Bi Ruixie (2018): Will Xi Jinping Become a “Vassal Emperor” or a “Closed-Door Emperor”?
Editor’s Note (April 8, 2025):President Donald Trump has reportedly issued Xi Jinping a 24-hour ultimatum. This development brings renewed relevance to an essay I wrote in December 2018 asking whether Xi would choose to become a “vassal emperor” or a “closed-door emperor.”
On October 4, 2018, U.S. Vice President Mike Pence delivered what many described as a landmark speech, effectively defining Xi’s China as America’s principal strategic adversary.
History offers precedent. Adolf Hitler’s Germany, Imperial Japan, and the Soviet Union each stood, in turn, as America’s foremost rival—and each ultimately fell. Why, then, should Xi’s China prove an exception?
The Song dynasty scholar Zhu Xi once wrote: “How can the canal be so clear? Because it has a source of living water.” For more than a decade, China’s economic ascent was made possible by its integration into the U.S.-led international economic order. If China were expelled from that order, the consequences would be self-evident.
Meanwhile, Vladimir Putin—once America’s primary adversary, now relegated to second place—might well be watching from the sidelines with relief: if the sky falls, Xi will hold it up.
Confronted with mounting pressure, Xi—whom I have elsewhere dubbed “Little Mao”—must ponder his path. In his youth, according to official lore, Xi carried two hundred jin of wheat across mountain roads without shifting shoulders. Yet brute strength alone cannot carry a nation’s destiny indefinitely when wolves and tigers block the road.
I submit that Xi’s future narrows to two archetypes: he will either become a “vassal emperor” or a “closed-door emperor.”
I. The Vassal Emperor
The Tang poet Liu Yuxi wrote: “Pray do not sing the songs of former dynasties; listen instead to newly composed ‘Willow Branch’ verses.”
In this spirit, one might symbolically recast Mao Zedong as Song Taizu and Deng Xiaoping as Song Taizong, while Xi humbly assumes the role of Song Gaozong—accepting a truncated realm akin to the Southern Song’s partial rule. The Northern and Southern Song did not negate one another; the Southern Song endured for 153 years, preserving dynastic legitimacy.
If Xi’s China were to accept American primacy—abandoning initiatives such as “Made in China 2025” and the Belt and Road—in exchange for U.S. support, turning a foreign adversary into a foreign guarantor, the regime might secure longevity. The “red second generation” and even the “red Nth generation” would celebrate.
In today’s Beijing—awash in corruption and luxury—there is no shortage of Qin Hui or Jia Sidao, but few Yue Fei or Wen Tianxiang. Under such conditions, a pivot from “My country is formidable” to “My country yields” could occur overnight—and might win the bureaucracy’s quiet endorsement.
It is worth noting: in response to the sharp rhetoric of figures such as Donald Trump and Pence, Beijing dispatched only mid-level spokespeople to trade barbs, leaving ample room for high-level compromise later.
Reconciliation is not unthinkable. If Xi were to redefine the U.S.–China relationship—from estranged spouses to cooperative relatives—recognizing “Uncle Sam” as a senior partner rather than an adversary, the two nations might yet stabilize relations.
History offers analogies. The Southern Song at times referred to the Jin ruler as “uncle” or “elder.” In English, both collapse simply into “uncle”—a convenient ambiguity.
“Uncle Sam,” after all, has historically refrained from carving out concessions in China, unlike the British, French, or Japanese empires. Were both Beijing and Taipei to acknowledge American primacy, a de facto coexistence might ensue, reducing military expenditures and easing cross-strait tensions.
The 2018 ZTE settlement is instructive: the United States installed compliance monitors within the company. Though sovereignty concerns were raised, the arrangement placed ZTE on an irreversible path toward rule-based governance. One might imagine similar mechanisms addressing systemic problems—tainted milk powder, unsafe vaccines—through externally supervised enforcement.
To be sure, the life of a vassal emperor is not enviable. The most famous historical example, Shi Jingtang, died embittered at fifty-one. Yet official intellectuals could readily reframe humiliation as pragmatism.
II. The Closed-Door Emperor
Forty years of reform altered much in China—except the Party’s monopoly on power. Should circumstances darken, Xi could reimpose nationwide military management, revive rationing systems and archival controls reminiscent of the Mao era. The administrative foundations remain intact.
Xi himself has emphasized food security: “More than 1.3 billion mouths must eat.” He understands that subsistence is the bedrock of stability.
In today’s world, no country can build capitalism alone—but it can construct a rigid, insular form of socialism. North Korea and Cuba offer examples.
China, with its comprehensive industrial base, nuclear arsenal, and vast population, could sustain a quasi-barracks society—low production, low consumption, self-reliant survival—while retaining greater strategic depth than smaller states.
With tightened information control, advanced surveillance technologies, and command-driven economics, the regime could guarantee minimum subsistence for its people while achieving unprecedented administrative penetration.
Ironically, whether Xi chooses vassalage or isolation, both paths may serve American strategic interests. Either would preclude China from rivaling the United States for global supremacy. What Washington could not tolerate is a Chinese ruler in the mold of Emperor Wu of Han—assertive, expansionist, and outward-looking.
Historically, the United States has supported or tolerated numerous strongmen—from Chiang Kai-shek to Park Chung-hee and beyond—when doing so aligned with national interests. Why would Xi be an exception?
During the Cultural Revolution, Richard Nixon visited China. After Tiananmen, George H. W. Bush sent secret envoys to Deng Xiaoping. Strategic pragmatism has deep roots.
As for the Chinese populace, history suggests that as long as basic subsistence is secured, resistance remains rare. From Shi Jingtang to Wang Jingwei, from Qin Shi Huang to Mao Zedong, ordinary people endured.
Even if unrest were to arise, decisive repression—another “June Fourth”—could suppress it.
Under either scenario, Xi’s personal power would intensify. Like Mao before him—or the Kim dynasty in Pyongyang—he could aspire to near-mythic authority.
Yet signs suggest that Xi is not a fully mature statesman. When faced with American pressure, Turkey’s Recep Tayyip Erdogan once declared, “They have dollars; we have God.” Xi responded with talk of “tooth for tooth.” The rhetoric differs in theology but shares a note of bravado.
Xi commands a formidable state apparatus. It may not secure the globe—but it can secure China.
Pessimistically speaking, Xi may, like Mao, cling to power until death alone pries it loose. This is the structural flaw of China’s political system—and perhaps the misfortune of its people.
At this point, I am reminded of a line from the Peking opera Sanniang Teaches Her Son: “The young master has brought calamity upon the heavens.” I dedicate this refrain to Xi Jinping.
