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PEOPLE have been marrying out- side their “own culture” for as long as they’ve been able to utter the phrase “I do.” In fact， the presence of Neanderthal DNA in all human populations outside Africa – up to three percent in some “modern” Europeans – has led some scientists to suggest that the first Homo sapiens to stroll off the Savanna even paired off with their cousin-species， for whom pronouncing“I do” would have been something of a laryngeal impossibility.
Skip forward a few tens of thousands of years， and intercultural unions continue to provide the most direct peopleto-people links between cultures.
As in most old civilizations， intercultural marriage in China is nothing new. Though we can’t be sure of the forms of union in ancient times， there is evidence from the earliest waves of Chinese migration of significant mixing of different populations in the area now constituting the country.
With the rise of modern states and the ability of central governments to control population flows across borders， the prevalence of intercultural marriages has to some extent come to rely on government policy.
Until the end of the Ming Dynasty（1368-1644） Chinese borders were relatively open and the country vigorously pursued relations with the outside world. This engagement is epitomized in the voyages of Zheng He， who from 1405 to 1433 commanded a fleet that sailed to Southeast Asia， South Asia， the Middle East and the East African coasts. Many Southern Chinese also independently sojourned to Southeast Asia at this time， where they remain to this day. Intermarriage with locals， while not the norm， was common.
At the end of the Ming， China closed its borders to the outside world， in large part due to piracy in the East and South China Seas. The policy was continued by the Qing Dynasty （1644-1911）， though in the 19th century Europeans started knocking on – and battering down – the door to the country.
As Western nations forced their way into China， some Chinese forced their way into Europeans’ hearts. East-West marriages emerged in the final decades of the Qing， though they were gener- ally frowned upon by prudish European society.
The advent of New China in 1949 saw the country turn inward again. Very few foreigners visited – let alone married into – the country in the 1950s， 60s and early 70s.
The year 1978 heralded a new policy of opening-up and reform. While ostensibly economic， the about-face also marked the return of significant numbers of foreign citizens to the ever-alluring country. Inevitably， intercultural marriages have been on the rise ever since. In 1982， 14，193 marriages between Chinese and foreign citizens were registered on the Chinese mainland. By 1997 the annual tally had jumped to 50，773.
According to estimates， today intercultural marriages account for roughly five percent of all marriage registrations in China. Last year， Beijing alone saw roughly 1，200 Chinese-foreign-national couples tie the knot. Across the country Japan is the most commonly represented foreign country of spousal origin – in 2005， around 70，000 Japanese married Chinese citizens， almost twice the number of the No.2-placed Koreans.
Varying cultural backgrounds undoubtedly place additional strains on couples from different countries who choose to form a union. Cultural background encompasses not only traditions and values regarding marital life， but also language and attitudes towards employment， extended family and children. In China， despite such difficulties， the rate of divorce among intercultural couples is actually significantly lower than the national average， which has shot up in recent years.
Intercultural marriages， it seems，fair a better chance of long-term success in China， though the rate of divorce among them is nonetheless rising. Last year in Jinan City of Shandong Province the intercultural marriage divorce rate exceeded 15 percent， a provincial record and close to the national divorce rate. In Qingdao City the rate stood at 10 percent， well below the national average. In Jiangsu Province， a mere 7.8 percent of intercultural couples divorced. The most commonly sighted reason for splitting was cited as “living apart.”
From my own personal experience， I would offer one possible reason intercultural couples tend to stay together longer than their monocultural peers： fond memories of their wedding. Chinese weddings are a fantastic occasion of pomp， ceremony， tradition and family. Chinese weddings combined with elements and traditions from other cultures， however， can be grand symbols of border-conquering love and poignant tributes to the unique nature of intercultural spousal relations.
At least I certainly thought as much when I recently attended an intercultural wedding in Tianjin. Statistics about intercultural marriage are one thing， but for real insight into how relationships work when couples were born continents apart and think in different mother tongues， what better than to recount the story of the courtship and wedding of two dear friends.
