Gaokao

Based on Wikipedia: Gaokao

Every June, China holds its breath. For two days, roughly ten million teenagers sit for an exam that will determine the trajectory of their entire lives. Not in the abstract way that tests shape futures elsewhere—this is concrete, measurable, and brutally final. A single number, derived from performance over those forty-eight hours, will decide which university accepts you, which career paths open, which social class you can realistically aspire to join. The Chinese call it the Gaokao, which translates simply as "Higher Exam." The name understates the reality.

The Exam That Ate a Nation

The Gaokao is not merely difficult. It is a civilizational event.

Consider what happens in the days leading up to it. Construction sites near testing centers fall silent—noise ordinances go into emergency effect. Police redirect traffic away from exam buildings. Parents book hotel rooms nearby so their children won't risk traffic delays. Factories adjust schedules. In some cities, taxi services offer free rides to examinees. The entire apparatus of Chinese society briefly reorganizes itself around this test.

The stakes justify the disruption. In 1977, when the exam was restored after a decade-long suspension, only 4.8 percent of test-takers gained admission to any university at all. Out of 5.7 million candidates, roughly 273,000 made it through. Today's admission rates are much higher—around 80 percent of examinees now gain entry to some form of higher education—but competition for elite universities remains ferocious. Getting into a "first-class" institution, the Chinese equivalent of an Ivy League school, happens for somewhere between 9 and 30 percent of test-takers depending on which province you live in.

That provincial variation matters enormously, and it's one of the system's most controversial features. A student in Beijing has roughly three times the chance of first-class admission as a student in Henan province. Same exam, same scores, wildly different outcomes based purely on geography.

Before There Was Gaokao

The examination tradition in China stretches back over a thousand years to the imperial keju system, which selected government officials through competitive testing. That system, abolished in 1905 as China modernized, embedded something deep in the culture: the belief that merit could and should be measured, that talent deserved recognition regardless of birth, and that standardized testing was the fairest way to identify it.

The modern Gaokao began in August 1952, three years after the founding of the People's Republic of China. The new Communist government needed a way to allocate scarce university slots, and competitive examination seemed appropriately meritocratic—aligned with socialist ideals even as it drew from imperial precedent.

But meritocracy proved politically complicated.

Through the 1950s and early 1960s, the exam evolved and hardened into policy. Then came the Cultural Revolution. In 1966, Chairman Mao Zedong shut down the Gaokao entirely. The stated reason was ideological: academic examinations favored the educated classes and discriminated against workers, peasants, and soldiers. The real reason was that Mao wanted revolutionary fervor, not scholarly achievement, as the basis for advancement.

For the next decade, universities admitted students through political recommendation. Your class background mattered; your revolutionary enthusiasm mattered; your family's loyalty to the Party mattered. Your ability to solve differential equations did not. Seventy percent of university students during this period came from politically favored backgrounds. Meanwhile, the "intellectual youths"—anyone tainted by education—were sent to the countryside to learn from peasants, a forced migration that affected seventeen million young people.

The Class of 1977

Mao died in September 1976. A little over a year later, Deng Xiaoping—then still technically subordinate to Mao's chosen successor Hua Guofeng—made a decision that would reshape China. He restored the Gaokao.

The first post-Cultural Revolution examination took place in the winter of 1977, hastily organized and varied by province since there wasn't time to create a unified national test. There were no age limits. No requirements for educational credentials. Anyone could sit for it.

The result was extraordinary. Ten years of suppressed ambition came flooding into examination halls. Teenagers sat alongside thirty-somethings. Factory workers competed with the children of former intellectuals. People who had spent years shoveling pig manure in rural villages showed up with dreams of studying physics.

5.7 million people took that exam. The government had planned to admit 200,000, but the quality of candidates forced them to expand enrollment. Even so, only 272,971 made it through—that 4.8 percent admission rate remains the lowest in the history of the People's Republic.

