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Mercedes Under Fire for Video Featuring Comedian Yang Li

Mercedes-Benz’s latest Chinese promotional campaign has come under fire from portions of the Chinese internet for featuring stand-up comedian Yang Li, who became famous (and controversial) for her “man-hating” jokes on the Chinese show Rock and Roast.

Published on Chinese microblogging platform Weibo on October 14, one of Mercedes’ short promo videos shows Yang Li walking the red carpet at a Vogue event before getting into a car made by the German luxury brand.

Screengrab via Weibo

Although Yang Li did not say a single word in the video, the footage didn’t sit well with some Weibo users, as Li is best known for bringing issues of misogyny in China into the spotlight while poking fun at fragile male egos.

According to Red Star News, some users threatened to boycott Mercedes by switching to other luxury car brands like Audi and BMW. Others argued that featuring Yang Li in its video campaign was disrespectful to the brand’s male consumers.

In response to the backlash, Mercedes restricted viewing access to the video on Weibo by making the clip available to just its followers on October 17, three days after it was initially published. According to one Chinese news source, the brand also allegedly filtered comments so that only those approved by the account would appear.

Things got worse for Mercedes after the hashtag ‘Mercedes Benz’s Yang Li video controversy’ (#奔驰杨笠视频引争议#) began trending on Weibo, with netizens divided on the automaker’s response. The hashtag had garnered more than 150 million views at the time of writing.

Some users were disappointed in Mercedes for caving to the pressure online.

“Mercedes is quite short-sighted,” one user noted.

“Mercedes should have openly supported Yang Li. Its brand reputation would have been much better if it did. Level-headed men wouldn’t be offended by her,” wrote another.

The discussion soon got heated as more users shifted their focus to Yang Li and gender equality.

One netizen posted, “As a Chinese man, I don’t think Yang Li’s jokes are inappropriate. Her jokes reflect real problems in our society. As men, we should reflect on ourselves.”

User @街猫Koryilli shared pictures of the Mercedes she just bought, captioning the post with: “I don’t usually share this kind of stuff, but I am doing it now because some men think they are the only target consumers of Mercedes.”

Others quoted a report highlighting women’s purchasing power in the luxury car industry, revealing that in 2018, 50.49% of Mercedes’ customers were females.

Some, however, remained critical of Yang Li. “I still don’t like Yang Li because she created tension and profited from her polarizing effects,” said one user.

Yang Li’s office issued a statement in response to the controversy:

“Yang Li was only attending an event sponsored by Mercedes. She does not have any business relationship with Mercedes-Benz. To protect Yang Li’s rights, we will take legal actions against any libel or slander.”

Why Mercedes published a video (that was essentially an advertisement) with someone that it does not have a business relationship with is beyond us, but the automaker presumably had its reasons.

This is not the first time a brand has found itself caught up in a social media storm over a commercial with the polarizing comedian. Earlier this year, Intel also took down an ad because of complaints from male netizens.

Cover image via Weibo

New Book Chronicles the Trials and Joys of an ‘Excess Child’ in China

Welcome to 2021, when it is officially legal to have up to three kids in China. But it wasn’t long ago when the reality of having more than one child came with legal repercussions. In the autobiography More Than One Child, author Shen Yang documents, through courage and resilience, what it was like to grow up as an ‘excess-birth child,’ or heihaizi, during an era of stringent public policies. This facet of her identity would define every memory in life — both joyous and turbulent.

If Chen Danyan’s Only-Child Manifesto captured the reality of life as an only child, More Than One Child is an ode to kids from the other side of the coin — the ones who had to navigate the rugged terrain of illegality, secrecy, and shame upon birth. But despite that, Yang is more than the sum of her struggles. And above all, the book is a story about the greater community of excess-birth children.

Below, we are pleased to share an excerpt from More Than One Child, where the author lays bare recollections from her childhood. Beyond this scene-setting, we recommend picking up a copy of the book to better understand how the one-child policy shaped many lives.

You can purchase More Than One Child via Book Depository, Belestier Press, or Amazon.

— Mavis Lee

On 1st January 1986, on a bright sunny morning, I finally saw the light of day. My mother, with me in her belly, had been on the run from the authorities for nine months. Because I was a New Year baby, they gave me a warm name, Yangyang, or Sun.

However, I was hardly a little ray of sunshine to my family. I had a sister who was four years older than me, I didn’t have a little willy, I broke a law simply by being born, and if the family planning authorities discovered my existence, my mother would be carted off to the clinic to have her tubes tied, and our family would be heavily fined.

So there I was, swaddled in a thick quilt. I may have chosen a lucky day to be born on, but I could not change my destiny.

Come what may, my mother had to give birth to a son in order to carry on the family line. The family could not afford the excess-birth fine and did not want my mother to be sterilized, so as soon as I was born, I was sent to my mother’s parents, Nana and Grandad. They lived in Sunzha Village, Yanzhou County, in Shandong.

