Yalei Zhai (Development Economics, Area Studies)
Last month, I welcomed several overseas scholars to a seminar at CSEAS. Among them was a couple who arrived with their four-year-old child. Although we searched for childcare, every option was either far too expensive or lacked English-speaking staff. In the end, the child stayed with us in the seminar room. As three hours is an eternity for a little one, there were moments of restlessness. But I was struck by the atmosphere of the room: everyone responded with patience, even warmth. The room seemed kinder because of that small child.
The scene pulled me back to Japan in the late 1980s, when singer Agnes Chan returned to work with her baby in tow. At the time, it sparked a storm: television viewers, politicians, and columnists argued fiercely over whether a mother should bring her child to the workplace. Many thought it selfish, even scandalous. Sitting in my seminar decades later, I could not help but notice the contrast. What once stirred outrage now invited understanding. I wondered whether this change came from the persistence of working mothers, or whether, in today’s low-fertility Japan, children have become so rare that tolerance feels like the only possible response.
This question resonates with British demographer Paul Morland’s recent book No One Left: Why the World Needs More Children. He reminds us that declining fertility is not an abstract figure in a report. It reaches into the heart of every household. He writes tenderly of his own grandchild, hoping that the first will not be the last. His words made me pause. From demographic statistics, we not only create economic forecasts but also observe the fragile mix of hope and anxiety that shapes family life everywhere.
I have observed this paradox in my own work. My article, “High Confucian Familism Adherence but Low Fertility Intentions: Evidence from the Lowest Fertility Rate City in China,” published this September in the Journal of Family Issues, focuses on Tianjin, which recorded the lowest fertility rate in China at the time the 2020 survey was conducted. Survey results reveal that while people still repeat the traditional saying “more children, more blessings” (多子多福), their family planning tells a different story, with many having one child or none at all. Traditional sayings aside, family-level fertility decisions have moved on.
The same story unfolds among ethnic Chinese outside China. Across Southeast Asia’s Chinese communities, the picture is clear. Singapore’s fertility rate hovers near the bottom of global rankings. In Malaysia, Chinese families raise fewer children than their neighbors. In Thailand, Bangkok offers its own footnotes: along the BTS corridors, posters for cram schools and STEM clubs, glossy banners for international schools, and a small line reading “tuition in installments” indicate the context in which parents slow their steps. The family logic has shifted from “more children, more blessings” to “fewer children, better raised.” While the old axiom lingers bright and brief like fireworks at New Year banquets, it no longer guides everyday life.
Low fertility is not a distant demographic trend. From Kyoto to Tianjin to Bangkok, from survey results to a restless child in a seminar room, the same truth emerges. In the end, the story of low fertility is the story of how families and societies live and choose in today’s world, with all its traditions and uncertainties.
(Illustration by Atelier Epocha)
This article is also available in Japanese. >>
「CSEASの会議室から：少子化随想」（翟亜蕾）