The "Class of 1977" became legendary. Many of its members went on to lead China's economic transformation, their careers proof that talent buried by political chaos could resurface when given the chance. The restoration of the Gaokao wasn't just an educational policy; it was a national statement that competence mattered again.

How the Test Works

The Gaokao examines students in multiple subjects over two days, typically June 7th and 8th. The move to June happened in 2003—previously the exam took place in July, but southern China's summer heat and flooding rains made that timing problematic.

Everyone takes Chinese, mathematics, and a foreign language (almost always English). These three subjects are compulsory. Beyond that, the system has varied over time and between provinces, with students typically choosing additional subjects that align with either an "arts" track (history, geography, political science) or a "science" track (physics, chemistry, biology).

The most common format, used across most of mainland China until recently, was called "3+X." The three compulsory subjects each counted for 150 points. The "X" was a comprehensive examination in your chosen track—either social sciences or natural sciences—worth 300 points. Total possible score: 750.

That number—your Gaokao score out of 750—becomes your identity during the admissions process. Universities set cutoff scores for admission, and those cutoffs vary by province. If you scored 680 in Henan, you might not get into the same school that admits a 650 from Beijing. The system creates a strange geographic lottery overlaid on top of genuine academic competition.

Science-track students face a harder mathematics exam, covering topics like definite integrals, mathematical induction, and space vectors. This bifurcation between arts and science happens early in Chinese high school education, forcing fifteen-year-olds to make choices that will shape their entire academic and professional futures.

Provincial Variations and Experiments

China is not a monolith, and neither is the Gaokao. While the Ministry of Education coordinates the exam nationally, individual provinces have considerable latitude in implementation. Shanghai pioneered independent examination design in 1985, followed by Guangdong the same year. By the 2000s, sixteen provinces and municipalities had adopted customized versions of the test.

Jiangsu Province ran one of the more unusual systems. Instead of counting all subjects toward a single score, Jiangsu gave students a 480-point total from their three compulsory subjects, then recorded their performance in two elective subjects as letter grades rather than numbers. Getting straight A's across four elective exams earned you five bonus points. This system created strange incentive structures—a student might optimize for the grade boundaries on elective subjects rather than genuine mastery.

Zhejiang Province experimented with adding a "Y" component: eighteen questions spanning all nine academic subjects, from which students chose six to answer. This tested breadth rather than just depth, adding 60 points to the 750 from traditional subjects for an 810-point total. The idea was to produce more well-rounded graduates, though it also meant students had to maintain competence in subjects outside their primary track.

These experiments continued until a multi-phase national reform announced in 2014 began standardizing the system. By 2022, most provincial variations had been phased out, replaced by a more uniform national approach.

The Pressure Cooker

Chinese families often organize their entire lives around the Gaokao. Children as young as elementary school age begin preparing, since high school admission (determined by another exam, the Zhongkao) affects which schools can best prepare you for the Gaokao. Tutoring is ubiquitous. Summer vacations become study camps. Sleep becomes a luxury.

The phrase "Gaokao migrants" describes families who relocate to provinces with higher admission rates, gaming the geographic lottery by establishing residency where competition is less fierce. This practice sparked backlash and policy responses, as provinces attempted to close loopholes that let wealthy families buy their way into easier admissions.

Mental health consequences are real and documented. The pressure affects not just students but their families—parents who take time off work, grandparents who move in to help with household chores so parents can focus on supporting the exam-taker. The entire extended family system mobilizes around this single goal.

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit in early 2020, China did something it had never done since the exam's restoration: postponed the Gaokao. The Ministry of Education pushed the dates from June to July, giving students time to adjust after months of disrupted schooling. When students finally sat for the rescheduled exam, they did so under epidemic prevention protocols—temperature checks, mask requirements, staggered entry times. Shanghai deferred its 2022 exam even further, to July, after a city-wide outbreak made the original June dates impossible.

