What is it like to study in mainland China? And why choose to go there in the first place? Four Taiwan students studying on the mainland talked to the Free China Review in Beijing about their reasons for making the leap, their experiences, and their hopes for the future.
There are presently some sixty Taiwan students studying at Peking University. Twenty-four of them are graduate students, with eleven attending doctorate programs and thirteen hoping to obtain master's degrees. There are also seven under graduates, with the balance consisting of auditors. Most of these students are studying humanities. One of them is Lin Chun -hua, 27, a second-year candidate for a master's degree in law.
A friend of a friend who was a student in Beijing told Lin how to apply to enter mainland China's university system. In April 1996, she went to Hong Kong, where she took the special exam for students from Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macau, and in September that same year she enrolled at Peking University. She has acquired all the credits she needs to complete her M.A. and is ready to write her thesis. It generally takes three years to finish a master's program in mainland China, so there is still one year to go before she can graduate. She plans to return to Taiwan, find a job, and write her thesis there.
So why did Lin want to study on the mainland? She thought that learning first- hand about this emerging superpower would benefit her career. "Mainland China is developing at an amazing pace," she says. "China is inevitably going to influence Taiwan's future." Knowledge of the mainland's legal system will become more important as the number of lawsuits involving cross-strait affairs increases.
Lin, a graduate of National Taiwan University's Department of Law, was already a licensed attorney earning NT$80,000 [US$2,500] a month as an associate in the firm of one of Taiwan's more celebrated lawyers when she decided to throw it all up and go to Beijing--a decision that came as a shock to her family and friends. "Maybe one day I'll be able to make up the salary I lost," she says half-jokingly. She is not concerned about whether the ROC government will recognize and accredit her mainland degree, since she is already qualified to work as a lawyer in Taiwan.
Lin occupies her own room in a six-story dormitory where students from Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macau are corralled on the fifth and sixth floors, leaving the other four floors for mainland students. Lin mostly associates with Taiwan students. "My relationship with the mainland students is okay," she says. "I'd really like to get closer to them, but somehow there's always this distance between us. It's usually the Taiwan students who strike up a conversation, and if our class organizes an activity, they won't necessarily tell me." Her mainland classmates occupy another dormitory some distance away, and it is "not convenient" for them to contact her by phone.
Taiwan students are treated differently from mainland students in several respects. Whereas Lin doesn't have to share her room with anyone, mainland students usually do. She has access to a bathroom and a public telephone on the same floor as her room, but there are only a few telephones in the dormitories set aside for mainland students, and they are forced to use a communal bathroom some way away from where they sleep. Besides, "I don't have to take the courses in Marxism and Leninism, which is compulsory for mainland graduates and undergraduates."
Is it expensive to study at Peking University, given the superior facilities made available to overseas students? Lin is not eligible to receive financial assistance from the ROC government, which does not recognize academic qualifications granted by mainland schools. "But I don't have to pay tuition or rent, because that's covered by a subsidy from the PRC government, and I get a further RMB$280 [US$35] a month for living expenses." According to Lin, no fewer than twenty prestigious mainland universities are in a position to arrange government financial support for Taiwan students, and such subsidies are easy to obtain after admission.
When Lin first arrived on the mainland, she found life boring. "Especially the nightlife, though now I've gotten used to it." She and another nine Taiwan students share a subscription to a Taiwan newspaper, the China Times. It costs five times the cover price in Taiwan and usually arrives a day late. "Mainland newspapers bore me," she admits. "They consist of only a couple of pages, mostly about politics and what the government has done for the people."
What are the teachers like at Peking University? Lin feels that the older ones, especially those who endured the Cultural Revolution, are not as good as those in their thirties. "Some of the senior professors will admit that the foundations of their scholarship aren't rock-solid, because the Cultural Revolution left a big gap in their learning." Younger professors do not have that problem and, having studied abroad, they are usually more receptive to new ideas.
Lin is also impressed by mainland students, who study very hard. "And I have the impression that their English is better than ours. More and more mainlanders are taking the TOEFL exam. [A test designed to assess a candidate's English-language skills preparatory to applying for overseas studies.] If you get good grades, you can go abroad with scholarships provided by overseas schools. For most mainland students, that's the only way they'll ever get to study abroad."
Lin has just finished work on a guidebook providing information about the mainland's educational environment. "Many people called and wrote me from Taiwan, asking for that kind of information, and I spent a lot of time finding out how to get into Peking University, so I decided to write a book about it." This is now being printed in Taiwan, and in this respect Lin is one step ahead of the ROC government, which has yet to publish a comprehensive introduction to educational opportunities on the mainland.
