When you shake the hand of Yan Jiaman, a middle-aged man with a full beard, you can feel the calluses of someone who has worked with his hands his entire life. Sometimes that work has been in a factory, sometimes as a tricycle driver and a street vendor; after his two daughters entered college, he became a drayman trekking across the city of Wuhan, Hubei Province.

Yan Jiman, 47 years old, now has accidently created national buzz due to his strong and muscular body chastened by years of hard work. Tall and modest in manners, the half-naked man often wears a black hat, cropped pants and a pair of black canvas shoes. His abdominal muscles are obvious and strong. He looks like one of those daring and handsome characters in the movies.

But he lives quite differently from the flashy heroes. Every morning, he has to send milk to over 100 residents and at about 7 am, he goes to the Hanzheng Street and delivers goods with his handcart. The daily work ends at 4 pm.

The annual tuition for the two daughters is about 10,000 yuan. His wife works as a cook in a small restaurant, earning a meager 1000 yuan each month; while Yan says he can earn about 3000 yuan a month at best.

The job is arduous and demanding. Sometimes he will carry goods of 500 Kg, seven times his own weight. As he often covers miles and miles to deliver the goods, the shoes wear out easily and he has to buy new ones every three months.

Since 1999 the family home has been rented out to increase the household income. The family now lives in a shabby room of 20 square meters nearby. When asked at what time they would move back into their own house, Yan smiles and says they will not until the children finish college.

Despite certain hardships, Yan finds joy in the smaller things in life.

“March 24 was my birthday. My daughters bought my favorite sweet stuff - oatmeal.” he says, smiling happily.

Yan and his story has already been a national inspiration. China’s Weibo users expressed their admiration for his muscular body, and more to the point, his dedication and commitment to his family.

User i非诚勿扰I wrote: ”His hard work leads to the muscular body. The hard workers are the most beautiful. ”

User 快乐帮主 wrote: “That is what a real man is. Man, you can have no cars, no houses, but you must work like the man and fight for the happiness of the family. For love, man, Fight!”

User 名字改不回去了 wrote：”He is not pulling the cart, but the family. He is not displaying his muscles, but the depth of his life.”

Contact the author of this article or email xuxinlei@chinadaily.com.cn with further questions, comments or tips.

This year, in Nanjing, a city in central China, almost one hundred parents blocked a busy street near the school in which their children were sitting for the gaokao exam. The traffic ground to a halt, and some parents even accosted drivers that sounded their horns indicating their anger at the parents’ unorthodox disruption.

The gaokao exam is the national university entrance exam in China. It is held once a year and anyone who hopes to make something of themselves needs to pass it. “It pays to go to college” – this maxim is embedded in the national psyche of China.

This is why, when it is gaokao time of year, parents and students alike, tend to freak out. In the frenetic national preparation for gao kao, the parents are the worst hit.

Traditionally, attaining a high-level academic degree in China stands for family honor and a bright future, and the parents will do whatever they can to support their children and protect them from any external influences.

This can include poisoning frogs in the nearby pond so their croaking doesn’t disturb the studious, and even forbidding residents living on the floor above to flush the toilet in case it disturbs the children as they were preparing for the exam, according to media reports.

It is a stark illustration of their total dedication to their children, at the expense of the social order. As the effects of the family control policy begin to be felt, today’s parents often lavish their attention on their children, whom they consider as the only treasure and hope of the entire family.

In a country where high scores are the only scores that matter, Chinese students have to finish a spate of question papers, cracking notoriously difficult mathematical problems and cramming thousands of English words to do well on the gaokao. Also, they have to sacrifice their spare time and holidays to the monotony of schoolwork, schoolwork, and more schoolwork (with schoolwork for dessert).

Though an increasing number of students have chosen to study abroad and fewer applicants are engaged in the annual exam, its charm remains undiminished among the majority of the population, as excellent educational resources are sparsely distributed in China, and gaokao acts as a relatively fair channel, offering a rare opportunity for the people from a lower socio-economic background the opportunity to reach higher.

