Of Urban Villages

Aunt Liu lived in a neighborhood called Dankeng Village – an urban village, or “village surrounded by cities.” Dankeng Village is a migrant workers’ enclave in Shenzhen city, and most of its residents worked various jobs at nearby factories, construction sites, restaurants, or as city cleaners. The village is packed with four- and five-story buildings, tightly packed together, jostling for space – so much so that sunlight barely reaches the ground and artificial lighting is kept on even during day time. Between the buildings, the alleyways are always dim and cramped, with crowded small stores stuffed irregularly into the first floor of each building. The buildings have no elevators, and the stairwells are narrow, steep, and dim. The stairs are so tight that if you’re not used to it, you have to step sideways on the stairs or risk slipping and falling, as half your foot would hang off the edge otherwise. Aunt Liu lives on the third floor. When she opened the door, her husband, who was in the middle of eating, immediately stood up, putting down his stainless steel bowl of cucumber and egg – his dinner – he was holding, and warmly invited me to sit on their bamboo-matted bed.

Li Mei lives in an urban village in Longgang, on the far edge of Shenzhen, where rent is lower and buildings are older. “We don’t have elevators,” she said, “So rent goes down as you go up the floors—no one wants to spend two minutes climbing the stairs after ten or twelve hours of work. I rent a small room on the fifth floor. Though to be honest, not everything about living on the top floors is bad. Take the second floor: it’s a lot more gloomy, humid, drab. It’s blocked off from sunlight by the neighboring building, and its windows open directly to the wet, narrow, slippery, smelly alleys. Theft usually happens on the lower floors, if it does happen. Almost every window is covered with anti-theft nets now.”

Not only was the cityscape attractive; Shenzhen presented equally alluring economic opportunities. “I wished I could’ve been among the returnees I saw, wearing new leather shoes and mechanical watches, holding stacks of cash in hand. I yearned for a chance to work in Shenzhen. Back then, all I wanted was to earn enough to build a solid brick home back in the village, so I can house my parents, marry a wife, and raise children. A big house was all you need for a successful rustic life; it’s a symbol of wealth and stability that attracts girls and their parents alike, and parental approval was perhaps the single most important thing for a marriage,” he recounted. “So when the next wave of returnees departed for Shenzhen again, I packed my stuff in a large plastic bag and followed. I thought I’d return in a harvest season or two.” But the triumphant return trips never came. Year after year, he harvested wages in place of rice, his savings dissipating into the cost of survival.
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According to the annually-published China Statistical Manuals, at the turn of the 21st century, some 50 to 80 million rural residents flooded into towns and cities, gravitating towards the promise of higher wages. Many of them were first-generation migrant workers, the backbone of Shenzhen’s rapid ascent from a small fishing village on China’s periphery to a manufacturing powerhouse central to the nation’s economy at the dawn of Reform and Opening Up. Yet, the early years in which China transitioned into a free market urban economy were characterized by incomplete labor protection, inadequate municipal regulations, and rampant nativist backlash. Migrant workers were stigmatized in newspapers and forcefully deported en masse. The Hukou system blocked newcomers from accessing public goods. Employers weren’t required to pay into employees’ social insurance. The current Labor Law wasn’t instituted until the 21st century. Denied protection and inclusion, for every rags-to-riches story, thousands more struggled in cramped rooms in urban villages, without access to social or medical insurance, vulnerable to wage theft and grueling schedules.

The room was just a few square meters. And most of that few square meters of space was taken up by the bed. Beside the bed, the walls and drying racks were cluttered with all sorts of clothes and random items, various odds and ends, while both makeshift tables beside the racks were stacked full and high with daily necessities, half-emptied rubbing alcohol bottles, and bags masks. Half of the masks in the bags had folds that only come from being used. The air conditioner, attached to the top right corner above the tables, looked white and clean; it was off when I went in the room. A white floor fan in the bottom left corner, dyed greasily black from use, turned slowly while whirred loudly, trying to cool the room soaked in Shenzhen’s subtropical Autumn heat. The window opened towards the wall of the neighboring building less than two meters away; this only outlet towards the outside world was small and high, covered not with glass but with metal bars that casted long strips of shadows into the dim room. Just inside the metal bars, a few pots of green plants on the windowsill brought a touch of life and vitality to the small, cramped space.

