The Exam That Changed a Generation

By: Kaiping Han

The path from elementary school to middle school, then to high school and university, was once seen as natural, almost taken for granted. In ordinary times, it was simply the way life unfolded. But for those of us who came of age during the Cultural Revolution, that smooth progression was abruptly broken. The dream of higher education, once so close, seemed to fade like a distant shoreline. Schools were shuttered, teachers silenced and denounced, books treated with suspicion and fear. The years that should have been spent bent over desks, turning pages, solving problems, were instead spent toiling in fields and factories, our hands rough from labor, our minds growing quiet from disuse. The chance to attend university felt impossibly far away, as though it belonged to a world we could no longer reach.

Then, in October 1977, everything shifted. The government announced that the national college entrance examination would be reinstated. The news came suddenly, spilling out of the loudspeakers that hung on poles in every village and town. After so many years of silence, the crackling voice from the loudspeaker felt like a message from a world we had almost forgotten — a world where learning still mattered. The thought of returning to the classroom, of opening books once more, stirred a hope that had long been buried beneath years of resignation.

Within a short month, over five million of us had registered for the exam. Many, like me, had not studied formally in years. Some were older, having lost precious time to the upheaval, yet still clinging fiercely to this unexpected chance. As we gathered in the examination halls, the air was thick with nervous energy. We sharpened our pencils as carefully as if preparing weapons for battle. Every scratch of a pen across paper, every furtive glance at the clock, carried the weight of all those silent years we had spent waiting and hoping.

That examination would go on to change the course of many lives. For some, it opened long-sealed doors to universities and careers once thought unreachable. For others, it was a way to reclaim a sense of dignity after years of uncertainty and lost time. The simple act of sitting in a classroom once more — reading, learning, daring to dream of the future — felt like a gift, one we had almost forgotten how to hope for.

Now, more than three decades later, those memories remain vivid, etched deeply into my heart. The long road from my little village school, with its broken chalkboards and bare classrooms, to the university lecture halls was not only my own journey — it was a story shared by an entire generation. The reinstatement of the college entrance exam in 1977 was far more than an educational policy; it was a turning point in history, offering us — the lost generation — a rare and precious second chance.

The value of education, once nearly lost to us, remains something I have come to cherish deeply.

Before the Cultural Revolution, during my elementary school years, the meaning of higher education was still something distant, just beginning to take shape in my young mind. In our home, there was a silver-gray Hero-brand fountain pen — high-grade, elegant — awarded to my father as a prize for his outstanding work. He kept it carefully tucked away in a small box, treating it like a quiet treasure.

One day, he gathered us children — my brothers, my sister, and me — and spoke with a sense of solemn pride: “Whoever is admitted to college in the future will receive this pen.”

In that moment, for the first time, I began to understand what going to college truly meant. It was not simply about advancing through school as a matter of course; it was something rare, something precious — a dream that carried the weight of family pride and quiet hope. The pen became more than just an object; it stood as a symbol of expectation, quietly planting within me the idea that university was both an honor and a possibility, though distant.

In July 1966, I finished elementary school and sat for the middle school entrance exam. I had applied to three good schools, full of hope and expectation. But the winds of the Cultural Revolution soon swept across the country, throwing everything into turmoil. Even our elementary school graduation photos were never distributed — lost somewhere in the confusion of those chaotic days, never to be recovered. We had technically left elementary school, but without being officially admitted to any middle school, we were caught in between. We didn’t belong anywhere. The “Resume Classes, Start Revolution” movement passed us by entirely. We became what they called “vagrant students,” drifting without a school to attend.

In those years, life was hard. Daily necessities were scarce; even buying simple things like oil, salt, soy sauce, and vinegar required long hours standing in endless lines. For three years, I stayed home, taking on the role of the family’s purchasing agent. But my days were not entirely wasted. My grandmother, with her gentle patience, taught me sewing and countless household skills — knowledge that quietly became valuable in the years that followed.