Exemption and Its Discontents

Not everyone takes the Gaokao. A tiny fraction of students—less than 0.3 percent of university applicants—receive "baosong" status, meaning they're guaranteed admission without examination. These are students who demonstrated exceptional merit through academic competitions, or in some cases through athletic or artistic achievement at the national level.

This exemption system creates its own pressures and controversies. Qualifying competitions become nearly as intense as the Gaokao itself. Families with resources invest heavily in olympiad training, creating a parallel track that favors the already advantaged. The exemption is supposed to reward exceptional talent, but critics argue it rewards exceptional resources instead.

Extra points—bonus additions to your Gaokao score—have been another source of controversy. Historically, students could earn extra points for being ethnic minorities, for athletic achievements, for having parents who served in the military, or for demonstrating "ideological and political correctness." Under Xi Jinping's leadership, reforms have eliminated many of these bonuses, though some remain. Taiwanese students still receive extra points, part of a broader strategy to attract them to mainland universities and foster cross-strait integration.

Meritocracy and Its Critics

The Gaokao represents something profound in Chinese society: the belief that a standardized test, applied uniformly, can fairly sort millions of people into their appropriate places. It's meritocracy as national ideology, a continuation of the imperial examination tradition that selected mandarins for a thousand years.

But the system's critics point to structural inequalities that undermine its meritocratic claims. Provincial quotas mean that a brilliant student in Henan faces much longer odds than a mediocre student in Beijing. Rural schools lack resources compared to urban ones. Wealthy families can afford tutoring and test prep that poor families cannot. The exam measures something—intelligence, certainly, but also preparation, resources, and the accident of where you were born.

The alternative isn't obvious. Before the Gaokao, political connections determined university admission. The Cultural Revolution's "recommendation" system was more corrupt, not less. At least the exam provides a floor of fairness—you cannot buy a high score, cannot inherit it, cannot politically agitate your way to better mathematics performance. The playing field isn't level, but the rules of the game are clear.

Growth and Transformation

In 1970, less than 1 percent of Chinese people had attended any higher education at all. Universities were small, scarce, and politically gatekept. The number of higher education institutions in China was measured in the hundreds.

Today, that number exceeds 2,700. The expansion happened in waves: gradual growth through the 1980s and early 1990s, then explosive development starting in 1999 when the government decided to massively expand university enrollment as economic policy. More graduates meant more skilled workers for the growing economy. The number of institutions nearly tripled in two decades.

This expansion transformed what the Gaokao meant. When only 5 percent of test-takers got into any university, passing the exam was a genuine achievement. Now that 80 percent gain admission somewhere, the competition has shifted. It's no longer about whether you'll attend university—it's about which tier of university, which specific school, which program. The stakes remain high even as the finish line has moved.

In 2022, a record 11.93 million students registered for the Gaokao—more than the entire population of many European countries. Almost 8 million of them gained admission to higher education. The numbers keep growing year by year, reflecting both population dynamics and increasing expectations that higher education is a necessary path to middle-class life.

Beyond the Numbers

What the Gaokao reveals about China goes beyond education policy. It shows a society that believes in measurable achievement, that trusts standardized assessment even while recognizing its flaws, that will organize enormous collective resources around individual advancement. It shows a culture that takes education seriously—perhaps too seriously, given the mental health costs—but seriously nonetheless.

The exam also reveals tensions. Between meritocratic ideals and structural inequalities. Between national unity and provincial variation. Between preparing students for tests and preparing them for life. These tensions don't have easy resolutions, and China continues to experiment with reforms that try to address them without abandoning the fundamental system.

Every June, millions of families will organize their lives around two days of testing. Police will redirect traffic. Construction will pause. A nation will hold its breath while its children fill in answer sheets that will determine what kinds of lives they get to live.

The Gaokao isn't just an exam. It's a mirror reflecting what a society believes about fairness, about opportunity, and about what people deserve based on how well they can perform when it matters most.