The sun beat down from a blue autumn sky onto the patient crowds crammed into Tiananmen Square . Hundreds of thousands had come from the countryside by trucks and trains and were camping throughout the city. The banging of drums and the blare of bugles had ensured they had all been awake since dawn, waiting for the grand parade and the patriotic speeches to celebrate the establishment of the People’s Republic of China. My father, Christopher Dobson, had arrived a few days earlier from his base in Moscow, where he covered the Soviet Union for the Daily Express newspaper, to report on the 10th anniversary celebrations of Mao Zedong ’s triumph over Chiang Kai-shek ’s Nationalist forces and the beginning of Communist rule. The London-based Daily Express was one of the largest-selling newspapers in the world at the time and its publisher, Lord Beaverbrook, decided my father would open the first foreign newspaper bureau in Moscow since the war. So, after an eight-month wait for a visa, he arrived in January 1959. On September 28, after flying from the Soviet capital via Omsk, Irkutsk and Ulan Bator in a Tupolev TU 104, the clouds parted at 20,000 feet as the jet started its descent to Peking to reveal the Great Wall of China “snaking away across the bare grey and brown mountainsides”. How Communist China taught an American boy the real meaning of democracy “I had expected to see it on this trip but nevertheless, the first sight of it made me catch my breath with a schoolboyish wonder,” wrote my father in an unpublished manuscript about his time in Moscow, the typewritten words still sharp and finely honed on yellowing paper. His experiences in 1959 were to last a lifetime and he would recycle them throughout his journalism career. He used to tell me that “if a story is worth running once, it’s worth running again”. And this he did with his observations in Peking in features, columns and his 2013 autobiography, Bombs, Bullets and Bylines . The assignment started with a rumour bubbling through the small network of correspondents in the Soviet capital that China would permit them to enter the country for the celebrations. “For some strange reason the authorities in Peking felt that Western journalists based in Moscow would be more sympathetic to their cause than those based in the West and word went round the Moscow grapevine that they would be prepared to grant visas for the celebrations,” he wrote in 1959. A seasoned traveller and cold war watcher, when he landed at the airport his analysis was that it had been designed to impress foreign visitors and to boost China’s prestige, although the bar was not quite up to Western standards. “It is big, efficient and far more civilised than its Russian equivalent,” he said. “It even has a cocktail bar which would do credit to any Western hotel, except for the Chinese-made whisky it serves. Bottled in almost exact replicas of Johnnie Walker bottles, it is called Weishiji and the kindest thing I can say about it is that it is better than the Russian ‘Viski’. “The Chinese were polite and extremely correct. They knew that I was arriving, there was a car to meet me and the inevitable guide to look after me. The Chinese Intourist organisation is modelled very closely on the Russian example.” In his autobiography, he describes the guide as a “minder” and writes “there was going to be no freewheeling on this trip”. In Soviet bloc countries, journalists were customarily followed, bugged and censored, and were not allowed to travel independently. Much the same as it is today for correspondents in China. “It was only later when I got out into the country and saw what the peasants were living on that I realised just how great an effort was being made to impress the thousands of foreign visitors.” My father updates this segment for his autobiography by adding: “And it was later still that I learnt that famine had already taken hold of the outlying regions as the result of Mao’s disastrous ‘Great Leap Forward’.” Out on the streets, the first impression my father had was of a bustling city, “of humanity in a mass”, although whether this was due to the influx of crowds for the celebrations is unclear. “There are so many that they become almost a solid wall, obscuring the actual buildings. It takes some time to sort out the individuals from the mass in China, mainly because so many of them wear the standard uniform of blue trousers and high-buttoned blue tunic. It takes some time to sort out the individuals from the mass in China, mainly because so many of them wear the standard uniform of blue trousers and high-buttoned blue tunic Christopher Dobson, British journalist “There are few cars on the streets, none of them are privately owned now, but many of them are sumptuous vintage Cadillacs and Mercedes-Benz which, in the days before communism, belonged to some rich Chinese merchant. The state took over the cars; and the merchants, those that survived, are toiling on the fields of some commune not as members of the commune but in a special class with no rights, the ex-capitalists.” While regular transport may have been basic, Peking itself had been reinvented in the image of Mao’s “New China”. To commemorate the 10th anniversary of the founding of the