着他反问
警服小子一下子不说话了，
“诸位，今天是什么日子，有什么特别？”我站起来大声的问，但房间里没有一个人能回答这个问题，健身爱好者还装作看手机。这时，门开了。
“你现在是否住在海淀区xxxxxxx”闯进来一个秃头，没打招呼就问。
“不是，我住在xx”
“详细地址？”秃头掏兜找笔
“我需要先看您的警证”
“没带在身上，你就说吧”秃头不耐烦的说
“我需要先看您的警证”我重复
秃头自知违反了操作流程，气喘吁吁的跑回去拿来了警证05114？？ 王xx，因为后面俩字我不认识，是生僻字。我就告诉了他我的住址。
“单位？”
“没单位，自由职业”
“父母单位”
“我早成年了，又不是监护人，他们过他们的，我过我的”
秃头嘟嘟囔囔的走了。
漫长的等待中，看完了半本书。这中间来过两个人，一个是轻微精神病的妇女，自称梦到了某领导人，让她来什么门前面找他。另一个是一个拎着写有“22界教师节留念”的中年男人，很紧张，police让他做什么他就做什么。最后这两个人都被自称是什么什么办的人带走了。
“人真是奇怪啊！”我放下手中的书大声说
“人有什么奇怪的”健身爱好者和军装干部都看着我
“随随便便，心甘情愿的就跟一个陌生人走了”
俩人又没说话
出于无聊，我想起了很多劫机电影里面的经典对话，反正看降旗的时间还早，我就说
“查我身份的人怎么还没回来？”我说
“该回来就会回来的”
“早就查完了吧，在做什么”
“那不是，赶上了，系统就是这么慢”
“你有孩子吗？”我对对面的人说
“没有”军装干部笑了
“你会有的，你有孩子的时候，你将怎么对他们描述自己呢”
军装干部沉默了
“骗子，你的父亲是一个骗子”我慢慢的说
不知为何，所有的人都不出声的笑了。
“你还能看书，我只能干呆着陪着你”健身爱好者说
“你想看吗，我给你看”我把书递给他，他摆摆手拒绝了
“你能把花留下吗，留下你就能走”警服小子插话
“不能，但如果你喜欢，我可以送给你”
“你能送给我吗”警服小子一脸纯真
“不能，因为我不喜欢你”我嘲讽的看着他
这时都八点多了，我在这个叫“局里”的鬼地方呆了两个钟头了，陪我逗闷子的只有警服小子，健身爱好者，军装干部三人，查我信息的秃头一去不复返，我对看降旗，实现为它自豪，为它欢呼祝福的念头已经不抱希望了，多么神奇，只因为我没带身份证和一朵花！秃头说来就来，不是一个人来，又带了俩人，活脱从茶馆里第三幕里蹦出来的一样。a,b哥俩一进门儿就横着肩膀。
“走吧”a说
“去哪？”我问
“去xxx啊，你不是住那吗，我们就是xxx派出所的”b说
“我自己可以回去”
“别啊，我们都开车来了，怎么能白跑一趟”a又说
“谁让你们来的，你们自己愿意来！再说，你们是谁，给我看你们的证件”我说
“没证件，没证件”b突然失控了，口水都出来了
“喊什么喊，没证件你们跑这儿干嘛来了”我看了眼秃头，秃头没说话
“你也不看看这是什么地方，让你走就走”a说
“你也不看看这是什么地方，你们敢假冒警察，我马上打110”我反问
“穿着一样的制服，区别真大啊”我对秃头说
秃头转身把两个人拉出了房间
“你可以走了，你打车走是吧”过了半晌，秃头回来对我说
“这就是本大爷的证件！”a冲了回来，揪着衬衫上自己的警号对我说
“不要激动，041128”我平静的说
秃头又把他拉了出去，对他说“没事了你们走吧”
“你可以走了，记住，以后如果想献花先去管理处备案”
“谁说我来献花了，我来看降旗”
“我说如果！”秃头大声说
“我一辈子都不会来献花”
“那最好”秃头随口说
“你说什么？为什么不献花最好？好在哪？”我没有准备放过他的反动言论
“当我没说吧，你可以走了”
我向健身爱好者打了个招呼，感谢他陪我发了一下午呆，他坐在那儿都快哭了，什么都干不了，只能看我，而我一直在看书，也没有要逃跑。练那么多肌肉也没派上用场。几个人起身送我走出了“局里”这个神秘又滑稽的地方。秃头还好心的为我指了能打到出租车的方向。
“再见”
“再见”
太奇怪了……派出所的人开车穿越半个北京来送我回家是一种什么程序呢？我的身份到底被核实了没有？为什么我没有在任何文件上签字他们就让我走了？到底今天是什么日子呢？警服小子有什么秘密呢？为何不肯告诉我？难道他们知道什么我不知道的事情？那他既然知道还问什么呢？今天对于他竟然是这么特别，但原因又是什么呢？看来得回去找回中学历史书看看，到底什么日子会令一群大老爷们对一朵鲜花如此恐惧呢？这些问题是永恒的迷！
唉，受诅咒的46路汽车，你何必经过一个普通人身旁，唉，彭丽媛，您何必唱那首歌。你们毁了一个小市民的下午。他本来应该去吃碗卤煮或面条，买点便宜货再逛逛胡同！可是他带着崇敬走向广场去向那面旗帜致敬，在他的人生终于要做出改变的时候，却被一群业余喜剧爱好者围着强迫排练了一下午达里奥佛，等他们过完戏瘾天都黑了，黑得另人害怕，他出来了，他站在长安街上，他该走哪条路回家呢？
Monday, April 13, 2009
The dark side of Dubai
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The dark side of Dubai
Dubai was meant to be a Middle-Eastern Shangri-La, a glittering monument to Arab enterprise and western capitalism. But as hard times arrive in the city state that rose from the desert sands, an uglier story is emerging. Johann Hari reports
The wide, smiling face of Sheikh Mohammed – the absolute ruler of Dubai – beams down on his creation. His image is displayed on every other building, sandwiched between the more familiar corporate rictuses of Ronald McDonald and Colonel Sanders. This man has sold Dubai to the world as the city of One Thousand and One Arabian Lights, a Shangri-La in the Middle East insulated from the dust-storms blasting across the region. He dominates the Manhattan-manqué skyline, beaming out from row after row of glass pyramids and hotels smelted into the shape of piles of golden coins. And there he stands on the tallest building in the world – a skinny spike, jabbing farther into the sky than any other human construction in history.
But something has flickered in Sheikh Mohammed's smile. The ubiquitous cranes have paused on the skyline, as if stuck in time. There are countless buildings half-finished, seemingly abandoned. In the swankiest new constructions – like the vast Atlantis hotel, a giant pink castle built in 1,000 days for $1.5bn on its own artificial island – where rainwater is leaking from the ceilings and the tiles are falling off the roof. This Neverland was built on the Never-Never – and now the cracks are beginning to show. Suddenly it looks less like Manhattan in the sun than Iceland in the desert.
