The Sky is Falling

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Women in higher-paid jobs aren't having much better luck, either. Back in the 1970s, when Dr. Pang (she won't reveal her full name for fear of losing her small pension) was studying medicine at Shanghai Hygiene University, the gender ratio among students was equally balanced. When she began working as a doctor at a clinic attached to a state-owned steel factory, six of the 10 physicians were women. But two years ago, when the factory merged with another one, Pang was forced to take early retirement—along with all the other female doctors. (China's official retirement age for women is 55 and for men 60.) Although Pang's male bosses never told her outright that she and the other women were laid off because of their gender, a male colleague whispered to her that perhaps it was time for her to stay home and be a good wife. "I never imagined this would happen to me because I am a woman," says Pang, still dressed in a professional-looking pin-striped blazer despite being out of a job. "But China has changed, and women don't have the same rights as before."

Even government jobs, the traditional refuge for bright women, are no longer a haven these days. Back in the 1970s, at least 20% of government jobs went to women, because of quotas set by Mao. But with Beijing's control over the countryside easing, fewer women are getting the opportunity to join the civil service, as local officials simply ignore national quotas set up to ensure women a place in government. Only 8% of top provincial jobs are held by women, according to a survey by the All-China Women's Federation. Mayor Li was elected to head her 350-strong village in eastern Anhui province last summer. But despite her ballot-box victory, she hasn't been able to wrest the keys to her rightful office from her predecessors. "They tell me a woman is not smart enough for this job," says the 58-year-old, speaking through the only phone in her village in a whisper lest others hear. "But I think they are just afraid that I will expose their corruption." Nearly a year on, Li's attempts to seek help from higher-level government officials have met with no success. Early this year, provincial bureaucrats even sent her a letter stamped with two official seals: "Auntie Li, we cannot help old women like you who insist on making trouble. You should stay at home. Let the men take care of your village affairs." Rejoins Li: "I have been a member of the Communist Party for 30 years, so why is no one helping me anymore?"

The higher the government ranks, the more it feels like an old boys' network. When the 16th Party Congress convened in Beijing late last year to elect the Central Committee, only five of the 198 members were female—the lowest number since the People's Republic was founded. The Beijing leadership was sufficiently concerned about the dwindling ratio of women in government that in 2001 then President Jiang Zemin ordered a campaign encouraging women to join the civil service. But this mandate was one of many reform goals before Jiang handed over the reins to his successor, Hu Jintao, and one of the first to fall by the wayside. Today, the glass ceiling prevents all but the most capable women from rising in the ranks: there is only one woman in China's Cabinet, Wu Yi, who was recently appointed Health Minister after the sars scandal claimed her predecessor. "Some men don't trust women in power," says Li Yinhe, a sociologist at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. "But with the number of women in government declining, we're actually losing our power."

The most powerless of China's new generation of women sit huddled in a row of brothels in Xingsha, a grimy town in Hunan province where some of the kidnapped girls from Xupu county have ended up. Red and purple lights illuminate the girls' narrow frames, many barely past puberty. A few girls lounge under a giant photograph of a naked couple, while others smoke cigarettes and play cards to pass the time. One trick costs $18; a whole night is double that. No one talks about arresting the pimps who keep a watchful eye over the girls lest they try to escape. A police car is parked next to one brothel, but a passerby snickers and whispers that the officer is a regular. Cops, of course, get a discount.

During Mao's heyday, China had virtually no prostitutes, as every man, woman and child was tracked by Orwellian neighborhood-watch committees. But when Mao's successor Deng Xiaoping opened the country to economic reforms, people began to roam—and disappear from neighborhood radars. Men traveling on business could visit newly opened brothels without anyone knowing, and pimps could gather truckloads of girls from the countryside without raising suspicion. Today, prostitution is so rampant that the latest edition of the Xinhua Dictionary of New Words has a new entry: pao niu, or looking for prostitutes.

The traffickers first descended on Xupu county in 1995, and at least 600 local girls are now thought to be serving either as prostitutes or as brides illegally sold to farmers too poor to pay for a more expensive traditional marriage. Last year, some 20,000 women nationwide were rescued before being sold as wives. The All-China Women's Federation estimates that the rate of female abductions is increasing by an average of 30% a year. Residents of Xupu county have tried to combat the kidnappings any way they can. After a local middle-school principal's daughter was snatched between classes, he ordered the walls surrounding the schoolyard to be made higher. Parents in the village now keep their children at home after dusk.