PRC, the Ten Great Buildings project was undertaken and included the Great Hall of the People, which was finished in September of that year, and the Peking Railway Station. Most of these monumental buildings were constructed within 10 months by a workforce tens of thousands strong. While Peking retained its Chinese character, it was transformed into a socialist vision of the future to stand against such cities as Washington and Moscow. My father describes the Great Hall of the People as being part of the new centre of Peking, and how they tore down miles of hutongs and courtyard houses, the traditional homes where people lived in the shadow of the Gate of Heavenly Peace, to create Tiananmen Square. “They made the world’s largest public square there by fitting together great blocks of hand-carved stone and then, on one side they built what is probably the largest library in the world, and on the other, the Congress Hall, which can seat ten thousand delegates and makes the United Nations General Assembly look like a village meeting hall. The dais alone has seating for three hundred people. And this is only part of it. For in another section, the section where the banquet was held, over six thousand people can be served at a sitting.” The 10th anniversary celebrations were designed to be a showpiece for the world, an example to the West – and other communist nations and parties – of Mao’s vision, the achievements of the Communist Party, and of China’s potential for the future. But 1959 saw the world at a juncture. Joseph Stalin had died six years earlier and his successor, Nikita Khrushchev, was facing off against the United States in the cold war and had major ideological differences with China. This would develop into the Sino-Soviet split that led to the breaking of relations and border clashes between the communist giants. However, that September, Khrushchev was in the global spotlight and he took control of the narrative. The Soviet leader had overseen a successful space programme that saw Lunik II impact on the moon’s surface on September 13. My father writes in his autobiography that it “was the first man-made object to reach our nearest neighbour”. And while his scientists attributed the success to “peaceful aspirations and [a] policy of peace pursued by the Soviet Union”, Khrushchev, Mao and American president Dwight Eisenhower all knew that the guidance system, power and reliability of the rocket that had taken Lunik to the moon could just as easily carry a nuclear warhead to Washington or Peking. They were still glorying in their victory over Chiang Kai-shek and were longing for more, arguing that China’s millions could always defeat America’s munitions. The Atom-bomb, said Mao, was ‘a paper tiger’ Christopher Dobson Later that month, Khrushchev shocked the world by announcing at the UN in New York his plan for “general and complete disarmament” within four years. He then spent three days at Camp David with Eisenhower discussing world affairs. Both men committed themselves to a peaceful solution to their differences, with the Soviet press running with the theme of “peaceful coexistence”. The Soviet leader flew from there to Moscow, to change planes, and then to Peking to attend the 10th anniversary of the PRC. But all was not well between the two communist powers and the stage was set for a showdown. So, the day after he landed at Peking, my father went back to the airport, which had opened only the previous year, to witness the welcoming ceremony for Khrushchev because he thought it would make a good opening story for his China assignment. “And he was a very sober Khrushchev indeed,” he wrote at the time. “The swashbuckling rocket rattler was hidden away. He had come to China to counsel quiet and caution to Mao Zedong and his belligerent comrades.” In his autobiography, he adds, “They were still glorying in their victory over Chiang Kai-shek and were longing for more, arguing that China’s millions could always defeat America’s munitions. The Atom-bomb, said Mao, was ‘a paper tiger’.” The “acceptable face” of Chinese communism, Premier Zhou Enlai , was there to greet Khrushchev along with bands, a guard of honour, the inevitable photogenic children with their inevitable bouquets and a swarm of brisk young officials. “Zhou Enlai called for pictures to be taken of the children, the guard of honour goose stepped past with their automatic rifles at the high port and Khrushchev bowed to the colours. But there was a hint of restraint about it all. Khrushchev was quieter than I have ever seen him before or since. He spoke of his visit to America and talked of peaceful coexistence. And there, in the nuances of two little speeches not lasting more than five minutes, the whole strained relationship between Khrushchev and the Chinese leaders was exposed. “Khrushchev had arrived ostensibly for the tenth anniversary celebrations, he had just assured President Eisenhower that he was not travelling to Peking to conspire. Yet he and his advisers left the airport to drive directly to Mao’s office in Zhongnanhai to carry on long, bitter and extremely secret talks on the state of the Soviet-Chinese alliance in the light of what Khrushchev had seen and heard in America. He talked of peace and caution and Mao talked of war and the destruction of the West.” Many years later, with the benefit of historical coverage of events, my father added in his autobiography that the “fraternal” and “far-reaching” words that were exchanged in the meeting disguised a blazing row between the two sides. “Khrushchev accused China of ‘crowing for war like a cock for a fight’ and at one stage told the Chinese foreign minister, Marshal Chen Yi, ‘Watch it, comrade, if you turn any further to the left, you may end up going to the right.’ The furious Chen Yi spat back at Khrushchev, ‘I’m not afraid of your anger.’ To which Khrushchev retorted, ‘You shouldn’t spit from the height of your rank of Marshal. You don’t have enough spit.’ “At one stage Khrushchev described Mao as an ‘old galosh’, which in Mandarin means both an old boot and a prostitute and in Russian is slang for a used condom. The circumstances under which this insult was delivered remain unclear. Some reports say that it was done face to face, others that Khrushchev used it to describe Mao when he arrived back in his accommodation, which he must have known was bugged.” Paranoia from Soviet Union collapse haunts China’s Communist Party In his book, my father explains that the attendant journalists, eager for stories, knew little of what was taking place although they were watching one of the great political stories of the 20th century unfold before them. “We had hints and winks and could make semi-informed guesses at what was going on but the full scale of the great schism in the Communist movement eluded us.” But 60 years ago, it seemed that Khrushchev had won over Mao. Both attended a “fabulous banquet for five thousand people” at the Great Hall of the People. “Krushchev, tired and strained, made a speech, at least he read the first few paragraphs and the last, while most of it was read for him in Chinese in which he virtually lectured the Chinese on the necessity of peaceful coexistence. Mao replied, showed great deference to the Russians, the ‘elder brothers’ of communism, and seemed to accept Khrushchev’s arguments. But, as it became apparent later, and as Khrushchev must have known all along, the Chinese and the Russian definitions of ‘peaceful coexistence’ differ enormously. Neither of them, of course, mean peaceful coexistence.” Later on, my father would write that Khrushchev had refused to help China become a nuclear power and was about to withdraw the Russian technicians who were modernising China’s industries, while Mao dismissed Khrushchev and his supporters as “timeservers” and accused them of abandoning communist principles. Two years later, the split would become public when Peking denounced Soviet communism as the work of revisionist traitors in the USSR. But that day, everyone smiled and dined well. “We were served duck, melon, cold meats, vegetables and some wonderful concoctions which tasted superb but which were quite impossible to recognise. There was rice wine and that villainous Chinese vodka, Mao Tai , which is kept in stone jars, presumably because it would burn its way out of a bottle. And there was cup after cup of jasmine flavoured tea, fragrant and delicious. When a toast was given five thousand people stood and drained their glasses, when a speaker was applauded, the Chinese broke into a swelling booming rhythmic clapping. Waiters hovered round each circular table.” As it became apparent later, and as Khrushchev must have known all along, the Chinese and the Russian definitions of ‘peaceful coexistence’ differ enormously. Neither of them, of course, mean peaceful coexistence Christopher Dobson The leaders of world communism were assembled around the speaker’s rostrum for the banquet. Mao, Zhou, Liu Shaoqi, Khrushchev, Mikhail Suslov, Andrei Gromyko, Ho Chi Minh, Kim Il-sung, as well as those from Hungary, Poland and Bulgaria were all gathered for the anniversary. Altogether, the top communists from 87 countries were present. “There in that one room were assembled nearly all the enemies of the Western way of life,” my father ruminated in 1959. “I often wonder what would have happened if the pickled mushrooms had turned into toadstools and killed off the communist nobility. St. Peter would have worked overtime on his records that night.” Remarkably, by today’s standards, my father was able to take a photograph of a dapper Kim Il-sung in the days when he wore a Western-style suit with matching hat. The next morning the streets were filled with peasants who had been bused in after midnight and there were hundreds of thousands of people in Tiananmen Square. “I threaded my way through the crowds to the press stand just below the Gate of Heavenly Peace,” my father wrote in his notebook. “It was a great day for journalism. I was one of the very, very, few non-communist reporters who had been allowed into the country, I had no opposition and could write what I liked – as long as it did not offend the Chinese, who have no censorship but a distressing habit of kicking out people who write what in the West would be frank and accurate stories, but in China are the ‘lies of a warmongering lackey of the imperialists’.” The proceedings started at precisely 10am, when Mao, Khrushchev and their followers