China’s Wealth Goes to Youths’ Waistlines

Obesity, the dark side of Western affluence and overconsumption, is shoving its way into the world’s most populous developing country.

Most vulnerable are the “little emperors,” those legions of only children born under China’s strict population-control policy. These children came of age during the miracle years of economic reform, and their stomachs are treasure chests into which parents have stuffed their newfound wealth.

In response, numerous fat clinics and diet formulas have flooded the marketplace, and the summer fat camp staged in a Shanghai park is among the most well-publicized. Parents pay a handsome fee to let children camouflage their shame in military fatigues, crawl through physical and mental barriers and contemplate liberation from food.

“Losing weight is harder than going on the Long March,” said 13-year-old Shi Hanling, covered with mud last month as she returned from a rainy day’s exercise and indoctrination. “They want us to control our food intake, but my parents cook so much good food all the time I just can’t help myself.”

While most Chinese see a well-fed baby as a sign of health and wealth, society as a whole can be quite intolerant of overweight people. The obese complain of being fired from jobs and turned into cheap laughingstocks. One man said his worst nightmare is getting on a long-distance train and needing people to pull him out of one of its tiny toilets.

According to a recent survey, about 20% of Chinese now tip the scale as overweight. That’s sylphlike compared to America, where 33% of adults are overweight, but the trend is clear: According to Jin Wuguan, a child psychologist in Shanghai, the urban fat count has grown 9% every year for the last decade and is still climbing.

The problem is most acute among children of the nouveaux riches and those who have made the leap from country- to city-level living standards. One in every 10 city children is now considered obese--this in a country where many families in the hinterlands barely have enough money to buy meat.

Shi Hanling’s parents were factory workers until her mother lost her job. Like many enterprising former state employees, she reinvented herself as the owner of a small grocery store.

The middle school student, who used to be as “skinny as a monkey,” according to her mother, now weighs about 180 pounds.

She quit boarding school because she snores like thunder--because of her bulk, she believes--and sleep-deprived classmates got their revenge by treating her like a punching bag. She gets into fights with boys who laugh at her size--and wins. She impresses the weightlifting coach but needs tutors to keep up with academic courses.

Her parents blame themselves. As a child, Hanling suffered from frequent diarrhea and poor appetite, so when she was 10, the family dosed her with a number of popular nutritional supplements to boost her interest in food.

“Suddenly her appetite speeded up like a runaway train,” said her mother, Shi Hongsheng, 41. “It’s impossible to put on the brakes.”

Luckily, money is less of a problem now that she no longer depends on her state job to make ends meet. The bulk of the parents’ income, however, goes to feeding the insatiable cravings of their only child. Then there’s the astronomical cost of sending her to diet specialists, weight-loss programs and the local tailor, who sews extra-large outfits impossible to find in the stores.

“I spoil her because I remember the bitterness I suffered when I was a child,” said Shi, who grew up during the famine years of the early 1960s. “I had two sisters. We were grateful if there was plain rice in the pot. I could never allow my daughter to eat bitterness like I did.”

This mentality is a huge obstacle to healthier eating habits, experts say. Although obesity also may be hereditary, adults clearly contribute more than just genes to the problem.

“Parents have a false notion that more food equals more happiness,” said Jin, who has worked with hundreds of families seeking help at his clinic. “The interesting thing is, in the West, children get fat because there is too much freedom. Parents don’t stop them from eating too much. In China, children have no choice. They are practically force-fed by parents and grandparents who ambush them with food, urging them to eat more, eat more!”

But in these days of plenty, food remains universally synonymous with love. Few Chinese parents have the heart to deny an only child. Walk into any crowded McDonald’s or KFC, and you will spot the familiar scene of youngsters stuffing their faces while a parent looks on, often not ordering anything.

Hanling’s mother made a rare attempt at constraint--but failed.

“I tell her to eat less, but she follows me around the kitchen with tears in her eyes and an empty bowl in her hand,” the mother said. “I had to give up. Otherwise, people will accuse me of being an abusive stepmother.”

Children, however, are the ones paying the price. As they marched through the public park with the words “fat camp” prominently tagged to their uniforms, passersby shook their heads. Other children stared and laughed.

Ten-year-old Wan Xin’s tummy is so round that he can hardly bend over to tie his shoelaces. At the camp, climbing over a simple barricade seemed impossible. His teammates cheered him on. They lifted him up, but he fell back down. They helped him again and again until the seams in his pants burst from behind and the green fabric cracked open like a ripe watermelon.

His mother, Lin Yanmin, sent him there to meet other fat children who might be more accepting of his condition. She says she and her husband both work--she as a nurse and he as a factory manager--and the boy has been in others’ care since he was 18 months old. His nursery school teachers gave him as much to eat as he desired.

“He often ate three helpings in one meal,” Lin said. “At that time people envied me for having a son who ate so much and grew so fast. I sensed trouble only after he started regular school and had difficulty jumping rope, moving about and making friends.”

The camp’s organizer, Han Yuegao, says he would love to make the camp--which costs about $50, roughly a quarter of an average state worker’s monthly salary--last longer than the current four days. Two years ago, when the program first started, it lasted 10 days. But parents who wanted their children to slim down also feared that the youngsters couldn’t handle being away from them for that long. Some even slipped into the barracks at night to check on their little royals, who had never spent a night away from home.

The 60 or so children in the program, however, seemed to enjoy imitating soldiers beyond the grip of their overprotective parents. They got better at dangling over slippery slopes, falling into dirty ponds and crawling under sharp-edged wires. Then the sergeants rolled out the ultimate challenge: the all-you-can-eat, fry-it-yourself buffet.

“Our goal is not for them to eat less and lose weight in four days. Our goal is to teach them to face food with dignity,” Han said. “Are you going to be defeated by food?”

The pre-lunch pep talk, however, could hardly be heard over the sizzling sound of meat already browning over chopped garlic and sliced onions. The children attacked the food as if they had completely forgotten why they were at the camp, running back and forth with great big heaps of beef, shrimp, noodles and buns as if they were loading up ammunition for war.

“My daughter said they were only thinking they should get their money’s worth,” Hanling’s mother said.

But later that night, she said, her daughter felt bad and volunteered to skip dinner.