It wasn’t until September 1969 that a new middle school was hastily organized by my old elementary school under a political program. After three long years away from study, I returned to the classroom. My mind felt stiff, like a door that had been shut and gone unused for too long; even my handwriting had grown clumsy and awkward. I was already fifteen, perhaps sixteen, and only just beginning to grasp positive and negative numbers, rational numbers — concepts that should have come long before. After one semester, we were transferred again, this time to the official affiliated middle school, where I eventually graduated in January 1971. I should have completed middle school by July 1969, but by then, I was already a year and a half behind.

After middle school, there were only three paths laid before us: attend high school, enroll in a teacher training school — which cost nothing — or stay at home, unemployed and idle. I knew I didn’t want to be a teacher, and I certainly didn’t want to sit at home doing nothing. High school became my only option. But even that path was far from smooth. Because of my family background — labeled as an exploiting class — my social status was unfavorable. Worse still, I was never good at speaking up during group discussions, which had become so common and politically charged in those days. Those meetings filled me with dread. My stomach would knot each time I had to stand and speak, unsure of the right words, fearful of saying the wrong ones. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t simply give up my schooling because of fear. So, I stayed, quiet but determined, and kept moving forward.

In my junior high school class of thirty-seven students, only seven of us continued on to high school. Those of us who did were quickly immersed in what was called “open-door education.” The classrooms often stood empty as we were sent out for endless rounds of work-study — in factories, on farms, even in military training camps. We hiked through mountains, marched through the night, and camped out in the open for weeks at a time. One entire semester was spent living in rural villages, our days divided between studying and farming. There were mornings spent in the fields, bending over rows of crops, and afternoons back in makeshift classrooms trying to catch up on our lessons. Later, we were assigned to factories, where we learned to operate lathes, our hands guiding the heavy machines under the watchful eyes of instructors. That was our high school education — part classroom, part labor, part political training — preparing us for a future that none of us could quite see clearly.

In 1972, a wave of educational reforms began to shift the atmosphere at school. Our study conditions finally improved, and for the first time in years, school life began to feel meaningful, even satisfying. That same year, universities started admitting selected groups of workers, peasants, and soldiers — a new kind of student body shaped by politics rather than examination. Once, for a class performance, we needed green military-style jackets. A classmate suggested that I borrow a female soldier’s uniform from a nearby university. That afternoon, I found myself crouching quietly outside the language department’s classroom window, watching the young female cadets inside, their heads bent over textbooks, deeply absorbed in their studies. I watched them with a mix of longing and admiration. How I envied them — sitting there, already living the life I could only imagine. Yet, weighed down by my own feelings of inadequacy, I couldn’t bring myself to step inside and ask for the uniform. The chance slipped away, leaving only that vivid memory of watching them through the glass.

High school lasted only two and a half years — short, yet somehow it felt endless at times, as we lived under the shadow of uncertainty. As graduation drew closer, quiet rumors began to ripple through the school. Some whispered that this year’s graduates might finally be recommended for university admission. It was a fragile hope, something almost too delicate to touch. One afternoon, our class leader, Lan Lan, pulled me aside and said softly, “If they recommend anyone from our class, you’ll be one of them.” Her words warmed me for a moment like a brief patch of sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. But I dared not believe it. In those days, hope was a dangerous thing — easy to awaken, even easier to lose.

As the final days of school slipped away, none of us knew where we would go next. The school held meetings, telling us to prepare our hearts for whatever assignment the Party would give. We all nodded, but in our quiet moments, we wondered and worried. In truth, there was only one path left. And so, when September 1973 arrived, I packed my belongings and set out for the countryside — stepping into a life that felt both inevitable and unknown.

Before leaving, I stood in my small room, staring at my high school textbooks — the math, the physics, the chemistry, the pages filled with formulas and diagrams I had struggled to master. Many others sold their books as scrap paper, exchanging them for a few coins, as if those lessons no longer held any meaning. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The thought of parting with them felt too final, as if I were admitting that all my years of study had been for nothing. Instead, I carefully bundled them together with my notebooks, tied them with a piece of twine, and placed the bundle on the highest shelf. I told myself that perhaps — just perhaps — one day, I might need them again. The world was uncertain, but I wasn’t yet ready to let go of the small hope that my learning still had a place in my future.