Once the manic burst of building has stopped and the whirlwind has slowed, the secrets of Dubai are slowly seeping out. This is a city built from nothing in just a few wild decades on credit and ecocide, suppression and slavery. Dubai is a living metal metaphor for the neo-liberal globalised world that may be crashing – at last – into history.
I. An Adult Disneyland
Karen Andrews can't speak. Every time she starts to tell her story, she puts her head down and crumples. She is slim and angular and has the faded radiance of the once-rich, even though her clothes are as creased as her forehead. I find her in the car park of one of Dubai's finest international hotels, where she is living, in her Range Rover. She has been sleeping here for months, thanks to the kindness of the Bangladeshi car park attendants who don't have the heart to move her on. This is not where she thought her Dubai dream would end.
Her story comes out in stutters, over four hours. At times, her old voice – witty and warm – breaks through. Karen came here from Canada when her husband was offered a job in the senior division of a famous multinational. "When he said Dubai, I said – if you want me to wear black and quit booze, baby, you've got the wrong girl. But he asked me to give it a chance. And I loved him."
All her worries melted when she touched down in Dubai in 2005. "It was an adult Disneyland, where Sheikh Mohammed is the mouse," she says. "Life was fantastic. You had these amazing big apartments, you had a whole army of your own staff, you pay no taxes at all. It seemed like everyone was a CEO. We were partying the whole time."
Her husband, Daniel, bought two properties. "We were drunk on Dubai," she says. But for the first time in his life, he was beginning to mismanage their finances. "We're not talking huge sums, but he was getting confused. It was so unlike Daniel, I was surprised. We got into a little bit of debt." After a year, she found out why: Daniel was diagnosed with a brain tumour.
One doctor told him he had a year to live; another said it was benign and he'd be okay. But the debts were growing. "Before I came here, I didn't know anything about Dubai law. I assumed if all these big companies come here, it must be pretty like Canada's or any other liberal democracy's," she says. Nobody told her there is no concept of bankruptcy. If you get into debt and you can't pay, you go to prison.
"When we realised that, I sat Daniel down and told him: listen, we need to get out of here. He knew he was guaranteed a pay-off when he resigned, so we said – right, let's take the pay-off, clear the debt, and go." So Daniel resigned – but he was given a lower pay-off than his contract suggested. The debt remained. As soon as you quit your job in Dubai, your employer has to inform your bank. If you have any outstanding debts that aren't covered by your savings, then all your accounts are frozen, and you are forbidden to leave the country.
"Suddenly our cards stopped working. We had nothing. We were thrown out of our apartment." Karen can't speak about what happened next for a long time; she is shaking.
Daniel was arrested and taken away on the day of their eviction. It was six days before she could talk to him. "He told me he was put in a cell with another debtor, a Sri Lankan guy who was only 27, who said he couldn't face the shame to his family. Daniel woke up and the boy had swallowed razor-blades. He banged for help, but nobody came, and the boy died in front of him."
Karen managed to beg from her friends for a few weeks, "but it was so humiliating. I've never lived like this. I worked in the fashion industry. I had my own shops. I've never..." She peters out.
Daniel was sentenced to six months' imprisonment at a trial he couldn't understand. It was in Arabic, and there was no translation. "Now I'm here illegally, too," Karen says I've got no money, nothing. I have to last nine months until he's out, somehow." Looking away, almost paralysed with embarrassment, she asks if I could buy her a meal.
She is not alone. All over the city, there are maxed-out expats sleeping secretly in the sand-dunes or the airport or in their cars.
"The thing you have to understand about Dubai is – nothing is what it seems," Karen says at last. "Nothing. This isn't a city, it's a con-job. They lure you in telling you it's one thing – a modern kind of place – but beneath the surface it's a medieval dictatorship."
II. Tumbleweed
Thirty years ago, almost all of contemporary Dubai was desert, inhabited only by cactuses and tumbleweed and scorpions. But downtown there are traces of the town that once was, buried amidst the metal and glass. In the dusty fort of the Dubai Museum, a sanitised version of this story is told.
In the mid-18th century, a small village was built here, in the lower Persian Gulf, where people would dive for pearls off the coast. It soon began to accumulate a cosmopolitan population washing up from Persia, the Indian subcontinent, and other Arab countries, all hoping to make their fortune. They named it after a local locust, the daba, who consumed everything before it. The town was soon seized by the gunships of the British Empire, who held it by the throat as late as 1971. As they scuttled away, Dubai decided to ally with the six surrounding states and make up the United Arab Emirates (UAE).
The British quit, exhausted, just as oil was being discovered, and the sheikhs who suddenly found themselves in charge faced a remarkable dilemma. They were largely illiterate nomads who spent their lives driving camels through the desert – yet now they had a vast pot of gold. What should they do with it?
Dubai only had a dribble of oil compared to neighbouring Abu Dhabi – so Sheikh Maktoum decided to use the revenues to build something that would last. Israel used to boast it made the desert bloom; Sheikh Maktoum resolved to make the desert boom. He would build a city to be a centre of tourism and financial services, sucking up cash and talent from across the globe. He invited the world to come tax-free – and they came in their millions, swamping the local population, who now make up just 5 per cent of Dubai. A city seemed to fall from the sky in just three decades, whole and complete and swelling. They fast-forwarded from the 18th century to the 21st in a single generation.
If you take the Big Bus Tour of Dubai – the passport to a pre-processed experience of every major city on earth – you are fed the propaganda-vision of how this happened. "Dubai's motto is 'Open doors, open minds'," the tour guide tells you in clipped tones, before depositing you at the souks to buy camel tea-cosies. "Here you are free. To purchase fabrics," he adds. As you pass each new monumental building, he tells you: "The World Trade Centre was built by His Highness..."
But this is a lie. The sheikh did not build this city. It was built by slaves. They are building it now.
III. Hidden in plain view
There are three different Dubais, all swirling around each other. There are the expats, like Karen; there are the Emiratis, headed by Sheikh Mohammed; and then there is the foreign underclass who built the city, and are trapped here. They are hidden in plain view. You see them everywhere, in dirt-caked blue uniforms, being shouted at by their superiors, like a chain gang – but you are trained not to look. It is like a mantra: the Sheikh built the city. The Sheikh built the city. Workers? What workers?
Every evening, the hundreds of thousands of young men who build Dubai are bussed from their sites to a vast concrete wasteland an hour out of town, where they are quarantined away. Until a few years ago they were shuttled back and forth on cattle trucks, but the expats complained this was unsightly, so now they are shunted on small metal buses that function like greenhouses in the desert heat. They sweat like sponges being slowly wrung out.
Sonapur is a rubble-strewn patchwork of miles and miles of identical concrete buildings. Some 300,000 men live piled up here, in a place whose name in Hindi means "City of Gold". In the first camp I stop at – riven with the smell of sewage and sweat – the men huddle around, eager to tell someone, anyone, what is happening to them.