Nana and Grandad had lived in Sunzha for most of their lives. The area was relatively undeveloped compared to the nearest city, Jining; the air was clean and there was plenty of space to play outside. Grandad liked to get up early in the morning and stroll around the village, one hand behind his back, the other playing with two large walnuts, turning them in his palm. When he met someone he knew, he always stopped for a chat. Then he would walk to a little store at the entrance to the village to buy some baijiu liquor from a big vat, and take it home to enjoy.

Shen Yang at two years old with her grandmother in Sunzha Village

My grandfather’s biggest pleasure in life was to have a few cups of baijiu, a few peanuts, and some snacks every morning. It didn’t matter whether the snacks included meat or not as long as there was the drink. Without it, the day was incomplete. In his words, baijiu was the best thing on earth, it made everything, even a few scraps of pickled vegetables, taste wonderful. Nana called him an old wino, but he saw himself as kin to the wine-quaffing poets of ancient times. He used to listen to Chinese opera as he sipped, and when he had finished, he would lie back on his bamboo recliner, gently turning the two large walnuts in one hand. He had had them so long that they were worn smooth. From the small radio on the table came the guttural sounds of Beijing dialect. Warm sunshine filtered through the half-open door, making dust particles dance merrily in the air. Grandad lay with his eyes half-closed, rocked, hummed, and turned his walnuts.

Nana was the polar opposite to Grandad. She was always busy with something, usually at work on her flowers, herbs and vegetables in their yard. It was more of a vegetable garden than a yard, with every inch of earth planted. A big elm tree stood in the northwest corner, and there was a small plot with greens nearby. There was a large patch of peanuts on the east side, while the south wall sheltered pots and planters. In winter time, these were piled against the wall, the withered stems and flowers in them rustling in the chill wind as they waited to be revived by the coming springtime.

One cold day before there was any sign of spring, my mother and father arrived with their new-born, me, then left. I was a burden to them, but I became Nana and Grandad’s little treasure. At a little over one year old, I learned to walk by hanging onto the furniture as I followed my grandfather around the house. At two, I could walk well enough to stagger after him, pulling my toy duck along with me, as he walked to the shop. Sometimes, I messed around in the garden with my Nana; when she picked beans, I threw them to the hens; when she dug up her peanuts, I stamped around in the earth; when she put fertilizer on the flowers, I ran around the yard pulling the basket of cow dung.

The seasons passed, and soon four years had gone by. My parents visited me from time to time, bringing treats and toys, but I loved Nana and Grandad best. They took care of me every day, they loved and spoiled me, and no matter how naughty I was, they never laid a finger on me. I liked to snuggle up to Nana and listen to her stories. I used to pull her eyelids open when she was asleep. I liked going to the market with her. She swayed along in front, with a big bamboo basket over her arm. I trotted behind with a little ragbag over my shoulder. We strolled around all morning, and Nana’s basket was always full of all kinds of snacks. I spent the whole time stuffing my belly until it bulged like my little bag.

Happy times at Nana and Grandad’s home

I liked to go with Grandad to get water. He went in front with the carrying pole over his shoulder, a bucket swinging from each end, and I skipped along behind, pulling and dragging on the back one. As I waited for him to draw the water, I sat and played with pebbles. When he was ready and had the heavy buckets loaded at each end of the pole, he set off home, walking on the balls of his feet, with me at his heels. As Grandad puffed and panted, I thoroughly enjoyed myself splashing in the little puddles of spilled water.

Once, we met an enormous speckled cockerel that had slipped out of someone’s yard. He strutted around under a big locust tree, the picture of Mr High-and-Mighty. Grandad drew his water, I sat and played with pebbles, just as we usually did. Suddenly, the cockerel erected its large red comb, craned its thick neck, glared at me and charged. Quick as a flash, just as it was about to give my bottom a vicious peck, Grandad grabbed the carrying pole and lunged at it. The cockerel turned tail and fled. My terrified tears turned to laughter. At that moment, Grandad was my guardian angel.

In the big room of our house, in the northwest corner, there was a carved chest full of patterned ceramic jars of different sizes. They held Grandad’s favourite spicy salted peanuts, some fruits and pastries that Nana loved, and the cakes and biscuits that I could never get enough of.

Although Mum and Dad were not around, they gave Nana living expenses every month. Nana, of course, spent all this money on me. In the countryside in the early 1990s, not many children got to eat thin-skinned dumplings crammed with stuffing the way I did. My Nana was a clever cook. She not only produced all sorts of stuffed dumplings, but every once in a while she made me cakes with big red jujube dates in them.

Jujube cakes are always eaten at Chinese New Year in southwestern Shandong. The dough is rolled out flat, and then pulled into long strips; the cake is formed by coiling the strips around a date in the middle. These are arranged in circles and layered up into a tower. The shapes vary from family to family, everyone does it differently. They’re delicious and have a special meaning too, symbolizing people’s hopes for prosperity and a better life in the coming year.

Shen Yang with her younger sister, Star

Nana’s jujube cakes came in different flavours and shapes. With her nimble fingers, she used to push a few jujubes into the dough and just like that, she’d made a small animal. When the cakes had been steamed and taken out of the steamer basket, she deftly rubbed a little bit of the jujube paste between finger and thumb to form very small round bobbles which she stuck on top of each one, where they sat looking at you, like funny little eyes.

