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Custodial Clash
Difficulty obtaining divorce and a lack of legal protection lead families to “kidnap”
for custody
Beating out The Predator at October’s box office， Feng Xiaogang-produced thriller Lost， Found proves that custody battles can be more suspenseful than extraterrestrial invasions.
In the opening scenes， lawyer Li Jie warns a divorcing client not to let his ex take their child out of sight—foreshadowing the abduction of Li’s own daughter. Li suspects her ex-husband of involvement， and he blames her （the culprit， ironically， is the nanny， whom Li had hired to prevent a custody-kidnap in the first place）.
The scenario could have been ripped from the headlines： With skyrocketing divorce rates， it’s not uncommon to hear of feuding exes and in-laws taking custody decisions into their own hands， especially in the one and two-child policy era. On October 2， two days before Lost， Found’s premiere， a granny was arrested at a Beijing shopping mall for attempting to kidnap her 11-month-old grandson from her estranged daughter-in-law （she snatched a stranger’s son by mistake）.
“Family abduction，” or the removal and concealment of children by a non-custodial parent or family member， is not a crime under Chinese law. After a 2017 case in Nanjing， in which the child was successfully recovered two days after being taken by her mother， officer Ma Kexiang told ZAKER News that police “usually only have the power to mediate” in custody-related child abductions.
Both parents are still considered a child’s legal guardians after a divorce， under PRC marriage law. Parents who feel their rights have been violated can apply for a court order to enforce custody—with potent fines or detention for the other parent if they refuse to comply.
Cultural factors throw in another complication： In the recent Beijing kidnap， even prior to the parents’ separation， the mother and grandmother had fought over the latter’s request to raise her only grandson in his “ancestral home.” According to a 2017 study of custody cases in Guangdong province by legal platform Yidianfa， over 80 percent of cases that go to court involve only children， of which 60 percent involve only sons; 62 percent of court decisions involving sons are appealed.
Not helping matters are byzantine regulations in many localities， which require couples to first participate in mediation or mandatory “cooling off” periods when applying for a no-fault divorce. In the case of the Beijing couple， each parent was in custody limbo while they waited the required six months before they could apply to split again. In a 2017 family abduction case， the Beijing court attempted to placate both sides with a joint custody decision—which， though formally approved by China’s highest court in 1993， is rarely awarded due to the difficulty in getting both parties to agree to the details of the arrangement. “Joint custody can only be a stopgap measure for individual cases，” Xicheng District Court judge Cheng Le told the Beijing News. “Finding a real solution still requires both parties to be reasonable and consider the mental health of the child.” – Hatty Liu
Fishing for Fortune
Need some good luck？ There is a meme
for that
Chosen from over three million participants to win the Alipay “Chinese Koi Lucky Draw，” Ma Huixian is not only swimming in luxury prizes， meal vouchers， and international travel tickets—but is now considered a good luck charm.
“Does this mean I don’t have to work for the rest of my life？” Ma， who is known as “Xinxiaodai” on Weibo， posted. The answer is no （unless you can live on high-end haircuts alone）， but the post was shared by nearly 8 million users， giving the 25-year-old engineer over a million Weibo followers and the distinction of being named “2018 Alipay’s Chinese Koi.”
In Chinese culture， the koi， or “colorful carp，” has long been associated with good fortune. In the Spring and Autumn period， Confucius named his son 鯉 （carp）， and wealthy families often kept a koi pond in the yard， because it was believed that the fish brought good feng shui.
Nowadays， the fish is associated with chain mail （“forward for good luck！”）： “Koi King，” a Weibo account which simply posts different pictures of koi， is followed by over 16 million users， each apparently hoping that gazing at a digital fish will give them an edge in the gaokao or job interviews. Lucky or successful individuals are an alternative to actual fish—Leonardo DiCaprio’s photo was also forwarded as a lucky charm after he finally won an Oscar for The Revenant.
