Education is a window unto a society. The new book The Highest Exam: How The Gaokao Shapes China, by economists Ruixue Jia and Hongbin Li, illuminates why education is paramount to many Chinese families and makes a case for how the nationwide college admissions exam known as the gaokao serves as a model that structures contemporary Chinese society.
Gaokao scores (more precisely, the relative ranking of those scores) are the sole determinant university admission, something many families see as setting a child’s life path. Because college admissions are determined by gaokao scores alone–not recommendations nor ability to pay–the test functions as a meritocratic channel for social advancement.
The gaokao is widely understood as the modern reincarnation of the keju, the imperial examination system that offered any man a chance, in theory, to join the emperor’s civil service. The authors argue that a meritocratic channel for social advancement plays so great a role in Chinese society that its absence has corresponded with periods of sociopolitical turmoil, observing: “The exam system persisted for over a millennium, but after years of mounting criticism, the Qing government abolished it. Shortly thereafter, the Qing dynasty itself fell in 1911.” The system’s end meant a huge loss for men who had spent years preparing for it, an experience that politically radicalized many of them.
When the Communist Party took over after China’s civil war, they moved quickly to reinstate a meritocratic channel for social advancement and established the gaokao in 1952 to identify talented young people for further education. The gaokao was a self-conscious modernization of the old system designed to test practical knowledge, not the ability to recite the Confucian classics. As the cultural memory of the keju was broadly positive, the populace already subscribed to the idea that an examination system is, in fact, a fair way to identify merit. By associating itself with a traditional culture of exams and meritocratic advancement, the new Communist government gained rather than lost legitimacy.
A significant disruption to the exam system occurred under Mao Zedong, when the gaokao was suspended during the Cultural Revolution and the broader educational system was brought to a halt. The Cultural Revolution turned the meritocracy on its head, punishing the educated and elevating uneducated peasants. Mao’s death opened the floodgates to protests and petitions demanding the reinstatement of the gaokao. The start of China’s “reform era” is conventionally dated to 1978, but some consider the real start 1977, when Deng Xiaoping restored the test and universities admitted a new class of students selected on the basis of academic merit.
The stability of Chinese governments throughout history, therefore, seems tied to whether it provided a meritocratic channel for social advancement. One of the coauthors’ papers quantifies this phenomenon, showing how the introduction of the keju system around the 7th century A.D. reduced Chinese emperors’ risk of being dethroned by a factor of 10. And certainly, the CCP’s actions suggest they believe the gaokao helps keep them in power. The gaokao’s legitimacy comes not from the Communist Party; rather, the Communist Party gains legitimacy by administering the gaokao even-handedly.
Yet, the exam system possesses downsides. The gaokao creates an incredibly high-pressure environment where children’s entire educational trajectory revolves around preparing for success on a single test. Entrance to elite universities highly correlates with future economic and social standing, so parents work relentlessly to position their children for success on the gaokao. Because virtually no alternatives exist for advancement in Chinese society, proposed changes to the system often face strong resistance from the many who have sunk costly investments toward excelling within it. Even smaller-scale changes to the gaokao system aimed at addressing entrenched inequality generated surprisingly widespread protests and were quietly walked back. The exam system, then, amounts to an untouchable “third rail” of Chinese politics.
Another of the book’s implications is that the social prestige of the gaokao and the universal understanding of that kind of system within China have made it the implicit model for societal institutions outside of education as well. The authors call the underlying structure of the gaokao a “centralized hierarchical tournament”: the competition between students is centralized because it is the one standard of success, and it is hierarchical because success is defined in relative terms, by outcompeting peers.
One example of another “centralized hierarchical tournament” is the competition among local governments to generate economic growth, which numerous scholars have identified as one of the primary systems underlying China’s reform-era economic boom. Local officials constantly vie for promotion, and one of their key performance indicators is their jurisdiction’s economic growth. There is effectively only one indicator of success, GDP growth, and one arbiter of success, the Central Party apparatus. And success is defined in relative terms: their GDP growth relative to their peers’ and predecessors’.
Centralized hierarchical tournaments seem to make sense for China: GDP growth and exam scores serve as relatively objective and transparent metrics for evaluation. The system also stimulates competition that has, in fact, resulted in real acquisition of skills and knowledge for students and delivered GDP growth from local government officials.
The centrality of the gaokao, and gaokao-like institutions, in China makes it all the more intriguing that the man sitting atop the Chinese political system seems unsatisfied with it. Xi Jinping belongs to the last generation of “worker-peasant-soldier” students admitted to university on the basis of political recommendations rather than exam scores. This has always set Xi apart from other, more “technocratic” figures in the government, like his former No. 2 Li Keqiang. Xi famously oversaw the shuangjian or “double reduction” campaign launched in July 2021, which sought to ease the burdens of excessive homework and after-school tutoring. While the rules remain on the books, recent evidence suggests that enforcement has relaxed, and businesses are again being allowed to meet parents’ demand for tutoring, which remains very high. Perhaps even Xi recognizes just how difficult it would be to touch the exam system entrenched in the core structure of today’s China.