Sahinal Monir, a slim 24-year-old from the deltas of Bangladesh. "To get you here, they tell you Dubai is heaven. Then you get here and realise it is hell," he says. Four years ago, an employment agent arrived in Sahinal's village in Southern Bangladesh. He told the men of the village that there was a place where they could earn 40,000 takka a month (£400) just for working nine-to-five on construction projects. It was a place where they would be given great accommodation, great food, and treated well. All they had to do was pay an up-front fee of 220,000 takka (£2,300) for the work visa – a fee they'd pay off in the first six months, easy. So Sahinal sold his family land, and took out a loan from the local lender, to head to this paradise.
As soon as he arrived at Dubai airport, his passport was taken from him by his construction company. He has not seen it since. He was told brusquely that from now on he would be working 14-hour days in the desert heat – where western tourists are advised not to stay outside for even five minutes in summer, when it hits 55 degrees – for 500 dirhams a month (£90), less than a quarter of the wage he was promised. If you don't like it, the company told him, go home. "But how can I go home? You have my passport, and I have no money for the ticket," he said. "Well, then you'd better get to work," they replied.
Sahinal was in a panic. His family back home – his son, daughter, wife and parents – were waiting for money, excited that their boy had finally made it. But he was going to have to work for more than two years just to pay for the cost of getting here – and all to earn less than he did in Bangladesh.
He shows me his room. It is a tiny, poky, concrete cell with triple-decker bunk-beds, where he lives with 11 other men. All his belongings are piled onto his bunk: three shirts, a spare pair of trousers, and a cellphone. The room stinks, because the lavatories in the corner of the camp – holes in the ground – are backed up with excrement and clouds of black flies. There is no air conditioning or fans, so the heat is "unbearable. You cannot sleep. All you do is sweat and scratch all night." At the height of summer, people sleep on the floor, on the roof, anywhere where they can pray for a moment of breeze.
The water delivered to the camp in huge white containers isn't properly desalinated: it tastes of salt. "It makes us sick, but we have nothing else to drink," he says.
The work is "the worst in the world," he says. "You have to carry 50kg bricks and blocks of cement in the worst heat imaginable ... This heat – it is like nothing else. You sweat so much you can't pee, not for days or weeks. It's like all the liquid comes out through your skin and you stink. You become dizzy and sick but you aren't allowed to stop, except for an hour in the afternoon. You know if you drop anything or slip, you could die. If you take time off sick, your wages are docked, and you are trapped here even longer."
He is currently working on the 67th floor of a shiny new tower, where he builds upwards, into the sky, into the heat. He doesn't know its name. In his four years here, he has never seen the Dubai of tourist-fame, except as he constructs it floor-by-floor.
Is he angry? He is quiet for a long time. "Here, nobody shows their anger. You can't. You get put in jail for a long time, then deported." Last year, some workers went on strike after they were not given their wages for four months. The Dubai police surrounded their camps with razor-wire and water-cannons and blasted them out and back to work.
The "ringleaders" were imprisoned. I try a different question: does Sohinal regret coming? All the men look down, awkwardly. "How can we think about that? We are trapped. If we start to think about regrets..." He lets the sentence trail off. Eventually, another worker breaks the silence by adding: "I miss my country, my family and my land. We can grow food in Bangladesh. Here, nothing grows. Just oil and buildings."
Since the recession hit, they say, the electricity has been cut off in dozens of the camps, and the men have not been paid for months. Their companies have disappeared with their passports and their pay. "We have been robbed of everything. Even if somehow we get back to Bangladesh, the loan sharks will demand we repay our loans immediately, and when we can't, we'll be sent to prison."
This is all supposed to be illegal. Employers are meant to pay on time, never take your passport, give you breaks in the heat – but I met nobody who said it happens. Not one. These men are conned into coming and trapped into staying, with the complicity of the Dubai authorities.
Sahinal could well die out here. A British man who used to work on construction projects told me: "There's a huge number of suicides in the camps and on the construction sites, but they're not reported. They're described as 'accidents'." Even then, their families aren't free: they simply inherit the debts. A Human Rights Watch study found there is a "cover-up of the true extent" of deaths from heat exhaustion, overwork and suicide, but the Indian consulate registered 971 deaths of their nationals in 2005 alone. After this figure was leaked, the consulates were told to stop counting.
At night, in the dusk, I sit in the camp with Sohinal and his friends as they scrape together what they have left to buy a cheap bottle of spirits. They down it in one ferocious gulp. "It helps you to feel numb", Sohinal says through a stinging throat. In the distance, the glistening Dubai skyline he built stands, oblivious.
IV. Mauled by the mall
I find myself stumbling in a daze from the camps into the sprawling marble malls that seem to stand on every street in Dubai. It is so hot there is no point building pavements; people gather in these cathedrals of consumerism to bask in the air conditioning. So within a ten minute taxi-ride, I have left Sohinal and I am standing in the middle of Harvey Nichols, being shown a £20,000 taffeta dress by a bored salesgirl. "As you can see, it is cut on the bias..." she says, and I stop writing.
Time doesn't seem to pass in the malls. Days blur with the same electric light, the same shined floors, the same brands I know from home. Here, Dubai is reduced to its component sounds: do-buy. In the most expensive malls I am almost alone, the shops empty and echoing. On the record, everybody tells me business is going fine. Off the record, they look panicky. There is a hat exhibition ahead of the Dubai races, selling elaborate headgear for £1,000 a pop. "Last year, we were packed. Now look," a hat designer tells me. She swoops her arm over a vacant space.
I approach a blonde 17-year-old Dutch girl wandering around in hotpants, oblivious to the swarms of men gaping at her. "I love it here!" she says. "The heat, the malls, the beach!" Does it ever bother you that it's a slave society? She puts her head down, just as Sohinal did. "I try not to see," she says. Even at 17, she has learned not to look, and not to ask; that, she senses, is a transgression too far.
Between the malls, there is nothing but the connecting tissue of asphalt. Every road has at least four lanes; Dubai feels like a motorway punctuated by shopping centres. You only walk anywhere if you are suicidal. The residents of Dubai flit from mall to mall by car or taxis.
How does it feel if this is your country, filled with foreigners? Unlike the expats and the slave class, I can't just approach the native Emiratis to ask questions when I see them wandering around – the men in cool white robes, the women in sweltering black. If you try, the women blank you, and the men look affronted, and tell you brusquely that Dubai is "fine". So I browse through the Emirati blog-scene and found some typical-sounding young Emiratis. We meet – where else? – in the mall.
Ahmed al-Atar is a handsome 23-year-old with a neat, trimmed beard, tailored white robes, and rectangular wire-glasses. He speaks perfect American-English, and quickly shows that he knows London, Los Angeles and Paris better than most westerners. Sitting back in his chair in an identikit Starbucks, he announces: "This is the best place in the world to be young! The government pays for your education up to PhD level. You get given a free house when you get married. You get free healthcare, and if it's not good enough here, they pay for you to go abroad. You don't even have to pay for your phone calls. Almost everyone has a maid, a nanny, and a driver. And we never pay any taxes. Don't you wish you were Emirati?"