But people are increasingly finding the exam, which began in 1952, is not solely about the academic performance of the students. It means more to the Chinese society. Every year, everyone in China is mobilized to prepare for the “creation of a quiet and healthy environment for the students”, with construction sites in urban areas halted, police patrolling in the street for any misbehaver that may pose threats to the exam, hospitals ready to help over strung or fainting students and free taxi rides for the students.

A recent incident related to gaokao caused much buzz on the social media, leaving the society questioning the struggle between the stricture of the exam and the need to account for human nature.

On June 8, a Shanghai student arrived two minutes late for the exam due to a broken bicycle. His mother kneeled down and prayed for the examiners to allow her son in, but was met with a blunt refusal. The boy then attempted to break in, but was stopped by the school security.

Some people argue that special cases like this should be handled in a more humanizing way, allowing the boy in to take the exam that may decide his future life. But others hold that the rules are designed for all, and no one should be above them, which otherwise may set a dangerous precedent for future rule-bending cases.

“The Chinese education system is to blame for its redundant attention to gaokao. The school was right as it clung to the rules. If it allowed the boy in, what about those who came late for 5 minutes, 10 minutes or even 30 minutes?” Weibo user 水天逆卷lpf wrote.

In another case, an 18-year-old Anhui student, who boarded at her school, was kept in the dark about a family tragedy until after she sat the exam. Both her parents died two months before the exam, but her other family members and the school agreed it would be better to lie about this until the stress of the exam was over.

The news came as a shock to the public and some critics say that the gao kao has, to some extent, dehumanized the entire society, with a crazy preoccupation on scores overpowering other concerns of the human nature and family bonds.

“Has the humanity been eaten away by this bankrupt system and the fickle society?! Humanity should be at the center of any education system. Without humanity, how can we talk about the future!” user 我是寒寒喜欢暖暖 wrote.

They also warn that a college diploma is not a guarantee of future success. Gaokao may be an inevitable rite of passage for most Chinese students, but it surely is not the ultimate purpose of education.

The number of students for the exam continues to drop for four straight years. It is 9.15 million this year, 180,000 less than last year. This may be a sign that its importance will decrease as new norms surrounding education arise.

Contact the author of this article or email xuxinlei@chinadaily.com.cn with further questions, comments or tips.

For Chinese people, especially those born after the 1970s, gaokao is a nightmare that still rankles. For them, gaokao, or the national college entrance examination in early June, represents years of dedication and self-sacrifice at school, and it is one of the keys to determine their direction in life.

Before 1949, Chinese colleges recruited students according to their own schedules and students could go to different colleges for examinations, which added to their chance of admission. But due to the chaotic situation of the nation, few people were able to receive higher education and China produced about 21,000 college graduates annually in the 1940s.

In 1952, the Ministry of Education of the newly born P.R.C decided to impose a national examination for all colleges in the Chinese mainland. However, gradually, political backgrounds became a determining factor in gaokao, as China started to become obsessed with rounds of political campaigns. During 1958 to 1965, in addition to brilliant academic performance, students had to have a clean family background, for example, no family members could be born from exploiting classes, such as a landlord or the bourgeois. Children of workers, peasants and soldiers were favored as they were considered the backbone and loyal successors of the socialist country.

In 1966, gaokao was halted as the whole nation sank into the Cultural Revolution whirlpool, a decade of disaster that turned traditional Chinese values upside down. In 1971, the colleges started to recruit new students, but the ban on gaokao still remained. All the entrants were brilliant youth directly chosen from peasants, workers and the military, and they must have worked as such for over two years.

Statistics reveal that from 1970 to 1976, about 82,000 students were admitted to colleges, but many of them had only finished middle school, which put a huge question mark over their academic qualities.

The downward trend was reversed in 1977 when the State Council issued a directive for the reinstitution of the college entrance examination. The news rekindled the public thirst for knowledge, as evidenced by the 5.72 million candidates taking part in the exam in 1978.

The wheel of change was set into motion since then. From 1985, China gradually reduced the core subjects for the exam, increased the tuition and in 1999, the government decided to broaden access to higher education by increasing the recruitment quota. In 2001, the exam was available to all Chinese people, old and young.