I would rush out of the door, clutching the little animals that Nana had made so carefully, and show them off to the other urchins. I was only four and a bit, I didn’t know any better. Yan, who was three years older than me, once managed to get a cake off me. I didn’t care, I gnawed at the stale mantou bun she’d given me in exchange, grinning and giggling.

Jujube cakes were a big treat, and the kids who didn’t get any were jealous. There was one six-year-old who was tormented by the sight of Yan gobbling down the tempting morsel, and the little swine sneaked into our yard when he knew I wasn’t there and told Nana about Yan persuading me to give up my cake. Nana was furious and I suffered the consequences too.

From that day on, Nana announced, she would not be making New Year jujube cakes again. ‘You can go and ask the moon and the stars,’ she told me. I begged and begged, and Grandad begged on my behalf, but he got short shrift. ‘Don’t you play Mr Nice Guy,’ she told him.

Grandad couldn’t say anything to that, so he just puffed and snorted through his whiskers.

And that was the end of the fragrant smell of steaming jujube cakes in our yard, for a good long while.

Shen Yang with her siblings, cousins and grandparents

One day, guests arrived to see an uncle and aunt whose house was at the back of ours. My aunt produced a table full of delicious food and steamed a pot of jujube cakes. I was playing with the chicks in the yard, but the moment I smelled them steaming, I started walking, drawn by the smell.

I didn’t ask for one, or help myself, I just stood staring at the freshly cooked jujube cakes with big, round eyes. Jujube cakes are not my favorite, but I had not had any for a long time and the fragrance made my tummy rumble.

My aunt looked at me and smiled. She took out a cake from the steamer basket, put it on a small saucer and gave it to me cheerfully. My eyes shone as I took it and ran away.

When the family were sitting in the back yard preparing dinner, I brought the saucer back, now empty. I stood there biting my lip, ogling the jujube cakes on the table. My aunt gave me another one without saying a word. But ten minutes later, I was standing in her yard with the saucer empty again.

‘This girl must be starving!’ my aunt said. ‘She’s had two jujube cakes, and it looks like she’s going to scoff the lot!’ And she ran to the front yard and called my Nana, ‘How many days has Yangyang gone without food?’

Nana rushed out of the house where she was cooking flatbreads, ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.

‘I just gave Yangyang two big jujube cakes, but twenty minutes later, she’s eaten all of them! And now she’s back with an empty saucer again. She can have as many as she wants, it’s not that, but I don’t want her to overeat,’ said my aunt anxiously. ‘Her uncle can only manage two at most before he’s full.’

Nana said nothing. She went straight to the coop at the foot of the north wall. On the ground, the chickens were fighting over the pieces of cake I had thrown to them. My aunt came in and looked astonished.

The thing was, her jujube cakes were doughy and didn’t have many jujubes. I had been spoiled by Nana. I had picked out all the jujubes and eaten them, and given all the rest of the cake to the chickens.

Nana was extremely apologetic. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Don’t ever give her anything again, she’s a spoiled brat!’

My aunt stood looking at the cake bits, as if she did not know whether to laugh or cry.

In spite of my misdeeds, my adored grandmother never laid a finger on me.

And after that, she used to cook up a few jujubes on their own if I was peckish.

Shen Yang’s youngest sister, Star

While I was being kept out of sight and having the time of my life at my grandparents’ house, my two younger sisters came into the world. As soon as they were born, Third Sister was spirited away to Granny and Grandpa’s house, and Fourth Sister joined me at Nana and Grandad’s. The day she arrived, there was a buzz of activity in the little yard. There was my father, busy unloading the car and carrying bags into the house. There was my mother, washing baby bottles and making up formula milk. Nana was happily moving furniture around and making up a cot bed. Grandad was walking around the house, this new little baby in his arms, crooning to her.

I sat outside in the yard, bawling my eyes out.

‘What’s up? What’s up?’ Grandad was the first to come out to me, still holding the baby.

‘No! No!’ I went into full tantrum mode, rolling around on the ground and screaming.

‘Ai-ya! Don’t lie in the dirt, get up!’ Nana heard me and came out too.

There was a roar from my father, ‘Whatever’s the matter? Get up, you little brat!’

That only made me cry harder, and the tears poured down my face.

‘Now, now, Yangyang, what’s upset you so much?’ This was my mother.

She squatted beside me on the ground and put her arms around me. I snuggled up to her, still casting glances at Grandad and the thing he was holding. Grandad twigged immediately and brought the baby over, ‘Meet your little sister.’

‘Little sister?’ I frowned at her puckered purplish face. I thought I’d never seen anything so hideous. ‘I don’t want an ugly-mug sister!’

They all roared with laughter, Nana and Grandad, Dad and Mum.

When everything had settled down, my parents slipped away. It was towards the end of 1989, the calm before the storm.

All images via Shen Yang

Students Around the World Desperate to Finish Studies in China

When Amma, an East African PhD student in the biological sciences at a university in Guangdong province, left for the holidays at the end of 2019, she planned to be gone three weeks. She put her experiment samples in the lab freezer, left her window open to let in some air, and decided to deal with her messy room when she got back.

