The original Chinese piece of this story was first published on Jan. 13 on the WeChat blog of Direct Connect (正面连接), an independent Chinese online media outlet that uses the tagline “Facing Complexity.” The article follows two independent bookstores — and the very practical question of how they stay alive — at a time when Chinese people’s lifestyles and reading habits are shifting fast.

Neither store survives by chasing bestsellers. Instead, they curate by taste: recommending books to subscribers based on their own aesthetic and intellectual judgment, building trust over time, and learning what their readers actually want. In some cases, that credibility gives them leverage to do what large publishers and mainstream channels often can’t: bring long out-of-print titles back to life, finding a second readership for “small” books that the market has already written off.

Subscription-based book clubs are hardly new. What is distinctive here is how independent booksellers, facing algorithms, price wars, and shrinking attention spans, reclaim selection as an editorial act. Their choices are shaped by long familiarity with readers, by personal conviction, and by a willingness to stand by books that might otherwise disappear. In this sense, selection itself becomes a form of authorship.

In the past, when the pieces I chose were especially long, I would sometimes shorten them before publishing, trimming sections without affecting the core argument. This time, however, I’ve decided to translate and publish the article in full. I believe that those who are genuinely interested will naturally make the time to keep reading.

For the independent bookstores and books mentioned in the piece, I’ve added their Chinese names alongside the translations, following the original text, in case some of you would like to seek out these bookstores in person or track down the books discussed in the article. Any highlighted passages reflect my own emphasis.

When you think about opening a bookstore, what is your first reaction?

If you start weighing investment against returns, chances are you would hesitate.

Most people agree on one thing: people need to read, and readers need bookstores. Bookstores — especially independent ones that do not sell exam-prep materials or “success studies” in China — are often seen as spiritual refuges for readers, but rarely as places of consumption. Those who commit themselves wholeheartedly to this line of work usually do so with the expectation of losses, or even eventual closure.

Yet new changes are also taking place. In Chengdu, Youxing Bookstore (有杏书店) closed and later reopened. In Wuhan, a year after Baicaoyuan (百草园书店) shut its doors, Sincerity & Authenticity (诚与真书店) emerged. In distant Guilin, Wild Mountain Bookstore (野山书店), run by a husband-and-wife team, surpassed one million yuan in monthly sales by selling only books on RedNote. And many other bookstores we can readily name — All Sages (万圣书店), Floating in the Wild (浮于野书店), Avant-Garde (先锋书店) — have also built thriving spaces within online communities.

Over the past year, amid an environment where low-price competition has reached its limits, we found that bookstores operating through RedNote e-commerce saw overall revenue growth of more than 30 percent, with nearly ten thousand brick-and-mortar bookstores collectively moving onto the platform. In this interest-driven community, buying books is no longer a purely price-centered commercial act. People are rediscovering what physical bookstores uniquely offer: breaking out of information cocoons, encountering an unexpected good book, and sharing it with those around them. Genuine and friendly relationships between people are also taking root here.

Curious about how all this has happened — how independent bookstores manage to survive and thrive, and what readers actually gain from them — we traveled to Guilin (a well-known tourist city in south China’s Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region) and Wuhan (in central China’s Hubei Province) to meet the Wild Mountain couple and “Old Wang,” the owner of Sincerity & Authenticity.

“For the Encounter Between People and Books”

Wild Mountain Bookstore is located on a commercial street in Guilin’s High-Tech Zone.

The street is divided into an outer section, a middle section, and an inner section. The outer street is lined with restaurants doing street-front business and remains lively day and night. By the middle section, foot traffic has already thinned considerably. The bookstore sits near an entrance to the inner section, facing a residential compound and turning its back to pedestrian sightlines. Few people ever wander here by chance.

The location is hard to find. Reader Song Shuang still remembers the suddenness of spotting Wild Mountain for the first time. On a rainy night in August 2025, a driver dropped her near the compound. The navigation app was inaccurate. As she walked through the pitch-dark night, constantly looking left, she happened to turn her head to the right—and the warm yellow characters “Wild Mountain Bookstore” suddenly leapt into her view.

The reason she felt she had to visit the bookstore was simple: curiosity.

Even before coming, Song Shuang had come across posts by Wild Mountain on RedNote. In those posts, the bookstore owners—”Mountain Pig” and “Wild Rabbit”—shared how they had witnessed a new book being reprinted: in order to fulfill shipments for readers subscribed to their “Annual Reading Plan,” Wild Mountain snapped up the final remaining stock of the book. The Annual Reading Plan is a new product offered by the bookstore. Subscribers receive one carefully selected book each month, accompanied by a handwritten reading guide.

Song bought a book through RedNote, The Moss Forest (《苔藓森林》), which explores how moss grows and adapts in different natural environments. One of its translators is Wild Rabbit herself. What attracted Song was a line on the RedNote page: “From seeing the small, learn to love life.” Beyond buying the book, she also subscribed to Wild Mountain’s Annual Reading Plan.

Song studies history. Her usual reading habits closely follow her academic discipline—books on silk, opium, the history of the English language—digging deep into such narrowly defined perspectives.

But Wild Mountain’s Annual Reading Plan brought many other types of books into her hands. First came Transitional Labor (《过渡劳动》) and Higher Than the Mountains (《比山更高》), which sparked her interest in nonfiction and anthropology. In May, she received The Little Fox in My Head (《我脑袋里的小狐狸》), a picture-book story about bipolar disorder. Song had stopped reading picture books after high school, thinking they had “too few words to be interesting,” but this book made her realize that what picture books can carry is not limited by form.

Through Wild Mountain’s reading plan, Song felt she had gained a stretch of reading time outside her information cocoon. Without the couple’s recommendations, she would never have thought to search for a picture book about a little fox on her own.

At the very back of Wild Mountain Bookstore are two square tables for readers, with message notebooks placed on top.

These curated book lists — reflecting the owners’ personal aesthetics and deeply connected to the city’s cultural and humanistic fabric — are, for readers, “just-right blind boxes.” They are also precisely what gives independent bookstores their reason to exist. Song noticed that Wild Mountain carries almost no popular bestsellers. Most of the books are in the humanities and social sciences, and nearly all were published within the past year.

Both Wild Rabbit and Mountain Pig work in publishing. Mountain Pig approaches the bookstore with a product-design mindset. He wants to create a scene for buying books: at a time when people are so accustomed to goal-oriented online shopping, independent bookstore owners can, through bookstores infused with their own knowledge, experience, and care, offer readers a possibility — a possibility of discovering their true reading interests, of seeing lives beyond their immediate field of vision, and of re-encountering and reconnecting with others through the specific space of a bookstore.

In Wuhan, Old Wang has been running bookstores for thirteen years. A year after Baicaoyuan closed, he relocated and opened what is now Sincerity & Authenticity.

Old Wang has an exceptionally sharp eye for selecting and evaluating books. On the day I visited, an editor from a publishing house had come in person with new titles, specifically to thank him for the feedback he had offered. Many of the out-of-print books in the store were personally selected by Old Wang from publishers’ warehouses.

He knows that most readers who find their way to Sincerity & Authenticity already have strong reading preferences and clear expectations. What he wants to offer them is scarcity. One experiment is the “out-of-print book blind box”: every buyer can request one specific out-of-print title. Old Wang photographed all the out-of-print books in the store and uploaded them as a single image on RedNote—The Book of Snowy Mountains (《雪山之书》), A Roll Call of Modern Academic Circles (《现代学林点将录》）, Burning the Boats (《焚舟纪》), and more. He then shows, during RedNote livestreams, how he assembles each blind box based on readers’ requests.

Perhaps only in RedNote livestreams can such a patient, slow atmosphere exist. There are no flash sales, no price slashing, no exaggerated performances. During the livestreams, Old Wang selects books, assembles packages, and answers questions. The blind-box purchase link sits quietly at the bottom of the screen while staff pack orders. Viewers are not just watching; they often offer suggestions for choosing books. A good livestream can sell over 20,000 yuan (about 2,870 U.S. dollars) worth of books; even a weaker one still brings in five or six thousand yuan.

Once, Old Wang received a blind-box order from a woman who provided almost no information about books, mentioning only her situation: newly married, and curious about Old Wang’s “first-instinct” recommendation.

He spent more than an hour selecting the book—the longest time he had ever spent on a single blind box. During the livestream, viewers suggested parenting books or titles about romantic relationships. Old Wang rejected them all. Why, he asked, would someone who has just gotten married and feels secure about marriage need a book telling her how to handle parenting or relationships? What he sensed was her happiness and ease.

The book still wasn’t decided. Some viewers urged him to “move on to the next one,” and Old Wang pleaded with the equally engaged audience: could he assemble it privately? The viewers refused—they insisted he make the choice on the spot.

Reopening a bookstore seemed almost impulsive. About a year after Baicaoyuan closed, Old Wang was strolling through Tanhualin when he saw a shop for rent. He stepped inside and found that the layout was identical to Baicaoyuan’s old space. The rent was paid quickly. At first, green plants sat in front of the bookstore’s bright display windows, but soon more of Baicaoyuan’s style returned to Sincerity & Authenticity: too many books, stacked everywhere, so that when more readers arrived, they had to brush past one another constantly.

Inside Sincerity & Authenticity Bookstore

Why reopen a bookstore? I asked Old Wang. His answer was, “Because I have the resources for selecting books” — meaning that reopening felt natural. In earlier years, he had also said, “After the pandemic, Wuhan can’t be without an independent bookstore.” At that time, nearly all the independent bookstores of Baicaoyuan’s generation had already closed.

The Wild Mountain couple and Old Wang share a basic belief: people need to read, and readers need bookstores. Independent bookstores are a special kind of bookstore, usually run by long-term locals, with selections reflecting the owner’s personal taste. You typically won’t find school textbooks or prominently displayed bestsellers there. They may be seen as niche pilgrimage sites for literary youth, but rarely as places of consumption.

For this very reason, independent bookstore operators face a difficult reality. They must continually invent new models in response to rapidly changing lifestyles and reading habits to sustain the pleasure of reading. The Annual Reading Plans, blind boxes, and revived out-of-print books that Wild Mountain and Old Wang developed on RedNote are such experiments.

During the Baicaoyuan era, a line posted above the bookstore entrance read, “For the encounter between people and books.” At Sincerity & Authenticity, it became, “Sincerity & Authenticity embraces the book trade and reaches far.”

How to Survive?

In the first days after Wild Mountain opened, Wild Rabbit and Mountain Pig hosted events, including a screening of a documentary about Baicaoyuan’s closure. Some readers asked whether it was inauspicious. Mountain Pig replied, “Given our human limitations, closure is inevitable.” By this he meant that changes in independent bookstores are closely tied to the lives of their owners; any life change can affect the bookstore.

In reality, far more than personal life changes shape a bookstore’s survival: a city’s population size, number of universities, store location, and surrounding environment all matter. Baicaoyuan closed in 2021 because the landlord forcibly reclaimed the space.

In the months before closure, Baicaoyuan had its water and electricity cut off. Readers used phone flashlights to search for books. In the final days, someone approached Old Wang, asking him to serve as a book-selection consultant, calling him “talent.” Old Wang shot back, “Talent? What kind of talent runs a bookstore into the ground?” He wasn’t trying to snap at them; he was simply deeply dissatisfied with himself. As the owner, Baicaoyuan’s failure was his failure.

Yet this same Old Wang, who exited with embarrassment and bitterness, had already reopened Sincerity & Authenticity by the time Baicaoyuan’s closure documentary was screened at Wild Mountain. The bookstore’s name comes from the philosophy book Sincerity & Authenticity, which traces the evolution of the concept of the “self” across four hundred years of Western cultural history.

Old Wang is indeed a person of strong selfhood. When we met, he casually leaned against a pile of unopened books, constantly responding with questions of his own. In running a bookstore, he is ambitious and confident. Usually publishers choose bookstores to work with, but Old Wang also chooses publishers. For those who insist on selling books cheaply in their own livestreams while refusing to offer bookstores better terms, his view is simple: unnecessary. Bookstores are not begging publishers for business; as different actors in the same industry, they should enable one another.

Old Wang sits right in this aisle, assembling blind boxes for readers.

Indeed, when selling books becomes no different from selling any other product — when everything revolves around price — bookstores can no longer sell books.

In the publishing value chain, publishers, as upstream players, have gradually developed shelf-based e-commerce and livestream sales beyond offline channels. Today, virtually every publisher in China runs its own livestream. Bookstores, at the very bottom of the chain, have lost their original sales function.

They cannot obtain books at low prices from publishers because they struggle to achieve volume. As Old Wang explains, if a bookstore buys a book at a 40 percent discount, it must sell it at 80 percent of the list price just to make a profit. But in a publisher’s livestream, the same book may sell for 30 percent. “Readers aren’t stupid,” he says. “Why buy at 80 percent when you can get it for 30?”

Publishers are not deliberately targeting independent bookstores. The reality is that publishers have limited manpower, and the tiny quantities ordered by most independent bookstores are not worth the effort required to maintain relationships and offer low prices.

For independent bookstores to survive, they must gain bargaining power with publishers — that is, the ability to negotiate lower discounts. And to negotiate, they must achieve volume.

For Wild Mountain, the decisive factor in gaining bargaining power was the Annual Reading Plan launched on RedNote. In 2025, the plan sold more than 2,000 subscriptions; by the very beginning of 2026, it had already surpassed 5,000.

This means that over the course of a year, for twelve selected books, Wild Mountain can guarantee sales of more than 5,000 copies each. For most humanities and social science titles, initial print runs typically range from 4,000 to 5,000 copies to avoid unsold inventory.

Old Wang’s bargaining power is even more distinctive. It lies not only in volume, but in his confidence to sell niche books that others cannot. A philosophy book, On Certainty (《论确定性》), shows only 102 readers on Douban, China’s leading review platform. It was printed in 6,000 copies, failed to sell through e-commerce, and was returned to the publisher. Old Wang took it on and sold more than 800 copies.

Moreover, among independent bookstores nationwide, Old Wang has a unique capability: reviving out-of-print books. He contacts publishers, advances funds, and buys out the reprinted inventory, relieving publishers of sales pressure. He then sells the books in his store. The Book of Snowy Mountains (《雪山之书》), an ethnographic study of Meili Snow Mountain by ethnologist Guo Jing, is one such example.

First printed in 2012 with 2,000 copies, The Book of Snowy Mountains soon went out of print. On second-hand platforms, its original 68-yuan price was inflated to nearly 300 yuan. Old Wang had his eye on it for seven or eight years. After repeated inquiries with no response, he called Yunnan People’s Publishing House again in May 2025. The distribution department said the book was old and needed to be discussed with editors. Over a month later, the reply came: it should be possible. Old Wang immediately asked when it could be printed — and waited again. The author needed to revise the text; editors had to proofread; internal procedures had to be followed. Another month passed before the contract was finally signed. In October, brand-new copies arrived at the bookstore’s door, and only then did Old Wang feel at ease.

To revive out-of-print books, Old Wang has invested more than one million yuan over time. His approach is simple: once the costs of one revived book are recovered, he moves on to revive the next.

Because of Sincerity & Authenticity, The Book of Snowy Mountains became a highly wished-for title on RedNote. In less than three months, Old Wang had recouped his costs. RedNote is the only platform he operates — he does not want to be merely a shop assistant listing books online, but to convey his understanding and feelings about each book.

The Book of Snowy Mountains

For Wild Mountain, the sales of the Annual Reading Plan mean the bookstore no longer needs to worry about mere survival. “A bookstore can make money” — this is what the couple wants to prove. What they now need to consider is scale: how big do they want the business to become?

Reading Is Contagious

One afternoon in late December, Old Wang and I were discussing details of The Book of Snowy Mountains inside Sincerity & Authenticity. An elderly man with gray hair stood nearby selecting books and listened for quite some time. When we paused, he stepped forward and asked, “Which book were you just talking about?”

Sincerity & Authenticity reminded me of the bookstore outside my middle school years ago. Back then, before smartphones, students in identical uniforms would weave past stacks of exam-prep books at the front and gather in the fiction and magazine sections. Some sat on the floor reading; others drifted along rows of spines.

Sometimes I was drawn to what others were reading; sometimes I simply wandered, deciding at random which book to open. Buying books then took time — it wasn’t about searching, ordering, and waiting for delivery, but felt more like a journey of discovering one’s interests.

The morning I went to Sincerity & Authenticity, I entered almost simultaneously with another middle-aged man. He stopped at every shelf. At one point he asked staff whether they had books on ancient architecture in Shanxi. Later, I noticed a book he placed on the counter—Chiang Kai-shek and Modern China (《蒋介石与现代中国》). I asked if I could take a look. It was the only unsealed copy in the store. He glanced at me and said, oddly, “Just flip through it.” As if my asking was unnecessary—of course one should read if one wants to, even if the book had already been bought.

After skimming a few pages, I asked staff to reserve a copy for me. This book would almost certainly never have appeared in my online browsing, nor would I have thought to search for it on any platform. But in the bookstore, like the gray-haired man earlier, I was infected by the interests of those around me. A few days later, on January 2, I returned to Sincerity & Authenticity—the store was so crowded it was hard even to open the door.

Two readers consulting staff at Sincerity & Authenticity about book selections

Compared with the bustle of Sincerity & Authenticity, Wild Mountain Bookstore — tucked deep within a commercial street — sees few visitors. Mountain Pig told me that only after opening did they realize bookstores also “depend on the weather.” When it is too hot or too cold, people don’t go out. If there are no other shopping areas nearby, readers are even less likely to make a special trip for a single bookstore.

Fortunately, Wild Mountain’s RedNote shop has several thousand Annual Reading Plan subscribers scattered across the country. Online communities partially recreate the reading atmosphere of physical stores, allowing interests to spread.

In the comments under Wild Mountain’s RedNote posts, hesitant users asking about the reading plan are often met with enthusiastic recommendations from other readers — covering shipping schedules, the surprise of receiving the books, and how precisely the selections resonate.

Now, Wild Mountain’s reading-plan shipments can fill an entire delivery truck.

In Wild Mountain’s online community, some local reading groups receive their books earlier each month, sparking “guess the title” games. Wild Rabbit shared the varied clues readers give: “The color scheme is red and blue,” “The title has eight characters,” “The author is French.” Remarkably, some people do manage to guess the title of newly released books from these hints.

Wild Rabbit wears straight bangs and round-framed glasses. She speaks gently, at an unhurried pace, with language that is polished but never pedantic—precise, direct, and clear in viewpoint. When we met, discussing academic books, she said, “Scholarship is starting to move toward accessibility. There’s really been more popular academic writing in recent years.”

Mountain Pig, with yellow-toned skin and black rectangular frames, speaks more quickly, but with few filler words or repetitions.

The Meaning of a Bookstore’s Existence

After opening a bookstore on RedNote, one of the Wild Mountain couple’s deepest realizations is this: reading can happen anywhere, and with anyone.

Among the shipping addresses left by readers, some are in villages the couple had never heard of; others read “on the cabinet of the fire brigade’s emergency supply box,” or hospitals, law firms, police stations. They call this the bookstore’s anthropological observation. “It’s incredible,” Wild Rabbit sighed.

An elderly man buying books at Wild Mountain Bookstore

“Pine Tree” is Wild Mountain’s third courier. In his thirties, with high cheekbones, he is usually quiet. Pine Tree is his WeChat nickname, and people call him that. He is meticulous: when he sees that parcels contain books, he stacks them neatly in woven bags to prevent damage. Staff member Yuhe and the couple therefore show him extra warmth—offering water and helping load packages.

Yuhe is enthusiastic and efficient, always animated when speaking. She often chats with Pine Tree. One afternoon, after he finished loading packages, Yuhe casually invited him: “Do you want to come by the bookstore after work tonight and read a bit?”

It was an invitation without expectations — Yuhe often made such offhand offers. To her surprise, Pine Tree actually came. Delighted, she rushed out from behind the counter and picked seven or eight of her favorite books for him. Pine Tree sat quietly at a small table in the corner and began reading.

About twenty minutes later, the couple arrived after receiving Yuhe’s message. After a brief discussion, Mountain Pig picked up Delivering Packages in Beijing (《我在北京送快递》) and wanted to give it to Pine Tree. Pine Tree immediately stood up, waving his hands in refusal. Mountain Pig persisted: “Take it! Books are meant to be read! We have so many here—it won’t hurt to take one!” Pine Tree continued to refuse, saying he didn’t read much and that it should be sold instead. Yuhe also tried to persuade him, but to no avail. So the three chatted around him: where he was from, why he worked for STO Express, and whether their deliveries were slower than others’.

Although Pine Tree did not accept the book, he read most of it and later shared his thoughts with Yuhe: it wasn’t quite like his own work, because the author handled individual consumer deliveries. Pine Tree splits his time between individual and commercial deliveries. He said he didn’t encounter “that many trivial hassles” in daily work.

More importantly, Yuhe emphasized to me that once Pine Tree began reading in the bookstore, “our relationship changed.” They were no longer just people coordinating work. After that, Pine Tree came to the bookstore roughly every two weeks. Before coming, he would always message Yuhe. He usually arrived around 8:30 p.m., stayed for an hour, and kept Yuhe company until closing.

At first, Pine Tree wandered among different shelves, but later he often stopped at the natural history section, flipping through books about plants. Yuhe described this reading preference as “special.”

One evening in April or May 2025, Yuhe handed him a book. Pine Tree took it and suddenly said, “Yuhe, I’m going to quit. I’m going home.”

Yuhe couldn’t believe it. After confirming several times, she finally asked what he planned to do back home.

His answer was even more unexpected: to grow sugar oranges.

Is April or May the season for planting sugar oranges? Yuhe didn’t know. In winter, when sugar oranges were about to come onto the market, she messaged Pine Tree to ask how his planting was going. A while later, he replied: “Still planting—almost done. I’ll send you photos when they bear fruit.”

Yuhe doesn’t know whether any of the natural history books Pine Tree read mentioned sugar oranges. But that no longer seemed to matter. By the time he began growing them, his WeChat nickname had changed from “Pine Tree” to “Carefree and at Ease.”

Munetaka Masuda, founder of Tsutaya Bookstore, once said, “Bookstores exist because of customers’ spiritual needs; profit is merely a natural result.” Innovations in setting and packaging are simply means of attraction. Understanding readers’ needs, inspiring the desire to share, and cultivating a space of ongoing exchange may well be the true core of independent bookstores’ success. Enditem

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Hosted by Tsinghua University, Public Management Review is a leading academic platform specializing in public administration and public policy. It was officially launched in December 2019, building on a continuous publication first established in 2004, and is currently issued quarterly.

Before you dive into the article, it may be helpful to clarify a basic institutional concept in China’s urban governance: the respective roles of a city’s Party secretary and mayor.

In China, the municipal Party secretary, as the top official of the Communist Party of China (CPC) at the city level, is responsible for setting the overall direction, ensuring policy consistency, and overseeing major strategic decisions in line with central and provincial requirements.

The mayor, as the head of the municipal government, focuses on day-to-day administration, economic and social development, and the implementation of policies and decisions. The two roles operate in close coordination, with the Party providing overall leadership and the government handling executive functions—together forming a governance framework designed to support effective decision-making, policy execution, and social stability.

What do prefecture-level party and government officials in China do every day? How do their priorities shift over the course of a term? And how do officials of different ages and career backgrounds behave differently?

These questions naturally intrigued 杨泽森 Yang Zesen, a scholar of political science and lecturer at the School of Public Administration, Jinan University, and 王心怡 Wang Xinyi, a PhD candidate in the Department of Political Science, School of Social Sciences, Tsinghua University.

By chance, while conducting separate research, they discovered a unique dataset from City A (a prefecture-level city anonymized for research purposes) in a central Chinese province. The dataset consists of official chronologies documenting the daily work, inspections, and official visits of the city’s Party secretary and mayor between 2010 and 2019. In total, it contains more than 7,000 individual duty records, amounting to over 2.73 million Chinese characters.

Based on an analysis of these data, the two scholars jointly published a paper in June 2025 titled 地方主官履职行为及其模式研究——对中部A市的长时段分析 “The Performance of Local Principal Officials and Its Patterns: A Long-Term Analysis of City A in Central China”, in the academic journal Public Administration Review (公共管理评论).

What follows is an interview between Southern Weekly (南方周末) and Yang Zesen.

1. “What Officials Pay Attention to” vs. “What Officials Actually Do”

Southern Weekly: How did you come across City A as a research sample?

Yang Zesen: It was purely coincidental. While working on another project, I needed to consult local government materials and came across City A’s chronicles of Party history events. Starting in July 2010, the Municipal Party Committee of City A regularly published, on a monthly basis, detailed chronologies of the daily official activities of the municipal Party secretary and the mayor, through the local Party history website.

These chronologies meticulously recorded activities such as inspections, research visits, and official trips. To my knowledge, this is the most detailed publicly available dataset documenting the behavior of local government officials that I have ever encountered.

Southern Weekly: There seems to be relatively little academic research on what local officials actually do on a day-to-day basis.

Yang Zesen: Over the past two to three decades, the most influential theory in Chinese political studies concerning officials has been the “promotion tournament theory”, proposed by scholars such as 周黎安 Zhou Li-An. The idea is that higher-level governments evaluate lower-level officials using comparative benchmarks, with performance—especially in promoting local economic growth—as the primary criterion. Officials who perform better are given greater promotion opportunities, creating a competitive environment.

From an empirical perspective, much of the literature focuses on how promotion incentives motivate officials to adopt policies that stimulate economic growth. However, there is a missing link in this chain. Incentives are directed at officials, while empirical studies often examine policy outcomes at the local government level. What lies in between—what officials actually do in their daily work—has largely remained a black box.

In recent years, many studies have shifted toward analyzing officials’ “attention”—that is, what issues officials focus on. Scholars typically infer this from officials’ written instructions (批示, pishi) or published speeches and articles. But what officials pay attention to and what they actually do every day are not the same thing.

Attention certainly matters because it influences policy implementation. But from the perspective of official performance (履职, lüzhí—the fulfillment of official duties), attention is only part of the story. Basic facts about what officials do in practice remain unclear. Senior officials receive dense media coverage, but for the much larger group of mid- and lower-level officials, systematic data are scarce. As a result, many studies rely on theoretical assumptions rather than direct behavioral evidence.

Southern Weekly: Can the City A chronologies be used to test these existing theoretical assumptions?

Yang Zesen: The main value of this study lies in the data themselves. We did not impose heavy theoretical modeling; instead, we focused on presenting factual changes in the behavior of local officials. Since there are already many hypotheses and conjectures, the most straightforward approach is to test them directly with data.

Our original motivation stemmed from basic questions: Are local officials’ behaviors largely pre-arranged? Do different individuals behave in the same way once they assume the role of principal local officials (地方主官)? Or do individual characteristics lead to systematically different behavior patterns?

Southern Weekly: How large is your sample?

Yang Zesen: We extracted all records from City A’s chronologies. Considering that the major public health event in 2020 (i.e., COVID-19) likely had a fundamental impact on officials’ behavior, we limited our analysis to the 2010–2019 period, covering a full decade.

The final dataset includes approximately 7,000 duty records involving four municipal Party secretaries and six mayors, totaling around 2.73 million characters.

Southern Weekly: From a macro political-economic perspective, what notable changes do you observe between 2010 and 2019?

Yang Zesen: In terms of political leadership activities, behaviors such as conveying and studying instructions and guiding principles from higher authorities (传达学习上级指示和精神) and implementing inspections conducted by higher-level authorities (落实上级巡视) became significantly more prominent over time.

For municipal Party secretaries in particular, implementing higher-level inspections emerged as a core duty. Activities such as receiving inspection teams, accompanying supervisory checks, and implementing rectification measures increasingly became high-frequency categories.

These trends corroborate a broader pattern since the 18th National Congress of the Communist Party of China (CPC) in 2012, whereby the central government has strengthened regulation and guidance over local governments through enhanced macro-level governance and oversight.

2. Different Priorities: Party Secretaries vs. Mayors

Southern Weekly: How did you categorize such a large volume of data?

Yang Zesen: We conducted a typological analysis of officials’ performance of duties. The behaviors of municipal Party secretaries and mayors were each classified into 20 categories.

Overall, the most frequent category for Party secretaries was “conveying and studying instructions and guiding principles from higher authorities.” This was followed by activities such as inspections and research visits, and providing guidance on urban development.

For mayors, the largest category was also “conveying and studying instructions and guiding principles from higher authorities,” but their remaining activities showed different emphases.

These differences reflect the division of responsibilities under unified leadership. Party secretaries tend to focus more on social governance (社会治理) and primary-level Party building (基层党建), while mayors place greater emphasis on urban development and economic construction.

Southern Weekly: How have economic policy-related activities changed over time?

Yang Zesen: Over time, four major categories—guiding urban construction, economic development, urbanization, and investment promotion (招商引资)—all showed a declining trend in proportional share for both Party secretaries and mayors.

This does not mean that the absolute number of such activities declined, but rather that their relative weight decreased. This suggests that under a more diversified performance evaluation system, local officials’ work has become more dispersed. Unlike in the past, officials can no longer focus almost exclusively on economic growth while devoting little attention to other areas.

Areas with markedly increased attention tend to be those subject to strong accountability mechanisms, such as environmental protection, which has become an increasingly important component of both Party secretaries’ and mayors’ duties.

Notably, Party secretaries have significantly increased their activities in social governance and public services, including guiding primary-level governance, visiting and consoling local residents (慰问群众), and overseeing agriculture and rural development.

Southern Weekly: What factors influence officials’ behavior, and how can they be analyzed?

Yang Zesen: Officials’ behavior is shaped by factors at three levels.

First, at the macro level, changes in political and economic conditions matter. From the perspective of local officials, this manifests in three ways:

1.Diversification of development goals: Whereas economic development once dominated, recent years have seen greater emphasis on social security and people’s livelihoods.

2.More comprehensive incentive mechanisms, combining both positive and negative incentives.

3.Central–local relations: As the central government strengthens top-level design, the extent to which this influences local officials’ behavior deserves careful examination.

In addition, two other factors matter: officials’ tenure and individual characteristics.

Because local officials do not know exactly when they will be promoted or transferred, they effectively operate under conditions of uncertain tenure. How do officials adjust their behavior under such uncertainty? One common hypothesis is that officials pursue large-scale construction projects early in their tenure—the so-called “three fires of a newly appointed official” (新官上任三把火)—to make their achievements visible as quickly as possible.

Southern Weekly: Does the same official behave very differently at different stages of their tenure?

Yang Zesen: Yes. We analyzed Party secretaries and mayors separately.

As their tenure progresses, Party secretaries tend to conduct more inspections and social engagement, focusing increasingly on primary-level governance, while reducing activities closely tied to economic growth, such as investment promotion and urban construction.

Mayors, by contrast, tend to intensify efforts in government reform, overseeing key projects and national-level new areas in the later stages of their tenure, while reducing inspection activities. In terms of urban construction, their behavior follows a “U-shaped” pattern—rising early, declining mid-term, and rising again toward the end.

Southern Weekly: Why do Party secretaries and mayors diverge in their priorities toward the end of a term?

Yang Zesen: This is related to changes in how officials are evaluated. Since the 18th CPC National Congress, evaluations have become more comprehensive, placing greater weight on people’s livelihood outcomes.

Moreover, Party secretaries and mayors operate under different incentive structures and divisions of labor. Party secretaries have stronger political responsibilities, and as their tenure lengthens, they increasingly focus on social governance.

For mayors, the U-shaped pattern in urban construction reflects strategic behavior. Officials often seek to accumulate visible achievements early on. If their accomplishments remain insufficiently recognized by the middle or later stages of their tenure, they may push for a new round of urbanization or construction initiatives toward the end.

3. Locally Promoted Officials vs. Officials Transferred from Elsewhere

Southern Weekly: You mentioned that individual characteristics also lead to differences in behavior. Could you elaborate?

Yang Zesen: We focused on two variables: age, a natural attribute, and official origin, meaning whether an official was locally promoted or transferred from another locality.

Age is a strong proxy for incentive intensity. Younger officials generally have greater promotion prospects and thus stronger incentives. As officials age, expectations of future promotion decline. Comparing officials across age groups helps reveal whether incentives shape behavior.

We found that Party secretaries and mayors aged 55 and above are significantly more active in environmental governance, while their involvement in urbanization projects is markedly lower than that of officials under 55. As retirement approaches, activities such as investment promotion, public outreach, and foreign affairs decline, and mayors also engage less in inter-regional cooperation and inspection visits.

There are also incentive differences between locally promoted officials and those transferred from elsewhere. Officials transferred from other regions are often appointed by higher-level authorities for specific purposes and tend to have more optimistic political prospects, exposing them to different incentive structures.

Our data show that externally transferred Party secretaries are significantly more active in investment promotion, conveying higher-level directives, and conducting inspections, but relatively less involved in environmental governance. Externally transferred mayors focus more on innovation and entrepreneurship and urbanization, while investing less effort in advancing government reform.

Southern Weekly: Did any findings exceed your expectations? What are your plans for future research?

Yang Zesen: This paper mainly confirms earlier conjectures, partially filling the research gap—or “black box”—between officials’ incentive motivations and government behavior. By offering a deep, localized analysis, it supplements existing knowledge. However, because the study is based on data from a single city, its conclusions are inevitably limited in scope.

After publication, scholars studying official attention contacted me to discuss integrating attention and behavior—for example, examining which policy issues officials focus on and which of those actually translate into concrete actions, and how the two relate. This is a promising direction for future research.

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I’ve long been interested in China’s younger generations, and recently I came across an academic article on the website Aisixiang, an aggregator of scholarly writing on a range of topics from top Chinese experts. The article, titled “Key Features and Formation Mechanisms of the Social Mindset of the Post-2000 Generation,” is written by Hu Xianzhong, a professor at the Central School of Communist Youth League of China.

According to Aisixiang, this article is part of “国家社科基金高校思政课研究专项重点项目” a key project under the National Social Science Fund’s special research program on ideological and political theory courses in higher education. It was originally published in People’s Tribune (人民论坛), an academic journal affiliated with People’s Daily, and later made available on Aisixiang. The article was first published on Sept. 16.

The article looks at the social mindset of China’s post-2000 cohort from several angles, including self-confidence, views on employment, attitudes toward life, information habits, social interaction, and consumption patterns. I think it’s worth sharing here. Since the piece is fairly long, I haven’t translated the final section on policy responses — if you’re curious, the original is available online.

At its core, the article argues that the social mentality of China’s post-2000 generation resists simple labels. It is shaped by overlapping tensions—between confidence and anxiety, stability and mobility, competition and withdrawal, private feeling and public concern. Growing up amid China’s rapid rise and deep digitalization, this cohort combines strong national and cultural confidence with unease over economic uncertainty and shifting values.

Rather than portraying them as either disengaged or relentlessly driven, the author shows how contradictory orientations coexist: pragmatic career planning alongside experimentation, the pursuit of “small but certain happiness” alongside concern for fairness and social justice. The article also highlights the internet’s dual role in empowering and enclosing digital natives, shaping their emotional lives, consumption choices, and search for a workable definition of a “good life” that balances individual dignity with social progress.

Key Features and Formation Mechanisms of the Social Mindset of the Post-2000 Generation

Social mentality is characterized by wholeness, diffuseness, and universality, while at the same time displaying diversity, differentiation, and distinctiveness across different social groups. The post-2000 generation in China (those born in or after 2000), who are currently between the ages of 16 and 25, began entering secondary school around 2012, moved into universities starting in 2018, and gradually entered the workforce from 2020 onward. They have now become a dynamic social group with distinctive characteristics.

Specific Manifestations of the Social Mentality of the Post-2000 Generation

Every generation of youth is situated within a specific social coordinate system, and shifts in mentality inevitably bear the imprint of broader historical change. In the course of national rejuvenation and the building of a strong country, the post-2000 generation has enjoyed the dividends of reform and opening-up while simultaneously confronting unprecedented developmental challenges, giving rise to a distinctive social mentality.

As a more confident generation, the post-2000 cohort demonstrates strong patriotism and national pride rooted in a high degree of political identification and national identification. They grew up during a period of rapid expansion in China’s comprehensive national strength, with major national achievements—such as crewed spaceflight, aircraft carriers, the J-20 stealth fighter, and the Five-hundred-meter Aperture Spherical Telescope —forming part of their collective memory.

The perception of a country “born strong” has endowed them with the confidence to view the world on equal footing. They actively embrace mainstream films and television productions and disseminate narratives of Chinese strength through social media; cultural confidence is clearly externalized, as seen in their support for domestic brands such as Huawei and Hongxing Erke, and in their promotion of hanfu (the traditional Chinese attire) and traditional Chinese music onto the international stage.

Within their respective social contexts, young people of the post-2000 generation display abundant self-confidence and fervent patriotism: border defense soldier Chen Xiangrong fulfilled his vow of “pure love, only for China” through concrete action; university student Wang Juntao became China’s 20,000th hematopoietic stem-cell donor, stating plainly that “saving lives is the greatest honor”; and tennis player Zheng Qinwen declared on the Olympic stage, “I’m exhausted, but I can still play three more hours for my country.”

At the same time, some young people exhibit more extreme mentalities, often substituting political stance for factual judgment and engaging in doxxing and online violence against those holding different views. Such behaviors, in essence, confuse public discourse through far-fetched logic, undermine legitimate civic rights, and may easily give rise to extremist thinking.

The employment mentality of the post-2000 generation shows clear stratification and differentiation, with a coexistence of risk-avoidant stability-seeking and high mobility.

Overall, their employment outlook is relatively pragmatic. They tend to plan career paths based on factors such as the social influence of their universities, the market compatibility of their majors, the level of social resources available to them, and their personal interests, resulting in diverse employment orientations.

On the one hand, amid global economic uncertainty, graduates’ preference for stability has continued to intensify, with a stronger inclination toward stable jobs and incomes. According to Zhaopin’s 2024 College Students’ Employability Survey Report, the top two preferred employers are state-owned enterprises (47.7 percent) and government agencies (14.7 percent). Among priority considerations, “salary and benefits” (71.2 percent) and “stability is most important” (51 percent) rank highest.

On the other hand, the rise of new occupations and new business models has made individualized aspirations a key criterion in career choice. Highly mobile career trajectories have become the norm for some in the post-2000 cohort, who explore career directions through mobility, create opportunities, and experience freer, more autonomous, and more open working arrangements.

The rise of the internet society and advances in information technology have broken down temporal and spatial barriers, providing a boundless online arena.

Many post-2000 individuals are enthusiastic about cross-sector and cross-field part-time work, becoming so-called “slash youth,” a term for young people piecing together a living through multiple part-time jobs. For example, a best-selling online writer’s primary occupation may be that of a government civil servant, while an online illustrator earning tens of thousands of yuan per month may be a university student. Through active experimentation with different social roles and life experiences, they enrich their career trajectories. In addition, some recent graduates are neither employed nor enrolled in further education six months after graduation—either continuing to search for satisfactory jobs or preparing for another attempt at postgraduate entrance exams or civil-service exams after initial failure. Most of these “slow advancement” graduates rely on parental financial support.

The coexistence of “小确幸” (small but certain happiness) and “小而美” (small-scale beauty) in self-perception with an expanding range of public concerns creates a distinctive tension in the social mentality of the post-2000 generation.

Compared with other age groups, they are particularly adept at capturing small moments of everyday happiness: the warmth of the first milk tea in autumn, the surprise of a long-lost call from a relative or friend, or the pleasure of a short trip can all spark joy. In a modern society dominated by instrumental rationality, individual expectations are continuously lowered; through concrete and subtle life experiences, “small happiness” restores subjectivity to personal lives that have been alienated. This pursuit of happiness can be understood as a poetic resistance to one-dimensional life under a performance-driven society.

Notably, while attending to their own feelings, the post-2000 generation also extends its concern to rights and the broader environment. Issues ranging from gender equality and educational resource distribution to employment opportunities and data privacy; from technological innovation and comprehensive rural revitalization to carbon neutrality and public health security—all have entered their field of attention.

“Small but certain happiness” represents the projection of survival needs for the post-2000 generation, while the pursuit of fairness and justice reflects a value sublimation of developmental needs. The micro-level entry points and macro-level perspectives of their social mentality may appear incompatible, but in essence both reflect the value integration and spiritual aspirations of this cohort during a period of social transformation.

These are dialectically unified in their perceptions and reflections, as well as in their holistic definition of a “good life”: they seek both micro-level safeguards of individual dignity and macro-level progress in social civilization. When anxiety arises, they may retreat to “small happiness” and enjoy the pleasures of everyday details; when they perceive institutional fairness, they may become more actively engaged in public affairs.

In this sense, the emotional stability provided by “small happiness” supplies the psychological energy that enables young people to sustain attention to public issues, while a fair social environment lays the foundation for individual happiness. Together, these form the bedrock of youth social mentality.

Between the alienation of performance evaluation generated by rat race and the meaning vacuum induced by quiet quitting, the post-2000 generation continues to explore the value of life. In terms of individual life stages, the youngest members have entered secondary school, most are studying at universities, and some have already joined the workforce. Pressures from academics, employment, and work first manifest as rat race.

Facing intense workplace competition, although the post-2000 cohort has been labeled as “rectifying the workplace,” many still find themselves torn between leaving work on time and coping with last-minute overtime. The roots of involution lie in resource scarcity and a singular evaluation system. When educational credentials, salaries, and positions become the primary yardsticks of value, young people may be forced into a “theater effect,” in which those in the front rows stand up and those behind must tiptoe. Yet rat race is not entirely negative: it can drive efficiency gains, technological innovation, and even breakthroughs in certain fields, and in some sense also represents a form of youthful striving.

