China’s Spring Festival masks a deeper social problem. Beneath the world’s largest annual migration lies a growing crisis of loneliness shaped by migration, inequality and institutional design.

As the Year of the Snake ends, more than nine billion passenger journeys will unfold during China’s Spring Festival travel period, the greatest annual human migration on Earth. For some, these are the only few weeks in the year when families are together.

For many, this is a period when they can find temporary relief  from loneliness – from the striving and adjusting, even if not yet assimilating, in the cities where they work, far from their hometowns. The lucky ones, who can make ends meet and are not weighed down by economic pressures, can enjoy a moment of community before returning to a burdensome reality.

According to Gallup research from 2023, the prevalence of loneliness in China (23 per cent) was comparable to South Korea (21 per cent) and India (25 per cent) but much higher than Japan (14 per cent). Building on Gallup’s data and referencing a World Health Organization analysis of 23 data sets, The Economist recently highlighted China as  an exceptionally lonely place.

In the international context, further research is needed to ascertain if China is distinctly lonely. However, there is little doubt that loneliness is an important social issue in China.

China’s  one-child policy has been singled out as a cause of this wave of loneliness, but that might not hold in light of international comparisons. Japan, which has a comparable total fertility rate to China, is less lonely.

China’s gruelling  996 work culture – working 9am to 9pm six days a week, leaving little time for social life – is another commonly cited culprit. However, Japan was once famous for karoshi –  death from overwork – but is less lonely. In addition, both Japan and South Korea have introduced legislation that puts restrictions on the maximum hours for workers since 2018.

Japan and South Korea are much smaller countries than China, so  the family displacements during their modernisation could be more manageable. Many of the least lonely countries tend to be small, such as Singapore and Switzerland. That said, geographic scale alone cannot explain loneliness. Russia, with its vast territory, is far less lonely than China.

A better explanation for the phenomenon of loneliness in China could be found in the role of migrant labour and the hukou household registration system in the country’s industrialisation. Until their gradual automation and the widespread adoption of robots, China’s factories on the coast were powered by  migrant workers from inland provinces.

Given China’s hukou system, where migrants do not have access to essential social services reserved for locals, these workers move alone, leaving their  parents and children behind. Even married couples might not stay in the same city. Driven by job opportunities, they can end up in separate cities or even different provinces.

China’s loneliness crisis is the social price of rapid modernisation in a still-developing country which has a relentless drive for success but lacks the corresponding institutional development of more developed economies. China is growing old before it gets rich. As a result of China’s fragmented system, Shanghai hukou holders, for example, enjoy a high standard of healthcare while the levels of care provided in most rural regions are much lower.

Perhaps more important than how China is situated in the world loneliness map is the pattern within China. In a complex society spread across a vast territory, there is likely to be a wide  spectrum of loneliness.

First, what is the trend of loneliness over time? Is loneliness getting better or worse? Has it returned to pre-pandemic levels? Importantly, what is the pattern by age group? Even if the situation may be reportedly improving for the elderly, what is the trend among the youth? According to Gallup’s research, China’s young people feel far lonelier than their seniors. Are there other key drivers at work beyond the usage of social media?

Third, what are the variations across regions? Compared with affluent coastal provinces, is loneliness more prevalent in inland provinces? Is the pattern in the Greater Bay Area different from less-developed regions which tend to have fewer migrant workers? Is  migrant-dominated Shenzhen a lonelier place than, say, Foshan?

Perhaps more important than regional variations are the identities of the residents. Are migrant workers in Guangzhou lonelier than those who have a local hukou? Even after obtaining a local hukou, are new migrants lonelier than the local inhabitants who have lived in the province for generations?

Finally, how does loneliness manifest across class in China? Globally,  those who struggle financially tend to be far lonelier than those who are comfortable economically.

Effective social policies targeting different segments of the population can only be developed with a granular understanding of the multiple dynamics at play in these layers. While institutional reforms covering healthcare, labour regulations and the hukou are important in mitigating loneliness, comprehensive solutions might be beyond the capabilities of the state.

Civil society – from churches in South Korea to community volunteer organisations in Japan – has played a key role in providing community support. Even in Nordic countries with established welfare policies, there is high participation in voluntary organisations such as sports clubs, cultural associations and hobby organisations.

Addressing China’s loneliness requires not just top-down policy reforms but bottom-up empowerment that allows civil society to flourish as a complement to state governance. Until then, travellers will carry the weight of loneliness that no reunion dinners can dispel as they embark on the Year of the Horse.

Republished from _South China Morning Post_ on 10 February 2026