Fight for rights

Editor's Note:

The story setback to seniors' property rights fight appeared in Metro Beijing on June 29. It detailed the latest flare up involving elderly landowners locked in a 20-year battle with the local government over property rights. The narrative of the story is familiar enough in Beijing; unwavering residents demanding justice pitted against an unscrupulous developer backed by the government. However, this particular case is a modern dispute that has ancient undertones, given the site formed part of the Imperial City of Beijing and once surrounded the Forbidden City. Also making it stand out is the fact one of the most prominent couples involved in the fracas isn't interested in compensation, only ensuring their rights are protected.

The story:

The site of the elderly residents' demolished courtyards on Beiheyan Dajie, Dongcheng district has been earmarked for a residential complex to be developed by Beijing Donghua Real Estate Corporation. However, the government had decades earlier granted former residents ownership deeds for two courtyards that were just inside of the site approved for reconstruction.

Ma Xiuming, 79, a retired professor and one of the landowners, denounced the reconstruction plan as "illegal," saying it violates the Plan on Protection of the Imperial City of Beijing.

Ma and her neighbors were forced out of their homes during the Cultural Revolution (1966-76), but the government issued them with certificates of ownership in the 1980s - documents they insist have been violated in the name of development.

The back story:

This appeared on the surface to be a typical story about a forced demolition and petitioning residents, but as details emerged it became apparent that there was a more compelling saga at the heart of the dispute.

A 79-year-old retired professor together with her husband, also a retired professor from Peking University, spent nearly 20 years seeking to have their legal property rights recognized and protected.　

Why are they so determined to take on the government? I repetitively asked myself this while writing the story. Do they want compensation? This was swiftly denied when I met Ma at her home located in Dongdan, Dongcheng district.

Her residence is a neat, tidy siheyuan, a classic style of residential architecture in Beijing dating back to the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644).

One of Ma's daughters also stays at the home sometimes, but most of time Ma lives with her husband in an apartment at Peking University.

I saw some family pictures on a table in the living room. Ma warmly explained that she has another daughter who works in Singapore and is married to a foreigner.

It was clear Ma and her husband, surnamed Zhang, could live a comfortable life with their daughters either in Beijing or Singapore, so why had this elderly couple opted to engage in such a bitter fight over property ownership for nearly 20 years?

"I just want them to acknowledge that it's our legal right to take back our belongings. I even plan to give this land to the government eventually, but first we need recognition from the authorities," Ma said.

Unlike a lot of other evicted residents who are wrangling with developers over compensation, Ma and Zhang are fighting for something they deem as much more important - dignity and rightful ownership.

Ma and her neighbors, also intellectuals, were forced out of their homes during the Cultural Revolution. While the upheaval was severe, they did manage to secure ownership deeds for their properties from the government in the 1980s in a rare gesture of reconciliation.

However, Ma and her neighbors' homes remained occupied by the tenants who refused to leave until 1992, when the former Beijing Dongcheng Housing Construction and Development Company, a State-owned enterprise, evicted the residents and demolished the courtyards without owners' approval.

"The authorities agreed to give us compensation of 20,000 yuan ($3,150) afterwards, but they refused to tell us how this figure was calculated. Subsequently, I rejected it and never signed a contract giving them the rights to our land," Ma said.

Ma presented a thick pile of documents to me, including a property ownership certificate and some other official documents and photos. Perhaps most striking was Ma's land certificate: a private certificate that predates the 1949 founding of New China.

Ma is a petitioner, but the retired professor differs significantly from other petitioners I've encountered in previous interviews for similar stories.

She came across as being much more rational and calm, prepared to convince others with her arsenal of evidence and unwilling to be "bought out" for any compensation.

She tried her best to negotiate with authorities, even turning to the Jiu San Society, one of China's leading non-Communist parties of which she is a member, and the Overseas Chinese Union, given her daughter lives overseas. However, the talks failed to yield a favorable outcome.

On the way to Beiheyan Dajie, Zhang told me that life as retirees had allowed he and his wife to devote more time toward defending their rights, as well as the city's imperial history that they, as local Beijingers, feel passionate about protecting.

To find out whether the reconstruction proposal violates the government's Plan on Protection of the Imperial City of Beijing, I contacted the municipal planning commission to arrange an interview.

They refused to an interview in person, but promised to send a faxed reply to my questions.

Three weeks after I sent my questions, I received the commission's brief, mostly one-sentence replies. Some answers seemed to contradict articles of the plan.　

For example, the development proposal calls for the site of the demolished courtyards to be converted into a residential complex equipped with public facilities and underground parking.

The height of the building will be 10.5 meters or roughly two floors, it says.

The commission said this approved height doesn't breach building restrictions in the local area, but the 14th article of the plan stipulates the new building's height must be below nine meters.

Unsurprisingly, many questions weren't answered satisfactorily. Although, as is so often the case in instances such as these, reporters can only present both sides of the story and let readers judge for themselves.