Before the echoes of “佛系 (fo xi),” roughly translated to “Buddha Style” referring those who advocate refusing societal pressures and forgoing ambition, detachment have faded, the discourse of quiet quitting has surged forward, accompanied by new terms such as “摆烂 (bai lan),” or let it rot in English, and “摸鱼 (mo yu)”, or slacking off.

Rather than viewing quiet quitting as total surrender, it is more appropriate to understand it as a posture adjustment: when effort and reward are mismatched, and when hard work is alienated into meaningless consumption, some in the post-2000 generation choose “low desire” as a way to counter “high rate race.” The latent risk of quiet quitting, however, lies in masking confusion with detachment and dissolving responsibility through nihilistic culture, potentially eroding willpower and evolving into passive withdrawal from society.

The coexistence of quiet quitting and rat race, especially the phenomenon of “45-degree quiet quitting,” vividly captures the contradictory state of being unable to compete further yet unwilling to fully disengage. In reality, quiet quitting is often a rhetorical outlet for stress relief; most post-2000 individuals are “physically quiet quitting but mentally unsettled.” As a generation at the forefront of the times, they are searching for a third coordinate of youth—neither tools alienated by competition nor hermits escaping reality, but modern individuals with integrated and complete personalities.

The mentality barriers created by information “cocoons” have left some in the post-2000 generation feeling confused and anxious. As a cohort raised under careful family protection, some entered “defensive mode” early: opportunities for independent social practice are limited, close peer relationships are weak, and a “snowflake” is easily formed. Defensive mechanisms built across cognition, emotion, attitude, and behavior gradually solidify, intensifying the cocooning of social mentality. Algorithmic information “feeding” via smartphones undoubtedly exacerbates this trend.

Under such mental patterns, some post-2000 individuals tend to select information aligned with their interests, judge issues and viewpoints based on subjective needs, and struggle to accept differing perspectives. Their social circles are narrow, consisting primarily of interactions with “like-minded” individuals, and they fail to establish robust social networks in life and work, lacking proficiency in interpersonal cooperation. Others prefer to construct virtual social relationships online to compensate for deficiencies in real-world connections, resulting in the contrast of being “social butterflies online but socially anxious offline.” At the same time, information cocoons and cognitive cocoons induce mental anxiety among some in this cohort. When confused, some turn to online mysticism and digital divination apps, while comment sections become important spaces for relieving anxiety and seeking spiritual comfort.

Driven by distinctive aesthetic sensibilities and a strong desire for self-expression, some post-2000 individuals exhibit consumption and leisure patterns that blend tradition and modernity. As material needs give way to spiritual ones, their consumption values not only lead mainstream trends but also transcend them. They are among the first to shift life priorities from the “material” to the “spiritual,” fueling the rise of “reverse consumption.” For example, floral cotton jackets and military coats have become popular on university campuses, with students remarking, “It’s not that we can’t afford down jackets—it’s that military coats offer better value.” Feature phones, seemingly obsolete, have regained popularity among some post-2000 users due to their alignment with minimalism and “digital detox” ideals. They reassess their relationship with technology, pursue simpler lives, and explore healthier digital lifestyles.

According to the 2025 Youth Emotional Consumption Trends Report, 88.2 percent of young people report being under stress, with “emotional value” becoming the core driver of consumption. This has fueled explosive growth in industries such as designer toys, cultural tourism, pets, and food, while stress-relief gadgets and creative novelty items serve as “mental fast chargers.”

This consumption outlook reflects an awakening of self-awareness among young consumers, emphasizing the essence of life, the pursuit of inner tranquility, and a return-to-basics aesthetic. In fast-paced modern life, they increasingly seek spaces that soothe the mind and restore simplicity. Many in the post-2000 generation favor more economical, comfortable, and enjoyable forms of travel, prioritizing authentic experiences and diverse needs at destinations.

The Formation Mechanisms and Risk Assessment of the Social Mentality of the Post-2000 Generation

The formation of each generation’s social mentality is closely linked to the economic development, technological progress, and social transformation of its time. It is both the outcome of interaction between tradition and reality and characterized by relative stability alongside real-time evolution. Like other cohorts, the social mentality of the post-2000 generation contains both positive and negative elements as it adapts to and negotiates with dominant social mentalities.

The social mentality of the post-2000 generation is rooted in the social environment shaped by China’s rapid economic growth since reform and opening-up. Unlike their grandparents and parents, they grew up during a golden era of national economic ascent. Strong comprehensive national strength, abundant material and spiritual resources, and rapidly evolving digital technologies not only laid a solid foundation for their self-esteem, confidence, and resilience, but also endowed them with the confidence to engage the world on equal terms.

At the same time, they inhabit an era in which traditional values are continuously reconstructed and social structures rapidly reorganized. From value systems to development pathways, from lifestyles to life goals, the support structures of “certainty” are shifting. Finding a certain self in an uncertain world has become an inevitable task in their growth.

For society, structural change is the norm; for youth, anxiety and exploration are the norm. The uncertainty released by social transformation brings development opportunities while also fostering desires for stability, fatigue, and anxiety. Changes in youth social mentality thus reflect both passive adaptation to dramatic external shifts and active efforts to seek order, meaning, and security under new conditions.

The pressure exerted by group mentality on individual rationality may lead some post-2000 individuals to conformist “cognitive downgrading.” Social mentality emerges from the aggregation of individual mentalities, yet once a collective mentality takes shape, it in turn influences individuals through conformity effects.

As Gustave Le Bon observed, “In the psychology of crowds, individual ability weakens, personality converges, heterogeneity is swallowed by homogeneity, and the unconscious gains the upper hand.” Conformity not only hinders independent thinking and rational evaluation, but also drives individuals to follow majority behavior or opinions out of fear of exclusion. This mechanism may be reinforced through alignment with partial individual cognition or distorted by group pressure.

In turn, conformity can amplify collective bias, leading to misinformation and error propagation. When individuals accept and spread group viewpoints without careful consideration, inaccuracies are magnified. Among the post-2000 generation, negative mentalities are particularly prone to online transmission, gradually forming group-level consensus and generating crises of trust and identity. Once such dynamics reach a critical mass, conformity effects may draw more young people toward majority positions, deeply shaping value formation and potentially posing risks to ideological security. The tension between conformity and individual autonomy reflects the fundamental contradiction between humans as social beings and as individuals pursuing self-realization.

As the most significant environmental variable, the internet influences—and even shapes—the social emotions of the post-2000 generation. Compared with other groups, their defining characteristic is co-growth with the internet; they are often described as “digital natives” and “permanently online,” with an inherent dependence on digital space.

For them, the online world increasingly supplants offline society as the primary arena of life. The anonymity and decentralization of online interaction sharply contrast with offline realities, eroding social, physical, and geographic attributes in virtual space and leading some to neglect real-world behavioral norms and interpersonal rules. Combined with the internet’s tolerance for individuality and diversity, this reinforces self-oriented tendencies and may foster egocentrism in social interaction.

The immediacy of online information dissemination encourages reliance on digital communication, reducing time and attention devoted to embodied interaction in physical space. Learning, leisure, and even social relationship construction shift online, heightening risks of social anxiety and cocooning.

Negative emotions are easily triggered at critical junctures. In times of rapid change, fast-paced life weakens empathy, rising individualism reduces tolerance, and layered pressures—from economic stress and social conflict to developmental bottlenecks and personal setbacks—allow suppressed emotions to erupt through emblematic incidents, producing a “wild-horse effect.” This manifests as online harassment, malicious complaints, baseless accusations, and even physical confrontations in public spaces. Negative emotions erode rational thinking, intensify social conflict, undermine moral boundaries, and foster real-world violence, posing serious threats to social stability.

For the post-2000 generation, subjectivity plays a crucial role in modern social formation, providing a pathway toward freedom and emancipation. As Marx and Engels noted, “In our time, every phenomenon appears to contain its own contradiction.” Yet excessive or disordered assertion of subjectivity can generate interpersonal “pressure,” ultimately breeding negative emotions. Meanwhile, online public sentiment is easily manipulated, fostering extreme and radical discourse that provides fertile ground for emotional escalation. Enditem

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But you may ask: why should a tutor who helps students pick their college majors be worth paying attention to? In my view, what makes Zhang notable is not only his advice, but also the exchanges that unfold in his livestreams with students, teachers, and parents. These conversations reveal much about the realities of contemporary China—the concerns people carry, the direction of industry, and the pulse of society itself.

To be clear, presenting excerpts from his livestreams here does not mean I endorse all of his career suggestions—I’m not an expert in that field. Rather, I see his livestream room as a window into Chinese society. Below, I’ve shared a selection of dialogues along with some of my own reflections. If you find this valuable, feel free to leave a comment—I still have plenty of other interesting material that didn’t make it into today’s newsletter.

[Please note that the selected livestream clips are not necessarily from this year, but I believe some of the content is timeless]

Why China's national college entrance exam (gaokao) is now seen as increasingly competitive

Excerpt from 2:55-6:07:

Zhang: Talking about college entrance and talent selection—China’s honestly the fairest place in the world, no contest.

You may say, Mr. Zhang, that rat race in China is mad, and that kids in middle and high school are under huge pressure. You’re right about that. But then tell me this—if we switch to some other way of selecting talent, can you guarantee it will be absolutely fair? And suppose there's really a way for absolutely fair selection, will you buy it?

Suppose we ditch the college entrance exams and try "all-round education". Whose kid does better in sports? Whose kid plays better piano? Whose kid speaks better on stage, has stronger leadership, better communication skills? If we use that to decide who gets into university and who counts as talent, sure, the kids might feel happier in school. But do you really think that’s an acceptable way to select talent?

Let me put it this way—do you know why kids today feel so stressed, so burned out? In reality, their enrollment rate is way higher than when we were students. The gross enrollment rate for high school and for universities is much higher than in our time, after all those years of enrollment expansion in China. But why we feel today’s kids are under even more pressure?

It’s actually because that the parents’ mindset is different nowadays. Back in our time, honestly speaking, our parents didn’t place such high expectations on us. Most of them lived in the rural areas or small towns, so their expectations weren’t that high. But today’s parents? Totally different. Think about it—you’ve worked so hard to buy a school-district apartment in Beijing, to settle down in a city like Suzhou, to build a life in Shenzhen. Parents nowadays are already outstanding themselves.

Now imagine this—you tell a pair today, that their kid can only go to a vocational school. Will they accept it? No, they won’t. And that’s the real reason kids feel so much pressure today: parents can’t accept the fact that maybe their child won’t make it to high school. Back in our day, parents could accept that. But now? What really makes education so heated is the parents’ mindset. It’s us—our generation of parents, especially people like me, born in the 80s. Starting from the late 90s, China expanded higher education enrollment. I went to college in 2003. Most of us back then made it from the countryside to the cities through education and hard work. And once we settled in the city, we wanted our kids to make their living there too. We don’t want to accept our kids going to a technical or vocational school. So at the root of it all, it’s our mindset as parents that drives this pressure. Enditem

Comment: China's college entrance examination, or gaokao, may not be the most popular selection system, but it is perhaps the one that best fits China’s current realities. At the same time, mechanisms such as the “strengthening the foundation” (qiangji) program in recent years have created more possibilities for students with exceptional talent in certain subjects, even if such initiatives remain a topic of debate.

My parents were born in the 1960s, part of China’s baby boom generation. As their children, those of us born around 1990 also belonged to a particularly competitive cohort. I still remember reading statistics back in middle school and realizing how intense the competition was for my generation — what people today would call the most “involuted” (rat race, or "juan"). Yet, nearly 20 years later, competition among Chinese students remains just as fierce. I believe that high-quality educational resources will continue to be in short supply for quite some time, especially in first-tier cities like Beijing and Shanghai, where competition for access will always be intense. On the other hand, I agree with Zhang Xuefeng’s point that parents’ mindsets differ significantly across generations.

For our generation, whether in the gaokao or the transition from middle school to high school, failing to get into a university and instead attending a technical or vocational school was not considered unacceptable. Besides, very few of our parents had university degrees. In my own case, neither of my parents ever attended a regular university, and in fact no one in my extended family had gone to college before me. Expectations at the time were therefore focused simply on achieving the goal of entering university.

Today’s parents, by contrast, increasingly have university educations themselves. The market for gaokao tutoring and college application counseling has expanded rapidly, while social media has opened up far more channels of information. As a result, the information gap around filling out applications and planning for the future has narrowed to some extent. At the same time, however, certain majors — such as civil engineering — have lost their appeal as China’s economic model shifts. Parents now worry not only about whether their children can get into university, but also about whether they choose the right major, since the wrong choice could limit their future development.

Zhang Xuefeng speaks with a high school student in her fifth consecutive year of retaking the national college entrance exam

Excerpt from 12:16-15:31:

Zhang: Don’t ever believe that a degree can give you everything, it can't. There are plenty of bachelor’s, master’s, even PhD graduates out there who still can’t find a job, who end up achieving nothing. So don’t fool yourself into thinking that a degree solves everything.

Student: But I'm still not sure which subjects to choose for my college entrance exam. [Editor's note: In China's national college entrance exam (Gaokao), beside Chinese, Math and Foreign Language, students select three out of six from two streams of subjects: Arts (Humanities) or Science, with Arts representing History, Geography, and Politics, and Science representing Physics, Chemistry, and Biology. Different choices in Gaokao subjects have a huge say on the range of university majors that a student can apply for.]

Zhang: Don’t get stuck on this, kid. Remember—scores for Science subjects can go endlessly low, but at least with Arts they won’t. If I were you, honestly, I’d probably choose Arts subjects only. Let me give you an example. Take Geography—say in human geography, you get zero. Fine, then just focus on physical geography. If you memorize everything about physical geography, you can score at least 40 points.

Student: But if I choose pure arts, then later on I can only stick with the humanities majors. Won’t that make my career really limited?

Zhang: Let me put it straight, kid. You pick Science, but you can only score a little over 40 in physics. Do you really think it can give you a wide career path? When you get to university, will you even be able to understand what you’re studying?

Student: After repeating school for so many years, I honestly don’t even know whether my struggles with physics and chemistry were because I really couldn’t understand them, or because I just never studied hard. I’m already confused.

Zhang: What you really need to learn is how to review and reflect. Remember this: society works like this—it’s about discovering problems, analyzing problems, solving problems, and then verifying results. Most people can’t even do the first step. If you can get to the second step—analyzing the problem—you’ll already do pretty well in this world. If you can reach the third step—actually solving the problem—you’re already quite successful. And if you can make it to the fourth step—verifying results—you’re truly outstanding, the best of the best.

Zhang: Most people only get as far as step one: they just see a problem, but they don’t know how to analyze it. If you can analyze, you’ll do fine. If you can solve it, you’ll do very well. If you can verify results, then you’re at the top. So, my advice—focus on at least making it to step two, okay?

Zhang: And one last word to you, kid. If you still can't make it to undergraduate this year, choose a vocational school and move on. Everything I just told you, I said not only for you, but really to help save your parents. Enditem

Comment: When I was studying in the United States, I never really talked with my American classmates about their college application experiences. What I did know was that some of them would take a gap year after being admitted to college to gain life experience, but I rarely heard of anyone retaking entrance exams for several years just to get into a university. If you know more about this, feel free to share in the comments.

When I was in college in Shanghai (2008-2012), one of my three roommates had taken the gaokao three times before being admitted. The other two were local students from Shanghai (in China, students who apply to universities in their home province generally enjoy an advantage over out-of-province applicants). A close friend of mine from the dorm next door also had to retake the gaokao once before making it into my university. In China, there are even schools dedicated specifically to students who repeat a year or more, and in such places you really do see students who have been at it for more than one extra year.

In fact, Chinese academics have also debated the amount of time invested in schooling. For instance, economist Yao Yang suggested last year that the zhongkao (the high school entrance examination) should be abolished to reduce the excessive years of exam-focused competition. The question remains unresolved, but if someone were to raise such a proposal in the future, I would not be surprised.

Red Star News: You have repeatedly called for “abolishing the zhongkao and shortening the school system.” What is the starting point for this proposal?

Yao Yang: First, looking at the current state of education, students are wasting at least two years — the third year of high school is spent cramming for the gaokao, the third year of middle school is spent cramming for the zhongkao, and even the sixth grade of primary school often turns into test-prep. So ten years of compulsory education is entirely sufficient. Abolishing the zhongkao would help reduce parents’ incentive to push their children into endless competition.

[Editor's note: China’s current education system consists of six years of primary school, three years of junior middle school, and three years of senior high school. Under current regulations, China guarantees students six years of primary education and three years of junior middle school, known collectively as the nine-year compulsory education stage.]

Second, many major Chinese enterprises are actively promoting industrial automation. Today, the level of automation in domestic factories is already very high, and the workers operating these modern machines are themselves becoming more skilled. We can no longer define workers with outdated notions; modern workers need to have a certain degree of creativity and problem-solving ability. At a minimum, they should have received junior college or vocational college education in order to handle the demands of today’s production lines.

That is why I propose abolishing the zhongkao and implementing ten years of integrated compulsory education — the goal is to ensure that all children go on to high school, rather than being diverted too early into secondary vocational education. The selection of talent should be left to the gaokao; only at that stage should students decide whether to pursue technical training or continue on to university.

Zhang Xuefeng tells students success in China’s system is not all about connections

Excerpt from 7:44-9:36:

Zhang: Honestly, when it comes to working inside the system (or tizhi, mainly referring to China's public sector, including branches such as government bodies, public institutions, and state-owned companies), it’s not at all like what many of you imagine. People say, "oh, you need connectionsgu, or guanxi." But let me tell you, if that’s the way you think, your vision isn’t that broad yet.

Once you’ve seen how things really work inside, you’ll realize—luck matters a lot. Timing and fate matter a lot. Things don’t play out the way you picture them. It’s extremely complicated, and you can’t explain it in just one or two sentences. Anything can happen, any decision can happen. Honestly, it feels like metaphysics sometimes.

I’ll give you an example. I had a friend—if he hadn’t transferred to another place back then, today he might already be deputy division chief (or fu chu, a rank in China's bureaucratic hierarchy, which applies to all branches of China's public sector. A deputy county head ranks at deputy division chief level). But just because that move, now his own apprentice has even risen higher than him, and he’s still stuck. That’s how unpredictable it is. It really is like fate, like metaphysics.

So don’t reduce everything to "it’s all about connections." Please don’t. Of course, connections can play a role, but that’s not the whole picture. There are different paths, different ways. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. It’s not as simple as "if you have it, you succeed; if you don’t, you fail." No—it’s about finding the correct path. But sometimes whether you can find this path depends really on luck.

However, behind what looks like luck or fate, what really matters is to put effort into it. Where you put your time, your energy, your focus—that’s what makes the difference in the long run. Enditem

Comment: I know that in many “China 101” materials for international visitors, there is often a special section devoted to explaining guanxi. Wikipedia, for example, has a line that contrasts Chinese and Western practices in this way: “Unlike in the West, guanxi relationships are almost never established purely through formal meetings but must also include spending time to get to know each other during tea sessions, dinner banquets, or other personal meetings. Essentially, guanxi requires a personal bond before any business relationship can develop. As a result, guanxi relationships are often more tightly bound than relationships in Western personal social networks.”

I don’t fully agree with this view. It’s true that connections in Chinese culture have their own distinct features, but to suggest that in the West you can get things done without connections—or that relationships don’t matter there—doesn’t seem accurate either. I remember during my MBA studies in the United States, we had dedicated networking sessions where you were expected to build ties with company representatives over banquets or cocktail events.

In fact, I think that in most countries and societies, the importance of connections is more or less the same. What differs are the forms these connections take and how they are cultivated [tea versus coffee, for instance]. If a Chinese student believes that working within the system is impossible without preexisting connections, that is absolutely a misconception. Every individual, as a member of society, is constantly building a personal network throughout their career. These networks inevitably shape the development of both their work and their lives—and this is by no means unique to China.

A senior high school teacher sought advice from Zhang Xuefeng about his students’ future paths

Excerpt from 00:00-07:08:

[Editor's note: This section of the dialogue has been partially abridged for brevity]

Teacher: Our school is at a relatively low level. For example, when the full score of the zhongkao (senior high school entrance exam) in our town was 850. The top high schools set their cutoffs around 750, while our school admitted students with scores as low as 400.

Zhang: Let me ask you one question. Each year, how many of your students go on to an undergraduate program?

Teacher: We have a little over 300 students in the graduating class, and only about 10 make it into undergraduate programs. My first question is this: if some students barely meet the cutoff for the Second Enrollment Batch (二本/Erben), what should I tell them when they ask whether to pay the high tuition for Erben or to choose a public vocational/junior college instead?

[Editor's note: In China, universities used to admit students in different “enrollment batches” — Yiben (first batch), Erben (second batch), and Sanben (third batch) — with Yiben generally seen as the most prestigious, though the government is now reforming the system to phase out these divisions.]

Zhang: Which province are you in?

Teacher: Gansu. Also, what we now call Erben in some places includes what used to be the third enrollment batch (Sanben), and the tuition can be quite high—18,000 yuan (about 2,500 U.S. dollars) a year, even over 20,000. Many of our students are from poor rural families. That’s why I’m raising this: our students’ families have limited means and limited exposure, so when it comes to filling out applications after the gaokao, the only people they can really turn to are us teachers. So for those who just scrape past the Erben cutoff (二本线), should we encourage them to enroll in Erben, or advise them to step down a notch and choose a public vocational college with stronger programs?

Zhang: First, let’s give this teacher a big round of applause. I truly want to thank you on behalf of your students. If most high school teachers in China had your mindset and sense of responsibility, our education would only improve. What you’re doing is far greater than what I do—you’re working directly at the grassroots to help many students. In our respective fields, we’re both doing our part for the country.

Now, to your question: if a family’s finances are tight, I don’t think it’s necessary to pay such high fees just to enroll in Second Enrollment Batch (二本). That’s why I asked which province you’re in—baseline standards differ by region. Frankly, in the Northeast and Northwest, if a student only just meets the Erben line, their academic foundation often isn’t comparable to peers from some other provinces. For example, the Erben cutoff in Heilongjiang might be just over 300 points; in Gansu it may be under 400. If a student is scoring in the low-to-mid 300s, it’s unrealistic to expect that they’ll scrape into an undergraduate program and then go on to a master’s. It’s very hard.

Second, many vocational/junior colleges now lead to strong employment outcomes. In Suzhou, for instance, many manufacturing firms are in real need of highly skilled technicians. If someone picks up solid skills in certain science-and-engineering fields and works steadily for a few years, the pay is not low. People often say blue-collar wages and status in China lag behind those abroad. But consider this: in many countries, people treat so-called blue-collar work as a lifelong career. How many of us do that here? You often see young people quit factory or corporate jobs after a year because the work feels too hard.

I think this reflects a broader social restlessness—people are dazzled by talk of million-yuan salaries, and inflated consumption desires make everyone impatient, which really affects young people.

So, if a student can learn strong technical skills at a good vocational/junior college and then enter a quality firm, in many cases their employment prospects won’t be worse than those of undergraduates. If the family is well-off or the student is personally determined to continue studying, then a First Enrollment Batch (一本/Yiben) undergraduate path is an option. But if money is tight, I would recommend a solid vocational/junior college, learn a trade, and broaden one’s horizons.

In my view, if a student at a good vocational school is humble, grounded, and sticks with a field for three to five years—or five to ten years—they won’t be worse off than so-called undergraduates. That’s my personal take. Enditem

Comment: The reason Zhang Xuefeng publicly praised this teacher during the livestream is that he knows many middle and high schools in China evaluate teachers largely based on their students’ gaokao results. Yet enrolling in so-called “better” universities does not always mean choosing the path best suited to a student’s personal circumstances. This teacher, by putting students’ long-term interests first even at the expense of his own performance evaluation, showed a rare sense of dedication.

At the same time, Zhang’s remarks about some young Chinese quitting blue-collar jobs quickly—or being unwilling to take such jobs at all—do reflect reality. This is also why, in recent years, some media outlets have urged students to “take off Kong Yiji’s long gown,” meaning that even those with higher education should have the openness and awareness to consider blue-collar work, and to take a more practical approach in choosing careers. This reflects broader dynamics tied to China’s economic transition, challenges in the job market, and attitudes among students toward employment.

Readers of my newsletter will know I often feature work from the WeChat blog of the Portrait (人物) magazine. Recently, they ran a call for submissions and received over 1,600 personal stories from Chinese people across the country and around the world — with those abroad mostly being Chinese travelers. More than 100 of them mentioned “summer period,” so the editors created a special summer-themed issue. The format is simple: each entry lists the contributor’s name (often a screen name), their location at the time of writing, and their age.

From the details provided, you can tell that the youngest contributor was about 15, the oldest around 46, with most falling in the 20–40 range. The content itself was remarkably varied: a young delivery worker caught in China’s food-delivery price wars, a Chinese tourist in Japan, someone savoring the rare summer joy of biting into a perfectly crisp peach, a fresh graduate waiting for a job offer, someone reflecting on the “shape of life,” another searching for housing in a new city, one reeling from a partner’s infidelity, and someone whose day was simply marked by buying an ice cream … only to drop it on the ground.

These days, more and more people prefer bite-sized information or short videos. I’ve often wondered whether the newsletter format would be affected by this trend—I don’t think it will. That said, today’s edition could almost be seen as a text-and-image version of TikTok: each entry, as I mentioned, is short and quick to read, and scrolling through them feels a bit like swiping on TikTok. I’m not sure if the editor of Portrait had that in mind when designing this issue, but it wouldn’t surprise me. (I didn’t count precisely, but the editor included at least around 80 entries in a single article.)

You might also spot my own entry among them—one I wrote in the same style as the others and added in this newsletter. Shouldn’t be too hard to find; think of it as a little game. Because of surgery on my left foot, I’ve spent most of this summer in bed. I want to thank the friends who visited or sent kind messages during this summer.

It’s impossible to capture everyone’s summer in a single sentence. So—what was yours like? Feel free to share it in the same format.

Part 1 Those still blessed with summer vacations

Xuxu @ Fuzhou, Fujian, 22：

Just graduated and taking a gap at home. At my aunt’s place, looking at the distant mountains through a fish tank and a window — life is a verb.

Bamboobro @ Anshun, Guizhou, 22:

Had my last dinner at home on July 1st. It was pouring outside, but I still put on a raincoat and went out to buy all the ingredients I wanted. First time buying meat and veggies on my own without mom's help. Graduating from college didn't magically turn me into a "read adult", but maybe a bit of innocence is just part of who we are. I bought the groceries home anyway, didn’t I?

Mashimaro @ Hangzhou, Zhejiang, 22:

Grandpa hadn't been feeling too well after his surgery in June, so he came to us in Hangzhou for a check-up. Since my parents both need to work, I was in charge of grandpa's lunch during his stay. He loves to mix soup with rice, so I had to come up with different soups every day for him, and somehow, it also helped me keep my own meals on track.

This was the first time since I grew up that I got to spend such a long time with Grandpa, and together we shared some special moments. Since I've just graduated from college, I showed Grandpa my graduation photos. My graduate admission letter also arrived during his stay, and Grandpa was the first other than me to see it.

Before Grandpa went back home, I took him to a famous restaurant in town. He'd always been so frugal for his entire life that he even refused to go to a restaurant at the very beginning, but I still managed to persuade him into this happy meal.

When Grandpa left, I felt a little empty inside. Who knew a summer with someone around could feel so warm? It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever…

Little Sheep @ under Mount Fuji, 22:

spent my graduation trip cycling around Lake Kawaguchi at the foot of Mount Fuji with someone special. We kept riding on and on, all the way into the endless greeness, like we never wanted to stop. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure about growing up anymore. I wish I could just seize my youth in this summer forever.

winnie @ Ordos, Inner Mongolia, 25:

Lying in the desert, staring up at the sky, I found myself wasn't even able to count the stars in the tiny sliver of sky above me. Being on the dunes, I couldn’t care less about the world, but just want to hold onto this moment. I guess this is the simple happiness of a kid who’s stolen two months of summer after quitting a job.

Xiao Hao @ Guangzhou, Guangdong, 22:

On his last day of work before summer vacation, Dad and his workmates gathered to have a meal together. Turns out, even adults celebrate the arrival of summer vacation in their own way.

Part 2 Summer before twenties

Xiao Sun @ Shanghai, 15:

Speaking of July, the moment that my high school entrance exam results popped out on the computer screen is definitely the first thing that comes to my mind. I was lucky enough to be accepted into my dream school, and I could only remember my heartbeat while looking back at that moment.

The notebook in the photo holds every little detail of my final year of middle school. Looking back now, every moment, with all its mixed emotions of bitterness, joy and excitement, was totally worth it!

411 @ Zhengzhou, Henan, 17:

5000 rope jumps in one go for the first time, nice!

McDonald worshipper @ Beijing, 17:

July is probably the freest month of summer for students who have finished the college entrance exam. Too bad I’m still 300 days away from it as a new senior. Balls left on top of the class locker were still telling the story of our carefree youth, but putting balls up there was actually not allowed, so this scene in the photo lasted only one short afternoon.

A new senior @ Dongguan, Guangdong, 17:

Just spent an anxious and fleeting July. When it comes to the most unforgettable moment, it’s probably the hour I spent trying to figure out a physics force analysis question for the college entrance exam.

In the not-so-big classroom, all I could hear was pens and paper scratching, and the endless buzzing in my head. Staring at my paper covered by red pen marks with my blurry eyes, I really couldn't tell whether I've understood the question nor not. It's said that people worry about different things at different stages of life. I keep wondering, what’s the adult's world really like?

Satisfied @ Anyang, Henan, 17:

I really love those super crispy peaches, but they’re only available in summer, so every year I would wait eagerly wait for the peach season to come. But his year, I searched for an entire month and still couldn’t find the kind I wanted.

Then, a few days ago, Grandma bought a few random peaches home. I took one bite, and it was exactly the kind I’ve been craving! My mood instantly brightened, and it felt like the peaches were glowing in front of me. It was honestly the happiest and luckiest moment of my summer. I wish all of you a lucky summer as I was at the moment I found that perfect peach.

A basketful of good luck @ Xi'an, Shaanxi, 18:

On a muggy afternoon right after tutoring, my student stopped me at the door, "This bread is really good, please take it.” Honestly, teaching her English took me way more effort than I spent in English myself, and I could be quite frustrating when she couldn't remember things I had already explained many times. But at that moment, it came to me that kids could be pretty cute sometimes. After all, bad grades don’t make a bad person, right?

What's up @ Henan, 18:

The coziest glance of summer captured by my hometown well.

Flying on sauce @ Hefei, Anhui, 19:

Failed again and again in baking. The first time, I forgot to buy a hand mixer, so I had to whip the egg whites by hand. It was so exhausting, like carrying 30 kilos of corn from the field to the town, only to not sell any and carry it all the way back home. The second time, I mistook salt for sugar, and the cake turned out to be so ridiculously salty that I felt like jumpping into the air and throw a boxing combo.

Part 3 My Tough Twenties

Lemon Puncher @ Inner Mongolia, 20:

The biggest winner in the food delivery war—hand-punched 80 cups of lemon juice in one day. Pain-free workout.

Liuxing @ Xiamen, Fujian, 20:

Had to sell the little house my family lived in for ten years to pay off debts. But at least things are more or less settled now, and we’re still together. That’s enough for me.

Middle-aged people can be fragile too, and I hope Dad can find the strength to pick himself up again. Watching old cartoons I used to love, I found myself keep pausing and staring at the subtitles, feeling like I can't laugh anymore. Being carefree is a privilege only for the young.

Gromit @ Fuzhou, Fujian, 24:

It was already 9 PM when I walked out of the studio, and I picked a random ice cream from a random shop, not to enjoy its coolness or sweetness, but just expecting it to fill my stomach.

This July, I really took a summer off for myself, but the sense of freedom, inspiration, opportunities, and breakthroughs I had hoped for never came. I’m still buried in a pile of resumes, wishing to be chosen by someone, proving over and over again how a perfect match I am to a job that barely covers my own living expenses. Sometimes, I feel like being in my twenties is really tough, and I don’t have any way back.

Coconut paste @ Beijing, 24:

Finished school this July and officially started my career, stepping into a new chapter of life. As soon as I arrived I had to work overtime for two consevutive weeks to complete a big task. I was so busy that my days felt dizzy.

Then, on my first day off with no overtime, I took this photo on my way home, and I suddenly found myself filled with mixed emotions. Maybe a shadow like this will be the "shape" of my life for a long time to come, and it’s also the "shape" of most people’s lives in this world.

Xiao Xin @ Sichuan, 24:

Weeding with mama at hometown countryside and it was exhausting! I used to believe I could go back home to farm if one day I get tired of work, but this weeding really showed me how hard being a farmer really is!

Part 4 Earning money feels good

Zuo Zuo @ Beijing, 23:

Back in Beijing for another internship four years later. The last time I was here, I was only 19. It was February, and the pandemic hit. I was all alone in a strange city, breathing cautiously. It was my first time leaving home, I knew nothing, and I didn’t know anyone. I spent a cold winter in a small room with no windows, thinking about life in Beijing was so hard.

This time, I’m confidently talking to real estate agents, I’ve met two great roommates, and I’ve rented a cozy little place with great natural light. After unpacking, I stepped out onto the balcony, and the music in my headphones was just right for a clear summer night. Outside, the cars were rushing by, and I thought, "Growing up feels so good." Turns out, I can face the unknown with ease now.

Du Dong @ Beijing, 25:

Getting tired of my life in the boring day-after-day routine. One evening, I suddenly really wanted a speaker. I’d wanted to get a little Marshall speaker for my room for a long time, but always got caught up in comparisons and indecision.

That night, I didn’t want to wait anymore. I opened a delivery app and found exactly what I wanted, so I ordered it without hesitation. Forty minutes later, it arrived right at my desk. The moment the music filled the room and surrounded me, I couldn’t help but break in tears, as if I had regained some control over my emotions. No matter what, being an adult who can take care of their own expenses and find ways to heal themselves is something worth celebrating.

Pinecone @ Suzhou, Jiangsu, 29:

Went house-hunting with a real estate agent! Property prices have been gradually dropping over the years, and the apartment I like now only cost half of what it did when I first came to this city.

My family can’t provide me financial support in buying a house, but after working for six years, I can finally afford the down payment and monthly payments on my own. A year ago, I wouldn’t have even dared to dream of this. Now, I feel more motivation for my life. I can finally give my little cat a place to call home.

Lao Si @ Suzhou, Jiangsu, 33:

Never drove a car since I got my driver’s license ten years ago. But this year I had to practice driving again after moving to another city for a new job. It feels so good to be financially independent—I can afford to pay for a driving coach, and their attitude is way better than the one I had ten years ago. And I’m improving little by little.

One day, after finishing my driving practice, I suddenly felt really hungry but just couldn’t bring myself to order takeout or eat instant food. So, I quickly ordered some ingredients and cooked for the first time in this city. I made a pot of pork rip soup with pearl barley and winter melon. I can do a lot of things. I can take care of myself.

Part 5 Mother and Daughter, Sharing Destiny

Zhao Zhao @ Huanggang, Hubei, 20:

Went home for a week in early July and became my mom’s driver, picking her up from work every day. She had been at home recuperating, and this was her first time back at work after three years. When I saw her walking toward me, smiling happily as I picked her up, I suddenly remembered that before she got sick, she was always so confident like that. I hope my mom can stay bright and cheerful like this forever.

Moon keeps me in bed @ Nantong, Jiangsu, 22:

Had a meal with my mom and aunt, three women together. I’m about to graduate and feeling anxious about my future job; my mom has started her own business on her own; and my aunt is doing e-hailing to pay off her car loan. I wish them both a shining middle age, and I hope that I can achieve my own dreams too!

Xiao Wan @ Pingyao, Shanxi, 22:

Went to watch the movie Girl on Edge with my mom. It had been a long time since we watched a movie together because I’m usually away from home for school. I’ve previously bought her films about women like Her Story, Like A Rolling Stone, National Theatre Live: Prima Facie, and There’s Still Tomorrow. Although not many people in our small town watch these kinds of films, and mom might not fully understand their meaning, I still really want her to watch more of them and live her life more for herself.

Xiao Wang @ Chengdu, Sichuan,23:

In July, the stand-up comedian Fang Shaoli shared her 30 years of family sorrow in her show. Also in July, my mom, who had never traveled far alone before, came to Chengdu from our small town to find a job.

She didn’t know how to take the bus or subway, and she couldn’t figure out the complex roads of the city. I said I’d teach her, but she hesitated, saying she couldn’t learn. Over the weekend, I took her through the subway, showed her how to use apps to find routes, and how to take the bus and subway. Though my 53-year-old mom learned slowly, she eventually got the hang of it.

I also took her to visit a temple, and she prayed earnestly, hoping to find a good job. Before coming to Chengdu, she asked me in a video if she would embarrass me by coming here to work. I thought to myself: Of course not. I would be proud of her for being brave enough to step out.

Part 6 Dear Child

Sleepy fish @ Changsha, Hunan, 22:

My little niece gave a V-sign to the camera. The very last second she was trying to steal my ice-cream.

Tanna @ Chengdu, Sichuan, 28:

Another year in kindergarten for my little one, as he turned four and a half years old. My husband and I always juggled work and taking care of him together.

He’s really caring, knowing that we’re busy and don’t have time to take care of him. Since he was two, he’s been sleeping on his own, gets up by himself, puts on his clothes, and even helps me turn on the lights. If I don’t need to get up early, he’ll say, “Mom, I’m going to kindergarten now, sleep well, I love you.” Sometimes, when I’m sick, he’ll quietly close the door for me and bring me water.

There are moments when I feel really sad because he’s only four and a half, but he’s always so thoughtful, remembering all the little things in the house better than I do. In your last year in kindergarten, mom wish you can be a little happier and not worry so much, my dear.

Curly Me @ California, 42:

My number-loving little one was given the nickname "number guy" by his teacher in his first week of kindergarten.

Scene 1: What does two 0 make? Aren’t they 00? No, it’s 8 lying down, 8 needs a rest.

Scene 2: He bumped into something and cried, then pointed to his face and asked, “What number is this?” Mommy was totally confused. “Is there a number here?” “It’s 99,” he answered himself while sniffing, “When daddy cries, it’s 77.” Daddy didn't buy it, said, “77 for small eyes like mine and 99 for big ones like yours huh?"

Part 7 A Corner of the World

Bittermelon bee @ Lijiang, Yunnan, 18:

While walking by Lugu Lake, I suddenly heard someone joyfully shouted: "Wow, it’s so beautiful!" I looked up and was surprised to see a halo around the sun—my first time ever witnessing a sun halo with my own eyes.

Violet @ Beijing, 19:

Just received a precious gift in July. When I first arrived in Beijing, I met a German guy at the airport while charging my phone. He didn’t have a Chinese-standard charger, so I gave him mine, and received a Starbucks muffin, and a piece of fried chicken and McFlurry from McDonald, and the chance to speak in English with a foreigner for the first time in my life. We chatted for 40 minutes, and I’m really grateful to him for giving me a glimpse of a corner of the world.

North Star @ Kyoto, 21:

Went on a trip to Japan in July, and visited a bar in Kyoto that my favorite author, Tomihiko Morimi, often goes to. I didn't say anything since I don't speak Japanese, but after ordering a "fake Denki Bran," the bartender silently handed me the Denki Bran and pointed to Morimi's autograph in the bar’s guestbook.

I really appreciated the unspoken understanding. I chatted with a Japanese guy sitting next to me using a translation app, and when I was about to leave, I spoke with two young Chinese women sitting nearby. It turned out they were also Morimi fans, and I felt a deep connection and happiness in meeting people who share the same interests. It felt very much like a moment from The Night Is Short, Walk On Girl (though I’m a boy!).

Little tree @ Greece, 21:

As a theater lover, I finally had the chance to watch Oedipus Rex at the Ancient Theater of Epidaurus. Surrounded by mountains, with the nebulae clearly visible in the sky and birds flying by, the wind blowing through as Oedipus delivered his monologue—it was a moment when the call of Dionysus felt clearer than ever.

Fay @ Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia, 25:

On the last day in Kota Kinabalu, the sunset outside the café was incredibly beautiful. The entire beach seemed to be bathed in golden light. I asked two Muslim girls to take a picture of me and Lin. Later, when I took their photo, I watched them holding hands—wrapped in headscarves, with only their faces showing, the rest of their bodies carefully covered. We were so different, yet all I saw were two young, slightly shy girls with their pure, clear eyes. I said, "Don’t be shy, imagine you are going to fly!" And as I pressed the shutter, those words became my wish for them: I truly hope they will fly higher and further.

Sister Wang @ in the air, 30:

Just had my first time on an international long-haul flight, and I was excited, nervous, and full of anticipation. I met a kind lady who told me that the sunset wouldn’t happen until 11 PM. I opened the sunshade and captured the sun and clouds at 10 PM. It was beautiful, and it reminded me that life is all about experiencing new things.

Don't angry be crazy @ Hongkong, 30:

Hiked my favorite mountain with a friend who kept shouting "Heat can't stop us" in the hottest month of the year. During the hike I took this photo, which I still love to this day. As I write this now, a song comes to mind: "I want to be the wind, don’t worry about me, just let me find my own way."

Red @ Methven, New Zealand, 34:

Coming down from the snow mountains on my birthday. There was thick fog, and the visibility on the mountain road was less than 5 meters. I could feel the anxiety and tension from the other passengers, but when I saw how relaxed the driver was, I took a photo to capture the moment and then closed my eyes to sleep. I trusted the driver and trusted fate.

tango @ Altay-Hemu highway, Xinjiang, 35:

In the mountains around the outskirts of Altai, you often come across massive rocks. Sometimes only a small part is exposed, other times it's a complete boulder. The locals say they might be signs left by ancient glacial motions. It feels like touching something eternal, and it’s truly awe-inspiring.