Amma had no way of knowing that her departure would coincide with the outbreak of what is now known as Covid-19, a global pandemic that over a year and a half later has left her — and tens of thousands of other international students enrolled at Chinese universities — stuck indefinitely outside China amid its zero-tolerance approach to coronavirus prevention and control.

When news of Covid-19 began to break during the Lunar New Year travel rush in mid-January 2020, many international students had already gone home. Those who hadn’t were either told by their universities to leave or were forced, like Sunil, a fourth-year medical student in Shaanxi province from North India, to make the sudden decision of whether to leave or stay.

Sunil, who eventually got on one of the last planes out, was initially told by school officials that the Spring Festival vacation was being extended by two or three weeks, and then the semester would begin.

After hearing rumors, Amma contacted her university from abroad and was informed that the campus had been shut down: no one could come in or out.

“Though flights were available, I couldn’t really force my way in. [It was] like ‘If you come, we will not let you in. The gates are closed,’” she says.

China’s zero-tolerance policy has been very effective in keeping its virus numbers low, but some experts have begun questioning its long-term viability, economic and otherwise. Its stringent regulations have shut down several ports in southern China this year, causing disruptions in supply chains, not to mention the tolls its closed borders could take on diplomatic and cultural exchanges.

Over the past decade, China has courted foreign students, with the intention to become a global leader in education, which it sees as key to building ‘soft power’ and influence abroad. At a time when it is increasingly difficult for students in parts of Africa and Asia to get student visas and pay for their educations in the West, China has been “pushing this idea that [it] is a source of knowledge that is relevant to developing countries,” says Obert Hodzi, a lecturer in politics at the University of Liverpool. “They can tailor courses to suit certain countries’ demands … and attract students to China.”

Jinan University in Guangzhou, the capital of South China’s Guangdong province. Image via Depositphotos

After the US and the UK, China currently ranks third in the world for the most international students. In 2010, China’s Ministry of Education launched its Study in China initiative with the goal of having 500,000 international students by 2020. In 2013, this plan was incorporated into the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI), Xi Jinping’s pet infrastructure development project that currently involves 138 countries across Asia, Africa, and Europe.

In coordination with this policy, the Silk Road Scholarship Program offers 10,000 scholarships a year to students from countries participating in the BRI. In 2018, 492,185 students from more than 196 countries studied in China, up from 489,200 the year before, nearly 65% of whom came from BRI countries.

During spring 2020, all Chinese university classes were held online, and the international students who remained in the country were primarily confined to their dorms. Those who had left originally expected to come back when Chinese students returned to campus in the fall. When that didn’t happen, hopes were pinned on spring 2021; then, fall 2021. Now the consensus seems to be that China is waiting until after February’s Winter Olympics in Beijing.

Notably, the Chinese government has issued no word on the subject beyond iterations of this statement given by Foreign Ministry spokesperson Wang Wenbin on July 9, 2021:

“The Chinese government always attaches high importance to the issue of foreign students coming to China for their studies. On the basis of ensuring safety amid Covid-19, we will consider in a coordinated manner arrangement for allowing foreign students to return to China for their studies.”

“The assumption is that the universities will make arrangements with the students,” explains Hodzi. “Some universities did make those arrangements … but for some students, it [is] a bit of a challenge to continue their studies online.”

Not only in many international students’ home countries is the internet unstable or prohibitively expensive, but international students also disproportionately come to China to study the sciences and engineering. These disciplines require a hands-on, practical application.

Sunil is doubtful that his education since returning home can adequately prepare him to be a doctor. With the students in his pharmacology class spread out across a handful of time zones, having an actual online class is out of the question. Instead, his professor posts videos of experiments, which he and his fellow Indian classmates have had trouble downloading due to India’s ban on Chinese apps. His professor has also provided the class with a link to a website demonstrating reactions to certain drugs on an animated rabbit.

“We are supposed to be mixing actual chemicals and experimenting on the effect of drugs on animals. How can you practice practical medical skills on a simulation?” Sunil asks. “It’s simply not possible.”

He’s tried to compensate by reading daily from medical textbooks he’s acquired on his own and even thought about applying to a school in another country, like Russia or Georgia. However, none of his credits would transfer, and he doesn’t want to have to restart medical school from the beginning or cost his parents the extra tuition. “They said, ‘if you want to start again, we can support you,’ but on a personal level, I don’t want to be a burden to them. I don’t want them to have to start paying all the tuition fees again just because I’m impatient [or feeling] hopeless.”

A student walks past a signboard of the School of Journalism at Fudan University in Shanghai, China. Image via Depositphotos

Although China uses scholarships as an incentive to increase foreign enrollment, most international students are paying their own way. It’s become common in the developing world for parents to make great sacrifices — using all their savings or selling property — to send their children to universities in the Chinese mainland, seeing it as an investment for the family. A disruption or interruption in the studies of these students risks impacting their families as well.

