What colour is a divorce certificate? I’d heard it was green – a neat visual counterpoint to the bright red marriage certificate. Red in Chinese culture is the colour of happiness, of joy and also of officialdom. Marriages are announced on red banners; gifts are enclosed in red envelopes. Brides wear red dresses and use red bedsheets, and there are red scraps of firecrackers in the dust at the end of the wedding day. It seemed fitting to me that the divorce certificate should be green, just as the opposition of marriage and divorce is reflected in the location of the two registration offices: their doors are opposite each other at the end of a long corridor in the Civil Affairs Bureau.
Last month, my friend Xiwang told me that her marriage of 25 years was ending. She and her husband had entered the thirty-day ‘cooling-off period’ instituted in 2021 as one of several measures intended to slow down the divorce rate. I first met Xiwang and her boyfriend in the 1990s, when we were all studying economics at a Beijing university. We were poor students, but China’s GDP growth rate had been in double digits for three consecutive years. The Shanghai Stock Exchange had recently opened, stories of ‘stock market millionaires’ were widespread and the most prominent spot on the bookstalls next to the university was occupied by the bestseller China Can Say No, which argued that China should find its own identity as a global superpower. With no mobile phones, no computers and no televisions in the university dormitories, we spent our weekends at the China Workers’ Movement College watching pirated American blockbusters. At the end of term, Xiwang and her boyfriend would cycle to the National Library – an hour’s journey each way – to look up reference materials for their assignments. In Beijing, it gets dark early in winter, and riding home their faces would turn bright red from the cold. We all believed that the future of the student couple was full of hope, just like China’s politics and economy.
I obtained my red marriage certificate in a different way. A couple of months after I began working for a Communist Party newspaper, my name was added to a list held by matchmakers, who, together with the Communist Youth League and the All-China Women’s Federation, aimed to find partners for the unmarried. One day after work, I sat down in a hotpot restaurant near the newspaper offices across from an educated man who worked for a prestigious government department. Before we met, I knew his rank and salary, his housing situation, his educational achievements and his family background. He also knew mine. I had nothing against him, but I decided to marry the second man I met, this time on a blind date at a Peking roast duck restaurant. We registered our marriage six months later.
I asked him to meet me at the Civil Affairs Bureau in the hutong next to my office, an hour before my morning editorial meeting. I knew that would give us enough time to complete the registration and I wouldn’t be late for work. He arrived by bus wearing a short-sleeved white shirt tucked into a pair of loose grey trousers, with his belt fastened above the waistline – typical civil servant attire. His appearance and manner weren’t like that of my university classmates or friends. But he wasn’t my classmate or friend – he was my fiancé.
He looked happy. We didn’t shake or hold hands. We waited with a few other couples for the registration office to open. I couldn’t tell from looking at them whether the couples we followed to the end of the corridor were there to register their marriage or their divorce. One couple turned to the right; the rest turned to the left. It took me twenty years to go through both doors.
One thing that gnawed away at Xiwang’s marriage – and also at mine – was the treatment of women in Chinese society. Even in 2026, equality in marriage is difficult to achieve. Married women work full time while acting as single parents. (‘Widow-style parenting’, as we call it, is common in China.) The other parent is not entirely absent; he decides on major issues, such as which university the children should attend, which course they should take, which industry they should enter and where the family should spend Chinese New Year, in his or his wife’s hometown.
Confucian concepts, deeply ingrained in Chinese society, emphasise male superiority: ‘There are three unfilial acts, and the greatest is to have no male heir.’ Because Xiwang gave birth to a girl, her mother-in-law refused to see her granddaughter, let alone help care for the child. In 2016, after the government lifted the one-child policy, Xiwang succumbed to her husband and in-laws’ pressure to have a second child. She had another daughter. Only a boy is considered a ‘descendant’ in the Confucian sense.
