The confidence that the Chinese had shown in 1956 was more in the nature of defiance, but China had not felt alone. There was back-up support from the Soviet Union. The relations between these two great superpowers had not only been cordial, but positively brotherly. There had not too many foreigners in China in those days, and it was not uncommon for foreigners to be greeted on the streets by children: “Welcome, Russian Uncle.” Whenever we spoke of the difficulties that lay ahead, my hosts would say that they had the Soviet Union as their friend. In the Industrial North-East (Manchuria) that I had visited, Russian presence was very prominent, as well as that of East Europeans. On a social level, I had not met any of these special friends, though I had spoken to some Hungarians who were staying in the same hotel as I was in Harbin, polite conversation, an exchange of courtesies.
Now, in 1964, China and the Soviet Union were adversaries and that special relationship had turned sour. It was Chairman Mao, the helmsman, according to whose thoughts the Chinese were meeting their challenges, both external and internal. Chairman Mao’s portraits were everywhere. His thoughts were quoted in every discussion. I asked an airhostess on one of the domestic flights why there were no seat-belts, and she reassured me that flight was being operated according to the thoughts of Chairman Mao. It would have been heresy to tell her that Chairman Mao had no control on turbulence.
The Chinese Revolution had not happened overnight. It had not been a conspiracy hatched in Moscow. It had deep roots in China’s own history, but it had taken a talismanic figure such as Mao to bring it all together. China stood on its own feet. And it was supremely confident.
We had arrived to take part in May Day celebrations and had watched the parade and the display of fireworks from Tien An Mien Square in Beijing. I was glad to be in Beijing again. I remembered it as a quiet, almost poetic city. It did not resemble other great cities such as New York, London or Paris. Beijing was a city without any apparent urban stress. And there were no harsh street sounds such as the violent blaring of automobile horns, the strident eerie wailing of police-car sirens, not even the voices of vendors and hawkers that one heard in other Asian cities. Like everything else in China, Beijing had an orderly and disciplined look. It was within this look that one found Beijing’s fragile beauty. There were more cars on the streets than there had been in 1956, but there were even more bicycles.
I was seeing China with Asian eyes. Not so Rene Burri. I spent a lot of my free time talking with him. He brought to China a sensitive, European mind. He saw things differently. He was critical where I was enthusiastic. But he had the ability and the good sense not to make comparisons. He told me that he did not wish his Switzerland to go China’s way. At the same time, he respected China and said that he could not reject China’s social system without rejecting the compassion he felt for the poor of the world. “If I was Chinese, this is what I would want for my country,” he summed up. A vast improvement over Senator Wherry who had vowed in 1940: “With God’s help, we will lift Shanghai up and up. Ever up, until it is just like Kansas City.” I didn’t want Beijing to be like New York, nor New York to be like Beijing. The Chinese had no intention in wanting to impose their ideology on others and did not want others to impose their systems on China. That understood, one could go about and enjoy oneself in China.
The inaugural flight guests were kept very busy with sight-seeing and cultural programmes. Everything can be worked to a tight schedule if everyone believes in time-keeping. Often, some of our guests, mainly Pakistanis, would adhere to a more leisurely schedule and others would be kept waiting. I had with me my press-officer, Salahuddin Siddiqui, and it was his job to round-up the stragglers. Our hosts seemed unruffled. We made all sorts of excuses, but always there was the polite smile and not a trace of irritation. “Don’t worry,” they would tell me, “we understand.” What was there to understand? These guests were taking their hosts for granted and it amounted to discourtesy.
There were two high points of this visit. Prime Minister Chou En Lai had agreed to meet Nur Khan and some of the guests, but not any of the journalists. It was a courtesy call and a few of us met him. I had met him in 1956, and he had made a great impression on me. There was something of an aristocrat about him, not arrogance but a quiet authority. When he spoke, no one dared interrupt him. He spoke through an interpreter, but seemed to understand English and he, sometimes, corrected his interpreter. At that time, soon after the Sino-lndian war, the Americans had started to sell arms to the Indians. Chou En Lai made two observation on this at our meeting. He said that Pakistan should protest at an international level but not too vigorously at home. Pakistan ran the risk of demoralizing its own people. The other was, and he quoted a Chinese proverb, that a country that has no enemies, dies. Other than that, we made polite talk. It was a brief meeting, but it had symbolic value. The Chinese saw the air link as something more than commercial, and he appreciated the courage that Nur Khan had shown in withstanding American pressure.
There was a press conference with Marshal Chen-Yi, the Chinese Foreign Minister. One of the lady journalists, Mary Goldring of The Economist, had asked him why the women they had seen wore such drab dresses, while she had seen silks and brocades at the stores, Friendship Stores, that were meant for foreign visitors. Chen-Yi said that a day would come when all women in China would wear silks and brocades. He quoted a Chinese saying that not all women in the kitchen are beautiful. It was a way of saying that Chinese had their priorities.
Mary Goldring was a tough reporter and the defence and aviation correspondent of The Economist. She was a friend of PIA, and we had invited her to Pakistan earlier. She had written about PIA with some admiration. I had attended an IATA Public Relations Conference in Washington DC, and Mary had introduced me to Sir Mathew Slattery who was the BOAC Chairman. In introducing me, she had told Sir Mathew: “Talk to him and he will tell you how to run an airline.” Sir Mathew had made a speech and had lambasted the airlines from the Third World, calling them ‘Flying Embassies’ who were eating into the market-share of the more established airlines. BOAC had reported a record loss and had been bailed out by the British Government. I mentioned his speech and asked him how he would define a prestige-carrier? I told him that PIA was making a profit, while BOAC had been rescued by the government. “Which of us is the Flying Embassy?” Sir Mathew had mumbled something and had moved away, in somewhat indecent haste and some egg on his face.
The inaugural flight and the stay in China had been a triumph for PIA, but it had been hectic and I was glad it was winding down. But I decided that I wanted to return to China and Rene Burri had also expressed a similar wish. I wanted to write a book on China, that I mentioned to Nur Khan. He thought it was a good idea and I could take leave and Rene and I started to make plans.
And so we returned to Shanghai, to take the flight back to Karachi. Shanghai had been my introduction to China. On my way to the United States in 1947, my ship, the M.V. Marine Adder, had called at Shanghai. China was then in the throes of a civil war, guns were booming in the suburbs and the city was in a state of near-anarchy. Even so, Shanghai had a reputation to be independent of the tumultuous events that had overtaken it, a big adventure, a big city with every vice magnified in its size. Now, there was a blandness about Shanghai, as if the heart had gone out of it. Of course, it was dull for those who seek excitement. But it was not dull for those who look for social justice behind the blandness. Shanghai now belonged to the Chinese people. The race course may have been converted into a cultural park, but it was safe to walk about its streets at night. There may not have been too many bright lamps, but the dark was light enough. China had changed and it would keep changing: a sleeping giant had awakened.
