Luke Hennessy is a PhD candidate at the Australian National University and a sessional lecturer in politics and international relations at the University of Canberra.

In June this year, an explosive Four Corners episode presented findings of a six-month, joint ABC-Fairfax investigation into attempts by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) to exert influence and control in Australia.

The episode - which followed and indeed seems largely premised on an identical investigation by the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation (ASIO) - painted a grim picture.

Chinese language media in Australia was being pressured and coerced to run pro-CCP stories. Chinese student associations in Australian universities had received assistance from Chinese consulate officials to organise rallies in support of CCP policies and to report dissenting Chinese classmates.

One student, Tony Chang, learned that his parents in China had been questioned by the local security service after he attended a pro-democracy rally in Brisbane. An Australian academic, Professor Feng Chongyi, had been detained and questioned during a visit to China after criticising the CCP and expressing pro-democratic views.

Perhaps most disturbing of all, senior Australian politicians on both sides of politics had accepted large donations from CCP-linked businessmen, and in the case of at least one recipient the desired effect seems to have been achieved.

This is not the first time China has had bad press in Australia. Since at least 2005, when senior Chinese diplomat Chen Yonglin warned Australians of a vast network of spies in the country, negative media on China has become a regular fixture. Reports on the persecution of ethnic minorities and religious groups such as Tibetans and Falun Gong appear perennially, as do articles with ominous satellite imagery of island-building and militarisation in the South China Sea.

In the last three months alone, we've seen reports of Chinese international students attempting to silence Australian lecturers, we've heard about Chinese cyber-attacks on Australian Defence contractors, we've heard how China's One Belt One Road (OBOR) initiative is causing strategic concerns within Australia's defence and intelligence community, we had a week of reporting on the nineteenth National Congress of the CCP (in which President Xi Jinping inserted himself into the constitution and dramatically reshaped the Party structure), and we've had the release of a Foreign Policy White Paper, which is overtly critical of China's island-building activities in the South China Sea.

So persistently ominous is the reporting on China in Australia that a dominant narrative is beginning to take hold. This narrative construes China as an authoritarian state ruled by an elite party oligarchy bent on "global dominance." The CCP is construed as a monolithic entity with a unified goal - namely, to increase its control, both internally and externally, by means of surveillance, censorship, propaganda, economic leverage, intimidation and the promotion of widespread, fervent nationalism, going right down to the student level.

In short, the typical representation of China that is beginning to take hold in Australia is of an emerging Orwellian superstate, complete with its own Youth League of student-spies.

I've just returned from two and a half weeks in Wuhan, a gargantuan, sprawling metropolis of some eleven million people situated in Hubei Province in the heart of mainland China. Most Australians I've spoken to have never heard of Wuhan. In China, the city is well-known. It straddles the Yangtze River, some 1000 kilometres upstream from coastal Shanghai. In 1966, a 73-year-old Chairman Mao swam across a section of the river, an event which is commemorated in Wuhan to this day. PR stunts aside, Wuhan was in fact one of the national capitals during the Republic of China period (1912-1949), and hosted the uprising that led to the downfall of the former Qing Dynasty (1644-1912).

Two and a half weeks in China is not long by any measure. It certainly doesn't make me a China expert (otherwise there'd be a lot of China experts out there). But in that brief period, I did manage to immerse myself quite a bit more than the average tourist. The purpose of my visit was academic. I spent two weeks teaching International Studies at Hubei University, one of at least a dozen universities in Wuhan. While I'm currently a PhD candidate at the Australian National University, it was through the University of Canberra - one of Hubei University's many international partners - that I was offered the gig. During my stay, I lived on campus in an apartment and interacted with students for several hours each day in both formal and informal settings. I had lengthy conversations with local graduate students and other foreign lecturers, some of whom had spent several years living and teaching in Wuhan. And I spent several full days and nights exploring Wuhan with faculty staff, who also happened to be members of the CCP. Again, not something your average tourist will experience.

Culture

What then was my impression of China? Specifically, was my experience consistent with the dominant narrative that's emerging in Australia? Well, yes and no. One thing's for sure, China is a far more complex nation than many Australians realise - I realised as much before my trip. The overwhelming sense I came away with was that China is full of contradictions.