I try to raise potential objections to this Panglossian summary, but he leans forward and says: "Look – my grandfather woke up every day and he would have to fight to get to the well first to get water. When the wells ran dry, they had to have water delivered by camel. They were always hungry and thirsty and desperate for jobs. He limped all his life, because he there was no medical treatment available when he broke his leg. Now look at us!"
For Emiratis, this is a Santa Claus state, handing out goodies while it makes its money elsewhere: through renting out land to foreigners, soft taxes on them like business and airport charges, and the remaining dribble of oil. Most Emiratis, like Ahmed, work for the government, so they're cushioned from the credit crunch. "I haven't felt any effect at all, and nor have my friends," he says. "Your employment is secure. You will only be fired if you do something incredibly bad." The laws are currently being tightened, to make it even more impossible to sack an Emirati.
Sure, the flooding-in of expats can sometimes be "an eyesore", Ahmed says. "But we see the expats as the price we had to pay for this development. How else could we do it? Nobody wants to go back to the days of the desert, the days before everyone came. We went from being like an African country to having an average income per head of $120,000 a year. And we're supposed to complain?"
He says the lack of political freedom is fine by him. "You'll find it very hard to find an Emirati who doesn't support Sheikh Mohammed." Because they're scared? "No, because we really all support him. He's a great leader. Just look!" He smiles and says: "I'm sure my life is very much like yours. We hang out, have a coffee, go to the movies. You'll be in a Pizza Hut or Nando's in London, and at the same time I'll be in one in Dubai," he says, ordering another latte.
But do all young Emiratis see it this way? Can it really be so sunny in the political sands? In the sleek Emirates Tower Hotel, I meet Sultan al-Qassemi. He's a 31-year-old Emirati columnist for the Dubai press and private art collector, with a reputation for being a contrarian liberal, advocating gradual reform. He is wearing Western clothes – blue jeans and a Ralph Lauren shirt – and speaks incredibly fast, turning himself into a manic whirr of arguments.
"People here are turning into lazy, overweight babies!" he exclaims. "The nanny state has gone too far. We don't do anything for ourselves! Why don't any of us work for the private sector? Why can't a mother and father look after their own child?" And yet, when I try to bring up the system of slavery that built Dubai, he looks angry. "People should give us credit," he insists. "We are the most tolerant people in the world. Dubai is the only truly international city in the world. Everyone who comes here is treated with respect."
I pause, and think of the vast camps in Sonapur, just a few miles away. Does he even know they exist? He looks irritated. "You know, if there are 30 or 40 cases [of worker abuse] a year, that sounds like a lot but when you think about how many people are here..." Thirty or 40? This abuse is endemic to the system, I say. We're talking about hundreds of thousands.
Sultan is furious. He splutters: "You don't think Mexicans are treated badly in New York City? And how long did it take Britain to treat people well? I could come to London and write about the homeless people on Oxford Street and make your city sound like a terrible place, too! The workers here can leave any time they want! Any Indian can leave, any Asian can leave!"
But they can't, I point out. Their passports are taken away, and their wages are withheld. "Well, I feel bad if that happens, and anybody who does that should be punished. But their embassies should help them." They try. But why do you forbid the workers – with force – from going on strike against lousy employers? "Thank God we don't allow that!" he exclaims. "Strikes are in-convenient! They go on the street – we're not having that. We won't be like France. Imagine a country where they the workers can just stop whenever they want!" So what should the workers do when they are cheated and lied to? "Quit. Leave the country."
I sigh. Sultan is seething now. "People in the West are always complaining about us," he says. Suddenly, he adopts a mock-whiny voice and says, in imitation of these disgusting critics: "Why don't you treat animals better? Why don't you have better shampoo advertising? Why don't you treat labourers better?" It's a revealing order: animals, shampoo, then workers. He becomes more heated, shifting in his seat, jabbing his finger at me. "I gave workers who worked for me safety goggles and special boots, and they didn't want to wear them! It slows them down!"
And then he smiles, coming up with what he sees as his killer argument. "When I see Western journalists criticise us – don't you realise you're shooting yourself in the foot? The Middle East will be far more dangerous if Dubai fails. Our export isn't oil, it's hope. Poor Egyptians or Libyans or Iranians grow up saying – I want to go to Dubai. We're very important to the region. We are showing how to be a modern Muslim country. We don't have any fundamentalists here. Europeans shouldn't gloat at our demise. You should be very worried.... Do you know what will happen if this model fails? Dubai will go down the Iranian path, the Islamist path."
Sultan sits back. My arguments have clearly disturbed him; he says in a softer, conciliatory tone, almost pleading: "Listen. My mother used to go to the well and get a bucket of water every morning. On her wedding day, she was given an orange as a gift because she had never eaten one. Two of my brothers died when they were babies because the healthcare system hadn't developed yet. Don't judge us." He says it again, his eyes filled with intensity: "Don't judge us."
V. The Dunkin' Donuts Dissidents
But there is another face to the Emirati minority – a small huddle of dissidents, trying to shake the Sheikhs out of abusive laws. Next to a Virgin Megastore and a Dunkin' Donuts, with James Blunt's "You're Beautiful" blaring behind me, I meet the Dubai dictatorship's Public Enemy Number One. By way of introduction, Mohammed al-Mansoori says from within his white robes and sinewy face: "Westerners come her and see the malls and the tall buildings and they think that means we are free. But these businesses, these buildings – who are they for? This is a dictatorship. The royal family think they own the country, and the people are their servants. There is no freedom here."
We snuffle out the only Arabic restaurant in this mall, and he says everything you are banned – under threat of prison – from saying in Dubai. Mohammed tells me he was born in Dubai to a fisherman father who taught him one enduring lesson: Never follow the herd. Think for yourself. In the sudden surge of development, Mohammed trained as a lawyer. By the Noughties, he had climbed to the head of the Jurists' Association, an organisation set up to press for Dubai's laws to be consistent with international human rights legislation.
And then – suddenly – Mohammed thwacked into the limits of Sheikh Mohammed's tolerance. Horrified by the "system of slavery" his country was being built on, he spoke out to Human Rights Watch and the BBC. "So I was hauled in by the secret police and told: shut up, or you will lose you job, and your children will be unemployable," he says. "But how could I be silent?"
He was stripped of his lawyer's licence and his passport – becoming yet another person imprisoned in this country. "I have been blacklisted and so have my children. The newspapers are not allowed to write about me."
Why is the state so keen to defend this system of slavery? He offers a prosaic explanation. "Most companies are owned by the government, so they oppose human rights laws because it will reduce their profit margins. It's in their interests that the workers are slaves."
