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Chew Peck Khoon, a 48-year-old Singaporean IT worker, is typical in her conviction that success at school is a key stepping stone: "I want my children to do well and get a good education that will bring them a better future." And, of course, she's anxious for her children not to fall behind her friends' and relatives' kids. "We always compare," she says. In a city-state that streams children as young as 9 (an age when the top 1% enter the so-called Gifted Programme), cramming is viewed as essential if kids are to have any chance of keeping up with their peers: an estimated 90% of Singaporean families arrange extra tuition for their children. In Chew's case, the extra lessons helped to win the admission of her daughter Ying Ting to Nanyang Girls' High School—one of Singapore's finest. The 14-year-old now begins her day with a 6 a.m. wake-up call and finishes it at 10 p.m. or later, after several hours of homework and extracurricular activities. What most adults would regard as a long daily slog is entirely unexceptional for Singaporean youth. "I've seen people studying till 1 a.m.," Ying Ting shrugs.
Many parents cannot believe the timetables with which their children must cope. "It's very cruel for today's kids," says Shanghai parent Yang Langtao. But Yang's son, 15-year-old Bohong, nonetheless works a strictly regimented day that begins at 6.15 a.m. and ends at 10 p.m. On the weekend he studies classical Chinese literature, crams chemistry for an inter-school competition and practices English. He has virtually no leisure time, though he doesn't seem to mind because of his own ambition to succeed. "When I was a student," his father reflects, "I went to school for only half a day. And in the afternoon, I could play with my pals as much as we wanted."
By contrast, if today's parents do not fill their children's every waking hour with study, or at least organized activity, they risk social disapproval. In Hong Kong, 10-year-old Cheng Hoi-ming has 34 hours in school each week, as well as at least eight hours of tennis lessons and nearly three hours of extra tutorials in science and math. Her 13-year-old sister, Hoi-ying, was participating in 10 extracurricular activities each week by the time she reached second grade (a schedule that has been eased only slightly now that she has entered middle school). Even so, "I was regarded as an irresponsible parent, because they were not doing enough," says their mother, social worker Alice Chang. Parents who withdraw their children from the fray altogether face even greater opprobrium. John Au, a graphic designer, says his relatives were aghast at his decision to remove his son Justin from Wah Yan, one of Hong Kong's most prestigious schools. "A lot of people regard getting into Wah Yan as like winning the lottery, but my son was working until 11 p.m. every night at 7 years of age," says Au. "He got tired and I got tired." Justin now attends an international school and, according to his father, "seems much happier."
There are many Asian parents who, like Au, have become disillusioned with conventional education systems. But not all of them have his confidence when it comes to knowing what to do next. Instead, they are more likely to experience the confusion felt by Chikako Kobayashi, a mother of two grade-schoolers in the Tokyo commuter suburb of Hachioji. She sums up the feelings of many when she admits, "I don't really know what is best for my kids."
Many Japanese educators have likewise started to question their own assumptions. Chastened by incidences of teen suicide and school-related stress (and mindful of the need to create a more adaptable workforce at a time of economic restructuring), the Japanese Ministry of Education has, in recent years, implemented measures in public schools to take emphasis away from rote learning. In a country once notorious for the burdens placed on its young, schools are now required to adhere to a policy of yutori kyoiku (relaxed education). This involves a broadening of the curriculum to include more general-studies components, but a reduction in the overall amount of course material and school hours—a measure colloquially known as "the 30% decrease." The practice of half-day schooling on Saturdays has also been scrapped. "The ministry re-evaluates its policies every 10 years or so, and the most recent changes stressed the need to give children the ability to learn independently, rather than just stuffing them with information," says spokesperson Shunichi Taniai. "The emphasis is on creating a well-rounded individual with a healthy mind and body."
In South Korea, too, there are signs that even the most traditional institutions are beginning to question their old ways. Take the Korean Minjok Leadership Academy. To almost every parent, it is the shining apex, the Mount Olympus, of the country's schooling. A three-hour drive east of Seoul, Minjok is a private school that derives its eminence from results. "Most students go on to Yonsei University, Seoul National University, the Korea Advanced Institute of Science and Technology or Pohang Institute of Technology," says headmaster and former Minister of Education Lee Don Hee, reciting the names of some of the country's most desirable tertiary-education establishments. "If not these schools, then they go to medical school." And if they want to study abroad? "They matriculate to Ivy League schools or their equivalents." Results like this come through the disciplined implementation of classical methods. These require students, inter alia, to speak only English from 7 a.m. to 6:30 p.m., practice either Taekwondo or archery, and learn traditional musical instruments. The children bow silently in the presence of visitors and wear old-fashioned hanbok garments. Academic disappointment is hardly contemplated. "No student has ever failed to proceed to the next grade," says Lee. "We select students who have the potential to become leaders in many areas of society, and we train them."
Yet under Lee, even this seemingly immutable Confucian stronghold is changing: he has broadened the criteria for admission ("because I wanted to find talented youths, not geniuses who had been created by their parents"), instituted unsupervised exams and introduced a student council. Lee even utters the kind of liberal maxims that would have had a previous generation of headmasters squirming with unease. "The school tries its best to help students enjoy learning," he says, "and not to have them study under pressure."