China also seeks alternative ways to improve gaokao by encouraging colleges to conduct independent entrance exams. By 2007, about 53 colleges in the Chinese mainland were granted the privilege of independent recruitment.

Despite these preemptive measures, gaokao is losing its appeal. More students, especially those in the rich eastern regions, choose to study abroad and abandon the exam, a national imposition that has long been under fire as some critics say it worsens the already unfair distribution of educational resources. For example, in 2011, a Beijing student could enter Peking University as long as he/she scored above 623, but his/her peers in Shandong has to gain another 30 marks to get admitted.

The problem is attributable to many reasons, but notably, to the excessive attention on examination results in the gaokao-based education system. The examination leads to rising schoolwork and the pressure even begins with kindergarten, where children have to take extracurricular classes, such as piano and painting, to give them a potential edge over their peers.

On China’s Sina Weibo, an online discussion about individual experiences with gaokao best records the thoughts of the users.

User Viking丶 wrote: "#When I Sat for Gaokao# I feel lucky that I did not take gaokao, and I did not finish the senior year in the high school. If we work hard for over ten years just to prepare for an exam, it is better to drop out of the school."

User 花開寂靜流年 wrote: "#When I Sat for Gaokao# I felt sleepless during the days before Gaokao, and I would read books into the deep night. But the three alarm bells did not wake me up the next morning."

User sammy善善 wrote："#When I Sat for Gaokao# when I learned about my results, I locked myself in my room and cried for three days. For a week, I did not leave the room; I even did not and would not answer any calls. During those days, I lost all my beliefs of persistence."

Contact the author of this article or email xuxinlei@chinadaily.com.cn with further questions, comments or tips.

A leukemia patient became the focus of the nation as she tweeted about her illness and thought-provoking words about love and life on her micro-blog.

Lu Ruoqing, real name Lu Chao, was a beautiful girl born in Qingdao, Shandong Province. She was diagnosed with leukemia at the advanced stage earlier this year, which prompted her family to send her to Beijing, where first-class hospitals are concentrated.

She received chemotherapy and stem cell transplants for the debilitating disease. Good news came this March when her stem cells matched those of her elder brother, which brought hopes of recovery, or alleviation at least, to the ill-fated girl.

But she dropped efforts and returned to Qingdao - in part due to the huge amount of money needed for the medical operation, and also because after agonizing rounds of chemotherapy, her body had weakened and her cascading hair was disappearing. She knew her days were numbered and not want to become an embarrassing burden on her family.

On April 16, she began to post on her Sina Weibo, a Chinese version of Twitter, about her illness and sometimes deep thoughts about life, which provided a window into her inner world.

“I have just returned from the beach. When you think of something that you cannot let go, you may visit the intensive care units or graveyards where you can easily understand that you have got what you want. Asking for more, you will be greedy. Respect life and don’t struggle with it,” said one of the posts.

The 23-year-old girl was brought to the national spotlight when a high-profile Weibo user Notebook shared the touching story with their 2.8 million followers. Other users, including established singers and actors, crowded her page leaving messages of comfort and encouragement.

In the real world, millions of people started a fund-raising campaign for the girl. But as before, she denied any offers. “There are people in more dire need than me,” said the girl. For those insisting on donations, her family members agreed to set it down on record and promise to use the money solely for the girl.

On her Weibo, she also told of her ex-boyfriend who, at her mother’s request, came to the hospital and finally abandoned her, which left her deeply hurt. It created an intense burst of public outrage over the man’s lack of compassion, and the girl quickly deleted the post, asking users not to bring pressure on him.

A local TV program, however, painted a different picture of the ex-boyfriend. He popped the question even in the knowledge that the girl was in a serious condition. The girl refused the proposal probably because she was unwilling to lead the boy into an unknown future，said one of her relatives.

On May 23, the girl returned to Beijing for further treatment as the disease continued to worsen. Her arrival also cleared up a widespread speculation over her real identity and fears that she was just another product of modern hype.