Last time there was a depression, there was a starbust of democracy in Dubai, seized by force from the sheikhs. In the 1930s, the city's merchants banded together against Sheikh Said bin Maktum al-Maktum – the absolute ruler of his day – and insisted they be given control over the state finances. It lasted only a few years, before the Sheikh – with the enthusiastic support of the British – snuffed them out.
And today? Sheikh Mohammed turned Dubai into Creditopolis, a city built entirely on debt. Dubai owes 107 percent of its entire GDP. It would be bust already, if the neighbouring oil-soaked state of Abu Dhabi hadn't pulled out its chequebook. Mohammed says this will constrict freedom even further. "Now Abu Dhabi calls the tunes – and they are much more conservative and restrictive than even Dubai. Freedom here will diminish every day." Already, new media laws have been drafted forbidding the press to report on anything that could "damage" Dubai or "its economy". Is this why the newspapers are giving away glossy supplements talking about "encouraging economic indicators"?
Everybody here waves Islamism as the threat somewhere over the horizon, sure to swell if their advice is not followed. Today, every imam is appointed by the government, and every sermon is tightly controlled to keep it moderate. But Mohammed says anxiously: "We don't have Islamism here now, but I think that if you control people and give them no way to express anger, it could rise. People who are told to shut up all the time can just explode."
Later that day, against another identikit-corporate backdrop, I meet another dissident – Abdulkhaleq Abdullah, Professor of Political Science at Emirates University. His anger focuses not on political reform, but the erosion of Emirati identity. He is famous among the locals, a rare outspoken conductor for their anger. He says somberly: "There has been a rupture here. This is a totally different city to the one I was born in 50 years ago."
He looks around at the shiny floors and Western tourists and says: "What we see now didn't occur in our wildest dreams. We never thought we could be such a success, a trendsetter, a model for other Arab countries. The people of Dubai are mighty proud of their city, and rightly so. And yet..." He shakes his head. "In our hearts, we fear we have built a modern city but we are losing it to all these expats."
Adbulkhaleq says every Emirati of his generation lives with a "psychological trauma." Their hearts are divided – "between pride on one side, and fear on the other." Just after he says this, a smiling waitress approaches, and asks us what we would like to drink. He orders a Coke.
VI. Dubai Pride
There is one group in Dubai for whom the rhetoric of sudden freedom and liberation rings true – but it is the very group the government wanted to liberate least: gays.
Beneath a famous international hotel, I clamber down into possibly the only gay club on the Saudi Arabian peninsula. I find a United Nations of tank-tops and bulging biceps, dancing to Kylie, dropping ecstasy, and partying like it's Soho. "Dubai is the best place in the Muslim world for gays!" a 25-year old Emirati with spiked hair says, his arms wrapped around his 31-year old "husband". "We are alive. We can meet. That is more than most Arab gays."
It is illegal to be gay in Dubai, and punishable by 10 years in prison. But the locations of the latest unofficial gay clubs circulate online, and men flock there, seemingly unafraid of the police. "They might bust the club, but they will just disperse us," one of them says. "The police have other things to do."
In every large city, gay people find a way to find each other – but Dubai has become the clearing-house for the region's homosexuals, a place where they can live in relative safety. Saleh, a lean private in the Saudi Arabian army, has come here for the Coldplay concert, and tells me Dubai is "great" for gays: "In Saudi, it's hard to be straight when you're young. The women are shut away so everyone has gay sex. But they only want to have sex with boys – 15- to 21-year-olds. I'm 27, so I'm too old now. I need to find real gays, so this is the best place. All Arab gays want to live in Dubai."
With that, Saleh dances off across the dancefloor, towards a Dutch guy with big biceps and a big smile.
VII. The Lifestyle
All the guidebooks call Dubai a "melting pot", but as I trawl across the city, I find that every group here huddles together in its own little ethnic enclave – and becomes a caricature of itself. One night – in the heart of this homesick city, tired of the malls and the camps – I go to Double Decker, a hang-out for British expats. At the entrance there is a red telephone box, and London bus-stop signs. Its wooden interior looks like a cross between a colonial clubhouse in the Raj and an Eighties school disco, with blinking coloured lights and cheese blaring out. As I enter, a girl in a short skirt collapses out of the door onto her back. A guy wearing a pirate hat helps her to her feet, dropping his beer bottle with a paralytic laugh.
I start to talk to two sun-dried women in their sixties who have been getting gently sozzled since midday. "You stay here for The Lifestyle," they say, telling me to take a seat and order some more drinks. All the expats talk about The Lifestyle, but when you ask what it is, they become vague. Ann Wark tries to summarise it: "Here, you go out every night. You'd never do that back home. You see people all the time. It's great. You have lots of free time. You have maids and staff so you don't have to do all that stuff. You party!"
They have been in Dubai for 20 years, and they are happy to explain how the city works. "You've got a hierarchy, haven't you?" Ann says. "It's the Emiratis at the top, then I'd say the British and other Westerners. Then I suppose it's the Filipinos, because they've got a bit more brains than the Indians. Then at the bottom you've got the Indians and all them lot."
They admit, however, they have "never" spoken to an Emirati. Never? "No. They keep themselves to themselves." Yet Dubai has disappointed them. Jules Taylor tells me: "If you have an accident here it's a nightmare. There was a British woman we knew who ran over an Indian guy, and she was locked up for four days! If you have a tiny bit of alcohol on your breath they're all over you. These Indians throw themselves in front of cars, because then their family has to be given blood money – you know, compensation. But the police just blame us. That poor woman."
A 24-year-old British woman called Hannah Gamble takes a break from the dancefloor to talk to me. "I love the sun and the beach! It's great out here!" she says. Is there anything bad? "Oh yes!" she says. Ah: one of them has noticed, I think with relief. "The banks! When you want to make a transfer you have to fax them. You can't do it online." Anything else? She thinks hard. "The traffic's not very good."
When I ask the British expats how they feel to not be in a democracy, their reaction is always the same. First, they look bemused. Then they look affronted. "It's the Arab way!" an Essex boy shouts at me in response, as he tries to put a pair of comedy antlers on his head while pouring some beer into the mouth of his friend, who is lying on his back on the floor, gurning.
Later, in a hotel bar, I start chatting to a dyspeptic expat American who works in the cosmetics industry and is desperate to get away from these people. She says: "All the people who couldn't succeed in their own countries end up here, and suddenly they're rich and promoted way above their abilities and bragging about how great they are. I've never met so many incompetent people in such senior positions anywhere in the world." She adds: "It's absolutely racist. I had Filipino girls working for me doing the same job as a European girl, and she's paid a quarter of the wages. The people who do the real work are paid next to nothing, while these incompetent managers pay themselves £40,000 a month."
With the exception of her, one theme unites every expat I speak to: their joy at having staff to do the work that would clog their lives up Back Home. Everyone, it seems, has a maid. The maids used to be predominantly Filipino, but with the recession, Filipinos have been judged to be too expensive, so a nice Ethiopian servant girl is the latest fashionable accessory.