Inevitably， as the trend leaked into the entertainment world， it has become more tongue-in-cheek. Yang Chaoyue， a contestant on talent show Produce 101， was criticized for her mediocre singing and dancing， but nevertheless made it to third place in the finale. Yang’s picture became a meme with the mildly satiric caption “Forward this Yang Chaoyue， you can secure third place in exams without working hard.”
Likewise， supermodel Ming Xi， infamous for stumbling during the Shanghai Victoria’s Secret show， was granted koi status after she was named the brand’s Greater China Ambassador in September. “Forward this Ming Xi，” her meme ran， “and receive a promotion and a raise after making a mistake at work.” Workers of the world—good luck！ – SUN JIAHUI （孫佳慧）
Masters of None
IT offerS the most expensive education in the country—but IS THE MBA little more than A status symbol？
What happens to a company equipped with 34 current or aspiring CEOs， instead of just one？ The Haidian District People’s Court of Beijing has the answer—it goes bankrupt.
According to the court’s Weibo， the distressed company was established in December 2014 by students of a Tsinghua University CEO program， following a crowdfunding round on the group’s 120-member WeChat group that raised 6.8 million RMB from 34 investors to run a restaurant by the east gate of Tsinghua University. Today， that eatery boasts assets totaling nearly 5，000 RMB， and a debt of over 3 million RMB.
While details of the relationship between the budding CEOs and Tsinghua’s business program remain sketchy， the post garnered 20 million views and 670，000 comments， most wondering why a company run by supposed elites trained by the top academy in the country would flop so spectacularly.
It may be a reflection of the education on offer： The “CEO program，” or Executive Master of Business Administration （EMBA）， is a part of a large and profitable education sector in which students enroll hoping to become China’s next Jack Ma. When the degree was introduced in 1991， nine universities were authorized to offer EMBAs by the Ministry of Education， but the number had risen to 236 by 2011， and nearly half a million people held the degree as of January 2016.
Generally， the EMBA is targeted at current or potential senior managers. Applicants need a college diploma and a minimum three years’ working experience， and receive the degree after one or two years of study with courses given over four consecutive days each month. At the Cheung Kong Graduate School of Business， an elite independent business institute established with the support of the Li Ka Shing Foundation， courses can cost up to 698，000 RMB for a two-year certificate.
However， even the idol of EMBA candidates， Alibaba’s CEO Jack Ma， is questioning the value of these courses. “[The students] are very smart before the MBA study， but turn stupid after finishing it，” Ma， a famously self-made billionaire， declared at the Global Transformation Forum 2017. “Their thinking is constrained by the theories of professors and economists.” Of course， studying for an MBA is often a bureaucratic requirement for climbing the corporate ladder， rather than an individual bid for success. Still， even a mediocre degree at brand-name universities like Peking University and Tsinghua can be an excellent networking opportunity—and not just for business; producer， actress， and columnist Tian Pujun， perhaps best known as the wife of Chinese real estate CEO Wang Shi， met the magnate in the Cheung Kong course. And even if you don’t manage to marry a millionaire， a Tsinghua certificate from any subject is a recognizable status symbol—or even an attractive decoration to hang prominently on the wall of that restaurant you always wanted to open. – Tan Yunfei （譚云飞）
Morbid
Mansions
With bargains hard to find， desperate homebuyers look to “murder homes”
“I’m not afraid of ghosts， just afraid of poverty，” prospective homebuyer Zhou Qu quoted a common saying on Meiri Renwu， a WeChat account dedicated to long-form personal essays.
Inspired by a story in June of a “haunted” Nanjing villa that was put up for auction for one-fourth its market value， Zhou began to contact agents about other properties with dark histories， hoping to find a bargain that could “rekindle” his long-dead dream of owning an apartment in Beijing.
It was easier said than done. Properties known as xiongzhai （凶宅， “murder residences”） generally refer to homes that have seen any sort of unnatural or untimely death. These xiongzhai are normally considered unlucky to live in， or even to own， meaning they usually can only sell for a fraction of the real value—but legal complications and， more recently， rising demand， are eroding even that tradition.