The success of a marriage depends not only on the way a couple arranges domestic duties or whether they are faithful to each other. For CCP members, it also depends on the extent to which a couple can meet the party’s demands without destroying their marriage. Party members who reach the level of deputy division head must report their personal affairs each year to the party organisation and inspection department, a policy strengthened after Xi Jinping became general secretary. The scope – and corresponding penalties – of party requirements regarding personal affairs has increased progressively, becoming a tool for party control over officials. Every year, tens of thousands of party members are disciplined for incomplete reports or concealing information. An error in reporting an investment insurance product purchased ten years ago or the value of your stocks and funds can mean that not only you but your spouse will be warned, disciplined or refused promotion. Without promotion, your career in the civil service reaches a dead end. Every January, when party members must report, tempers run high in families and home life becomes strained.
The pressures increase with career advancement. A 50-year-old male cadre at the division level, like Xiwang’s husband, will probably retire between the ages of 60 and 62. Before retirement, he still has a chance of being promoted to deputy director; lucky individuals might even reach the level of director. In Xiwang’s husband’s hometown, a city in Hebei province with a population of seven million, there are only fifty cadres at the deputy director or director level. Officials at this rank enjoy substantial benefits: subsidised housing, a higher pension, free medical services with a special ‘blue book’ (issued only to high-level officials) that grants lifelong access to top-tier hospitals, eliminating the need to compete for appointments with the rest of the population.
While there is no guaranteed route to progression, we all know the red lines that, once crossed, will prevent advancement. Disciplinary action (warnings, demerits, demotions or dismissals), investigation by the party or government for possible violations, disloyalty to the party, ‘two-faced’ behaviour, falsifying personal records, failing to report personal information or indulging in ‘ambiguous’ relationships with foreign countries can all result in a promotion veto, or much worse. Engaging in personal business ventures or having a spouse with ‘complex’ social roles or economic relationships, or a spouse or child who has emigrated, all damage one’s chances of promotion.
Divorce is no longer a disqualifying factor for promotion. Many of the party’s top leaders (including Xi Jinping) have acknowledged their own marital troubles. The party’s attitude to extramarital affairs is also tolerant. As long as neither person involves their workplace or causes a public scandal, an affair needn’t result in a negative evaluation. However, if one of the couple ‘makes a fuss’, the consequences can jeopardise career and party advancement. In general, a stable marriage still gives the party organisation confidence in a member and is viewed positively. It’s better to arrange a quick and decisive divorce, ideally followed by remarriage, than to let things drag on.
My husband and I agreed to divorce on the Minor New Year, the day that marks the beginning of preparations for the Chinese New Year. According to tradition, the Kitchen God is worshipped that day. From his position beside the stove, the Kitchen God learns every family secret. At the end of the year, he returns to heaven to give his report on the family to a committee of gods, who decide on the amount of good or bad luck that will accrue to the family in the following year. Unsurprisingly, a family’s first task in preparing for the New Year is to sweeten the Kitchen God. In my childhood home, a print from a woodcut of the Kitchen God hung on the kitchen wall. By the year’s end the print was brown from exposure to heat and smoke. My grandmother would make malt sugar from wheat, dip a chopstick into a teacup half-filled with the creamy liquid and spread it on the Kitchen God’s mouth. He smiled at me, the malt sugar dripping from the corners of his lips. ‘Now he can only say sweet things about us to heaven’s committee,’ grandma would say. I was more interested in the malt sugar left in the teacup.
We didn’t choose the Minor New Year because we were superstitious. It was just the last day that year when my husband could excuse himself from his office for several hours and when the registration office was still open to deal with couples who couldn’t wait until after the holiday.
I had the necessary documents with me: my ID card, marriage certificate, a two-inch standard photo. The only thing missing was the divorce agreement, which my husband had drafted. It consisted of just two pages; there wasn’t much to fight over. Our apartment was ‘affordable housing’ allocated by the government, which we weren’t allowed to sell. We had one old car and not much money in the bank. In terms of material possessions, we were poor. Our only financial commitment was our child’s education expenses: a clause in the agreement stated that we would each pay half.