From the moment I was picked up from Wuhan International Airport by faculty staff, my assumptions and expectations were challenged. I was greeted by an extremely friendly and talkative young man dressed head to toe in Adidas. Almost as soon as we hopped into the car, my chaperone began discussing his research. He explained that he had just graduated with a PhD, which focused on democratic social-movements, both in China and abroad. He was particularly interested in questions of Chinese government reform, and how the Chinese system might adapt to cope with movements for democratisation. As questions began flooding my mind (what did he just say? what kind of democracy was he talking about?) he mentioned, almost as if to reassure me, that he had also completed a Masters Degree focusing on similar issues at the University of Sheffield in England - hardly the sort of place that is likely to encourage ideological disfigurement or party dogma.

As we made our way through Wuhan, my chaperone continued talking about his experiences abroad. He liked Sheffield quite a lot, but it was his trip to France during a university break that seemed to have the biggest impact: "I think France and China are quite similar," he said. What he was referring to, aside from a love of bicycles, was a kind of republican spirit that sees the nation, not as a collection of individuals, but as a collective with a strong, unifying core of moral values whose expression and enforcement is entrusted to the government.

By the time we got to the university, it is fair to say that I was experiencing some cultural shock. What I hadn't anticipated is the fact that my shock was emanating not from the foreignness of my experience, but from precisely the opposite: it was as though I hadn't left the cosmopolitan university campuses of Canberra.

That evening, my first impressions of Wuhan were only reinforced. I caught a taxi to Wuhan's famous Hanjie Street. Clean, futuristic, expensive, Hanjie is a shopping and dining locality for Wuhan's middle-class. The main street runs parallel to a newly-constructed canal that connects two of Wuhan's largest lakes. It is lined with decadent restaurants, cafes, bars, and clothing stores stocked with big Western brands. The street is home to a giant Transformer statue (one of three I saw in different locations around Wuhan) and a Madame Tussauds wax museum. Adjacent to the main street is a glittering, new multistorey mall, with more Western brands and cute, talking robots designed to lure customers into stores. Massive high-rise apartments, whose walls feature dazzling light shows at night, surround the area.

Almost everywhere I went in Wuhan I saw signs of globalisation, economic liberalisation and modernisation. I came across two very glamorous-looking Pizza Huts, a McDonald's and a Walmart, all within the same block. (I later learned that if Walmart was a country it would be China's eighth largest trading partner.) During a taxi-ride on my second day, the radio was blaring with what sounded like a talk-show. My chaperone explained that the guest, a traditional Chinese medicine practitioner, was lamenting the fact that increasing numbers of Chinese were choosing modern "Western" forms of medicine over tradition Chinese forms. This, he elaborated, was part of a broader trend in China, particularly among younger generations who were turning their backs on many aspects of traditional Chinese culture, from food and medicine to clothing and leisure activities.

Toward the end of my first week, I was invited to a Latin Party by a Brazilian. (It turns out there are quite a few Brazilians in Wuhan. China is Brazil's largest trading partner, and both belong to the BRICS group of significant emerging economies. Many of my students were learning Portuguese as well as English.) And on my final night I found myself in a Belgian Beer Cafe at 3 am. The Wallabies were playing Wales on pay television, and later an impassioned debate erupted between the Belgian pub owner and a bunch of Brits over Brexit. "It's not that we don't like you," slurred one of the Brits as he staggered towards the exit, oblivious to the symbolism of his display. "We love you! We just don't want you telling us how to live!" These were not experiences I was expecting to have in Wuhan.

Students

What then about my teaching experience? I must admit to being somewhat apprehensive in the leadup. I was asked to teach two units: a second-year unit on globalisation and a third-year unit on the history of international relations. I was also asked specifically to avoid a "Eurocentric" perspective. My sense was that this was code for "make your lectures China-friendly." My immediate thoughts went something like this: "okay, Luke, best avoid being overly critical of China, and let's avoid topics like Taiwan, Tibet, and the South China Sea altogether." I was fully expecting to have my slides screened and approved before each lecture, and for wayward critical remarks to be vigorously challenged.

But neither scenario materialised. I was asked in advance to provide topic headings for each lecture, but that is customary practice everywhere in the world. Students and staff were oblivious to the specific content of my lectures right up until the moment they were delivered.

