Yi and 30 of his classmates moved to Little Zhang Village after graduating this summer. Now they spend their days hanging out in Internet bars, waking each other up to go to job fairs, swapping job leads–and helping each other out with grocery money. “It’s just too competitive this year,” Yi said of his job hunt. “I feel guilty because I’ve graduated and still have to spend my parents’ money. I want to find a job as soon as possible.”
China’s university graduates are facing the toughest job market since the Communist takeover. By June only half of the country’s 2002 grads–about 1.5 million young people–had landed jobs. That’s the lowest percentage since the government began tracking the graduate employment rate in 1996. The situation has shocked Chinese society, where a university degree has always meant lifetime security and status. Now, for the first time, the Middle Kingdom has a glut of graduates.
Only a tiny fraction of China’s 1.3 billion people go to college. Still, the number of university students has skyrocketed in recent years. A five-year campaign by the Chinese government to expand access to college has doubled the number of those matriculating. In fact, China’s class of 2003 is the largest ever–2.12 million students. About a quarter of China’s urban labor force now hold college degrees. The problem is, there aren’t enough jobs for new graduates–or, at least, enough of the jobs that they want. And there won’t be for a long time. “This will be a problem for at least 20 or 30 years,” said Yang Yiyong, an economist with China’s State Council.
The unemployment rate among university graduates worries Beijing because it’s not just an issue of oversupply. There are jobs available for educated Chinese, but they’re unglamorous middle-management positions–factory managers, local bureaucrats, even police officers. Many of China’s new graduates expect jobs with high-tech companies, multinationals or the top levels of government. Some would rather go without work than consign themselves to what they perceive as drudgery.
Managing their high expectations presents China’s leadership with a thorny political challenge. Students have always been in the vanguard of rebellions in China. The Communist revolution itself succeeded with the support of angry students who could be heard at rallies shouting that graduation meant nothing but unemployment. Now, students are reviving that slogan, and anxious officials are paying attention. In some ways, economist Yang argues, the government is doing more to help college graduates than the millions of blue-collar workers laid off from state factories. “Graduates are a sensitive group,” he said, “so the government pays a lot of attention to them and tries to meet their demands.”
Among other measures, Beijing has begun requiring that universities provide more career guidance. Colleges must set up job fairs and offer employment seminars. In addition, the government is offering tax incentives to small- and medium-size firms that hire recent college graduates and waiving China’s hefty fee for registering a new company in the hope that new grads will become entrepreneurs. It is also giving preference to students who apply for government jobs or graduate school if they agree to work in poor areas of the country for two years.
The measures, however, seem to be having little effect. On a hot morning in late August, Zhao Hongyu was one of scores of recent graduates wandering from booth to booth at the Beijing Municipal Job Fair. Propaganda posters on the walls assured students that the city’s leaders were doing their best to help them find fulfilling work. But Zhao, a petite computer major with a pixie haircut, was having no luck. “I’m a little surprised because a few years ago it was easy,” she said, clutching a bunch of company brochures.
In many ways, Zhao is a victim of China’s educational ambitions. Five years ago, the government decided that getting more people into college, and delaying their entry into the job market, would alleviate a growing unemployment problem. It also figured that a more educated work force would automatically mean a more employable work force. Zhao graduated from a two-year program at Beijing Agricultural University– one of many educational programs that have been established over the past five years as the Chinese government has expanded university enrollment. China also allowed private businesses to set up dozens of for-profit colleges to supplement state-run schools. About 14 percent of China’s college-aged population is in school now, up from seven percent in 1995. And the leadership’s goal is to raise that number to 25 or 30 percent by 2020. By comparison, more than one third of college-aged Americans are in universities.
But the theory hasn’t quite panned out. One reason is that many graduates hold degrees of dubious value, and hence aren’t qualified for the jobs they seek. In addition, some of the new for-profit universities are apparently more interested in charging high tuitions to students rejected by the more prestigious state schools than in providing a quality education. Many offer majors with fancy new names that in reality are old courses more suited to China’s former planned economy than its new capitalism.
Some colleges lure students by promising employment after graduation. Liu, a baby-faced graduate in Beijing who asked to be identified only by his last name, took classes in “capital-asset valuation” at one of these for-profit schools. But after finishing his three-year program, he discovered he’d purchased little more than that promise. Not only was he unable to find a job, the university also pressured him to sign a phony contract with a company he had never had contact with, apparently to boost the school’s employment statistics. Liu said the college withheld diplomas from graduates who refused to sign. “So this year, the college is boasting a 92 percent employment rate, but it’s absolutely false,” Liu says, displaying a copy of the bogus contract. “I’m a little angry.”
Even students from China’s more reputable universities are struggling to find work, primarily because their expectations far exceed reality. These graduates are also members of China’s first generation of “Little Emperors”–only children spoiled by doting parents. As adults, many are demanding unrealistically high salaries and refuse to work anywhere but in China’s most cosmopolitan cities, such as Shanghai and Beijing.
Take the example of Dai Yunchao, a self-confident graduate of Jinan University in eastern Shandong province who majored in textiles. A native of Inner Mongolia, Dai found a decent job as a factory technician in Shandong, but turned it down because he thought Beijing would be more exciting. After all, that’s where his girlfriend lives. “At first I thought it would be easy to find a job,” he said, taking a break from filling in applications at the Beijing job fair, “but the real situation has proved more difficult than I thought.”
Experts say that China’s new graduates are simply going to have to adjust to a new reality as the country continues its shift to a market economy. For the foreseeable future, most new job openings will be in low-wage sectors such as manufacturing.
But why face reality? Yi Bo and his classmates in Little Zhang Village say they may lower their expectations later. For now, they’re enjoying the life of slackers. The guys spend a few hours looking for jobs every day, but waste most of their time playing computer games, competing in friendly table-tennis matches and napping. When these unemployed graduates need cash, they turn to Diao Yongqiang, a classmate who actually found a job as a budget planner at a state enterprise run by the Ministry of Aviation. “One person’s money is all of our money,” says Diao, a slightly chubby 22-year-old. That’s a fine gesture. But soon his money, and the patience of unemployed Chinese graduates, may run out.
