China's Growth Places Strains On a Family's Ties
NANCHANG, China -- China's success is tearing the Fan family apart.
Qun, a successful 39-year-old entrepreneur in Beijing, bought his parents a new apartment and takes them sightseeing in other Chinese cities. But he feels he has little in common with them any more and less to say to them. His younger brother Jun, 37, is reeling over a divorce after his wife left him to pursue opportunities in southern China. He is unemployed after a failed business venture and has been living with his parents for more than a year.
At a loss over how to deal with his family's situation, patriarch Fan Hanlin often retreats to his bedroom, usurped in his role of respected elder. His older son's social standing outstrips his, and his younger son ignores his advice. Mr. Fan's wife escapes by playing mah-jongg each afternoon with friends.
"Everyone is unhappy," says the elder Mr. Fan, 70.
For thousands of years, Chinese have made the family paramount, with generations often living together, and younger members deferring to their elders. Fathers were the head of the household. But opportunities born of China's move to a market-based economy over the past two dozen years are creating new wealth, new hierarchies and new strains. The scramble to keep up with neighbors, or one's own relatives, is testing family ties, contributing to a rise in social problems.
Some 1.6 million couples divorced in China last year, a 21% jump over the year before, according to China's Ministry of Civil Affairs. In Beijing, there were 800 reported cases of domestic violence in 2004, double the number the previous year, according to the city's Bureau of Justice.
Younger Chinese are opting for privacy over extended-family living and buying parents their own apartments. Others are putting their aging parents in nursing homes, as convenience trumps filial piety, an unheard-of violation of Confucian ethics. Over the past decade, the number of nursing-home residents has increased 40% to more than one million.
In their room at the Beijing Fifth Social Welfare Institution, a state-run nursing home, one elderly couple explained why they live there. The Wangs, who declined to be identified by their full names, say they moved to Beijing after retiring to be closer to their daughter. But they found it too lonely living in the high-rise apartment she bought them.
"We didn't want to live with her because...in a market economy, competition is very fierce and children have no extra time or energy to take care of their parents," says Ms. Wang, 75. The Wangs say they like it at the institution, because there is more socializing. They note their daughter, a securities-company executive, has cut her once weekly visits to holidays and phone calls. "She has no time," says Ms. Wang.
Parents of young children are leaving their offspring in the care of relatives for years, as they seek better jobs far from home. Millions of peasants have left their rural homes for work in cities, while some professionals are going abroad. The trend is spawning China's own generation of latchkey children, numbering in the tens of millions.
Last September, a 16-year-old, whose mother had left their village to work in the city, and two friends robbed several dozen students at knifepoint in the city of Daye, say local authorities. The teen was among several dozen youngsters from a nearby village with at least one parent working elsewhere. Many had dropped out of school. "These kids are like land mines who could explode any moment," says village chief Hu Yunyan.
One of last year's most-viewed television series in China was "Chinese-Style Divorce." It focuses on a doctor whose marriage unravels after he goes to work at a higher-paying hospital, backed by foreigners, to satisfy his wife's demands for a better life. The show has spawned a best-selling book and pages of commentary and columns in newspapers.
The show's producer, Zhu Zhibing, says he came up with the idea for the series after observing how the race to get ahead in China is eroding family relationships. "Everyone is focused on making money," he says. "It destabilizes society."
In the Fan household, life followed traditional guidelines when the children were growing up. Mr. Fan, head of the household, taught physics at a high school and his wife, Luo Shuzheng, was an engineer in a state-run factory. They had three children -- two boys and a girl -- who excelled at school, and tested into prestigious universities.
Like other Chinese children, the Fans were expected to obey their father without question. "We required [the children] to sit still and didn't let them fool around," Mr. Fan says.
Usually, just raising his voice was enough, but Mr. Fan says sometimes he hit the boys. He still recollects with pride how, after he hit his younger son in an effort to improve his study habits, the boy scored so well on college-entrance exams that he ranked among the top in Nanchang County.
The Fans were a tight-knit clan. Qun, the oldest, looked after his two younger siblings while their parents were at work. Many nights, their mother stayed up mending clothes and making cloth shoes for the children. Sundays were a rush of shopping, cooking and housework. Neither Mr. Fan's nor his wife's parents lived with them, but the couple set aside part of their small income each month to give to their parents.
Like generations of Chinese, Mr. Fan and his wife, Ms. Luo, envisioned a life driven by filial duties for their own children: study hard, find a stable job, get married, produce offspring (preferably male) and support their parents in old age. But in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when the Fan children were graduating from college, China's economic reforms were opening up all sorts of new opportunities, in job choices, lifestyles and ways to get rich.