My lectures were much like those I've delivered in Australia, just with more examples from China and the region. I covered a range of relatively benign topics: Thucydides and Ancient Greek history; the Peace of Westphalia; nineteenth-century Imperialism. But it certainly wasn't all benign. I discussed common criticisms of the World Trade Organisation, including the argument that it is not democratic (a criticism premised on the assumption that a lack of democracy is a bad thing). I asked penetrating questions about the OBOR initiative - about Xi's rationale and the initiative's risks and opportunities, pros and cons. I even discussed an observation made by some academics that OBOR is being used to placate and pacify marginalised ethnic minorities, such as Muslim Uyghurs in Xinjiang, by giving them a stake in the national economy.

I discussed the thesis, put forward by Canadian philosopher, Joseph Heath, that "Western" values and institutions tend inexorably to follow processes of technological modernisation and economic liberalisation. And I discussed Francis Fukuyama's famous "End of History" thesis - that capitalist liberal democracy represents the highest form of political evolution. At no stage did faculty staff or students raise concerns about the content of my lectures. Overwhelmingly, in fact, students seemed to embrace the content.

The students were the real highlight of the trip, and surprised me in many ways. During the first lecture with each class I ran an ice-breaker. I asked students about their hobbies, and why they had chosen an International Studies degree. Standard hobbies included basketball, badminton, computer games, photography, movies and hanging with boyfriends and girlfriends. Nothing surprising here. But then one young man announced that he loved reading German philosophy, and that his favourite book was Immanuel Kant's Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals . So unexpected was his response, that I had to ask him to repeat himself.

Regarded as Kant's first mature work in moral philosophy, the Groundwork seeks to establish foundational principles that are inherent to morality, irrespective of the time or place in which one lives. If there is such a thing as a universal moral law, Kant reasons, then it cannot be based on the inclinations, traditions, or chosen ends of any individual - or for that matter any ruler or government - but must be based solely on the demands of reason, which by its nature is universal and impartial. The formula Kant comes up with - his famous "categorical imperative" - goes something like this: act according to the principle that you would want all other rational people to follow, as though it was a universal law. Implied in this formula, Kant insists, is another imperative: treat other persons not simply as means to ends, but also as ends in themselves.

As someone whose doctoral thesis offers a defence of political realism, I'm often highly critical of Kant - his philosophical abstractions, rigidity and rejection of pragmatism and political prudence. Yet here was this young student - whose robustly pragmatic government had recently rejected the concept of "universal values" as a tool to "seduce people into 'beautifying the West' and 'being compliant with the West'" - telling me he loved Kant. Never have I been forced so quickly to reconsider my views.

Most of my students were highly cosmopolitan and genuinely curious about other cultures. Cultural curiosity was the main reason most had enrolled in International Studies. In addition to Kant, many students had read the classics that form part of the International Relations canon in Western universities, including Thucydides, Machiavelli, Hobbes and Morgenthau, as well as more contemporary figures such as Fukuyama and Huntington. I learned during my globalisation lectures that students saw themselves not only as Han Chinese, but also as global citizens with a consciousness of the collective problems that humans face (global warming, environmental degradation, global poverty and so on).

Moreover, most of my students saw globalisation in an overwhelmingly positive light. They were aware of its potential pitfalls, but seemed fully invested in a future of increased international trade, travel, cultural connectedness and economic development. When I asked them to discuss potential threats to globalisation, they went into overdrive. On their list was terrorism, trade protectionism, anti-immigration politics, wealth inequality, populism (and Donald Trump specifically), as well as what one student described as "Cold War mentality" (he was of course referring to the growing tensions between the United States and China, particularly in the Asia-Pacific). From the tone of the discussion, these various threats to globalisation were all perceived negatively by students.

Despite common stereotypes in Australia, most of my students had a well-developed capacity for critical thinking, and defied the narrative that depicts Chinese students as Youth League patriots. When I mentioned Xi Jinping's three-hour National Congress speech, many students rolled their eyes. They found it quite boring. One of my students joked about inconsistencies in the special Chinese version of Marxism they're all taught from a young age. He explained with a wry smile that while Marx himself encouraged critical thinking and the rigorous critique of social and economic structures, they were taught simply to accept Chinese Marxism as gospel.

It became quickly apparent to me that students across the board were highly attuned to propaganda - they knew it when they saw it. I would also learn, by joining the dots, that rule-breaking was not entirely uncommon. Many of my students loved the HBO series Game of Thrones . Chinese censors only recently allowed a highly edited version of the series to be aired on Chinese television, but many of my students had seen the original, unfiltered version. In other words, they had used Virtual Private Networks (VPNs) to get around internet censorship.

