The Olympics Opening Ceremony and China's Past

From inside the 91,000-seat Bird's Nest stadium, fireworks dazzled and the thunder of 2,008 performers drumming on traditional fou percussion instruments rolled throughout the stadium. High-tech special effects gave even the kitschiest subject matter a startling edge. An ode to China's invention of movable type—ho hum, you might say—morphed into a vast sea of undulating cubic shapes, simulating a giant computer keyboard—and took my breath away.

When five-time Olympic medal winner Li Ning prepared to ignite the Olympic flame, invisible wires swooped him skyward for a gravity-defying spacewalk around the stadium's rooftop opening. When gymnast Li, who launched a successful sports clothing and accessories empire after snagging three gold medals in Los Angeles, finally lit a gigantic torch perched on the rim of the Bird's Nest, the crowd went wild.

This was China's soft-power version of "shock and awe." Or at least, that metaphor ran through my mind as the pyrotechnics reminded me of watching the U.S. "shock and awe" bombing of Baghdad in 2003 from my Palestine Hotel room balcony. Just as Washington's adventure in Iraq today symbolizes the beginning of the decline of U.S. influence around the world—despite its military might—so will China's hosting of these Olympics be seen as a sign that it has arrived as a global power, despite its tarnished human-rights record. Nowhere will this tilting balance of power be more pointedly symbolized than in the Olympic medal count, where China may have a better than even chance of snagging the highest number of gold medals, displacing the U.S.

Flanked by leaders of the United States and Russia—among 80-some other foreign dignitaries—Chinese president Hu Jintao stiffly declared the 2008 Games had begun. Inside he had reason to feel triumphant: one theme hammered (or, more accurately, drummed) into the audience again and again was "harmony," a codeword for Hu's Confucius-influenced call for a "harmonious society." Yet Hu could also be excused for feeling jittery and overwhelmed by today's tsunami of national pride. China has always felt more comfortable in the role of an underdog, as a feisty champion of the developing world, than as a big world power.

That's because global clout brings with it global responsibilities. As a rainbow coalition of anti-China activists has shown in a series of protests this year, Hu and his comrades have dwindling excuses for standing to one side when genocide is unfolding in Darfur (Khartoum looks to Beijing for aid and moral support) or the Burmese junta (ditto with Rangoon) ratchets up its repression or, indeed, the Chinese regime tightens the screws on its own population.

Shortly after tonight's opening ceremonies began, Russian tanks were reported to be rolling into Georgia—a stark reminder to Hu (and Putin for that matter) that even a sacred event such as the Olympics cannot prevent harsh political realities from intruding. Most pundits analyzed tonight's festivities as a celebration of Chinese might. I saw a somewhat more complex message. True, the sight of goose-stepping soldiers carrying the Olympic flag (shades of Berlin
1936) or the sheer precision of thousands of performers moving intricately as one (á la Pyongyang's Mass Games) made it easy to focus on China's autocratic demeanor.

But if you read the cultural icons carefully, they also weave a tapestry of loss and redemption. The unique thing about China's current aspirations to greatness is that it's been down that road before. While Beijing's economic achievements over the past three decades have been mind-boggling, similar accomplishments took place at least twice before in its long history—a history that dominated tonight's performance, starting with the arcane fou bronze drums dating back to the Xia Dynasty (circa 2070 B.C.).

During the Tang Dynasty (618-907 A.D.), China's trading routes stretched along the Silk Road to Constantinople, and the Middle Kingdom was a famous source of silks, Buddhist teachings and innovations in printing and cartography. In the Ming Dynasty, China's legendary eunuch admiral Zheng Ho (1371-1433 A.D.) navigated his treasure fleets as far away as West Asia and Zanzibar, returning with tribute from vassal states and exotic finds such as giraffes. But those golden eras ended after economic setbacks and internal decline.

Tonight's show strummed many of those themes. The wire-suspended dancers who flitted across the sky high above the audience, a la Peter Pan, were apsaras (like angels) whose likenesses are painted in many Tang-era Buddhist grottoes such as those at Dunhuang, along the ancient Silk Road. And Zheng Ho warranted a whole dance performance dedicated to his seven fleets, which carried 27,000 people in all to distant lands.