Qun jumped at the chance to do something different. Bucking the trend among college graduates at the time to take a state-sector job, he opted for a marketing position in a joint-venture company of SmithKline Beecham, now GlaxoSmithKline PLC. He learned about the pharmaceutical business and Western marketing techniques, befriended American colleagues and helped the company successfully launch its Contac brand of cold medicine in China.
In 1996, he started his own consulting company, advising drug companies on doing business in China. Today, he says, his company employs a dozen people, including his wife, Li Chunhui . The business generates annual revenue of more than $1.2 million, he says, and aftertax profit of 15% to 20% of revenue.
As Qun prospered, the distance widened between him and his family in Nanchang, a city of 4.5 million nearly 800 miles from his new home in Beijing. He shares few details of his life in the city with his parents. They don't understand his business, he says, and wouldn't necessarily approve of his lifestyle. He and his wife each drive their own car, dine out frequently and retain two housekeepers, including one just to look after their pet Pekinese. This year, they moved to a two-story house in a wealthy suburb.
His parents don't have a car or a housekeeper, rarely eat out and take pride in saving. "If my parents saw me spending this kind of money, I'd be embarrassed," Qun says, as he and his wife grab a coffee at a Starbucks shop on the way home from the office. He notes the few hundred dollars they spend each month on such luxuries as fresh beef, imported cookies, dog sweaters and a sitter for their dog is more than his parents' monthly income.
In the past, Chinese families revolved around fathers and sons. But like other younger-generation Chinese, Qun views his first allegiance as with his "xiao jiating," or small family unit centered around his marriage.
The couple have resisted suggestions by Qun's parents for them to have a baby. Instead, Qun's wife insists their Pekinese dog, "Wrong Wrong," should be recognized as a "grandson," proclaiming the dog's surname to be "Fan." Qun says this offended his mother, and she once complained that he should find a wife "who listens more." In traditional China, a son would have quietly accepted such criticism.
But Qun says he told his mother that if she had a problem with his wife, she should tell her directly. "My main family is with Linda," he says, using his wife's English name. Like many of today's middle-class Chinese, the couple also use Western names, which is seen in certain circles as a sign of being modern and sophisticated. Qun also goes by the name of James.
Qun's mother says she doesn't care how they raise their dog, but "you still need to have a child. How will you get by when you are old? Dogs can't take care of you."
These days, Qun sees his parents only a few times a year. Conversations tend to be about Nanchang friends or family, since his parents have different views on other subjects. "They always complain about how the government is unfair and society is unjust," says Qun. "I try to influence them...but I think they'll never catch up to my way of thinking."
Min, the youngest Fan sibling, also resisted her parents' traditional expectations. Ms. Luo says she hoped her daughter, after graduation from college, would return to Nanchang. Instead, Min settled in the southern city of Guangzhou, where she is married, has a child and works at a major Chinese insurance company.
Jun, the middle sibling, is still figuring out his place in the new China. Growing up, he says the constant message from his parents and school was: "If you just listen, you'll be successful and society will take care of you." After college, he accepted a job at the local subsidiary of the state-run China National Machinery & Equipment Import & Export Corp.
Working as a trader, he exported engines to other Asian countries and the U.S. and earned more than $10,000 in bonuses, he says. But after more than a decade on the job, his salary changed little, totaling about $200 a month.
In 1993, Jun married a fellow office worker, Zhu Yifang. Their employer provided them with a small apartment and they had a son in 1995.
After the baby was born, Jun's mother spent long stretches of time living with the couple, a traditional Chinese practice. But Ms. Zhu says she resented her mother-in-law's presence, which she regarded as interference. "It would have been better if the older generation didn't live with us," Ms. Zhu says. "But I couldn't refuse," she says.
Unlike wives in pre-reform China, Ms. Zhu could walk away, with more freedom and job opportunities. In 1999, she went to southern China to work as the sales agent for a construction-material company, leaving her husband to care for their son, then 4 years old. In 2000, the couple divorced. Today, Ms. Zhu lives in Nanchang with a boyfriend and earns more than $500 a month, she says, teaching English at a university and running her own English class.
After the divorce, in 2001, Qun offered his younger brother a job at his company in Beijing to market a vitamin supplement and oversee a handful of employees. Jun quit his state-sector job and accepted.
