[1928 - 1937] Republic of China: The Nanjing Decade

The year is 1928. The brutal, chaotic age of the warlords is finally over. For more than a decade, China had been a fractured land, a chessboard for ambitious generals who carved up the country with their private armies. But now, the dust of the Northern Expedition, a great military campaign, has settled. The Kuomintang, the Nationalist Party, stands victorious. A new capital rises in Nanjing, its very name meaning "Southern Capital," a deliberate break from the imperial legacy of Beijing, the "Northern Capital." At the center of this new China stands a man of immense ambition and stark contradictions: Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek. He is a modernizer who draws on ancient Confucian virtues, a Christian convert leading a revolution founded by the great Dr. Sun Yat-sen. His goal is nothing less than the forging of a strong, unified, and modern Chinese state, one that can finally stand on its own two feet after a century of humiliation by foreign powers. And for a time, it seems possible. This period, from 1928 to 1937, would later be called the Nanjing Decade, and in the bustling coastal cities, it felt like a golden age. Walk down the streets of Shanghai, the "Paris of the East," and you would witness a dizzying blend of East and West. The air thrums with the sound of automobile horns and the clatter of trams. The scent of street food—steaming dumplings, savory noodles—mingles with the exhaust of motorcars and, in certain districts, the sweet, cloying smell of opium. From the open doors of dance halls spills the blare of a jazz saxophone, a soundtrack for a new generation. Here, modernity is worn on the sleeve, quite literally. The traditional, loose-fitting robes of the past give way to the sleek Western suit for men. For women, the era is defined by the *qipao* (or *cheongsam*). Evolving from a modest Manchu gown into a form-fitting, often daringly high-slit dress of silk or patterned cotton, the *qipao* becomes a symbol of female liberation and sophisticated urban style. Women are bobbing their hair, attending universities, and entering the workforce in unprecedented numbers. Progress is not just cultural; it is concrete. The Nationalist government embarks on an ambitious project of nation-building. A stable national currency, the *fapi*, is established in 1935, taming the hyperinflation that had plagued the warlord years. Over 20,000 miles of modern highways are constructed, connecting cities that had been isolated for centuries. A national airline, the China National Aviation Corporation, takes to the skies, shrinking the vast country. In Nanjing itself, grand government buildings rise in a fusion of Western and Chinese architectural styles, dominated by the magnificent Sun Yat-sen Mausoleum on Purple Mountain—a shrine to the republic's founding father. Chiang Kai-shek attempts to engineer social change from the top down with his "New Life Movement." It’s a campaign promoting civic virtue, cleanliness, and order. Citizens are instructed not to spit in public, to be punctual, to live frugally. It is an effort to create a disciplined, modern citizenry, but to many, it feels like an authoritarian intrusion into daily life, a strange mix of Boy Scout rules and military discipline. But this veneer of unity and progress is dangerously thin. While the cities gleam, the vast countryside, home to over 80% of the population, remains mired in poverty and tradition. Peasants struggle under the weight of heavy taxes and crushing debt to landlords, their lives little changed from the days of the emperors. And in this fertile ground of rural discontent, a different vision for China is taking root. Driven from the cities by the Kuomintang in a bloody 1927 purge, the fledgling Chinese Communist Party, led by figures like Mao Zedong, has regrouped in the rugged mountains of Jiangxi province. They are a shadow government, a rebellion-in-waiting. Chiang sees them as a "disease of the heart" and launches a series of massive "encirclement campaigns," determined to crush them. This internal war drains precious resources and military strength. In 1934, facing annihilation, the Communists break out of the encirclement and begin a desperate, 6,000-mile fighting retreat that will become the stuff of legend: the Long March. While a military defeat, it forges its survivors into a hardened, ideologically pure core and solidifies Mao’s leadership. An even greater storm, however, is gathering to the east. The Empire of Japan, with its own powerful military and industrial might, looks upon China's vast resources with hungry eyes. In 1931, a staged explosion on a Japanese-controlled railway in Manchuria—the Mukden Incident—provides the pretext Japan needs. Its army swiftly occupies all of Manchuria, an area larger than France and Germany combined, and renames it Manchukuo, a puppet state. The loss of Manchuria is a bleeding wound, a national humiliation. Cries erupt across China to fight back, but Chiang hesitates. His army is not ready for a full-scale war with the technologically superior Japanese. He adopts a controversial policy: "first internal pacification, then external resistance." He believes he must eliminate the Communists before he can confront Japan, trading space for time. This policy is deeply unpopular. To many Chinese, it looks like cowardice, a betrayal of the nation. The tension between these three forces—the Nationalists' modernization project, the Communists' rural revolution, and Japan's creeping invasion—defines the decade. It all comes to a head in the most dramatic fashion. In the winter of 1936, Chiang Kai-shek flies to the city of Xi'an to oversee the final push against the Communists. His commander in charge of the campaign is the "Young Marshal," Zhang Xueliang, whose Manchurian homeland is now under Japanese occupation. Zhang and his men have no appetite for fighting fellow Chinese; they want to fight the invaders. In the pre-dawn hours of December 12th, Chiang awakes not to the salute of his guards, but to the sound of gunfire. His own general, Zhang Xueliang, has mutinied. The leader of China is now a prisoner. Zhang’s demand is simple: stop the civil war and form a United Front with the Communists to resist Japan. China holds its breath. Would the nation plunge back into civil war on the very brink of foreign invasion? For two weeks, the fate of the country hangs in the balance. In a bizarre twist of history, it is the Communists, brokered by Moscow, who help negotiate Chiang’s release, understanding that he is the only leader capable of uniting the country against Japan. Chiang flies back to Nanjing, his authority shaken but intact. The civil war is put on hold. The truce is fragile, born of desperation, not trust. But the choice is made. The nation would face Japan. Seven months later, in July 1937, a gunshot at the Marco Polo Bridge near Beijing is the spark that ignites the flame. The Japanese army uses a minor skirmish as a pretext for a full-scale invasion. The Nanjing Decade is over. The golden age, if it ever truly was one, is about to be consumed by the fires of total war.