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Roula Khalaf, Editor of the FT, selects her favourite stories in this weekly newsletter.
The writer is a former Sinology scholar in Beijing
In the classroom of a mandatory four-hour propaganda class at a Chinese university, morale is low.
A quarter of the students are sleeping and around half are busy with other coursework. The rest look bored.
The reality on campus contradicts President Xi Jinping’s view of the importance of sizheng or “political education courses”.
Taught in Chinese schools and universities since the early 1990s, sizheng classes aim to reinforce student loyalty to the Communist party. Under Xi, they have increasingly emphasised national security and the president’s own philosophy.
Xi claims the classes are working as intended. During a summit in Beijing in May, he declared that “the four self-confidences of the majority of young students have been significantly enhanced, and their mental outlook is high-spirited” all thanks to sizheng.
Having recently departed China after two fascinating years as an international student in Beijing, I’m not so sure.
“These classes are a waste of time. They either require too much coursework or are simply too boring,” said one student, who had been attending the lessons for years.
Mandatory sizheng lectures include Chinese-socialist takes on politics, culture and economics. Each runs for four hours, with a biweekly schedule. And that’s just one module.
Graduate Chinese students typically must take at least one mandatory module plus one elective. Some can take even more. Choices can include lessons such as “Marxism and social science methodology” and “Xi Jinping’s thoughts on the rule of law”. Undergraduate degrees can require up to eight modules, while primary and high schools teach sizheng content through classes like “morality and law”. All are assessed through strict attendance, assignments and final exams.
“One of my sizheng classes required eight reflection papers. I missed two and got really stressed. If you fail a sizheng class, you’re screwed. You’ll need to repeat it next term, or may even fail your entire degree,” said the student.
Not only are the lessons not popular, confidence of young people in China seems to be at a low ebb. Youth unemployment is high and a 2022 Chinese government mental health survey showed that nearly a quarter of 18- to 24-year-olds faced the risk of depression.
The government fears that an increasingly wobbly economy could undermine support for the party, particularly among young people. Evidence that sizheng is producing a “high-spirited mental outlook” among them is mixed.
Even at a society of young Marxists in Beijing there seemed to be some confusion about exactly what the country’s political ideology was.
The society’s more activist predecessor once organised protests for Chinese workers’ rights. After a government crackdown, it “ceased to exist, except in name,” a senior comrade explained in our first meeting. Would there be any factory trips to investigate workers’ conditions that year? He was not sure.
During another meeting one young comrade demanded to know the definition of Marxism that was being used.
“Excuse me, but what kind of Marxism are we talking about here? Because, you know, if our country’s definition of Marxism is just ‘doing things well’, then Bill Gates could claim to be the world’s greatest Marxist.”
Quibbles about definitions aside, gaining youth support via political lessons is a difficult task according to one academic.
“It would be hard nowadays to convince the youth that the state is improving their life,” said Ning Leng, assistant professor of public policy at Georgetown University.
Back in the classroom, the students are still complaining. “It’s a way of distracting young people away from China’s problems. But will this work?” asked one. “If you’re over 18, it’s much harder to distract you. You feel these problems on your own skin. So I don’t think any adults will take these [sizheng] classes to heart. And some children may ignore them too.”