Xiao @ Naples, Italy, 35:

Had dinner at a restaurant, and suddenly the music started playing. The servers began dancing—climbing tables, scaling walls, you name it. The customers got the signal too and started swaying with the beat. As an East Asian, my first thought was: Football victory? National Day? Anniversary? I asked my friend: "What happened?" and she said, "They’re just enjoying life." Watching me awkwardly stand there, wanting to join but too shy, one of the servers picked me up from the second floor, carried me to the first, and placed me on a table. Surrounded by a bunch of teenagers, I couldn’t help but let my body lead before my brain caught up.

Er Mao @ Madeira, Protugal, 37:

Spent a holiday on an island famous for its sea of clouds, and of course, had to catch the sunset over the clouds. It was a bit late by the time I got there, and the viewing platform was packed with tourists from all over the world, with unfamiliar languages flying everywhere. But in that moment, just as the sun set, everyone went quiet. Isn’t it strange how the world works? People can hate each other for anything, even go to war, but when the sun sets, we all hold our breath together.

Part 8 Eat well, live well

Qingli @ Xuancheng, Anhui, 20:

Coming up with summer limited recipies with mom during the summer vacation. Pineapple beef, lychee jasmine drinks, sugar-pickled cucumber......

DD @ Beijing, 22:

Spent another summer in campus. The cafeteria closed a few windows, so my friend and I ended up visiting the same noodle stand almost every day for a month. The guy running it got to know us and always asked, “Same as usual?” After a long and exhausting July, he finally got his short 10-day break. On the last day, he gave each of us a free meatball, and we promised to see each other in 10 days.

QQ @ Wuhan, 23:

Just graduated from school and started my job in July! Here's my company lunch!!! I found it way happier to work than to go to school, no more worries about grades, no more bring papers, and no more exams! Colleagues are awesome, the boss is super chill and tolerant, got two-days weekends, and I can even catch the sunset after work! It's hard for others to believe that I still have enough energy to dance for an hour and a half after a whole day of work! Everything falls into where I want perfectly!

Banxia @ Zhongshan, Guangdong, 27:

Cooked perfect sauced beef in July.

I can eat face-big bun @ Taiyuan, Shanxi, 32:

Enjoying lunch combo for 2 bucks downstairs: a bowl of veggies, a giant steamed bun as big as my face, and some green bean soup. So filling, so good, and such a deal, that I feel like plowing two acres of land after finishing it! Honestly, it's such a blessing to have a satisfying meal during work hours.

Tie Tie @ Guangzhou, Guangdong, 33:

Received some summer pine mushrooms from my hometown that my friend made and brought over. All the ingredients are from back home—one bite and I instantly caught nostalgia. So grateful to live nearby and have friends like this!

Jin Xin @ Nanjing, Jiangsu, 43：

July brings me back to those long holidays when I was a kid. Parents used to head out to the fields before dawn, leaving breakfast duties to the kids on vacation. To make breakfast quickly, I'd steam a big batch of buns the night before, then wake up early to cook some porridge, heat the buns, and prepare pickled garlic chives or garlic sprouts. Now I'm revisiting the memories of steaming buns again.

Part 9 Summer Suggestions

I Hate Cigarettes @ Yunnan, 20:

On my coach's car to the driving test. Three guys in the car were all smoking. The smell was still unbearable even though I wore a mask. I struggled the whole way, feeling sick and upset. When we finally arrived, I couldn't hold it in anymore and tearfully told the couch I didn't like the smoke. To my surprise, he immediately threw his cigarette away and told the others to stop smoking too. I felt a lot better, but even so, the smell still lingered, making me feel nauseous. For those who hate smoking like me, just speak up! Let’s stand against secondhand smoke!

Shelly Senbei Rice Cracker @ Shenzhen, Guangdong, 30:

Picked a pomelo from the tree outside the office building for its refreshing scent. It was such an ordinary, yet happy day. Not long after, I turned 30, and then my mom was diagnosed with health issues. She had two surgeries and just got discharged last week to rest at home. The summer heat was intense, and I was biking back and forth between the hospital and work. But every time I remembered that pomelo's fragrance, I felt like that’s what life is—a mix of the sweet and bitter.

On a serious note, for girls that are post-menopausal and experience any bleeding, please, please, see a doctor. Also, don’t skip the HPV check.

Part 10 Summer of Goodbye

Duo Duo @ Honghu, Hubei, 27:

July, when cicadas sing the loudiest in my hometown, my two-year-old puppy ran into a car and left me forever. Holding its warm but lifeless body, feeling no heartbeat anymore, was a heartbreak I had never experienced before. Later, Deepseek told me that "when animals suffer sudden injuries, their bodies immediately activate protective mechanisms and release a large amount of soothing endorphins. It's like how we pull our hand away before we even realize we’re burned—their pain perception is delayed much more than ours." I guess it was meant to comfort me. Next life, it will be my turn to be your puppy. (The photo is the last smile of my puppy.)

Liu1. @ Chengdu, Sichuan, 30:

At the beginning of July, my grandmother, who had always been by my side, passed away. For the past two weeks, I’ve been looking at her photos and videos every day, still in disbelief, unwilling to accept it.

The photo was taken the week before she passed, when I went back home to visit her. Her cancer had recurred and spread to her abdomen, leaving her last days spent in bed, supported only by medicine. As we grow up, we end up having loved ones on both sides of the world. I hope that, on the other side, my grandma can be free from pain and win every poker game.

Wan @ Suzhou, Jiangsu, 38:

Took charge of the family ancestor worship ritual after Dad passed away last year. Being alone in the old house, busying myself with everything, and spent four hours completing the entire ceremony. Got burned by the melted candle, and the elders said it was my family up in the sky responding to me., and their words made me break down and cry.

This year, Mom has been fragile, and I've had to be one with stabler emotion. But then I suddenly realized — I am also a daughter who has lost her father.

Eggplant Ma @ Baicheng, Jilin, 38:

Just finished cleaning out the old house's storage, and realized that the space, once so full, hardly had anything worth keeping. It's a shame that it took my father's sudden passing for me to finally have time to come back and sort through everything. After everything was packed away, I took a photo to say goodbye to this place. From now on, this village will no longer have a place for me to call home......

Murphy @ Qingdao, Shandong, 42:

Lying on the beach, feeling lazy and peaceful. But just a few days later, I was told that my father was critically ill. Now, I'm at the airport, waiting for an 8-hour flight back to him, terrified that he might leave before I can get there. At this moment, I can't stop wondering—wondering whether these years away from home were worth it, wondering if I've let my parents down. Maybe there will be no answers anymore...

Plums @ Zhengzhou, Henan, 46:

Even the most shiny white-collar city guy still has to go back home to water the corn for parents under 38°C...

Part 11 Love is Bitter, Love is Sweet

Purple @ Jinan, Shandong, 21:

Waiting outside the office of my crush, where we found two little kittens together. Sent her a message asking if she could sponsor some cat food, but honestly, it’s more about wanting to see her. Kittys, do you think I’m sneaky?

Galaxy of stars @ Tianjin, 31:

How ironic — on the hottest of days, life brought the coldest of temperatures. The night before our engagement party, our 12-year-long relationship unexpectedly ended. From both of our perspectives, neither was wrong, but even the strongest love can’t withstand the weight of parental wishes. And just like that, everything stopped. I felt powerless, and in that moment, I realized how precious the present truly is. No need to look back, no need to worry about the future. A new day lays down a new path, and people always know how to carry on.

Big Dreamie @ a tiny lovely town, 40:

Caught my husband cheating last week. We've come all the way from two college graduates without a dime to our name to a happy family together in big city. Maybe it was because of my depression and the stress of taking care of our kids that distracted me from his feelings. Although he was still trying to be a good husband and a good father, he'd cheated on me for nearly two years. I’ve barely eaten or slept over the week, relying on sleeping pills to get 3-4 hours a night, and have lost around 6 lbs. I can't take it anymore. July please just go......

Fusi @ Daxing, Beijing, 42:

Met Mr. Yang for the first time on July 1st at a KFC in a gentle evening. Ever since that day, it's been nothing but happiness—feeling like I'm falling in love again. Who knows what the future holds, but I'm enjoying the moment. Right now, I don't feel that same sweetness, but every time we meet, I still get so happy. Not thinking about forever, just focusing on cherishing what we have.

Part 12 July's Healing Moments

With the Wild @ Wuhu, Anhui, 23:

One bollard for every granny to sit on, lovely summer moment.

Tangerine @ Chengdu, Sichuan, 23:

Just left home and moved into an old apartment. No job yet, and not sure about how to get by next month. But the flowers outside my window bloom beautifully.

Chestnut @ Guangzhou, Guangdong, 23:

Tired of Guangzhou's heavy rain following every scorching day in July. One day, as I was walking down the street, I saw little clusters of mushrooms quietly poking through the pavement. Turns out, rain isn’t always that bad.

Happy crybaby @ Xinzhou, Shanxi, 23:

July, one year before graduation. Confused about the present, and anxious about the future. I want to be a boss adult—sharp, skilled, eloquent, slaying one project after another. But they all seem so hard. Just when I’m feeling lost, I looked up and saw a lovely face waiting for me to come home. In my grandma’s eyes, taking train back home from Beijing alone already makes me an awsome kid.

Xiao Lv @ Shenzhen, Guangdong, 26:

Caught the most beautiful sunset after dinner with colleagues. We raced to the top floor of the office like kids to capture the moment. Sunsets just have the magic—they make you forget all the bad things like office stress, the fact that parents love my brother more, and everything else that’s been bothering me.

Xiao Ni @ Shanghai, 26：

Had the first client visit for the new job, and I zoned out during the meeting because I was still getting the hang of the business. In the dim, cramped conference room, I stared out the window and caught a glimpse of a rainbow right after the rain. It lasted only two minutes, but I was the only one who saw it.

happiness @ Guangzhou, Guangdong, 27:

Ran into the annoying leafleteer again who had harassed me before. It's already the third time, but this time he grabbed my arm and tried to stop me from leaving. Disgusting.

I told this to a colleague that I'm having a crush on , and he spent the whole night making me feel better. The next day, before I left work for home, he sent me a full screen of messages, telling me that if I ever ran into this guy again, don't be afraid, and just call the police or go to the nearest police station. He even attached a screenshot of the route map and the police's complaint hotline. When I saw the time on that screenshot— 11 AM, on his day off—I almost started crying. He went all the way out just to send me this info? Even though I still wonder what exactly we are, at that moment, I felt the warmth of being cared for.

Best Persimmon Cake @ Toronto, 32:

On a midsummer day by the lake, I said to my best friend's little daughter, who just turned five, "Let's take a picture together!" I held her hand, and she, with perfect timing, tiptoed and tilted her head back, looking just like a little swan. In that moment, a small piece of happiness was written into every summer to come.

Nnn @ Hangzhou, Zhejiang, 35:

Bought a can of congee on a whim, and found that the plastic spoon that comes with the can now folds in three parts, way handier than the two-fold ones from my childhood. Here’s to all the tiny, beautiful changes in life!

JJ @Beijing, 35 Writing the introduction to one of my favorite pieces this year — Becoming Ma Jingfen — on Substack — from a hospital bed on the eve of foot surgery. I’ve always had mixed feelings about summer. I grew up in a southern city where summer meant stifling humidity, weeks of rain, even the onset of the plum-rain season. Clothes would go musty, water would pool on the floors. And as someone who feels the seasons quite strongly, the heavy, damp air of summer often leaves me restless and uneasy. I’ve come to prefer the dry, crisp climate of the north — for me, it’s a much healthier balance.

Good Health for Mommy @ Zhengzhou, Henan, 38:

Suddenly remembered the beer in the fridge had been there for days while walking out of the gym. Called hubby to ask if he wanted some fried chicken to go with it, but no answer—probably putting the kid to bed. So I decided to head home anyway... and guess what? The kid was already asleep and the fried chicken was waiting for me. He said he thought the beer should be dealt with too! Hahaha, truly my excellent partner of 12 years!

Yuyo @ Beijing, 40:

Got struck by a sudden idea in the suffocatingly hot kitchen, and made a classical beauty with willow-leaf eyebrows, almond-shaped eyes, and a cherry-like mouth to keep me company. And just like that, I felt so much better!

Part 12 July's Special

Dandan @ Taiyuan, Shanxi, 20:

Not happy in July, but at least the gourds in my garden are growing plump and round.

Lyn @ Hongkong, 21:

Hong Kong in July was humid and stifling. The boy I once loved secretly suddenly messaged me, saying he was coming to Hong Kong for his PhD and wanted to meet. I stared at the screen for a few seconds, feeling my heart skip a beat—those familiar flip came rushing back. We arranged to meet at the foot of Victoria Peak.

As we walked, we talked about the past, caught up on life, and shared our future plans—like two old friends reunited after a long time. The conversation flowed easily, no awkwardness, no forced enthusiasm. But as we neared the summit, the sky darkened quickly, and a heavy downpour began. I pulled out my umbrella from my bag, but he stood in the rain, soaking his clothes.

"You go ahead, don't wait for me," I said. He hesitated for a moment, then rushed into the rain. I walked slowly, holding the umbrella. The rain hammered on the fabric, my shoes got totally wet, and every step felt like stepping into a little puddle.

It was a ten-minute walk, and the rain drowned out all sound, but my mind was strangely peaceful. And then it hit me—this is what it feels like not to like someone anymore. No worries about whether he’s getting wet, no frustration about why he didn’t wait for me, not even a thought about what he’s thinking at that moment. All the carefulness, all the anxious uncertainty we once had, vanished into the July rain.

Don't wait till it's gone @ Jiangxi, 23:

It's been a long time since all four pairs of shoes appeared at the door. My parents have been fighting and giving each other the cold shoulder so often lately that my dad hasn’t spent a night at home for a while, instead spending his nights on chair in his little shop. I’ve already given up any hope for their relationship, but seeing those four pairs of shoes at the door still makes me nostalgic for those quiet, happier days.

A Pan @ Fujian, 28:

Just celebrated the 4th anniversary of my career—time really flies! I've been thinking about an old colleague, my mentor, who introduced me to this design industry. After the pandemic, he left the company and moved, but we ended up jumping to the same place together again. I wasn't quite used to the new environment, so I cried for two days. Then, one rainy evening on our way back home, he casually said, "Hey, look, ten bucks on the ground! You take five, I’ll take five." It was so obvious he was pretending, how could anyone find dry cash on the ground in a rainy day?

Even though I’m not in design anymore, I still remember that rainy night when we worked until midnight. Just five minutes ago, I was cleaning out my drawer and found that five bucks.

Yan @ Suzhou, Jiangsu, 30:

Just celebrated my mom's birthday on 26th July. But but my grandma, her mom, has been in the ICU for over a month now. Grandma's condition has been fluctuating and still not looking good. My mom, totally worn out, had already forgotten her own birthday. When I brought a cake home, she just asked me to put it in the fridge.

My mom, as a typical Leo, is usually so lively, but my grandma’s accident has been like a muffler in our home. Our rare conversations these days are mostly about grandma's health. And every time we talk about it, I feel like my mom is trying to protect me from this monster of "death", but still, it’s there.

My grandma spent her life being frugal, but left everything she had to her grandkids. Mom tells me that when I was little, grandma would help carrying water for others in the field for five yuan a day, yet she would spend all ten yuan in her pocket to buy me things. One day I casually mentioned I liked spicy food, and from then on, every time we visited grandma, she’d make snow-cabbage with green chili, even though the smoke would make her cough. Even after I'm well over thirty, that dish is always on the table every time I visit her.

That day, at dinner, mom only had a few bites before she had to head back for grandma. As she was putting on her shoes, I reminded her about the cake in the fridge. She said it could wait till tomorrow, but then hesitated, took off her shoes, walked to the kitchen, grabbed the cake and said, "My birthday is today. If I don’t eat it now, it won’t mean anything." After she left, I stood on the balcony watching the clouds. The sky in Suzhou, affected by the typhoon, was stunning—colorful, ever-changing clouds moving so fast. It reminded me of the song "Yuzhen" that says: "The wind’s picking up, it’s time to go back, you see, you see, all the past is right here." And it turns out my grandma’s name is Yuzhen.

cookie @ Ningbo, Zhejiang, 32:

Nothing more painful than an escaped ice cream.

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As of the end of 2024, 67 percent of China’s population — that’s 940 million people — lived in urban areas. Behind this sweeping statistic lies nearly five decades of relentless urbanization. And at the heart of it all: the country’s vast migrant worker population. Every gleaming skyscraper and freshly renovated apartment owes something to their sweat, their labor under the sun.

But once the workday ends, many face everyday hurdles that go unseen — including something as basic as getting home, or finding a place to wash up. A Douyin creator who goes by the name “Good Samaritan Liu Xuejun in Beijing” （京城好人刘学军）has been documenting such encounters, offering migrant workers directions, a word of kindness, and above all, understanding. In one video, Liu empathizes with a worker who hesitates to sit because he worries about staining the subway seat — not out of fear, but out of courtesy.

A recent feature by The Paper (澎湃新闻) took a deeper dive into these lives — not just the hardships, but the voices and quiet dignity behind them. It’s a powerful piece of human-centered reporting that deserves more attention.

One final thought: it’s natural to feel uncomfortable when we see someone whose clothes are visibly dirty. That instinct isn’t inherently wrong — it’s human. The more important question is what we choose to do next. Stories like Liu Xuejun’s and reporting like The Paper’s offer us a path forward — not by denying discomfort, but by meeting it with empathy, solutions, and care.

“I’m Covered in Dust. How Can I Sit?” | A Construction Worker Rides the Subway

Qi Jianjun had just finished a long day leveling floors with cement and sand. Exhausted and coated in dust, he stepped onto the subway. But before he could rest, a familiar question surfaced: Should I sit like this?

This quiet dilemma is one that many workers in the city know all too well.

On April 17, a confrontation on Beijing Subway Line 5 brought this tension into public view. A passenger grew angry at the sight of the man next to him, criticizing his appearance. “You look like a beggar, covered in dust, squeezing in here,” he said. His insults escalated quickly, even calling the man a “bastard.” The man he targeted was wearing a gray jacket, with visible traces of white and gray dust on his pants and shoes. He sat upright, hands folded over his chest, back straight, and positioned at the edge of the seat. Between his feet were two full plastic bags, and in order to keep them steady, he had spread his legs slightly, which brought them closer to the angry passenger.

He tried to explain that he had not leaned back or tried to take up extra space. But the insults did not stop. It was only when another commuter stepped in that the scene changed. “I’m happy to sit next to him,” the person said, taking the middle seat between the two men. The moment was caught on video. It spread rapidly online and sparked widespread discussion. Follow-up reports identified the man who had been insulted as a renovation worker employed at a curtain mall in Beijing.

In cities, reflective vests, hard hats, safety boots, and paint buckets silently identify workers long before they speak. But when labor leaves its mark in the form of dust, sweat, or cement stains, how do these workers navigate shared public spaces while preserving their dignity? The answer may lie in the very dust on their clothes.

“I’m Covered in Dust. How Can I Sit?”

Piles of yellow sand and gray cement formed small mounds in the center of a room. After a full day’s work, these would be spread evenly by Qi Jianjun as the base layer for new tile flooring.

Qi is 53 years old and comes from Zhoukou, Henan Province. This is his seventh year working away from home. Last February, through his wife’s introduction, he took a foreman job on a highway overpass project subcontracted by her younger brother. They agreed on a monthly wage of 9,000 yuan. But as payments were delayed again and again, that monthly salary effectively turned into a lump sum at the end of the year. The stress left him pulling at his hair in frustration. After the Lunar New Year, unable to recover his wages, he cut ties. He blocked both his wife and brother-in-law, shaved his head, and went back on the road. Once again, he took whatever day labor he could find to get by.

Now, he crouches beside freshly poured cement, one hand resting on his knee, toes gripping the floor, his upper body leaning forward. He stretches his other hand out with a trowel, smoothing the cement from far to near. Then he twists his torso, shifts his weight back, and moves forward by a step. He repeats this process hundreds of times every day.

Qi Jianjun leveling a cement floor

Cement and sand are fine-grained and mix into a wet, heavy paste that is difficult to control. Splashes are common during the mixing and pouring process. When he squats down to spread the mix, his knees sometimes touch the ground. Once dried, the cement leaves behind white, yellow, or gray stains. Often by midday, the sleeves, pant legs, knees, and collar of his clothing are already visibly marked.

After lunch, Qi usually gets a 30-minute or one-hour break. The site is full of sand and cement, and there are no chairs. He often looks for a cleaner corner to lean against. Sometimes, if there is an empty room nearby, he lies on the cement floor for a nap. To keep his head off the ground, he props it up with his elbows or leans against the wall. Each break leaves his clothes a little more soiled.

A worker napping on the ground, photographed by Qi Jianjun

It is not just his clothes. Qi Jianjun’s hair often ends up covered in dust too. Over the past six months, as his hair grew out, he gave himself a trendy look, a small patch left on top, dyed bright red. From a distance, it resembled a tiny volcano. He is particular about keeping it tidy. But when his fingers, stained with cement, run across his scalp, the bright red quickly becomes dulled by a layer of white dust. White streaks remain where his fingers passed.

At four in the afternoon, after smoothing out the final patch near the doorway, he stepped outside. Once the foreman checked the work, he would receive his pay for the day. That day, however, the foreman was too busy to drive him home. Qi had to take the subway in his cement-splattered clothes.

At around four thirty, the train was not too crowded. As he stepped inside, he spotted an empty seat and walked toward it. Just as he was about to sit, a voice stopped him. “You are so dirty. How can you sit here?” He looked up. A middle-aged woman sitting next to the seat was staring at him. A wave of frustration rose in him. He had been up since four in the morning, working all day leveling floors. His legs and back were aching, and he still had an hour and a half before he could get home. He wanted to sit. But the look in the woman’s eyes made it clear that there would be a confrontation. So he said, “Sorry. If you think I am dirty, I will sit on the floor.”

He leaned against the railing and sat down. Other passengers quickly spoke up for him. One turned to the woman and said, “Do you own this place? This is a public train.” An older commuter waved to Qi and said, “Don’t listen to her, sir. Sit down. Let’s see if she tries to stop you.” But Qi just replied, “Forget it,” and stayed on the floor.

With dust on his face and clothes, he said he felt he had no grounds to insist on sitting. “Other people are clean. What if I brush against them?” he explained. He also pointed out that the woman had not used any abusive language. “She only said I was dirty. If she had insulted me, I would not have stayed silent.”

This was the only time someone had directly told him not to sit. Most of the time, people who minded would simply move away.

Liu Xuejun sees workers sitting on the subway floor almost every day. After retiring due to illness, he became a volunteer at Beijing subway stations, offering directions and handing out candy to passengers with low blood sugar. He has noticed that many workers choose to stand or sit on the floor even when there are empty seats, simply to avoid making the seats dirty. Once, he saw an older worker with a large bag, gripping the handrail and swaying as he stood, eyes closed. Liu quickly helped him into a seat and asked, “You paid just like everyone else. Why not sit down?” The man pointed at his jacket and said, “People do not like it when you are dirty.” Liu hears that kind of response all the time. He always tries to reassure them. “You are not dirty. Not at all. You are the ones building this city.” When someone is especially hesitant, he hands over a tissue and suggests, “It is fine. Sit down. You can wipe it clean when you leave.”

Liu Xuejun encouraging a worker to take a seat on the Beijing subway

Wanting to sit but choosing not to—for many workers, it is a quiet standard they set for themselves.

A Shanghai Metro employee told reporters that, according to Article 10 of the Shanghai Rail Transit Passenger Code, passengers who are barefoot, shirtless, wearing visibly dirty or greasy clothing, intoxicated and causing disturbances, suffering from serious infectious diseases, or unaccompanied with mental health issues that may pose a safety risk, are not allowed to enter stations or ride trains. Beyond these specific cases, the Metro doesn’t have any formal dress code. If a seat gets dirty, it’s usually cleaned by a sanitation worker who boards at the next station.

That said, the employee also pointed out that sitting on the floor, something some workers resort to, is a safety concern. “If the train brakes suddenly and there are people standing nearby, sitting on the floor can be dangerous,” they explained. Station attendants typically ask passengers sitting on the floor to stand up and hold onto the handrails.

For many workers, it’s a no-win situation: sit on a seat and risk being judged, sit on the floor and be told it’s unsafe, or stand up despite being bone-tired after a long day. Some workers told reporters they’ve thought about changing clothes before getting on the train, but the reality is, most construction sites don’t have anywhere to shower or change.

No Place to Clean Up or Change at Construction Sites

After a full day of dusty, sweaty work, Qi Jianjun still can’t take a shower before heading home. The kind of work he does, leveling floors, usually comes after plumbing and wiring, meaning the building is still in its bare-bones phase. There’s no hot water, no bathroom doors, no tile floors, no showers. The site might have a temporary water supply, but it’s only cold water, and it’s meant for construction use.

It’s not just residential renovations. Factory sites, schools, restaurants, office buildings—most of them don’t have showers either. Several seasoned workers told reporters they’ve never had a place to shower on site. “Even if there was a shower,” one said, “the client wouldn’t let you use it.” A staffer at a renovation company added that many homeowners don’t even allow workers to use their toilets, let alone take a shower. So most workers have no choice but to wait until they get home to wash up and change.

Qi said that most days, the foreman gives him a ride. But when that’s not possible, he’s left to make his own way home. If the site is far, he often ends up riding the subway or bus covered in dust, simply because there’s no other option.

Qi works freelance, so his hours aren’t set. Some days he’s paid by the hour, but on days when he’s paid by the job, he might work up to 12 hours to finish everything. Even when paid hourly, he often chooses to work over 9 hours a day to earn overtime—30 yuan an hour.

And these days, with work being uncertain, he sometimes has to get up at 4 a.m. to wait at a day labor market, hoping to get picked up for a job. By the time he finishes work and boards the subway home, it’s already evening. He’s dead tired and just wants to sit. His clothes are already filthy, so why not just sit on the floor?

Because renovation jobs are short-term and scattered across different sites, and because workers don’t have a place to clean up, they’re especially noticeable when taking public transit.

And it’s not just decorators. Workers who handle piling, bricklaying, concrete pouring, or steel welding often end up covered in cement, mortar, dust, and debris from materials and welding.

Bricklayer Cao Daoyin said none of the sites he’s worked on had shower facilities. If he wants to wash up, he has to return to the dormitory or his rented place. Dorms are usually located a good distance away from the worksite, not right next door. That’s partly for safety, with each area requiring face scan access, and partly to ensure a quieter rest environment. “If everyone stayed right next to the site, there would be overnight shifts and constant noise. No one could sleep.”

Cao just wrapped up a job at a factory construction site that employed over 2,000 workers. It takes more than 20 minutes to walk from the gate to the dorm entrance. Most people use shared bikes, but Cao doesn’t know how. No matter how big the site, he walks, sometimes over 30 minutes one way.

When deadlines are tight, some workers are brought in for short-term help, for just 10 or 20 days. They don’t live near the site, and after work, they have to take the cheapest and fastest option to get home: public transit, still in their dusty gear.

To shower in the dorm area, workers have to go through facial recognition. Even when they get in, evenings are peak time for showers. “When it’s crowded,” Cao Daoyin said, “the line can be over an hour long.” On top of that, the water sometimes gets cut off. Since they often work late to meet deadlines, if they finish at 10 p.m. and then try to shower, they might miss the last subway. So most just tough it out and wait to wash up at home.

It’s not just temporary workers, construction crews at downtown sites rely on public transit too. Because space in city centers is tight, most sites don’t have dorms. And if they do, beds are limited. Some sites in busy areas even strictly forbid overnight stays. “It gets messy, looks bad, and people complain,” explained Cao’s coworker Wang Hui.

So companies usually rent apartments farther out. But rent in the city center is expensive, especially in places like Beijing or Shanghai. A place for five or six workers can easily run over 4,000 yuan (about 560 U.S. dollars) a month. To save costs, companies rent even farther away, meaning workers have to commute by subway or bus.

Chen Jiang is one of those workers. That evening, wearing a bright yellow hard hat and orange reflective vest, he boarded Shanghai’s Metro Line 12 at West Nanjing Road Station. He stood near the car connection, the spot with the least people and farthest from seats. He was heading back to his dorm in Yangpu District, about six kilometers away. Normally, he works as a welder on a site in Yangpu, but today his boss sent him downtown to help out.

He recalled a job last year in a protected heritage site downtown where there were no dorms. He and his coworkers stayed in an apartment two kilometers away. It was a half-hour walk or about ten minutes by metro. So he took the subway every day for two months. Talking about the recent harassment incident on Beijing’s Metro Line 5, he joked, “We’re all just laborers. If you’re so fancy, buy your own subway.”

Since there were no dorms on site, he always had to go home to shower.

During interviews, some workers told The Paper they’d love a simple changing room on-site. Right now, there’s no storage, so their water bottles, tools, and clean clothes get tossed in plastic bags and left on the ground, and end up covered in dust.

Even working in dusty, grimy conditions with nowhere to clean up, many workers do their best to stay clean and fight off stubborn dirt.

“Who doesn’t want to look a little cleaner?”

At 4 a.m. the day labor market was packed. Qi Jianjun parked his electric scooter by the road and leaned on a fence with other workers, eyes scanning for work vans. Slowly, workers climbed into vans heading to job sites. But as dawn broke, Qi still hadn’t been picked.

Early morning at the labor market

“Heading back to wash my clothes.” At 7 a.m., Qi Jianjun hopped on his electric scooter and headed back to his place. The building was a two-story house shared by over ten families. His room was on the ground floor, about 10 square meters, with its own bathroom. He pulled out his dirty work clothes from a shoulder bag tucked in the corner and showed them to the reporter.

Cement on Qi Jianjun’s pants

Cement hardens when it meets water, which is exactly what makes it such a staple in construction. But once it seeps into fabric as wet slurry and solidifies, it becomes a real nightmare to clean. The longer it stays, the harder it is to get out. That’s why the first thing Qi Jianjun usually does when he gets home is take a shower and scrub the cement off his clothes. On days when he’s too tired from working late, the dirty laundry just gets pushed to the next day, after all, he’s going to get messy again anyway.

Every season, Qi Jianjun buys himself two sets of work clothes online. In the summer, a T-shirt costs around six yuan, a pair of pants nine. Outside of work, he likes wearing bright colors like orange and pink, often paired with black leather shoes. But when it comes to workwear, he sticks to army green camo, dark purple, or black, along with safety shoes, all chosen to hide dirt. In the wardrobe at the foot of his bed, he folds and stacks his clothes into neat little squares, the contrast between his everyday outfits and work clothes clear at a glance.

Laundry on a construction site isn’t exactly convenient. Some sites do have washing machines, but according to Cao Daoyin, they usually charge by the minute: 4.5 yuan for twenty minutes. To save money, most workers just wash their clothes by hand.

Cao Daoyin lays nearly 1,300 bricks each day, starting at 7 in the morning and finishing around 5 in the afternoon. With that much contact, it’s no surprise his clothes are constantly brushing up against dust and cement. He often scrapes his knees while working, and there’s no clean place to rest on site. When his legs get sore, he just sits on a brick or a plank, which leaves the backs of his pants caked in dust. “We sit on whatever’s there. As long as you can lean on it, it works,” he says. On hot days, his clothes get soaked with sweat over and over again, leaving them sticky and unpleasant by the end of the shift.

“We change and wash every day,” says Cao. With all the dust in the air and the amount of sweat from working, even in winter, he says you need to wash your base layers at least every other day.

Jackets are a different matter. Workers say they don’t wash outerwear as often as T-shirts, sweatshirts, or pants. Jackets are harder to clean and take longer to dry. Washing them daily would mean buying extras to rotate through, which adds up. Except for the reflective vests provided on site, all work clothes throughout the year have to be bought by the workers themselves. These clothes are both necessary and disposable. Cao usually gets his from roadside stalls near the site. The quality isn’t great, and after a few months of heavy use and constant washing, they tend to fall apart and need replacing.

The real problem is that cement loves sticking to jackets. If they go unwashed for three or four days, the cement sets completely. Even with a stiff brush and a lot of effort, it’s almost impossible to get rid of those pale gray marks.

If jackets are a pain to wash, shoes are even worse. They get the closest to wet cement. Cao Daoyin and Wang Hui showed the shoes they just finished scrubbing. The textured soles and toes had been filled in by cement, making the details almost disappear. The uneven gray-white patches made them look like they were just been pulled out of the mud. But this, they said, was as clean as their shoes ever get. Wang Hui picked up one shoe, rubbed a gray spot along the edge with his fingers, then held his hand up to the reporter. Not a trace of dust.

Cao Daoyin (in army green camo) and Wang Hui (in gray and white) with their freshly scrubbed shoes

Not being able to sit down, not being able to get things clean, these are more than just everyday hassles. They’re part of the job and the environment that comes with it. A worker from Heilongjiang, when asked about a verbal harassment incident on Beijing’s subway Line 5, said, “Who wouldn’t want to look a little cleaner? But we just don’t have the conditions for it.”

The Longing for Dignity

Dignity doesn’t change based on your job. But for many construction workers, the dust, the fatigue, the lack of clean places to rest, the clothes soaked through with sweat, the patchy showers, and the cement that won’t wash out all combine into a daily battle. It’s what makes them the ones you see sitting on the curb, covered in dirt, worried about being looked down on.

Still, when it comes to physical discomfort, most workers just tough it out. They know that what matters more than appearances is getting paid.

Several workers brought up wage delays during interviews. Compared to how they could laugh off the tough work environment or the cement stains on their clothes, their tone changed completely when the topic shifted to unpaid wages. Their faces tightened, their voices rose, and frustration filled their words.

While waiting for his wages to be settled, Cao Daoyin counted his daily expenses on his fingers for the reporter. Just food cost him over 30 yuan a day. What really made him anxious was that the May Day holiday was approaching. Once the company closed for the holiday, it would be even harder to find anyone. All he could do was hope. He hoped the company would keep its promise to pay on April 30. But more than two weeks later, all he received was a handwritten IOU.

On May 9, with no pay in sight and turned away from a new job because he was nearly 60, Cao packed his things and went back to his hometown in Anhui. That’s where he had built his own house, one brick at a time.

Last August, just before a stretch of highway that Qi Jianjun had helped build opened to traffic, he posted a video of the wide new road on social media. His caption read, “This is the result of our hard work.” But even now, he still hasn’t received all the wages he was promised for that job.

In recent years, the government has rolled out policies to try to fix the problem of unpaid wages.

In May 2020, the State Council issued Regulations on Ensuring the Payment of Wages to Migrant Workers aimed at ensuring migrant workers get paid on time. It focused especially on the construction industry, requiring general contractors to pay workers first if subcontractors default, and then pursue legal reimbursement later.

In December of the same year, a national online platform went live for workers to report wage arrears. They can submit information through the site, and local labor inspection agencies will investigate any cases that meet the legal criteria.

In 2023, the Ministry of Human Resources and Social Security launched a nationwide campaign to set up fast-track courts for wage disputes involving migrant workers. Local governments were instructed to prioritize these cases and ensure they were handled quickly.

Getting paid for a day’s labor. That’s the dignity workers are truly hoping for.

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It’s about Ma Jingfen, a 93-year-old Chinese entrepreneur whose life has unfolded across the dramatic arcs of China’s modern history. For a long time, she was recognized mainly as the wife of Zhu Shijian — the man known as China’s “tobacco king” — but in recent years, she has quietly stepped into the spotlight in her own right.

Ma was born in 1932 in China, into the family of a senior bank executive. Defying her family’s wishes for an arranged marriage, she left home and joined the military, serving as a young woman in China’s border defense forces. After retiring from the army, she worked as a primary school teacher in rural Yunnan for nearly two decades. In 1955, she married Zhu Shijian. Just three years later, Zhu was labeled a “rightist” and sent to a labor farm during a political campaign. In 1960, Ma moved to the farm with their daughter and took up work raising pigs.

After the landmark Third Plenary Session of the 11th Central Committee of the Communist Party of China (CPC) in 1978, Zhu was politically rehabilitated — a formal reversal of his earlier political classification. Between 1979 and 1994, he built the Hongtashan cigarette brand into a national powerhouse and turned Yuxi Cigarette Factory into one of Asia’s leading tobacco enterprises.

Yet in the 1990s, China still lacked a dynamic system to properly incentivize state-owned enterprise leaders. This gap contributed to corruption risks — Zhu, whose personal income fell far short of his contributions, was eventually convicted on economic charges and imprisoned. He was released on medical parole in 2001 due to complications from diabetes.

In 2002, at the age of 74, Zhu and Ma embarked on a second venture, this time planting oranges on barren hills in Yunnan. By 2012, their oranges — later known as "Chu Oranges" — gained nationwide popularity through e-commerce platforms and were frequently sold out.

Zhu passed away in 2019 at the age of 91. But Ma didn’t stop.

Now 93, she remains active and full of initiative. She has started a new business selling blueberries, embraced short video platforms to share life reflections, and in April published a floral design collection featuring her work and insights on Chinese ethnic floral aesthetics.

What draws me to Ma’s story is how closely it mirrors China’s own transformation. She was born before the People’s Republic of China was founded. She has been a soldier, a teacher, a rural laborer, and later a quiet witness to — and participant in — one of the most iconic entrepreneurial journeys of China's reform era. After the age of 80, she began to take on more responsibility for her family’s business affairs. In a country where decades can feel like centuries, Ma Jingfen’s journey — full of reinvention and quiet resilience — offers a rare and powerful window into China’s lived history.

The story was originally published on 新周刊 New Weekly’s WeChat blog. You can also watch the video version of the story here. This is the fourth episode of the second season of 极限女性 Women at the Edge, a feature interview series by New Weekly that explores how women push boundaries and redefine their limits.

She used to be known as “Chu Ma-shi”—Mrs. Chu. But now, she’s simply Ma Jingfen. No longer just the woman behind her famous husband, she’s carved out a name and legacy all her own.

From the headstrong daughter who refused to be obedient, to the young soldier who wouldn’t accept injustice, Ma Jingfen’s spirit first stirred in those early rebellions. That spark never faded. At 93, she’s still launching new ventures and even learning how to make short videos. This “high-energy 90-something” doesn’t believe in retirement, and probably never will.

In Season 2 Episode 4 of Women at the Edge by New Weekly, Ma sits down for an exclusive interview. She didn’t know what feminism meant back then, but through her choices and actions, she claimed the right to make her own decisions.

Six years have passed since China’s “Tobacco King” Chu Shijian died. His life was legendary, full of dramatic highs and lows, and he left behind more than a story. He left “Motivational Oranges” and tens of thousands of acres of orchard. After he passed, Ma Jingfen, his partner, just kept going.

At 93, she’s more active than ever: starting a blueberry business, embracing the short-video boom to share her wisdom on camera, and even publishing a book of her floral arrangement work last month. She recently sat down with experts to talk about the unique art of Chinese flower design.

Compared to many millennials, this “post-90” lives a fuller, more energetic life. She jokes about living to 100 “at the very least,” and when young fans come to see her, she always sends them off with a hearty “Go get it!” For her, retirement isn’t even on the table. Keeping busy isn’t about passing the time, it’s about doing what feels right.

She lives like someone who’s always switched on. There’s a steady flame inside her that just keeps burning. And it begs the question: where does all that energy come from?

01

93 and Still Hustling

Ma Jingfen starts her day at 7:30 a.m., checking on the flowers and vegetable seedlings in her yard, giving detailed instructions to the workers. She spots a wilted flower instantly. She knows exactly which batch of homemade sauce isn’t fermenting right. Nothing escapes her.

Books are scattered across the sofa and corners of the entryway—titles on AI, healthy aging, even The Book of Changes (I Ching). When she’s not out and about, she’s reading and learning. She likes flipping through ancient texts while figuring out how best to arrange red blossoms with green leaves.

Gardening has its headaches too, like pests. “Pesticides don’t work, but without them, bugs eat everything,” she says. So she dives into her phone to search for answers. “Some of the videos are legit because they’re pulled from huge databases. Others are useless, you listen forever and learn nothing.” She saves the good ones, and when a trendy new slang term pops up, she calls a friend to decode it.

And she’s not just watching videos. She’s making them too. In recent years, Ma has started appearing in short clips herself. She reads every script carefully, marking them up with a red pen. On set for a brand collaboration, she straightened her clothes and joked, “Let’s not mess it up this time. If I collapse, who’s going to take responsibility?”

At a product launch, Ma Jingfen waited quietly for her turn to speak. Since starting her businesses, cameras and crowds have become a constant presence. (Photo/Visual China Group)

She puts real effort into filming, but doesn’t care much about the views. One of her clips where she rolls up her sleeves and says “Let’s get to work!” got over 100,000 likes. Her reaction? A shrug: “I just did what I thought needed to be done.”

She was 69 when she and Chu Shijian climbed the Ailao Mountains to start growing their now-famous Motivational Oranges. Since then, she has been at the forefront of late-in-life entrepreneurship.

She later launched Chu Liquor to fulfill Chu’s dream of returning to winemaking, something he had dabbled in as a young man. It all started when a young visitor brought distilling equipment to the orchard. That moment lit a spark in Chu, and the couple decided to take the leap. In 2015, they bought a distillery in Yuxi.

The liquor captured Chu Shijian’s original dream, and Ma Jingfen’s deep memories. After his passing, she kept the business alive. She’s often seen riding shotgun in a pickup truck to the distillery, meeting guests from all over the country.

