Lackeys of capital

Democratic reform-leaning commentators in Hong Kong throw the term 奴才 (nou-choi) around a lot, especially when criticizing local politicians for caving in to Beijing’s demands. English-language publications and academic articles tend to translate the term as “slave,” always bracketing or putting the word in quotes to let non-Chinese-speaking readers know that the original term has been removed from its context. But for people new to the Cantonese-dominant Hong Kong media landscape, it can seem inflammatory to hurl the word “slave” at the opposition, given the city’s long history of systematically mistreating and exploiting foreign domestic workers. A more accurate translation of the word nou-choi would be lackey, but that loses the eager servility that the term connotes; some others have preferred “minion,” but that also fails to render the agency that a nou-choi is assumed to have. “Cronies” doesn’t work either, as it confers a sense of purpose or a self-directed mission that the nou-choi decidedly lacks.

Nou-choi as a term consists of two parts: 奴, or slave, and 才, which could either refer to talent, ability, or a particular type of person that its previous word modifies (consider, for example, 奇才, or wunderkind). 奴才 can seem oxymoronic once you take time to parse it (does it mean “good slave”?), but think of it this way: the main difference between a slave (奴隸) and a nou-choi (奴才) is that the former is coerced into servitude, while the latter embraces and even takes pride in being servile.

The term has been around since at least 648 AD, when it was recorded as an insult in the Book of Jin, an official Imperial Court-commissioned history of the Jin Dynasty. During the Qing Dynasty, from 1644 to 1912, it was a deprecatory means of referring to oneself in the Imperial Court when addressing the emperor, if one were of Manchu descent; Han Chinese used another term (臣). Because the Manchu were an ethnic minority within what we would now call the modern Chinese state, the Court levied such terms to manage the clusterfuck that was ethnic relations within the administration, and to solidify inter-Manchu and Han loyalty to the Emperor. The term thus reinforced a complex bureaucracy, with highly stratified relationships between household servants, bannermen, and administrators from different ethnic groups within the imperial court itself. Nou-choi eventually evolved into its current usage, a derogatory term for bureaucrats and white-collar workers who defer to the socio-political structures that be, characterized by uncritical obeisance to the ruling power, and a valorization of concepts like “due process” when it comes to things like political dissidents.

Criticism of the nou-choi mentality is a long-standing one in the Sinophone intellectual tradition. Acclaimed writer Lu Xun famously used the figure of the nou-choi within a parable he wrote in 1925, when like the American left today, factions of the leftist movement in China clashed over whether civility and respectful dialogue could ever persuade conservatives to restructure and build a more egalitarian society.

His parable, called “The Clever Man and the Fool and the Nou-choi,” (《聰明人和傻子和奴才》 ) goes something like this: In search of sympathy, the nou-choi goes about town complaining about his mistreatment at the hands of his master. The clever man sympathises with the nou-choi’s plight, and tells him that his faithful service will eventually be rewarded. The fool, on the other hand, is enraged on his behalf, and sets about punching a hole for ventilation in the windowless shack in which the nou-choi lives. The nou-choi screams for help from his peers, claiming that the fool intends to rob their employer, and a gang of nou-choi descend upon the hapless fool. Out comes the master, who praises the nou-choi for his actions. The story ends with the nou-choi praising the clever man for his foresight—the nou-choi has finally, finally been recognized by his master.

As the parable is most commonly understood, the thankless nou-choi is the proletariat, the fool represents reactionary rebels thoughtlessly revolting without an actual plan, and the clever man, usually translated as the “wise man” in English, typifies the mendacious bourgeoisie, who has a vested interest in maintaining the subjugation of the nou-choi. But in my view, Lu Xun, master of irony, attendant to the subtleties of the Chinese language,  pointedly titles the parable “The Clever Man and the Fool and the Nou-choi,” collapsing the distinctions between these men. They are all fools and nou-choi in a sense; none of them have the sense to confront the master.

—

So what, then, of our modern-day nou-choi? They are found in places where no one speaks to power. They take a perverse glee in following the letter of the law and take offense at people who question its spirit. Nou-choi as a termacts as both critique and condemnation; nou-chois’ ultimate loyalty is to the ruling powers that be, even as they convince themselves that they are motivated by ideology, money, or both—and are fully capable of locating flaws in the broader fabric of society that exacerbate the suffering of millions.

There are a lot of nou-choi in Hong Kong; not a single administration to date has had the courage to reform the deeply undemocratic local electoral system. Only 1194 people out of 3.8 million registered voters could vote in the last Chief Executive (CE) election, a quarter of which were representatives from the PRC’s National People’s Congress and Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference. In the American context, the system would be roughly akin to a Presidential electoral system where the popular vote doesn’t exist and only the Electoral College can vote. All future CE candidates will also be vetted by the Chinese government prior to their running. All this, and I haven’t even gotten into the mess that is the Legislative Council elections.

Democratic reform–leaning commentators in Hong Kong throw the term 奴才 (nou-choi) around a lot, especially when criticizing local politicians forcaving in to Beijing’s demands. English-language publications and academic articles tend to translate the term as “slave,” always bracketing or putting the word in quotes to let non-Chinese-speaking readers know that the original term has been removed from its context. But for people new to the Cantonese-dominant Hong Kong media landscape, it can seem inflammatory to hurl the word slave at the opposition, given the city’s long history of systematically mistreating and exploiting foreign domestic workers. A more accurate translation of the word nou-choi would be “lackey,” but that loses the eager servility that the term connotes; some others have preferred “minion,” but that also fails to render the agency that a nou-choi is assumed to have. “Crony” doesn’t work either, as it confers a sense of purpose or a self-directed mission that the nou-choi decidedly lacks.

