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A slow revolution has been afoot in our developing lands.
Our domestic help is getting older — much, much older — and our vegetable vendors aren’t being replaced by their sons.
My Chinese maids, a decade ago, were often in their early twenties. No longer. Outside, my local fruit vendor and his wife spent hours until late night on the roadside of our apartment complex in Shanghai. One evening they were accompanied by an earnest-looking young man. He stood just a wee bit removed from the fruity proceedings. Present, yet not quite belonging there. The vegetable vendor proudly introduced him: ‘He goes to university next year.’
China has pumped billions into developing its education sector, leading to a high literacy rate — in the age-group of 15-24 years, 99.7% for men and 99.6 % for women as per Unicef data of 2008-2012. In the previous decade, in an attempt to build a larger skilled workforce, China also focussed massively on higher education, doubling the number of its colleges and universities to more than 2,000.
Consequently, many young people from small towns, villages and urban economic peripheries are now going to university rather than factories after having passed high-school. Along with suitcases filled with books and clothes, their hearts carry hopes of achieving the Chinese Dream that President Xi Jinping has spoken of.
Tents of Love
It was in this light that I read about ‘tents of love’ (爱心帐篷 or Àixīn zhàngpéng ) springing up in campuses in China. For, accompanying these hopeful youngsters, increasingly, are their parents. In some cases, even whole extended families. More often than not, they’ve travelled long distances by bus or train but are unable to find affordable accommodation in overbooked hotels near the university. Whereas earlier they’d bunk down on benches and in the open, some universities — Tianjin University, for instance — are providing free air-conditioned accommodation in the form of ‘tents of love’ in the gymnasium as a goodwill gesture towards the accompanying parents.
In this photo taken Aug. 25, 2016, Chinese visitors look at tents offered to relatives accompanying freshmen enrolling at the Tianjin University are seen inside a gym in north China's Tianjin Municipality. Many Chinese parents take their time off from work to help their children during their college enrollment process. (Chinatopix via AP)
^ Many Chinese parents take their time off from work to help their children during their college enrollment process. | AP
The practice has thrown up parenting questions about how much is too much. Is this a case of over-protective parents mollycoddling their only offspring born under the Chinese Government’s erstwhile Single Child Policy? Are the children being hindered from growing up into independent, self-sufficient adults? Comparisons have been made to the U.S. Universities, where a similar trend of ‘velcro parenting’ has led some campuses to set written boundaries on where and how long parents can indulge their separation anxiety.
Scoff if you must, but I found the trend touching. For, many of the parents seeking such accomodations in China are from the hitherto mentioned group of erstwhile higher education ‘have-nots’. These children are often the first generation in their family to reach university level. An achievement to be savoured, not just by the child, but the whole family which has been a stakeholder in sacrifices to ensure his/her arrival at this haloed destination.
This practice isn’t limited to China. In India too I see a similar phenomenon, especially amongst the newly upwardly-mobile middle class. According to data collected by MM Advisory Services, the number of Indian students going abroad has increased to 360,000 — a jump from 12% in 2014 to 17.8% in 2015. In most cases, similar to the Chinese youngsters, they are the first generation in their families to study abroad, often with education loans which will be paid by the parents. So, the parents tag along with suitcases filled with daal , achaar and corelle plates, helping set their children up with bank accounts, university apartment and an Indian kitchen permeated with the mother’s personal touch.
Is it an overindulgence? Perhaps.
Confucianism emphasises interdependence of relationships. Hierarchy and filial piety follow naturally in the maintenance of social harmony. Indian society similarly highly values self-sacrifice and duty.
Independence dances a complex dance with interdependence in both the Chinese and Indian societies.
Confucianism, a philosophy that permeates Chinese society in ways overt and subtle, emphasises interdependence of relationships. Hierarchy and filial piety follow naturally in the maintenance of social harmony. Indian society similarly highly values self-sacrifice and duty. Our mythology and cultural history is suffused with these virtues. In modern times, these values have been challenged by modern lifestyles and aspirations. Independence is jostling for its ground inch by inch.
Source: Wikipedia
The Gaokao or 高考 (National Higher Education Entrance Examination) is a prerequisite for entrance into almost all higher education institutions at the undergraduate level. It is usually taken by students in their last year of senior high school
There has been no age restriction for applicants. So, as with anything, parents need to get involved.
Similarly, scholarship is traditionally highly prized in Chinese society. For centuries, clearing the grueling Chinese Imperial Civil Service examination was the aim of families across the land. Knowledge-seeking has been the ultimate aspiration in India since times unknown too. Hence the traditional high regard for ascetics and Brahmins. In recent decades, though, this stress on education has led to an over-competitive Gao Kao national higher education entrance examination in China while in India we have our own race for the IITs and AIIMS.
I used to teach a business management course at an Indian university over a decade ago. I used to ask every new batch to write down their dreams for the future. The majority of youngsters, mainly from semi-urban and small-town backgrounds, mentioned the desire to look after their parents once they were economically self-sufficient. Years later, I worked at Infosys’ Shanghai office, training young university graduates just entering the workforce. I’d give them the same exercise. Most of the young men and women were, again, from modest backgrounds. Among the aspirations for becoming a Project Manager, earning a 10,000-RMB salary, possessing a big house and car, a desire similar to their Indian counterparts was inevitably tacked on: ‘I want to look after my parents.’
Are ‘love tents’ an overindulgence of parental love? Perhaps. Or perhaps they’re a logical progression for collectivist societies that value interdependence over independence. And education above all.
Both China and India fall in this category.