I added a clause stating that if either party lost their income before retirement, the other party would, on a voluntary basis, pay their ex-spouse half of their former salary. My husband’s job is stable, unless he violates party rules, a possibility that places the civil servant among the high-risk professions in Chinese society. My salary was on a contract. My husband thought ‘half his salary’ was too little to live on and suggested replacing it with ‘each party should try his or her best to support the other party in times of hardship.’ ‘Does that have any legal force?’ I asked. ‘This provision concerns the eventuality that, by bad luck, you are deprived of everything. Half your monthly salary will be enough to keep you alive.’ He fell silent and agreed to retain the clause. His salary hadn’t contributed much to our family finances, but his social connections had provided a good school for our child, as well as more trivial benefits, such as free fruit or boxes of tea. Those things wouldn’t appear on the divorce agreement.
He made a revision, too. The law requires that the contract should include the sentence: ‘The affection between both parties has indeed broken down irretrievably.’ This is the legal basis for divorce, in theory and practice. He wanted to remove ‘indeed’. He offered to print copies of the agreement in his office and bring them to the registration. I reminded him not to use a shared printer.
The office opened at 1 p.m. I arrived on time. He was late. I walked into the office alone. Behind a long high counter stood four clerks. For a few seconds, I wasn’t sure what to do, then I realised that marriage and divorce registration services were now provided by the same office. I didn’t need to turn right at the end of the corridor. The clerks were all middle-aged women, unsmiling, devoid of expression, just like the clerks who had dealt with my marriage registration twenty years earlier. There was a waiting area with a dozen round plastic tables, each surrounded by four plastic chairs.
The hall was so big that the light from the windows couldn’t illuminate it all, leaving half the tables in shadow. Its size reflected a social shift. Since 2003, China’s divorce rate has been rising. It peaked in 2019 with 4.7 million registered divorces. In 2024, the divorce-to-marriage registration ratio reached a record high: for every 100 registered marriages there were about 58 registered divorces. Last year around 2.74 million divorces were registered. The millions of couples who end their marriage follow one of two paths: the combative route of litigation or the quieter path of mutual agreement. Most – more than 70 per cent – choose the quiet route and register at Civil Affairs Bureaus. The alternative, going to the People’s Court, is a gruelling experience. In around 80 per cent of cases, judges rule against divorce at the first hearing, arguing that the relationship has not yet completely broken down, even in cases of assault. The couple must then wait six months to try again.
All the tables in the registration hall were empty. Several people passed by and gave me an inquiring look. A single woman here wasn’t a good sign. The scene reminded me of something. Was it the wedding venue in his village where I put on heavy make-up, a hairdo with too much spray, and waited for almost a hundred guests, most of whom I didn’t know and would never meet again? Was it the room with rows of empty chairs in the Children’s Hospital, where one night I held the pale body of my child, who had vomited profusely because an antibiotic drip had upset his stomach? Was it a restaurant on a business trip where I accompanied party bosses to a never-ending banquet and sat through a long night of drinking and card games?
I was browsing a leaflet when my husband arrived. He looked grim and carried a thin folder in one hand. I stood up and waved to him even though I was the only one in the empty hall. It would be the last day, the last hour, perhaps, that we were married. Before I could say anything, he asked: ‘Why didn’t you take a registration number?’ I understood what he meant. It wasn’t easy for both of us to arrange to be here on the last business day of the year. I should have taken a registration number while waiting for him so that we could make efficient use of his time.
A woman behind the counter looked at us and asked: ‘What is your business?’ ‘Divorce.’ ‘Your documents? Sit there and wait for your number to be called.’ She checked our documents and gave us a paper slip. None of the other clerks looked up or smiled. I forgave them their coldness, as it would surely be wrong to welcome a divorcing couple with a warm smile. ‘Nice to see you here! How can I help you divorce today?’ Better an expressionless face.
There were ten registration rooms facing the waiting area. Above each door, a red LED board showed the number being served. When the LED light turned off, a couple would walk out of the office and a new number would flash up. When our turn came, we entered one of the simply furnished, functional rooms. Along the back wall stood a row of grey metal filing cabinets, familiar to anyone who has worked in a government office. A woman in her late thirties sat behind a grey desk, so big that according to the ministerial office regulations it could only belong to a director-level official. There was enough space for three people to sign papers at the same time without mixing up documents. In the opposite corner was an all-in-one copier and printer machine next to a water dispenser. There was nothing personal or interesting in this space.