This is not to say that the university experience in China is identical to that in Australia. To start with, it is mandatory for students enrolled in Chinese universities to live on campus in student accommodation. Dormitories are divided according to gender, and each group has a "class monitor" - a fellow student whose role is to guide and watch out for classmates, and to act as a point of contact for staff. I experienced a contest for a vacant class monitor position during one of my lecture breaks. Students took turns giving short speeches to their class members before a vote. (This irony was not lost on one student, who quietly joked to me: "see, we have democracy in China.")

In every classroom and most corridors there are surveillance cameras. There was one pointing directly at the entrance of my apartment. On a couple of occasions, a strange face, slightly older than my regular students, turned up and sat at the back of the classroom taking notes. And while there was some good debate and critical thinking on many topics, not all issues were up for debate. Views on Taiwan, for instance, were unified (I didn't raise the topic, but it was used as an example by students in class discussions). Students were well-versed in the "century of humiliation" narrative, which, according to some analysts, has been used by the CCP to render China's youth impervious to foreign criticism. And when I tried to stimulate critical discussion on Xi's signature OBOR initiative, students weren't really prepared to offer criticisms.

Students were also reticent when I tried to provoke discussion on the concept of national sovereignty. I selected some quotes from speeches Xi Jinping had given, where he spoke of national sovereignty as an inviolable principle. I then asked the class whether they thought national sovereignty should always, under all circumstances, be respected, or whether they could think of situations, either hypothetical or real, where sovereignty should not be respected - situations where, for instance, we might deem foreign intervention both legitimate and necessary. Most students simply echoed Xi's words: "sovereignty is an inviolable principle."

I then threw a spanner in the works. I explained that China, as a permanent member of the United Nations Security Council, had enabled the passage of Security Council resolution 1973, which authorised the use of force in Libya, by abstaining from voting. The resolution was proposed under the auspices of the Responsibility to Protect (R2P), a moral-political commitment endorsed in 2005 by all United Nations member states, including China, which not only permits but encourages intervention in circumstances where governments fail to protect their citizens from gross human rights abuses. Upon hearing this, many of my students quickly changed their minds. They conceded that sovereignty should not always be respected.

After class, I went for a coffee with one of my students in a makeshift campus cafe at the back of an apartment block. The student was the class monitor - an extremely bright and intellectually curious young man with a dry sense of humour and wisdom well beyond his years. He was intent on explaining the contradictory nature of his views on sovereignty. "You need to understand," he said to me with a quiet confidence, "we are very practical here in China." This was something that I heard repeatedly while in Wuhan. "We are practical." Specifically, contradictions in principle and practice didn't seem to faze anyone. That the CCP would endorse the R2P norm through the UN and then give rousing speeches about the inviolability of sovereignty was no big deal in my student's eyes.

What mattered to him was not the logical coherence of theories or principles, but the fact that China had selected the appropriate response for each circumstance. Principles were important, according to my student, but in China it was pragmatism that ultimately held sway. Things were suddenly beginning to make a lot more sense, including the classroom contradictions I had witnessed earlier. Students certainly had principles, knew where they stood on issues, and seemed happy to be critical of - and even quietly resist - official CCP policy positions. But there were clear limits to how critical they were willing to be.

Faculty

My time with faculty staff revealed similar contradictions. I spent my first weekend in Wuhan exploring the city with a junior faculty member. During lunch on the first day, between mouthfuls of smoky Sichuan beans, my colleague quietly mentioned that he was a member of the CCP. He did so somewhat sheepishly, as though he was expecting my opinion of him to change. Almost immediately, he felt the need to justify himself. "Actually," he said, "it was my parents who wanted me to join." He explained that membership gives you better job prospects (other sources suggest that CCP membership can increase your social status and even make you more attractive as a potential spouse).

In other words, not every member of the CCP joins because of devout commitment to the principles of the Party, much less the current leader. My colleague would later reveal that his grandfather, a businessman, had to lay low during Mao's Cultural Revolution. It was a dangerous time for the bourgeoisie.

On other occasions, I spoke with CCP members who were overtly critical of their party's policies. Every CCP member I asked about North Korea agreed: the regime is terrible and Kim Jong Un is bonkers. They also feared that China's close relationship with the pariah state only serves to reinforce negative perceptions of China in the international community. Some members also disagreed with Xi's recent move to make it compulsory for politics lecturers in China to be Party members. And the one member I spoke to about allegations of Chinese students reporting dissenting classmates in Australian universities was horrified by that notion, at least outwardly.

