Local Heroes Spring From Chinese Dogma

There are many noble deeds attributed to People’s Liberation Army officer Li Guoan, labeled in a recent wave of national propaganda as “Eagle of the Prairie” and “God of Water.”

In the pantheon of new heroes offered up by the corruption-sullied Communist Party to shore up its image, the commander of the Inner Mongolia Water Supply Regiment stands out.

He is praised for rising from his hospital bed after a five-hour spinal operation, strapping himself into a jeep and heading into the Gobi Desert to drill a well for impoverished villagers.

He is honored by China’s highest leadership for giving his shoes to a poor farmer; ignoring his own family to serve the greater population; and ordering his men to sleep in the comfort of his vehicle while he stayed outside in the rain.

But the heroic act that seems to best fit the strange economic-political hybrid of modern China occurred when Li rescued the new industrial park outside this dusty, wind-blown provincial capital on the Inner Mongolian grasslands.

China is no longer a one- or two-hero land.

Once, the late Chairman Mao Tse-tung and celebrated common soldier Lei Feng, who washed his comrades’ socks while they slept, sufficed.

For three years, Xu Honggang, a People’s Liberation Army soldier who braved a severe stabbing to chase criminals from a crowded bus in Sichuan Province, led the parade of heroic model citizens.

The practice of creating selfless role models dates back centuries in China. In creating their own set of heroes, the Communists only borrowed from the tradition established in the teachings of Confucius, who held selflessness, duty, patriotism and respect for hierarchy above all other values.

But like China itself, the hero terrain is growing overpopulated with instant prospects--from fallen police to successful entrepreneurs; even an occasional journalist makes the cut.

Cities and provinces, realizing that local heroes can help their economic and political standing, vie with each other for recognition by offering up candidates to the Central Party leadership for national beatification.

Localities lucky enough to land a national hero know that the resulting wave of publicity also will highlight other business interests. Inner Mongolia, for example, has used the Li media frenzy to promote the interests of a television factory, a dress-making plant and an ice cream brand.

This year, Shanghai, China’s richest and slickest city, had a strong candidate in Xu Hu, the selfless plumber.

When he was not donating blood or offering his meager earnings to charity, Xu was answering emergency calls to repair leaking pipes and toilets.

According to mountains of hagiographic literature issued by Shanghai party leaders, Xu did his best work late at night on holidays and weekends. For more than a week, Xu was featured on the national evening television news.

But in the end, the spotlight from Central Party leaders shined brightest on Inner Mongolian regimental commander Li.

Selfless plumber Xu mended a few pipes; model regimental commander Li saved Hohhot from certain humiliation.

In 1992, city leaders, including many senior officials in the local Communist Party, had approved a new Jinchuan Development Zone in the shadow of nearby Daqing Mountain.

In today’s China, which vacillates between Communist Party dogma and Chamber of Commerce babbittry, an industrial park to attract “foreign investors” is the sine qua non of any self-respecting city on the make. Practically every burg boasting a respectable population and a modicum of political clout has one.

But in rushing ahead with their plans, city leaders here had forgotten a critical detail in this arid land where Genghis Khan once rode with his magnificent cavalry: water.

“It was less than a month before foreign investors were coming to inspect the site,” recalled Jinchuan General Manager Wang Zhongmin at a news conference here, when the developers realized they had forgotten about the H2O. Desperate, filled with the sense of impending shame, the developers turned for help to the People’s Liberation Army’s Water Supply Regiment under Col. Li Guoan’s command.

“We called the PLA,” Wang said. “We knew it was their duty to come to the front. We knew that, even if they had to put their mouth on the barrel of a gun, they would do it.”

At this point, the barrel of a gun probably seemed an attractive option. The problem? It was still winter in Hohhot, which is above the 40-degree parallel and known for its harsh winters. The ground was frozen solid, and temperatures hovered around minus-20 degrees Fahrenheit. Nobody had ever drilled a well successfully at that time of year.

But Li and his troops tackled the impossible task. Improvising for the cold, Li built a large tent around his drilling rig. And after a failed attempt and many broken pipes and drill bits, Li and his troops succeeded.

The industrial park had water before the arrival of the vaunted “foreign investors.”

Never mind that the sprawling industrial park has yet to attract much foreign money; Li was enshrined as a local hero. After a two-year campaign by city officials and regional military commanders, his efforts caught the attention of the central authorities in Beijing.

He was invited to the annual lantern lighting festival with China’s top leaders in March. President Jiang Zemin knighted him as “model regimental commander.”

His deeds, detailed in countless national newspaper articles and television features, were shared with foreign reporters invited by the State Council of China, the country’s central administration under Premier Li Peng, to visit Hohhot this week.

Besides hearing dozens of tearful testimonials, including one by Maj. Gen. Wang Furen, commander of the Inner Mongolia Military Region, reporters were permitted to meet the hero and photograph him at various drilling sites and villages where plaques had been put up.

“Happiness is attributable to the Communist Party. We will never forget the PLA when we drink water,” one plaque said. Hohhot officials estimated that one out of every four glasses of water consumed in the city came from wells drilled by Li.

In all, the Guangming Ribao newspaper reported, seven stone tablets and more than 100 banners have been raised celebrating Li’s deeds. In one symmetrical tribute, the 1,000 residents of one village gave 1,000 potatoes to Li after he drilled a well that produces 1,000 tons of water a day.

Officials in Xinyingzi village, a tiny hamlet of 976 people about 30 miles outside Hohhot, tore down their earthen altar to the Dragon King, a folk religion water god, and replaced it with a stone tablet honoring the PLA.

“The temples never found water,” the village’s Communist Party secretary explained to visiting reporters.

Authorities had hoped that one well recently drilled by Li’s regiment would hit water just as foreign reporters, including television crews from Japan, Britain and the United States, arrived at the site outside Hohhot. Camera crews from the PLA and state television were on hand to record foreign reporters and television crews recording the discovery of water and celebration by locals. Unfortunately, an earthquake last week in Inner Mongolia collapsed the well.

Undeterred and undaunted, Li vowed to continue in his relentless search for water on the arid plains. Standing defiantly on the drilling rig, his camouflaged fatigues spattered with mud, diminutive Li raised his fist and shouted for reporters’ benefit: “I consider this earthquake as a good challenge. General conditions are good. Under the leadership of the party, China will grow great.”