In the afternoon of April 24, more than 30 visitors from Zhejiang, Sichuan, Hubei, and beyond arrived at the factory. Ma Jingfen had barely sat down before a wave of phones went up, snapping photos, recording videos, placing phones next to the mic to capture her words. She’s used to speaking off the cuff, often starting with a simple, “So, what do you want to hear today?”

At the end of every speech, Ma Jingfen always leads the audience in a rousing chant: “Let’s get to work!” (Photo provided by the interviewee)

That day, she shared how she once traveled across provinces to Maotai Town to seek advice from a seasoned master, all to make her liquor more aromatic and refined. She’s never been shy about the humble beginnings of that journey, even openly admitting that, due to health reasons, she rarely drank alcohol in the past. As she revisited her entrepreneurial story, this elderly woman still showed her sense of humor. “Don’t get too drunk tonight,” she said with a smile. “If you do, you’ll mess up your contract.” The crowd burst into knowing laughter.

Beyond running a distillery, Ma Jingfen also dabbles in small ventures just for fun. Even after turning 90, she’s still quietly building new businesses without fanfare. Her latest project involves blueberries. When the blueberry trees bore fruit for the first time, she brought a basket of berries to her son and said, “I grew these. Try one.” It was only then that he realized his mother had started yet another business on her own.

But Ma Jingfen isn’t just an elderly hobbyist. She’s a clear-headed, hands-on leader with sharp management instincts. What she values most is keeping her managers' thinking in check. If someone strays off course, she doesn’t hesitate to act.

Once, she discovered that a relative who helped manage the business had secretly transferred sales funds into their personal account. Ma confronted them with evidence, but the person denied everything. Calmly, she responded, “If it’s money you want, I can give it to you. But if you can’t even admit you were wrong, do you still care about your reputation?” Then, right in front of the family, she fired the relative on the spot. At her age, money isn’t her top concern anymore, but she can’t tolerate people who refuse to face right and wrong.

This “post-90s” entrepreneur isn’t just relentlessly active, she’s also a proud multitasker. In April this year, Ma Jingfen’s Floral Art Collection was officially published. The book is a culmination of her decades of experience in flower arranging and a birthday gift to herself at 93. Though she picked up the skill later in life, she never let tradition limit her creativity.

On the day of her Women at the Edge interview, Ma Jingfen (right) created an arrangement centered on small chrysanthemums and dried branches. (Photo/New Weekly)

While others say red and green should never go together, Ma takes inspiration from nature, observing how red flowers and green leaves coexist in harmony. “They’re both bold and honest, like farmers with that kind of strength,” she said, clapping her hands and miming a hoe swinging through the air.

Her schedule is packed and her thoughts are always flowing. Ma Jingfen’s energy doesn’t come from being unable to slow down, it comes from being fully awake. Her clarity comes not only from constant learning but also from choosing her own path time and time again, and enduring everything that comes with it.

02

The Second Daughter Who Dared to Say “No”

Ma Jingfen was born before the founding of the People’s Republic of China, into the family of a senior bank executive. Known as the “second daughter,” she wore leather shoes and rode in rickshaws when she went out. Thanks to her father’s job transfers, she had the chance to live in big cities like Wuhan, Chongqing, and Shanghai. To outsiders, she was one of the rare children of that era who had truly seen the world.

Frequent school transfers in her youth caused her to fall behind academically. At 12, she was still in first grade and couldn’t recite the multiplication table. Even now, in her 90s, she still remembers the shame of being called on in elementary school and not knowing the answer.

The young Ma Jingfen (far left) holding her younger sister. (Photo/New Weekly)

Back then, girls who didn’t do well in school had their futures already mapped out. Her mother insisted she go on blind dates, saying, “If you don’t study, you get married. If you won’t marry, I’ll blow you up.” But Ma Jingfen pushed back. “My mother is too soft,” she said. “I’m not like that.” During one cousin’s arranged visit, she let the family’s guard dog loose, scaring the suitor away. After that, the whole extended family said, “That second daughter is a little strange.”

When she heard the military was recruiting, Ma cut off her waist-length hair and signed up. In an era when bandits still roamed the countryside, joining the army was more than a political choice, it was also a way for women to escape the confines of home. Ma Jingfen carved out a third option for herself, rejecting the idea that she had to either study or marry.

Life in the army might not have matched her home’s comfort, but it gave her a new kind of independence. When a commander unfairly scolded her one time, she didn’t back down. “He was wrong about me,” she said. “So I had to speak up.” She was only 17, but she stood up for herself in a male-dominated world. Even with little formal education, she had a natural resilience that refused to give way.

In 1951, Ma Jingfen (center, back row) with her comrades at the Border Defense Bureau. (Photo provided by the interviewee)

From being the headstrong daughter who refused to be obedient, to the soldier who wouldn’t accept injustice, Ma Jingfen’s early years were all about awakening. She may not have known the term “feminism” then, but through her actions, she claimed the right to make her own choices.

03

The Woman Who Weathered Life With Her Husband

If Ma Jingfen fought for freedom in her youth, she became someone completely different in marriage, and at one point, even a woman overwhelmed by love.

In 1955, she married Chu Shijian. Three years later, he was labeled a “rightist” and sent to a harsh labor farm. Upon hearing the news, Ma took her young daughter and went to join him. She even transferred her household registration from the city to the countryside, prepared to spend the rest of her life there. Divorce never crossed her mind. Her only thought was keeping their family of three together.

In those chaotic times, Ma Jingfen chose to stay by Chu Shijian’s side. (Photo provided by the interviewee)

No one forced her to do it. In an era when family members rushed to cut ties with political outcasts, Ma took the hardest road on her own. Overnight, she lost touch with almost everyone she knew and became a “rightist’s wife”, someone everyone kept at arm’s length. Life at the labor farm took a toll on her body. She had to carry her child to work every day, often stopping to catch her breath along the way. At night, wild snakes and rats disturbed her sleep.

Even so, she never once brought up the “rightist” label in front of Chu or tried to guilt him with her suffering. She stayed silent to protect his dignity. In that old photo, you can see the tension in her furrowed brow. She swallowed her pain without complaint.

In an old photo, Ma Jingfen is frowning. (Photo provided by the interviewee)

Back in those days, she often felt confused and stifled. Even now, she sometimes vents to the younger generation: “He never cared about me… all he ever did was work.”

Someone once asked her if Chu Shijian had ever said anything tender to her. She thought about it for a moment and recalled only one instance—when someone looked down on her, Chu quietly said, “Who dares? I’ll deal with them.” She laughed and added, “Of course he was joking.” But that one “joke” became the most vivid memory of feeling protected in their 60-plus years of marriage.

“Back then, I was really just a clueless woman. I didn’t study, and all I cared about was whether Chu Shijian cared about me,” she admitted. “I wasn’t independent yet. Who else could I rely on but him?” Her words are heartbreakingly honest.

But she didn’t stay stuck in that state for long. In interviews now, she’ll say with conviction, “If he hadn’t reshaped me, I wouldn’t be who I am today.” She endured hardships, but she also learned to grow. Those passive years of following along eventually became the whetstone that sharpened her into someone clear-eyed and self-assured.

She was a reflection of countless “dutiful wives” of her generation, but she was also one of the few who woke up amid the struggle, gathering strength in silence to eventually shift her own path. She didn’t give up, didn’t run away, and didn’t sugarcoat the truth. Marriage wasn’t her destination. It was the forge she had to pass through.

04

Ma Jingfen’s Rebirth at the Crossroads of Fate

During those tumultuous years, Chu Shijian was transferred from a farm to a sugar factory, and then later, after the reform era began, to a tobacco company. Much like how she had followed her father from city to city as a child, Ma Jingfen had to adapt to new jobs and new challenges every few years. The difference was, time had honed her. She was no longer the passive, compromising young woman she used to be.

In The Biography of Chu Shijian, there’s a story about this time. Right before the sugar factory merged with a paper mill that made paper from bagasse, Chu needed a smart, educated partner to help improve paper quality. Since most workers at the plant lacked formal education, he thought of his wife. Sensing his trust, Ma Jingfen left her teaching job of over 20 years to join the paper mill as a quality inspector. She had zero experience with papermaking, but she had an unshakable determination. Just a month later, the paper they developed together shocked even the Yunnan Provincial Light Industry Department.

Later, when they moved to Yuxi Cigarette Factory, she was appointed deputy head of the landscaping department. On her first day, she tore down all the illegal structures cluttering the plant, giving the place a fresh new look. When she noticed the workers lacked confidence, she organized flower arrangement classes and led the team to win city-level awards, helping those behind-the-scenes staff feel seen and valued.

She always found a way to make real change, even in roles others might see as minor. When fate turned again, she was no longer a background player trailing behind. She had become a true partner who could help blaze a trail forward. By the time Chu Shijian was released from prison, both he and Ma Jingfen were nearing 70. This time, she faced the steepest learning curve of all: starting a business with him.

In 2002, the couple planted their first batch of sugar oranges on Ailao Mountain. Ma Jingfen remembers those early fruits being so bad, “not even pigs would eat them.” Chu and his team worked around the clock to improve the soil and growing techniques. Once the oranges finally lived up to their sweet name, it was Ma Jingfen who took on the marketing. She brought them to trade fairs, and in a market where branding barely existed, she came up with a simple slogan: “Sugar Oranges Grown by Chu Shijian.” It was direct, straightforward, and incredibly persuasive.

On March 25, 2018, in Yuxi, Yunnan, Ma Jingfen explained how the look of a fruit relates to its flavor. (Photo/Visual China Group)

As the oranges began to sell, Ma Jingfen’s health took a turn. She was diagnosed with late-stage rectal cancer. When the doctor delivered the news, she said, “Don’t give me a sentence—three months, six months, a year. When it’s time to go, I’ll go.” The doctors recommended six rounds of chemotherapy; she only did two before going home to recuperate.

Relying on traditional Chinese medicine, enzymes, and pure willpower, she went on to live more than 20 years. “Most people don’t die of cancer,” she said. “They die of fear. They see the diagnosis and can’t eat, can’t sleep. If even healthy people stop eating and sleeping, of course they won’t last long.”

Her brush with cancer only made her walk even steadier. The Chu Orange Estate on Ailao Mountain was Ma Jingfen’s vision. Though nearly 80 and unable to read blueprints, she sat in on meeting after meeting with the designers, offering input and pushing for revisions.

The original plan had called for dark grey exterior walls, but Ma Jingfen thought that felt too gloomy. She asked the designers to close their eyes and imagine a black-grey complex rising on a mountainside. “Doesn’t it look like a graveyard?” she asked. That one comment changed their minds, and the walls were ultimately painted a warm, reddish-orange to match the sunny vibe of the orchard.

The Chu Orange Estate sits on a mountainside in Gasa Town, Yuxi, Yunnan. (Photo/Visual China Group)

At the grand opening of the estate, Ma Jingfen walked onstage to thunderous applause. Looking around, she said, “The estate is built and passed inspection. I used to just be ‘Mrs. Chu,’ but from today on, I’m Ma Jingfen.” The crowd burst into applause again.

Chu Shijian who sat and witnessed this later joked that Ma was “trying to stand shoulder to shoulder” with him. Ma Jingfen smiled as she recalled it: “It wasn’t that he thought I was capable—he finally acknowledged me as a person. I wasn’t just the woman behind him anymore.”

From then on, she stood beside China’s “tobacco king” as an equal, charting new paths together. That wasn’t just an introduction, it was a statement, a distillation of decades of endurance, growth, and self-definition.

In 2015, at the Ailao Mountain Chu Orange Estate, Chu Shijian and Ma Jingfen attended a press event side by side. (Photo/Visual China Group)

05

Not Young, Just Clear-headed

Ma Jingfen is 93, but her clarity, drive, and spirit put many younger people to shame. She never tried to live up to anyone’s expectations and never bought into the idea that “you’re old, so it’s time to retire.”

“When is retirement supposed to happen?” she’s said more than once. “I can tell you: not a single day.” Despite her age, she still shows up at events and insists on speaking. “If one day I collapse on stage, don’t blame anyone—not the organizers, not the audience. I’m over 90, I’ve lived through it all. As long as I can still contribute, I’m happy. And if I really can’t get back up, well, maybe I’ll get to go to heaven.” It’s not just about defying physical limits. It’s about embracing purpose, fully and fiercely.

At a short video shoot with Ma Jingfen. (Photo provided by the interviewee)

Ma Jingfen is a living, growing force. Even in her nineties, she keeps learning, thinking, and creating. She uses her phone to study how to grow vegetables, hosts flower-arranging classes for young people, makes videos, and manages her own media presence. She refuses to let age define her, and she’s never backed down simply because she’s a woman.

She didn’t walk a path to success. She carved one, step by step, until she finally became Ma Jingfen.

Today’s story shifts from naps to something more intimate and equally human. It's told in the first person by Ba Linya, a young Chinese caregiver born after 2000, who has spent the past three years working in an elderly care facility in Nanning, Guangxi Province, assisting seniors with bathing. Over 1,000 times, she has helped more than 60 elderly residents — many of whom are well into their 80s or 90s and often face physical or verbal communication challenges — with this deeply personal and physically demanding task.

In China, most professional bath assistants are still women, even though the elderly population needing help includes both men and women. The job demands care, patience, and sensitivity — every case is different. And while automation is advancing rapidly, this kind of intimate, individualized care still seems far beyond the reach of robots.

With China’s population aging at an accelerating pace — a fact well known but still daunting — stories like this feel increasingly urgent. Elder care is not just a domestic issue; it’s a shared global challenge that deserves more attention, reflection, and compassion.

The story was first published on 极昼工作室 [Media-Fox], a WeChat blog affiliated with the portal giant Sohu.com. If you have a WeChat account, you can also watch the video version of the story embedded in this article.

I gave an elderly person a bath for the first time a week into my internship. She was 89, a retired primary school teacher. We all called her Miss Wen.

It was June, and the heat in Nanning was already in full swing. She’d just moved in, wearing a corduroy jacket over a knitted vest and a long-sleeved shirt underneath. Her sense of temperature had dulled—she didn’t feel hot, but she was soaked in sweat. She hadn’t bathed in a month. Her daughter explained that she had several chronic conditions, and the family worried that forcing the issue might upset her and spike her blood pressure. So when she refused to bathe, they just let her be.

I asked her gently, “Grandma, it’s been a while since your last bath. Would you like to take one now?” She immediately bristled: “Don’t accuse me! Who said I haven’t bathed in a month?” I quickly backtracked, “Of course, of course. You have.” Later, we made small talk about family and life just to help her ease up. Once she seemed more at ease, I tried again, “You’ve been sweating quite a bit. How about a quick rinse?” Only then did she reluctantly agree.

Before helping with the bath, Ba Linya makes sure to pull the curtains closed in the elder’s room.

Each resident here has their own bathroom, about three square meters, give or take. Most of the elderly folks are still pretty mobile, so usually I just help them onto the shower stool, turn on the water, and rinse them off gently. Miss Wen, though, wasn’t as steady. She relied on a wheelchair and a walker to get around. I wheeled her into the bathroom and started getting her undressed.

I was so nervous, especially with her daughter standing right there. Miss Wen liked to stash away leftover food, and while I was helping her change, she even pulled half a steamed bun out of her pocket. Some parts of her skin were yellowed and coated with a layer of grime which took slow, careful wiping to clean. She told me she usually just rinsed off at home and didn’t really let people scrub her. It took a lot of gentle coaxing before she finally agreed.

At first, the smell, a mix of sweat, old clothes, and something else I couldn’t quite place, was hard to get used to. But I had to keep a straight face. Halfway through, she started chatting with me. Her daughter, standing outside the bathroom, kept thanking me and saying how much she appreciated the effort. That helped me ease up a little. When it was all done, I was stunned. It was the first time it really hit me: this is what it means to grow old.

Helping the elder get ready for their bath.

Ba Linya giving a sponge bath to a bedridden elder.

I’m 23 and have been working as a bathing assistant at a nursing home in Nanning for three years. Honestly, back in high school, I wanted to be a flight attendant. I thought it looked so cool how they handled emergencies on those TV shows. But during my senior year, the pandemic hit and our physical classes got canceled. Plus, my parents thought it wasn’t a safe path. I wasn’t great at all my subjects either, so my homeroom teacher suggested I try vocational school and told me about a program in elder care.

At first, I didn’t really know what elder care involved. When I got the acceptance letter, I wasn’t sure if it was for me. What convinced me was hearing from an older student that the program had great job prospects. I figured learning a practical skill wouldn’t hurt.

Once I started my internship here, I did a bit of everything. Now, I mainly work on the sixth floor of the care building, helping six or seven seniors with their baths every day. I usually start by chatting with them to help them relax, then wash their hair, clean their bodies, and give them a back scrub. Baths usually take around 20 to 30 minutes.

An elder waiting for her bath.

I’ve had seniors accidentally pee during their baths, which means having to clean both their bodies and the bathroom multiple times. Some elders with cognitive issues get really scared of the showerhead and can get anxious, even grabbing onto my clothes tightly. It’s especially awkward when I’m bathing male elders. Most of them resist at first, even those who can’t care for themselves still feel uncomfortable exposing their bodies to a stranger.

The day after I helped Miss Wen, I was assigned to a big, sturdy grandpa. He was about 1.8m tall and weighed around 70kg. I’m pretty small, so there was no way I could manage him alone. I had to ask for help, while I supported him from behind, another person helped from the front to move him from his wheelchair onto the shower stool.

Helping him undress, I felt my face flush with embarrassment, even through my mask, my ears were burning. He was shy too, especially when it came to taking off his pants. He kept covering himself with his hands. I grabbed a towel to cover his legs and gently told him, “If you feel shy, just close your eyes, I won’t look. I’ll be careful and slow.”。

During the whole bath, I kept the towel over him. He held his hands down tight and muttered softly—he had trouble speaking clearly and was hard of hearing, but I knew he was embarrassed. I spoke up, “We’ve got to get you clean, or there’ll be a smell.” He nodded but kept tugging the towel, not wanting me to move.

During the bath.

Helping an elder dry his feet after the bath using a hairdryer.

After helping with baths for a while, I stopped feeling so awkward. I’d crack a joke to lighten the mood, then hand them a glass of water when I was done. The elders really appreciated the respect, and that made them much more willing to cooperate. These little touches might seem small, but for them, it’s all about preserving their dignity, and they definitely notice.

Some seniors with dementia don’t really get why they need to bathe. When you help them undress, they might think you’re trying to hurt them. Take Xiao Hui, who was 88 and living here when I started my internship, I’ve known her for three years now. But because she has Alzheimer’s, she doesn’t remember me.

At first, bathing her was pretty easy. If I said, “Time for a bath,” she’d check the clock and say, “It’s only noon, no way. I’ll bathe tonight before bed.” We’d go along with it, and come evening, she’d quietly follow me to the bath. But as her condition got worse, she started resisting more. The dementia made her scared of bathing. She’d get agitated and sometimes even hit or kick.

I tried all sorts of ways to handle it, including little white lies. Her daughter works in Hong Kong, and her son runs a business overseas. She can’t remember her late husband but does remember her kids. So I’d say, “Your daughter’s coming to visit and bought you some new clothes to wear.” As soon as she heard that, she got excited to see her daughter. I’d quickly suggest she use the bathroom first, and while she was inside, I’d get the bathwater ready.

Ba Linya and her colleague convincing Xiao Hui to take a bath.

She had a strong panic reaction whenever water was involved. The second I turned on the shower, she grabbed my collar, snatched the showerhead, and sprayed water right in my face, yelling at me to get out. So I purposely let some water soak her clothes and said, “See? Your clothes are wet now, you better change.” Washing her hair was the toughest part. I had to get the water ready beforehand, scrub quickly, then cover her eyes with a towel while rinsing. She spat at me, swung her cane to push me away, and even pinched my stomach. I’d often end up bruised and covered in her spit and soap.

Every bath felt like a battle. After it was over, I’d say, “You got my clothes all wet!” She’d just laugh and say, “No way it was me. Since there’s hot water, you should take a bath too.” Then she’d forget all about it right away. It was frustrating but also kind of funny.

One grandpa with dementia scared me to tears once. While helping him undress, he suddenly freaked out, tried to rip my clothes, and shouted, “I’m going to wash you first!” A coworker had to come comfort me, and after that, I never helped bathe him again. Another elder touched my hand during a bath, and later his family decided to discharge him.

After going through experiences like that, I felt pretty down. But what hurt even more was how little people outside understood the job. My ex and I had survived four years of a long-distance relationship through college, but we broke up because of this job. I shared all these struggles with him hoping for support, but he just said, “I told you not to do this kind of work.” Some old friends, when they found out what I did, said, “It’s just bathing and washing, any nanny can do that. Why hire a young girl for it?”

During that rough patch, I really doubted myself and even wrote a resignation letter. One time, after helping Grandpa Wenqi, who I’m pretty close with, finish his bath, I just stood by his window, zoning out and not saying a word. Grandpa’s a veteran and incredibly sharp; he immediately noticed and asked, “Hey kiddo, you hiding something from me?”

He’s got this warm, grandfatherly vibe, a chubby, white-haired guy with a big round belly and a gentle smile. He’s got a great sense of humor and always jokes around with me. In his room, he keeps a little fridge stocked with snacks. After every bath, he’d pull some out for me and even peel and core apples, washing them carefully before handing them over. He’s 94 but treats me like his own granddaughter.

Ba Linya helping Grandpa Wenqi taking a bath.

When Grandpa Wenqi first came here, he felt pretty lonely. His kids weren’t around, and everything was so different. He mostly kept to his room during the day and didn’t want to join any activities. One time while I was helping him bathe, he said, “I’m already 94. I don’t know when I’ll go, maybe this is my last stop.”

That really hit me. I tried to encourage him not to think like that. After every bath, I’d stay and chat with him, even sing a little. We added each other on WeChat. I love taking photos, so sometimes I’d send him pictures of flowers and plants. He actually knew I was planning to leave: “You’re lying to me. When I was so lonely, you were there for me. If you’re feeling down, how am I supposed to help?”

Ba Linya putting body lotion on Grandpa Wenqi after his bath.

Ba Linya chatting with Grandpa Wenqi.

That day, I poured out all my frustrations, and Grandpa reassured me. He said what we do isn’t just “taking care of people,” but really keeping them company and preserving their dignity. “Honestly, I don’t want you to leave, but for your own future, I hope you go on to better things.”

I slowly pulled myself together and decided to stay. When others looked down on me, it just made me want to prove them wrong even more. Honestly, I grew attached to some of the elders. On our floor, there were retired university psychology professors and high-ranking officials. Whenever I had a problem, I’d turn to them for advice. It was really a two-way support system.

Last year on my birthday, I casually mentioned it to Grandma Wei, but she remembered. Usually, she goes to bed by 8 p.m., but that night she stayed up past 10 waiting. I didn’t even know. My shift ended around 8:30, and I was waiting for the cake delivery.

Later, we cut the cake in the staff lounge with seven or eight elders and coworkers. Grandma Wei’s daughter sent a fresh bouquet of flowers. Grandma Wei insisted on cutting the first slice with me. Holding my hand, she said, “With this cut, I’m passing on my long life to you. Think of it as the start of a new chapter in your life.”

An elder after his bath.

Even Xiao Hui, who has Alzheimer’s, shows her care in her own way. When she sees us working, she asks if we’re cold and insists on giving us her clothes to wear. One night when it got dark, she even dragged a stool over to sit beside us and ended up falling asleep there, refusing to go back to her room. When we covered her with a blanket, she’d pull it off and wrap it around us instead.

She’s always super curious about our snacks. We’d offer her some coffee or milk tea, and she’d say, “Just looking,” but before we knew it, she’d gulp it all down. Spicy snacks? She’d snatch them up and stuff her mouth right away. Once during rounds, I caught her sneaking a sip of my milk tea. After finishing it, she sweetly asked, “Want some?” Older folks love their sweets just like kids do.

Xiao Hui holding a doll in her room.

In my three years at the nursing home, I’ve helped over 60 seniors with bathing, probably more than a thousand times altogether. Sadly, five of them have passed away. The one who sticks with me the most is Grandpa Weiju—94 years old, tall and lean but still sharp as a tack. We’d tease him with photos from his younger days, calling him a real heartthrob. He’d laugh it off, saying, “I’m old now, not handsome anymore,” but there was always a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

He used to live in the independent-living area, happily spending his days playing ping-pong and gateball with the other seniors. After his cancer diagnosis, he moved to our floor last June. At first, he was still pretty active and could get around on his own. He always felt a bit shy about having a female assistant help him bathe, so on the rare occasions no male staff were available, I’d step in. Blushing, he’d say, “Alright, just make it quick, okay?”

After a couple of times, he relaxed and joked, “I’m old now, what’s there to be shy about?” He’d often ask where I planned to go during my time off. Once, I told him I was heading to Chongqing to see a Zhang Jie concert. Since he’s from Chongqing, he immediately started giving me travel tips. I told him I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. He laughed and said, “It’s just a singer!” I told him, “Grandpa, you don’t get fangirl fever!” Before I left, he made sure to remind me to stay safe going alone.

Hand of a bedridden elder.

When this grandpa first came in, his skin still looked healthy and rosy. But as his illness got worse, he ate less and less, lost a lot of weight, and his skin slowly turned a pale, waxy yellow. One night during my shift, I was helping him get up when he suddenly started coughing up blood. I freaked out and called the doctor and nurses right away. After the checkup, the doctor said he needed to be transferred to a big hospital for treatment.

In February this year, his daughter came to pick up his things. I watched as they packed up his clothes, alarm clock, and other everyday stuff, one by one. The family group chat for the nursing home was shut down too. His family changed their profile picture to a white butterfly on a black background. Before they left, they told me, “Grandpa has turned into a butterfly and flown away. He’s finally free.”

Before this job, I never really paid much attention to the elderly around me. Helping these seniors bathe every day, seeing them move slower and forget more, sometimes even whether they took their medicines, made me think a lot about my own older family members. There’s one grandma who looks just like my own grandmother, and I can’t help but say hi to her every time I see her.

Hanging clothes out for the elders.

I was raised by my grandparents. My grandpa used to teach at Southwest United University. When I started working, he’d call me all the time to check on me. Back in school, I always thought they were healthy and didn’t really notice how much they were changing.

For the past three years, I’ve spent every Chinese New Year in Nanning with the seniors at the care home. This year, my grandpa suddenly got hospitalized. It was snowing back home in Kunming, and the sudden cold made his breathing worse, he was gasping for air. My family rushed him to the hospital, and he was diagnosed with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. I was so worried I asked for leave to go back, but once I knew he was okay, I canceled the trip.

Our care facility just opened a new branch in Kunming this year, and my biggest wish is to be closer to my family. Every day, while taking care of other people’s grandparents, I think about how I can walk and chat with them, but can’t do the same for my own.

These next few months will be my last helping with baths in Nanning. By June, I’ll be switching roles. On my last day, I plan to say goodbye to Grandpa Wenqi in person and have a good chat with him. I also want to have a meal with Grandma Yu, who I’m really close to. She’s talked about getting together and taking some photos to remember the good times. Honestly, it’s hard to think about leaving.

The Qiao Family Compound (乔家大院), situated in Qi County, Jinzhong, Shanxi Province, is an 18th-century complex of courtyards spanning 24,000 square meters. It is a fine example of a traditional private residence in China. (Photo by Jiang Jiang)

While reconnecting with friends from the area, I came across a delightful local quirk: Shanxi people take their midday naps very seriously. This caught my attention because, before studying in the U.S., I hadn’t realized how culturally specific the practice of napping can be. In many countries, the concept of a daily lunch break nap is virtually nonexistent. But in China, it’s widespread — and Shanxi might just be the heartland of this tradition.

That’s why I want to share with you a piece I came across titled “Why Shanxi people go ‘offline’ every noon? — Mystery solved,” (山西人中午掉线的原因，找到了) originally published on 新周刊 NewsWeekly’s WeChat blog on May 10. Blending humor with cultural insight, the article is full of witty takes on Shanxi’s nap culture and offers a light yet thoughtful reflection on why locals embrace their midday downtime with such devotion.

Beyond the laughs, I think the piece sheds light on a side of Chinese life that often gets overlooked in global media — the side that isn’t all about high-speed trains and relentless productivity. Yes, Chinese people work hard. But they also know how to rest — and sometimes, as this story shows, they insist on it.

For those unfamiliar, NewsWeekly is a lifestyle magazine founded in 1996 that explores the everyday rhythms of life across China. I hope you enjoy this glimpse into a slower, sleepier corner of the country.

Background:

Shanxi, a landlocked province in northern China, blends ancient heritage with industrial might. With an area of 156,000 km²—comparable to Nepal or Tunisia—it’s larger than Greece but smaller than Senegal. Its 34 million people mirror the population of Saudi Arabia or Poland.

Famed for its UNESCO-listed Pingyao Ancient City and the Buddhist Yungang Grottoes, Shanxi is also China’s energy hub, transitioning toward green initiatives. Think of it as a fusion of Poland’s industrial base and Nepal’s cultural depth—all within one dynamic province.

Why Shanxi people go ‘offline’ every noon? — Mystery solved

“When’s the best time to take over Shanxi?”

“Every day from 12:00 to 2:30 p.m. That’s when everyone in Shanxi takes a nap — a full-on collective knockout. You won’t even find a single Shanxi IP online.”

It might sound like a joke, just another internet meme about regional quirks. For a long time, that’s how most people saw Shanxi’s nap culture.

But lately, the legend of the Shanxi siesta has been spreading—and fast.

As more behind-the-scenes details come out, online reactions have shifted from playful teasing to full-blown jealousy.

Check out any post about Shanxi’s midday routine, and the most common (and clearly rhetorical) question is: “Can a local confirm… is this actually true?”

And the most devastatingly casual reply? “Just woke up—what’d I miss? (2:57 p.m. · Shanxi)”

01 Shanxi, Rise and Shine

“Two types of people are affected by the chime of 12 o'clock: Cinderella at midnight, and the entire population of Shanxi at noon.”

First-time visitors to Shanxi often feel like they’ve stepped into another dimension.

“Went to Taiyuan with some friends. We went out around noon to grab something, and the whole city was dead silent. We actually joked that the population must’ve dropped—there was no one in sight.”

“Finished lunch, looked around, and all the waiters who were just joking and chatting a second ago were now passed out at the tables. We seriously thought it was food poisoning.”

Shanxi mystery: Once it’s past noon, every living being seems to fall into a brief coma.

So what is it about this province—home to over 30 million people—that turns it into a ghost town every single afternoon?

Simple — They're napping. Do not disturb.

In Shanxi, napping isn’t just a habit — it’s a primal instinct hardwired into the local DNA from a young age.

Starting in primary school, Shanxi kids grow up with strict summer and winter schedules: in summer, afternoon classes don’t start until 3:00 p.m., and students are required to take a proper nap.

For boarders, school staff conduct nap-time checks. For those who go home, they have to bring back a signed nap slip from their parents to prove they actually rested.

If you want an even comfier nap? Off-campus nap programs are available, like after-school tutoring — but for sleep.

Bottom line: naps are mandatory. So much so that not napping could hurt your chances of being named an “Excellent Student.”

“If someone starts studying during nap time, the whole dorm is stunned — not because they’re secretly grinding, but because they’re not napping.”

And it’s not just kids. By noon, the working crowd in Shanxi is just as committed to their midday rest.

If conditions allow, they’ll pull out foldable beds from under their desks. The office lights go off, and everyone’s sprawled out like it’s a sleepover.

If conditions don’t allow, they make it work — throwing blankets in their car trunk, then heading down to the parking lot to nap like there’s no tomorrow.

As long as it’s nap time, location and setup don’t matter.

The grass in public parks turns into luxury mattresses. Scaffolding at construction sites becomes five-star bedding. Street vendors lean back on their trikes and doze off, with whole carts of watermelon left unattended.

Netizens can’t stop raving about this effortless, zen-like vibe. Shanxi folks really are built different — born with the “nap body.”

But while everyone’s marveling at this chill superpower, some netizens have started getting tactical, analyzing it with a straight face: A strategic study on the feasibility of taking over Shanxi during nap hours.

First to fall: The security system

Come noon, Shanxi collectively logs off. Everyone enters nap mode, and the province slips into its most defenseless state of the day.

And when we say everyone, we mean everyone. Shanxi’s legendary nap culture transcends species. From house pets to zoo animals, cats, dogs, lions, tigers—all knocked out cold at the same time.

By noon, there’s virtually no carbon-based life activity left in Shanxi.

Security system offline.

“I once visited the Taiyuan Zoo at noon—could hear wild boars snoring.”

“The hippo looked fake it was so still. I stared for 15 minutes before its ear twitched. Only then did I believe it was alive.”

City operations? Also on pause. If you’re moving around during nap hours, your odds of being spotted are basically zero.

Sure, eating is important—but in Shanxi, meals only happen during designated meal hours. Miss that window, and good luck.

“Tried to order authentic Jin cuisine while traveling in Shanxi. Placed a delivery order at 2 p.m.—the restaurant called to ask me to cancel it. Tried again at another place, and it said delivery starts after 5:40.”

“Eventually gave up and went out to look. Found a tiny shop still open. The owners waited until I finished eating, then locked the door the moment I stepped out. They didn’t even bother washing my dishes.”

Basically, no one’s out and about at that time—not even locals.

Even delivery hubs go dark during nap hours.

“Let’s put it this way—don’t expect to pick up anything from a Shanxi courier center at noon.”

Public restrooms? Also closed. Because, sure, nature calls—but not louder than a midday nap.

Hospitals switch to emergency-only mode.

Museums and libraries? Closed. Malls shut down their escalators, subtly nudging any stragglers to go home and get some rest.

If you want to get things done in Shanxi, morning or evening works just fine. But try it at noon? Forget it.

After breaking down all the intel, one netizen proposed a detailed “takeover” plan:

“March in at 1 p.m., two hours flat—mission accomplished.”

To which locals kindly replied: “Nice try. You’ll need a ticket to get in—trains from Taiyuan don’t even sell tickets before 3 p.m. (or 2:30 if you’re lucky).”

And even if you do arrive on time, think twice: “Shanxi folks waking up from a nap are pure rage. You sure you want to fight them then?”

02 Shanxi — There’s Something in the Air

Locals are skeptical that outsiders could ever sneak in and “conquer” Shanxi.

Most people feel it as soon as they cross the border. There’s something in the air—something… sedative.

“Any bus, train, or high-speed rail headed for Shanxi? By 2 p.m., the whole carriage is dead silent.”

Call it what you will: "Lie down with lions, wake up groggy.” "When in Shanxi, snooze like the Shanxi."

The true power of Shanxi’s nap culture? Once it gets you, there’s no going back.

“I’m from Shanxi but live in Shanghai now. Still can’t shake the habit. I eat lunch and immediately black out.”

In Shanxi, even your soda bottle knows the drill—it lies down too.

Tourists visiting Shanxi usually don't last two days before syncing up with the local nap schedule—and once they do, there's no going back:

“Spent the morning exploring the grottoes, then went back to the hotel for a nap. Woke up and strolled through the ancient city—this rhythm is amazing. I’m doing this on every trip from now on.”

What makes Shanxi’s nap culture truly next level is that it doesn’t just spread between people—it jumps species.

“My dog was bought in Hebei—super energetic before. After we brought him to Shanxi, he started dozing off right on schedule every afternoon.”

Even though the fame of Shanxi’s nap culture has started to spread, no one does it with quite the same ritualistic dedication as the locals.

Desk naps, chair naps, lying-down naps—those are just beginner levels of comfort.

A real Shanxi-style nap includes: drawing the curtains, changing into pajamas, covering your belly, setting an alarm—every step is essential.

“If there were only one leaf left in the world, it’d be used to cover a Shanxi person’s stomach during their nap.”

Give them a set time and a solid routine, and the whole province powers down. Empty-city mode: activated.

Once nap time starts, the question isn’t “Should you disturb a Shanxi person during their nap?”—the answer is no. The only real debate is how badly that’ll go for you.

In Shanxi, napping is sacred. Interrupting one is basically a personal attack.

“Standard nap protocol: Wi-Fi off, data off, phone on Do Not Disturb.”

Even the rowdiest kids know better than to mess around during nap time.

“Your body clock and your mom’s feather duster will both remind you who’s really in charge of your body.”

Shanxi folks quietly uphold a mutual “nap-time non-aggression pact.”

“Even if a married couple is fighting, they'll argue in the morning or evening—never at noon.”

“Ran out of bottled water just after noon. Waited until 3pm to call the delivery guy. That’s just basic manners.”

No yelling. No dropping by unannounced. No funny business. That's the minimum respect a nap deserves.

Even the language reflects how seriously it’s taken: the phrase “in the middle of the day” (“大中午的”) holds as much emotional weight as “during the New Year”.

So yeah—don’t mess with a Shanxi person’s nap.

“Call me in the middle of my nap? I’ll clap back and block your number.”

And if you really hate someone? The ultimate punishment in Shanxi is calling them at 1:30 in the afternoon.

03 Who’s Not Envious of Shanxi’s Nap Culture?

Whether or not there’s some kind of tranquilizer in the Shanxi air is still up for debate.

But why napping seems to be written into Shanxi people’s DNA? That, at least, has been studied.

One of the biggest reasons is dietary—something researchers have dubbed the “carb coma theory.”

Unlike the rice-growing regions in the south, Shanxi’s terrain is more suitable for wheat, grains, and potatoes. Naturally, locals developed a carb-heavy diet centered on noodles, buns, and starchy dishes.

As the saying goes: “Better to go three days without meat than a single day without noodles.”

Shanxi has so many noodle varieties you could eat a different one every meal without repeating. And potato-based specialties are everywhere.

The result? Carb + carb = blood sugar spike = glassy eyes, wobbly limbs—Shanxi transforms from “coal capital” to “carb coma central.”

“It’s like my brain refuses to function unless I nap. Even one second longer without sleep and my head feels numb and woozy.”

But wait—other carb-loving provinces like Shaanxi and Henan don’t nap like this. Why not?

Climate’s also a factor.

Located in northern China, Shanxi experiences big temperature swings between day and night. Those midday heat spikes in summer make staying indoors—and napping—especially appealing.

Skip your nap, and you’re looking at nosebleeds, sore throats, even mouth ulcers.

Basically, napping equals survival.

But it’s not just nature—nurture helps too. Shanxi’s urban design actively supports this nap-friendly lifestyle.

Unlike many cities that concentrate office buildings in a single CBD, Shanxi’s cities spread them throughout town.

So locals often live close to where they work—no need for long, exhausting commutes.

In fact, Monitoring Report on Commuting Time in Major Cities, a 2020 report on commute times ranked Taiyuan, Shanxi’s capital, as having the shortest average commute out of 36 major cities.

The average commute? Just 7 kilometers. And the commuting time is the shortest among all cities with over 3 million urban population.

Some say that Shanxi people’s devotion to naps is like a needle that pops the balloon of our urban stress.

Truth is, naps used to be very common all over China.

According to the Chinese Sleep Research Society, over 60% of people surveyed in Shanxi, Chongqing, Anhui, and Guangdong still take regular afternoon naps.

But as work and life got faster, that restful tradition slowly faded elsewhere.

As the rhythm of work, study and life quickly picks up, urban dwellers are gradually deprived of rest time.

Now, as people rediscover the joys of a good nap, they jokingly frame it as “conquering Shanxi”—when really, it’s a heartfelt wish to bring this amazing habit back. “Elite provincial culture. Should be rolled out nationwide.”

Because sometimes, it’s hard not to envy Shanxi’s chill afternoon energy.

Often called "China's Reddit" (Reddit being the American forum-based social platform where communities form around shared interests), Tieba is actually a unique cultural ecosystem born from China's early internet era.

Baidu Tieba forum is about as old-school as Chinese internet communities get. "Back in late 2003, Baidu founder Robin Li had an idea: build something more engaging than a search engine. A place where people with shared interests could hang out, talk, and build community. That’s how Tieba came to life—born out of pure curiosity."

In fact, you could call Tieba China’s first real grassroots online product—Reddit, often seen as its Western counterpart, didn’t even launch until 2008. I remember scouring tieba for TV show spoilers in middle school. Imagine thousands of topic-specific forums ("bars" or "ba"), each functioning like a digital clubhouse where members post threads and exchange replies. Unlike today's algorithm-driven platforms like Xiaohongshu or Douyin, Tieba maintains a remarkably uncommercialized, freewheeling atmosphere—a digital "jianghu" (the martial arts concept of a chivalrous underworld) where strangers bond over shared obsessions.

What follows is one of my favorite stories this year so far from the WeChat blog of 真故研究室 "Real Story Research Lab," offering perhaps the most authentic window into this enduring Chinese internet subculture.

The last refuge of China’s internet "old bros" (Laoge)

While the rest of the internet was busy debating Trump’s tariffs, the number one trending topic on Tieba was something else entirely: #Welcome to Tieba’s Cyber Confession Room (#这里是贴吧赛博忏悔室#). Cue the chaos—juicy gossip, bitter rants, impromptu therapy sessions. Cheating, burnout, lying flat, emotional meltdowns—it was all on the table. Global politics might be shifting, but Tieba users seemed far more invested in their own wild lives.

Tieba still has over 20 million active forums, with hundreds of millions of users—70 percent of them men. They’re known affectionately (and sometimes sarcastically) as “old bros,” a bunch of guys who feel like your older neighbor and his friends hanging out in front of the convenience store. These are the guys who’ll roast a bad take in the “Idiot Bar” with a sarcastic “this one’s straight into the stratosphere.” They find solace for lonely souls in the “Depression Bar” with midnight heart-to-heart conversations. They’ll jump in to help when an old man gets hit by falling ice under a highway overpass. And sometimes, they act like overgrown teens—never outright rude, just dumb enough to make you laugh and shake your head. And somehow, these guys are like walking encyclopedias - throw them the most random trivia and they'll somehow have the answer.

