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How the Grinch Stole Chinese New Year The government has banned many of the traditions associated with Chinese New Year—but the holiday may be staging a comeback.

By April Rabkin
Posted Wednesday, Feb. 6, 2008, at 11:45 AM ET

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But for more than 50 years, the Kitchen God's effigy has been censored material. While low-ranking gods like the Lords of the Door, who guard courtyard gates and inner doorways, were more tolerated, the Kitchen God was not. In the more traditional countryside, peasants evaded censors by printing the Kitchen God at home on crude wooden blocks. But many young Beijingers I recently asked had never heard of the Kitchen God. Others laughed sheepishly, as if he were a national embarrassment—the equivalent of still believing in Santa Claus as an adult. But the Kitchen God might soon become easier to get hold of—for those who still worship him outside major cities. In December, President Hu Jintao announced that he wants the government to recognize religion's role in society, reach out to believers, and support self-governance of religious groups. It may just be an attempt to seem more human rights-friendly in the lead-up to the Beijing Olympics, but some academics think this announcement may signal a significant change in China's treatment of religion.

While the Kitchen God left major cities for good, another ritual has made a comeback after being banned: firecrackers. They were not just for fun: Firecrackers were meant to scare away the New Year monster, whose name happens to be "Year," so that when you say the monster has passed, it is a pun meaning the year has passed. Originally, firecrackers were just bamboo shoots, which crackle and pop when set afire. But the flashier modern fireworks sometimes take out fingers and damage hearing. In 1993, the Beijing government banned them for safety reasons, and most cities followed suit. More than 100,000 volunteer guards wearing red armbands were charged with arresting people who ignored the ban and taking them to police stations to be fined. As a replacement, some people bought cassette tapes with recorded firecracker sounds. Others simply ignored the ban, and two years ago, the Beijing government lifted it, much to many people's annoyance. Since they are one of the only celebratory outlets permitted today, a few people overindulge, keeping the neighborhood awake into the wee hours.

Other rituals reserved for Chinese New Year were lost along the road of economic progress—particularly luxuries now affordable all year. People in the north used to shower only at the New Year and get a ceremonial haircut on the 27th day of the 12th month of the lunar calendar; any later would subtract from intelligence, according to tradition. Once, dumplings were special for the New Year, and families rationed meat all year to save up for them. Now, urban Chinese can eat meat dumplings daily. New shoes and clothes were a New Year treat for children, but they too are no big deal in cities. As a child, my 78-year-old neighbor, Wu Shu Qin, couldn't even afford red banners. Now she keeps them up all year round.

Also changed is that her children don't prostrate themselves before her as she once did to her elders. "People used to kowtow three times to their parents and grandparents," said Liu Yi Da, the author of a book on folk customs. "Now they just show up at their parents' house and say, 'Hey Mom and Dad! I'm paying you my New Year visit.' And then they all sit down to watch the Spring Festival program on TV."

With 200 million migrant workers, by official counts, not everyone in China can make it home for the holidays. But practically everyone tries. This year, an estimated 200 million people are traveling, with some standing on trains for 40-hour trips. Families in China are so scattered that Spring Festival traffic has its own new term: chunyun. Once upon a time, it was a given that families were already in the same place to burn the Kitchen God together. Nowadays, neither can be taken for granted. To both rich and poor, whether they still burn the Kitchen God or not, getting home has become the holiday's most sacred—and strenuous—ritual.

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April Rabkin is a freelance writer in Beijing.
Photograph of Chinese New Year celebration by David Paul Morris/Getty Images.
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