appeared on the balcony of the Gate of Heavenly Peace and looked towards the 700,000-strong mass of people. “The Red leaders waved to the cheering crowds whose voices rolled like distant waves across the vastness of the square, the Minister of Defence Marshal Lin Biao, a slight, scholarly figure, started the parade with an exhortation to the people in general and the forces in particular. “This new style warlord stood on the balcony of the old Emperors’ Gate of Heavenly Peace and shrieked the order for the parade to start. Russian-made tanks and armoured infantry trucks rumbled past the saluting base while the latest MiG fighters thundered overhead. Parachutists sitting grimly, side by side, rolled past in lorries. The navy goose-stepped past and heavy artillery rolled across the square while a band five hundred strong blasted away, filling the city with noise.” He writes that this parade was a far cry from the first parade, in 1949, when Mao’s guerilla fighters shambled past and his Mongolian cavalry jogged along on their half-wild ponies. “This time a modern and powerful army was on parade. Balloons carrying long paper dragons and Communist slogans filled the sky. Contingents from the ‘minority races’ marched past in national costumes. Drums and cymbals and bugles hammered at the air and the marchers chanted slogans, their throats straining, as the tidal wave of people flowed past.” That night, he recounts, he went to a different sort of party, in the house of Alan Winnington, the Daily Worker ’s correspondent in Peking, who had just returned from Tibet. He had been writing about the aftermath of what he called the “liberation” of the country by the Red Army. China’s New Red Guards: the rise of the neo-Maoists “He proudly showed his guests his ‘souvenirs’, which I thought looked more like loot and my distaste must have showed in my face for halfway through the evening he suddenly assumed a threatening pose and said, ‘It would be unwise for you to write about this party, because if you do it would be very easy for me to spread the word that Dobson has gone Red.’” The next day my father reached the Great Wall at last – by Intourist taxi. Officials in the press department were determined to impress their visitors, and his would be a week given over to a combination of journalism and tourism. “We drove on from the wall to a wide lush bowl in the mountains, the burial place of the Ming Emperors,” his notebook recounts. “I was lucky, for a newly found tomb was opened to the public that weekend. It had been buried ninety feet under a hillside for four hundred years. It is magnificent. The whole of the centre of the hill had been carved out to make a series of chambers and galleries one hundred yards long as the last resting place of the Emperor Wan Li, and his two queens. They lay in splendour, their hair dressed with jewels, golden crowns at the heads, surrounded by blocks of uncut jade, carved jade ornaments, gold ingots, rings and golden dragons and the queens had lipstick, rouge and powder, combs and brushes and bronze mirrors ready for their entrance into the next world.” In his autobiography, he explains that this is now part of the normal round of tourism but then it was something quite extraordinary both for him and the readers of the Daily Express . “Everywhere our little party went we came across the cold remnants of backyard furnaces set up under Mao’s ‘Great Leap Forward’ to produce iron and steel. Our minders would not admit it but here was evidence of the failure of Mao’s attempt to overtake the West. “What none of us could have known at the time was the extent of the tragedy which was building in the countryside with famine following in the wake of the failure of the Great Leap Forward.” My father would soon be reassigned from Moscow to the US, as Washington correspondent covering the White House, State Department and the Pentagon. In Britain ahead of his move to America, he wrote of his time in the Soviet Union, and about possible successors to Khrushchev, without the Soviet censor’s red pencil for the first time in 14 months. The piece was headlined: “The story I can tell now I’m out of Russia”. In his autobiography, he writes, “it was the greatest mistake of my journalistic career”. The fallout started when the official Soviet media wrote a story rebutting his observations titled “Dobson is a liar”. This was too much for Lord Beaverbrook, the first baron of Fleet Street, who was convinced that he could bring about a rapprochement between Moscow and the West. He never forgot or forgave my father, who was called back from the US and fired a year later. My father went on to have a successful career as a journalist and author, although he never became the editor of a national newspaper, which he had thought might be on the cards. Lord Beaverbrook cast a long shadow in Fleet Street and it was a long time before my father emerged from it. He is now 92 and living comfortably in a care home on the south coast of England. He is suffering from a number of ailments that prevent him from following global politics as he used to, but when I was with him in the summer he said, with a flash of interest in his typically understated way, “I see it’s hotting up in Hong Kong.”