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Tuesday, Nov 10, 2009
In Shanghai's Xiangyang Market, if you ask one of the "Hello? CD? DVD?" people what exactly their racket is, he or she will laugh nervously about avoiding the police and scurry off. Better to ask to see their stash, as I did of one woman, whose short, sturdy build and round face identified her as coming from far south of Shanghai.
She bade me follow her, a meter or so behind to avoid arousing suspicion, through the maze of stalls overflowing with tourist kitsch and name-brand rip-offs, out of the market, and to a small room at the back of a men's clothing store, where a large box of CDs was produced for my perusal. Later, back in the market, the same woman approached me again, offering to lead me to a few more suppliers. One consisted of two men squatting behind the bushes next to a Japanese noodle shop; another operated out of a stall selling watches and novelty lighters; and a third hid behind racks of sequin-encrusted tube tops. My guide explained that, while she technically is employed by the first place, other vendors will pay her a few pennies for each customer she brings by, and a few more for each disc purchased.
The lanky young man handling the stash at the first stop confirmed that the scores of CD/DVD agents prowling the market are all migrants -- outsiders or "countryside people," as they are derogatorily called. Each "shop" employs 12 to 14 scouts. They buy the discs for 5 RMB or renminbi (60 cents), through an intermediary to keep them from incriminating the supplier if arrested, and on a good day resell about a hundred discs for around $1 to $1.20 apiece. He has been in the business for a couple of years, and has been arrested three times in periodic police raids. Each time, he was imprisoned for three months, paying fines totaling over $1,200, but he always returns to the market.
"This is a hard business, but so is all business in China, and this isn't as bad as most. It sure beats manual labor, and it beats staying in the countryside," he shrugged. "It's not like I earn much money doing this, but it's a way to survive."
Piracy is arguably the most classic example of free-swinging capitalism in China's transitional economy. Operating independently of five-year plans, growth targets and restructuring directives, it and other illegal or semi-legal sectors have the flexibility to accommodate the Chinese dispossessed by harsh but necessary economic reforms and the shrinking of the social safety net. Cost-slashing state-owned enterprises have fired 25 million employees since 1998, and the pensions of countless more have dwindled to uselessness. Some 80 million migrant laborers have seeped into the cities since the launch of Deng Xiaoping's trickle-down reform policy of developing the urban coastal areas first. Without residence permits, this floating population cannot legally work, find accommodation or school its children. Foreign investment is the great white hope of China's emerging economy, but these refugees of the post-socialist economy have no hope of getting work with a foreign or foreign-invested firm. Ripping off the products of a foreign or foreign-invested company is, for them, a far more golden opportunity.
And the general public urges the pirates on. After more than a decade of proliferation, piracy has become so commonplace in China that consumers rarely give it a second thought. While everyone knows pirated goods are illegal, and most acknowledge that it is wrong on some level, or at least bad for the economy, no one cares. Winston Zhao, a partner with the law firm Jones, Day, Reavis and Pogue, who is based in China, cites the Chinese proverb, "If everyone does wrong, no one will be punished." China Record Co.'s Tang Haiyang recalls the evolution of piracy's acceptability. "No one thinks of it as theft anymore. At first, there was no choice but to pay 30 RMB [$3.60] for a real album, which is a day's salary for most. Then the pirates came along, at 10 RMB [$1.20] for a CD, and at first people were uncomfortable, and would still pay more for the real thing. But now, everyone's used to it, it's normal and accepted, and people just think, 'It's very cheap, very cheap, that's good!'"
Moreover, dynamics within both traditional attitudes and the current social climate help absolve any residual guilt about buying pirated goods. Traditional Chinese morality is relative, reflecting a hierarchy of responsibilities and priorities rather than Judeo-Christianity's clear-cut absolutes. The Confucian ethic dictated the individual's behavior based on their position in a rigid hierarchy, starting with the nation, then the emperor, then descending levels of government, followed by the household structure, according to age, gender and rank. One owed filial devotion and obedience to those above, and guidance and providence to those below. Stealing medicine for a sick parent would be a forgivable offense, for example, and what would be considered correct for a rich landlord would of course be wrong for his servant girl.
While the Communists abolished the Confucian structure, its rationales persist throughout the new social order. In the current hierarchy, the conducting of business and the making of money have dethroned the previous emperors of family, nationalism and revolution. Decades of Maoist witch hunts followed in rapid step by the "get rich quick" obsession have created two generations with little if any community ethic, allowing easy, low-risk profits to take priority over right and wrong and long-term economic growth.
Additionally, the lack of cultural emphasis on individuality and well-developed critical faculties has lent Chinese society a propensity to mimic. Foreign models, for everything from fashion to architecture to urban and economic development plans, are commonly adopted wholesale without any consideration of or adaptation to local conditions. For example, a large company in one Shanghai suburb has erected for its office a small but precise replica of the Capitol Building, seated a few meters from a freeway and sandwiched between a rice paddy and a factory. The reasoning appears to be that if something is good in the first place, then copying it must also be good -- just as Chinese artists have copied their predecessors, down to the last calligraphic stroke, for centuries.