Just like Hong Kong and Tokyo， two other infamously overheated property markets， the high cost of housing is forcing buyers to reconsider their superstitions—and the market is slowly reflecting the change. Though a quick roadside survey by Takefoto.cn found that only one out of 13 respondents would consider buying a xiongzhai， even at a steep discount， 22 buyers were willing to pay the 30，000 RMB deposit to bid on the Nanjing villa （the site of a gruesome 2011 axe murder and dismemberment）， which eventually sold for 50 percent of its market value.
In a seller’s market like Beijing， though， a death usually only knocks 5 to 10 percent off the cost of a home， and it simply takes a little longer than usual to sell， one feng shui master told Zhou. He explained that a death may not necessarily affect a property’s luck， depending on the buyer’s astrological reading. An estate agent told the Beijing News that the damage to value was more like 10 to 30 percent， depending on the details： particularly gruesome or multiple homicides， suicides， or cases with lots of media attention can really slash the prices， compared with an illness or accident. Legally speaking， there is no definition of xiongzhai， but disputes can arise if sellers avoid full disclosure： According to Takefoto， over 90 percent of cases in which buyers have sued agents or sellers for concealing deaths have resulted in compensation being refunded to the buyer， as the detail was deemed to affect the property’s resale value. Though it was widely reported in 2015 that Lianjia had a record of nearly 3，000 xiongzhai listed in Beijing （similar public databases exist in Hong Kong and Taipei）， the Lianjia agent told the Beijing Evening News that the company now only shows xiongzhai on request.
But in oversubscribed districts， where home-ownership is a prerequisite to enrollment in a highly-ranked public school， a gruesome past is no pressure on an investment property that can simply sit empty—or become tenants’ problems. “Prices are increasing this year，” one optimistic xiongzhai owner told Zhou. “I’m not in a hurry…even if I can’t sell， I can rent it out in the high thousands.” – H.L.
Difficulty obtaining divorce and a lack of legal protection lead families to “kidnap”
for custody
Beating out The Predator at October’s box office， Feng Xiaogang-produced thriller Lost， Found proves that custody battles can be more suspenseful than extraterrestrial invasions.
In the opening scenes， lawyer Li Jie warns a divorcing client not to let his ex take their child out of sight—foreshadowing the abduction of Li’s own daughter. Li suspects her ex-husband of involvement， and he blames her （the culprit， ironically， is the nanny， whom Li had hired to prevent a custody-kidnap in the first place）.
The scenario could have been ripped from the headlines： With skyrocketing divorce rates， it’s not uncommon to hear of feuding exes and in-laws taking custody decisions into their own hands， especially in the one and two-child policy era. On October 2， two days before Lost， Found’s premiere， a granny was arrested at a Beijing shopping mall for attempting to kidnap her 11-month-old grandson from her estranged daughter-in-law （she snatched a stranger’s son by mistake）.
“Family abduction，” or the removal and concealment of children by a non-custodial parent or family member， is not a crime under Chinese law. After a 2017 case in Nanjing， in which the child was successfully recovered two days after being taken by her mother， officer Ma Kexiang told ZAKER News that police “usually only have the power to mediate” in custody-related child abductions.
Both parents are still considered a child’s legal guardians after a divorce， under PRC marriage law. Parents who feel their rights have been violated can apply for a court order to enforce custody—with potent fines or detention for the other parent if they refuse to comply.
Cultural factors throw in another complication： In the recent Beijing kidnap， even prior to the parents’ separation， the mother and grandmother had fought over the latter’s request to raise her only grandson in his “ancestral home.” According to a 2017 study of custody cases in Guangdong province by legal platform Yidianfa， over 80 percent of cases that go to court involve only children， of which 60 percent involve only sons; 62 percent of court decisions involving sons are appealed.