Despite the willingness of some CCP members to criticise party polices, they were somehow, at the same time, deeply loyal to the Party and its vision. One moment, I'd be listening to criticisms of the Party. A few moments later, I'd have a line straight from the propaganda ministry thrown at me: "we think Falun Gong is an evil cult." Similarly, although my colleague was happy to talk about the danger his grandfather faced during the Cultural Revolution, not a bad word was said about Mao himself. In fact, I got the distinct sense that, despite his family history and awareness of foreign perceptions of the Party, he was proud to be a member of the CCP. He mentioned more than once that only the very top students are invited to join.

And this is what I mean by contradictions. The people I met in Wuhan - both students and staff - had criticism and resistance down to a fine art. They knew precisely when to push and when to back off; how to be critical without criticising; how to resist without resisting. They knew exactly what propaganda was. They knew about party politics. They knew what nationalism was, and the fact that it was often used as a political tool.

At the same time, both students and staff alike seemed genuinely proud of their country, particularly of China's extraordinary economic growth, but also its newly emerging global superpower status. While they may have had private views on the direction Xi Jinping is taking the Party and country, they seemed for the most part happy to offer pragmatic support for the system, the Party, and its leadership - at least insofar as living standards continued to visibly improve (which they most certainly are). Pursuing principles for their own sake was not something that made a lot of sense to most people to whom I spoke.

Responses

There is the danger that in writing this little memoir I'll be accused of naivety or whitewashing. To this, I have five brief responses.

First, I do not for a moment doubt the veracity of the media reports on China I listed earlier. As far as I am concerned, the reports are true, and many of them are deeply worrying. Still, they do not constitute the whole story. What I have attempted to challenge, or at least complicate, is the dominant narrative on China that is beginning to take hold in Australia.

Second, I do not deny that Australia and China have genuine conflicts of interest. For instance, I think it was entirely prudent of the Australian Government to deny Chinese communication company, Huawei, the right to submit tenders for the National Broadband Network, and more recently to assist Papua New Guinea and the Solomon Islands with a submarine data cable to Australia.

Third, it's important that we remember that no nation or political system is perfect. While in Wuhan, I fielded several questions on mainstream Australia's relationship with Indigenous Australians, as well as the recent bashing of a Chinese student at a bus interchange in Canberra. We don't expect foreign nationals to judge the character of our nation and its people based on our worst examples, and we should avoid doing the same with other nations. We should also remember that there was very little discussion about cutting ties with the United States when it admitted to, among other things, torture and extraordinary rendition.

Don't get me wrong, the Chinese political system has many deeply unsavoury characteristics. I'm one of a rare breed who thinks Francis Fukuyama was actually on to something with his "End of History" thesis. As long as the CCP continues to treat marginalised or dissenting people as a problem to be dealt with technocratically, rather than conciliated politically, they will continue to face passionate resistance. At the same time, we need to acknowledge the enormous benefits the Chinese system has brought hundreds of millions of people. And one thing we can be sure of, the Chinese system will never produce a President Trump.

Fourth, Australia also needs to be practical. Hugh White - one of Australia's foremost strategic thinkers - has recently warned Australians of the need to adjust our thinking to fast-changing realities in our region. We may feel comfortable criticising China about its activities in the South China Sea while the United States remains militarily predominant in the region. But as White rightly asks, what if the United States suddenly decides to up stumps and withdraw from the Asia-Pacific? How much weight is our moralising about a "rules-based order" likely to carry then?

Finally, while (as White has suggested) we can and should take steps to secure our sovereignty and prevent foreign interference, we also need to be cognizant of the dangers of what one of my Chinese student's termed a "Cold War mentality." Ronald Reagan-style "Evil Empire" rhetoric is not likely to get us very far at all. It's likely only to increase suspicion and mistrust on both sides.

If there is hope for a more liberal China, and more cordial and trusting relations between our two countries in the future, that hope to me lies in the younger generation of cosmopolitan and culturally-curious Chinese university students. The last thing we want to do is alienate those students by failing to acknowledge they exist.

Luke Hennessy is a PhD candidate at the Australian National University and a sessional lecturer in politics and international relations at the University of Canberra.