But he felt uncomfortable leaving his son in his parents' care, he says. He couldn't get used to Beijing or his new job. He had a hard time persuading retailers to buy the vitamin supplement, and after a year, the venture had lost more than $60,000. He says the company didn't spend enough to promote the product.
Qun says his younger brother "approached the job like he was still at a state-run company...He got up in the morning, drank a cup of tea, and then did only what I told him to." He says his brother "often complains and finds excuses....We live in different worlds."
Jun says that by his older brother's standards, "I haven't succeeded...but the goals he chooses are different from mine." He thinks his brother "doesn't necessarily like what he does, but he wants to earn money." His own goal in life, Jun says, is to first be a good father.
Jun returned home and last year moved in with his parents. That is a reversal of Chinese tradition, in which grown offspring typically provide for their parents.
Sitting on the apartment patio on a recent day, Jun sipped tea from a beer mug and pondered his future.
"I haven't thought through a lot of things, like how to raise my kid, how to be a model parent and how to live with my parents," Jun says. "I'm just considering the question, 'How successful should I be?' People drive a [Mercedes] Benz; I don't have a car."
Mr. Fan and Jun often squabble over how to raise Jun's son, now 9 years old. "I tell [Jun] his son should go to sleep at 9 p.m. or he'll be tired at school. But I talk and no one listens," says Mr. Fan.
Jun says that his father "has lived this long, but doesn't know what family is. You need to show love to your kid, but [the elder Mr. Fan] doesn't express his emotions."
After initially rejecting his brother's suggestion that he look for a job outside of Nanchang, Jun recently had a change of heart. He says he plans to visit Shanghai to explore an opportunity to work for a trading company there.
Economic changes have given people in China more money, but are also causing "more pressure" Jun says. "Some contradictions always existed in our family," he says, "but when life was simple, we just lived with them."