However, even some students awarded Chinese government scholarships are currently struggling. China has stopped issuing the scholarships’ stipends on the grounds that the money was meant to be used for living expenses while in school in China. For Ibrahim, a Silk Road Scholarship recipient from Nigeria and an MA student in international business, the loss of this money has been grave. “It’s very hard for me to survive … I need to pay rent. I need to pay for food and other things, and with the arrangement of our studies, it’s very difficult to have a job,” he says.

To defray living costs and pay for the internet access he needs for his classes, he has relied heavily on assistance from family and raises chickens at his father’s home. His classmates have similarly been forced to generate income in innovative ways. “In most countries, it’s very hard to get a part-time job. You’re just trying your best to survive so that you can graduate and have your degree.” Ibrahim, too, has thought about transferring to another school, but it doesn’t make economic sense as a student with a full scholarship.

Since last fall, international students have been conducting a multi-social media platform campaign, using the hashtag #takeusbacktoChina to tell their stories and spotlight their plight. “We are in deep pain,” reads the tag on a related group’s Twitter account.

I am not a virus, I am student.#Takeusbacktochina pic.twitter.com/huqdKTi3Y1

— Takemebacktochina (@MasterVodro) September 16, 2021

What has turned challenging circumstances into a form of existential nightmare is how this transitional period has stretched on for so long. Since January 2020, students haven’t known whether they would be able to return to school in a month or a year, making it harder to plan for the immediate future and even make personal life decisions.

Amma was in the process of completing the experiments for her dissertation when she left, and the process of her degree has been stalled since. Recently, her advisor suggested that she find a lab nearby to resume her work, an idea she finds preposterous.

“Who’s going to buy the equipment? Who’s going to buy my experiment materials?” she asks. “Also, a lot of labs would be reluctant to let me do my work there because they’re not going to get the credit. I’m not their student.”

She’s going to wait until after the Olympics, and if she can’t return then, she might just forget about the program. “I think after February, I might just move on to my next plan. I’m probably going to end up getting married [and] look for a job elsewhere because that’s a part of my life that’s been put on hold. My partner and I were trying to get married after I graduated … but we might have to move that up.”

China hopes that the international students it educates will, to some extent, become China emissaries upon their return to their home countries, espousing the virtues of the country and the Chinese way of life. While it may be too soon to fully recognize how — and if — the situation will impact China’s relationships with certain countries in the long-term, the international students themselves and those in their immediate circles have indeed become more critical towards China.

“When this Covid situation ends, it’s going to be very difficult to start convincing people again to come to study in China,” Hodzi notes, adding, “[The handling of this situation] paints a very bad picture of what China usually talks about with ‘people to people exchange,’ ‘win-win,’ and ‘mutually beneficial’ type things … they really showed that when situations like Covid happen, then international students don’t matter.”

Amma’s feelings toward China haven’t changed much — she always knew what she was dealing with. Most of the people she knows, however, have become more negative.

Sunil, though, still feels blindsided. His years in Shaanxi were among the best in his life. The people were welcoming. He made new friends. He fell in love. His university treated the Chinese and international students with the same respect. He wrote the winning essays for several writing contests on China that were featured in national magazines and on websites, piling on the accolades. Now he says, “I feel like this is more of a one-sided love, where I’m continuously praising China and saying really good things … but China is like, ‘You want some appreciation? I’ll give you a certificate with your name written in golden letters, but if you ask me about when you can come back, I’ll just go silent.’”

The names in this article (except for Obert Hodzi) have been changed to ensure this story does not impact the ability of the featured international students to return to China.

Cover image via Depositphotos

This Video of Baby Dinosaurs is the Best Thing on the Internet Today

Pat yourself on the back for a job well done: you’ve successfully located the most extraordinary thing on the internet out of China today.

With the pre-opening of Universal Studios Beijing this week, crowds of invited (presumably VIP) guests have descended on the new theme park. As you’d expect in the 21st year of the 21st century, pictures and videos of their experiences have begun to find their way online, and the baby dinosaur footage, in particular, has wowed us.

Check out a RADII-curated medley of baby dino footage below:

The juvenile dinosaurs are located within the property’s Jurassic World Isla Nublar themed area.

Universal Studios Beijing is an amusement park within Universal Beijing Resort, which began its trial operations period on September 1 and officially opens to the public on September 20.

Cover image via vcg.com

3 Chinese Int’l Students on Rediscovering China During Covid

For more than 890,000 Chinese international students overseas, the past year and a half has involved struggle and confusion. In the wake of Covid-19, they’ve confronted xenophobia and racism abroad, competed for flight tickets to return to China, and took ultra-expensive online classes.

Beyond all the inconveniences, worries, and anxieties, however, it was also a time for reflection, connection, and discovery for many people, especially those who chose to come home.

Below, we meet Ashley Yang, Kevin Wu and Han Yi, three young overseas students who returned to China during the ongoing pandemic.

These returnees have embraced the new normal with resilience and have made this unexpected disruption into a time to pursue passions, advance their careers and reconnect with their homeland.

