How China uses national identity as a weapon Beijing does not recognise dual citizenship, making life difficult for ethnic Chinese in the diaspora YUAN YANG
A young history graduate leaves China, his country of birth, to pursue further studies in Sweden. He settles there, gains Swedish citizenship and thus renounces his Chinese citizenship, because Beijing by law does not recognise dual nationality. He buys a bookshop in Hong Kong to publish gossip about Chinese politicians. Is he Swedish, or Chinese?
Until recently, nobody would have doubted that Gui Minhai, the bookseller I described above, was a Swedish national. He had a Swedish passport, Sweden’s government recognises him as a citizen and that was that. In normal circumstances, only a xenophobe would have contested Mr Gui’s nationality.
But Beijing has a habit of forcing its nationality on those who would rather not have it. In 2015, Mr Gui was kidnapped while in Thailand. Four of his fellow booksellers also went missing. Months later, Mr Gui reappeared on Chinese state television confessing to a drink-driving charge. “Although I have Swedish citizenship, I truly feel I am still Chinese,” Mr Gui said, urging the Swedish government not to get involved with his case. It would be hard not to see this as a forced confession.
Like others in the Chinese diaspora, throughout my childhood in England I was asked whether I “felt more” British or Chinese. The question of what nationality one feels lacks precision. Legal nationality, on the other hand, should be exact. The Chinese government sometimes muddies the two.
On Tuesday, after serving his first jail term, being released and then detained again, Mr Gui was sentenced to 10 years in jail for “illegally providing intelligence to overseas parties”. The court said he had applied to regain his Chinese citizenship.
It is almost impossible to believe that an outspoken critic of the Chinese regime would voluntarily apply to be more subject to its reach. But Beijing made its case, starting with Mr Gui’s admission of “feeling” Chinese.
He is not the only victim of Beijing’s attempts to invalidate other countries’ citizenship. Lee Bo, a fellow disappeared bookseller and a Hong Kong-British dual national, was called “first and foremost a Chinese national” by China’s foreign minister.
More recently, the British embassy’s first evacuation flight out of the coronavirus-stricken city of Wuhan was delayed as a result of China’s nationality rules. The children of British and Chinese nationals were deemed to be Chinese, and thus not allowed on the flight, even if they had British passports: their Chinese nationality invalidated all others. The foreign ministry eventually relented, but not after delaying many families’ travel for more than a week.
Other countries, such as Japan and Taiwan, only allow most citizens to hold one nationality. The difference is that China enforces this without the rule of law, and so can weaponise it to cancel other states’ claims. The vast majority of Chinese who have acquired foreign nationality will have their Chinese identity papers revoked automatically. Others, such as the British-Chinese children in Wuhan, have Chinese nationality thrust upon them without their wanting it. Parents say that revocation is a long, highly bureaucratic process. In the meantime, they must apply for a travel permit to take their child out of the country.
When I was waiting for my journalism visa to be processed, a police officer asked me — and the Chinese-American journalist in the queue behind me — where in China we were born. This is a discomforting question for foreign journalists with Chinese heritage. If we were Chinese citizens, we would be barred from working for foreign media. Beijing’s attitude towards ethnically Chinese foreign nationals, like Mr Gui, makes us wonder whether the state sees itself as the governor of ethnic Chinese people wherever they may be, rather than a state constrained by international law and diplomatic protocol. Whenever I cross the border from Hong Kong into the mainland, I am asked for my “Chinese name”, even though legally I have no Chinese name. I have only a string of Roman characters and the words my mother uses to call me.
I happen to like my Chinese name. I do in part feel Chinese and I want to be proud of doing so. But under the current regime, feeling Chinese can be dangerous.
How China uses national identity as a weapon
Beijing does not recognise dual citizenship, making life difficult for ethnic Chinese in the diaspora
YUAN YANG
A young history graduate leaves China, his country of birth, to pursue further studies in Sweden. He settles there, gains Swedish citizenship and thus renounces his Chinese citizenship, because Beijing by law does not recognise dual nationality. He buys a bookshop in Hong Kong to publish gossip about Chinese politicians. Is he Swedish, or Chinese?
Until recently, nobody would have doubted that Gui Minhai, the bookseller I described above, was a Swedish national. He had a Swedish passport, Sweden’s government recognises him as a citizen and that was that. In normal circumstances, only a xenophobe would have contested Mr Gui’s nationality.
But Beijing has a habit of forcing its nationality on those who would rather not have it. In 2015, Mr Gui was kidnapped while in Thailand. Four of his fellow booksellers also went missing. Months later, Mr Gui reappeared on Chinese state television confessing to a drink-driving charge. “Although I have Swedish citizenship, I truly feel I am still Chinese,” Mr Gui said, urging the Swedish government not to get involved with his case. It would be hard not to see this as a forced confession.
Like others in the Chinese diaspora, throughout my childhood in England I was asked whether I “felt more” British or Chinese. The question of what nationality one feels lacks precision. Legal nationality, on the other hand, should be exact. The Chinese government sometimes muddies the two.
On Tuesday, after serving his first jail term, being released and then detained again, Mr Gui was sentenced to 10 years in jail for “illegally providing intelligence to overseas parties”. The court said he had applied to regain his Chinese citizenship.
It is almost impossible to believe that an outspoken critic of the Chinese regime would voluntarily apply to be more subject to its reach. But Beijing made its case, starting with Mr Gui’s admission of “feeling” Chinese.
He is not the only victim of Beijing’s attempts to invalidate other countries’ citizenship. Lee Bo, a fellow disappeared bookseller and a Hong Kong-British dual national, was called “first and foremost a Chinese national” by China’s foreign minister.
More recently, the British embassy’s first evacuation flight out of the coronavirus-stricken city of Wuhan was delayed as a result of China’s nationality rules. The children of British and Chinese nationals were deemed to be Chinese, and thus not allowed on the flight, even if they had British passports: their Chinese nationality invalidated all others. The foreign ministry eventually relented, but not after delaying many families’ travel for more than a week.
Other countries, such as Japan and Taiwan, only allow most citizens to hold one nationality. The difference is that China enforces this without the rule of law, and so can weaponise it to cancel other states’ claims. The vast majority of Chinese who have acquired foreign nationality will have their Chinese identity papers revoked automatically. Others, such as the British-Chinese children in Wuhan, have Chinese nationality thrust upon them without their wanting it. Parents say that revocation is a long, highly bureaucratic process. In the meantime, they must apply for a travel permit to take their child out of the country.
When I was waiting for my journalism visa to be processed, a police officer asked me — and the Chinese-American journalist in the queue behind me — where in China we were born. This is a discomforting question for foreign journalists with Chinese heritage. If we were Chinese citizens, we would be barred from working for foreign media. Beijing’s attitude towards ethnically Chinese foreign nationals, like Mr Gui, makes us wonder whether the state sees itself as the governor of ethnic Chinese people wherever they may be, rather than a state constrained by international law and diplomatic protocol. Whenever I cross the border from Hong Kong into the mainland, I am asked for my “Chinese name”, even though legally I have no Chinese name. I have only a string of Roman characters and the words my mother uses to call me.
I happen to like my Chinese name. I do in part feel Chinese and I want to be proud of doing so. But under the current regime, feeling Chinese can be dangerous.