China’s annual great migration is underway. Millions of people are on their way home to celebrate the transition to a new year. When the country enters the Year of the Horse on the night of February 17, glasses will be raised in villages and cities alike, and the celebrations will last until dawn.
For most, the journey home is a welcome occasion. Yet it also has a darker side, marked by sorrow, longing, and tears. Migrant workers are about to reunite with their own children—children they have not seen for a long time. Newspapers refer to them as “left-behind.” In the parents’ absence, grandparents or others have taken care of them.
In the meantime, parents and children have drifted apart. The youngest no longer even remember what their parents look like. For others, memories of the last visit are blurred, as if dipped in Vaseline; time passes, and children forget quickly.
The New Year celebration brings the problem to a head. Children who have “grown up on the phone” get their mother and father back for a few days—only to lose them again. In a Chinese newspaper report, an unhappy twelve-year-old is quoted as saying: “Mom on the mobile always says ‘be obedient,’ but she never asks how tall I’ve grown.”
According to official statistics, China has around 300 million migrant workers. The phenomenon emerged in the early 1980s, when Deng Xiaoping’s reforms unleashed an unprecedented drive for opportunity. People left their farms and homes to seek their fortune in the cities and the wealthier coastal provinces. But migrants were rarely allowed to bring their children, and even today they are often stopped by the authorities’ strict regulations.
Migrant workers take whatever jobs they can find and often move from place to place. Working conditions are generally poor—and wages low. Is that why the children must remain behind?
China’s National Bureau of Statistics and UNICEF estimate the number of left-behind children at 60 to 70 million. Many manage well, especially where grandparents are healthy and schools are good. But elderly caregivers may be worn out or ill, and often struggle to support children through the demands of daily life. Several studies show that many of these children suffer from distress and mental health problems. Many feel lonely, and the most vulnerable say they are bullied.
With the New Year comes joy and sorrow in the same package. Children are always full of anticipation, especially when their parents are expected home. For a few days, the family lives an intense togetherness—good meals and the exchange of gifts, but also admonitions, stress, and small quarrels. Then suddenly it is over, and the child stands bewildered on the platform. Many describe it as an annual separation crisis that never truly ends.
Ten years ago, the government adopted a program to help left-behind children. Local leaders were instructed to map the problems and implement “appropriate measures.” Yet the Party organ People’s Daily states that too little is being done and that “the task must be taken seriously.” Schools and kindergartens are given special responsibility, but many lack both resources and expertise.
Researchers argue that the authorities’ household registration system is the root of the problem. In China, every citizen is issued a residence permit, the “hukou.” The permit grants access to various welfare benefits—but only in the place where it was issued. This means that Chinese who move to the city do not have the same rights as regular urban residents.
The system also affects children who move with their parents. In the city, they must pay high school fees and are often denied access to upper secondary education. Migrant children who accompany their parents to the city also do not receive the same medical services, such as affordable vaccinations and follow-up care.
China has traditionally maintained a sharp divide between rural and urban residents. Many believed the Communists would do more to reduce it when they seized power in 1949. But Mao let it persist, and his successors have also failed to resolve it.
In 2024, disposable income for urban residents was 49,000 yuan, while rural residents earned only 19,000 yuan. This means that people in cities earn on average more than 2.5 times as much as those in the countryside.
Migrant workers who go to the city usually get the lowest-paid jobs. According to several analyses, they earn around 30 percent less than urban residents in the same positions.
Fortunately, some efforts are being made to make the hukou system more flexible. In recent years, it has become easier for migrant workers to obtain residence permits in smaller cities and towns, allowing them to bring their children if they wish. This is a deliberate strategy by the authorities to strengthen smaller cities at the expense of the largest ones.
Another measure involves establishing boarding schools for school-age children, including left-behind children. Depopulation in many local communities has made smaller schools unviable. Today, roughly one quarter of all rural students attend boarding schools. For lower and upper secondary students, the share is significantly higher.
In some areas, such as Tibet and Xinjiang, the boarding rate is estimated at 70 percent. Here, the authorities also have a political motive for separating parents and children, as both Tibetans and Uyghurs are considered tradition-bound and politically unreliable. In the new boarding schools, the authorities aim to turn all students into good socialists.
Experiences with these schools, especially in Tibet and Xinjiang, have not been positive. Surveys show that children feel unhappy, lonely, and alienated. In national tests, they also tend to score lower than other children. An eleven-year-old boy who shares a dormitory with fifteen others says: “I find it hard to concentrate, I can’t sleep, and I long for home.”
Researchers Rigao Liu and John Kennedy, who have studied the issue, conclude that left-behind children are more likely than others to end up in crime. They have felt abandoned by parents, school, and society—and take revenge by going their own way.
But now the festivities are brewing. Those who follow New Year tradition begin by offering gifts to the Kitchen God, the household’s most important spiritual resident. Zao Jun, as he is called, often stands on an altar or cabinet in the form of a figurine. He may also appear as a paper image attached to the wall, usually above the stove. The idea is that the Kitchen God sees everything and everyone, thereby strengthening family unity.
A few days before New Year, Zao Jun travels to heaven to report on the family’s conduct. What does he say at this year’s turning point? About unity—and the left-behind children?
Only the Jade Emperor knows, the Chinese reply. As the supreme celestial ruler in Chinese folk religion, he knows everything.
Yes, even more than the Communist Party’s watchdogs.
