than most people have.
What did her informants tell her? Having gained their confidence by showing sympathy and interest, she elicited a rich flow of ideas, views, and stories from them. Her journey starts and finishes at Moscow’s Yaroslavl Station, where she joins homeward-bound migrants on the Trans-Siberian Railway. They paint her a sobering picture of the often romanticized reality of international migration. The pillaging by predatory police and other authorities starts at the Russian border, intensifies at the destination, and is rounded off with a final shakedown on re-entry into China. Migrant traders suffer endless official rip-offs in Russia and occasional attacks by xenophobic skinheads. Migrant labourers, driven out of China by poverty and despair, are paid pittances by their Russian employers and milked dry by the Chinese agents who recruit and run them. Those who publicly resist the abuse risk fines and deportation.
This picture bears little resemblance to that of the footloose globe-trotter moving around the world in a cocoon of global Chinese capitalism and culture, a representation that can be found in some writings of the currently influential school of transnational studies. Hsiao-Hung Pai’s important contribution to the debate on transnationalism and ‘Chineseness’ is her unrelenting focus on the different fates that await rich and poor. Where other authors celebrate the migrants’ mobility in a frictionless, deterritorialized age of ‘transilience’ and ‘flexible citizenship’ and play down the poverty, racism, and sexism of their world, she focuses on the ‘permanent journey of the mobile proletariat’ and the role of the hostile state – at home and overseas – in controlling and exploiting the petty trader and the migrant worker.
The bulk of the book records Hsiao-Hung Pai’s encounters with rural migrants in Chinese towns and cities. They can suffer poor health, accidents, and even death through their work, and they are too poor to buy insurance. They accumulate debts they can’t pay off. Local residents are more likely to show them contempt than fellow feeling. Their relations with agents and employers are rarely governed by rules, regulations, or contracts. The state-run labour unions make no effort to recruit or represent them, and they can’t afford legal arbitration. When their bosses fail to pay them for months on end, or bully and deceive them, or subject them to other arbitrary abuses, they have no remedy. They are ‘ghosts’, people with no officially sanctioned existence, subject to routine harassment and random cruelty and violence. They live in ghettoes, aliens in their own country. Because conditions for them in China are so dire, many will do practically anything to get themselves or even their unaccompanied children to the rich West, where again they face oppression and discrimination.
An even worse life is that of the ethnic migrants, the non-Han segments in the Han cities, who form minorities within the minority and live in ghettoes within the ghetto. They are even more likely than the general migrant population to suffer random police searches on the streets and maltreatment by authorities and members of the Han majority. This is especially true in the current political climate, where the establishment is playing the dangerous game of stoking Han chauvinism disguised as Chinese patriotism. Hsiao-Hung Pai describes two of these internal colonies, Yi and Uighur.
There is little in this book to relieve the general sense of repression without redress. The author occasionally reports some small instance of verbal defiance, usually from older workers with a memory of the rebel days. Another act of self-assertion she describes is the Museum of Migrant Culture and Art, a samizdat project set up by volunteers in a poor neighbourhood in Picun in Beijing that proudly displays the history of migration with exhibits donated by migrant workers. The museum staff has raised a banner, ‘To work is glorious,’ an ironic play on Deng Xiaoping’s ‘To get rich is glorious.’ Pai also cites the rise in labour militancy in 2010 to confirm that many migrant workers do not accept their fate, but although conditions for the emergence of an independent labour movement are better today than at any time since the 1920s, most observers agree that one is not yet imminent.
Pai’s title, Scattered Sand, comes from Sun Yat-sen, father of Chinese nationalism and leader of its democratic revolution (which was not very democratic and not very revolutionary), who called the Chinese people a sand rope, without fibre, but had high hopes of the Chinese overseas, who he thought could be ‘mothers of the Revolution’ because migration would change them. Yet it is hard to see how he was right, for migration abroad has dissipated the energy of the enterprising, and migration at home has greatly widened the chasm between winners and losers, which bodes ill for progressive change there. China, once one of the world’s most egalitarian societies, is now almost as inegalitarian as South Africa and Brazil.
Yet Hsiao-Hung Pai concludes her report on a note of optimism, describing the migrants’ role in the recent unofficial strikes, which she hopes are a first step to greater equity. But although a movement of criticism and dissent does exist in China, it is less focused and more disjointed than in the past, and even if its members do manage to cohere, they will achieve little unless they can quickly identify a way to heal the division between insiders and incomers in the cities.
Gregor Benton
Cardiff University, May 2012
Introduction
It was nine p.m. at Moscow’s busiest railway station, Yaroslavsky. The platforms were dense with people, most of them of Russian or Central Asian descent. Kiosks and peddlers touted their wares – matryoshka dolls, hats, and T-shirts emblazoned with illegible English words – beneath high archways and portraits of Soviet soldiers and Arctic fishermen. It felt more like an open Sunday market than the terminus of the world’s longest railway, the Trans-Siberian. And its peaked brown roofs seemed more suited to a Russian fairy-tale castle than to the point of transit in so many modern stories of personal migration, on trains heading to and from northern Russia, Siberia, Mongolia and China.
It was the beginning of my trip. I bought a loaf of black bread and a bottle of water. Large groups of Chinese men and women, carrying heavy plastic bags and suitcases, were arriving on the platform for the train to Beijing, obviously homeward bound. Immediately, a police officer approached, rattling off questions in Russian and singling out three of the men, apparently at random, lining them up against a wall, where they were searched. I could see the fear in their faces. They didn’t dare move an inch. The other passengers, including the Central Asians, watched sympathetically. The sight was familiar to them – possibly the experience was, too – and I could see that they expected the worst for those men. Still the crowd did not linger, though some looked back as they walked steadily on.
How had all these Chinese migrants wound up here? What were they returning to?
As my train pulled away, the three Chinese men were still being questioned by the police. Their look of fear remained etched in my mind. I didn’t know then that I would see that look again many times.
That day, I was bidding farewell to Europe, embarking on a journey through Siberia into China. I had spent 2004–2007 researching Chinese Whispers, my book on the life of undocumented Chinese workers in Britain, and often found myself wondering about the origins of these migrants. What forces drive migration? What compels migrants to journey to the West, despite the exploitation that awaits them? Why would the widow of a Chinese migrant who died working in Britain want to borrow another £20,000 to send her young daughter there?
Today, an estimated 200 million Chinese peasants have left their homes in search of work; 130 million of those have left their home provinces, according to the China Labour Bulletin (CLB). They represent half of the urban workforce and are responsible for half of China’s GDP, as reported by the Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD), with jobs largely in construction, services and manufacturing. This indispensable army of labour from the vast rural interior, moving from city to city and country to country in search of a livelihood, has been described, by academics as well as by migrant workers themselves, as ‘scattered sand’. More often, and less accurately, they are called peasant workers – nongmin-gong