During the three and a half years I spent in the countryside, the days stretched long and steady, marked by hard work and quiet resignation. Among nearly a hundred educated youths scattered across the ten villages in our brigade, only one person — a so-called “rooted” settler — was ever recommended for university admission. Seeing that, I quietly let go of any remaining dreams of attending college. Hope, once alive, had grown faint, like a distant echo I no longer reached for.

Yet even as I settled into the rhythm of rural life, I never fully abandoned learning. In the evenings, after the fields fell silent and the lantern flickered against the dark, I would sit by myself with books and newspapers, reading whatever I could find. I copied down poems, wrote out passages from articles that moved me, and filled the pages of my journal with my own scattered thoughts. Those quiet moments became my private refuge, a small world of words that I could still call my own, even when so much else was out of my hands.

As most of my fellow educated youth gradually left the village one by one, my own deepest wish became simple: to return to the city. Finally, in December 1976, that wish was granted — though not in the way I had hoped. I was offered a job as a bus ticket seller, a position I didn’t truly want, but one I accepted without hesitation. After nearly six months back in the city, I quietly came to terms with what I had tried for so long not to admit: the dream of attending university had slipped beyond my reach.

I still remember a Sunday in May 1977. The afternoon was quiet, heavy with a kind of finality. I pulled out my high school textbooks, sealed away for nearly four years — math, physics, chemistry, still bound together with the same old twine. I hadn’t sold them as scrap paper like so many others, nor had I burned them for fuel during those bitter winters. But on that day, I sat alone, and one by one, I tore out each page and fed it into the small stove. The thin pages curled and blackened, rising as ashes into the air. Looking back now, it felt like a private farewell ceremony — a quiet, solemn ending to the dream of university that I had carried for so long.

After working for ten months, everything changed on the morning of October 21, 1977. The news came suddenly: the national college entrance exam — the Gaokao — would be reinstated. I heard the announcement only once, in passing, and for a while, I wasn’t even sure if it had anything to do with me. The words sounded distant, almost unreal, as though they belonged to someone else’s life.

Later that day, while working on a farmland leveling project in Dongshan, the loudspeakers crackled to life again, repeating the incredible news. This time, the words rang clear and undeniable. As we worked, excitement buzzed among us like electricity. We whispered and speculated — could we really be eligible? Was it possible that after all these years, the door was opening again? When it was finally confirmed that we were included, a wave of joy rushed over me, so powerful it nearly stole my breath. After everything — the years of waiting, of giving up, of letting go — a glimmer of possibility had returned.

Yet not everyone shared my excitement. My colleague Xiao Shi responded almost instantly, his voice flat and dismissive: “Don’t even think about it. Even if you manage to get into college, they’ll send you off to Tibet or Xinjiang after graduation — it’s not worth it.” His words landed heavily, as if trying to pull my brief spark of hope back into the cold ground.

Later, as we made our way back to the company after work, another colleague, Xiao Yang, offered a more thoughtful analysis. “Look,” he said, “the older students — the ‘Old Three Years’ — most of them are married now, with children. They’ve been away from school for so long, many won’t even try. The younger ones were in elementary and middle school during the worst of the Cultural Revolution — their academic foundation is shaky. But us? We were in high school during 1973 and 1974, when things started improving again. We studied properly. We have an advantage.”

His reasoning made sense to me, clear and convincing. The hesitation that had lingered in my heart began to lift. At that moment, my decision crystallized — I would take the exam.

In the days that followed, talk of the exam filled every corner of conversation. Some people encouraged me with bright eyes and firm voices: “This is a rare opportunity. If you have the chance, you must take it — don’t let it slip by.” But others tried to dissuade me: “You’re already twenty-three, almost twenty-four. It’s time to think about finding a husband and settling down. Why waste more time on school?”