中国经济发展考验传统家庭关系
中国经济的巨大成功投射在一个普通家庭身上，显现出来的是日益让人忧虑的、家庭关系的疏离。
现年39岁的范群是北京一个成功的企业家，他为父母买了一套新公寓，也曾带他们到中国其他城市旅游。但他总是感觉自己与父母之间很难再有共同点，也没什么话说。
他的弟弟范军(Fan Jun, 音译)今年37岁，几年前离了婚，妻子去了中国南方寻找发展机会。他的公司倒闭后就一直失业在家，和父母一起住了一年多了。
父亲范汉林(Fan Hanlin, 音译)似乎面对这样的家庭状况不知如何处置，常常独自呆在卧室里，往昔的长者地位也已不复存在。大儿子范群的社会地位已超越了他，小儿子范军又对他的建议置之不理，而妻子则是一头扎进了麻将。“每个人都不开心，”70岁的范汉林叹息道。
中国几千年来的传统一直都把家庭放在非常重要的地位，在几代同堂的大家庭中晚辈总是对长辈恭恭敬敬、言听计从，父亲更是一家之主。但过去20多年中国向市场经济的转型，造就了一大批新的富裕阶层、新的社会阶层，也带来了新的社会压力。每个人都在努力向前赶，希望不要被自己的邻居或亲戚落在后面，家庭纽带遇到了前所未有的考验，社会问题随之出现。
中国民政部的数据显示，2004年中国约有160万对夫妻离婚，较2003年增加21%。北京市司法局的数据则显示，2004年北京接到800起家庭暴力报案，较2003年增加了一倍。
新一代的中国人开始注重个人隐私，不喜欢大家庭生活。有些人为父母单独购买了公寓，其他人则将年迈的父母放到了敬老院，方便似乎比孝顺更为重要，孔夫子若在一定也会无奈地长叹一声了。过去10年，全国敬老院入住人数增加了40%，总数超过了100万人。
在北京国有的第五福利院，一对不愿透露全名的王姓夫妇讲起了他们是如何住进养老院：他们退休后到了北京，为的是能离女儿近一些，但住在女儿为他们买的高层公寓里太孤独了。
75岁的王太太称：“我们没打算和女儿住在一起......市场经济下的竞争非常激烈，孩子们没有多余的时间或精力来照顾父母，”她说，他们喜欢养老院的环境，因为在这儿他们能与别人有更多的交往。在一家证券公司担任管理工作的女儿最初是一周来看他们一次，但现在已简化成了节日拜访和电话问候，王妈妈解释说：“她没时间。”
为了在远离家乡的地方找到更好的工作，也有许多人将年幼的孩子托给了亲戚照看，一走就是好几年。在中国，几百万的农村人口离开了土地，来到城市找工作，而城市里的精英人士则忙著出国。于是，在中国就有了一大批脖子里挂著钥匙的孩子，人数估计达上千万。
去年9月，三个最大不满18岁、最小14岁的少年手持砍刀，闯入了湖北大冶一家中学的学生宿舍，对53名住校的学生实施了抢劫。这三名来自大冶郊区大林山村的少年都是父母至少有一方在外打工，同村的留守少年还有几十人，许多已辍学，“这些孩子就像随时可能爆炸的地雷，”村长胡运岩(Hu Yunyan, 音译)忧心忡忡地称。
去年中国收视率最高的一部电视剧是《中国式离婚》，讲述的是一个医生在妻子要求提高生活水平的情况下到一家外资高收入医院工作后，婚姻逐步破裂的故事。电视剧的播出带动了小说的热销，报纸上也出现了连篇累牍的评论和专栏文章。
《中国式离婚》的制片人朱质冰表示，他是在看到中国目前的激烈竞争对家庭关系的伤害后，产生了拍摄这部电视剧的想法。“每个人都在关注挣钱，”他说，“这不利于社会稳定。”
在范家，孩子们小时候受的是传统教育。一家之主的范汉林在一所高中教物理，妻子罗舒筝(Luo Shuzheng, 音译)在一家国有工厂任工程师。他们有两个儿子，一个女儿，在校时学习成绩优异，并最终考入了名牌大学。
和其他中国孩子一样，范家的三个孩子被要求听父母的话，“好好呆著，不要到处乱跑”。
范汉林说，一般只要他一提高嗓门，孩子们就会很听话，但有时也会打儿子。他现在还会不无得意地想起，范军被打了一顿后在高考中考出了当地屈指可数的高分。
一家人曾共同努力，互帮互助。身为老大的范群在父母上班时承担起了照顾弟妹的责任。妻子罗舒筝很多个夜晚都挑灯为孩子们缝补衣服和制作布鞋，星期天则忙于买东西、烧饭和各种家务活。范汉林和罗舒珍双方的父母都不和他们住一起，但夫妻每个月都会从微薄的收入中拿出一部分给老人。
和世世代代的中国人一样，范汉林和罗舒筝认为孩子们的生活也应遵循这样的轨迹：努力学习，找一份稳定的工作，结婚，生子（最好是男孩），赡养年老的父母。但20世纪80年代末和90年代初，范家的孩子们大学毕业时，中国的经济改革呈现了各种各样新的就业选择、生活方式以及致富途径。
范群抓住机会，打算做些与众不同的事。他没有像同时期的大学毕业生一样进入国营企业工作，而是到葛兰素史克(Glaxosmithkline PLC)的前身──史克必成(SmithKline Beecham)的一家合资公司做起了营销工作。在工作中，他了解了制药行业和西方的营销技巧，与美国同事交下了朋友，并帮助公司成功地在中国推出了感冒药品牌康泰克(Contac)。
1996年，范群成立了自己的咨询公司，专门为制药公司在中国开展业务提供咨询服务。如今，这个公司雇佣了包括他的妻子李春惠(Li Chunhui, 音译)在内的12个人，年收入超过人民币1,000万元（合120万美元），税后利润为收入的15%-20%。