Not helping matters are byzantine regulations in many localities， which require couples to first participate in mediation or mandatory “cooling off” periods when applying for a no-fault divorce. In the case of the Beijing couple， each parent was in custody limbo while they waited the required six months before they could apply to split again. In a 2017 family abduction case， the Beijing court attempted to placate both sides with a joint custody decision—which， though formally approved by China’s highest court in 1993， is rarely awarded due to the difficulty in getting both parties to agree to the details of the arrangement. “Joint custody can only be a stopgap measure for individual cases，” Xicheng District Court judge Cheng Le told the Beijing News. “Finding a real solution still requires both parties to be reasonable and consider the mental health of the child.” – Hatty Liu
Fishing for Fortune
Need some good luck？ There is a meme
for that
Chosen from over three million participants to win the Alipay “Chinese Koi Lucky Draw，” Ma Huixian is not only swimming in luxury prizes， meal vouchers， and international travel tickets—but is now considered a good luck charm.
“Does this mean I don’t have to work for the rest of my life？” Ma， who is known as “Xinxiaodai” on Weibo， posted. The answer is no （unless you can live on high-end haircuts alone）， but the post was shared by nearly 8 million users， giving the 25-year-old engineer over a million Weibo followers and the distinction of being named “2018 Alipay’s Chinese Koi.”
In Chinese culture， the koi， or “colorful carp，” has long been associated with good fortune. In the Spring and Autumn period， Confucius named his son 鯉 （carp）， and wealthy families often kept a koi pond in the yard， because it was believed that the fish brought good feng shui.
Nowadays， the fish is associated with chain mail （“forward for good luck！”）： “Koi King，” a Weibo account which simply posts different pictures of koi， is followed by over 16 million users， each apparently hoping that gazing at a digital fish will give them an edge in the gaokao or job interviews. Lucky or successful individuals are an alternative to actual fish—Leonardo DiCaprio’s photo was also forwarded as a lucky charm after he finally won an Oscar for The Revenant.
Inevitably， as the trend leaked into the entertainment world， it has become more tongue-in-cheek. Yang Chaoyue， a contestant on talent show Produce 101， was criticized for her mediocre singing and dancing， but nevertheless made it to third place in the finale. Yang’s picture became a meme with the mildly satiric caption “Forward this Yang Chaoyue， you can secure third place in exams without working hard.”
Likewise， supermodel Ming Xi， infamous for stumbling during the Shanghai Victoria’s Secret show， was granted koi status after she was named the brand’s Greater China Ambassador in September. “Forward this Ming Xi，” her meme ran， “and receive a promotion and a raise after making a mistake at work.” Workers of the world—good luck！ – SUN JIAHUI （孫佳慧）
Masters of None
IT offerS the most expensive education in the country—but IS THE MBA little more than A status symbol？
What happens to a company equipped with 34 current or aspiring CEOs， instead of just one？ The Haidian District People’s Court of Beijing has the answer—it goes bankrupt.
According to the court’s Weibo， the distressed company was established in December 2014 by students of a Tsinghua University CEO program， following a crowdfunding round on the group’s 120-member WeChat group that raised 6.8 million RMB from 34 investors to run a restaurant by the east gate of Tsinghua University. Today， that eatery boasts assets totaling nearly 5，000 RMB， and a debt of over 3 million RMB.
While details of the relationship between the budding CEOs and Tsinghua’s business program remain sketchy， the post garnered 20 million views and 670，000 comments， most wondering why a company run by supposed elites trained by the top academy in the country would flop so spectacularly.
It may be a reflection of the education on offer： The “CEO program，” or Executive Master of Business Administration （EMBA）， is a part of a large and profitable education sector in which students enroll hoping to become China’s next Jack Ma. When the degree was introduced in 1991， nine universities were authorized to offer EMBAs by the Ministry of Education， but the number had risen to 236 by 2011， and nearly half a million people held the degree as of January 2016.