Xiao Hong-de, 33, is a first-year candidate for a master's degree at Peking University's Institute of History. He graduated from the Department of Accounting at Chinese Culture University, although his main interest had always been history. A couple of years later, while selling computers, he began to study for the entrance exam to the graduate school of history at Taiwan's National Chung Cheng University. He failed to get in. Xiao next tried the graduate school of history at National Cheng Kung University, this time failing not once but twice.
"I felt extremely frustrated, because I was almost accepted by these two schools, so I thought of Peking University," he says. "I knew its Ancient Chinese History course was very famous." But he had no idea how to apply, so at his mother's suggestion he called the Straits Exchange Foundation, which is in charge of such contacts as exist between Taiwan and the mainland. In the end, he managed to make contact with Peking University's Institute of History, and in the course of a phone call he established a sound relationship with the man destined to become his supervisor--although it was not until the professor collected Xiao from Beijing Airport in September 1996 that the two men met face to face.
At first, Xiao audited classes to prepare for the annual graduate school entrance examination for students from Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macau, due to be held in April 1997. During that period, until he moved to the Taiwan students' dormitory, he lived with an Institute of History professor, paying him RMB$800 [US$100] a month in rent. "He had lots of thick books on Marxism and some magazines published during the Cultural Revolution." Xiao read some of them, and when he talks about Marxism he becomes animated, saying that those works contained far more detailed information about Marxism than the average Taiwan publication on the same topic.
Despite that, he never felt that he had been brainwashed. "And I don't try to change the local students, either. To a certain extent their future careers are still bound up with their political attitudes. If I influence them, things may not go so smoothly for them once they graduate." He thinks that the authorities make a deliberate effort to segregate the students. For example, on New Year's Day this year no Taiwan students were invited to the school's celebrations. "We [Taiwanese and mainlanders] are all Chinese. Taiwan students really want to mix with mainland students, but they don't necessarily accept us."
So now Xiao neither isolates himself from mainland students nor deliberately courts them. "Taiwan students just want to graduate from here without a hitch. Most of them will return to Taiwan after that, while others may seek out opportunities for further study in countries like the United States." By and large, they forego any chance of coming into close contact with mainlanders, which might spark off arguments over touchy issues. "There are some open-minded mainland students, mostly from the big coastal cities, but those who come from the inland provinces can be hot-tempered."
Xiao regards mainland China as still being basically cut off from the world. "The only thing that many mainlanders know about Taiwan is that it's a rich island. They don't know what dialect is spoken there, and some of them think we Taiwanese use Renminbi as our currency." Even at Peking University, the PRC authorities try to control the dissemination of information. For example, every weekday morning at seven o'clock, the achievements of the Chinese Communist Party are broadcast over the campus. "There's nothing really wrong with that, except it's so out-of-date. And students who go to bed late the night before get woken up by it."
Peking University students strike Xiao as a diligent lot. "Some people go so far as to describe them as robots. If the electric light fails, they light candles so that they can go on reading." Professors mostly enjoy closer relationships with their students than he was accustomed to see in Taiwan, because they do not put on an air of self-importance. Nevertheless, they can be rather "authoritative" when it comes to ancient Chinese history.
On the whole, Xiao enjoys life at Peking University. While the school sets a great many rules for mainlanders, their Taiwan counterparts are treated just like other overseas students and allowed much more freedom. And money goes a lot further than it does in Taiwan. Life can be "boring," but like Lin Chun-hua he has gotten used to it. "The first three months I was here, I got all excited about the city's historical sites; one year later, I found its atmosphere a bit heavy. But now I've adapted to the lifestyle here." He has his own PC and finds it easy to keep in touch with home and the outside world via the Internet.
Xiao has to pay rent for his single room--US$3 per day--and HK$15,000 (US$1,935) a year for tuition. Before Taiwan students are allowed to take the entrance exam, they have to choose between accepting a subsidy from the PRC authorities and paying their own way on the mainland. Xiao thought that the entry standard would be higher for students who opted for the government subsidy, so he chose to support himself. But he later discovered that in fact it was perfectly possible to pass the exam and still receive the subsidy, and now he wishes he had done his homework better.
After getting his M.A., Xiao hopes to go on to do a doctorate, again at the Institute of History. After that, he would like to obtain a teaching position in Taiwan while running his own computer equipment business on the side. So far from complaining about the ROC government's reluctance to accredit mainland schools, he actually agrees with the Go-Slow policy. "I wouldn't advocate something just because I might benefit from it." He thinks the government should deal with mainland affairs step by step, beginning with the recognition of master's degrees. "Undergraduates are still young and they might have trouble adjusting to the environment here. And I'm afraid they might not be careful enough when arguing about political issues with local students."