An Intercultural Wedding to Remember
My friend Liz was getting married， to Dima， another friend. I got the news from the couple in person one day when they came for dinner at my apartment in East Beijing. Dima lives in Tianjin， a short train-ride from the capital. Liz， a Torontite， had flown over for a new-year visit. They’d been doing long distance for a year.
I heard all about how Dima proposed. He’d dragged Liz from a bar mere minutes before the 2012 New Year countdown got underway， promising to show her his “magic trick.” He barreled her up to a nearby hotel room； Liz assumed he fancied a bit of frisky midnight festivity. Turned out he really did have a magic trick； once in the room， he pulled out a paper crane， set it on fire， handed it to Liz and told her to wait. The crane burnt out， and at the cost of only a slightly singed thumb， Liz found herself holding an engagement ring. A nice one， too – a Tiffany number， imported to China from America. She said yes.
“Big whoop，” you yawn. “Another wedding story， Call the Press！” you gibe. Well， sure. Point taken. Everyone’s got their own quirky wedding story， and everyone assumes theirs is the best. I’ve heard quite a few good ones myself： bride swears during vows （Australia）， photographer trips and lands on cake（America）， bride’s father fails to crack open coconut （Sri Lanka – very bad omen， apparently）.
Liz and Dima’s wedding didn’t have a cake-tastrophe， rude words or coconuts. Really， it had very little in the way of slapstick humor. It was， nonetheless， one of the most interesting ceremonies I think I’ll ever attend.
See， Dima is Chinese， and speaks no English. His real name isn’t actually “Dima” at all； it’s Han Guoqing. Liz doesn’t speak any Chinese， nor is she learning…
Liz and Dima met while studying Russian in Vladivostok， a gritty port city on Russia’s Pacific coast. “Dima” is the Russian name Guoqing picked out for himself during his first week in Russian school， where I was his classmate. We’ve always called him by his Russian name.
Liz and Dima speak Russian together， though neither speaks it flawlessly. Their kids will either be triumphantly trilingual， or very confused.
They decided to get hitched exactly a year after Dima’s proposal – on New Year’s Eve， 2013. The wedding was to be in Tianjin， and that was all I knew about it until I arrived at the ceremony， with two mutual friends.
Skip forward a few tens of thousands of years， and intercultural unions continue to provide the most direct peopleto-people links between cultures.
As in most old civilizations， intercultural marriage in China is nothing new. Though we can’t be sure of the forms of union in ancient times， there is evidence from the earliest waves of Chinese migration of significant mixing of different populations in the area now constituting the country.
With the rise of modern states and the ability of central governments to control population flows across borders， the prevalence of intercultural marriages has to some extent come to rely on government policy.
Until the end of the Ming Dynasty（1368-1644） Chinese borders were relatively open and the country vigorously pursued relations with the outside world. This engagement is epitomized in the voyages of Zheng He， who from 1405 to 1433 commanded a fleet that sailed to Southeast Asia， South Asia， the Middle East and the East African coasts. Many Southern Chinese also independently sojourned to Southeast Asia at this time， where they remain to this day. Intermarriage with locals， while not the norm， was common.
At the end of the Ming， China closed its borders to the outside world， in large part due to piracy in the East and South China Seas. The policy was continued by the Qing Dynasty （1644-1911）， though in the 19th century Europeans started knocking on – and battering down – the door to the country.
As Western nations forced their way into China， some Chinese forced their way into Europeans’ hearts. East-West marriages emerged in the final decades of the Qing， though they were gener- ally frowned upon by prudish European society.
The advent of New China in 1949 saw the country turn inward again. Very few foreigners visited – let alone married into – the country in the 1950s， 60s and early 70s.
The year 1978 heralded a new policy of opening-up and reform. While ostensibly economic， the about-face also marked the return of significant numbers of foreign citizens to the ever-alluring country. Inevitably， intercultural marriages have been on the rise ever since. In 1982， 14，193 marriages between Chinese and foreign citizens were registered on the Chinese mainland. By 1997 the annual tally had jumped to 50，773.