My desire to attend university burned strongly, but I couldn’t silence the doubts that followed me like shadows. With over ten years’ worth of young people now eligible, the competition would be overwhelming. My preparation was rushed, my confidence fragile. Could I really stand out in such a crowded field? The thought gnawed at me.

Yet beneath the uncertainty, one truth held firm: for years, people like me hadn’t even been allowed to dream of higher education. And now — finally — the door had opened. However slim my chances, I couldn’t let the opportunity pass without trying. With that determination, I signed up for the exam.

From the day I registered to the day of the exam, there was barely more than a month to prepare. My knowledge of math, physics, and chemistry had grown dim after so many years of neglect, and my own textbooks were long gone — reduced to ashes in that quiet farewell ceremony months earlier. I stared at the empty space where my books had once been and wondered how I could possibly review.

But then, a bit of luck arrived. Xiao Yang’s mother worked at the city library, and through her, I managed to borrow old copies of college entrance exam questions from 1956 and 1957. As I flipped through the faded pages, I was relieved to find that the problems were not as difficult as I had feared, nor were they overwhelming in number. For the first time, I felt a spark of confidence — perhaps this wasn’t impossible after all.

Later, I was able to borrow high school textbooks from friends and acquaintances. Because I would need to return them, I spent several days carefully transcribing all the essential formulas, key concepts, and important notes into my own notebooks, creating a set of materials I could study from independently. Once that was done, I gathered as many practice problems as I could find and began working through them, one by one, slowly rebuilding what had faded.

Balancing my job with the demands of intense studying became my daily routine. But even in those frantic weeks, I never pushed myself to the extremes that ancient scholars were said to endure — the ones who hung their heads from beams to stay awake, or pierced their thighs with needles to fight off sleep. I studied diligently, but when exhaustion overcame me, I allowed myself to rest. I never stayed up late into the night, nor did I ever pull an all-nighter.

One evening, worn out from the long day, I went to bed before nine o’clock. Not long after, my father came into the room, his voice sharp with frustration. “Your mother is still out searching for study materials for you, and you’ve already gone to sleep? Do you think you deserve her efforts? How will you ever get into college like this?” His words pierced me far more deeply than any needle could have. I felt a heavy guilt pressing down on my chest. But my fatigue was stronger than my shame, and without a word, I closed my eyes and drifted into uneasy sleep, carrying the weight of his disappointment with me.

In early December 1977, the long-awaited day of the college entrance exam finally arrived. The exam site was set at a nearby elementary school, not far from home, yet there was no direct bus route to take me there. I would have to transfer buses, making the timing tight and uncertain. To be safe, I rose early that morning, my heart quietly pounding, and made sure to arrive well ahead of schedule.

As I stood outside the school gates, I watched the steady stream of candidates arriving from every direction. Some walked quickly, heads down, gripping their materials tightly; others moved with forced calm, their faces betraying nervous determination. They looked ordinary — so ordinary, just like me. No one carried any special glow, no outward sign of brilliance. As I observed them, I couldn’t help but wonder: What kind of person can get into university? Who among us would walk away victorious?

The bell rang, sharp and final, and with a tight knot in my chest, I took my seat for the exam that might very well decide my future. If memory serves me right, the first subject was mathematics — the one I had devoted most of my limited preparation time to. Compared to the other subjects, I felt relatively ready. But the moment the exam began, old nerves crept in. It had been so many years since I’d last sat in a real examination room, and the unfamiliar tension clouded my thoughts. I stumbled on questions I should have solved easily, making mistakes that frustrated me deeply. My performance in math fell short of what I knew I was capable of, but I forced myself not to lose heart.

Chemistry and physics went more smoothly — my preparation seemed to hold up under pressure. As for Chinese, I hadn’t done much formal review, but I leaned on my long-standing habit of reading, copying down passages, and writing in my journal. Those quiet years of self-study guided me through the essay and reading comprehension tasks. The political questions, though heavily ideological, were not unfamiliar, and I managed to answer most of them with reasonable confidence.