Ben Chang, 25, is an undergraduate studying Western medicine at Beijing Medical University. With his earring, he rather stands out against the conservative mainland backdrop. "My classmates know I come from Taiwan, so they're not really surprised by what might otherwise be strange to them," he says. He has lived in Beijing for five years now, and his conversation is rich with mainland expressions.
When Chang first came to Beijing in August 1993, he was a second-year undergraduate at Taiwan's Chinese Culture University. He thought he was just coming on a nice vacation with his father, and had no inkling that he would be staying on the mainland for the next five years. But his father did. "He took me to Beijing for pleasure--that was what he told me. But actually he was hoping I'd stay and take the Beijing Medical University exam." Chang, ever the dutiful son, agreed to stay on and study to be a doctor in accordance with his father's wishes.
He found the exam fairly easy and was accepted by the school--partly because many of the other examinees fell well below the standard. He readily admits that large numbers of Taiwan students go to the mainland because they cannot find a Taiwan school to accept them. One month after he first set foot on the mainland, he registered at the medical school and applied to Chinese Culture University for a year's leave of absence. He did that so that if he subsequently found himself unable to adapt to the new environment he would be assured of a university place on his return to Taiwan.
It was not until Chang was in his second year at Beijing Medical University that he discovered from talking with another Taiwan student that his school had held the entrance exam without first obtaining the consent of the PRC authorities. Accordingly, although he is due to graduate shortly, he is still not sure whether he will be able to obtain his bachelor's degree. Moreover, it is too late for him to return to Chinese Culture University. "I have no choice but to keep on going down this road." Beijing Medical University apparently authorized the exam without reporting it to the government because it was absolutely sure the position would be regularized later. Unfortunately, this proved unduly optimistic.
As if all that weren't bad enough, Chang suffers from a peculiar "identity problem." When it comes to tuition he is treated like any other overseas student and must pay US$2,000 a year, whereas mainland students only have to pay RMB$500 [US$62] if they have a government subsidy, or RMB$2,000 [US$250] if not. But when he applied for an overseas student grant, which is supposed to be easier to get than its equivalent for local students, the school told him he was classified as a mainland Chinese. Furthermore, non-mainland students may be exempted from taking certain courses, but this concession does not apply to him.
Chang is currently working as an intern at a Beijing hospital. He admits that during his first two years, when he was living with other overseas students, he often fooled around with them and went to nightclubs that were too expensive for the locals. At that time he was in a mixed class consisting of overseas and mainland students, and he became accustomed to the sight of his overseas colleagues wasting time all day long. In contrast, however, the academic performance of mainland students was usually excellent. "I'm the best of the overseas students, but I'm only average when compared with my main land classmates." Competition among mainland students is very intense at the university, which is one of the best medical schools on the mainland.
In his third year, Chang went to the principal and asked to be transferred to a class composed entirely of mainlanders. This was granted, and after that he started living with mainlanders too. This proved to be a wise move. Out of fifteen overseas students admitted to the school with Chang in 1993, only six progressed as far as the fifth year. The rest were either expelled or had to do makeup tests.
Chang appears to be rather better integrated into mainland society than most of his compatriots. His two best friends are mainland students at his school. He shares a dormitory room with six local students, with few comforts and much inconvenience: for example, if he wants to take a shower, he has to go to the hospital where he works, some fifteen minutes' walk from the dorm. But he long ago got used to it. "When I first came to Beijing, a lot of things about the school and the city surprised me. Not anymore."
When Chang was in Taiwan he would sometimes drive a car, but now he is accustomed to pushing his bike through Beijing's alleys. "Living standards here are well below Taiwan's, but mainland students still manage to be outstanding--that's what I should learn from them," Chang says, adding that his life is much simpler than before. He confesses that in his first year he often felt like going back to Taiwan because he could not adapt to mainland life, and even now he still finds some of the local bad habits intolerable--leaving the toilet unflushed and elbowing to the counter without standing in line being particular bugbears. But life on the mainland has taught him how to cherish the things he has. Once he wrote his mom to say how lucky he felt to have been born into his family. "Later, she told me how much I'd grown up."
Living on the mainland has also taught Chang to look at cross-strait relations in a new way. "Taiwan people tend to handle such matters emotionally. It's necessary to see Taiwan from outside of Taiwan, because that way you get a more rational take on cross-strait problems."
So is the attitude of the ROC government toward accreditation of mainland schools rational or emotional? Chang says it is a pity not to include Beijing Medical University in the draft list of recognized institutions, because it is a good school, but a much more pressing concern for him is whether the PRC authorities will allow him to receive a degree when he graduates. Chang claims not to be really worried about that, since in any case he plans to go to med school in a third country and start over as a third or fourth year student. That way, he is much more likely to be able to take the M.D. exams in Taiwan and thus fulfill his father's dream.