Ashley Yang: China’s Cyberpunk Aesthetics Are Surprising

For Ashley Yang, who has spent the last 10 years attending schools in Australia and London, 2020 and 2021 has been a journey to reconnect with her local youth culture and develop her business acumen.

“One thing that I found most surprising about China is young people here are very into cyberpunk [aesthetics], especially in Shanghai. They are very expressive with what they are wearing, and people here are more willing to step out of their comfort zone,” says Yang. “I think that’s really unique and interesting, but sometimes I get quite overwhelmed just looking at them.”

Image courtesy of Ashley Yang

Before returning to China in March 2020, Yang was in the midst of her master’s of entrepreneurship at University College London. She previously did her undergrad studies in branding and design at the University of the Arts London.

If it was not for Covid-19, she hoped to continue living overseas and find a job in London or Paris after graduation. However, the worsening coronavirus situation in the UK halted her plan and caused something of a personal dilemma — stay in London or return to China?

“On one side, it was pretty dangerous flying at that time, as you might contract the virus on the flight. But also, the situation in London was getting serious, and I was living alone,” Yang tells RADII.

After talking with her parents, she ultimately decided to come back to China and hopped on a plane the next day.

While working on her dissertation and attending occasional online courses, Yang hung out with her old friends in her hometown Kunming, where she met her current business partner. Together, they’ve rebranded a designer collective store called RAD, which features works from select independent designers from China.

Image courtesy of Ashley Yang

In applying her education to real-world business, Yang also met challenges localizing her skills.

For someone who had spent her entire adulthood and received most of her formal education in Western countries, China’s most popular social media sites — Weibo, Xiaohongshu (Little Red Book), WeChat — were all pretty new to her.

“I had to learn fast, but it has been a great experience,” Yang says, “I think RAD is going in the right direction right now.”

What’s also new to her is China’s fast-paced market, which, while vibrant, can sometimes be too much.

“I have been learning about doing marketing in China, and I am also getting adjusted to the fast-paced lifestyle. For business purposes, I think it is okay. But I don’t think I would compromise that part of me — I like a slow pace,” Yang says.

After more than a year of reconnecting with her hometown, Yang thinks she might stay in China for the next couple of years to continue exploring. Besides RAD, she plans to work on more personal branding and perhaps try her hand in the F&B industry — where her true passion in business lies.

Kevin Wu: Short-Video Apps Are a Window to Youth Culture

While Yang was rediscovering her connection with her home country after 10 years away, Kevin Wu, a sophomore and a junior golfer at Yale University, found himself falling in love with China’s short-video apps during his Covid-caused gap year.

“They provide a window for me to see the youth culture [in China], what is happening, and learn about China’s young population,” says Wu, referring to the most popular short-video apps Douyin, the Chinese version of TikTok, and Kuaishou, another rising video platform.

Wu attended an international school in Shanghai while growing up and describes the experience as “living in a bubble” — something he attributes to a Western education environment that causes students to lose touch with local pop culture.

Image courtesy of Kevin Wu

Having gone through a similar journey to Yang, Wu returned to Shanghai from the US amid the pandemic and decided to take a year off school.

Wu began learning to golf at the age of 8, and he is now a star member of the Yale men’s golf team and Hong Kong’s national golf team. During his gap year, he represented Hong Kong at several prestigious national golf tournaments in China.

As a computer science major with a background in economics, Wu had the opportunity to participate in internships in various industries, helping to evolve his perspectives on personal development and his career goals.

He first interned at a golf company, which allowed him to learn more about the golf industry as a whole, followed by a dating app company. This second internship provided him with perspectives on love and relationships in modern China.

His final internship was with a financial advisory firm, something he found “very exciting.”

Wu recently returned to the US for the upcoming fall semester, and he tells RADII that he’s very grateful for what he has learned in his home country.

Han Yi: China’s Club Scene Is Vibrant and Exciting

Han Yi is a 21-year-old freshman menswear fashion student at London College of Fashion who originally hails from Huainan, Anhui. Among his social circle, though, he is also known as an emo music producer and singer.

He returned to China at the end of March 2020 during spring break, after his parents insisted on him returning home (a recurring theme, as you’ve probably noted).

Image courtesy of Han Yi

During the mandatory quarantine period upon arrival, Han completed his first album, Virtual Wonderland, an emo-inspired work that reflects his personality, emotional states and interactions with the world.

At that time, with Covid-19 raging across the US, Han opted to continue his education remotely. Thanks to the flexibility that online classes have given him, Han has found more time to dabble in music production.

Later in 2020, Han finished his second EP, Romantic:) Stupid, and several other songs that document his feelings on romance, friendship and family relationships.

China’s relatively controlled Covid situation has allowed him to perform his music and DJ in clubs in cities such as Hangzhou and Shanghai.

He quickly discovered that the club scenes in major Chinese cities are quite different from London. “It is more vibrant and exciting out here — surprisingly open-mind, down-to-earth and inclusive. Touring around China has provided me with lots of opportunities to explore myself,” Han tells RADII.