After surviving for over two decades, Tieba still hasn't bowed out of the Chinese internet. The sheer addictive thrill of this place? Probably only those “old bros” truly get it.

#01

Tieba Old Bros: When Something’s Up, They Show Up

Will AI ever surpass humans? One netizen had a quick comeback: “Chill. AI just hasn’t met the old bros from Idiot Bar yet.”

If you haven’t been online in China for the past two decades, you’ve probably never heard of Idiot Bar (Ruozhi Bar). But if you’ve spent any time surfing the web, you’ve definitely seen its greatest hits—lines like "Technically, 'raw fish' is just... dead fish." (“生鱼片其实是死鱼片”) or "Funny how my 'latest photo' is technically my oldest one." (我最新的照片其实是我最老的照片)

Idiot Bar is just one tiny corner of Tieba’s 22 million-plus forums. So many viral memes and slang terms trace back here—from early internet legends like “rich pretty girls” (“白富美”) and “tall rich handsome guys” (“高富帅”), to the tongue-in-cheek claim that “Cao County is the center of the universe.” (It went viral as a meme after a Shandong dialect shoutout ("666 my baby!") sparked over 500 million parodies and hashtag views). A lot of those trends wouldn’t have caught fire without the old bros fanning the flames.

Their sharp logic wrapped in deadpan humor has produced some of the internet’s most iconic moments—and sometimes, it actually makes a difference in real life.

Back in 2009, someone posted in Password Bar, asking for help after confessing to a girl. Her reply? A string of Morse code.

When one user turned to Tieba’s Password Bar for help decoding a Morse code reply from his crush, the old bros didn’t hesitate. Across screens and usernames, they dove headfirst into a brainstorming marathon. By the time the thread hit the 207th comment, one sharp-thinking bro cracked it: “I LOVE YOU TOO.” And just like that, the lovers’ cryptic dance ended in a breakthrough. The thread became a Tieba classic, with users revisiting it like a digital time capsule.

That quick wit and snarky, debate-loving tone? It’s just the surface. Underneath, Tieba old bros are softies—genuinely warm, generous, and ready to help. Got a weirdly specific problem? They’ve probably got 20 solutions. A grandpa gets rescued from a fire by a security guard? The bros come together to crowdsource the perfect slogan for a thank-you banner. Got an interview with a top Esports player? They’ll help sketch out the whole Q&A like it’s their own PR campaign.

And when the stakes get high, they don’t flinch. In 2015, a user from the Asura Bar (“斗战神吧”) was the first to blow the whistle on unsanitary production lines at a pickled vegetable factory—despite the fact that both his parents worked there. His post read: “I just don’t want more people to get fooled. Let the truth spread.” The post sparked widespread outrage and played a direct role in a major consumer scandal being exposed on the nationally broadcast 3.15 program.

From quantum mechanics to router repairs, they’ve got something to say about pretty much everything.

And some of them? Absolute legends. Back in 2006, an anonymous user was desperately begging for new chapters in the Ghost Blows Out the Light Bar . When no update came, he started writing his own story—The Seven-Star Lu Palace (《七星鲁王宫》). That user was none other than the future author of The Grave Robbers’ Chronicles (《盗墓笔记》), a series that would go on to rack up millions of fans.

In 2005, Liu Cixin (a celebrated science fiction writer and Hugo Award-winning novelist, author of "The Three-Body Problem") himself, still working at a power plant in his hometown, logged into Tieba with a small side account. He left a cheeky comment under his own novel: “This is so vivid and powerful … did this guy actually serve in the military?”

Even with all their hidden talents, Tieba’s old bros never act superior. They’re the kind who’ll casually shrug off their cloaks of mystery and open up like it’s nothing. Take a recent viral thread in the Sun Xiaochuan Bar (“孙笑川吧”), where one user shared his story: a junior college guy who fell for a girl from a 211 university. He was brutally honest—felt the sting of insecurity over their educational gap, and even more so over their lifestyles. She traveled abroad often; he hadn’t even been on a plane.

Instead of mocking him, the old bros showed up with warmth: “I’ve never flown either.” “Don’t put her on a pedestal—and don’t sell yourself short.” Even as the screenshots of their increasingly sweet chats started to test everyone's emotional limits, the replies were full of blessings and support. It’s this kind of “unpolished but genuine” expression that really captures what Tieba’s old bros are all about.

In today’s internet, that kind of raw sincerity is getting harder to find. These guys bring a kind of heat—like they’re permanently 18, always full of fire. They don’t care about managing an image, don’t tiptoe around because of status. If they need to, they’ll start a fight right in the thread. But under all that banter and edge, they’ve got heart. They somehow know everything, and they’ve got this quiet empathy. They’ll listen to the kind of stuff you’d hesitate to tell even your closest friend—your regrets, your dark nights, your messy heartbreaks.

“We may have never met, but we’ve all drunk from the waters of Tieba.” (“虽未谋⾯，但共饮过贴吧水”) Tieba built this kind of unspoken brotherhood—and for a lot of people, it became a place to park their feelings when there was nowhere else to go.

#02

Rebels, Myth-Makers, Straight Shooters — That’s Just How Tieba Bros Roll

Baidu Tieba is about as old-school as Chinese internet communities get.

Back in late 2003, Baidu founder Robin Li had an idea: build something more engaging than a search engine. A place where people with shared interests could hang out, talk, and build community. That’s how Tieba came to life—born out of pure curiosity.

Back then, “online community” wasn’t even a buzzword yet. People mostly used the internet to search and read, not to talk. Tieba changed all that. It was one of the first content platforms to actually feel alive. In fact, you could call it China’s first real grassroots online product—Reddit, often seen as its Western counterpart, didn’t even launch until 2008.

Tieba kept things simple. No barriers. But its real superpower? It flipped the script on who held the mic. Unlike today’s polished, influencer-driven platforms, Tieba had no central figures, no approval queues. Anyone could create a forum. Anyone could post whatever they wanted. Moderation? Vibe control? Entirely up to the community, led by self-appointed “bar owners.”

That wide-open model turned into a creative free-for-all—and kickstarted the golden age of grassroots internet culture in China.

In 2005, the talent show Super Girl (《超级女声》) went viral. Tieba’s Super Girl Bar exploded—at one point, four posts were being made every second. The most popular singers had millions of threads dedicated to them. That year, Baidu overtook Sina in traffic and became the biggest Chinese-language website in the world. Tieba? It became the heart of the fandom universe.

Then there’s Li Yi Bar (“李毅吧”), aka Diba (“帝吧”), born in 2004. Named after a Chinese soccer player 【Editor's note: "Li Yi Bar" (李毅吧) earned its iconic nickname "Diba" (帝吧, Emperor's Bar) through an ironic internet culture phenomenon. The title originated from Chinese soccer player Li Yi's controversial self-comparison to French soccer star Thierry Henry in 2005, which netizens mockingly amplified by dubbing him "Li the Great" (李大帝). This satirical honorific transferred to his fan forum】, you’d expect a sports forum—but go in, and it’s chaos in the best way. This is where memes, parody, ironic banter, wild Photoshop edits, and rogue videos ran free. The users—who call themselves “Yi Si”—are fiercely anti-authority, anti-idol, and proud of it. What they built wasn’t just a subculture—it was an entire internet ecosystem with its own language and laws. King's Bar captured the raw, chaotic energy of the web’s early days like nothing else.

Screeshot of Diba. "When Diba rides out, nothing’s left standing"

The “Yumis” of Super Girl Bar and the “Yi Si” of Li Yi Bar once clashed in what’s now remembered as a legendary online holy war. On June 21, 2005, Diba mobilized thousands of users to “blow up” what was then the largest bar on Baidu, making a name for itself overnight.

Today, the “6.21 Incident” is just a dusty chapter in internet history—but the former Diba moderator’s now-iconic words, like something straight out of Ne Zha, still echo: “We believe there are no idols in this world. Idols are human. I’m human too.” It’s this attitude that keeps the Diba spirit alive to this day. Li Yi Bar still boasts 34 million active users.

Where there’s passion and personality, there are always memes. In 2009, the explosive popularity of Blizzard’s World of Warcraft helped WOW Bar (“WOW吧”) steal the crown as Baidu’s biggest forum. That July, a post titled “Jia Junpeng, your mom wants you to come home for dinner” (《贾君鹏你妈妈喊你回家吃饭》) took off, with over 17,000 replies in just six hours—hailed as nothing short of a “miracle of the Chinese internet.”

Scroll through the long list of internet slang born in Tieba—“Liangchen must be generously rewarded” ("良辰必有重谢") ,“go die” (“狗带”) , “completely useless” (“然并卵”), “brick-moving” (“搬砖”), “leave a name before it gets famous!” (“火钳刘明”) —and it’s hard not to grin. Each phrase is a time capsule. One look and you're back in that strange, beautiful era, flipping through a scrapbook made of memes and memories.

Back in its golden age, Tieba felt like an open playground with no velvet ropes. By 2015, its monthly active users had surpassed 300 million—1.8 times that of Weibo. No matter who you were, there was a corner in Tieba just for you.

#03

Grassroots to the Core — That’s What Makes an Old Bro

To some, Tieba looks outdated now. It missed the wave of vlogs, livestreams, and the shift toward short-form video. The Tieba bros’ unfiltered style often drew criticism from outsiders. And as the platform's heyday faded, many of its early creators moved on—becoming influencers on Xiaohongshu (Red Note), thought leaders on Zhihu, or KOLs on Weibo.

Which is why someone once asked on Zhihu: “Why hasn’t Baidu Tieba died yet?”

One upvoted answer nailed it: “Because Tieba bros have a certain charm—you’ll always find one you can trust.”

In Fanfiction Bar, you’ll still find fans creating art during the long hiatus of Demon Slayer. In Turadyn Bar (“图拉丁吧”), hardware veterans patiently walk beginners through PC builds, no charge. In Fishing Bar, rods might come up empty, but the banter never stops. The Tieba bros who’ve stuck around keep stacking posts like bricks, keeping the story of Chinese internet culture alive—raw, real, and right there for anyone who cares to read.

Even Baidu’s founder Robin Li is a Tieba old bro. He’s literally user No. 1, with over 21.4 years of Tieba “seniority” and more than 12 million followers. As recently as last May, he was still posting. He’d hop into threads to ask stuff like: “What’s this flower I saw by the road?” “Can osmanthus trees survive a northern winter?” “What does this calligraphy say?” Not the slick tech mogul you might picture—just a curious guy, asking strangers on the internet for help like the rest of us.

Anyone wanna help Robin Li out?

That’s the essence of a Tieba old bro—curious, down-to-earth, and never too cool to ask a question. These days, most online spaces are tightly curated. Usernames are no longer a mask, but a brand. Everyone’s polishing their persona, chasing followers, playing roles. But on Tieba, the old bros built something different—a messy, honest little corner of the internet where no one’s faking it.

No filters. No influencer energy. Just people saying things like: “Yeah, I’m broke—but I know GPUs.” You don’t need a ring light or a brand deal to belong. Even if you’re just another 996 office worker, in Tieba you can be a meme master, a homegrown philosopher, or that random dude who always knows the answer. People come together through shared passions, and walk away with a sense of real community.

Most of Tieba’s old-school peers—Tianya(天涯), Mop(猫扑), Xici(西祠胡同), KDNet(凯迪)—are long gone. Tieba’s still here. Somehow, it’s a miracle. Its 22-year journey is a time capsule of the Chinese internet. It remains one of the last true homes for user-generated content, still standing on its own terms—with depth, breadth, and sincerity that’s hard to find elsewhere.

And now, Tieba’s getting a second wind. Word is, in 2025, Baidu’s once again putting it back in the spotlight. They’re planning to unarchive all posts from before January 1, 2017—restoring that raw, freewheeling vibe the old bros remember. They’re even exploring ways to bring in AI to help new users tap into that old-school jianghu spirit.

A real community needs room for freedom and weirdness. That’s how it draws in the brilliant minds. And if you can hold on to those people, the quality follows. As long as Tieba keeps its old bros, it won’t fade into the background.

The good news? The jianghu still breathes. The old bro spirit is alive and well. On July 24, 2024, a user posted in the Sun Xiaochuan Bar (“孙笑川吧”): “Today’s my 30th birthday.” He said he couldn’t sleep—laying in bed, thinking about his life so far. Wondering what everyone else was up to. That single post resonated with thousands. Over 30,000 replies stacked nearly 400 pages. And even now, people are still chiming in with a simple message: “Wishing you happiness, old bro.”

And maybe that’s why Tieba still hasn’t disappeared. At its core, it’s still real. Still warm. That rare, genuine feeling—that sense of people just being people—hasn’t changed in over two decades. And honestly? You’d be hard-pressed to find that anywhere else.

That raw, grassroots DNA might just be the rarest thing left on today’s internet—and it’s what keeps Tieba quietly, stubbornly alive.

Just to refresh everyone's memory, let's briefly recap what I covered last time.

Understanding the latest shifts in China's social classes and their impact on current governance could be of great help in gaining more detailed insights into this country. That's why I picked the article on this particular issue for you, and given the depth and length of the article, we've split the translation into two parts for your reading convenience and only shared the first five features in the last newsletter, leaving the remainder features for this newsletter.

Highlights of the newsletter last time:

1. Deeper integration of the blue and white collars in the expanding working class with their internal differentiation more pronounced

2. Further segmentation of traditional peasantry with the decline of agricultural laborers and the rise of professional farmers

3. Strengthened role of intellectuals in shaping the social cultural-ethical ethos in an era where higher education reaches more people

4. Growth slowdown of migrant workers due to policy adjustments and economic landscapes

5. Steep rise of individual laborers against the backdrop of rapid development of online platforms

The piece was originally published in 行政论坛 Administrative Tribune, Issue 4, 2024, under the title "现阶段中国阶层格局变化的十大新特点 Ten New Characteristics of Changes in China's Social Class Structure at the Present Stage." Administrative Tribune, first published in 1994 and formerly known as Management and Teaching, is a comprehensive academic journal overseen and published by 黑龙江省行政学院 Heilongjiang Academy of Governance (中共黑龙江省委党校 Party School of Heilongjiang Provincial Committee of CPC)

The article, co-authored by 朱光磊 Prof. Zhu Guanglei, director of the United Research Center of Chinese Government Development at Nankai University, and 韩林秀 Dr. Han Linxiu, a research assistant with the same center, provides an in-depth analysis of the ten new characteristics of the social classes in contemporary China and offers a comprehensive view of the complex shifts in social mobility.

Zhu Guanglei, director of the United Research Center of Chinese Government Development at Nankai University

In this edition, we cover the latter half of the ten characteristics.

Highlights:

1. The non-public sector is on the rise, with private entrepreneurs and enterprises growing in number and getting increasingly socialized.

2. The stratum of flexible workers continues to expand, placing new pressures on traditional employment forms, government's public services, as well as social governance and regulation.

3. Civil servants in China, with more regulated income structures and increasingly demanding work responsibilities, still have the potential to grow as more Chinese seek stability over uncertainty.

4. Social mobility in China remains relatively fluid, with no rigid social stratification taking hold, and education still plays a vital though insufficient role in facilitating upward mobility.

5. Relations between social strata are overall harmonious, with cooperation and progress being the main focus, but radical ideas or overgeneralization of a few negative cases should be alerted and further avoided.

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▍公有制经济与非公有制经济融合发展，私营企业主阶层的数量有所增长，并且社会化发展特征明显。

There is integration between the public and non-public sector, with private entrepreneurs growing in number and displaying clear signs of socialization.

In China, various economic forms are closely intertwined. China will unswervingly consolidate and develop the public sector and unswervingly encourage, support, and guide the development of the non-public sector, and strive to develop the non-public sector while promoting economic development. With such policy support, coupled with deepening economic globalization and market-based development, private enterprises have maintained steady development, with an increase in investors. Private enterprises are an essential part of the non-public sector. As of September 2023, the number of registered private enterprises nationwide had exceeded 52 million, accounting for 92.3 percent of the total enterprises registered in China. Judging by this figure, the number of private entrepreneurs was around 80 million.

In 2018, while presiding over a symposium on private enterprises, Xi Jinping, general secretary of the CPC Central Committee, stressed the important role the private sector plays in the Chinese economy, saying the sector contributes more than 50 percent of tax revenue, 60 percent of gross domestic product, 70 percent of technological innovation, 80 percent of urban employment and 90 percent of new jobs and new firms. In terms of foreign trade, private enterprises now contribute more than half of the total volume, responsible for 54.3 percent in the first half of 2024. They also play a significant role in technological research and development and external exchanges, especially in people-to-people exchanges with the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region (SAR), the Macao SAR and the Taiwan region, as well as international economic exchanges.

Despite the vigorous development of the private sector, private enterprises are generally small in scale, mainly in low-tech, light-capital sectors without much research and development. Wholesale and retail businesses make up nearly 6.3 percent. By the end of 2022, China had only 349,000 private industrial enterprises above the designated size, primarily in the light industries such as apparel, toy manufacturing, and agricultural and sideline food processing, as well as in bulk consumer goods industries with low technological input, such as ceramics and cement production. Of them, traditional family businesses have a strong presence, and most business owners are not very "rich."

Another noticeable trend in private enterprises is that they are getting socialized at an accelerating pace. First, China's private sector emerged amid a worldwide trend towards a joint-stock system. As their enterprises expand and to reduce investment and operational risks, the joint-stock system becomes a proactive choice for private entrepreneurs. From the outset of registration, businesses are faced with the prospect of having multiple partners, given the increasingly higher threshold for registration, including growing registered capital amounts. From the perspective of ownership, a private enterprise is no longer the private property of an individual as it was in the past.

Second, a significant portion of the enterprise's funds is used to purchase factory buildings and production equipment, most derived from social loans. These funds, as fixed assets, are utilized collectively by a broad workforce rather than being kept in monetary form by the individual business owner. Third, unlike Western capitalists, private entrepreneurs in China are not rentiers completely detached from production and business operations; they remain a combination of capital and managerial labor. Fourth, China's private enterprises are intertwined with public sector economic organizations in socialist modernization and specific business activities. Within the framework of a mature socialist system, they regulate each other and learn from one another in building a socialist market economy, forming a healthy relationship that involves both competition and cooperation. As the mixed economy and socialization of enterprises continue to evolve, the concepts of "private enterprise" and "private entrepreneur" may gradually be replaced by "non-public enterprise" and "non-public entrepreneur."

▍灵活就业者群体已经发展成为一个阶层，且规模庞大，对传统的劳动方式和政府的公共服务、社会管理和相关监管工作形成了新的压力

Flexible workers have evolved into a large social stratum, placing new pressures on traditional employment forms, as well as on the government's public services, social governance, and regulation.

Flexible workers, distinct from the mainstream factory-based employment model, enjoy significant autonomy in labor relations, working hours, income methods, work settings, and benefits. In China, where the population is vast and resources are limited, the longstanding shortage of conventional jobs—further propelled by internet technology and the pandemic—has led to the rise of a flexible workforce characterized by informal employment, flexible working hours, and independent work arrangements.

Individual laborers, freelancers, migrant workers in irregular employment, and domestic helpers such as nannies represent traditional flexible workers. The development of the internet, digital platforms, and mobile communication technology, in alignment with the absorption by digital economy enterprises, has given rise to a new workforce of flexible jobs. They, along with part-time workers, collectively constitute the stratum of flexible workers in a narrow sense. Narrowly speaking, flexible workers primarily include new forms of employment such as ride-hailing drivers, delivery personnel, online talent show livestreamers, online tutors, and tourism guides. They are characterized by flexible employment methods, a scattered group structure, and rapid turnover. Together with traditional flexible workers, they form flexible workers in a broad sense.

As an emerging social stratum, flexible workers usually engage in the circulation, exchange, and delivery of commodities, as well as consumer sectors including cultural training and everyday services. The use of the internet has provided a variety of jobs for workers from different backgrounds, who engage in diverse fields and earn varying incomes. Their work can be done in both groups and individually or on a both long-term and temporary basis. They do not produce goods directly, but deliver and sell them via internet platforms. Those goods now even include culture and art. So they also promote and sell an abundant supply of literary and artistic works on those platforms.

Due to the nature of flexible employment, where specialized job training is not required, most flexible workers do not have an advantage in terms of educational background, skill level, or professional competence, and their income levels are not high. Currently, they are predominantly concentrated in low-end operation and simple service industries as simple laborers in a vulnerable position in social status, remuneration, and social security. At the same time, more well-educated individuals are joining, eyeing opportunities in industries like marketing, course tutoring, and culture introduction. This has also brought some problems, though. Owing to the openness of these industries, private capital intervenes in the choices of social members, leading to common phenomena such as hyping, induced consumption and big data-enabled price discrimination. These practices have had a significant impact on the ideological understanding of social members and public opinion trends.

The "flexibility" of employment conditions not only brings greater uncertainty to the career development of flexible workers but also poses new challenges to traditional labor protection and social welfare systems. The Report to the 20th CPC National Congress explicitly states the need to protect the rights and interests of those in flexible employment and new forms of employment. This indicates that the development scale of flexible employment and the living and working conditions, as well as the social management and security of the workers involved, have received the attention of the Party and the government. Relevant social issues will also be addressed in policy-making.

▍公务员阶层在政治行为方式、规模等方面充分保持稳定，考核方式更加科学，收入更加规范，工作也更加辛苦

Civil servants maintain great stability in political conduct and scale, with more scientific assessment methods, regulated income structures, and increasingly demanding work responsibilities.

According to the latest available data from the 2016 Annual Statistics Bulletin on Human Resources and Social Security Developments published by the Ministry of Human Resources and Social Security, China had 7.19 million civil servants at the end of 2016. Broadly speaking, civil servants should also include employees working in public service and within Party and mass organizations, trade unions, Communist youth leagues, women's federations, and related systems, bringing the total number of civil servants to over 19 million—approximately 1.4 percent of China's total population. These figures are relatively low compared to developed countries. And compared to employees in other industries of China, they do not earn a high salary. Since the 18th CPC National Congress in 2012, under the eight-point decision on improving Party and government conduct and the strict anti-corruption measures, civil servant salaries have become more standardized, and gray income has been effectively curbed.

At present, civil servants are a social stratum with the stablest income and lifestyles as China deepens reform of the socialist market economy and given more uncertainties in international economy and natural factors. This explains why young people are choosing to pursue government jobs over private sector positions. And China needs more civil servants to deal with more public affairs that come with the acceleration of urbanization and the advancement of market-based reforms, and high-level, refined handling of public affairs to meet the needs of the public for better public services and social governance. These factors are likely to translate into an appropriate increase in the number of civil servants, and an improved civil servant structure across different levels and departments under the principle of "cutting the number of positions in central government departments while redistributing them in key areas" while building a digital government.

The civil service exam system was formally established in 1989, and a bachelor's degree has now become the basic requirement for most positions, reflecting an improvement in the overall quality of the workforce. Furthermore, civil servants are moving towards professionalism in recent years as civil service positions, especially those through provincial "Selected and Assigned Graduates" pathway (where governments select high-performing fresh graduates from top universities and assign them into government jobs with civil service titles), specify requirements for the degree and major of applicants. In a phase where modernization and post-modernization advance simultaneously, civil servants must exert considerable effort to manage extensive policy information and daily administrative tasks, and working overtime has become the norm. This stands in contrast to the stereotype that civil servants merely idle away their time in the office, as some claim. Civil servants, just like members of other social stratum, are hard-working laborers and builders of society. Under the leadership of the CPC, civil servants comprise a team dedicated to serving the people, and their fundamental, leading role in society is set to become increasingly prominent.

▍社会流动状况基本正常，并没有形成所谓的“阶层固化”

Social mobility is basically normal, without the so-called "social stratum solidification."

At the current stage, individuals can move from rural areas to cities and pursue their desired professions without policy restrictions. Education remains a robust catalyst for social mobility across different strata, though the widespread availability of education has reduced the marginal benefits of academic qualifications, leading to negative sentiments such as "the futility of studying" or "lying flat." But the fact is education still significantly contributes to enhancing the labor conditions, work environments, remuneration, access to public goods, and social welfare for individuals. As noted earlier, China faces a shortage of skilled blue-collar workers and high-quality white-collar workers. To qualify for related jobs, individuals must possess a certain level of educational attainment and receive specialized training. The importance of educational qualifications has evolved from being a "sufficient condition" to a "necessary condition" for employment.

New technologies, such as the internet, big data, and artificial intelligence, have spawned a plethora of new industries and jobs, imposing new demands on the competency of the labor force. These factors not only provide a consistent impetus for social stratification and mobility, but also afford a more diverse and expansive array of social options. Unreasonable phenomena encountered by members of society during the process of mobility will also exert pressure for the improvement of social policies, particularly by promoting the continuous integration and improvement of unbalanced and inadequate public services and social security resources.

The changing demographic structure in China, coupled with specialization in social division of labor, means there will be an increasing number of job positions with low educational but high skill requirements across various industries. The challenge of coordinating complex job demands with educational positioning remains an area that calls for further research, and it is crucial to optimize both the educational and labor systems. The key to institutional reform lies in breaking through the development ceiling for skilled professionals and establishing promotion channels for workers across different fields. It should be acknowledged that obstacles to long-distance social mobility still exist. China's economic development level remains insufficient to meet people's expectations for upward mobility, and far exceed the actual material gains brought about by its economic development. Additionally, the barriers created by vested interest groups cannot be overlooked.

Currently, there is a need for vigilance with respect to downward social mobility among certain individuals that may occur under the pressure of economic downturn. This is especially pertinent in the context of deepened reform where the market plays the decisive role in resource allocation. Confronted with a sluggish global economy, China is witnessing a shift where numerous individuals are forced to move from more privileged strata to the general laboring class. For example, it has become a frequent occurrence for private entrepreneurs to return to the ranks of ordinary employees. Psychologically, Chinese society has not yet fully prepared for "bidirectional mobility," and the effects of downward mobility caused by economic volatility are particular pronounced within the middle-income bracket, thereby exacerbating the spread of "social stratum solidification" narratives. Nevertheless, it is crucial to highlight that the potential for social mobility among members of Chinese society remains strong, and the avenues for advancement remain accessible. At all times, realizing personal ambitions without robust skills and capabilities is impossible.

▍阶层关系的总体情况正常，合作与进步是主基调，但要提防破坏阶层和谐的人为性因素发生泛滥

Relations between social strata are overall healthy, with cooperation and progress being the main focus, but we must guard against the spread of human factors that might undermine the harmony between social strata.

Over a long period, people from various social strata and sectors have supported and integrated with each other in solidarity, creating a favorable domestic environment for the cause of socialist construction. However, three extreme public opinion trends warrant attention. The first is some try to squeeze private entrepreneurs out under the guise of "socialism." Private enterprises have emerged and developed under the support of the Party, with the policies of reform and opening-up and those aimed at enriching the people and strengthening the nation. They are also unique in encompassing a multitude of elements such as mixed economy model and corporation economy, each with its unique characteristics. The Party and the government have repeatedly emphasized that private enterprises "belong to our own family." The point is various types of private enterprises are an important component of China's basic economic system which sees public ownership play a dominant role with diverse forms of ownership developing side by side, equal participants in the socialist market economy system, and important forces that need to be united in the construction of the primary stage of socialism.

The second trend is that influenced by populism, some individuals often use harsh language to criticize the remarks of "experts," defaming professional technical personnel. Misrepresentations and misinformation are common, and such inappropriate forms of discourse neither represent an attitude towards research and problem-solving nor show respect for knowledge. These actions stir up internal conflict and damage the enthusiasm of professional technical personnel. Currently, experts in various fields mainly work in universities, hospitals, and scientific research institutes. They are those who create and spread knowledge and who even identify significant social issues and provide policy recommendations. They not just undertake research tasks required for national development, but also a significant amount of government research and public service work. Excessive attacks on them are a resurgence of the "futility of studying" fallacy and a social manifestation of an "anti-intellectual" tendency, with some comments even escalating into personal attacks and disruption of public order.

The third trend involves defaming the entire civil service stratum on the ground of the corruption of a few individuals. The vast majority of China's civil servants uphold the principle of "serving the people" and are the backbone of public services and social governance. The slander and verbal attacks against the civil service group are a mistake of targeting an entire social stratum because of the illegal actions of a few. This phenomenon is detrimental to unity among various social strata and can be exploited by those with ulterior motives, potentially leading to a shock to public order.

As reform deepens and new economic forms develop, China's social stratum structure is becoming increasingly complex, necessitating a clear understanding of the development status of each stratum, the relationships between strata, and the relationships between different strata and the government, areas where current research is insufficient. In the new development stage, social stratification and mobility continue, and China should stick to the development philosophy of "trading time for space." "Avoiding unnecessary trouble" is the basic principle for maintaining harmonious relations among social strata. History and the practices of various countries have proven that an inclusive, open social environment and political system have greater developmental advantages. Given the fact that various social strata have overlapping interests and in the face of a complex international landscape, the Party and the government must take proactive measures to manage the relationships between the civil servants, professional technical personnel and other strata, between low-income and high-income groups, between laborers and managers, private capital, and between blue-collar workers and white-collar workers.

The fundamental cause of conflicts between strata is the scarcity of per capita resources. To address the problem, it is essential to firmly grasp the general requirement of modernization, deepen income distribution reform, and balance other differences through economic development; adhere to reform and opening-up, promote communication and exchange among social members, foster cooperation through communication, and resolve differences through exchange; coordinate the relationship between free speech and precise discourse to prevent the spread of adverse public opinion; accelerate urbanization and promote balanced allocation of public resources. Members of all strata should be guided to leverage their enthusiasm and strengths to jointly promote social construction. Social members should not only enhance their professional skills but also improve their ability to discern right from wrong, especially by enhancing their social science literacy to develop a scientific and accurate understanding of China's current development stage. Enditem

In recent years, a multitude of new economic and social organizations have emerged and grown rapidly. Particularly, new business forms represented by the platform economy have thrived, attracting a large number of new employment groups primarily engaged in flexible jobs, such as couriers, food delivery workers, rideshare drivers, and truck drivers. These groups are relatively mobile and flexible, making them the most active participants in economic and social development.

A 2023 survey on the national workforce revealed that 84 million people are now employed in new forms of work across China. In light of this, it’s unsurprising that a central conference on social work was recently held in Beijing from Nov. 5 to 6, and Xi Jinping's instruction was read out at the conference. In his message, Xi emphasized that social work is a crucial component of the Party and state's operations. He noted that "当前我国社会结构正在发生深刻变化 China's social structure is undergoing profound transformations."

Xi stresses high-quality development of social work -- Xinhua

当前我国社会结构正在发生深刻变化，尤其是新兴领域迅速发展，新经济组织、新社会组织大量涌现，新就业群体规模持续扩大，社会工作面临新形势新任务，必须展现新担当新作为。

Currently, China's social structure is undergoing profound transformations, notably with rapid advancements in emerging sectors. A large number of new economic and social entities are emerging, the demographic of groups in new forms of employment is expanding continuously, and as a result, social work is confronting fresh challenges and tasks, requiring relevant departments to shoulder new responsibilities and make new progress in this regard.

Cai Qi, a member of the Standing Committee of the Political Bureau of the Communist Party of China (CPC) Central Committee and a member of the Secretariat of the CPC Central Committee, attended the conference and delivered a speech. He stressed the necessity to reinforce Party building in emerging sectors as the top priority.

要把加强新兴领域党的建设作为重中之重，加强统筹协调，坚持分类指导，突出抓好新经济组织、新社会组织、新就业群体党建工作，推进党的组织覆盖和工作覆盖，促进新兴领域健康发展。

Cai stressed the necessity to reinforce Party building in emerging sectors as the top priority, strengthen coordination, and offer sector-specific guidance, with focused efforts on Party building among new economic organizations, new social organizations, and groups in new forms of employment, so as to expand the reach of Party's organization and the scope of its work, and promote the healthy development of emerging sectors.

The analysis of social stratum has long been one of the most pivotal issues in the research of Chinese society. As early as 1921, before the founding of the People’s Republic of China, Mao Zedong published his famous article 《中国社会各阶级的分析》Analysis of the Classes in Chinese Society, in which he divided Chinese society into five main classes: 地主阶级和买办阶级 the landlord and comprador classes, 民族资产阶级 the national bourgeoisie, 小资产阶级 the petty bourgeoisie, 半无产阶级 the semi-proletariat, and 无产阶级 the proletariat.

Focusing on the propositions within the CPC at that time, Mao stated clearly in his article, "谁是我们的敌人？谁是我们的朋友？这个问题是革命的首要问题。Who are our enemies? Who are our friends? This is a question of the first importance for the revolution."

After the establishment of the People's Republic of China, Chinese scholars pursued various approaches to continue exploring this issue. A significant contribution was 《当代中国社会阶层研究报告》The Report on Contemporary Chinese Social Stratum Studies edited by 陆学艺 Lu Xueyi, a prominent sociologist and rural expert with the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences.

The research team led by Lu Xueyi proposed a theoretical framework for understanding the stratification of contemporary Chinese society. This framework is based on occupational classifications and divides society according to the possession of organizational, economic, and cultural resources.

According to this framework, contemporary Chinese social structure is categorized into ten major strata: 国家与社会管理者 state and social managers, 经理人员 managerial staff, 私营企业主 private enterprise owners, 专业技术人员 professional and technical personnel, 办事人员 clerical staff, 个体工商户 individual business proprietors, 商业服务业员工 commercial service employees, 产业工人 industrial workers, 农业劳动者 agricultural laborers, and 城乡无业、失业、半失业者阶层 the unemployed or underemployed in both urban and rural areas.

In today’s newsletter, I’d like to share a fresh analysis of shifts in China’s social classes and their impact on governance. While the article leans toward an academic perspective, I found it highly relevant to the recent central conference on social work.

The piece was originally published in 行政论坛 Administrative Tribune, Issue 4, 2024, under the title "现阶段中国阶层格局变化的十大新特点 Ten New Characteristics Featuring Changes in China's Current Social Stratum Landscape." Administrative Tribune, first published in 1994 and formerly known as Management and Teaching, is a comprehensive academic journal overseen and published by 黑龙江省行政学院 Heilongjiang Academy of Governance (中共黑龙江省委党校 Party School of Heilongjiang Provincial Committee of CPC).

The article, co-authored by 朱光磊 Prof. Zhu Guanglei, director of the United Research Center of Chinese Government Development at Nankai University, and 韩林秀 Dr. Han Linxiu, research assistant with the same center, provides an in-depth analysis of the ten new characteristics of the social classes in contemporary China and offers a comprehensive view of the complex shifts in social mobility.

Given the depth and length of the article, we've split the translation into two parts for your reading convenience. In this edition, we cover the first five characteristics, with the remaining five to be featured in the next issue.

Highlights of today's piece:

1. Deeper integration of the blue and white collars in the expanding working class with their internal differentiation more pronounced

2. Further segmentation of traditional peasantry with the decline of agricultural laborers and the rise of professional farmers

3. Strengthened role of intellectuals in shaping the social cultural-ethical ethos in an era where higher education reaches more people

4. Growth slowdown of migrant workers due to policy adjustments and economic landscapes

5. Steep rise of individual laborers against the backdrop of rapid development of online platforms

Note: I’ll be posting the second half of the original article on GRR’s sister newsletter, Beijing Scroll. Occasionally, when I’m particularly busy, my friends or colleagues volunteer to help manage that account, which eases some of my workload.

The second half will look into new changes that have occurred to 私营企业主阶层 private entrepreneurs, 灵活就业者群体 flexible workers, and 公务员阶层 civil servants, as well as the consequent challenges brought up by these changes. Broader issues of widespread concern such as the macro status quo and general trend of the social stratum and mobility will also be covered.

[Introduction] In the past more than three decades, China has witnessed ultra-high-speed economic growth. Now, as that era draws to a close, the social development expectations that had formed are shifting, leading to increased anxieties, notably regarding "social stratification." So what is the actual situation about the demographic structure across different groups in China? How does it compare to the public's perceptions? This article, based on national statistics around 2023, encapsulates 10 characteristics of changes in China’s social stratum pattern, offering insights for individual perception and policy guidance.

The article highlights that the "working class," whether in a broad or narrow sense, has become the largest group in China. The number of traditional manual laborers is on the decline, while high-tech blue-collar workers and white-collar workers, who rely on communication and internet tools, are becoming more dominant. Workplaces call for professionals with stronger educational backgrounds and skills. The rural population continues to fall, with more traditional "farmers" replaced by a new type of agricultural workers. Meanwhile, the number of self-employed individuals, those in flexible employment, and private business owners is growing, calling for better public services in social security and career support. The migrant worker population has stabilized, yet there is still a way to go for their full "urbanization." The intellectual stratum comprises more professional skilled workers, different from the stratum of scholars and intellectuals in a traditional sense, still spearheading the development of social cultural-ethical ethos. Amid a greater demand for social and public services, the number of civil servants has seen modest growth, with a more optimized structure, as China cuts positions in central government departments and redistributes them to key areas, leveraging digital technologies.

The authors emphasize that education remains the most significant factor influencing social mobility in China. However, academic qualifications are increasingly becoming a necessary rather than sufficient condition for upward movement. Additionally, greater population mobility is driving changes in policies that are now unfavorable for such mobility. As for anxiety fueled by public opinion, the authors underscore that the insufficiency of resources per capita is a main cause of the current conflicts between different social strata, urging sound and stable policies to create an open and inclusive social environment that fosters cooperation and progress among all strata and groups.

Ten New Characteristics Featuring Changes in China's Current Social Stratum Landscape

The dynamics of China's social stratum structure represent the most fundamental and profound changes in its current society, shaping the direction of social development and public policy. Following massive social stratification and stratum reorganization in the late 20th century, social mobility has gradually stabilized and become more orderly. In this new phase, reform and opening-up continue to drive changes, while the new technological and industrial revolutions bring fresh momentum to stratification. Forces such as the private sector are also playing a unique role. On the whole, the movement of population in China is still full of vitality, as the shift in its social structure aligns with international developments.

As China ushers in a new stage of development, deeper internal reforms and broader external opening-up will inevitably bring a wider range of social groups into the new development wave. Under the combined influence of multiple factors, China's social stratum structure is more complicated than in the early stage of reform on the socialist market economy, exhibiting new characteristics.

The scale of the working class is expanding steadily. The number of white-collar workers increases continuously, and the integration between blue-collar and white-collar workers is improving, though internal differences are becoming more pronounced

In China, the term "working class" is traditionally used to analyze the political foundation of people’s power. As a basic concept reflecting the composition of social members, the working class covers a wide range of social members, including the working class in a narrow sense, civil servants, and professional skilled personnel; to some extent, military personnel and workers retiring from public service jobs can also be included in the working class.

At present, the working class in a narrow sense alone, that is, blue-collar and white-collar workers, has exceeded 400 million people. In fact, the working class, both in a broad and narrow sense, has become the largest, most influential, and widest-ranging group in China.

Here we focus on the working class in a narrow sense. The number of white-collar workers is rising, yet blue-collar workers still outnumber white-collar workers at a ratio of two to one. However, in the most developed metropolitan areas, such as Beijing, Shanghai, and Shenzhen, the proportion of white-collar workers is higher. Overall, there is a trend towards integration between blue-collar and white-collar workers, albeit with some minor differences.

Such integration comes as the popularization of knowledge and widespread application of mechanization and electrification has led to a significant improvement in the qualities of blue-collar workers, considerably narrowing their gap with white-collar workers in terms of working conditions, salaries, and labor security, among others. Currently, the differences between blue-collar workers and white-collar workers are mainly reflected in salary level and access to public services between manual labor-focused blue-collar workers and creative-task-oriented white-collar workers.

The scope of blue-collar workers has expanded from physical workers, or traditional blue-collar workers, to include skilled workers. Physical workers finish their work with their physical power and simple tools. Manual labor often occurs in physically demanding, high-risk, and low-benefit links, including handling, loading/unloading, installation, and assembly mainly required in sectors such as engineering, construction, mining and metallurgy, garment manufacturing, and warehouse management and inventory control. These physical workers are mostly migrant workers with low levels of education. Now with the application of new technologies, including intelligent manufacturing and automation technologies, coupled with the popularization of vocational education and higher education, the number of these workers is shrinking while that of skilled workers is increasing.

Skilled workers, different from handicraft workers, craftsmen and artisans in history, undertake high-precision, high-efficiency, and high-level finish machining and product assembly mainly by operating machines proficiently. Their skills offer them greater access to stable jobs. In addition, they possess an obvious advantage over physical workers in working conditions and labor protection because they work in cleaner workshops thanks to the introduction of highly automated equipment such as digital and intelligent machines. Since the 1990s, the master-apprentice system has been gradually replaced by vocational and technical schools that have cultivated large numbers of high-quality skilled workers, and accordingly, skill level assessment standards have become more science-based and fairer. Skilled workers are essential for high-quality development of China’s industry system. According to data from The Ninth Survey of Chinese Workers, the number of workers engaging in skilled labor in China had surpassed 200 million by the end of 2021, accounting for more than 25 percent of the total employed population. Among them, workers without recognized skill level made up 74.5 percent of the total, while skilled workers recognized as senior workers and above represented only 5.4 percent. The gap reveals the fact that China lacks a sufficient team of skilled workers, especially high-quality workers.