It is an open secret that once you hire a maid, you have absolute power over her. You take her passport – everyone does; you decide when to pay her, and when – if ever – she can take a break; and you decide who she talks to. She speaks no Arabic. She cannot escape.
In a Burger King, a Filipino girl tells me it is "terrifying" for her to wander the malls in Dubai because Filipino maids or nannies always sneak away from the family they are with and beg her for help. "They say – 'Please, I am being held prisoner, they don't let me call home, they make me work every waking hour seven days a week.' At first I would say – my God, I will tell the consulate, where are you staying? But they never know their address, and the consulate isn't interested. I avoid them now. I keep thinking about a woman who told me she hadn't eaten any fruit in four years. They think I have power because I can walk around on my own, but I'm powerless."
The only hostel for women in Dubai – a filthy private villa on the brink of being repossessed – is filled with escaped maids. Mela Matari, a 25-year-old Ethiopian woman with a drooping smile, tells me what happened to her – and thousands like her. She was promised a paradise in the sands by an agency, so she left her four year-old daughter at home and headed here to earn money for a better future. "But they paid me half what they promised. I was put with an Australian family – four children – and Madam made me work from 6am to 1am every day, with no day off. I was exhausted and pleaded for a break, but they just shouted: 'You came here to work, not sleep!' Then one day I just couldn't go on, and Madam beat me. She beat me with her fists and kicked me. My ear still hurts. They wouldn't give me my wages: they said they'd pay me at the end of the two years. What could I do? I didn't know anybody here. I was terrified."
One day, after yet another beating, Mela ran out onto the streets, and asked – in broken English – how to find the Ethiopian consulate. After walking for two days, she found it, but they told her she had to get her passport back from Madam. "Well, how could I?" she asks. She has been in this hostel for six months. She has spoken to her daughter twice. "I lost my country, I lost my daughter, I lost everything," she says.
As she says this, I remember a stray sentence I heard back at Double Decker. I asked a British woman called Hermione Frayling what the best thing about Dubai was. "Oh, the servant class!" she trilled. "You do nothing. They'll do anything!"
VIII. The End of The World
The World is empty. It has been abandoned, its continents unfinished. Through binoculars, I think I can glimpse Britain; this sceptred isle barren in the salt-breeze.
Here, off the coast of Dubai, developers have been rebuilding the world. They have constructed artificial islands in the shape of all planet Earth's land masses, and they plan to sell each continent off to be built on. There were rumours that the Beckhams would bid for Britain. But the people who work at the nearby coast say they haven't seen anybody there for months now. "The World is over," a South African suggests.
All over Dubai, crazy projects that were Under Construction are now Under Collapse. They were building an air-conditioned beach here, with cooling pipes running below the sand, so the super-rich didn't singe their toes on their way from towel to sea.
The projects completed just before the global economy crashed look empty and tattered. The Atlantis Hotel was launched last winter in a $20m fin-de-siecle party attended by Robert De Niro, Lindsay Lohan and Lily Allen. Sitting on its own fake island – shaped, of course, like a palm tree – it looks like an immense upturned tooth in a faintly decaying mouth. It is pink and turreted – the architecture of the pharaohs, as reimagined by Zsa-Zsa Gabor. Its Grand Lobby is a monumental dome covered in glitterballs, held up by eight monumental concrete palm trees. Standing in the middle, there is a giant shining glass structure that looks like the intestines of every guest who has ever stayed at the Atlantis. It is unexpectedly raining; water is leaking from the roof, and tiles are falling off.
A South African PR girl shows me around its most coveted rooms, explaining that this is "the greatest luxury offered in the world". We stroll past shops selling £24m diamond rings around a hotel themed on the lost and sunken continent of, yes, Atlantis. There are huge water tanks filled with sharks, which poke around mock-abandoned castles and dumped submarines. There are more than 1,500 rooms here, each with a sea view. The Neptune suite has three floors, and – I gasp as I see it – it looks out directly on to the vast shark tank. You lie on the bed, and the sharks stare in at you. In Dubai, you can sleep with the fishes, and survive.
But even the luxury – reminiscent of a Bond villain's lair – is also being abandoned. I check myself in for a few nights to the classiest hotel in town, the Park Hyatt. It is the fashionistas' favourite hotel, where Elle Macpherson and Tommy Hilfiger stay, a gorgeous, understated palace. It feels empty. Whenever I eat, I am one of the only people in the restaurant. A staff member tells me in a whisper: "It used to be full here. Now there's hardly anyone." Rattling around, I feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, the last man in an abandoned, haunted home.
The most famous hotel in Dubai – the proud icon of the city – is the Burj al Arab hotel, sitting on the shore, shaped like a giant glass sailing boat. In the lobby, I start chatting to a couple from London who work in the City. They have been coming to Dubai for 10 years now, and they say they love it. "You never know what you'll find here," he says. "On our last trip, at the beginning of the holiday, our window looked out on the sea. By the end, they'd built an entire island there."
My patience frayed by all this excess, I find myself snapping: doesn't the omnipresent slave class bother you? I hope they misunderstood me, because the woman replied: "That's what we come for! It's great, you can't do anything for yourself!" Her husband chimes in: "When you go to the toilet, they open the door, they turn on the tap – the only thing they don't do is take it out for you when you have a piss!" And they both fall about laughing.
IX. Taking on the Desert
Dubai is not just a city living beyond its financial means; it is living beyond its ecological means. You stand on a manicured Dubai lawn and watch the sprinklers spray water all around you. You see tourists flocking to swim with dolphins. You wander into a mountain-sized freezer where they have built a ski slope with real snow. And a voice at the back of your head squeaks: this is the desert. This is the most water-stressed place on the planet. How can this be happening? How is it possible?
The very earth is trying to repel Dubai, to dry it up and blow it away. The new Tiger Woods Gold Course needs four million gallons of water to be pumped on to its grounds every day, or it would simply shrivel and disappear on the winds. The city is regularly washed over with dust-storms that fog up the skies and turn the skyline into a blur. When the dust parts, heat burns through. It cooks anything that is not kept constantly, artificially wet.
Dr Mohammed Raouf, the environmental director of the Gulf Research Centre, sounds sombre as he sits in his Dubai office and warns: "This is a desert area, and we are trying to defy its environment. It is very unwise. If you take on the desert, you will lose."
Sheikh Maktoum built his showcase city in a place with no useable water. None. There is no surface water, very little acquifer, and among the lowest rainfall in the world. So Dubai drinks the sea. The Emirates' water is stripped of salt in vast desalination plants around the Gulf – making it the most expensive water on earth. It costs more than petrol to produce, and belches vast amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere as it goes. It's the main reason why a resident of Dubai has the biggest average carbon footprint of any human being – more than double that of an American.