Growing up obsessing with American hip hop music, two of Han’s favorite performers are ASAP Rocky and Lil Wayne, from whom Han gained enormous enlightenment and inspiration growing up. The spirit of being free, rebellious, and expressive, as well as the fashion trends associated with hip hop, continue inspiring him today.

Image courtesy of Han Yi

“Rappers are some of the coolest people I know, with a unique sense of fashion. The influence I got from them is one of the main reasons I am in the fashion industry now,” says Han.

He is proud to be a full-time fashion student and a part-time underground cool kid. In the world of Han, fashion and music go hand in hand and are two indispensable passions.

Talking to us from his hometown in Anhui, Han says he looks forward to returning to school in London if conditions allow, although he is grateful for the experience he has gained over the past 18 months.

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When Yang, Wu, and Han rushed to board returning flights home at the height of the pandemic in early 2020, there must have been a level of anxiety at the uncertainties they faced.

Fast forward to today, and the experience has proven to be one of self-discovery and reconnection with their home country. And that, dear readers, is priceless — if you’re asking us, anyway.

Cover image courtesy Ashley Yang

China’s High-Pressure Academic Landscape Has a Human Toll

The State Council — China’s chief administrative body — surprised Chinese parents and for-profit tutoring centers alike last month when it announced sweeping changes to the private tutoring and curriculum-based training center industry. The goal: reduce students’ workloads and tighten rules on for-profit curriculum tutoring companies.

In the wake of the announcement, much ink has been spilled on the economic impact of the regulatory changes, job losses experienced by foreign employees at affected businesses, and the role China’s chicken parents have played in growing the industry.

Less space, however, has been dedicated to how familial and societal pressures have impacted students’ education experience and led many of them into a seemingly never-ending cycle of after-school educational programs.

In parts one and two of our three-part series on China’s reform of the for-profit curriculum-based tutoring industry, we introduced the phenomena of chicken parenting, how training centers lure parents and how some parents have come to rely on after-school programs. In our final story, we look at how China’s high-pressure education environment impacts families and educators.

Big Shoes to Fill

In May, the hashtag #PKU prof can’t help his daughter with homework# went viral on Weibo, receiving more than 470 million total views. The hashtag was created under a video of Professor Ding Yanqing from Peking University School of Education discussing his struggles parenting his daughter.

Ding himself was a child prodigy, and both he and his wife graduated from Peking University, one of China’s top two universities. Ding’s daughter, however, used to receive the lowest grades in her class, and when Ding tried to help her with schoolwork, he and his daughter would “transform from the best dad-daughter duo to a state of war.”

Professor Ding Yanqing from Peking University School of Education discussing his daughter’s academic struggles. Screengrab via Weibo

His daughter’s grades did improve, but then she began to worry about not being close enough to the top of her class.

Eventually, Ding came to terms with the fact that his daughter would not be as achieved as he is. “She’ll be an average person, and it’s okay. What I do care about is her happiness.”

Another hashtag that went viral alongside Ding’s video: #Will you be okay if your kids won’t be as accomplished as you are?#. According to two surveys by Wuxi TV and China Youth Daily, about 30% of the participants cannot accept their kids achieving less than they have.

Of this 30% of Chinese parents, many become chicken parents (parents who do everything in their power to make their kids perfect), and a lot of chicken parents share similar personal backgrounds. M, a teacher and manager at a private tutoring company in China who asked to remain anonymous, identifies the chicken parents he has met as “those who achieved what they achieved because of how hard they worked.”

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A lot of these parents did not grow up in the city they now live in. For them, education was what brought them out of poor rural villages, gave them their current job and social status, and planted their roots in the fastest-growing cities of one of the world’s fastest-growing countries.

These chicken parents want for-profit training centers to exist because they are too busy to care for their children and because they can afford the most expensive cram schools to offer their kids a competitive edge. More importantly, they fear losing their socioeconomic status and view tutoring as a way to ensure their children don’t tumble down the ladder.

“You have learned through your own experience how you can change your fate and ascend through the socioeconomic ladder by working hard,” M says, reflecting on his interactions with these parents. “So, when it’s your turn to parent your kids, you will hold the same expectation for them as well.”

Whether chicken parents’ preconceived path for success still works today is up for debate. In 2020, the newly-invented phrases ’Small-town Test-taking Specialists’ (小镇做题家) and ‘Top-college Garbage’ (985废物) went viral on Chinese social media. The terms refer to now-grown chicken children who graduated from top colleges and cannot find a satisfying job.

Chinese students review textbooks in preparation for China’s national college entrance exam. Image via Depositphotos

These graduates went to the most intense high schools and participated in extracurricular activities or after-school tutoring, firmly believing that going to a top college would guarantee their future success. However, as the number of Chinese college graduates has drastically inflated, their efforts were futile.

The younger generation is deconstructing the narrative of using hard work to alter their fate, but not the older generation. When the government announced its crackdown on for-profit tutoring centers, some chicken parents in WeChat groups reacted with confusion and anger.

“Are you kidding me? I’m not sending my kid to a vocational school,” stated one parent. Another parent, who detests the idea of lowering expectations for his child, wrote:

“If a parent is a policeman, having seen so many people serving life sentences, should he be happy as long as his kid doesn’t end up in jail?”

