A journalist’s farewell: The people who changed how I see China

(Edited and refined by Josephine Hong, with the assistance of AI translation.)

My two years as a Shanghai correspondent draw to a close amid the relentless summer downpour of the plum rain season.

I still vividly recall the summer of 2024 when I first arrived in Shanghai. An economist well-versed in Chinese affairs told me that it was a rare opportunity to be stationed here. He noted that China’s economy was at a critical juncture of structural adjustment, with seismic shifts taking place — and if approached correctly, it would offer “immense potential” for a journalist.

Glimpse into a shared vulnerability

He was right. Over the past two years, China has faced escalating external pressure from an ongoing trade war, while internally navigating an economic transformation. Deep-seated challenges — including the property slump, mounting local government debt, sluggish consumption and weak investment — have converged to weigh on the economy. These topics attract readership and regularly dominate headlines, serving as the central narrative of China’s economic coverage.

Yet looking back, what leaves the deepest impression on me are not these grand, macro narratives. Instead, it is the ordinary people I met during my assignments and their lives.

Ms Wang is one such person from a recent interview I conducted on the downward mobility of China’s middle class. She had worked for many years in Shanghai’s public sector. During the pandemic, the prolonged, intense workload took a toll on her mental and physical health, forcing her to resign and seek psychological treatment. She later experienced a series of life upheavals, including a divorce and her mother being diagnosed with cancer, sending her life spiralling in an entirely new direction.

She eventually sold her apartment, moved to the suburbs, and took up a job as a factory operator. Before long, however, a labour dispute with her employer escalated into legal action. To spare her family from worry, she kept it secret for the past two years, pretending to go to work every weekday.

Meanwhile, her daughter was accepted into a foreign university, but because Ms Wang lacks stable employment, the visa application was rejected — a matter that remains unresolved.

Ms Wang’s story may not speak for the majority, but it reveals a common sense of vulnerability: in the absence of a robust social safety net, a few seemingly minor misfortunes can trigger a catastrophic domino effect, causing an otherwise stable life to plunge rapidly.

The vulnerable and the kind-hearted

Beyond cases like Ms Wang’s, I have encountered ordinary people across a range of industries and life stages. Most interactions were fleeting, often amounting to little more than a few exchanged words.

Yet I remember them vividly. There was the middle-aged man from Northeast China who, after retiring, moved to Shanghai to drive a ride-hailing car for an extra 2,000 to 3,000 RMB (about US$280–420) a month. Then there was the street sweeper clearing fallen branches during a typhoon. He admitted he was afraid of the wind, but said matter-of-factly, “When the gusts come, I just crouch down.”

There were the middle-aged day labourers from various provinces who gathered at labour markets every morning, hoping to secure a temporary shift that was not too physically demanding. And there were the fresh university graduates staying in Shanghai’s youth hostels, praying they could find a job to secure a foothold in the megacity before their savings dry out.

More often than not, what they left me with was an unassuming sincerity and quiet kindness. To this day, those brief encounters continue to move me.

Brother Fu was a private-hire driver I met during an assignment in northern Jiangsu province. After the interview, we lost touch, and I gradually forgot about him. It was only later, when I was struggling to find an interviewee for another story, that I remembered him. More than a year had passed since our brief encounter, but the moment he heard my request, he didn’t hesitate. He immediately started making calls on my behalf and quickly found the right person.

Sister Ping runs a Chinese restaurant in the suburbs of Shanghai. She moved from Anhui province to Shanghai in the 1990s, starting out with a humble roadside stall near a university. Eventually, she opened her own small shop, which has now grown into a two-storey restaurant. Her establishment is also one of the few in Shanghai that offers free meals to those in need.

Despite the cutthroat competition in the catering industry, Sister Ping has kept this free meal initiative going for nine years. When I asked why she had persisted, she couldn’t explain it in any lofty terms. She simply said, “It’s really nothing. I happen to run a restaurant and have food, and there happen to be people who need a meal, so I just do it.”

Unfinished stories

Some of these encounters eventually became stories I wrote. Last May, I visited Australia Garden Village — Guangzhou’s largest unfinished housing project — where elderly homeowners who had spent decades living in derelict buildings showed me how they had built lives of their own, raising chickens and growing vegetables amid the ruins.

At the time, construction of nearby resettlement housing was already underway. The first group of residents was expected to move into their new homes by the end of last year.

However, when I followed up this year, I learned that because the price difference between the resettlement housing and the original purchase price is nearly tenfold, an agreement on the resettlement plan has yet to be reached. An elderly owner who was brimming with hope last year now speaks only of leaving things to fate, muttering, “Living in this unfinished estate isn’t so bad after all.”

Another case involved the Taibai investment fraud scheme, which ensnared hundreds of victims. After filing police reports across multiple jurisdictions, they found themselves trapped in a long wait. With little information about the progress of the investigation, no one knows whether their money will ever be recovered. For those who had borrowed to invest, the consequences have been life-changing. Some have left home in search of low-paying work, others have sold off their assets to repay their debts, and still others have found themselves on the verge of psychological collapse.

There are many more stories that never made it into print.

This year, Chinese authorities raised the basic rural pension to 163 RMB per month. For the 120 million elderly people living in rural China, where healthcare and eldercare resources remain scarce, what does this sum truly mean? Does it genuinely provide security for their twilight years?

A recent report by Caixin visited a severely ageing village in Shandong province, where a senior citizens’ canteen — converted from a former kindergarten — has been operating for over a year, providing free, nutritious lunches for elderly residents. I wanted to follow up on whether such grassroots experiments could be successfully replicated across more rural regions.

As summer approaches, Kunshan in Jiangsu province will once again welcome a new wave of student seasonal workers. Where do these young people, wheeling their suitcases onto factory assembly lines, come from? Where will they go when the summer ends? And how do they imagine their futures? I wanted to find the answers, too.

In the coming days, I may no longer write about China in my capacity as a journalist. Yet I know I will continue to keep a close eye on this land. Over these two years, the people I interviewed, the stories I listened to, and the lives I witnessed have woven themselves into the very fabric of how I understand China.

This article was first published in Lianhe Zaobao as “上海再会”.

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