随著范群事业上的日益成功，他与老家南昌的家人之间的隔膜也越来越深；南昌和北京相距1,250公里，拥有450万人口。他很少告诉父母自己在北京的生活细节。他说，父母不懂他的生意，他的生活方式也没有必要赢得他们的认可。范群和妻子都有自己的汽车，两人经常外出吃饭，家里有两个保姆，其中一个只是负责照看他们的宠物狗。今年，他们刚刚搬入了北京郊外富人区的一幢两层别墅。
范群的父母没有汽车，没有保姆，很少外出吃饭，并以节俭自豪。
在下班回家的路上，范群和妻子顺路去星巴克(Starbucks)喝咖啡，端著咖啡杯的范群不无感慨：“如果我父母看到我这样花钱，我会感到很不好意思。”他说，每个月他们花在购买新鲜牛肉、进口饼乾、小狗衣服以及狗保姆身上的钱比他父母一个月的收入还多。
过去中国的家庭都是以父子关系为主，但范群等年轻一代的中国人认为，他们首先应该属于自己以婚姻维系的小家庭。
对于父辈提议的生孩子事情，范群和妻子也是置若罔闻。妻子李春惠坚持称，他们的宠物狗也应被视作一个“孙子”，也应该姓范。这让范群的母亲罗舒筝很不高兴，有一次她就对范群说，他应该找一个更听话的妻子。
在传统的中国社会，儿子应当顺从地听取这样的批评。但范群说，他当时就告诉母亲，如果对李春惠有什么不满，可以直接跟她说。“和Linda的小家庭才是我主要的家庭，”范群说，Linda是李春惠的英文名。和今天中国许多的中产阶层一样，这对夫妻也为自己起了外国名字，在某些圈子里这是现代和成熟的标志。
范群的母亲说，她才不关心他们如何养狗，但“你们还是得要个孩子。否则等你们老了怎么办，狗能照顾你们么？”
现在，范群一年只去探望几次父母，谈话内容也只限于南昌的朋友或家人，因为他们在其他问题上的观点都不一致。“他们总是抱怨政府和社会有多么不公平，”范群表示，“我试图影响他们……但我看他们的想法永远也不会变得和我一样。”
范家最小的孩子范敏（音译）也违反了父辈传统的期望。母亲罗舒筝说，她原本希望女儿大学毕业后会回到南昌。但范敏去了南方的广州结婚生子，目前在一家国有大型保险公司工作。
二儿子范军仍在考虑自己在新时代中应处的位置。他说，小时候父母和学校总是告诉我们“只要听话，就能成功。”大学毕业后，他被分配到国营的中国机械设备进出口公司(China Machinery & Equipment Import & Export Corp.)南昌分公司。
他的工作内容是向美国和一些亚洲国家出口发动机，一度挣了1万多美元的奖金。但10多年过去，工资基本没有变化，还是一个月200美元左右。
1993年，范军和同事朱易芳（音译）结了婚，公司分给他们一套小公寓。1995年他们有了一个儿子。
儿子出生后，范军的母亲搬去和这对夫妻住了很长时间；孙辈出生后由家中老人照看是中国的传统做法。但朱易芳说，她并不喜欢婆婆卷入他们的生活，“如果长辈不和我们住一起，情况会好得多，但我没法说不。”
中国的改革开放也给许多像朱易芳这样的妻子和母亲提供了更多走出家门追求自由和工作的机会。1999年，朱易芳在中国南方一家建材公司谋的一份销售代理的工作，于是留下丈夫在南昌照看4岁的儿子，自己毅然离去。2000年，范军和朱易芳离婚了。如今也在南昌的朱易芳有了一个男朋友，自己月收入500多美元，在一家大学教英语并经营自己的英语课程班。
2001年，范群为离婚后的弟弟在自己的北京公司里安排了一份工作，负责推广一种维生素片，并管理几个员工。于是，范军辞去了国有企业的工作，来到北京。
但要把儿子留给父母照看，这让范军很不习惯，他也无法适应北京和新的工作。他费了很大的劲说服零售商购买维生素片，但一年后这项业务的亏损还是超过了6万美元。他认为公司在产品推广上投入的资金不够。
范群则说，范军“的工作方式好像还是在国有企业里……早上起来喝杯茶，然后我说什么，他就做什么。他老是抱怨和寻找各种借口……我们生活在不同的世界里。”
范军说，“以范群的标准来看，我一事无成……但他选择的目标和我的不同。”他觉得范群不一定喜欢自己做的事情，但是想挣钱。范军说，自己的人生目标首先就是做一个好父亲。
范军回到家乡，去年搬去和父母同住。这也不符合中国通常是父母搬入子女家中的做法。
最近的一天，范军坐在公寓的露台上从啤酒杯中啜了一口茶水，构想著他的未来。
“我还有很多问题没有仔细考虑过，比如，怎么教育儿子，怎么做一个模范父亲，怎样和我的父母一起生活，”范军说，“现在我只是在想：怎么才能成功？已经有人开著奔驰(Benz)上街了，但我连一辆汽车都没有。”
范军和父亲常常为了如何教育9岁的儿子而争吵。“我跟他说，他儿子应该晚上9点就睡觉，否则上学会犯困。但我说的话没人听，”范汉林表示。
范军则认为，父亲“虽然活了这么多年，却并不明白家庭真正意味著什么。你必须向孩子表达自己的关爱，但（父亲）不会表露自己的情感。”
范群曾建议范军离开南昌去找工作，一开始被范军拒绝了，但最近他的想法有所改变。范军说，他打算去上海看看，能否在一家贸易公司找份工作。
范军说，经济发展让中国人的腰包鼓了起来，但也带来了更多的压力，“家人之间总有矛盾，但生活简单的时候，人们就能忍受这些。”