However anxious these chicken parents are, people in the education industry do not think the cram school industry will vanish. M, for example, sees no reason for parents to worry.

“The education companies know that there is a demand for their product. They will do anything to produce something that will satisfy the parents,” says M. “The companies want to stay afloat, so they will be the ones working to allow the parents to send their kids somewhere.”

Other insiders believe that big educational brands may perish, and individual tutors will dominate the industry in the future.

Industry insiders are split on whether or not China’s for-profit tutoring companies will survive the current government crackdown. Image via Depositphotos

“The most enthusiastic chicken parents will always find a way to chicken their kids,” says K, a 15-year veteran of the education industry who requested anonymity. “The cram schools can be shut down. The parents will find a few other parents, rent a room in an office building, and find a former cram-school teacher. Now, they become the boss of their own ‘cram school’… the only downside is that they’ll be paying a bit more.”

“But for the parents committed to chickening their kids,” K adds, “do you think they’ll care?”

Relationships vs. Transactions

“The educational reform ought to … reduce homework, decrease the emphasis on tests and examinations, and support schools’ effort to teach students how to be humans.”
— Xinhua

Z is a graduate of one of China’s top colleges and has been a teacher at a public high school for more than 30 years (and, like so many others we spoke with while compiling this story, wanted to remain unnamed). Upon finishing college, he became a teacher because he had always adored the bond between teachers and students.

When he first became a teacher in the ’90s, he was promptly rewarded with students he got to know very well and remained friends with after they graduated. However, he feels that it has become increasingly challenging to bond with his students in recent years.

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“The teacher-student relationship has become more transactional,” says Z. “There’s only one metric of evaluation: whether I have succeeded helping my students improve their test scores.”

He understands that this excessive emphasis on score results comes from the increasing competitiveness of the gaokao — China’s standardized college entrance exam. But he still feels deeply dissatisfied with how students and their parents have changed as humans.

Chinese mothers hold up sunflowers to wish good luck to their children sitting the national college entrance exam, also known as the gaokao, in front of an exam site in Chengdu, Southwest China’s Sichuan province, on June 7, 2018. Image via Depositphotos

“There was one time over the weekend that a student had some questions about an exam review worksheet and texted me the questions early in the morning,” says Z. “I saw the text, but I was busy with something else. So, I didn’t respond to her.”

Two hours later, Z finished up his business and responded to the student. A while later, the student responded with a few follow-up questions, and he answered them all. Later that day, the student suddenly asked, “Can you tell me why it took you so long to respond to my questions?”

Z was caught off-guard. “First of all,” he says, “It was a weekend. I expect my students, who were already in high school, to know that they should not bother people during their days off and that I had no obligation to respond to her. This is basic courtesy.”

But Z was not in the mood to give his student a lesson on etiquette. So instead, he scrolled through the chat history and calculated the number of times the student waited for him to respond and the number of times he waited for her to respond.

It turned out that between the two of them, the student was worse at responding to texts.

Chinese student Zhang Yiwen poses for photos while doing sample tests after finishing the first day of the national college entrance exam, also known as the gaokao, in Shangqiu city, Central China’s Henan province, on June 7, 2016. Image via Depositphotos

“Parents do similar things, too,” Z says, recalling when a mother angrily asked him why he did not pick up a call from her at 11 PM the previous night.

“It may be a result of students taking too many private lessons,” Z suggests, “where they pay for a service and get to complain when the service is unsatisfactory. But I’m a teacher, and I’m a human, and humans should treat each other like humans. Is this too much to ask for?”

In the modern era, relations between teachers and students are taking a new form, as are interactions between pupils themselves — even primary school students.

D is a mother of two daughters and requested to remain anonymous for this story. She recalls that one evening when she asked her daughter about her day, her daughter told her that one of her peers asked everyone their final exam scores and recorded the scores in a notebook.

“Kids have begun worrying about how they can or cannot beat their peers academically already,” D laments, adding that her daughter was only in third grade at that time.

Such pressure on students can have devastating and irreversible results.

China reportedly has the highest youth suicidal rate in the world. Image via Depositphotos

Kelly Zhou, the head of a Shanghai-based private international kindergarten, attends regular meetings with local governmental administrators. “In every meeting, the first item on the agenda is always to report how many new youth suicide cases there have been since the last meeting,” says Zhou.

According to data from The Economist, China reports the highest youth suicidal rate in the world.

But there is reason to be optimistic: If the State Council’s new rules on for-profit curriculum tutoring companies can even slightly reduce the academic burden on youth, then the regulations are a positive development. And suppose China’s public schools can integrate training centers’ positive aspects, such as after-school childcare services. In that case, it’s fair to assume many parents will be able to stomach the regulatory changes.

Among those interviewed for this series by RADII, nobody believed that after-school tutoring was inherently bad or that it should be abolished entirely. In the words of one teacher we spoke with, “If some elements of the private education institutions are incorporated into the public school system, then kids, parents and educators will be able to benefit from it.”

Cover image via Depositphotos