The idea burst onto the scene during China’s annual Two Sessions, where CPPCC member Xu Jin floated the idea like a paper lantern on a summer breeze. “In the compulsory education stage, English and other foreign language courses should no longer be set as the main subjects equivalent to Chinese and mathematics,” he said — a sentence that landed like a well-aimed ping-pong ball in a silent gym. Suddenly, the internet erupted. Not with rage, but with a chaotic symphony of opinions: parents arguing over whether their kid’s dream of working at a tech giant in London is now off the table, students who’ve memorized 500 vocabulary words in three years wondering if their 1,200 hours of English class were just a very long detour. And honestly? That’s the beauty of it — we’re not just talking about curriculum changes. We’re talking about identity, ambition, and what it means to be globally connected in a country that’s already leading the world in so many ways.
Let’s not pretend this is about abandoning the world. It’s about recalibrating priorities. Think of it like this: If Mandarin is the soul of Chinese culture, and math is the brain behind innovation, then English — while still valuable — might be better suited as a fun elective, like pottery or chess, rather than a mandatory exam monster that haunts every third-grade report card. After all, how many of us adults actually use “I would like to order a coffee” in real life? Sure, it’s useful for some — but does it deserve the same weight as writing a character correctly or solving a quadratic equation? The debate is less about hating English and more about asking, “Who really needs this?” — and who might gain more from having that time repurposed.
Enter Li Wei, a high school teacher in Hangzhou who’s taught English for 18 years. “I’ve seen students cry over grammar tests,” she says, adjusting her glasses with a wistful smile. “But I’ve also seen them light up when they finally write their first short story in Chinese — with metaphors, emotion, rhythm. Maybe we don’t need to master English to be global citizens. Maybe we just need to master our own language first.” Her voice carries a warmth that makes you believe in second chances — not just for students, but for the entire education system.
On the other side of the coin, there’s Chen Yuxin, a 22-year-old recent graduate from Tsinghua University who spent three years in an English immersion program and now works as a translator for a Beijing-based tech firm. “I get it,” she says over a cup of jasmine tea, “removing English from compulsory education might seem like a step back. But if it means kids can focus on deeper thinking — critical reasoning, emotional intelligence, creativity — then I’m all for it. I didn’t need English to learn how to innovate. I needed curiosity. And that’s something we should teach everyone, not just the ones who passed the TOEFL.”
The conversation isn’t about shutting doors — it’s about opening new ones. Imagine a classroom where instead of drilling vocabulary, students debate philosophical questions in fluent, poetic Chinese. Where the schoolyard isn’t filled with kids whispering “What’s the past tense of ‘go’?” but with debates about climate change, AI ethics, or the meaning of resilience. The removal of English from compulsory education isn’t a rejection of the world — it’s a bold recommitment to China’s own brilliance, wrapped in a fresh kind of confidence. It’s like saying, “We don’t need to shout to be heard. We can speak with power in our native tongue.”
And let’s be real — the world still needs Chinese. As trade, technology, and culture flow eastward with increasing speed, Mandarin isn’t just a language. It’s a bridge. The real question isn’t whether we teach English, but whether we teach it better — and whether we’re giving every child the chance to shine in the language they’re born into. Maybe, just maybe, the future of education isn’t about being globally bilingual, but about being deeply, unapologetically local — and then, if they choose, reaching outward with confidence.
So here’s to a new chapter: not one of forgetting the world, but of rediscovering ourselves first. Because sometimes, the most powerful language isn’t the one you learn in a textbook — it’s the one that speaks to your heart, your heritage, your future. And who knows? Maybe one day, when a child in Guangzhou writes a poem that moves the world, the first line will be in Chinese — and the world will learn to listen.
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Beijing, Chengdu, Guangzhou, Hangzhou,
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