Nou-choi as a term consists of two parts: 奴, or slave, and 才, which could refer to talent, ability, or a particular type of person that its previous word modifies. (Consider, for example, 奇才, or wunderkind.) 奴才 can seem oxymoronic once you take time to parse it (does it mean “good slave”?), but think of it this way: the main difference between a slave (奴隸) and a nou-choi (奴才) is that the former is coerced into servitude, while the latter embraces and even takes pride in being servile.

The term has been around since at least 648 AD, when it was recorded as an insult in the Book of Jin, an official imperial court–commissioned history of the Jin Dynasty. During the Qing Dynasty, from 1644 to 1912, it was a deprecatory means of referring to oneself in the imperial court when addressing the emperor, if one were of Manchu descent; Han Chinese used another term (臣). Because the Manchu were an ethnic minority within what we would now call the modern Chinese state, the court levied such terms to manage the clusterfuck that was ethnic relations within the administration, and to solidify inter-Manchu and Han loyalty to the emperor. The term thus reinforced a complex bureaucracy, with highly stratified relationships between household servants, bannermen, and administrators from different ethnic groups within the imperial court itself. Nou-choi eventually evolved into its current usage, a derogatory term for bureaucrats and white-collar workers who defer to the sociopolitical structures that be, characterized by uncritical obeisance to the ruling power, and a valorization of concepts like “due process” when it comes to things like political dissidents.

Criticism of the nou-choi mentality is a long-standing one in the Sinophone intellectual tradition. Acclaimed writer Lu Xun famously used the figure of the nou-choi within a parable he wrote in 1925, when, like the American left today, factions of the leftist movement in China clashed over whether civility and respectful dialogue could ever persuade conservatives to restructure and build a more egalitarian society.

His parable, called “The Clever Man and the Fool and the Nou-choi,” (《聰明人和傻子和奴才》 ) goes something like this: In search of sympathy, the nou-choi goes about town complaining about his mistreatment at the hands of his master. The clever man sympathises with the nou-choi’s plight, and tells him that his faithful service will eventually be rewarded. The fool, on the other hand, is enraged on his behalf, and sets about punching a hole for ventilation in the windowless shack in which the nou-choi lives. The nou-choi screams for help from his peers, claiming that the fool intends to rob their employer, and a gang of nou-choi descend upon the hapless fool. Out comes the master, who praises the nou-choi for his actions. The story ends with the nou-choi praising the clever man for his foresight—the nou-choi has finally, finally been recognized by his master.

As the parable is most commonly understood, the thankless nou-choi is the proletariat, the fool represents reactionary rebels thoughtlessly revolting without an actual plan, and the clever man, usually translated as the “wise man” in English, typifies the mendacious bourgeoisie, who have a vested interest in maintaining the subjugation of the nou-choi. But in my view, Lu Xun, master of irony, attendant to the subtleties of the Chinese language, pointedly titles the parable “The Clever Man and the Fool and the Nou-choi,” collapsing the distinctions between these men. They are all fools and nou-choi in a sense; none of them have the sense to confront the master.

So what, then, of our modern-day nou-choi? They are found in places where no one speaks to power. They take a perverse glee in following the letter of the law and take offense at people who question its spirit. Nou-choi is a term of both critique and condemnation; nou-choi’s ultimate loyalty is to the powers that be, even as they convince themselves that they are motivated by ideology, money, or both—and are fully capable of locating flaws in the broader fabric of society that increase the suffering of millions.

There are a lot of nou-choi in Hong Kong; not a single administration to date has had the courage to reform the deeply undemocratic local electoral system. Only 1194 people out of 3.8 million registered voters could vote in the last Chief Executive (CE) election, a quarter of which were representatives from the PRC’s National People’s Congress and Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference. In the American context, the system would be roughly akin to a presidential electoral system where the popular vote didn’t exist and only the Electoral College could vote. All future CE candidates will also be vetted by the Chinese government prior to their running. All this, and I haven’t even gotten into the mess that is the Legislative Council elections.

Here is how nou-choi gets used: in 2013, former member of the Hong Kong Legislative Council Wong Yuk-Man called former Chief Secretary for Administration Carrie Lam “the consummate nou-choi” (奴才的奴才), in response to “public consultations” held by the government on political reform (which Lam and two other members of the administration spearheaded as part of the “Task Force on Constitutional Development”). Lam insisted on complying with the PRC’s state apparatus’s interpretation of Hong Kong’s Basic Law, the city’s constitution, throughout the public consultation process. Viewing the consultation as a sham, Wong called Lam a nou-choi controlled by the Chinese government, and threatened to throw eggs and maybe even a car bomb at her. Hong Kong “has no other path other than revolution,” Wong said to Sing Tao News. The term nou-choi and its accompanying critique—Carrie Lam’s keenness to enact the political will of the mainland Chinese regime—has followed her into her new role as Chief Executive. She has since proclaimed to a BBC reporter that she is not “a puppet of Beijing.” No puppet, no puppet, you’re the puppet!

Hong Kong’s situation is ever more bleak. Foreign journalists are refused visas and entry, the only political party running on a “Hong Kong independence” platform is outlawed, and local organizing for electoral reform has come to a halt. But then I think about the politicians here in America who are fully subordinate to capitalism even as they castigate Republicans for tax cuts, who toothlessly give in to Trump’s fascist demands as some kind of pretension to “bipartisanship.” The English language might not have a word that exactly means nou-choi, but that doesn’t mean the Chinese have a monopoly on them.

Rosemarie Ho