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The laws Mao passed to protect women were all the more remarkable given how retrogade China had traditionally been in its treatment of women. Before the communists took over, younger girls in large families were often so unimportant that they weren't even given a name—once they married, they took their husband's name. Mao allowed women the rights to divorce and to own land, both radical concepts at the time. He funneled as much money into athletic programs for girls and women as into those for boys and men, leading to a bumper crop of women's Olympic golds in the 1980s. Most important, Mao involved women in government; his first Cabinet, assembled in 1949, included two women, and he commanded that local governments must be at least 20% female. By 1973, 10% of the members of the èlite Central Committee, equivalent to China's Senate, were women. The nongovernmental sector experienced the same phenomenon: by the 1980s, China was one of the few countries where city wives were almost as likely as their husbands to be asked what job they did. Nearly as many women as men trained as doctors and engineers. For a while, there was even a push to train additional women to become construction workers and bus drivers. For women whose forebears could only hobble around on feet made tiny and deformed by years of painful binding, being able to command a bus or a building crane as freely as a man was an epic change.
Wan Geng was one of the many women in a previously "male" job. For 18 years, she worked in a state-owned factory in Shanghai making intricate television parts. That was where her mother had worked, and the job was a good one with a decent salary. But three years ago, she was one of 60 people laid off from the factory. Of those made redundant, only eight were men. Before the layoffs, there were 50 men and 70 women working in the factory. Afterward, the gender ratio flipped to 40 men and 20 women. Now, Wan, 42, works as an elevator operator, spending her days pressing buttons for $60 a month—half what she earned at the factory. Still, it's the best job she can find in a Shanghai market that's flooded with middle-aged women laid off from state-owned factories.
Nationwide, 65% of layoffs in the state sector are women, even though only 40% of the workforce is female, say researchers at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences in Beijing. "You have to understand that in China today, men are the priority," remarks Wan, sitting in her elevator. "You can't fire men as easily, because they would lose face." Indeed, according to a 2002 study by officials in northeastern Liaoning province, one-third of private companies say they only want to hire men. This government-run study also reports that of the millions being laid off by state factories, 80% of the men eventually find work vs. only 49% of the women. For its part, the TV factory that laid off Wan asserts that there was no discrimination in its firings. "Maybe there were more women who were laid off, but I'm not sure," says a manager who would only give his surname, Zeng. "We never looked at the statistics." He pauses and then adds: "But I tell you, it's not too big a problem, because women can go home and take care of their children."
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."