Shortly after Jiang Zemin and his so-called “third generation of leaders” took over power from Deng Xiaoping and other revolutionary veterans, China began to face a new round of political succession. This is no surprise because Jiang is already 72 years old, and two other top leaders, Premier Zhu Rongji and Head of People's Congress Li Peng, are also in their early 70s. The average ages of members of the Standing Committee, Politburo and Secretariat of the 15th Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) elected in 1997 are 65, 63 and 63 respectively. These three pivotal, hierarchical leadership organizations all consist of similar age groups. When the next Party congress convenes, these political bodies will be occupied by people with an average age of 68 to 70. This narrow age distribution among the top leadership may cause problems for political succession in the future.

The People's Republic of China (PRC) has hundreds of analysts who interpret American policy for a Chinese audience. Some hold positions in government ministries, but many are in semi-official research institutes. These “America watchers” advise Chinese policy-makers and write internal papers which circulate among the top leadership. By influencing how China's leaders view the United States, they indirectly help shape policy. This article describes the community of America watchers and examines the theoretical orientations they use to understand international relations and to think about the United States. By surveying Chinese interpretations of Sino-U.S. relations during the 1990s, it seeks to evaluate how well China's America watchers understand the United States and assess their influence on Chinese foreign policy.

Over the course of the 1990s, China's arms control and nonproliferation policies have undergone a remarkable evolution. Since 1992, China has signed three major, international arms control treaties – the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty, the Chemical Weapons Convention and the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty – which it had previously lambasted for years. In addition, Beijing has continued to improve on and clarify many of its previous nonproliferation commitments as well as to adopt a legally based export control system covering a variety of sensitive materials, equipment and technologies. These developments are mirrored by the expanding roles and growing influence of a number of new bureaucratic actors in China devoted to examining its participation in the international arms control and nonproliferation regime. Most notably, in 1997 China's Foreign Ministry established a department exclusively devoted to arms control and disarmament issues. Yet despite these broad trends, little is known about the actors and influences (external and internal) affecting Beijing's arms control and nonproliferation decision-making. Chinese writings on arms control, while growing in number, tend to be descriptive rather than analytical and usually provide little insight into China's policy-making on arms control and nonproliferation.

In 1996, the Sino-Japanese conflict over the Diaoyu (Senkaku) Islands intensified to the point where the American mass circulation periodical Time asked: “Will the next Asian war be fought over a few tiny islands?” That such a question could be asked seems incredible given that the Diaoyu Islands, which lie north-east of Taiwan and west of Okinawa, consist of only five small islands and three rocky outcroppings with a total landmass of no more than 7 square kilometres or 3 square miles. Apart from their miniscule size, the islands are uninhabited, are incapable of supporting human habitation for an extended period of time and are unlikely to support any economic life of their own from indigenous resources.

One notable feature of the reform programme sponsored by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) has been the expansion of social organizations. With greater social space created by the reforms and with the state unable or unwilling to carry the same wide range of services and functions as before, organizations with varying degrees of autonomy from the party-state structures have been set up. They have been allowed or have created an increased organizational sphere and social space in which to operate and to represent social interests, and to convey those interests into the policy-making process. They not only liaise between state and society but also fulfil vital welfare functions that would otherwise go unserved.

The thirty members of Mr. Chang's society were asked to meet at his house on the 18th of the seventh month. As they were coming at his request and were going to help him with his need for funds. Mr. Chang provided a feast for his friends. A feast was served at all subsequent meetings of the [credit] society, but after the first meeting each member paid his share of the expense. (Sidney D. Gamble, “A Chinese mutual savings society,” Far Eastern Quarterly, No. 41 (1944), p. 41)

Many peasants misunderstand the Marriage Law. They blindly emphasize that the Marriage Law “liberated” them. This is the case for some women in particular, who have become very unconventional and dissolute in their sexual relations. They have several partners at once, and often switch among them, choosing whichever man appeals to them on that particular day. They also recklessly flirt with many men.