Generally， the EMBA is targeted at current or potential senior managers. Applicants need a college diploma and a minimum three years’ working experience， and receive the degree after one or two years of study with courses given over four consecutive days each month. At the Cheung Kong Graduate School of Business， an elite independent business institute established with the support of the Li Ka Shing Foundation， courses can cost up to 698，000 RMB for a two-year certificate.
However， even the idol of EMBA candidates， Alibaba’s CEO Jack Ma， is questioning the value of these courses. “[The students] are very smart before the MBA study， but turn stupid after finishing it，” Ma， a famously self-made billionaire， declared at the Global Transformation Forum 2017. “Their thinking is constrained by the theories of professors and economists.” Of course， studying for an MBA is often a bureaucratic requirement for climbing the corporate ladder， rather than an individual bid for success. Still， even a mediocre degree at brand-name universities like Peking University and Tsinghua can be an excellent networking opportunity—and not just for business; producer， actress， and columnist Tian Pujun， perhaps best known as the wife of Chinese real estate CEO Wang Shi， met the magnate in the Cheung Kong course. And even if you don’t manage to marry a millionaire， a Tsinghua certificate from any subject is a recognizable status symbol—or even an attractive decoration to hang prominently on the wall of that restaurant you always wanted to open. – Tan Yunfei （譚云飞）
Morbid
Mansions
With bargains hard to find， desperate homebuyers look to “murder homes”
“I’m not afraid of ghosts， just afraid of poverty，” prospective homebuyer Zhou Qu quoted a common saying on Meiri Renwu， a WeChat account dedicated to long-form personal essays.
Inspired by a story in June of a “haunted” Nanjing villa that was put up for auction for one-fourth its market value， Zhou began to contact agents about other properties with dark histories， hoping to find a bargain that could “rekindle” his long-dead dream of owning an apartment in Beijing.
It was easier said than done. Properties known as xiongzhai （凶宅， “murder residences”） generally refer to homes that have seen any sort of unnatural or untimely death. These xiongzhai are normally considered unlucky to live in， or even to own， meaning they usually can only sell for a fraction of the real value—but legal complications and， more recently， rising demand， are eroding even that tradition.
Just like Hong Kong and Tokyo， two other infamously overheated property markets， the high cost of housing is forcing buyers to reconsider their superstitions—and the market is slowly reflecting the change. Though a quick roadside survey by Takefoto.cn found that only one out of 13 respondents would consider buying a xiongzhai， even at a steep discount， 22 buyers were willing to pay the 30，000 RMB deposit to bid on the Nanjing villa （the site of a gruesome 2011 axe murder and dismemberment）， which eventually sold for 50 percent of its market value.
In a seller’s market like Beijing， though， a death usually only knocks 5 to 10 percent off the cost of a home， and it simply takes a little longer than usual to sell， one feng shui master told Zhou. He explained that a death may not necessarily affect a property’s luck， depending on the buyer’s astrological reading. An estate agent told the Beijing News that the damage to value was more like 10 to 30 percent， depending on the details： particularly gruesome or multiple homicides， suicides， or cases with lots of media attention can really slash the prices， compared with an illness or accident. Legally speaking， there is no definition of xiongzhai， but disputes can arise if sellers avoid full disclosure： According to Takefoto， over 90 percent of cases in which buyers have sued agents or sellers for concealing deaths have resulted in compensation being refunded to the buyer， as the detail was deemed to affect the property’s resale value. Though it was widely reported in 2015 that Lianjia had a record of nearly 3，000 xiongzhai listed in Beijing （similar public databases exist in Hong Kong and Taipei）， the Lianjia agent told the Beijing Evening News that the company now only shows xiongzhai on request.
But in oversubscribed districts， where home-ownership is a prerequisite to enrollment in a highly-ranked public school， a gruesome past is no pressure on an investment property that can simply sit empty—or become tenants’ problems. “Prices are increasing this year，” one optimistic xiongzhai owner told Zhou. “I’m not in a hurry…even if I can’t sell， I can rent it out in the high thousands.” – H.L.