If a recession turns into depression, Dr Raouf believes Dubai could run out of water. "At the moment, we have financial reserves that cover bringing so much water to the middle of the desert. But if we had lower revenues – if, say, the world shifts to a source of energy other than oil..." he shakes his head. "We will have a very big problem. Water is the main source of life. It would be a catastrophe. Dubai only has enough water to last us a week. There's almost no storage. We don't know what will happen if our supplies falter. It would be hard to survive."
Global warming, he adds, makes the problem even worse. "We are building all these artificial islands, but if the sea level rises, they will be gone, and we will lose a lot. Developers keep saying it's all fine, they've taken it into consideration, but I'm not so sure."
Is the Dubai government concerned about any of this? "There isn't much interest in these problems," he says sadly. But just to stand still, the average resident of Dubai needs three times more water than the average human. In the looming century of water stresses and a transition away from fossil fuels, Dubai is uniquely vulnerable.
I wanted to understand how the government of Dubai will react, so I decided to look at how it has dealt with an environmental problem that already exists – the pollution of its beaches. One woman – an American, working at one of the big hotels – had written in a lot of online forums arguing that it was bad and getting worse, so I called her to arrange a meeting. "I can't talk to you," she said sternly. Not even if it's off the record? "I can't talk to you." But I don't have to disclose your name... "You're not listening. This phone is bugged. I can't talk to you," she snapped, and hung up.
The next day I turned up at her office. "If you reveal my identity, I'll be sent on the first plane out of this city," she said, before beginning to nervously pace the shore with me. "It started like this. We began to get complaints from people using the beach. The water looked and smelled odd, and they were starting to get sick after going into it. So I wrote to the ministers of health and tourism and expected to hear back immediately – but there was nothing. Silence. I hand-delivered the letters. Still nothing."
The water quality got worse and worse. The guests started to spot raw sewage, condoms, and used sanitary towels floating in the sea. So the hotel ordered its own water analyses from a professional company. "They told us it was full of fecal matter and bacteria 'too numerous to count'. I had to start telling guests not to go in the water, and since they'd come on a beach holiday, as you can imagine, they were pretty pissed off." She began to make angry posts on the expat discussion forums – and people began to figure out what was happening. Dubai had expanded so fast its sewage treatment facilities couldn't keep up. The sewage disposal trucks had to queue for three or four days at the treatment plants – so instead, they were simply drilling open the manholes and dumping the untreated sewage down them, so it flowed straight to the sea.
Suddenly, it was an open secret – and the municipal authorities finally acknowledged the problem. They said they would fine the truckers. But the water quality didn't improve: it became black and stank. "It's got chemicals in it. I don't know what they are. But this stuff is toxic."
She continued to complain – and started to receive anonymous phone calls. "Stop embarassing Dubai, or your visa will be cancelled and you're out," they said. She says: "The expats are terrified to talk about anything. One critical comment in the newspapers and they deport you. So what am I supposed to do? Now the water is worse than ever. People are getting really sick. Eye infections, ear infections, stomach infections, rashes. Look at it!" There is faeces floating on the beach, in the shadow of one of Dubai's most famous hotels.
"What I learnt about Dubai is that the authorities don't give a toss about the environment," she says, standing in the stench. "They're pumping toxins into the sea, their main tourist attraction, for God's sake. If there are environmental problems in the future, I can tell you now how they will deal with them – deny it's happening, cover it up, and carry on until it's a total disaster." As she speaks, a dust-storm blows around us, as the desert tries, slowly, insistently, to take back its land.
X. Fake Plastic Trees
On my final night in the Dubai Disneyland, I stop off on my way to the airport, at a Pizza Hut that sits at the side of one of the city's endless, wide, gaping roads. It is identical to the one near my apartment in London in every respect, even the vomit-coloured decor. My mind is whirring and distracted. Perhaps Dubai disturbed me so much, I am thinking, because here, the entire global supply chain is condensed. Many of my goods are made by semi-enslaved populations desperate for a chance 2,000 miles away; is the only difference that here, they are merely two miles away, and you sometimes get to glimpse their faces? Dubai is Market Fundamentalist Globalisation in One City.
I ask the Filipino girl behind the counter if she likes it here. "It's OK," she says cautiously. Really? I say. I can't stand it. She sighs with relief and says: "This is the most terrible place! I hate it! I was here for months before I realised – everything in Dubai is fake. Everything you see. The trees are fake, the workers' contracts are fake, the islands are fake, the smiles are fake – even the water is fake!" But she is trapped, she says. She got into debt to come here, and she is stuck for three years: an old story now. "I think Dubai is like an oasis. It is an illusion, not real. You think you have seen water in the distance, but you get close and you only get a mouthful of sand."
As she says this, another customer enters. She forces her face into the broad, empty Dubai smile and says: "And how may I help you tonight, sir?"
Some names in this article have been changed.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
In Praise of Capitalist Exploitation
In Praise of Capitalist Exploitation
By Dr. Mark W. Hendrickson
FrontPageMagazine.com | 3/31/2009
For well over a century, socialists, progressives, and even many Christians have railed against the capitalist exploitation of workers. They denounce capitalists—whether the Carnegies and Fricks of yesteryear or the Nikes of today—for paying low wages for hard work.
Their antagonism toward individual and corporate targets is misplaced. The inexorable law of supply and demand, not greedy exploiters, determines wages. When the supply of labor exceeds capital’s demand for labor, wages are low. Carnegie could pay low wages because if Smith wasn’t willing to work for a pittance, Jones was. Why? Because those low wages were superior to Jones’ other options. The choice wasn’t between a carefree life in the country and hard labor for low wages. It was between regular income or destitution, misery, and too often an early death. That is why our ancestors took those jobs, and that is why, in poor countries today, when a sweatshop has openings, eager applicants line up for blocks.
The subsistence wages prevalent in the early stages of the Industrial Revolution and the Age of Capitalism impelled the classical economist David Ricardo to posit the “iron law of wages”—the theory that workers were doomed forever to earn subsistence wages. But a funny thing happened on the way to perpetual poverty. Ricardo (and indeed, all his contemporaries) did not foresee the rapid multiplication of wealth that capitalism would generate. Had they lived for another 50 years, they would have seen the law of supply and demand cuts both ways. When capital’s demand for labor exceeds supply, wages rise, which is exactly what happened as more and more capitalists began to “exploit” labor. The same phenomenon has been witnessed in China in this decade (before the recent global economic contraction). Chinese workers, who had been at the mercy of employers, demanded—and got—much better compensation, as employers competed for their labor.
It isn’t the Carnegies’ and Nikes’ fault when wages are low. They aren’t responsible for an area having a large pool of labor, nor are they to blame when there aren’t more capitalists competing to employ those workers. Where wages are low, the cause isn’t the presence of exploitative capitalist employers, but precisely the opposite: there aren’t enough capitalist employers to tilt the law of supply and demand to labor’s advantage.
There are two ways to shift the labor/capital ratio to raise wages—either reduce the supply of labor (after the bubonic plague wiped out a third of Europe’s population in the 14th century, wages rose smartly for the survivors) or increase capital investment. Some radical environmentalists favor the former, but isn’t peaceful investment preferable to genocide?