‘Come, sit down please.’ She wore no make-up, not even lipstick, and her hair was tied in a ponytail. I forgot her clothing almost at once. It was clear that she wanted only to express her professionalism: she had removed any feminine aspects of her appearance on purpose. After checking our IDs and certificates, she asked the routine questions: ‘Have both parties agreed to divorce?’ ‘Do you both agree with the text of the agreement?’ Yes, and yes. She then started to read the agreement line by line. I could feel my husband becoming a little uneasy, as if his work was being checked by a junior colleague.
She found no significant errors, but there were some points she asked us to improve. ‘You should sign three copies, not four. What is the use of the fourth copy?’ My husband started to explain but stopped. He couldn’t give a reason. ‘Our regulations require three copies, not four. Change four to three here.’ I picked up a pen and marked what she said on the paper. My experienced editing marks reassured her. ‘Revise the agreement please, print out three new copies and bring them back to me.’
I felt a twitch of frustration, but we were almost there; we just needed version 2.0 of the agreement. To my surprise, the registration hall didn’t provide print or photocopy services. ‘Is there a print shop nearby?’ A woman behind the counter answered in a stony voice: ‘Go out of the door, turn right.’ It was a windy winter afternoon. The area looked deserted: many people had returned home for the holiday. The map on my phone made us walk round the block for fifteen minutes before we found a Kodak, with a narrow door and no windows.
The owner was working by a photocopying machine while chatting to a female client. He told me to use the computer to print out my document. The Lenovo desktop’s large but fuzzy screen displayed both pages of the agreement simultaneously. The female client, leaning on the desk, stiffened slightly. She must have looked at the screen and read the title. I finished the revision quickly, sent three copies to print, saved and closed the document, emailed it to myself, deleted it and erased it from the computer’s trash bin. ‘One yuan per page, six yuan in total,’ the man said. I thanked him and scanned the QR code to pay. My husband had no way of paying. Like other senior government officials, he carried no cash, had no credit cards or any payment app on his phone. He didn’t deal with money in daily life. ‘Did you delete it from the computer?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Permanently.’
The clerk at the registration office was satisfied with our efficiency. ‘I need to remind you both: once the agreements are signed, your divorce will be officially affirmed. You cannot take it back. Do you understand?’ We did. If only the marriage registration clerk had offered me a similar warning before I signed those documents twenty years ago.
‘Now please sign here, here and here. You sign first; he signs later.’ She passed me a red inkpad: ‘Put your fingerprint here too.’ In his last five minutes as my husband, he had written the wrong year on the agreement. The woman didn’t blame him. She offered the use of her photocopier to make two blank copies. My final-two-minute husband nervously finished filling in the date.
‘Wait now.’ The woman opened a drawer of her desk and took out two small notebooks. She pasted our photographs in them, wrote something and then put the notebooks into a machine. She pressed a button, and a steel stamp punched the corner of each photo. She handed us a notebook each. ‘It is over,’ she said.
I put my notebook in my handbag and carried it carefully under my arm. My ex-husband offered me a lift on the way back to his office. He had only asked for two hours’ leave and he was a little late. He said he would need to report his change of marital status to his unit’s political department, the body responsible for personnel management and ideological work – everything from staffing quotas to ‘force construction’ for ensuring cadres remain morally disciplined. He would also include it in the upcoming annual report of personal affairs. But he would no longer be required to report on the political, financial and social affairs of his ex-wife and her immediate family. That was a relief for us both.
We said goodbye at the subway station. I wasn’t ready to go back to my normal life, so I walked into a shopping mall and found a Costa café. I ordered a latte and a piece of New York sea-salt cheesecake. Before I drank my coffee, I opened my handbag and took out the notebook that the clerk had given me. It was brand new and neat. Two lines of characters spelled ‘The People’s Republic of China’ above a silvery national emblem. Below that were three more characters: 离婚证, ‘Certificate of Divorce’. What colour is a divorce certificate? It’s not green after all. Like a bruised plum or clotted blood, it is dark red.