We [provincial authorities] demand the basic-level cadres desist from monitoring adultery and sex, forcing confessions, humiliating and tying people up, hanging, beating, and organizing struggle sessions [against women seeking divorce].

For two reasons the elevation of the law in government policy and political rhetoric in China in recent years inspires great interest and significance. The first is related to the perennial debate on the desirability and possibility of a “government of laws” versus a “government of men” in Chinese history. To what extent does the recent emphasis on the law indicate a movement towards the former from the latter? Given the importance of the issues of institutionalization and power distribution in the analysis of Chinese politics, what is the significance of this development of the law? What is, in other words, the meaning of the recent policy on the “rule of law”? Does it mean something new and what is that newness? The second cause of interest is the mere appearance of the topic itself. Why, and how, is it possible that the recent surge of deliberations on the rule of law occurred at all, if, as is often believed, individual leaders have heavily dominated Chinese politics? In other words, what underlying processes are at work to motivate the leaders to advocate the supremacy of the law, rather than the supremacy of their own authority?

Before the transfer of Hong Kong's sovereignty from Britain to the People's Republic of China (PRC) on 1 July 1997, the politics of interpreting the Basic Law had already become apparent. This article aims to use the debate over the Court of Final Appeal (COFA), which was set up in July 1997 to replace the Privy Council in Britain as the court of final adjudication in the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region (HKSAR), to analyse how the Basic Law had already been interpreted by PRC officials, their British counterparts and the Hong Kong people. The interpretation of the Basic Law involves many people from both Hong Kong and China. As one legal scholar writes: “In one sense all kinds of people [in the HKSAR] will have to interpret the Basic Law: civil servants and other administrators and lawyers in their day-today work, legislators to ensure that their legislation and motions are consistent with it, the State Council [in the PRC], the National People's Congress Standing Committee, even private parties since some provisions affect private acts.” The debate over the COFA may also help towards an understanding of the ongoing interpretation of various provisions of the Basic Law, which serves as the mini-constitution of the HKSAR.

“Do you have some material about rangeland laws and regulations in the West? It does not matter from which country, we urgently need some material to give us new ideas about rangeland management,” asked Li Derong, the highest ranking official responsible for rangeland policy formulation in China. His question illustrates three points. First, it shows that on the way to becoming a market economy, after more than two decades China is still very much constructing, amending and reconstructing a viable and solid system for grassland management. Secondly, it is indicative of the growing awareness within the Chinese Ministry of Agriculture that rangeland policy as it emerged after the demise of the people's communes in the 1980s is ripe for revision. Finally, it suggests an interest in examining and learning from the experience of other countries, particularly in the West.

Villages scattered along the steep slopes of north-west Yunnan present a serene picture of colourful prayer flags fluttering from rooftops and only the occasional vehicle raising dust from dirt roads. But for the past few years, summers have been a time of intense and often violent conflict. In late July, neighbouring villages prepare to fight once again over access to forests which produce wild matsutake mushrooms, a high-value Japanese luxury food that has been harvested and exported from the region for the past 12 years. The quiet summer nightlife in the nearby county seat has been transformed to a bustling mushroom market busiest between midnight and dawn. Why has this market come into existence, and what have been its effects on access to and control over forest resources?

At Wanping, around 50 kilometres from the centre of Beijing, the shots that began the eight-year war between China and Japan were fired in 1937. On the site there now stands the Memorial Museum of the Chinese People's War of Resistance to Japan (the museum's own translation of its title, Zhongguo renmin kang-Ri zhanzheng jinianguan). Inside, a wide array of materials is displayed, but among the most prominent are the waxwork diorama reconstructions of Japanese atrocities against the Chinese. One such display shows a Japanese scientist in a white coat, intent on carrying out a gruesome bacteriological warfare experiment, plunging his scalpel into the living, trussed-up body of a Chinese peasant resistance fighter. But just in case this is not enough to drive the message home, the museum designers have added a refinement: a motor inside the waxwork of the peasant, which makes his body twitch jerkily as if in response to the scalpel, an unending series of little movements until the switch is turned off at closing time.