When a tractor knocked 53-year-old Jiang Min’ai and her 3-year-old grandson off her electric scooter last month, pedestrians in the eastern city of Taizhou called an ambulance. But after 30 minutes, no help had arrived, and no motorists stopped to lend a hand.

Finally a local judge, Fan Hong, passed the scene of the accident. He immediately ordered his driver to turn around; they picked up Jiang and the injured boy and delivered them to a hospital.

Soon afterward, Jiang’s family presented Fan with a token of their gratitude. But they didn’t send him flowers, or a fruit basket, or slip him an envelope full of cash.

Instead, they gave him a jinqi, a large crimson velvet banner with gold fringe and tassels, emblazoned with Chinese characters proclaiming, “You enthusiastically serve the people, helping to save the dying and heal the wounded!”


On Wednesday, a local good-news publication, Zuimei, featured a photo of Jiang’s brother handing Fan the banner, intended to be hung in Fan’s office for visitors to see.

In a touch-of-a-button era where texted emoticons are replacing handwritten thank-you cards, China’s jinqi tradition is hanging on.

Zheng Haiyan looks through some jinqi banners at her Beijing shop, World Brilliant Craft, which sells all manner of customizable trophies, plaques and Lucite tchotchkes (Julie Makinen)


“It’s honorable to receive jinqi; it’s like an award you can display, and people can easily see what a good doctor, worker, policeman or whatever you are,” said Zheng Haiyan, whose cluttered Beijing shop, World Brilliant Craft, sells customizable trophies, plaques and Lucite tchotchkes.

In the 1980s and ‘90s, jinqi were a common sight in physicians’ offices, bus depots and schools in China, but have declined in popularity in the Internet age. An explosion of bribery and corruption in China also rendered jinqi almost pathetically quaint: envelopes of cash, gift cards, watches and other “tokens of appreciation” quickly became more popular (and effective) means of expressing gratitude (and getting special treatment in return).

Now, with the Communist Party several years into a massive anti-graft campaign, jinqi are coming back into vogue, Zheng says. “Nowadays you can’t give red envelopes, but people are happy to get jinqi.”


A jinqi on display in a banner-making shop in Beijing thanks a prison warden for his help. (Julie Makinen)

Jinqi were once sewn by hand; the highest-quality ones were hand-embroidered and took weeks to make, costing hundreds of dollars, said Zheng’s colleague, Zhu Youjun. But these days, Zhu takes orders for jinqi using CorelDRAW graphic design software, quickly laying out the message on his computer and sending it directly to the factory. The letters are glued or ironed on, and a day later, your jinqi is delivered to your doorstep for about $15.

Customers lacking confidence to pen a sufficiently poetic jinqi message need not fear: Zheng offers a dog-eared 37-page list of suggested phrases.

For teachers, there’s “Like the spring rains water plants, you nurture talent.” For bank clerks, “In appreciation for your acumen detecting fraud; you responsibly and diligently safeguard the citizens.”


Zhou Li has made several snarky banners to voice his dissatisfaction with local Communist Party officials. This one disrespectfully puts the character for “party” upside-down. (Courtesy of Zhou Li)

In another jinqi shop just down the road from Zheng’s, there’s even a sample banner on display with a thank-you to a prison warden: “You care and help others; my debt to you is higher than a mountain. You are not my kin, but you’ve done more for me than a relative would.”

Zhang Yusheng, a physician-turned-tech-entrepreneur whose company makes software for doctors, said that while many physicians are primarily concerned about their online reputations (China has websites akin to RateMyMD), many still are happy to receive jinqi.


“Hospitals count which doctors get these every month; it’s part of the evaluation parameters” for promotion, he said. At the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences’ Cancer Hospital in Beijing, for example, the administration publishes a roster in its monthly newsletter naming doctors who have received jinqi.

But not all jinqi are sincere expressions of thanks. In 2010, a software engineer, Zhou Li, was embroiled in an overtime wage dispute with General Electric and had filed a lawsuit and a complaint with the local government. As the process dragged on, Zhou said local authorities unfairly pressed him to settle the case.

So he sent them a snarky jinqi saying, “You don’t serve the people!” — a takeoff on one of Mao Tse-tung’s best-known political slogans, “Serve the people!” The ironic banner required the addition of just one character to Mao’s famous phrase. The stunt garnered huge attention online.

Zhu Youjun designs a jinqi using software, and sends the order direct to the factory. A basic banner costs about $15. (Julie Makinen)


“It’s the constitutional right of people to criticize public servants, but there are not many ways to express your opinion,” said Zhou, 40, who attended college in upstate New York. “Many people in China are terrorized by the government and are afraid of expressing their anger. I’m not afraid to do so.”

Since sending the banner, however, Zhou said he has been repeatedly called in for questioning by authorities. Others have faced far more severe consequences for putting their beefs on jinqi.

A few years ago, Huan Tiejun, a 40-year-old from the city of Changsha in central China, found himself in a dispute with the local government after his home was demolished for a redevelopment project.

He attempted to sue, but finding no satisfaction he pressed his complaint through China’s petition system, an administrative channel through which citizens are supposed to be able to register grievances against local authorities.


“According to the constitution, we have this right to petition, but the local government tried to block us,” he said. So Huan, who had a flag-making business, sent the office a jinqi praising local cadres’ work unit as being “highly advanced in blocking petitioners.”

“I evaluated the risks and thought sending a banner like this would be a rational way to express my grievances,” he said. In response, Huan was detained for nine days on charges of “bringing a negative impact to the local government.” Later, authorities launched investigations of all aspects of his business.

He was eventually accused of fabricating an ink stamp for use on government documents and sentenced to 26 months in prison. Weeks before his release, he said, his mother committed suicide.

“If someone asked my advice about making such a jinqi,” he said, “I would tell them that the risks are quite high.”


Though such cases may curb the practice of sending snide jinqi, Zheng believes the positive variety won’t vanish anytime soon.

“In fact,” she said, “I think they may become even more popular than before.”

Tommy Yang and Nicole Liu in the Times’ Beijing bureau contributed to this report.


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