The Beijing pigeons that circle Mao before flying home

Beijing: Each year on October 1, as the final notes of China’s national anthem ring out over Tiananmen Square, thousands of pigeons are set free into the dawn sky.

In a flurry of beating wings, they sweep past the giant portrait of Chairman Mao presiding over the square before disappearing over Beijing’s rooftops, as applause erupts from the crowds lining the streets to celebrate China’s National Day.

About 10,000 pigeons took flight at this year’s ceremony on Thursday. Many would have arrived back on their owners’ doorsteps within minutes, well before the spectators began slowly dispersing from the square.

“By the time you hear on the broadcast that the pigeons have been released, yours have basically already come home,” says Li Zhaoli, 79, a retired boilermaker and veteran pigeon keeper in Beijing’s Xicheng district, not far from the square.

“They land directly on top of the loft. Once you open the door, you don’t have to do anything – they just go inside by themselves.”

That the humble homing pigeon is a highlight of China’s major ceremonial days is due, in large part, to old Beijingers such as Li.

His birds didn’t take part in the National Day release this year, but he has contributed dozens over the past 40 years.

Li is among an ageing cohort of tradition-keepers who raise pigeons on the courtyard rooftops of the city’s hutongs – the ancient alleyways that wind through Beijing’s imperial heart – even as their neighbourhoods have gentrified around them.

Li keeps his brood in a loft-style cage above his compact 22-square-metre flat, where he’s lived for decades on a street that now hosts boutique coffee shops, a wine bar, a steak restaurant and a premium flower shop.

“I started keeping pigeons when I was eight or nine years old,” he says. “My purpose? I’ve loved pigeons my whole life. I’m not really interested in selling them.”

Back then, food was scarce and people rarely kept more than 10 pigeons at a time.

“My family was struggling. We ate cornmeal buns. Sometimes I couldn’t even bring myself to finish mine – I’d hide half of it, and after everyone had finished eating, I’d cut it into little pieces and feed it to the pigeons,” he says.

The hobby has noble origins in the Qing dynasty (1644 to 1912), when pigeon-keeping was an aristocratic pastime, before it spread among the working-class living in the hutongs.

Some old hands such as Li still handcraft pigeon whistles from gourd and bamboo, which are attached to the bird’s tail feathers, creating a distinctive hum that echoes across the skies when they take flight. It helps ward off prey, while owners can identify their flocks by the sound.

In days gone by, the sound was a morning clarion call over the hutongs, raising locals from their slumber.

These days, the pigeon-keeping scene is regulated by racing associations.

Ahead of every National Day and other occasional significant events, local authorities will tap the associations in each Beijing district to put the call out among their members to volunteer birds.

The animals are vetted before they are approved to fly. In past years, this has sparked amusing international headlines about thousands of pigeons undergoing anal cavity searches for suspicious objects.

Sometimes owners are given a small stipend for each bird, but the main drawcard is honour and prestige. Participants are rewarded with government-issued commemorative certificates and leg bands for each bird.

Li volunteered 20 birds for China’s military parade in September last year, where President Xi Jinping hosted Russia’s Vladimir Putin and North Korea’s Kim Jong-un as guests of honour.

“All of them made it home,” Li says. “Because this was a political assignment, you had to feel a certain sense of pride about it.”

The parade was watched across the world, as the latest Chinese weapons systems and nuclear-capable arsenal rolled down Chang’an Avenue and past Tiananmen Square, before 80,000 pigeons were released into the sky.

Zhang Jianquan, a keeper who lives just two kilometres south of Tiananmen, was not so fortunate. He and his brother dispatched 70 of their best pigeons for the parade.

“More than a dozen didn’t come back, although one returned two months later,” he says, adding he has no regrets.

“It brings honour to yourself and to the local community. There are quite a few pigeon keepers around here, but not everyone gets the chance to take part in major events like this.”

There’s politics involved too, he says. If you don’t have the right connections in the pigeon association, chances are you don’t get the opportunity to contribute.

Almost 60 years old, Zhang is considered a relatively youthful hobbyist among the old-timers.

“The tradition is already close to disappearing,” he says, speaking from the roof of his home as he watches his flock circle the city’s evening skies. He releases them twice a day.

“Nowadays, some young people live a fast-paced life. Not many are fond of [doing] this today.”

Li and Zhang say they earn little money from their hobby. But for other breeders, racing the birds is a high-stakes sport that can involve big prize pools and has captured the attention of authorities due to its gambling links.

‘I’ve loved pigeons my whole life. I’m not really interested in selling them.’

Veteran pigeon keeper Li Zhaoli

Scientists haven’t fully figured out exactly how pigeons find their way home. What is known is that they have an innate compass that helps them navigate using Earth’s magnetic field.

Years ago, Li entered 16 pigeons in a 550-kilometre race, and every one of them came back. But the next year, when the race was extended to 600 kilometres, only one bird made it home.

“It means those pigeons had reached their limit of their magnetic field. Beyond that, they lost their sense of direction – north, south, east and west all became confused,” he says.

If you have money, you can spend big and buy racing pigeons from Europe, says Zhang, referencing reports of a Chinese collector who paid €1.6 million ($2.6 million) for a Belgium-bred bird in 2020.

“But ordinary people like us can’t afford that. We take part for fun, not because we expect to make money from it,” he says.

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