White-collar workers consist of skilled white-collar workers and mental white-collar workers, both working in clean and suitable offices. The difference lies in their work pattern. Unlike mental white-collar workers undertaking creative tasks, skilled white-collar workers are usually not required to have independent thinking and their job even suppresses individual thinking. They just need carry out the tasks assigned by their manager or even do things per standard procedures, by finishing text or charts and communicating easy information via computers, the internet, and phones. By job nature, they are nothing different from skilled blue-collar workers operating machine buttons at factories, except that they rely on computers, the internet, and phones to work. For this reason, they earn about the same amount as skilled blue-collar workers, and even less than senior skilled blue-collar workers. Today fresh university graduates and most staff without a recognized rank belong to this social stratum. In an era where computers and the internet are prevalent, dedicated on-the-job training and years of education are no longer required of skilled white-collar workers, an underlying reason why highly educated employees are not satisfied with their work. And due to the fact that they can work anywhere, working overtime has become a defining feature of this group. The numerous similarities, from working conditions to salaries, are blurring the boundaries between skilled white-collar workers and skilled blue-collar workers, with more workers falling in between. This will contribute to "blue-white" integration and the emergence of middle-income groups. Compared with developed countries that have achieved modernization, China still lags behind in both the number of white-collar workers and skilled blue-collar workers and their share in the working population. There remains a certain level of social disconnect between blue-collar workers, especially manual workers, and white-collar workers. Their potential misperceptions of each other could hinder social cohesion and the high-quality development of China's industries.

Traditional peasantry is undergoing further segmentation, with the number of agricultural laborers continuing to decline. A new stratum of agricultural workers, dominated by professional farmers, is emerging.

In a broad sense, China's rural population consist of three overlapping layers: agricultural laborers, rural residents, and those with rural household registration (hukou). By 2022, these groups accounted for 177 million, 491 million, and 673 million people, respectively. The proportion of laborers engaging in the primary industry dropped dramatically from 70.5 percent in 1978 to 24.1 percent in 2022, yet still stands at a high level compared with European countries, the United States, Japan and other developed countries where the figure is below 10 percent. Restricted by the land area per capita and farming conditions, most arable lands are poorly mechanized. The shift towards large-scale and mechanized farming practices is serving as a catalyst for the further segmentation and evolution of the traditional farmer population. In the meantime, urbanization, which offers more jobs, higher salaries, and better living conditions, is pulling farmers towards a shift to urban workers. Between these push-and-pull dynamics, the number of traditional agricultural workers is shrinking by almost 10 million annually. Earlier social problems such as rural population "hollowing out" brought about by the movement of population will be gradually resolved through high-level development of population mobility. On the one hand, urban workers will move their families from the countryside to the city once they settle down. On the other hand, amid an increase in the rural population choosing to work or do business in urban areas and city development, some rural areas are becoming towns, offering affordable pathways for migration.

As the rural hukou population and rural residents continue to decline, the scale of agricultural laborers is stabilizing. At the same time, a new social stratum of agricultural laborers (the peasantry in a narrow sense) dominated by professional farmers is forming. New agricultural laborers turn agricultural labor into a profession, breaking away from the traditional "peasant" identity.

Unlike the past, these new agricultural laborers are not necessarily born in the countryside or into farming families. Urban residents moving to rural areas to engage in modern farming practices is already happening. In line with patterns seen in developed countries, these new agricultural laborers operate large portions of arable area per capita, promoting mechanization. Additionally, they possess technology, understand management principles, and are adept at business operations, fostering a stronger alignment with market demands. With the reform of the hukou system in place, rural living conditions, public services, and social security levels will improve. One thing worth noting, though, is that China's urbanization has slowed down and the number of farmers has fallen at a slower pace as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic and a sluggish global economy. In 2022, agricultural laborers in China increased approximately 6 million compared to 2021, marking the first such rise in nearly 20 years. Currently, a new round of initiatives is being implemented to facilitate the urbanization of rural migrants. Supported by these policies, the number of agricultural workers and rural residents is expected to further shrink as population mobility reaches higher levels.

Intellectuals remain a pioneer in shaping the social cultural-ethical ethos and are playing an increasingly important role in guiding areas such as production, circulation, social governance, and public services.

In a broad sense, intellectuals include professional technical personnel (or intellectuals in a narrow sense), civil servants, and white-collar workers who have received university education and above and working in businesses. Broadly speaking, white-collar workers consist of those working in businesses (or white-collar workers in a narrow sense), professional technical personnel, and civil servants. The two groups overlap in source, educational background, and occupation, each having a core. In a working environment where theory and practice are fully combined, it is indeed very difficult to differentiate between them. Currently, the number of people who have received higher education (including junior college) is roughly equal to the number of intellectuals in a broad sense. According to data from the seventh national census conducted in 2020, 217 million people hold a junior college degree and above in China, accounting for 14.4 percent of the total population; this proportion was more than 20 times higher than the figure, or merely 0.7 percent, during the third national census in 1982. The huge increase demonstrated the development of China's education in more than four decades, during which illiteracy rate dropped to 2.67 percent and the retention rate of nine-year compulsory education reached 95.7 percent. This contrasted with the situation in the early stage of China's reform and opening-up, where most people were poorly educated. Higher education levels are pushing state life and public administration affairs to higher levels. Given the significant increase in the number of intellectuals in a broad sense, the term "intellectuals" alone would be no longer suitable as a benchmark concept for social stratum analysis. The concept of "intellectuals" in the ordinary sense of the word is in fact being marginalized, losing its ease of use.

In a narrower sense, intellectuals refer to social members engaged in the innovation and development of knowledge in philosophy and social science, natural science and technology, medicine and life, literature and art, and other fields relating to cultural progress. These intellectuals are committed to developing and creating new knowledge. They rely on platforms like schools, hospitals, and scientific research institutes to undertake cultural and professional technical tasks. They master scientific and cultural knowledge in a complete and systematic way, possessing outstanding depth in profession or technology. They are not what we called "literati" or "scholars" in the past. The term "professional technical personnel" might better describe this group. The Report to the 20th National Congress of the Communist Party of China (CPC) emphasized that "Chinese modernization is the modernization of material and cultural-ethical advancement." Driven by science and technology, China has made remarkable progress in material advancement. At the same time, the whole society should emphasize cultural-ethical pursuit and social cultural-ethical ethos. This suits the needs of high-quality population development calling for higher levels of cultural-ethical trends, social administration and public services. Professional technical personnel can leverage their strengths to provide an abundance of superb cultural-ethical nourishment for social members and all sorts of organizations while educating the latter on correct scientific laws. In an era where higher education reaches more people, professional technical personnel play an active role in infiltrating the public into ideological and cultural building. These high-quality talents across various sectors indirectly influence the qualities of workers. For instance, a growing number of private-sector professionals now receive systematic training through higher education or professional degree programs, which exposes them to positive ideology, social cognition, and conduct, as well as a broader range of professional information both at home and abroad.

The migrant worker class is witnessing a slight slowdown in growth, in terms of both absolute numbers and the rate of growth, due to changes in the domestic and international economic landscapes, relevant policies, and other factors

Today the concept "township enterprise employees" has basically disappeared from academic research and policy making sectors. A generally accepted view is that migrant workers can be classified into local migrant workers (those who work in their own localities) and outgoing migrant workers (those who leave their hometowns and work in other places). The distribution of migrant workers is largely stable, with the latter category slightly outnumbering the former. Data from the migrant workers monitoring survey reports released by the National Bureau of Statistics over these years showed that China had 291 million migrant workers in 2019. Of them, 117 million were employed in their own province, while 174 million travelled outside their hometown for work. In 2020, following the outbreak of the pandemic, the total number of migrant workers in China decreased for the first time in history, standing at 286 million. By 2023, the figure reached a record high at 298 million, up 0.6 percent from 2022. That included 121 million local migrant workers and 177 million outgoing migrant workers. However, the rate of growth has declined. The number of migrant workers travelling outside their own province for work fell from 76.75 million in 2017 to 67.51 million in 2023. In the meanwhile, inter-provincial movement of working population has slowed down and even dropped, a trend worth attention. Alongside the temporary impact of the pandemic, government policies have played a big role in controlling the growth in migrant workers. On one hand, the negative impact of stubborn restrictions imposed by China's hukou system, such as unbalanced allocation of public services and resources, is becoming evident, and the cost of working outside is rising. On the other hand, provincial and local governments are introducing favorable employment policies to retain workforce within their regions with the aim of boosting development and urbanization.

Given the evolving economic and demographic landscape, the migrant labor population is unlikely to see significant growth in the future. For one thing, there is a smaller supply of migrant workers as the rural population is on the decline caused by two factors. First, population growth in China has turned negative and there is a declining population of childbearing age in "hollowed out" rural areas; second, the number of farmers across the three layers has shrunk in recent years. For another, policies are turning migrant workers into urban population at a pace that will surpass the growth rate of migrant workers. Nevertheless, the large population base in the countryside versus limited public resources in cities means that migrant workers will not fully get urbanized in a short period of time. Instead, the number of migrant workers will hit a growth plateau.

Migrant workers are increasingly becoming a transitional social class. First, 13.7 percent of the country's migrant workers are those with a junior college degree or above, many being fresh graduates who hold a rural hukou. They have more chances to secure stable jobs in cities, thus moving from the countryside to cities geographically and leaping from agriculture to industry and service sectors in employment form. Second, rural hukou holders are beginning to integrate well into urban life. At present, rural hukou holders outnumber rural permanent residents by 182 million. It is noteworthy that 128 million migrant workers lived in cities and towns by the end of 2023. In other words, these migrant workers have settled down in cities and towns. They are already an urban population in their employment and lifestyle, with their rural hukou being the last traces of their "rural identity." Third, since 2015, local migrant workers have contributed most to the increase in the number of China’s migrant workers. In fact, the real figure for local migrant workers might be greater than the statistics as the rural population often works part-time. Moreover, urbanization will turn more rural areas into cities and towns, and as a result, it would be inappropriate to still call rural residents farmers judging by their employment and lifestyle. By joining the workforce of migrant workers, rural agricultural laborers first become workers and then turn into "urban residents" in a different living environment, moving up the social stratum. We must refrain from employing the notion of "agricultural industrialization" as a veil to conceal the fact that a significant portion of the rural population has already shifted to the secondary and tertiary sectors.

The number of individual laborers has seen a dramatic increase in recent years, with the majority relying on online platforms for their employment

Individual laborers, among the first to develop and regain development vitality following China's reform and opening-up, have long played a "grassroots" role in the socio-economic landscape, meeting the employment and daily needs of urban and rural residents. Around 2000, the number of individual laborers slumped to 45.87 million due to factors such as the development of chain supermarkets and urban beautification campaigns. It is only in recent years that the number of individually owned businesses and relevant workers has increased again thanks to the rise of online shopping and improved management. Latest data from the State Administration for Market Regulation suggests that a total of 124 million individually owned businesses had been registered in China by the end of 2023, accounting for more than two-thirds (67.4 percent) of business entities nationwide. These businesses provided employment for nearly 300 million people in China. Such an enormous size points to the fact that the level of China's productive forces and its socialist market economy is still not high and relevant social systems and mechanisms still lag behind. Individually owned businesses, characterized by small capital requirements and diverse employment forms, have expanded job opportunities, particularly for low-skilled workers (such as women above 40 and men above 50), allowing them to increase household income through self-employment while reducing the government's public service and social welfare burden. These businesses serve as the foundation of the urban-rural employment structure, supporting livelihoods and promoting social interaction.

Individual laborers, first and foremost, are workers combining labor with means of production. Today's individually owned businesses are similar to those operating shops in the 20th century in that they still rely on family members as the foundation of cooperation. But there are also some differences. In the new development stage, individually owned businesses operate mainly through network services and mobile shopping. Unemployed population, housewives and migrant workers are the main force in the group, many being part-timers. Their income is moving to the ordinary level from a high in the late 20th century. Although web stores allow them to attract a broader range of customers and therefore earn more, most struggle to earn high incomes and are even low-income groups in cities. At present, the majority of newly-added individually owned businesses choose online shopping platforms and few operate physical stores. This trend stems from two main factors: the continuing impact of chain supermarkets and municipal regulations, and the low-cost, easily approved nature of online platforms, which eliminate concerns over storefront maintenance and utility expenses. Furthermore, backed by internet and communication technologies, individual workers today are connected with commodity manufacturers more closely. Individually owned businesses selling different sorts of daily necessities are similar to a salesperson of the manufacturer, but they no longer need to hoard goods and worry about their quality. Individual workers also have more flexible working hours since customers place an order via their online store before the manufacturer sends out goods directly. Of course, the rise of online platforms reflects to some extent the insufficient development of physical stores in people's neighborhoods and relevant services. In a world dominated by the internet, it is important to consider how to guide individual laborers in providing close and direct services to meet the urgent and personalized needs of neighborhood members. In particular, how to plan the layout of service-oriented businesses within cities and improve services are areas that warrant in-depth investigation by both the academic community and government departments. [End of first half]

China's unprecedented urbanization over the past several decades stands as the largest in human history, unfolding at a remarkable pace. Recent reform resolutions emphasize the critical role of integrating urban and rural development in China’s path to modernization -- a top priority on the political agenda. Last month, this vision was further detailed in a State Council's five-year action plan focusing on a people-centered new urbanization strategy.

While stories of young Chinese professionals flocking to megacities are commonplace, the experiences of Chinese parents who move to these urban centers to be with their children present a unique narrative. According to the National Bureau of Statistics, China is poised to see 20 million retirees annually between 2022 and 2032. Many women, born in the 1960s and 1970s, are now entering retirement, and many of them choose to either relocate to cities where their children work or shuttle between their hometowns and these urban areas.

Today’s feature delves into the life of Amin, who, at 53, retired and moved to Shanghai to live with her daughter, Song'er. While Amin’s story may not represent all Chinese parents who migrate to big cities, it captures a generational narrative of adapting to rapid societal changes, managing relationships with differently minded family members, and rediscovering oneself. This theme was also touched upon in Robert Wu’s newsletter China Translated.

This also points to one of the key difficulties in understanding China that I talked about many times: because China’s modernization has happened so fast, too many very different generations are crammed into the space of less than a century. For example, my grandparents’ generation was born in a countryside whose cultural contours were not much different from the Qing Dynasty’s peasantry. my parents’ generation was born into Maoist poverty. My generation was arguably the nexus between the generations older and younger, and we sort-of have a taste of everything. We played video games as children, but witnessed the attitudes and ways of life of all previous generations. Now is when the 00s, who grew up smartphones and social media, came into adulthood. But the fact is, all of these very different generations co-exist under the same roof.

Originally titled "妈妈的悠长假期 Mom’s Long Vacation," the story was first published on the WeChat blog of “极昼工作室 The Midnight Sun Workshop” in July. To enhance readability, we have made thoughtful edits to the original, lengthy narrative.

Mom’s Long Vacation 妈妈的悠长假期

When she retired from a civil service job at a county (equivalents of districts within a Chinese city), Amin, 53, moved from Quanzhou, in southeastern China’s Fujian Province, to Shanghai, where her daughter Song’er works. Trying to adapt to a new life, she had many firsts: she auditioned for a clothing store model on the shopping app Taobao, worked at a school canteen, went to plays and talk shows, attended a concert of LiSA, and got hit on by an old guy. “Shanghai is not so great after all.” She shared with her friends back home.

Song’er likened her mother to a non-playable character (NPC) in video games, her life going like clockwork. Amin spent the past three decades working at a library back in Fujian. Her life was meticulously structured. The bathroom was forever clean. Meals were forever prepared. She was that NPC who did everything in some back corner unseen on videogame screens.

Amin is just one among many Chinese women born in the 1960s and 1970s entering the latter phrase of life in the biggest wave of retirement China has seen. Between 2022 and 2032, the number of Chinese retirees is expected to reach 20 million each year, according to the National Bureau of Statistics. Many female retirees, like Amin, choose to leave their hometown and live in the city where their children work.

Now living with her mother again, Song’er attentively reads Amin’s world. Below is an excerpt from her observations.

Two Shanghais

The day before leaving for Shanghai, my mom regretted that she could not pack her home and bring it there. In her luggage were things, from mung bean cakes and freshly cooked meals, to a rice cooker, an induction cooker, and even another pressure cooker. I couldn’t understand why. She had her reason, “I need them to be able to cook.”

My mom has her own way of cooking. She boils everything in water without condiments. If there is any color in the dishes, it must be the brown soy sauce. Even in Shanghai, she is still the one in charge in the kitchen. She insisted on her old and familiar cooking things. That included the pressure cooker, the bottom of which has turned a caramel yellow, after more than ten years. But she said it cooks quickly. Every time she returns from Quanzhou, she would bring along local specialties, like sweet potatoes, oysters, and razor clams, which she uses to make oyster omelets, staple food back home. She wants to carry her home to Shanghai.

At first, we lived in a dilapidated building in Yangpu. We rented an apartment with an attic, for a monthly rent of 3,700 yuan (about 516 U.S. dollars). The wooden stairs creaked with each step we took, and the wires at the corner were a haphazard heap. Our heads got bumped easily, even with our less-than-1.5-meters heights. I chose that apartment with an attic, because I wanted privacy, yet I still ended up roommates with my mom. She took the bed, while I made a makeshift one on the floor. The attic? We repurposed it into a storage room.

Every morning, mom just waited there, keeping an eye on me. As soon as I showed signs of leaving for work, she suddenly changed her attire, timing it perfectly to head downstairs together. Once outside, we went separate ways. I would hop onto my electric bike to the office, while she would take a shortcut to the outdoor food market, on a second-hand bike she bought after moving to Shanghai.

She used to be a librarian. She had short hair and always wore bright-colored clothes, like a red vest. She looked busy and indeed was so. She arranged magazines, coded them, and cleaned the floor. Now that she’s retired, she has been looking for a new routine to re-structure her life.

Song'er takes a picture of Amin, on her way to see a play for the first time in Shanghai. All photos credit to Song'er

Some modern facilities in Shanghai scare my mom. For example, she almost fell down on the escalator several times; she couldn’t scan a QR code on her mobile phone at the subway entrance, so I had to scan it for her from the other side of the ticket gate. After living in Shanghai for about three or four months, she began a job hunt. She downloaded common recruiting apps like Boss Zhipin, Jinri Toutiao, and 58.com. Wearing her reading glasses, she meticulously searched through the listings every single day. Many positions do not hire anyone over thirty-five, let alone over fifty. The only jobs she seems to qualify for are either a canteen worker or a cleaner.

One day, she found an agency seeking middle-aged and elderly part-time models for online shopping stores on Taobao. I accompanied her to a job interview at an office building in Wujiaochang. She put on a dress, applied a heavy layer of foundation, shaped her eyebrows and drew her eyeliners. She was much more alive and quite excited on the way there.

We got to a very small studio. Three or four applicants were already there, clearly high school or college students, with “not yet graduated” nearly written on their faces. When it was mom’s turn, a middle-aged man asked us who was applying. I pointed at mom. He gave a glance and let us in. The interviewer asked her to do a few photo shoots and send the pictures.

To take the photos, I let mom wear my clothes: a Hong-Kong-style leather jacket for summers, with black overalls. I was overcome by a peculiar sensation at that moment. It was as if she was not my mother, but just a woman I met somewhere. We chose to take photos among the bushes downstairs, spending a long time posing. In the end, we managed to get a lot of photos, and also a lot of mosquito bumps.

We sent the photos, and never heard from them again. However, mom didn’t give up. Somehow, she found a job at the canteen of High School Affiliated to Fudan University, serving food to the students. She went to work before I woke up; at night, she’d come home and complain about the tiring job and her harsh manager. She wanted to give the students more food, yet the manager didn’t allow it, and scolded her for working too slow.

My dad did not approve of the job, as he was prejudiced against manual workers. He would phone my mom at a fixed hour every night. She was worried that he might find out, because she didn’t finish work until nine or ten at night. She was afraid and didn’t know whether she should continue, because my dad has been the decision maker in the family. I told her, “Dad isn’t here; he can’t control you.” I also had my own motive: I wanted her to experience the cruelty of the world outside civil service jobs.

My mom and I both live in Shanghai, although not the same one. I live in a young, modern Shanghai, where everyone is always at running speed, either hurrying to work or rushing to meetings. We go to talk shows teasing the workplace, play script games with the younger crowd, and rely on smartphones for navigation.

My mom belongs to an elderly, less privileged community of migrant workers predominant in Yangpu. Not many Shanghainese lived there. She watched the elderly in our neighborhood chat and play cards, and came to join them. One day, I noticed the cleaning lady in our office building wearing her hair in a low bun, like mom often does. She would also keep her bangs neatly combed and tie a tight bun at the nape of her neck. As I watched the cleaning lady, I couldn’t help but think about mom in the canteen.

Her canteen job didn’t last long. One month later, she accidentally burnt her hand with the cast iron skillet bibimbap. Then she decided to quit her job. It was the first time she wrote a resignation letter. She found a template online, changed the name to hers, and asked me to double check. Not long after, I experienced a different kind of harshness: the layoff lottery.

There were only two versions of the office story: those who frantically worked overtime, and those who disappeared from the office without a trace. I wasn’t on the list, but a senior colleague who had trained me left. She taught me a lot when I first came here. That was when I first realized how profit-driven a company could be.

Tomatoes: sei ang ki or fan ga?

Mom is most familiar with the outdoor food market in Shanghai. She goes there almost every day. At first, she always compared the prices between Shanghai and Quanzhou, our hometown. She had never seen so many kinds of tomatoes, with prices ranging from 2.5 yuan to 12 yuan. She thought that average prices are pretty much the same, before those in Shanghai doubled as the Spring Festival approached. Every day she lamented that things became more expensive and money gone faster.

She compared everything here with those back home. “The dried sweet potatoes are not as tasty as what we have at home; and the streets here aren’t so bustling after all.” Her besties back home live a more settled life, either collecting rents or taking care of grandkids. She could have collected rent at home, but ended up living in a rented apartment in Shanghai. She always phones them over WeChat. “Home is best! Shanghai isn’t so great.” She repeats.

I’ve tried to draw her into the younger Shanghai. I took her to a play by the comedy troupe Mahua FunAge, and a talk show at the Er Sansan comedy club. On our way home, I asked her how it was. She still compared the show with those back home. “You know, I also go to plays back home, Ko-kah-hìs (a traditional form of theatre that originated in Fujian) and puppet shows.”

In early June 2022, after finishing my postgraduate studies, I found a job at an internet company in Shanghai. That was also the year my mom retired. I’m an only daughter, so my parents decided that mom would move in with me.

The first thing she did in Shanghai was to pray in the temple for blessings. She did the same when we moved. I didn’t know that she remained awake for hours at night when I slept. She just kept things to herself.

She found it hard getting used to rhythms in a big city. After all, she had spent the first 50 years of her life in a little provincial town. She seldom asked for a leave and rarely travelled out of the province. On our way driving to Xiamen, a major city in Fujian, we pass the streets though which she used to go to work. She would point out where the streets led, adding that she had walked them hundreds of times when she was younger. In my memory, that was the farthest place she had been to.

My mom lost her job at the grain station during the massive layoffs, when China’s state-owned companies were restructured in the late 1990s. Later, she recommended herself to the library post. My mom tried hard to take control of her own life, from her job to her spouse. She is the second child, with an elder brother and a younger sister. At the age of 16, she was denied school and started working at the grain station to sell rice, handing over her wages to support the family. She met my dad through an arranged blind date. She knew early on that more money would be spent on her elder brother, so marriage could be more or less a means to help her achieve relative financial independence.

As far as I can recall, mom’s world revolved around our family. When I returned home from school at noon, she was always in the kitchen, her back towards me. She was either processing the food or cooking, or doing the dishes and tidying up the table. Sometimes, she would go out, yet her only entertainment was playing cards in the home of one of her besties.

She has the busy routine of an NPC, a clockwork side character in video games. She did all sorts of tasks in a hidden part of the game that players cannot see. The bathroom was always spotless. “The cleanliness of a bathroom shows whether the lady of the house is lazy,” she said.

The Shanghai apartment rented by Song'er and Amin.

In Shanghai, she also does chores, but she’s also becoming the center of her own life. She would buy affordable items online and decorate her apartment with them, from the small fan in the kitchen, the 200-yuan drone (which I returned), to the tent and the sleeping bag. She said the sleeping bag makes her feel warmer in winter, and suggested that I join her. She’s looking for another life in a totally new place, like a video game player who’s leveling up.

My mom got to know many of our neighbors through her frequent visits to outdoor food market. An elderly lady in her fifties from Jiangxi (a province adjacent to Fujian) used to live upstairs, working as a cleaner in Shanghai. They visited the botanical garden together, and she taught my mom how to get to the Hongqiao Railway Station faster. One summer, she moved away and left us some furniture. That was the first time my mom experienced goodbye in a big city. I could sense her sadness. “She might never come back,” she said.

One year later, we moved to a new, larger neighborhood with more settled residents. Different from where we used to live, here even windows on the second floor do not have anti-theft bars. In this new place, my mom started another life. She took part in community events, taking video editing lessons and watching movies. She also started learning Shanghainese, repeating names of vegetables to herself every morning. In Quanzhou, corn is yomi, and tomato is sei ang ki, but now she says tsentsymi and fan ga in Shanghai.

Mom has integrated into the neighborhood better than I did, more familiar with places in Shanghai. I have to use an online map, while she could directly tell me which bus I should take, to go there faster than the route on the app.

One Early Morning

After living in Shanghai for a year, my mom returned to Quanzhou, to take care of her own mom. While staying with my grandmother, she always, consciously or unconsciously, expressed her preference for Shanghai. This year she came back to Shanghai after my grandmother passed away. Being curious, I had a conversation with her one morning over breakfast.

I: Mom, you’ve been in Shanghai for more than a year. Do you have a sense of belonging here?

Mom: Not so much. For me, a sense of belonging comes with having a room of one’s own, but not so when you rent that apartment instead of owning it. I’ve also seen things around me. To be honest, I don’t think Shanghai has made any progress in the past two decades. The spaces are too narrow, and life quality is better in Quanzhou. At first, I thought I could make friends with the Shanghainese, and I’d never thought I would only know middle-aged and elderly migrant workers in Yangpu. The Shanghainese don’t like chatting with people from other places, and they don’t want to speak Mandarin. Why am I learning the dialect? Because I want to understand them and engage with them. Otherwise, I’d have nothing to say. That is not a nice feeling.

I: Have you noticed any changes in me after you moved in?

Mom: We have not talked much, since your sophomore year. Now you are lazier. You’ve got used to the taste of takeaways, and you don’t like what I cook. This is quite immature. I know, you live in another world, different from mine. There is a generational gap between us, so you feel you can’t connect with me. Also, I hope that you could make the most of your time and prepare for the civil servant examination. The job you’re doing now comes with its pros and cons on both sides. So many people lost their job right after the COVID-19 pandemic. I’m afraid you might lose your job at any time. I think I’ve given you enough time to explore life, and it’s time for you to refocus on your studies and exams.

I: So you mean after two years of my career, you still think I should “get back on track” and take the civil servant exam, right?

Mom: Yes. Become a civil servant or anything with a stable bianzhi in the public service system. After all, competition is intense here, with so many hyper-educated people. These years, it’s all about diplomas in the job market. Of course, you should also find a boyfriend to go steady with. That’s top priority.

Two Persons in Different “Shapes”

I couldn’t help but question my mom, every time she suggests that I prepare for the civil servant examination or go on an arranged blind date. She asks everyone she knows to set me up on blind dates, worried that I would no longer be of eligible age after a few years. She even went to the famous matchmaking corner at People’s Park. One day, I went there with her. I saw a pile of notes laid out on the ground, with specific criteria for a life partner written on each. Mom checked them one by one. Sometimes people thought she herself was there for a blind date. A man said she is very attractive and asked if her husband is still around, offering to introduce her to someone if she is single. She told that to my dad, seeming a bit proud.

From her, I saw an earlier reflection of myself adapting to big city life when I first arrived. About two weeks ago, I took her to a concert of LiSA, a Japanese singer. She joined the crowd, waving light sticks and cheering aloud. She told me she wanted to have a drink when we got back, or she would be too excited to sleep.

Amin at the 2024 Spring Festival Lantern Show in Quanzhou, Fujian.

One night, I was looking into the mirror in the bathroom when she passed by. I asked her to join me, but she refused. I couldn’t understand it and asked why. She replied, “I’m so old; you’re so young. I’m jealous.”

That was when I started taking the time to observe my mom and reflect on our relationship. I once read a book by a Nordic writer on her relationship with her mother. “I think mom is often jealous of me. I have a talent, I write well, and I’m young too.” She wrote. I also recall Autumn Sonata, an Ingmar Bergman film. Bergman had wanted to portray an ideal reconciliation between the mother and daughter, yet it was impossible. They fell into a bitter argument on a stormy night, before pouring out their pasts to one another.

It occurred to me that I’d been looking at mom through a narrow lens. I had only seen her as a mother, not as a woman. I should focus more on the woman aspect.

When I was young, it was her responsibility to take care of me. I still remember some of the moments we spent together. She took me to the library by bike; I read her the fairy tales I wrote. Worried about my height, she asked everyone for advice. She took me to an aged practitioner of traditional Chinese medicine, who gave black herbal pills. She also enrolled me in swimming lessons. Neither worked. I am no taller than she is.

I began sleeping on a single bed in my early teens. Later she suggested that we still share a bed. No, no! I said. “Why does Mom ask me again and again?” I wrote in my diary, “It’s not because she’s suddenly realized I still need her hug; it’s just that she’s not used to being alone herself.” Mom is insecure. No one, including me, has been willing to offer her the emotional support she needs.

When I went to university in Beijing, I got farther away from her. I was busy with different things. I was afraid to tell my parents about going to LGBTQ+ offline meetups. By the time I came back home for summer after my freshman year, my taste buds had adapted to Beijing flavors , and I no longer felt good with mom’s style of cooking, boiling everything in water. She started calling me “阿北子” (Abeizi), meaning a non-local in Quanzhou dialect .

For about six to seven years, I metamorphosed into another shape, completely different from hers. Years of living apart only highlighted gaps between us. Our biggest conflicts are about the civil service exams and arranged dates. She’s often had some sort of expectation for me, with seldom any laid-back, stress-free moments. Our relationship has long been shadowed by responsibility and demand.

When I was a “school kiddo”, she was the mother worried about my academic performance. In her bedside drawer, she keeps my school report cards throughout middle school. They are still there, frayed with age. She would carefully analyze my grade fluctuations and hire tutors to help me with math, physics, and chemistry.

Now I’m a “job person”, and she is the mother who wants me to integrate into society in her way. She thinks taking the civil servant exam is the correct and expected path for me. If I had an interview the next day, she would be so worried that she couldn’t sleep well at night.

Last September, I attended my grandmother’s funeral. One evening, we took the time to burn some of the clothes she had worn during her lifetime. I discovered that grandmom had bought many brightly colored clothes in the last one or two years before she died, though she rarely wore them in front of us. She simply stored them in a neat place. It was then that I pictured someone new in my head, who had her own taste for these clothes. Still, the four wreaths at her funeral came from her husband, her son, her high school friends, and where her son works. She is talked about as a mother or a grandmother, and we are family members. We talk about mom in the same way, someone in an extended family.

If there were cherished moments in our relationship that I wish I could go back to, they would be the Sunday afternoon naps we took together, when I was nine or ten. Sometimes we’d sleep from noon till four. One day, we slept for four hours straight again. “I can’t believe it’s already four!” She exclaimed. However, she didn’t get up, just lying in bed. That was a rare moment of her sleeping in, indulging in the comfort. I really miss the ordinary afternoons when we could both relax, without schoolwork, job hunts, or simply, the stress of living a life.

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"班味儿" (bán wèi er), which literally translating to "smell of work”, means "work aura" or "work stench." It comes from a phrase called "once you've been to work, your temperament will change" on trending search, which refers to a common state of contemporary working people's lives: no make-up, no spirit, and tired eyes. Some netizens laugh at oneself, even if you go to work to dress up more exquisite, but also can not block the feeling of fatigue emanating from the body.

In today's piece, we translated an article originally titled "京沪高铁，全世界班味儿最浓的地方 Beijing-Shanghai high-speed railway: Permeated with 'work stench'" published on August 3 by the WeChat blog "Renwu" (People). This article delves into the lives of commuters on this busy line, where the "smell of work" is unmistakably strong.

On what is likely the busiest high-speed rail in China, you get a peek into the lives of those shuttling between the nation's two largest cities, transforming the train into a mobile office complete with Wi-Fi, power outlets, and a non-stop flow of work. The contrast between the daily workers and leisure travelers on this route is stark. Beijing and Shanghai, being top tourist and business trip destinations, draw a vivid picture of humor and a touch of sadness, allowing one to truly feel the energy and determination of the people moving between these two cities.

To ensure readability, we have condensed the original text, which was quite lengthy, without compromising the essential content.

Beijing-Shanghai high-speed railway: Permeated with "work stench"

The Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway is now packed with the working crowd. Hop on the G2 train at 7:00 AM sharp, and you will spot what appear to be bosses and employees sitting side by side, engaged in one-on-one guidance on PowerPoint slides. Colleagues line up with their laptops, collaboratively fine-tuning details. A woman, juggling a tablet in one hand and a laptop in the other, darts her eyes between the two screens. A laid-back guy with dreadlocks is caught up in a flood of work messages. Even an elderly man with thinning gray hair types away, editing the document on his screen.

The work vibe is so intense that casual travelers who "accidentally" board this train are in for a shock. A college student who bought a first-class ticket settled in comfortably with some lemon chicken feet and fruit, put on headphones, opened his iPad, and queued up an action-packed anime. But as soon as the train started, the rapid clattering of keyboards and the sounds of meetings in English and Japanese filled the air. Feeling out of place, the student ended up watching online lectures for the entire trip.

The pinnacle of the "work stench"

The moment Zhang Zihan boarded the Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway G28 train, he sensed something was off.

It was summer vacation, so he expected to see parents with kids, tour guides waving flags, and elderly travelers in custom hats. But on this train, all he saw were business suits, briefcases, and laptops, the blue glow of screens illuminating every tired face.

Bosses and employees sat side by side, working one-on-one on PowerPoint presentations. Colleagues lined up with their laptops, fine-tuning details together. A woman balanced a tablet in one hand and a laptop in the other, her eyes darting between the screens. A laid-back guy with dreadlocks was buried in work messages. Even an elderly man with thinning gray hair was diligently typing away, editing documents. Zhang couldn't help but think, "Do people work this hard even at that age?"

Next to him, a middle-aged man in a suit and tightly knotted tie was on a Bluetooth call with a client. He nodded repeatedly at his laptop, constantly saying, "Yes, yes," "Okay," and "Got it, understood."

Once the train took off, there were no noisy children, only the rapid clatter of keyboards, the sound of conference calls, and notifications from office software. After an hour, Zhang could tell who around him was using ByteDance's Feishu or Alibaba's DingTalk, who had the upper hand in negotiations, and who was just following orders.

A while later, the train attendant came by with a cart, but instead of calling out "Snacks, drinks, mineral water," she offered "Coffee, anyone?" At that moment, Zhang thought to himself, "Isn't the 'smell of work' on this train way too strong?"

Feeling deeply moved, Zhang posted online, saying, "The 'smell of work' on the Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway is stronger than in an office," which got 36,000 likes from fellow workers.

Everywhere on the Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway, there were open laptops and people deeply engrossed in their work.

The Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway has become the daily commute for workers shuttling between the two cities. This 1,318-kilometer line originally operated at 350 km/h, taking 5-6 hours from Shanghai Hongqiao Station to Beijing South Station. Nowadays, some trains make the trip even faster.

The G2 train, departing from Shanghai at 7:00 AM sharp, only makes three stops, spending an average of 2 minutes at each, before racing northward. In just 4 hours and 36 minutes, you are in another city, another climate. Netizens joke, "In the morning, you are the boss; by the afternoon, you are the subordinate. The Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway lets you get scolded for morning mistakes by the afternoon."

Even faster is the legendary G28. Departing at 7:00 PM, it completes the journey in 4 hours and 18 minutes, arriving in Beijing at 11:18 PM, with only a 2-minute stop at Nanjing South Station. This return trip is a favorite among Beijing workers on business trips to Shanghai, allowing them to catch the last subway home and seamlessly transition into the next day's work.

Zhang Zihan's post about the high-speed railway gathered stories of many "working adventures" on the line.

Eva, who works for a sports brand and used to be in an advertising company, shared her experience. On a business trip to Beijing, her small train table was crammed with a McDonald's bag, a laptop, and a mouse. Her elbows bumped into her seatmate's while eating or typing, but they both smiled, fully understanding the cramped conditions of working life.

As a contractor, Eva often noticed others in similar positions. She overheard someone pitching online, using phrases like "Our advantage is that," "We must participate," "This time, we want to convey," and "We chose this path"—all familiar marketing jargon.

Even elderly passengers with white hair were diligently typing away.

Hu Yonggang, born in the '80s, takes the Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway about every two weeks. He observed that passengers on this line are not only different in professions but also in temperament. On other lines, it's not uncommon to encounter screaming children, noisy tour groups, and even arguments or scuffles. But business travelers seem to have a higher tolerance, barely reacting even when someone makes a phone call on the train. Hu himself is like this; not only does he not complain, but he also eavesdrops and might even strike up a conversation about business opportunities.

Businesspeople never miss a chance to network, especially on the Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway, which is packed with top-tier workers. No wonder some netizens suggest, "Handing out resumes on the Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway is the real way to get hired by a boss."

The intense work atmosphere often shocks non-business travelers who "accidentally" board this train. One college student, who had bought a first-class ticket, settled in comfortably with lemon chicken feet and fruit, put on headphones, opened an iPad, and started watching an action-packed anime. But as soon as the train started, the clatter of keyboards and the sounds of meetings in English and Japanese erupted around him. Nervously, the student ended up watching online lectures for the entire trip.

A few days ago, Lin Song, a young university admin teacher, boarded the Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway with over 20 students. They were heading to a university in Beijing for a visit, more like a field trip than a business trip. He planned to take a nap during the ride, thinking the time would pass quickly. But his carriage was packed with workers – someone in front of him was on a work call, and a few medical professionals behind him were discussing surgery plans and responsibilities, creating a tense atmosphere.

Feeling restless, Lin Song had no choice but to pull out his laptop. With no actual work to do, he pretended to be busy by chatting with his students on WeChat.

Why the Beijing-Shanghai high-speed railway?

By the end of 2023, China's high-speed rail network spanned 45,000 kilometers, enough to circle the globe, covering all 31 provinces, municipalities, and autonomous regions, as well as many small and medium-sized cities.

There are plenty of high-speed rail lines between major cities, such as the Beijing-Shenzhen High-Speed Railway from Beijing West Station to Shenzhen North Station and the Shanghai-Hangzhou High-Speed Railway, each daily transporting workers from various fields.

However, the most notable feature of the Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway is its frequency. There are over 40 daily round-trip trains between Beijing and Shanghai, compared to only 7 between Beijing and Shenzhen and about 13 between Shanghai and Shenzhen.

This high frequency reflects the tight interconnection and constant exchanges between the two cities.

According to the 2023 Fortune Global 500 list, China has 142 companies on the list, with 53 based in Beijing and 12 in Shanghai, making them the top two cities for listed companies. They also rank as the top two cities in China by GDP. For companies, location is part of their image, and Beijing and Shanghai are prime choices. Tesla and Nvidia have offices in Shanghai, with Jensen Huang even attending an annual meeting there, while Coca-Cola, Nestlé, and Procter & Gamble have chosen Beijing.

The high economic development of the two cities goes hand in hand with the influx of workers, making them the cities with highest talent density. Lily, who works for a central enterprise headquartered in Beijing, but its core business is in Shanghai. She frequently travels to Beijing to report to senior management, attend strategic planning meetings, and participate in major corporate events or annual meetings.

Geographically, both cities also hold strategic importance. For the consumer goods industry, the regions centered around Beijing (North China) and Shanghai (East China) are the most important, with sales networks radiating from these hubs to other regions.

Eva, who works for a sports brand headquartered in Beijing with a branch in Shanghai, shared that Shanghai, being a hub for consumers and influencers, attracts China's most fashionable and trend-savvy young people. Having an office in Shanghai keeps the brand close to its users and makes it easier to hold offline events. On the other hand, trips to Beijing are mainly for meetings and reports.

In the post-pandemic era, many internet companies have adopted decentralized office models. Since its inception, ByteDance has never officially announced a headquarters, having offices in both Beijing and Shanghai.

Zhang Zihan, who has worked as an HR in a major internet company for many years, found that as companies expand their core businesses and secure a user base and cash flow, they tend to diversify their operations. Alibaba, which started with e-commerce, now spans real estate, offline retail, entertainment, and cloud computing. ByteDance, dubbed the "Universe Factory," not only sells ads but also delved into e-commerce, gaming, real estate, and beyond.

As businesses grow more complex and extend from online to offline, the need for more talent and longer supply industrial chains increases, making people to move across different cities and regions inevitable. Given Shanghai's developed foreign trade, efficient logistics, and close proximity to consumers, ByteDance has stationed some of its e-commerce teams there. The essence of economics is flow, and the frequent economic exchanges between Shanghai and Beijing drive the movement of workers.

In recent years, as companies have focused on cost reduction and efficiency, with frequent organizational adjustments, Zhang's business trips have increased. He often travels to Beijing for biannual bonus planning, interviews with key candidates, discussions with mid-to-senior managers on transfers and promotions, and employee performance evaluations.

High-speed rail has become the most cost-effective option for these trips.