One day ago, she deleted all her posts, closed comments, and left just one piece: “Thank you all for your care. I can feel your love for me, but it has caused troubles in my life. I want to stay quiet for a moment. Thank you.”

But her stoicism and optimism has become a source of inspiration for many people, especially those who have read her posts.

User 想念Pep的M10 wrote: “#One Word for Lu Ruoqing# Fight, for the beautiful life.”

User pabloyoung66 wrote: “#One Word for Lu Ruoqing# You are so young. Hope you will recover from the evil disease and get well soon.”

User 青空的晴天 wrote: “#One Word for Lu Ruoqing# My Dear, you have to be strong! I believe you will get well soon! Your friends are waiting for you in the usual places. Together you can still shop and eat. Be strong!!!”

On May 22, Lu posted probably the last piece on her Weibo. “I just pulled out the needle. I feel grateful to you, my dear people, for all the talk about me, be they good or bad. Thank you all for you love. I think it is time for me to disappear completely. Just because of you, I become the most beautiful girl. In the hustle and bustle, I seek peace. ”

Contact the author of this article or email xuxinlei@chinadaily.com.cn with further questions, comments or tips.

Few countries in the world come close to China in terms of food source variety. Now a culinary TV documentary has stirred quite a response in China for its rare glimpse into the depth of the nation’s diet.

The show, A Bite of China, was produced by China Central Television Station, China’s largest TV outlet. With the aid of high-definition recording, the documentary series is awash with images of palatable food, ranging from the precious matsutake inhabited in remote mountains to steamed buns, staple food in many parts of northern China.

But the show offers more; it tells of the stories behind the food. Each episode comprises of common people engaged in food production, such as a tofu maker, rice wine brewer and shrimp paste processor. Their life stories are simple yet also filled with issues about human nature, heritage and the struggle between modernity and tradition, which adds twists and luster to the production.

The documentary, some critics say, for the first time gives an overall picture of the Chinese people’s gustatory sense and the development of the relationship between food and people over the past centuries.

“The taste sinks down through the tongue and soon reaches the heart, leaving us unable to distinguish between the taste and the feelings,” one of its scripts read.

In a nation where food is closely tied with daily life, the Chinese people pay careful attention to food choices and have developed a food culture system, which generally focuses on regional specialty, seasonal differences, cooking techniques, physical appearance and aroma as well as health benefits.

More telling is table manners in China. Vastly different from western customs, it calls for guest-centric seat arrangement, effusive hospitality and most of all, careful use of the utensils. For example, never stick chopsticks upright in the rice bowl, make sure the spout of the teapot is not facing anyone and don't tap chopsticks on the bowl.

In addition, food symbolism has long become a national phenomenon. Foods are often given, by accident or design, different meanings. For example, the guest may be served a chicken head as a showcase of respect and hospitality. People in some regions will have noodles, a symbol of longevity, on their birthdays in hope of health and happiness.

A hard fact, however, is that food scandals over recent years, such as tainted milk and cooking oil collected from sewers, has made a dent in the public confidence on food no matter where it comes from. The scandals have thrown food quality into the national spotlight and the public have called for greater efforts to stamp out such health hazards.

The large scale documentary full of beauty and meaning is now a hard act for other rival programs to follow. But more significantly, it has rekindled the public fervor towards food - a point of pride for the Chinese people.

Many audience members are placing online orders for the food or ingredients discussed in the program and savvy Weibo users are gushing avid praises of the production.

User carina爱枫叶的猴子 wrote:"#A Bite of China# After watching the show, I want to travel more and taste more. I really feel impulsive to start my journey now, look around and enjoy the Chinese food in different regions!"

User 钅戋弓虽 wrote："#A Bite of China# The show is a great success because it presents a beautiful and pure China that has long been remembered by the Chinese people. Its success shows a lack of something in today’s society, root."

User ak722 wrote: "A Bite of China# what is the ultimate secret in the kitchen? There is no secret at all. That was what I found when I finished all the documentary series yesterday."

Contact the author of this article or email xuxinlei@chinadaily.com.cn with further questions, comments or tips.