The phenomenon of extremely long working hours—more than 40 hours per week—exists in both the United States and China. Yet in the U.S., it is mostly confined to a few “bloodsucking” industries, while in China, it permeates nearly every sector of the workforce. One could say that the U.S. lacks a widespread overtime culture, but in China, such a culture indeed exists. Here, I am not talking about overtime as an institutionalized system (like “996”), but rather as a cultural phenomenon.
Long before “996” became a household phrase, I once heard a joke: several Huawei employees got off work and went out for dinner together. After finishing their meal, they didn’t know what to do next, so one suggested, “Let’s go back and work overtime for a bit!” The joke reminds us that the greed of capitalists and the weakness of the rule of law may not fully explain the prevalence of excessive working hours. Some workers themselves willingly act like beasts of burden, thus fueling the culture of overwork.
When I was a child, I watched a film on television about the Anyuan coal miners’ strike. One scene showed Communist Party members successfully persuading workers to go on strike—only for their march to encounter another group of workers who were demanding overtime. These workers weren’t incited by factory owners or police; they were self-organized. They wanted to extend their hours in order to earn more pay. Of course, as the film continued, even these pro-overtime workers were eventually swayed by Party propaganda and joined the strike.
Sadly, in today’s China, workers voluntarily asking for overtime to increase their wages still exists. What’s more shocking is that some workers’ voluntary overtime seems not even driven by material incentives, but rather by habit—as if they had nothing to do outside the workplace. Such people, inadvertently, become accomplices in perpetuating the culture of overwork.
Of course, we must criticize the phenomenon of extremely long working hours. One of the strongest reasons for this critique comes from recognizing the “triple role” of a person. First, as a human being, one has private time for family, friendships, hobbies, leisure, or religious practice, among other pursuits. Second, as a citizen, one must fulfill public rights and responsibilities—participating in charities, volunteering, serving as a juror, and so on. Third, as a worker, one has a job to make a living, or in rarer cases, a vocation to which one devotes one’s life.
Very few people truly have a vocation. The vast majority merely have jobs. This means that for most people, their work is simply fragmented tasks assigned by an employer. No individual worker is irreplaceable—although together they keep the company running—but from the perspective of the individual, such work carries little objective meaning.
Because work often fails to provide meaning, if a person wants to live a meaningful life, they must find that meaning in areas outside of work—in what I broadly call private time. For most people, the meaning of life depends on how they use their private time. When fragmented tasks devoid of objective significance consume the majority of a person’s life, the result is an existence stripped of meaning.
In the U.S., many have rallied behind the slogan of “work-life balance,” resisting the workplace’s ever-expanding encroachment on personal life. But how exactly can we achieve this balance?
On the formal level, people must firmly establish the awareness that no matter what one does in their private time, this time is sacred and inviolable relative to work. Many Chinese executives naturally assume that employees should always put work first, acting as if they were their workers’ fathers. But employees only open up their working selves to the company; they have no obligation to expose their private lives.
On the substantial level, people must enrich their private time so that it becomes substantial enough to counterbalance work. Clearly, if someone works diligently during office hours but spends their free time in a daze—playing cards, mindlessly gaming on their phone, binge-watching videos, eating, drinking, or chasing celebrities—then when their boss demands their private time, they will hardly have the confidence to resist. Years ago, I often ate at a spicy hot pot restaurant. One day, it was closed. Later, when I mentioned it to an employee, they said: “If I’d known, I would have come to work anyway. Staying home just means lying in bed playing with my phone.”
Enriching one’s private time primarily requires effort in several areas: intimate relationships, friendships, socializing, hobbies, leisure, learning, and spirituality. A detailed exploration of these areas would require a book rather than a single essay, so here I can only offer a brief cultural critique of the current situation.
What does it look like when someone fails in these areas? In short: unwilling to put effort into love and intimacy, lacking deep friendships, self-identifying as “socially anxious,” having no noteworthy hobbies, unable to play or enjoy leisure. This, broadly speaking, describes the state of life for many people in today’s China. By contrast, while spirituality is not essential, those who cultivate it—through meditation, mindfulness, and other practices—often experience profound transformation.
If a young worker goes home after work only to spend the rest of their evening lying in bed scrolling on their phone—even feeling bored themselves—how can they possibly resist the culture of overtime? At a seminar, I once met a UVA professor who said that every Sunday he shuts himself off from the world, refuses to check or reply to emails, and spends the entire day solely with his family. Clearly, when such a person with strong family values encounters a boss trying to seize his personal time, he will defend it to the death.
Some people don’t even know how to “play” properly. Group tours are a typical example. They require no planning or logistical effort, making them simple—but they also follow a strict schedule, rushing from one site to another, leaving time only for “looking” with the eyes or through a camera, but not for truly experiencing with the heart. Along the way, group tourists may encounter another kind of traveler: someone who parks by a scenic spot, sets up a simple table and chairs, and spends the entire afternoon sipping coffee amidst the view. These two styles aren’t strictly comparable, but if someone only knows “commando-style” travel and not leisure travel, then clearly they don’t really know how to play.
Many people lack serious hobbies, having only shallow ones. The difference lies in whether one invests real effort and, through that investment, grows as a person. In most cases, celebrity fandom or watching sports can only be considered shallow hobbies. Some fanatical fans may indeed put in enormous effort, but to many discerning observers, such obsession is dangerous—it does not foster growth, but rather makes them unpleasant to others. A serious hobby, by contrast, grants one a proud identity and helps one become better. Think of tech geeks, outdoor enthusiasts, photographers, illustrators, readers, writers, bloggers, even gamers—their dedication during private time makes the world richer and more interesting.
In conclusion, we must strive to enrich our own private lives. We must both acknowledge the sacred inviolability of private time in form, and enrich it in substance. Ideally, people should begin in their school years—finding their interests, cultivating intimate relationships, friendships, social skills, leisure, learning, and even spiritual practices—so that by the time they enter the workforce, they already possess the ability to enrich their private time. Only then can we recognize its value and defend it. An empty life, after all, leaves the door wide open for overtime working culture to creep in. To resist it, we must first begin with ourselves.
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