According to Marxist-Leninist dogma, capitalists are economic bloodsuckers, enriching themselves while impoverishing their employees. The fallacy in this assertion is evident in the indisputable fact that most of the world’s capital is invested in the rich, developed countries, not in poor countries. It is no coincidence that the United States has both the most invested capital and the most wealth. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel “exploited” or victimized. However, I suspect that millions of people around the world wish they were so exploited.
Critics of sweatshops apply a static rather than dynamic analysis. They take a mental snapshot of a rich company making large profits while paying meager wages. From this picture, anti-capitalist critics perceive sweatshops as the end-result of capital investment. That is an error. Life is a motion picture, not a snapshot. In country after country that has made its peace with profit-seeking capitalists, grim working conditions have been a transitional phenomenon, marking the early stages of a society’s emergence from lethal poverty to improved standards of living and longevity.
Sweatshops comprise the first couple of grim rungs on the ladder of economic development. While no humane person would wish sweatshops to be a permanent condition for a society, neither should any humane person wish to cut off the bottom rungs of the ladder of economic progress and condemn a society to remain permanently poor.
Those who condemn sweatshops categorically for being “harsh” should specify “harsh relative to what?” Harsh by our standards, indeed, but often an improvement over work standards prevalent in those countries and far less harsh than the conditions those workers would face without those jobs. Nike gets bashed for allegedly paying “low wages,” but that is only true by the standards of a developed country. In Vietnam, Nike pays workers twice a teacher’s salary and more than government-employed doctors make; in Honduras, Nike’s starting wage is above the average per capita income, etc., etc.
Over the course of human history, profit-seeking business leaders—scorned as “greedy capitalists”—have done more to preserve human life and lift human beings out of poverty than all the churches, charities, and government welfare programs combined. That isn’t to argue the self-evident absurdity that all capitalists have been decent or well-intentioned individuals; nevertheless, the evidence is overwhelming that capitalists, as a group, have done far more to benefit the human race than anyone else. It is economic ignorance or, in a minority of cases, warped character, that impels critics to vilify society’s benefactors. These benefactors deserve our gratitude and praise, for without them, there would be a lot fewer people alive today and a lot more poverty. Dr. Mark W. Hendrickson is a faculty member, economist, and contributing scholar with the Center for Vision and Values at Grove City College.
By Dr. Mark W. Hendrickson
FrontPageMagazine.com | 3/31/2009
For well over a century, socialists, progressives, and even many Christians have railed against the capitalist exploitation of workers. They denounce capitalists—whether the Carnegies and Fricks of yesteryear or the Nikes of today—for paying low wages for hard work.
Their antagonism toward individual and corporate targets is misplaced. The inexorable law of supply and demand, not greedy exploiters, determines wages. When the supply of labor exceeds capital’s demand for labor, wages are low. Carnegie could pay low wages because if Smith wasn’t willing to work for a pittance, Jones was. Why? Because those low wages were superior to Jones’ other options. The choice wasn’t between a carefree life in the country and hard labor for low wages. It was between regular income or destitution, misery, and too often an early death. That is why our ancestors took those jobs, and that is why, in poor countries today, when a sweatshop has openings, eager applicants line up for blocks.
The subsistence wages prevalent in the early stages of the Industrial Revolution and the Age of Capitalism impelled the classical economist David Ricardo to posit the “iron law of wages”—the theory that workers were doomed forever to earn subsistence wages. But a funny thing happened on the way to perpetual poverty. Ricardo (and indeed, all his contemporaries) did not foresee the rapid multiplication of wealth that capitalism would generate. Had they lived for another 50 years, they would have seen the law of supply and demand cuts both ways. When capital’s demand for labor exceeds supply, wages rise, which is exactly what happened as more and more capitalists began to “exploit” labor. The same phenomenon has been witnessed in China in this decade (before the recent global economic contraction). Chinese workers, who had been at the mercy of employers, demanded—and got—much better compensation, as employers competed for their labor.
It isn’t the Carnegies’ and Nikes’ fault when wages are low. They aren’t responsible for an area having a large pool of labor, nor are they to blame when there aren’t more capitalists competing to employ those workers. Where wages are low, the cause isn’t the presence of exploitative capitalist employers, but precisely the opposite: there aren’t enough capitalist employers to tilt the law of supply and demand to labor’s advantage.
There are two ways to shift the labor/capital ratio to raise wages—either reduce the supply of labor (after the bubonic plague wiped out a third of Europe’s population in the 14th century, wages rose smartly for the survivors) or increase capital investment. Some radical environmentalists favor the former, but isn’t peaceful investment preferable to genocide?
According to Marxist-Leninist dogma, capitalists are economic bloodsuckers, enriching themselves while impoverishing their employees. The fallacy in this assertion is evident in the indisputable fact that most of the world’s capital is invested in the rich, developed countries, not in poor countries. It is no coincidence that the United States has both the most invested capital and the most wealth. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel “exploited” or victimized. However, I suspect that millions of people around the world wish they were so exploited.
Critics of sweatshops apply a static rather than dynamic analysis. They take a mental snapshot of a rich company making large profits while paying meager wages. From this picture, anti-capitalist critics perceive sweatshops as the end-result of capital investment. That is an error. Life is a motion picture, not a snapshot. In country after country that has made its peace with profit-seeking capitalists, grim working conditions have been a transitional phenomenon, marking the early stages of a society’s emergence from lethal poverty to improved standards of living and longevity.
Sweatshops comprise the first couple of grim rungs on the ladder of economic development. While no humane person would wish sweatshops to be a permanent condition for a society, neither should any humane person wish to cut off the bottom rungs of the ladder of economic progress and condemn a society to remain permanently poor.
Those who condemn sweatshops categorically for being “harsh” should specify “harsh relative to what?” Harsh by our standards, indeed, but often an improvement over work standards prevalent in those countries and far less harsh than the conditions those workers would face without those jobs. Nike gets bashed for allegedly paying “low wages,” but that is only true by the standards of a developed country. In Vietnam, Nike pays workers twice a teacher’s salary and more than government-employed doctors make; in Honduras, Nike’s starting wage is above the average per capita income, etc., etc.
Over the course of human history, profit-seeking business leaders—scorned as “greedy capitalists”—have done more to preserve human life and lift human beings out of poverty than all the churches, charities, and government welfare programs combined. That isn’t to argue the self-evident absurdity that all capitalists have been decent or well-intentioned individuals; nevertheless, the evidence is overwhelming that capitalists, as a group, have done far more to benefit the human race than anyone else. It is economic ignorance or, in a minority of cases, warped character, that impels critics to vilify society’s benefactors. These benefactors deserve our gratitude and praise, for without them, there would be a lot fewer people alive today and a lot more poverty. Dr. Mark W. Hendrickson is a faculty member, economist, and contributing scholar with the Center for Vision and Values at Grove City College.
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