Mongolia Asia's Gentle Rebel

By JAIME A. FLORCRUZ ULAN BATOR

Inside a fenced government compound in the heart of Ulan Bator, Mongolia's capital, a traditional felt tent, known as a ger, rests on the concrete square. Inside the ger stands Mandakh Jiguur, 28, an artist who has abandoned his oils and watercolors for a higher calling: private enterprise. Spiritedly, he moves between the eight tables, pushing sausages, vodka and smoldering Mongolian hot pot on his customers. Jiguur heaves a sigh of relief that this day the authorities did not arbitrarily shut down his bar. "One day they tell you to stand up and start a business," says Jiguur. "But the next, they hit you on the head."

Call those meddlesome government officials Mongolia's past and the enterprising Jiguur the future. The present is just as Jiguur experiences it: a country trying, by fits and starts, to make a graceful transition from orthodox communism to something approximating democracy. Since last December, reform-minded Mongolians have been pressuring their leaders for ever faster economic and political change. In response, the ruling Communist Party has opened Mongolia's doors to foreign investment and ceded its monopoly on power, giving rise to more than a dozen pro-democracy parties. Activists insist that the changes are merely cosmetic. But measured against the intransigence of North Korea, China and Vietnam, Asia's other Marxist states, Mongolia is a renegade, spearheading the charge from behind the Bamboo Curtain toward the more democratic and market-oriented future now embraced by Eastern Europe.

Perhaps what surprises most about Mongolia's quiet revolution is how peacefully it is unfolding. Mongolia, after all, is the homeland of Genghis Khan, who seven centuries ago led one of history's most notorious tribes of warriors. Twentieth century Mongolian history has not been much kinder. Economic stagnation, diplomatic isolation and political repression have withered the nation of 2 million since it fell into Moscow's orbit in 1921. The most basic commodities are in scarce supply -- even meat, despite the fact that Mongolia has more than six times as many sheep as people. Half the meat production is exported in exchange for Soviet goods and loans. The exports help repay Mongolia's $5.5 billion foreign debt.

Against that backdrop, the gains of Mongolia's revolution seem breathtaking. Prodded by Moscow and local reformers, the ruling Mongolian People's Revolutionary Party has gingerly embraced shinechiel (renewal), the local version of perestroika. Last March, Ulan Bator opened its doors to foreign investment after the government approved a law that guarantees unlimited and tax-free repatriation of profits for investors and joint ventures. The results seem promising. The Gobi Cashmere Factory already produces garments for Japanese and European markets, and Japanese, European and U.S. traders are talking about joint ventures.

As Mongolia's isolation lifts, outside influences seep in. English is taught in schools and on television. Western pop culture -- from rock music to lambada dancing -- has invaded the cities. And the infectious spirit of Eastern Europe's pro-democracy parties is broadcast directly into many Mongolian homes, courtesy of Soviet television.

In many respects, the changes speak more of a revived sense of nationalism than of a hunger for democracy. The descendants of Genghis Khan are rediscovering traces of an identity that was systematically blurred during the decades of Soviet domination. Mongolian script, abandoned in the 1940s in favor of the Cyrillic alphabet, is again being taught. The image of the Mongol hero is back in vogue: a nearly completed joint-venture hotel is named after Genghis Khan, and his visage adorns the label of a local vodka that is bottled / for export. An elaborate memorial to the warrior will soon be constructed in the capital. Meanwhile, the last of the Stalin statues in Ulan Bator has been dismantled.

Since December, pro-democracy activists have turned the heat on the ruling party with a series of demonstrations. In March they won a surprising victory when the Communist Party replaced its five-member Politburo with a younger, more progressive team and promised to hold multiparty elections for a bicameral parliament by this July. The opposition feels those changes do not go far enough. At a four-day congress in April, the ruling party approved plans for greater freedom for party members and rejected the Leninist principle of democratic centralism. But after intense infighting, the congress re-elected the top party echelon. Last week opposition and security forces almost came to blows as 40,000 protesters descended on the government palace to demand change.

The opposition faces an uphill sprint. The Communists, who have ruled for 69 years, enjoy access to state money, media and organizational apparatus. To offset those advantages, six opposition parties and groups have agreed to field common candidates in the elections. Even if Mongolia's first democratic exercise is fair, local and foreign observers in Ulan Bator predict that the Communists will win by a comfortable margin. Still, it would seem that the days of absolute rule are over.