Compared to flying, high-speed rail offers advantage of uninterrupted Wi-Fi and 4G signals, allowing workers to pull out their laptops and make calls anytime. The seats are relatively spacious, with power outlets in between, making work more comfortable. Eva mentioned she always opts for the high-speed train whenever possible, buying a plane ticket as a backup. Hu Yonggang always brings a compact power strip on his trips, which fits perfectly with the high-speed train setup. It's handy for him and can also be borrowed by other business travelers nearby.

High-speed trains are also more punctual, departing exactly on time and arriving as scheduled. With climate change causing more extreme weather, the chances of flight delays have risen. For example, on July 28, about 100 flights were delayed at Shenzhen Bao'an Airport due to weather, with one flight to Xiangyang being delayed by over 390 minutes.

Time is as valuable for workers as a company's budget, so making the most of every trip is crucial. Hu Yonggang details his recent itinerary: arriving at Hongqiao High-Speed Railway Station at 6:00 AM, meeting with several clients in Zhengzhou by noon, flying to Guangzhou in the evening for an overnight stay, meeting more clients the next day, then returning to Shanghai that night, all while maintaining his regular work schedule. He said, "I have been in this kind of schedule for almost two weeks."

He particularly dislikes delays, which make his schedule unpredictable. Once, due to a two-hour flight delay, he had to forgo rest and meals to avoid being late for a client meeting, illustrating the constant tug-of-war between work and rest.

Taking the Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway offers another benefit—cost savings. At around 600 yuan (about 84 U.S. dollars), it can be half the price of a plane ticket. With companies reducing costs and travel expenses, every bit saved counts. The Beijing-Shanghai high-speed train even offers a monthly pass—90 days with 20 second-class tickets for a total of 11,240 yuan (about 1,568 U.S. dollars), averaging just 562 yuan (about 78 U.S. dollars) per trip.

Though flights might be reasonably priced during off-peak times, the high-speed train's advantages make it Hu Yonggang's preferred choice. He repeatedly emphasized that for most business travelers between Beijing and Shanghai, "it really is the best choice."

Self-mockery among workers

The way workers have turned high-speed rail into a commuter train is somewhat absurd. The Wi-Fi, signals, and charging outlets on the trains were meant to let people stay connected, contact family, and entertain themselves during their journeys. Today, however, they have become "ropes" tying people to their work.

As the trains get faster, the pressure to keep up with work intensifies. Every time Eva makes a same-day round trip between Beijing and Shanghai, she finds it almost surreal. The day stretches infinitely, feeling like two days have passed, and by the time she returns home at night, it's like she has woken up from an exhausting dream.

Now that the trip takes just 4 hours, she feels even more pressure. "No one thought it was possible to attend a meeting in Beijing and return the same day. Now that it's physically feasible, no one considers whether people can handle it." She has been summoned to Beijing for flimsy reasons, like a meeting that could have been held online. "Sometimes you wonder, why do I have to come all this way?"

Eva used to try to catch up with friends in Beijing when she was there for work, but now her schedule is so packed there's no room to spare. Even if she has free time in the evening, she's too exhausted to do anything but rest. This year, she has been to Beijing a dozen times without seeing her friends even once. "I used to mention my trips to friends, but now I don't even bother."

People are working longer hours than ever. Over the past decade, the thriving internet industry has introduced new work rhythms, reshaping a generation's biological clocks. The 996 and 007 work schedules became the norm for many in tech industry, and some companies still use "big and small weeks" model. As making money has become harder, the work culture driven by internet companies has started influencing other industries, making overtime and overwork more common. According to the National Bureau of Statistics, the average weekly working hours of employees across the country have been increasing since 2015, reaching 46.5 hours in 2019, and rising to 49 hours by 2023, the highest in nearly 20 years.

The Busy Workers on the Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Train

Since the post titled "The 'smell of work' on the Beijing-Shanghai High-Speed Railway is too strong" was published last August, Zhang Zihan notices the red unread notification in his message bar every few months. He knows the collective emotions of workers are flaring up again. Upon closer inspection, there is a pattern: one peak was at the beginning of the year after returning to work, another was recently during the weary mid-year. He anticipates the next spike to be around the end of the year.

As the next trip approaches, Hu Yonggang grumbles about work fatigue while packing disposable socks and underwear into his backpack. He got these travel essentials recommended by a colleague. He also brings a compact power strip, perfect for high-speed rail, allowing him to charge his laptop, phone, and Bluetooth earphones simultaneously. Seeing the charging indicators on both screens, he thinks, "It's not just charging my devices; it's charging myself."

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The artist's work recounts her father's steadfast efforts and the collective aspirations of ordinary Chinese citizens for a brighter future, symbolizing the next generation's tribute to the hard work and sacrifices of their forebears.

Today's piece is a translation of the story of the artist and her graduation work. The original article, “父亲的运煤车，开到女儿的毕业展 A father's coal truck driven to his daughter's graduation exhibition,” is written by Yin Haiyue and was published on the WeChat blog of the 冰点周刊 "Bingdian Weekly" of China Youth Daily on July 3.

A father's coal truck driven to his daughter's graduation exhibition

Li Qing shot her work The Blue Embraced by Black at an abandoned coal mine in her village in Yangquan, north China's Shanxi Province in April. (Provided by the interviewee)

The old truck was over 20 years old, with peeling paint and a body full of rust. According to national standards, it should have been recycled, dismantled, and destroyed eight years ago.

Li Qing had it shipped to Beijing, decorated it and exhibited it at the Central Academy of Fine Arts (CAFA) as her graduation work. She remembers her father saying, "It is because of this truck that we can afford your college tuition."

The old truck never had a name. It transported coal and water, always dusty, doing as the same tasks as other 30-plus trucks in the same village in Yangquan, north China's Shanxi Province. It sustained the normal life of villagers. However, in May of this year, it finally got a name, The Blue Embraced by Black. The truck bed is tiled with mosaic tiles and filled with water, the water surface reflecting the blue sky, with colorful swimming laps floating in it.

Before her graduation from the School of Experimental and Sci-Tech Arts at the Academy, she wants to pay tribute to her father and expects her parents to be more understanding of what she has been engaged in. She finally completed her work, which also includes some photos and videos, in the abandoned coal mine in her village. A variety of creative materials were used in her work.

"'Black' is coal, and 'blue' signifies a bright future built on 'black'." She noted.

Interpretations and reports about the work can be seen on many social media sites, and many netizens have shared their feelings about the old truck. Some said the truck reminded her of her mother who fed a family of five by selling bittern vegetables with her handcart. Some felt the charm of art from it, "Art is a dream, a memory, and a connection to everything that matters to you."

Li Qing is of the same age with the truck. She remembers that when she was a child, her father, Li Jiantang, transported coal in their hometown village, and every time he came home to wash his face and clothes, the water was dirty. By transporting tons and tons of coal, Li Jiantang bought the family a department in Yangquan. Li Qing went to kindergarten in the downtown area and went back to the village during her summer and winter vacations.

The family of five, including her two sisters, often crowded in the cab of the truck. During Chinese New Year, her father drove the truck to pick up people to pay the New Year’s greeting. The spacious truck bed could hold a dozen or more people. Later, when coal mines ware closed, her father supported Li Qing's college education with income from hauling and delivering water to villages with poor water resources.

"Without this truck, I wouldn't be able to have everything I own today," Li Qing said.

She spent half a year designing this piece, considering multiple concepts, such as piling coal to create an inverted "mine" with projections of coal miners, or exchanging letters with her parents but breaking down each character into strokes to convey the difficulty of communication with loved ones. In the end, she chose her father's old truck.

She climbed into the truck bed and photographed her father driving through the glass behind the cab. The dust accumulated on the glass served as a testament to her father's hard work. Li Qing has also thought of placing coal, old family belongings, and photos in the truck bed, planting crops, or building a ladder to symbolize how her father and the truck have supported her journey to where she is this day.

Eventually, she hammered out a plan with her supervisior. The truck bed was transformed into a swimming pool; several coal miners wearing yellow helmets with faces smeared black soaked in the water and made victory gestures to the camera, revealing their white beer bellies and letting out laughter.

Li Qing said that water resources in her hometown were scarce, and many coal miners, after coming up from the mines, thought about using the limited water to wash their faces, rather than for leisure. "I hope I can do something that allows them to enjoy water, too."

Those black substances mined from the deep within the earth, the coal she is so familiar with, not only sustained her life but also provided her with abundant artistic inspiration.

During her studies at the CAFA, she created a piece titled Please Give Me a Sun, in which she placed coal and plants into an airtight acrylic box. The burning coal generated heat for the plants to grow, and the oxygen produced by the plants' photosynthesis guaranteed the coal's combustion. "It's like the relationship between my father and me, giving to each other."

Li Qing’s art work Make a living by Coal (Provided by the interviewee)

As one of the largest anthracite coal production and processing bases in China, Yangquan is endowed with a natural resource advantage. In the 1960s and 1970s, people from Yangquan transported coal, refractory materials, and pyrite to Shanghai, and returned with fashionable clothes and bicycles, etc. For a time, Yangquan became the most bustling city in the eastern Shanxi region, earning the nicknames "Little Hong Kong" and "Little Shanghai." In the 1980s, township coal mining enterprises also experienced rapid growth.

Qianniuzhen Village, Li Qing's hometown, is located on the outskirts of Yangquan, surrounded by mountains and has a ceramic development history of more than 1,000 years. Li Jiantang originally worked in a ceramics factory, but after it was shut down in 1996, he became a coal transportation worker.

He remembers that over 200 villagers worked in the coal mines at that time. The men dug, sold, and transported coal, while the women handled cost accounting and recharging the mining lamps. After work, people went shopping and dined out, just as what they said, "Every family's life is prosperous."

At that time, Li Jiantang could earn a few thousand yuan a year by transporting coal, which was considered a moderately high income. In 2000, Li Jiantang spent over 20,000 yuan on a second-hand truck. At the same year, his third daughter Li Qing was born.

In Li Qing's memory, the chimney of the coal mine across from her home always emitted smoke. There were many people working in the coal mine, and the village officials would notify villagers with loudspeakers to claim supplies.

Risk came along with affluence. Li Jiantang recalls that when dozens of trucks drove through the village, coal dust flew everywhere and people's mucus was black. After washing clothes and hanging out to dry, a layer of coal dust would coat them following a hust of wind. There used to be a river in the village. After people started dig coal, its water became polluted and undrinkable. Li Qing also remembers his father mentioning that some of his fellow villagers lost their lives in a mining accident.

At the end of 2010, all the small coal mines with an annual production capacity of less than 300,000 tons in Shanxi Province were phased out and closed.

Li Jiantang said that after 2011, when the coal mines were shut down, the air quality of the village improved, but there were also fewer people there. The young went to large cities like Beijing and Shanghai to work as security guards, online car-hailing drivers, and waiters, while the elderly sit in the now-empty village basking in the sun.

While Li Qing had the college education in Beijing, discussed contemporary art with her classmates, and went around to see exhibitions, she felt even more of a "gap." She mentioned, "There is only one exhibition hall in Yangquan, and there are very few young people on the streets".

Li Jiantang gradually aged. Years of driving left him with chronic back pain. The truck was aged, too. The bumpy village roads made it difficult to drive smoothly, people sitting in the truck swaying back and forth. When braking, Li Jiantang had to grit his teeth and pull the handbrake hard, the truck making a piercing sound at the same time.

In the past, Li Qing had filmed her father's work of loading and carrying water. She had ever worried about getting her clothes dirty, but now she is ashamed of her worries, "My father works in this way every day."

Li Jiantang could only earn two to three thousand yuan a month by hauling water. Li Qing recalls that her parents have always been frugal, reluctant to throw anything away, eating leftovers, and only buying new clothes when the old ones were worn out. The massage chair bought by her sister is seldom used by them. Their daily life is a bit monotonous; her mother always stays at home, and her father's only hobby is playing chess. She said, "They are used to living in those hard days, and both their bodies and minds have been stuck in that era."

Despite such hardships, the parents lifted their daughter into the world of art. When still young, Li Qing loved animation and aspired to be a painter, so her mother enrolled her in a drawing course. During the course study, Li Qing heard her teacher say that she could be a painter if she was admitted to the CAFA. Since then, she decided she wanted to pursue the path of an art student.

"To be an art student costs a lot." Li Jiantang was a little hesitant at first but eventually decided to support his daughter's aspiration. "What she wants to do is precious. If my child is happy, I am happy. If the child is not happy, it will be hard for me, too." He said.

To support his daughter's art study, Li Jiantang worked even harder. Li Qing recalled that her father often drove his truck out to haul water at five or six o'clock in the morning and did not return until the evening. However, Li Qing did not pass the CAFA's admission line of the general knowledge portion of her first college entrance examination. She wanted to repeat Grade 3 of senior high school. Though her relatives thought it was too risky, her father supported her. He said, "As long as she puts in the effort, there will be rewards. If it's something she wants to do, it's worth it."

The second time, Li Qing did not disappoint her father. When he learned that his daughter had been admitted to the CAFA, Li Jiantang was delighted, saying, "This is the highest institution for art study."

Li Jiantang took out a loan of more than 30,000 yuan to pay for his daughter's tuition. Knowing the hardship of her parents, Li Qing studied very hard in college. She presented her work at art exhibitions in Shanghai, Beijing, and Mianyang, earning over a dozen honors and awards. She bought her parents two new cell phones and then spent the rest of the money on her graduation project and repaying the loans. In her spare time, she also worked part-time at college, delivering packages on roller skates to earn pocket money.

"The better she is, the more energized we are when working," Li Jiantang's word reveals pride.

However, neither he nor his wife knows about their daughter's major or what experimental art does.

When he heard that his daughter wanted to convert the truck bed into a swimming pool, his first reaction was that it was "nonsense." But, upon hearing his daughter said, "I won't be able to graduate if I don't do this," he compromised.

Although he did not understand the purpose of such a transformation of the truck bed, he could feel that his daughter was doing a great thing.

Li Qing recalls that when she was remodeling the truck bed, a villager stood on the roof, saw the transformation, and asked Li Jiantang, "What is going on here?" He proudly replied, "This truck is going to Beijing!"

Once, her father encountered a village official while driving and excitedly told him, "Look at the truck bed. See the changes." But the official didn't look and instead urged him to dispose of the abandoned truck as soon as possible.

After completing the transformation of the truck bed, Li Qing invited her cousin, who is a miner, and her colleagues to play in the "pool," as a way to "give back." She hopes that her work would do something for her father and her hometown.

An abandoned coal mine in Qianniuzhen Village, Yangquan, Shanxi Province. (Provided by the interviewee)

When photographing those coal workers, Li Qing didn't direct their actions but asked her cousin to capture them at their truest state.

She was particularly struck by the comments after the exhibition. Some people commented on why these coal miners' bodies were so white. "They just thought that miners should be dark and unkempt, and it didn't occur to them at all that they are really whiter compared to other workers because they are not exposed to the sun while working."

Upon reading various comments online, Li Jiantang and his wife begin to "somewhat understand" their daughter's field of study.

At this year's graduation exhibition at the CAFA, there were more than 40 graduation works by students from the School of Experimental and Sci-Tech Arts. Many of the works provoked reflections on self-exploration and family education. But the academy ultimately awarded one of the first prize to the old truck that symbolizes "the past," and another to a piece exploring future artificial intelligence.

The tutor explained to Li Qing, "It resonates with more people and provokes deeper thought. The blue of the mosaic and the yellow of the helmet present a joyful tone that brings strength to people amid a societal torrent." The teacher also encouraged her to develop her own creative language and to show her hometown to a broader audience.

This is what Li Qing has been thinking, "I was born in the countryside, which gives me unique experiences," When the school organized a research trip to a village, a dozen students crammed together sleeping on the floor. There are many bugs and no air conditioning, and many of her classmates couldn't stand it. But she didn't mind. As a child, she often used the maggot-crawling latrine, and also accustomed to the bitter cold in the house when it was tens of degrees below zero, waiting for the coal to burn. She feels that being able to do what she wants to do is more important than fuss over the living conditions.

But she was only in her 20s, and the exhibition of her work meant that her life was exposed to the public.

"I am someone with no background and little financial power," As she spoke, Li Qing thought of her father, and couldn't help but cover her face and cry. Soon, she calmed down. "It was just hard to say out loud, but afterward, I felt okay. After all, I am capable and talented, so it's alright."

After her graduation exhibition, Li Qing took her father's truck to another exhibition in Beijing, and the Aranya Theater Festival in Qinhuangdao also send her an invitation to exhibit.

"I took my father's truck to even farther places," She wrote on her social media.

After being recommended for a master's program without needing an entrance exam, Li Qing chose to focus on rural aesthetic education and social revitalization for her graduate studies. She doesn't yet know much about the career prospects or income potential of this field, but instinctively feels it's the right fit for her.

"Creating art based on the current state of rural areas and giving them artistic value" is her next plan for contributing to her parents and her hometown.

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GRR has remained dedicated to issues of self-exploration for individuals in China. The story about teens at a transgender clinic in Beijing, originally featured on the WeChat blog Truman Story and translated by GRR in January 2023, ranks among the most popular stories in all GRR newsletters.

Today's story also comes from Truman Story. Due to the original article's length, we've translated and retained the most essential content to facilitate an easier reading experience. For those proficient in Chinese, I also recommend reading the full text in its original language. The original title of the story is "After a mother knew that her child is transgender."

After a mother knew that her child is transgender

One summer noon, my child’s bitter cries pierced me over the phone. Scared, I immediately asked what had happened.

I recalled that he had short hair and wore supposedly-unisex sport pants and T-shirt at high school. At that time, I still identified him as a girl. To be honest, I didn’t care that he dressed up in a unisex style and was slightly overweight. Deep down in my heart, I felt relieved, partly because I believed that dressing in a unisex style would shield her from the attention of boys, allowing her to focus on her studies. Another reason was that I also dressed up like a boy when I was young, but became “lady-like” after taking up my first job. So I thought my short-haired girl would gradually become more feminine as she grew up.

“I didn’t tell you and dad because I feared being abandoned once you know the truth!” That was the first thing he told me.

That call came in 2016, when my child was in his junior year at university. That was the first time he openly told me that he is transgender. He identifies himself as a boy and is attracted to girls. “The soul of a boy finds itself wrongly placed in the body of a girl.” It wasn’t until then that I knew about his first girlfriend in high school. The girl with big eyes, who had always been with my child and stayed over at our house every weekend throughout three years. I had thought they were just besties.

After high school, he dated several more girls, with breakups and makeups. Half a year ago, he made a new girlfriend, but was considering a breakup because they did not get along. The girl threatened to reveal his gender identity to me. He panicked and decided to tell me everything himself.

I gave birth to my child in 1994. My mother-in-law was there with me as I lay in labor. When the nurse announced that it was a girl, she couldn’t hide her joy. Already grandmother to three grandsons, she had yearned for a granddaughter.

So my child was assigned female at birth.

I’ve always labeled myself as an open-minded person, including about gender minority groups, yet I had always considered myself to be at a long distance to them.

Now, looking back, I am grateful that I maintained a level head at that time. Despite the inner turmoil, my first instinct was to offer him comfort. “That’s OK. No matter how others may despise you, your father and I will always stand behind you and provide you with steadfast support.”

It’s easier said than done, though.

Reflecting on the past, I blamed the situation on my being too strict with my child, and my selfishness and irresponsibility. From the time my child was young, I’ve never allowed him to act like he was being spoiled in front of me, different from what might be seen in some other girls. And for a long time, I was unable to spend meaningful time with him because of my work commitments.

Half a month following that call, I appeared calm around others, as if nothing significant had happened. But when I was driving alone, I would often drift into thought, not knowing that my tears had fallen on the steering wheel.

Once, he asked me, “Mom, why did you bring me to the world without asking me?” I didn’t know what to say.

I tried to console him, explaining that many people are even more unfortunate than him. Some are born with disabilities, others lost their loved ones during childhood, and still others battle serious illnesses at a young age.

He argued that his situation was not comparable to what others experienced.

I felt miserable. I could only comfort him from my perspective, only to find that I was unable to fully empathize with him. All I ever did was lecturing him with the authority of an adult, a “very healthy individual”.

Every time, my child would interrupt me and request that I go to sleep. Worried about him, I wanted to be with him for as long as I could, despite my own fatigue. Sometimes we’d talk till three or four am and I’d get up at seven in the morning to go to work.

Seeing me worried, my child attempted to reassure me. “Mom, to be honest, I’m really struggling. I can’t find purpose in my life and don’t want to go on living. But, please, don’t worry. I promise I won’t harm myself as long as you and Dad are here. Even if I were to think about that, I’d do it after you’re both gone.”

I knew he was trying to comfort me, but those very words caused me great pain.

Thankfully, I had the support of my mother-in-law, a wise and open-minded woman, during my period of confusion.

One day, I told her what happened. She listened patiently. When I finished, she smiled and told me everything would be alright. “Your child is still young, and it might just be because he hasn’t met the right person. Just be patient and keep talking with him. Perhaps, over time, he will change his mind. Even if he doesn’t, there won’t be any consequence. You see homosexual people around us. The worst outcome may simply be not marrying. That’s OK. Today many young people are opting for life paths that may not include marriage in a traditional sense.”

Even if she said so, I knew she actually hoped the child would change some day. Still, her response gave me great support.

That day, my husband’s two sisters were also present, and they were both open and inclusive about it. Their support was my great comfort.

I didn’t tell my husband that our child is a transgender person who likes girls, until months later. (We were having a happy dinner at my mother-in-law’s.) His smile froze after hearing what I said.

Before that day, my husband was very optimistic and humorous. With friends, he was the soul of conversations. He took great pride in having an excellent and well-mannered daughter, to the envy of his friends.

After we got back home that day, he cried, saying he would never have a chance to be a grandfather. He worried how a boy would turn into a girl, given the huge physiological differences between them. How could the child protect himself when he meets bad guys? Our child said he wants to protect the girl he likes. But what if he himself was bullied? And what should he do when he gets old? My husband was also concerned about the opinions of his friends. He couldn’t understand why his life was so unfair and so unfortunate. He suffered from insomnia, and smile disappeared from his face since then.

Long-term anxiety and depression led to illnesses. Starting from November 2019, my husband suffered from six complications of diabetes: high blood pressure, cerebral infarction, fundus hemorrhage, macular edema, severe diarrhea and urinary incontinence, varicose veins and calf ulceration, accompanied by Alzheimer’s disease.

At the worst of his eyesight, he felt it was dusk in the morning and almost pitch black at night — he had little sense of light and would fall without help from the family. The serious loss of vision and memory gave him low self-esteem, which only aggravated his depression. In hospital, he even discussed with me what kind of suicide would be painless in front of our child. During that period, the intense fear that I might lose him forever would grip me when I was not with him, even only for several minutes.

Luckily, his situation got better after two years of treatment. His blood sugar levels were stable; blood pressure was within a normal range; cerebral infarctions didn’t recur; the macular edema in his eyes absorbed well, and his vision improved from 0.01 to a naked eye vision of 0.4 to 0.5; his gastrointestinal function mostly returned to normal, with only occasional bouts of diarrhea occurring; even the ulcerated skin on his calves completely healed over with new skin. Most surprising to the doctor, his Alzheimer’s disease was reversed, and he could cook again.

Since the recovery, my husband has changed his attitude towards our child. Given his own health status, he feels he has no energy to look beyond himself.

When my child experienced severe self-attack and a sense of world-weariness, I took him to renowned hospital for professional assessments. At first, he took a blood draw for genetic DNA testing, which indicated he is no different from a healthy person. Then he completed an hour-long psychological questionnaire. The evaluation revealed he already showed signs of self-attack and minimal violent tendencies. Finally, he underwent psychological counseling in the psychological therapy room.

To my astonishment, the doctor appeared perplexed and couldn’t offer any valuable advice. It turned out that the doctor had little knowledge about transgender people. So the first therapy session ended up with nothing.

As a transgender person, my child has a gender identity different from his assigned sex at birth, which has prompted him to explore the possibility of undergoing a sex change surgery to be true to himself. In summer 2017, before he took part in a volunteer teaching program in southwest China’s Yunnan Province, I took him to Shanghai and met Dr. Zhao Yede, a renowned specialist in sex reassignment surgery.

I still remember to this day Dr Zhao’s three suggestions. First, stop self-blame, as this is an inborn situation. Second, it is the parents, not the child, who should see a doctor. Zhao commended me for getting on well with and accepting the child. Such harmony, he said, is rare among those who come to see him. Many parents had tense or even confrontational relationships with their child. Their behaviors were often extreme, including crying, depression, mania, and even resorted to threats of cutting off ties or committing suicide in an attempt to prevent their child from receiving gender-affirming care.

I fully accepted my child in 2021, five years after he became open with his gender identity to me.

For a long time following the phone call in 2016, I held onto the impossibility that his actions were merely a result of not yet meeting the right person. Deep down inside me, I wished that he would swerve his identity when he did meet the right boy.

That illusion persisted until 2021, when I finally accepted the reality that the child would never change his orientation, no matter how hard he had tried.

Eventually, I embraced a new understanding, convincing myself that I’ve always had a son, which is not a bad thing. With that perspective, there’s nothing to worry about anymore. My child was glad to hear that, and he even cited my words during a media interview.

In 2022, Lin Lin, the transgender child was at Swan Castle in Guizhou

Now, my child works for a big internet company in China, where his diligence and hard work have earned him considerable recognition. And he has been in a stable relationship with a girl for two years. He is no longer anxious about the future, and he says that the most important thing is to live fully in the present and make every day worth it.

My husband has also managed to stop overthinking about it. Again, he is proud to have such an outstanding child. Occasionally, he still worries about him, but not to an excessive degree. Also, he has no objections when the child brings his girlfriend home on holidays or weekends. We enjoy a cheerful time together.

As for me, I’m doing volunteer work, as a parent in similar situation, for families within the sexual minority community. In addition, I host a podcast series about the topic on an audio book platform. As host, I interview sexual minority children and their parents, hoping to break down misunderstandings and promote love and inclusivity by sharing their stories. By leading a busy and fulfilling life, I also hope to set a good example for my son, encouraging him to love life and never stop learning.

We often say that parents’ love for their child is the most selfless love in the world. However, what do we mean by selfless love? Imagine that one morning you wake up and find that your child, your pride as a parent, identifies as someone of sexual minority. In that moment, do you choose to bravely embrace and affirm your child, thereby making your love stronger, or do you respond with disgust, rejecting your child to make your love no longer pure?

Recently, a mother shared her views in a podcast. She said that most parents refuse to accept their sexual minority children because of priorities in their values. If parents prioritize themselves, they care about their own “mianzi” (face), about how others would see themselves and how that would influence themselves, thus finding it hard to accept the child. However, if they put the child in the first place and let go of egoism, all those thoughts will no longer bother them.

So my answer is, love your child unconditionally — celebrating their strengths and accepting their flaws; embracing what they have in common with other children, while also welcoming their distinctive traits. With that unconditional love, all I ask is that my child be healthy, safe, and happy as himself.

Therefore, I told my child: “Your father and I shall always stand behind you. Even if the whole world abandoned you, always remember that we’re here for you.” Only such love, I guess, is free from egoism and thus truly strong.

Today, I’m sharing a piece about how ordinary folks in China are finding ways to earn extra through part-time work or some creative hustles. It’s no secret that a lot of businesses here faced hard times last year, making jobs hard to find. I translated this article for you because it provides an angle to look at the “small” opportunities within an economy at a crossroads. It also shows how people use their smarts to navigate through life.

During my travels in the United States, I had a conversation with an Uber driver in Texas, who is an immigrant. We talked about this article I was preparing to publish, which details how Chinese people make extra money. She asked in depth about the methods mentioned in the article and expressed a desire to come to China to explore business opportunities. It made me realize that places in China known for international wholesale and retail of goods, like 义乌 Yiwu, are actually not as famous as they deserve to be.

The article comes from 每日人物 (Daily People), a WeChat blog focusing on individual stories amidst hot social topics. The blog issued a call for submissions to readers for stories about how to successfully make money in China and received stories from more than 300 Chinese readers. The article included 20 different ways of making extra in China from the readers’ submissions.

The article was published on Feb. 6. The original title is 过去一年，我居然搞到钱了 “Over the past year, “I can’t believe I really made money.” You’ll read stories from college students, teachers, employees at state-owned places, financial analysts, e-commerce folks, plant enthusiasts, designers, and more. Each money-making story begins with the protagonist's name, age, method of earning, and the amount earned. Besides success stories, you’ll also read money-losing cases.

Feel free to share which story impresses you the most or which one you like best.

Skill-based sideline jobs

1.@Michael, 31, making 2,000 US dollars by selling withered wood from the countryside

I met an American artist when I was out in Yiwu (one of the world’s largest wholesale markets for small commodities in east China’s Zhejiang Province) trying to find goods for cross-border supply chains. As a painter who paints forests and other things in nature, he often uses raw wood for painting frames. He found me and asked me whether I could help him buy one in China. Before that, he had spent a lot on them. Some painting frames made of boxwood can sell for as high as 1,000 US dollars. He also tried to search for similar materials on lots of international platforms for cross-border e-commerce, only in vain.

I agreed to help. To be honest, I just wanted to make a new friend, rather than money. I called my uncle who is living in our rural hometown in east China’s Anhui Province. He found some ordinary withered pine wood used for burning in fires and sent them to a woodworking factory in northeast China. The final product was a frame that measures 30 x 40 cm. I sold it for just 70 U.S. dollars. Actually, I didn’t make any money from it if I deducted the cost of processing. The shipping alone cost 30 U.S. dollars, not to mention that I needed to pay my uncle some money to return the favor.

In Yiwu, many businesspeople engage in cross-border e-commerce. To make money, they sell very cheap objects that are tiny, not easily broken, not expensive to ship, and free from cargo damage. In contrast, it is very difficult to sell painting frames under similar standards and on a large scale. But that’s not the most important thing for me. I care more about whether I am doing something worthwhile. The U.S. painter spoke highly of the painting frame he received. Later, he gave me a painting as a gift, and even placed another order worth nearly 2,000 U.S. dollars.

The finished painting frame made of raw wood

2.@Kaola, 29, making doll clothes, 10,000 yuan (about 1,400 U.S dollars) a month

I only started to realize the importance of money after I got married in 2021, as neither me nor my date's family could give us any financial support. Then I decided to work hard to make money and started taking on a side hustle while working as an underwear sample designer.

One day in April 2023, I noticed doll clothes today are all good-looking, but also expensive. I wondered whether I could run a sideline of some kind since I have more than 10 years of experience in clothing. The best sideline is an extension of your main job. From designing, customizing patterns and materials, to dyeing, it's similar to my job in many ways.

Compared with my main job, the doll clothing market has a small customer base. Some complicated doll clothes are customized, making it difficult to mass produce them. Of course, that means it’s difficult to make money too. Not everyone can learn how to make doll clothes easily, and not everyone is willing to do so, because you have to be interested in it to be able to continue. Depending on how complex it is for me to design the style, the prices of doll clothes may range from 100 yuan to 1,000 yuan. Now I can, satisfyingly, make more than 10,000 yuan each month.

3.@Zhouran, 42, installing lamps, 800 yuan (about 110 U.S. dollars)

I was busy renovating my house in 2023. One day, I bought a water purifier. Although the user guide says a specialized installation worker must be hired to install the purifier, I managed to install it myself quickly. After seeing what I did, a worker jokingly encouraged me to register online and use my skill to earn some money in my neighborhood. I can easily earn 30 yuan by installing a lamp, he said.

His words inspired me. “A good idea,” I thought. I began to take orders online to help others install lamps. I also responded to personal requests in other ways. A woman who bought a house near my home but doesn’t live there asked me to install a bathroom lamp in her apartment. Two days later, she asked me to help her change the password for her smart door lock. She said I’m a reliable man. I agreed, walked to her home, and finished it quickly. She paid me 200 yuan (about 30 U.S. dollars) for my work.

When I told the woman I was overpaid, she said she would need to spend as much if she chose to take a taxi to her home and change the password. Later, she paid me to install all the lamps in her home.

Now, my principle is making money “shamelessly” and spending it generously. I plan to buy a machine that can be used to clean underfloor heating pipes in winter 2024 and help my neighbors clean their heating pipes. My neighborhood is where I start a business.

4.@Sulaoshi, 28, new media writer, 200,000 yuan (about 28,000 U.S. dollars) a year

Thanks to my job, I made some friends working in new media. And through them, I started writing commercial articles and became a writer. At the same time, I tried to find opportunities online, searching for information on social networking platforms like WeChat and Douban.

Making money in this way is very laborious. Every day I need to spend a lot of time searching for information and looking for articles I can re-edit. I often write until midnight after work and go to work at 6 or 7 the next morning. Well, for a graduate who majored in Chinese language in university, writing is the only thing I’m good at. Furthermore, I do the job not for money. I have a stable job as a teacher. I guess I write possibly to gain a sense of security.

The job allows me to have some experiences beyond my imagination. I remember writing a speech for an organization's leader. The pay was 3,000 yuan (about 420 U.S. dollars), the highest offer I’ve gotten. I was surprised to know that such articles can also be outsourced. Moreover, not knowing much about its topic, I made some mistakes while writing the suggestion part. And you know what? The leader read them out exactly in the way I wrote it, and nobody ever found out!

It’s ridiculous that such an important speech was written by a layman, right? Well, the world is a huge stage; we are all amateurs.

Trendy sideline jobs

5.@Ruanruan, 32, giving wealth lessons, 35,000 yuan (about 5,000 U.S. dollars)

In 2023, I made money by teaching people how to arrange their money. I taught them to make budgets, reflect on their expenditure, and develop a habit of saving money painlessly (saving a small amount of money each time). Through my course, I helped more than 100 people create their financial system. I earned 35,000 yuan(about 4865 U.S. dollars) after deducting the labor cost and course development cost.

How did I get the idea of launching a course about money? This had to do with my personal experience. I worked on financial analysis in a real estate company for almost 10 years; I kept records of spending for six or seven years; I took some wealth management lessons. When I heard everyone around me talking about saving money and consumption downgrading, which means consumers look for ways to spend less, and when I saw posts about how to get money more quickly flooding social media platforms, I felt it was time to do something.

I posted my courses on WeChat. My connections on WeChat timeline were more enthusiastic about it than I had imagined. One of them was the bookkeeping camp. The participants pay 299 yuan (about 40 U.S. dollars) and I will return 200 yuan (about 30 U.S. dollars) to them when the lessons finish as long as they can track their expenses and share their records every day for a month. In the end, I ran four bookkeeping camps and two wealth management lessons. Each session attracted 30 participants, and 70 percent of them finished their lessons. Well, for the remaining, they believed they finished the lesson the moment they paid for it.

I noticed all of the participants wanted to be financially freedem, yet they all lacked a clear underlying logic. How far are you away from the financial freedom stage you aim to achieve? They only knew the concept but didn’t know the exact answer. Some even kept false accounts. Essentially, that was because they were not clear about their needs.

For ordinary people, in fact, the resources and levers we have are limited. Only when we devote our money, time, and energy, which act as the three drivers of life, to the same thing, can we pull greater levers and reap bigger fruits.

6.@Zhajigeichizhajichi, 30, collecting discount coupons, several thousand yuan (about 500 - 1,000 U.S. dollars)

I started collecting coupons after I entered a relationship. To save money when we went out dating, we turned to Xianyu, a second-hand goods trading platform, to buy discount coupons. Later, I came up with the idea of collecting discount coupons myself and then selling them through Xianyu.

That’s very easy to do: getting coupons when they are released and selling them when they become unavailable. In the past six months, I collected coupons for hotpot, roast meat, milk tea, and coffee. I earned about two to 10 yuan from each coupon, and 4,000 to 5,000 yuan (about 556 to 695 U.S. Dollars) in total.

There were some problems, though. Finding coupons takes too much time. There are just so many platforms that offer a wide variety of coupons. I don’t know which coupon I can sell in the end, so I could only adopt the strategy of casting a wide net. That means browsing my phone for long periods of time. Maybe I collected 100 types of coupons but only sold one. The worst thing is I collected only one coupon of that popular type.

I had thought that I make money to live. The former, however, comes at a price and takes too much time. Sometimes I got a message from a buyer on Xianyu when I was traveling with my date and happily enjoying the scenery and I had to reply. You know, it just spoiled the atmosphere.

7.@Yezi, 27, intimacy counsellor, several thousand yuan (500 - 1,000 U.S. dollars) a month

I work with people who have intimacy issues. I help them find and analyze those issues and provide assistance and suggestions.

I first focused on intimacy issues to solve my own problem. When I was 23 years old, I realized that I must prepare in advance if I wanted to have a sweet relationship with someone and find a suitable life partner when I turned 26 or 27. Then I got into action.

But it proved to be very difficult. Still, I worked hard. Each day after work, I browsed through many profiles on different dating platforms, just like what I did as an HR in my company. I also asked my parents and my friends to arrange blind dates for me. Within two years, I met more than 100 people. Meeting them was really like interviewing people. Later, I realized that finding a partner is similar to finding a job. I must know what kind of person I am and what kind of person I need.

With those experiences, I accidentally met my husband another two years later and we got married.

That process would have been easier if someone could tell me how to find a right partner in a scientific way at the age of 23. Unfortunately, no one did that. So I decided to help others through my experiences. I shared them in livestreams. After watching my livestream, a visitor in her 40s said she realized that having a blind date is not a shame. “I can naturally announce that I’m going to have a blind date and find my own happiness through my efforts.” I’m very touched.

8.@Taozi, 26, amateur astrologer, 2,000 yuan (about 280 U.S. dollars) a year

I came to know astrology by accident. One day, the younger sister of one of my colleagues told us she can practice astrology. She brought a book that offers beginners a guide to tarot and some tarot cards. Then she showed us how to read those cards. While watching her doing it, I thought I might be able to do the same. That’s how I started learning astrology. I even bought some books and tarot cards.

Reading tarot cards to others is very similar to psychological counseling. Although the former is not as thought-provoking as the latter, it can indeed make people feel better when they are tired and consumed by trivial matters. The astrologer encourages them by telling them they are at a low ebb and things will get better. That serves as feedback from the universe and makes them believe in themselves. We all need a reward to stimulate us to push a huge ball on the flat ground.

Before taking an order, I will tell the customer that an astrologer is not a fortune teller. One is encouraged to change himself or herself and work hard to achieve what he or she wants, instead of waiting for something magical to save a relationship or solve problems in life.

The process of astrology by Taozi

Cost-effective sideline jobs

9.@Dahua, 31, operating automatic claw machine stores, 2 million yuan (about 280,000 U.S. dollars) a year

I made money by opening claw machine stores. The process is very easy. Buy machines and dolls from manufacturers, rent a space in a shopping mall, and then put the machines there. I mainly operate small stores and can’t earn too much from each store. And the revenue depends heavily on location and mall traffic.

I started the project in June 2022, when a childhood friend of mine was attracting businesses for a shopping mall and recommended it to me. Rents were extremely low during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Due to travel restrictions, many people were unable to travel outside their province during the summer holiday. As they stayed put and walked into local shopping malls, our project went well surprisingly. Later I expanded the project, and now I run 20 stores, big or small. Without excluding rents and doll costs, my stores took in around 2 million yuan (about 278,000 U.S. dollars) in 2023.

10.@Amibayuanchong, 32, obtaining occupational certificates, 2,000 yuan (about 300 U.S. dollars)

I’ve heard about job subsidies for a long time, although I’ve never tried to apply for them. One day, I saw a government notice about training e-commerce specialists. The notice said trainees can attend training and take an exam for free, and get a subsidy of more than 1,500 yuan (about 208 U.S. dollars) after passing the exam and getting a certificate. And with the certificate, the holder may get extra points for applying for household registration in Hangzhou, the city where I work.

Working in e-commerce, I thought it might be a good chance to learn something and improve my job skills. Even if I couldn’t, I can still get a subsidy. So I signed up.

Interestingly, when all the applicants took part in offline training, I found I was the only one who really works in e-commerce. Fine. Most just wanted to get the subsidy.

Subsidy approved

11.@Yy, 23, buying lottery tickets, 10,000 yuan (about 1,400 U.S. dollars)

I had planned to get some good luck by buying a lottery ticket before my job interview. It never occurred to me that I could win 10,000 yuan (about 1390 U.S. dollars) the first time I bought one. It was beyond my wildest expectation. After all, the only thing I did was scratch with all my strength.

12.@Pengpeng, 30, operating a self-serve car wash, 100,000 yuan (about 14,000 U.S. dollars) within two years

During the two years after I resigned, I invested 100,000 yuan (about 13,900 U.S. dollars) into operating a 24-hour self-serve car wash near my home. I entertained no hope of earning big money from it. I thought it would be satisfying enough if I could earn 3,000 to 4,000 yuan a month to cover my daily expenses. Unexpectedly, I got my investment back in just one year.

Moreover, I got a lot of free time. Every day my job was to do some cleaning at the car wash, if everything went well, and that took just 10 minutes or so. Instead of working around the clock, I suddenly had a lot of free time and felt that the power of my life was cut off.

What followed was a period when I explored the real, ordinary person I am. Before operating the car wash, I was that kind of person who escapes from problems. After graduating with a master’s degree in music, I became a teacher at a public high school. The job offered high stability, but I was frustrated by the intense internal strife in the office, the huge pressure from my colleagues, and the salary. That was different from the atmosphere in university. In the end, I resigned and became a stay-at-home mom.

I actually enjoyed my role at home, but deep in my heart, a voice told me to go outside and do something worthy of my efforts to pursue education and my parents’ efforts to provide for me over these years. After starting my business, I have met many people I would have had no chance to meet and experienced things I would have had no chance to experience. I understood how to communicate with others, and would also be afraid to get calls from the customers at midnight. I konw that this entrepreneurial experience taught me something I didn’t learn in the past.