But nothing in life is ever simple, and Chang has one last surprise for the interviewer: He admits that actually he does not want to be a doctor at all; instead, he hopes one day to run a hospital in mainland China. So perhaps what he really ought to be studying for is an M.B.A.!
Yeh Chi-ku (葉基固), 29, is a candidate for a master's degree at the Department of Directing, Beijing Film Academy. His tendency to shift into Taiwanese gives him a rather more obvious Taiwan identity than some of his colleagues. "I get all excited when I run into people who are fresh from Taiwan," he says, adding that he has started to love Taiwan more since coming to mainland China.
Yeh enrolled in September 1995, after passing the entrance exam in April that year. Before that, he had worked for a Taiwan TV company and as a teaching assistant at the Department of Drama and Cinema at Chinese Culture University, where he gained his bachelor's degree. One day a classmate showed him a magazine article about the Beijing Film Academy, and that sparked off his ambition to study abroad.
"My English isn't very good, so if I'd wanted a place at a US university for my higher degree, I'd have had to go to a language school in the United States first," he says. "I abandoned that idea because it would have cost my parents a lot of money." Besides, he wanted to be different. "Most of my teachers in Taiwan had studied in either the United States or France, and my classmates tended to look at the same options, so I chose mainland China." It didn't hurt, of course, that the Beijing Film Academy was a world-renowned school that had turned out such famous alumni as Chen Kaige and Zhang Yimou. "A couple of days ago, Ang Lee [director of The Wedding Banquet ] came to our school to do some casting."
When Yeh opted for Beijing, all his friends thought it was an interesting choice and none of them disapproved. Even his parents expressed only minimal concern. "People from Taiwan and Beijing speak the same language, only with different accents. It doesn't take long to get accustomed to things like climate and lifestyle. Anyway, if I don't feel good here, I can just quit and go home."
Yeh has encountered no major problems in Beijing, where he has lived for nearly three years. He feels he has benefited from living in a different environment, because "good directors must have real talent, but they also need experience of different lives." In contrast to Taiwan, where his professors provided him with little stimulus, his supervisor often asks Yeh fundamental questions about his ideas. "He's a good teacher. And he's not a square."
Not all the professors are as open-minded, however, nor are the school's administrators particularly liberal. "Okay, maybe they're open-minded, but they don't want to see problems that might bring them up against official policy. They still want to climb the promotion ladder." Yeh knows all too well that certain films--those dealing blatantly with sex, for example --may not be shown openly at his school, and it is not uncommon for mainland students to learn about important movies from their Taiwan classmates.
Politics is another sensitive area. On one occasion the vice dean saw a short film by Yeh that had obvious political overtones, implying that Taiwan was unwilling to unite with mainland China as long as it threatened to use military force against the island. The vice dean, obviously taking Yeh for a troublemaker, called him in for a talk. Eventually the authorities concluded that it was really no big deal. "But after that, the vice dean always frowned when we ran into each other."
Yeh is unhappy about tuition. "The fees change every year." In 1995 he paid US$2,700 for a year's tuition, but the following year it rose to $3,600, higher than most private Taiwan universities would charge. He has heard that in some departments tuition has risen as high as US$4,000. "We can't do anything about it. The school's attitude seems to be: 'If you feel that's expensive, don't come here.' They even told one Taiwan student that to his face."
What's spent is spent, however, and now the most important thing for Yeh, who will graduate in July, is whether he will be entitled to take a qualification exam to have his Beijing Film Academy degree recognized in Taiwan. According to the ROC Ministry of Education, Taiwan students studying at mainland institutions not on the draft list of seventy-three accredited schools may take the exam as long as they enrolled at their institutions between September 1992 and October 1997, so it looks as though Yeh qualifies.
But there are two important provisos. First, courses leading to mainland degrees must not involve ideological studies, and Yeh does not yet know if the ROC government considers movies to be ideological. Second, and more fundamentally, the whole question of accrediting mainland degrees is still under discussion, having received a number of setbacks, and no ROC official seems to be in a position to say when a final decision will be made.
"Linking recognition of degrees to political ideology doesn't make any sense," Yeh says. "Taiwan is an open society. How come the government can tolerate the growth of the opposition DPP, but can't accept people like us?" He very much hopes he will be allowed to take the exam, because a recognized degree would be a plus to his career. On the other hand, he believes that for students like him a degree is less important than the "real stuff" he's picked up over the past three years.