According to estimates， today intercultural marriages account for roughly five percent of all marriage registrations in China. Last year， Beijing alone saw roughly 1，200 Chinese-foreign-national couples tie the knot. Across the country Japan is the most commonly represented foreign country of spousal origin – in 2005， around 70，000 Japanese married Chinese citizens， almost twice the number of the No.2-placed Koreans.
Varying cultural backgrounds undoubtedly place additional strains on couples from different countries who choose to form a union. Cultural background encompasses not only traditions and values regarding marital life， but also language and attitudes towards employment， extended family and children. In China， despite such difficulties， the rate of divorce among intercultural couples is actually significantly lower than the national average， which has shot up in recent years.
Intercultural marriages， it seems，fair a better chance of long-term success in China， though the rate of divorce among them is nonetheless rising. Last year in Jinan City of Shandong Province the intercultural marriage divorce rate exceeded 15 percent， a provincial record and close to the national divorce rate. In Qingdao City the rate stood at 10 percent， well below the national average. In Jiangsu Province， a mere 7.8 percent of intercultural couples divorced. The most commonly sighted reason for splitting was cited as “living apart.”
From my own personal experience， I would offer one possible reason intercultural couples tend to stay together longer than their monocultural peers： fond memories of their wedding. Chinese weddings are a fantastic occasion of pomp， ceremony， tradition and family. Chinese weddings combined with elements and traditions from other cultures， however， can be grand symbols of border-conquering love and poignant tributes to the unique nature of intercultural spousal relations.
At least I certainly thought as much when I recently attended an intercultural wedding in Tianjin. Statistics about intercultural marriage are one thing， but for real insight into how relationships work when couples were born continents apart and think in different mother tongues， what better than to recount the story of the courtship and wedding of two dear friends.
An Intercultural Wedding to Remember
My friend Liz was getting married， to Dima， another friend. I got the news from the couple in person one day when they came for dinner at my apartment in East Beijing. Dima lives in Tianjin， a short train-ride from the capital. Liz， a Torontite， had flown over for a new-year visit. They’d been doing long distance for a year.
I heard all about how Dima proposed. He’d dragged Liz from a bar mere minutes before the 2012 New Year countdown got underway， promising to show her his “magic trick.” He barreled her up to a nearby hotel room； Liz assumed he fancied a bit of frisky midnight festivity. Turned out he really did have a magic trick； once in the room， he pulled out a paper crane， set it on fire， handed it to Liz and told her to wait. The crane burnt out， and at the cost of only a slightly singed thumb， Liz found herself holding an engagement ring. A nice one， too – a Tiffany number， imported to China from America. She said yes.
“Big whoop，” you yawn. “Another wedding story， Call the Press！” you gibe. Well， sure. Point taken. Everyone’s got their own quirky wedding story， and everyone assumes theirs is the best. I’ve heard quite a few good ones myself： bride swears during vows （Australia）， photographer trips and lands on cake（America）， bride’s father fails to crack open coconut （Sri Lanka – very bad omen， apparently）.
Liz and Dima’s wedding didn’t have a cake-tastrophe， rude words or coconuts. Really， it had very little in the way of slapstick humor. It was， nonetheless， one of the most interesting ceremonies I think I’ll ever attend.
See， Dima is Chinese， and speaks no English. His real name isn’t actually “Dima” at all； it’s Han Guoqing. Liz doesn’t speak any Chinese， nor is she learning…
Liz and Dima met while studying Russian in Vladivostok， a gritty port city on Russia’s Pacific coast. “Dima” is the Russian name Guoqing picked out for himself during his first week in Russian school， where I was his classmate. We’ve always called him by his Russian name.
Liz and Dima speak Russian together， though neither speaks it flawlessly. Their kids will either be triumphantly trilingual， or very confused.
They decided to get hitched exactly a year after Dima’s proposal – on New Year’s Eve， 2013. The wedding was to be in Tianjin， and that was all I knew about it until I arrived at the ceremony， with two mutual friends.