Yet many of the Chinese inventions extolled (however imaginatively) tonight—from gunpowder to paper to movable printing type—were innovations that ultimately stalled in China, only to be advanced in leaps and bounds by other nations. And while the entire evening was an homage to the 2,500-year-old Analects of Confucius—an ancient Chinese thinker who "comes first among the top 10 historical celebrities in the world," as the official Opening Ceremony Media Guide puts it—nothing was said of China's Great Helmsman, Mao Zedong.

It was Mao who jettisoned Confucian ethics and unleashed the incredibly destructive 1966-1976 Cultural Revolution that gutted China's educational system, lobotomized the intelligentsia, and rendered the economy a basket case.

So, yes, this was a celebration to China's illustrious heritage—and of its promising future. But tonight's razzle-dazzle painted the portrait of an idealized Chinese past, of a gauzily perfect
what-should-have-been instead of the rather more tawdry what-really-was. And it isn't only the ancient, imperial past that has been treated to this collective amnesia. At the finale of the evening, as sports-and-business icon Li Ning trotted like an astronaut, parallel to the ground, around the rim of the Bird's Nest, images of China's Olympics torch relay were projected against the flat panels of the rim. Predictably enough, the stops in Paris and London showed nothing of the rambunctious anti-China protests that had erupted in those and other cities to underscore China's poor human-rights record, particularly in Tibet.

Not everyone believes Beijing deserves another chance to be a great power; China's hosting of the Olympics has been hotly debated and fraught with controversy ever since Beijing won its bid seven years ago. When China's critics launched protests against its policies in Tibet—after violent riots which erupted in Lhasa on March 14—emotional Chinese both at home and abroad rallied to their government's defense, calling for a boycott of French goods (because of the anti-China protests in Paris) and stridently criticizing Western media for allegedly biased reporting. Some Western journalists based in Beijing received death threats.

But in a year of many surprises, the story line shifted yet again after yet another unexpected development. The devastating May earthquake in Sichuan province grabbed domestic attention and triggered an unexpected outpouring of domestic philanthropy and volunteerism that took even the government by surprise. In a flash, it seemed, strident anti-Western voices quieted down, and so did much of the Western criticism of China, at least for a time, as the international community scrambled to send rescue personnel and relief supplies to the stricken area.

China's post-Mao economic boom, which lifted hundreds of millions of residents out of poverty, has given the country another shot at the sort of international influence it had enjoyed in the Tang and Ming dynasties. And the international sympathy triggered by Sichuan's quake, which killed 70,000 people, also paradoxically gave Beijing a second chance to get the Olympics right after the PR disasters of the European torch relay.

The quake's significance was acknowledged by some Olympic pageantry. When the 183-person Chinese Olympics team entered the stadium to thunderous applause tonight, flag-bearer and basketball celebrity Yao Ming walked alongside a 9-year-old Sichuan quake survivor. President
of the Beijing Games Organizing Committee, Liu Qi, said that after the quake the international community's "heart-warming support has heightened the morale of the Chinese nation in the reconstruction of quake-stricken areas and boosted our confidence and determination in staging successful Games." For the next two weeks, China's every move will be scrutinized as never before—will the crackdown on dissidents continue? Will the contest for gold get ugly? And Beijing will be bending over backwards not to flub this hard-fought chance to be great
once again.

Uncommon Knowledge

Newsweek is committed to challenging conventional wisdom and finding connections in the search for common ground.

Newsweek is committed to challenging conventional wisdom and finding connections in the search for common ground.

About the writer


To read how Newsweek uses AI as a newsroom tool, Click here.

Newsweek cover
  • Newsweek magazine delivered to your door
  • Newsweek Voices: Diverse audio opinions
  • Enjoy ad-free browsing on Newsweek.com
  • Comment on articles
  • Newsweek app updates on-the-go
Newsweek cover
  • Newsweek Voices: Diverse audio opinions
  • Enjoy ad-free browsing on Newsweek.com
  • Comment on articles
  • Newsweek app updates on-the-go