Lovely sideline jobs

13.@Pangda, 30, watering plants, 1,782 yuan (about 250 U.S. dollars)

I love plants and have kept them for three to four years. I can not only keep my own plants alive, but also help take care of others’ plants. Finding my ability to do that, I came up with the idea of helping other plant lovers water their plants when they are not at home. I priced each visit at about 100 yuan (about 13.9 U.S. dollars) , which includes a starting fare and a distance-based fare.

At first, I didn’t expect to take any orders. After all, who would spend so much just to find someone who can water plants for them? Well, I was wrong. I took 13 orders one after another and earned 1,782 yuan (about 250 U.S. dollars).

The home of each customer is a secret garden. Their plants told me something about them even if we didn’t meet in person. For example, those who love tropical plants are usually addicted to keeping them in large numbers. Particularly, I’ve seen lots of tropical plants in the family Araceae, such as anthurium, begonia, monstera, and philodendron. They may have hundreds of flowerpots for them and the plants grow well.

I live in Beijing, many of my customers are Beipiao, or Beijing drifters, a term used to describe people outside Beijing who came to the city to seek a living or success. Most Beijing drifters rent a room in the city and are not willing to buy too many things, especially plants, for their room. The homes of my customers, however, were different. The place where they live is full of vitality. Perhaps people who keep many plants are those who love life.

A plant before and after being watered

14.@Jin, 26, joining commercial dance performances, 400 yuan (about 50 U.S. dollars) a day

I’ve been learning swing dance at a dance studio for one and a half years. Since I dance well, the studio invited me to join dance performances.

So I made some money by chance. I just love swing dance and didn’t expect to perform it in public. We sometimes dance at shopping malls and sometimes perform in other places, like at fairs.

15.@Eunice, 26, online part-time English translator, 150 yuan (about 20 U.S. dollars)

I’ve always had an interest in English, but it’s of no use in my work and life — my full-time job is gradually eroding my enthusiasm.

While at university, I met classmates who are positive about their future and work hard to pursue their dreams, as well as learned teachers who come from different cultures in the world. That changed after I graduated and entered the workplace. Suddenly, I became a depressed worker in a fourth tier city. The huge gap made me increasingly disappointed, feeling that I was living like the fabled frog in a pot of tepid water.

I decided to change the situation. I planned to find a part-time job as an online English translator and in this way improve my English. I was very excited when I got an order, although the expected pay was merely 150 yuan (about 21 U.S. dollars). While doing the task, I told myself: the job would improve my skill and I’m not doing something laborious. Every minute I spend is worth it. I’m happy to do so even if I couldn’t earn much.

16.@Keke, 29, advertising on social media, 500 yuan (about 70 U.S. dollars)

It’s a surprise that I made money.

The story began with my grandpa. My grandpa, who will soon turn 80 years old, has lots of hobbies. He likes shopping on his phone and studying Feng Shui (the traditional Chinese study of geomantic omens usually for buildings or cemeteries) and traditional Chinese medicine. He also loves food, from roast fish to milk tea and cola. One day, I found he bought cookies secretly and saw his comments about it: Good, Very good! Wow, he is so cute!

So I registered an account on Xiaohongshu, a popular lifestyle-sharing social platform in China, and shared interesting moments about my grandpa. Out of the blue, my posts got popular and many merchants messaged me, wishing to cooperate with me to advertise their products.

The first advertisement I posted was about a hemorrhoids cream. The funny thing is, my friends thought I have suffered from severe hemorrhoids.

17.@Shenshen, 30, drawing pet profile photos, earning tuition back

I’m a designer and I’m learning how to draw on the iPad.

One day, I drew a profile photo for my friend and her pet cat. Unexpectedly, my work got noticed by members of a cat group she joined and many asked me to draw a profile photo for them too. That’s how I got my sideline job of drawing customized profile photos. Lots of their cats are Devon Rex, requiring me to figure out the characteristics of different cats!

That took a lot of energy, but it was all worth the effort. So far I’ve basically earned back the tuition I paid to learn drawing, and my drawing skills have improved. Most importantly, my work has been recognized by others. You know, you can’t buy joy with money!

A work by Shenshen

Money-losing sideline jobs

18.@Guamezi, 28, filming, -60 yuan (about -8 U.S. dollars)

I earned 99 yuan (about 13 U.S. dollars) for filming at Disneyland and then spent 159 yuan (about 21 U.S. dollars) buying a LinaBell toy doll.

19.@Tangcheng, 41, selling food on a stall, 200 yuan (about 30 U.S. dollars)

I work at a state-owned enterprise full time. Wanting to start my own business, I set up a stall my spare time to sell roasted milk tea and new Chinese-style tea drinks. I made just 200 yuan in the end.

I also tried to make and sell roasted goose legs, but didn’t sell any. I gave them to my friends.

20.@Xiaolanhui, 33, taking part in company contests, 650 yuan (about 100 U.S. dollars)

I live in a third-tier city and work at a state-owned enterprise full time, with a monthly salary of 5,000 to 6,000 yuan (about 695 to 834 U.S. dollars). I didn’t have a skill to run a sideline, and neither did I know other ways to make money. Still, I made some money in a special way. I signed up for a company contest (China’s state-owned enterprises have a tradition of holding different types of contests. Each year my company organizes knowledge contests, covering areas like laws and procurement, and also fire drills. Rewards are offered to the winners). More importantly, I carefully prepared for the contest and won second prize.

Encouraged by the result, I took part in more contests over the following three months. Overall I had good performance, winning an award in some contests. Each contest drew dozens of participants. The reward, however, was not high, 300 yuan (about 40 U.S. dollars) for first prize and 150 yuan (about 21 U.S. dollars) for second prize. Finally, I got 650 yuan (about 90 U.S. dollars) after participating in several contests.

I’d been such an active presence in those contests that my superior noticed me and listed me as a top candidate for the contests, asking me to sign up for any not-so-professional contest.

So sad.

1. A different angle

The Wall Street Journal article says that "a Chinese researcher in Beijing uploaded a nearly complete sequence of the virus’s structure to a U.S. government-run database on Dec. 28, 2019." and "China only shared the virus’s sequence with the World Health Organization on Jan. 11, 2020, according to U.S. government timelines of the pandemic." It noted that "The sequence that Ren provided in December 2019 was never published and was deleted from the database on Jan. 16, 2020, after NIH, following its protocols, asked her for more technical details and she didn’t respond, Egorin wrote. It is unclear why Ren didn’t respond."

The article subsequently cites a statement from Rep. Cathy McMorris Rodgers (R., Wash.), saying that the discovery that a researcher in the state-affiliated Chinese lab had isolated and mapped the virus well before Beijing revealed publicly that it had done so shows the U.S. "cannot trust any of the so-called 'facts' or data provided by the CCP and calls into serious question the legitimacy of any scientific theories based on such information.” And it quoted Richard Ebright, a microbiologist at Rutgers University, saying that having the virus information two weeks earlier “would have helped in the early stages of the outbreak,” particularly with putting a more effective testing regimen in place.

According to a report by Caixin, a respected business magazine that's also the world’s largest digital news subscription business outside the UK and the U.S., Chinese hospitals had obtained information related to the virus sequence by Dec. 27. On Dec. 28, 任丽丽 Ren Lili, a researcher "in the state-affiliated Chinese lab" as acknowledged by the WSJ report, uploaded this data to a United States government-run database. Whatever the reason for Ren's delay in responding to the database's email asking for further technical details, the near-instinct, swift sharing demonstrated openness and professionalism from early on.

2. Neither Dr. Lili Ren nor the Chinese government deleted the data Ren uploaded

Although the article does not specify who deleted the data uploaded by Ren, its overall discussion about the Chinese government concealing or delaying information related to the COVID-19 virus - and its specific phrasing, "was deleted" - inevitably gives the impression that either Ren or the Chinese government intentionally deleted the data.

According to the letter written from the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) to the House Energy and Commerce Committee last month to initiate the investigation, Ren's submission was actually deleted by NCBI following necessary protocols and a resubmission request was issued.

Letter written from HHS to the House Energy and Commerce Committee

Ren did not respond with additional information before the deadline, but she did resubmit a sequence to Genbank in February, 2020 and it is still accessible on NCBI’s official website. It's worth to note that the definition of the virus was BetaCoV/Wuhan/IPBCAMS-WH-01/2019, as highlighted in the screenshot below:

Ren's resubmission of the sequence to GenBank in February, 2020

3. The discovery of this sequence by Ren cannot be considered as the creation of a new timeline related to COVID-19, because there were already reports about this sequence in early 2020.

The WSJ article describes "the documents" acquired by Republican Congresspeople from the U.S. Department of Health & Human Services as "describing a new timeline."

However, in the first days of 2020, the sequencing results were known throughout Wuhan’s local hospitals and public health officials, and were widely discussed on various open platforms.

Caixin published an exclusive in February 2020, tracing back to the first genetic sequencings of COVID-19 cases. It is said that on Dec. 24, a bronchoalveolar lavage specimen collected from the first identified patient, a 65-year-old deliveryman at Huanan market, was sent to 微远基因 [Vision Medicals], a private sequencing company. The first result indicating a SARS-related coronavirus was telephoned to Wuhan Central Hospital on Dec. 27.

The corroboration appeared in a public blog by another researcher in late January 2020. The writer, pseudonym "小山狗 [Little dog]", posted a day-by-day report describing her team's work on the same genome sequence. The blog has been read by millions before disappearing.

According to "小山狗 [Little dog]", the data was also shared with the Institute of Pathogen Biology of Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences on Dec. 27. As introduced above, Ren is a virologist at the institute. According to the WSJ article, Ren submitted a sequence "nearly identical" to the SARS-CoV-2 gene sequence to Genbank on Dec. 28.

In the screenshot provided by "小山狗 [Little dog]" in her blog, the virus name which her team found was BetaCoV/Wuhan/IPBCAMS-WH-01/2019, the same one as I found in Ren's resubmission document. The collection date is Dec. 24, which is aligned with the timeline reported by Caixin.

Not only in China, but a professor in the United States has also published an article including a timeline of virus samples related to this case. It was about a 65-year-old former deliveryman at Huanan market, who virus sample was collected on Dec. 24, and the timeline is detailed in the article on Science by Michael Worobey, Professor and Head of Ecology and Evolutionary Biology at the University of Arizona. The article was published in 2021.

Moreover, as noted by Alex Crits-Christoph, Ren published a paper titled "Identification of a novel coronavirus causing severe pneumonia in human: a descriptive study" on Chinese Medical Journal in January 2020, explaining in detail this exact sequence and the origins of the disease.

Discussions surrounding the pandemic, when grounded in factual rigor, contribute significantly to a broader understanding of the events as they unfolded. Conversely, a lack of precision in these discussions can lead to misinterpretations who may not have the time to delve into the intricate details of these documents.

The above is the result of several days' digging and I welcome any corrections from those more knowledgeable in the field.

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As we bid farewell to 2023, many of you are already basking in the festive ambiance or gearing up for the holiday season. It’s with a heart full of joy that I extend my warmest wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to each of you.

Reflecting on this year, my journey has been a tapestry of varied experiences. Returning to China has been deeply gratifying, not just for the comfort of home, but for the liberty it has afforded me to chase my dreams. I'm particularly proud of launching the 'One Day in China' series on YouTube. Balancing these projects with a full-time job has been challenging, and while I couldn’t produce as many episodes as I had hoped, I am eager to delve deeper into these ventures in 2024.

In this special Christmas edition, I'm excited to share four captivating stories from China, translated into English for your enjoyment. These, coupled with the most popular story from the Ginger River Review (GRR) in 2023, make up our festive treat for you. Spanning a range of topics from cross-cultural dynamics to the fluctuating tech sector, and including diverse characters like scholars, tech workers, students, veterinarians, doctors, and children, these narratives offer a multifaceted view of life in China. While they represent just a slice of the vast array of stories here, they provide a meaningful glimpse into the lives of ordinary Chinese people.

Due to their length, these stories are available for download on Google Drive, ensuring easy access and sharing. The translations, though not perfect, have been crafted with the help of our diligent interns and I am confident they will provide a smooth reading experience.

And now, for a personal note of joy – I am over the moon to introduce you to my new family member, Ana, a 45-day-old American Shorthair kitten. This adoption marks the fulfillment of a long-held dream, previously unattainable due to my nomadic lifestyle and strict childhood home rules. The delightful twist? My mother, who once opposed the idea of pets, has become utterly smitten with Ana, her new 'grandkitten', during her recent visit.

I hope this newsletter brings an extra touch of joy to your holiday celebrations. Enjoy these tales, and may you cherish these moments with your loved ones.

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Below are the top stories of the week:

1. "Kemusan" dance in hot pot chain went viral online

2. After a crash led to amputation, I became a “cyberpunk girl”

3. Influx of Russians into Heihe in northeast China becomes the talk of the town

4. Significant decrease in Postgraduate Entrance Exam candidates

5. CEO swagger wins over overseas fans as Chinese short-drama platforms strike gold abroad

1."Kemusan" dance in hot pot chain went viral online 海底捞员工跳“科目三”被顾客嫌吵，网友：都是为了生活

Overview: Recently, a weird dance called "Kemusan" performed by waiters at the hot pot chain Haidilao, went viral online in China. While Haidilao successfully attracted many customers to enjoy the performance and interact with the dancing staff, there were also complaints stating that the tacky dance ruined their dining experience.

This article is from 中国日报双语新闻 [China Daily Bilingual New], a news WeChat account under China Daily that shares bilingual news and language tips.

Highlights:

事实上，科目三全称“广西科目三”，源自广西某婚礼现场多人欢歌起舞的场景。此后有网友称：“广西人一生中会经历三场考试，科目一唱山歌，科目二嗦米粉，科目三跳舞。”

In fact, the "Kemusan" (or "Subject Three") dance originated from lively wedding celebrations in southern China's Guangxi Zhuang autonomous region. The tradition evolved into a cultural phenomenon, suggesting that in a Guangxi native's life, there are three essential experiences, or ‘subjects’: singing folk songs, eating rice noodles, and dancing.

早在很久之前，科目三就已火遍全网，掀起了全民模仿热潮，后有海底捞门店工作人员自行为顾客表演该舞蹈突然出圈，多地多家海底捞都陆续推出“科目三”舞蹈服务，有不少工作人员迅速涨粉。如大连大商海底捞一名科目三小哥，个人账号粉丝已有50万多，并在不同海底捞门店“巡演”。

The "Kemusan" dance had already become well-known online and ignited a national copying fad a long time ago. After that, Haidilao staff members impromptu performed this dance for customers, and their videos swiftly gained popularity on the internet. Later, "Kemusan" dance performances were added to the offerings of many Haidilao branches in different cities, with numerous staff members quickly gaining popularity for their dances. For instance, a 'Kemusan' performer from Dalian has amassed over 500,000 followers on his personal social media account and is now "touring" different Haidilao branches to give performances.

在部分海底捞门店，只需要对服务员说“我要科目三”，就会有靓仔、靓女服务员为你来上一段魔性的舞蹈：摇花手、扭腰、摆胯，还有半崴不崴的脚，配合节奏鲜明的音乐。

Now, in some Haidilao stores, all you need to say to the waitstaff is "I want 'Kemusan'," and you'll have handsome and beautiful servers performing a bewitching dance for you: waving hands, swaying hips, and some quirky footwork, all accompanied by lively music with a distinct rhythm.

起初，大家在网上对此事津津乐道，说成是：服务行业的“内卷”，把顾客当成“上帝”。海底捞服务员热情、有感染力的舞蹈甚至让一些消费者也加入了跳“科目三”的队伍中。

Initially, everyone online was enthusiastic about "Kemusan" in Haidilao. People said it is the result of fierce market competition in the service industry that customers are now treated as "gods." Some diners seemed to enjoy the lively dance so much that they even joined the staffs in their performances.

但后来，风向开始转变，关于此事的负面争议越来越多，大量的顾客开始反感海底捞服务员跳“科目三”，觉得很吵闹，让人不适。还有顾客吐槽海底捞“擦边低俗”，“我带着孩子看服务员扭来扭去擦边，觉得很恶心。”甚至，近日江苏淮安一海底捞跳“科目三”有顾客嫌吵，双方现场起了冲突，最后矛盾升级，警察出面调停。

However, not everyone found the "Kemusan" dancing cute, and there were an increasing amount of critical remarks about it. Many diners were annoyed by Haidilao servers dancing "Kemusan," finding it very noisy and discomforting. Some called the dance a "tacky" promotional tactic. "I brought my child to watch the servers twist around, and it felt disgusting," a woman complained.

Furthermore, in a recent incident in Huai'an city, Jiangsu Province, a conflict erupted between a diner and a Haidilao server who danced "Kemusan." The situation worsened to the point where police had to step in.

“科目三”大火之后，有消息称，这些能够跳舞的服务员在海底捞的月薪超过1.2万元。

After the craze of "Kemusan," there were reports that these dancing servers at Haidilao were earning a monthly salary exceeding 12,000 yuan (about 1,675 U.S. dollars).

海底捞官方紧接着回应称：“我们一直鼓励门店伙伴，结合自身特长和顾客需求，进行各类创新，并设立了相应的创新激励机制。门店岗位实行计件薪酬，多劳多得。我们会不定期举行变脸师、捞面师等岗位之星评选，不断精进各岗位业务能力。能够获得顾客认可的员工，公司也会进行相应的激励。”

The official statement from Haidilao came soon after, saying, "We have always encouraged our store partners to innovate marketing strategies based on their own strengths and customer needs, and established corresponding incentive mechanisms for innovation. Piecework pay is used in our businesses to reward employees who put in extra time. We routinely run competitions to improve the business competencies of each position, such as "Face-Changing Artist" and "Noodle Master." Employees who receive recognition from customers are also appropriately rewarded by the company."

[Note: Piecework pay compensates employees based on the production of goods or services during working hours]

但从网上流传的视频来看，不少服务员在跳“科目三”时，往往肢体僵硬、面无表情，看上去并不情愿。有的门店为了提高员工“业务水平”，会把员工集中起来培训。但上班时间肯定是不可能的，只能占用下班休息时间。

However, from videos circulating online, it can be seen that many servers often look stiff and expressionless while dancing "Kemusan," which implies they are not willing to do so. To improve employee "business skills," some stores gather employees for training sessions. However, it's certainly not possible during working hours, so it can only be done during off-duty breaks.

Comment: I guess the contrast between exaggerated dance moves and the inherently reserved nature of Chinese people always manages to capture everyone's attention.

2. After a crash led to amputation, I became a “cyberpunk girl” 车祸截肢后，我成为”赛博朋克女孩”

Overview: At the age of 25, Weng Xinyi lost her left arm and leg in a car accident. The accident didn't knock her down, and after a long recovery and mental struggle, she decided to stop hiding her disability with clothes and turn herself into a "Cyberpunk Girl" with eye-catching prosthetics.

This is a report by 极昼工作室 [Polaris Workshop], a WeChat blog under Sohu Inc., a news producer specializing in serious reporting and in-depth reporting.

Highlights:

翁忻怡的头发是亮蓝色的。在试过粉色、灰色、黄色等不同发色后，这种最”显眼”、不容易跟人”撞”的颜色在她头上停留时间最长。很多人最先就是被她的发色吸引，继而注意到她的身体——

Weng Xinyi rocks a bold shade of bright blue for her hair. After trying with various colors like pink, gray, and yellow, this striking and attention-grabbing color stuck around the longest. It's often the vibrant hair that first captivates people, leading their gaze downward to notice her distinctive features—

目光从上到下扫过去，左手袖管空空荡荡，左腿被假肢取代，大腿往下十几厘米处，漏斗状的接受腔包裹住残肢，一根细长的灰色钢柱连接了接受腔、假关节和假脚。

The gaze sweeps from top to bottom, where the left sleeve is noticeably empty, and the left leg has been replaced by a prosthetic. From the thigh down about several inches, a funnel-shaped socket encases the residual limb, connected by a slim gray steel pole linking the socket, artificial joint, and prosthetic foot.

很多肢障者习惯给这根假肢包裹上一层肤色的外包装，让它看起来更像真腿；翁忻怡相反，她试图让它更加突出。

While many amputees tend to opt for a flesh-toned covering to make their prosthetics blend in, Weng takes a different approach, striving to make hers stand out even more.

Weng Xinyi decorates her prosthetics with colored lights and 3D-printed shell

她很少穿长裤，短裙下露出的接受腔除了常见的黑灰色，她还专门定制了蓝色的星空款和金黄色的五星款，灰色钢柱她也给贴上一圈碎钻。因为喜欢”炸街”、拍酷酷的照片，她为此准备了更显眼的一套装备——镂空的3d打印外壳，五颜六色的车尾灯，一套上钢柱便多了些”赛博朋克”的味道。

She's not big on long pants; underneath her short skirts, the exposed prosthetic socket doesn't just come in your usual black or gray – she's customized the blue starry design models and golden five-star pattern. Even the gray steel pole gets a touch of glam with a circle of shattered diamonds. Because she's into turning heads, snapping those edgy pictures, so she's got a set of gear that's extra attention-grabbing – a hollow 3D-printed shell, vibrant taillights, and throw in some steel poles, and you've got that extra “cyberpunk” flavor.

这样的她总能吸引来各种各样的目光。有次一位小朋友跑到跟前来问，”你的腿怎么啦？”翁忻怡说，”我去拯救地球了，进化出了一条新腿”。小朋友并不买单，”你骗人，那你的手怎么也不见了？”没等翁忻怡解释更多，孩子妈妈上前来抱歉地把孩子拉走，”不要讲不要问，不能这么没礼貌”。

With a style like that, she never fails to catch all sorts of looks. Once, a little kid came up and asked, “What happened to your leg?” Weng Xinyi responded, “I went on a mission to save the Earth and got myself a new leg.” The kid didn’t buy it, “You're making that up; then where did your hand go?” Before Weng could lay out the full story, the kid's mom stepped in, pulling the youngster away with an apology, “Don't ask and don't be so rude. It's not polite.”

更多时候，围绕着翁忻怡的是沉默的、掺杂着惊讶和同情的目光。如果按照她自己的说法，她更愿意理解为”欣赏的眼光”，”看女明星也不过如此”。若是那些眼睛盯着自己太久了，她有时也会”调皮”地回招，”大叔，看这么久没见过美女吗？”对方先觉得不好意思了。

Most of the time, Weng is surrounded by hushed stares, mixed with a curious blend of surprise and sympathy. According to her, she'd rather see it as “appreciative glances”, “It's not all that different from when people ogle at female celebrities.” But if those eyes linger a tad too long, she might playfully shoot back, “Hey, buddy, never seen a stunner before?” – leaving the other person a bit red-faced.

......

最让翁忻怡觉得失望的，是仍有很多人在批评她的穿着，”故意博眼球”，”都这样了，还不遮一遮”；在采访中提到的婚恋态度也引发了争议——她从不觉得残障低人一等，也不打算和现实妥协，”姐残障了，也不是想追就能追到的”。自信舒展的状态被视为”傲慢”，激怒了不少网友。

What really gets on Weng's nerves is the ongoing criticism about her fashion choices, with people accusing her of “craving attention” and saying, “Already in this situation, why not cover up a bit?” Her thoughts on relationships and marriage during interviews have also sparked some heated debates. She refuses to see herself as inferior due to her disability and has no plans to settle for less in real life. “Just because I've got a disability doesn't mean anyone can just come chasing after me.” Her confident and unabashed attitude is often misconstrued as “arrogance,” sparking quite a stir among netizens.

但翁忻怡说这些恶评只让她难过了一个晚上。三年来，她不仅教会了自己和各种目光相处，也越发擅长忽略那些尖锐刻薄的声音。倒是妈妈气不过，一条条回怼过去。

But, Weng brushes off those negative reviews after just one night of feeling down. Over the last three years, she not only learned to navigate various stares but also got pretty good at tuning out those sharp, critical voices. It's her mom who can't resist hitting back one by one.

陪伴父母，继续走出去、让更多人看到自己，翁忻怡说这些才是自己接下来最重要的课题。刚过去的10月25日，第三个重生日，她停下工作，特意从广州回到南宁和父母一起度过。

Hanging out with her parents, continuing to step out and show herself to more people—Weng says these are her top priorities moving forward. On her recent 3rd anniversary of rebirth on October 25th, she took a break from work, intentionally heading back from Guangzhou to celebrate with her parents in Nanning.

每年这天她都会复盘过去一年的生活，手机里保存的截肢前的、车祸现场的照片，偶尔也会翻出来看看。只不过，它们越来越少在她心里产生波澜，她总是默默看一会儿，然后放下，继续往后的生活。

Every year on this day, she reflects on the past year of her life, scrolling through photos on her phone from before the amputation and the accident scene. Sometimes, she flips through them. However, they create fewer and fewer ripples in her heart. She silently glances at them for a moment, then sets them aside, moving forward with the rest of her life.

Comment: In the cyberpunk genre, individuals often modify their bodies with technology as a form of self-expression and empowerment. Weng Xinyi's adoption of a "cyberpunk" in adorning her prosthetics not only showcases her personal style but also challenges societal norms regarding how disabilities are perceived.

For individuals with disabilities, while accepting oneself is challenging, showing their bodies and lives is even more so. Weng has given many people with disabilities confidence by sharing her newfound life. With more narratives and visibility of people like Weng, people with disabilities may be perceived by society as less "different" and hence greater hope to move on.

3. Influx of Russians into Heihe in northeast China becomes the click bait 涌入东北黑河的俄罗斯人，成了流量密码

Overview: With Sino-Russia visa-free group travel services resumed in Heihe in northern Heilongjiang province, vitality is brought back to the border city by the influx of Russian visitors. The article tells the stories of individuals who were previously engaged in border trade but stopped their businesses due to the pandemic. They have now transitioned to becoming live-streamers, capturing moments with Russian visitors in the city.

The article comes from 凤凰网 [iFeng.com], a Hong Kong-based leading cross-platform new media company that delivers news and analysis from China and around the world.

Highlights:

9月下旬，中俄免签旅游团队通关业务恢复，这里迎来一批又一批的俄罗斯人，在最繁华的早市吃早餐、购物。

Come late September, as the visa-free travel for Sino-Russian tourist groups resumed, Heihe witnessed a steady stream of Russians, bustling through its lively morning markets, indulging in breakfast, and splurging on shopping sprees.

“这下黑河全是俄罗斯人了。”主播五花肉在这座边境小城最繁华的地方，举着手机一遍又一遍地拍摄俄罗斯人手拿包子油条、大快朵颐的样子。

Now, Heihe is practically a Russian hotspot.” Livestreamer Wuhuarou stood in the most bustling part of this border town, holding up his cell phone and filming Russians relishing steamed buns and fried dough sticks with gusto, over and over again.

黑河是中俄边境的口岸城市，隔江七百米就是俄罗斯的布拉戈维申斯克，又叫海兰泡，坐船七分钟就可以到达。疫情中断了两座城市的联络，直到最近，免签政策一出，昔日两国的民间交流渐渐恢复。

Heihe, a port city on the China-Russia border, is a mere 700 meters across the river from Blagoveshchensk, also known as Hailanpao in Chinese. A quick seven-minute boat ride effortlessly connects the two. The pandemic disrupted communication between the two cities until the recent revival of the visa-free policy, gradually rekindling people-to-people exchanges between the two nations.

在黑河，聚集着一些中国商人，他们曾经受益于地理优势和时代红利，而此刻，他们正举着手机在满地是小商品和便宜衣服的街道上漫游，瞄准俄罗斯人，把异域来客在黑河的一举一动作为短视频的主要内容，五花肉便是其中之一。这些视频轻易点赞过万，金发碧眼和东北乱炖的混搭，似乎击中了当下的流量密码。

In Heihe, there's a gathering of Chinese entrepreneurs who once benefited from geographical advantages and the dividends of the times. Right now, they're wandering the streets filled with small commodities and inexpensive clothing, holding up their phones, targeting Russians. They capture every move of the exotic visitors in Heihe as the main content for their short videos, and Wuhuarou is one of them. These videos effortlessly garner tens of thousands of likes, as the combination of blond hair, blue eyes, and the eclectic mix of Northeast China seems to have hit the current trend's sweet spot.

......

一些在俄罗斯做生意的中国商人，开始注意到了黑河主播们。

Some Chinese business folks operating in Russia have started to take notice of the Heihe livestreamers.

10月末，一个在布拉戈维申斯克开直播带货公司的老板联系上二丫，想请她来俄做全职做主播。老板姓李，之前做家居建材生意，去俄罗斯半年后，决定进入视频直播行业。

At the end of October, a boss running a livestreaming e-commerce company in Blagoveshchensk reached out to ER Ya, wanting to hire her as a full-time livestreamer in Russia. The boss, surnamed Li, used to be in the home building materials business. After spending six months in Russia, he decided to venture into the video streaming industry.

他的直播公司开在布拉戈维申斯克的主干道上，门外立着一面招主播的广告牌，上面一半中文，一半俄语。公司装修完工不过三个月，里面有从黑河运来的灯光、脚架、可折叠桌。

His livestreaming company is located on the main street of Blagoveshchensk, with a billboard outside advertising for livestreamers. Half of it is in Chinese, and the other half is in Russian. The company was fully renovated in just three months, stocked with lighting, tripods, and foldable tables shipped from Heihe.

“来俄罗斯开公司，主要是想卖俄货。”他发现，在俄罗斯，雇佣一个全职员工只要花费三四千元人民币，”但在黑河，同样的工种至少得八千。”

“Setting up a company in Russia is mainly to sell Russian products,” he realized that in Russia, hiring a full-time employee costs only three to four thousand yuan (about 420 to 560 U.S. dollars), “but in Heihe, for the same job, it would cost at least eight thousand yuan (about 1,100 U.S. dollars).”

尽管人员成本缩减了，但俄罗斯人似乎对直播并不太感兴趣。”这对他们来说是一门新兴的行业，只有少数大学生，或者是对中国有所了解的人，才知道直播带货是什么。”

Even though they've cut down on labor costs, it seems Russians aren't exactly jumping on the livestreaming bandwagon. “It's a new industry for them. Only a handful of college students or those familiar with China know what livestreaming for sales is all about,” he remarked.

在他看来，俄罗斯”保守而缓慢”，还处在”计划经济时代”。”要交全部的定金，工厂才会开始生产，买什么东西都要等上差不多三个月。”他说，正因为如此，一贯擅长短平快小买卖的中国商人在这里大有可为，”比如布拉戈维申斯克的蔬菜贩子几乎都是中国人。”

From his perspective, Russia is “conservative and sluggish,” still stuck in the “planned economy era.” “You gotta pay the full deposit upfront before the factory starts churning things out, and almost everything takes about three months. That's why Chinese business folks, known for their knack for quick deals, see a lot of potential here. For instance, nearly all the veggie vendors in Blagoveshchensk are Chinese.”

Comment: New business opportunities unveiled upon the influx of Russian visitors showcase the adaptability and quick response of Chinese businessmen to changing circumstances. It's actually hard to say how well Chinese and Russians understand each other, and whether such interactions can deepen mutual understanding is also uncertain. But as the characters in this story say, what's most important at the moment is to find a way to make money, since supporting oneself is the prerequisite for everything else.

4.The size of candidates taking the postgraduate entrance examination down by 360,000 考研的人少了36万

Overview: For the first time in nine years, the number of people taking the Postgraduate Entrance Examination in China has fallen this year, which analysts believe is related to the increase in the number of students choosing to go abroad for further studies, the decrease in the number of academic master's programs and the phenomenon of devaluation of academic qualifications.

The article comes from the WeChat account of 中国新闻周刊 [China Newsweek], a Chinese weekly magazine under the China News Service.

Highlights:

报考意愿下降的原因可能是多方面的，比如选择出国留学的人增加了。也有学者从研究生招生的结构性变动上找原因。近年来，保研的比例不断增加。此外，学硕规模一再压缩，专硕比例持续扩大。根据教育部的规划，到2025年，硕士专业学位研究生招生规模要扩大到招生总规模的2/3左右。

The waning interest in postgraduate exams could stem from various factors, like a rising trend in students opting for international studies. Some scholars attribute it to shifts in the structure of postgraduate admissions. Notably, the prevalence of direct recommendations for postgraduate programs has been on the rise. Additionally, academic master's programs are facing continuous downsizing, while the share of professional master's programs keeps expanding. As per the Ministry of Education's roadmap, the enrollment capacity for professional master's degrees is expected to grow to about 2/3 of the total enrollment by 2025.

上述考研机构的工作人员分析，”学硕坑位减少，使得更多人优先考虑专硕。但不少专硕的学费远高于学硕，多所高校延长专硕学制至3年，在经济下滑的大背景下，家庭对考生教育投资的价格敏感度也更高。”

Insights from the professionals from testing institutions suggest, “With fewer spots available for academic master's programs, more individuals are leaning towards professional master's programs. However, the tuition for many professional master's programs is significantly higher than that of academic master's programs, and several universities have extended the duration of professional master's programs to 3 years. Against the backdrop of economic downturn, families are becoming more cost-sensitive regarding educational investments for candidates.”

中国教育科学研究院研究员储朝晖认为，考研报名人数减少背后有几个因素，主要影响因素还是就业。当前形势下，更多学生对就业的价值追求要高于考研。

Chu Zhaohui, a researcher at the Chinese Academy of Education Sciences, opines that the decline in postgraduate exam registrations is influenced by several factors, with employment being the primary driver. In the current landscape, more students prioritize job prospects over pursuing postgraduate studies.

考研是为了什么？从近年的”专硕热”不难看出，考研的需求与就业已经牢牢绑定。然而现实是，一些硕士就业能拿到的工作岗位和薪资甚至不如本科毕业生。

“Why go for a master's degree? The recent hype around “professional master's degrees” makes it clear that the demand for postgraduate education is now firmly intertwined with employment prospects. However, the harsh reality is that some master's grads end up with job offers and salaries that don't even match those of their undergraduate counterparts.

这几年，有关”第一学历歧视”的话题反复引发热议。本月，有媒体发布的调查问卷显示，超六成受访者呼吁破除求职中的”第一学历”限制。低起点学历成为”污点”，用人导向存在”唯名校”的倾向。

In recent times, the ongoing discourse on “first degree bias” has stirred quite a debate. A survey released this month showed that over 60% of respondents are calling for the abolishment of the “first degree” limitations in the job market. Having a less prestigious degree is now seen as a potential mark against you, and there's a noticeable tendency in hiring towards graduates from well-known universities.

在学历贬值的情况下，学历对就业的影响更加复杂多元。去年12月，中国国际经济交流中心副理事长、国际货币基金组织原副总裁朱民谈到，现在高校毕业生的就业低于大专毕业生的就业，大专毕业生的就业低于中专和高中生的就业，”学的越多，就业率反而越低”。

As degrees face devaluation, their impact on employment becomes even more convoluted. In December of last year, Zhu Min, Vice Chairman of the China Center for International Economic Exchanges and former Deputy Managing Director of the International Monetary Fund, noted that the employment rates for university graduates are lower than those for college grads, and college grads have lower rates than secondary and high school grads. He pointed out, “The more you study, the lower your chances of getting hired.”

在考研话题的相关帖子下，有一条留言提到，尽管研究生持续扩招，但能为就业带来显著帮助的高校、专业招生名额并不多，”即便把985/211高校的大部分专业，一本院校的强势专业，二本院校的万金油专业也考虑在内”。某种程度上，研究生扩招这个就业的”蓄水池”，来到了一个新的节点。

In a comment under a post discussing postgraduate exams, someone brought up the fact that despite the continuous increase in postgraduate admissions, there aren't many quotas for top-tier universities and programs that significantly boost employability, “Even if you throw in most programs from 985/211 universities, standout programs from top-notch colleges, and versatile programs from second-tier colleges”, they said. To some extent, the postgraduate admissions pool, seen as a reservoir for employment opportunities, has hit a new turning point.

[Note: 985/211 refers to a group of universities supported by the Chinese government and generally regarded as the best in China, with a total of more than 100 universities.]

Comment: People are gradually finding that postgraduate degrees can no longer give them an advantage in employment, and the fact that those who are truly committed to academic research are after all a minority. Those factors have led to a decline in the number of people taking the exam. It is worth noting that the number of people taking the national civil servant exam this year has increased by 435,300, which is also evidence of the change from the pursuit of academic qualifications to the pursuit of jobs.

5. CEO swagger wins over overseas fans as Chinese short-drama platforms strike gold abroad 霸总风让老外上头，中国短剧平台海外吸金

Overview: Two dramas released by ReelShort, YouTube's TikTok, have gone viral on the internet with plots that are nothing new in China, such as "female lead revenge," "urban elite families," and "love at first sight" Such suspenseful and twisted plots bring strong emotional punches to the viewers, which is the reason for its success.

This article comes from 伍之管见 [Wu's point of view], a WeChat blog run by an individual whose articles focus on hot issues in China and the world, and many of its articles have been republished by Xinhua.

Highlights:

今年，ReelShort平台推出的两部短剧《Fated To My Forbidden Alpha》和《Never Divorce a Secret Billionaire Heiress》成了爆款，直接带动了ReelShort的下载量。有数据显示，7月，ReelShort在Google Play和App Store的总下载量达190万，月总流水达600万美元。

This year, the release of two short dramas on the ReelShort platform—namely, Fated To My Forbidden Alpha and Never Divorce a Secret Billionaire Heiress—turned them into blockbusters, directly propelling ReelShort's download numbers. According to the stats, in July, ReelShort hit a whopping 1.9 million downloads on both Google Play and the App Store, raking in a monthly revenue of $6 million.

以前，东南亚观众是中国电视剧出海的主要受众。如今，ReelShort面向的是更具消费能力的欧美用户，较之东南亚用户，他们对中国文化的熟悉度更低，短剧因而更具本地特色。

In the past, Southeast Asian viewers were the main target audience for Chinese TV dramas venturing overseas. Now, ReelShort has set its sights on a more financially capable demographic in Europe and the Americas. Unlike their Southeast Asian counterparts, these users have a lower familiarity with Chinese culture, giving short dramas a more distinct local flavor.

以《Fated To My Forbidden Alpha》为例，该剧由海外演员出演，以西方熟悉的狼人题材为底，融合了中国网文中”女主复仇”“都市豪门”“一见钟情”等经典霸总文元素，但就是这样一部看似”很土”的作品，引发了欧美观众热烈讨论，还有很多人花钱追完了整部剧。

Using Fated To My Forbidden Alpha as an example, the show stars international actors and dives into the familiar Western werewolf theme, blending classic elements from Chinese online literature like “female lead revenge,” “urban elite families,” and “love at first sight.” Despite its seemingly “cheesy” vibe, this series has sparked lively discussions among European and American audiences. Many viewers have even opened their wallets to binge-watch the entire series.

以”豪门恩怨”“先婚后爱”“霸道总裁爱上我”“虐恋情深”“腹黑复仇”等剧本为基础，融合西方元素的霸总短剧迅速成为热门内容。网友笑称，”晋江古早文出海成功”“中国霸总短剧收割欧美”……

Built upon scripts featuring “family feuds in elite circles,” “love after marriage,” “arrogant CEO falls for me,” “deep romance with a domineering CEO,” and “scheming revenge,” short dramas infused with Western elements and dominating CEOs have rapidly become hot favorites. Netizens playfully remark, “Jinjiang's successful venture into exporting vintage works” and “Chinese CEO short dramas are making waves in Europe and America.”

....

近些年抖音、Tik Tok的流行，使得不少观众已经养成了刷短视频的习惯。能够为观众提供密集爽点和强情绪的爽剧、短剧，也是大行其道。

In recent years, the rise of platforms like Douyin and TikTok has cultivated a habit among many viewers to indulge in short videos. Dramas and short series offering viewers intense plot points and strong emotional punches have also taken the spotlight.

众多短剧制作团队也深谙其道，为了一瞬间就抓住观众的注意力，”豪门弃少”“隐世战神”“霸总爱上灰姑娘”这些反差强烈的题材逐渐成为短剧市场的香饽饽。

Many short drama production teams have mastered the art of grabbing the audience's attention in an instant. Themes with strong contrasts, like “elite family’s abandoned heir,” “hidden god of war,” and “CEO falls for an ordinary girl,” have gradually become hot commodities in the short drama market.

爆火的海外霸总短剧以清一色的欧美面孔和纯正的欧美口音，演绎着国内观众再熟悉不过的套路，不求逻辑严密情节合理，一两分钟来上好几个惊天大逆转，结尾还要留个悬念勾人好奇：欲知后事如何，付费即可。

The booming overseas CEO short dramas feature a consistent cast of European and American faces, along with authentic Western accents. They play out familiar tropes for Chinese audiences, sacrificing tight logic and reasonable plot development. In just one or two minutes, these dramas deliver multiple jaw-dropping twists, leaving viewers on the edge with a suspenseful cliffhanger: to know what happens next, pay a fee.

这极大引起了海外观众的兴趣，”上头”的观众更容易直接来个”超前点映”。据悉，ReelShort平台实行单集0.6、0.7美元的价格付费，想要看完全剧的成本在10美元以上，比起包月无限看的奈飞单价无疑更高。

This has significantly sparked the interest of overseas viewers, with some enthusiastic fans opting for a “premature sneak peek.” Reportedly, the ReelShort platform charges 0.6 to 0.7 USD per episode, making the cost of watching the entire series exceed 10 USD. This unit price is higher compared to Netflix's monthly unlimited viewing.

Comment: Drama themes that have become clichéd in China are loved by overseas audiences. Could it be that one day these short dramas, after being localized and adapted for Western markets, will be re-imported back into the domestic market and become popular series?

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