When the exam finally ended, I felt as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders — like setting down a heavy load I had carried for far too long. I didn’t let myself dwell on whether I had done well enough to pass. Instead, the same question kept circling in my mind: What kind of people actually get into university? It still felt like a distant world, one I wasn’t certain I belonged to.

About a month later, rumors began to spread that preliminary selection notices would soon be released. On January 17, I went to the company office with a few friends to inquire. The secretary of the Communist Youth League, Wu Baocheng, stood before us with a stack of papers in his hands, waving them lightly with a teasing smile. “Thirteen people from our company have received preliminary selection notices,” he announced.

A ripple of excitement moved through the small crowd as he began reading the names aloud. One by one, my friends who stood beside me were called. I smiled and congratulated them, but inside, my heart beat faster with each name that wasn’t mine. As he neared the last two or three slips of paper, my face grew hot, my chest tightened, and I wished desperately for the ground to open up and swallow me. Maybe I was foolish to hope after all.

Then — finally — my name was called. In that moment, my heart leapt as though it might burst. My God… I thought, barely able to breathe, I have a chance to go to university!

Next came the medical examination, which was rumored to be as strict and unforgiving as military enlistment. Though I knew I was healthy, my nerves refused to settle. I was anxious—not about my body, but about making some small mistake that might cost me everything.

One of the tests was for my sense of smell. Three bottles of clear liquid sat neatly on the table. I bent down to sniff the first one but couldn’t detect any distinct scent. Still, I hesitated to say it was odorless, afraid that might be the wrong answer. The examiner smiled slightly and urged me to smell again. I thought I sensed something faint — a trace of something — but I couldn’t find the words to describe it. When I moved on to the second bottle, the sharp, pungent scent of acetic acid hit me immediately. The third bottle was unmistakably alcohol.

As the examiners chuckled, they revealed the little trick: the first bottle contained nothing but plain water. I hadn’t expected them to test my sense of smell with something odorless. In truth, my nose was too sensitive. The three bottles had been placed so close together that the odors had mingled, confusing my senses. It was a small moment of embarrassment, but thankfully, not one that cost me my place.

Then came the moment to fill out the university applications. We were allowed to choose three schools and decide whether we were willing to accept an assigned placement. I knew my own heart—I didn’t want to be sent far from home, nor did I want to study a subject that held no interest for me. So I chose my schools carefully and declined the placement option, even though I knew it carried some risk. After that, there was nothing left to do but wait.

The days that followed were filled with restless anticipation. Each morning, I awoke wondering if this would be the day my letter arrived; each evening, I went to bed still waiting. My emotions swayed constantly—hopeful one moment, anxious the next. Then, on March 3, 1978, the long suspense finally ended. My admission notice arrived. Holding it in my hands, I could hardly believe it was real.

Looking back now, those months feel like a dream, full of twists and turns I could never have predicted. I had started this journey with a simple, almost hesitant question: What kind of person can get into university? The answer, in the end, was me — one of the fortunate few, part of the mere 4.7% chosen from among the 5.7 million who sat for that fiercely competitive exam.

On March 18, 1978, the first day of registration, I stepped onto the university campus. As my feet crossed that threshold, I knew I had arrived at a turning point in my life — not just the start of my studies, but the beginning of a new path that would shape my future. Years later, I find myself working in pharmaceutical research, developing new medicines. The work is challenging, but it carries a deep sense of purpose and meaning that I treasure.

When I look back at that unforgettable journey through the 1977 college entrance exam, I see how much an individual’s fate can be shaped by forces far larger than oneself — history, politics, chance. Success is never promised. But when rare opportunities appear, it is the courage to seize them and the determination to keep moving forward that can transform a life. Mine is just one small story among many, but in its quiet way, it reminds me how precious such chances are.