When she was 17, she worked as a waitress at a restaurant in Luohu district. Her main tasks were serving food and cleaning tables. “Everyday, my only thought was to work diligently and hope the boss would give me a raise. And after a year, my monthly salary went from 700 to 800 yuan. Every day, I tried my best to greet my customers warmly, and with care, like what they told you to do during the short training sessions before you start this job. Eager to do my best, I was. Then there was this one rainy day, people were constantly coming in and going out, and the first floor of the restaurant became slippery – you can see the reflection of lights on the ceiling clearly on the white ceramic tile floor, that’s how watery the floor is. I was carrying a tray of dishes, some of the dishes were quite deep and heavy, you know, those dishes used to carry soup. I slipped and spilled soup on a customer’s clothes. I didn’t know what to do but to repeat ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,’ you know, ‘I didn’t mean it, the floor is slippery, I’m really sorry,’ that sort of thing. And I was really sorry, I meant it. The customer wouldn’t forgive me. I was probably too nervous, I didn’t say the right words; the customer was unhappy. The clothes were expensive, and the restaurant owner had to pay for them. After that, he deducted a month’s salary from me. 7 hundred, 8 hundred yuan, deducted at once, gone.” After that, Sister Mann left the restaurant, hoping to find a job where she’d be paid by the day so she could at least secure her living.
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Through connections from her hometown, she landed a job at a construction site, doing menial tasks like carrying bricks, mixing cement, and cleaning up. But as an 18-year-old girl with little strength, she didn’t last long. “Just a few days after joining the construction site, I hurt my foot while carrying bricks, and accidentally hit a coworker with a brick too. The bricks were heavy. And when mixing cement, I got splattered everywhere. The cement looked fluid, but it was actually thick once you started trying to stir it. I was also the slowest at cleaning up.” Her coworkers grew impatient with her, complaining that she was more trouble than help, calling her a burden. “A nuisance, that’s the word they used. I felt humiliated. I was determined to improve, not to be looked down upon, at least. I was young back then, and it felt as if I had a fire in my gut.” Despite her injuries, she worked harder and faster, pushing through the pain. She became more efficient, but jobs on the construction site required physical strength she simply didn’t have. She still lagged behind. “Even though I improved a little, my coworkers continued to criticize me, especially the more capable female workers. The stronger and more skilled ones couldn't stand my slowness.”
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Seeing her small and struggling frame, her hometown friend who had helped her get the job, advised her to seek another. He helped her to get her pay for her 15 days of work, plus a small compensation for her injury. “The wages were 50 yuan a day, 750 for 15 days. Added to the compensation, that totaled 800 yuan for 15 days of work. Though it wasn’t much, it was better than nothing, and it was the best outcome I could get, the best my friend could negotiate for me. If it weren’t my hometown friend, I don’t know how that’ll end up.” But Sister Mann was lost again, unsure of what to do next. “Maybe I could work in the construction site’s canteen, I thought. Perhaps chopping vegetables or washing dishes, that sort of stuff. But then when I actually asked around, I was told that the canteen didn’t need more hands. In fact, they preferred to hire women in their thirties or forties, since they’re generally believed to have more experience and endurance.” Defeated and with no other choice, she left the construction site in search of yet another job.

"For other migrant workers, especially if you don’t work for a factory or some other reliable company with clear records, keep records yourself. Organize your contracts, attendance logs, photos of where you work, etc. If you ever get injured, keep record, don’t panic, and seek legal aid early. The Disability Service Center could help if you become disabled, but it’s usually more convenient to first contact social workers in your community. Each Community Service Center has a social worker dedicated to helping the disabled, and he could orient you before you visit the Disability Center in person. Some of the services here require prior appointment, and the community social worker can help with that as well. But nobody can rely on the help of others forever, especially financially. Save what and when you can. Trust your family members but get it in writing. 亲兄弟明算账 (literally meaning: keep clear accounts even with one’s brothers; usually applied to siblings with financial transactions/deals to indicate that “even reckoning makes long friends”). And importantly, never lose hope. Even without a leg, I still found ways to keep going."

“I made a silent vow: I would bring his daughter to Shenzhen, to be with us. I started researching Shenzhen’s education policies, looking into elementary school admission procedures. I asked about tuition fees and other eligibility requirements at every school I could find.” Fu Xiong scoured the city for a suitable school, visiting almost every elementary school in Shenzhen. At the factory, he took on more responsibilities and, together with his wife, saved as much as they could, cutting back on all unnecessary expenses to save for their daughter’s tuition. He also applied to the factory for a larger dormitory. Finally, in the summer of 2015, they brought their daughter, who had started first grade, to their “home” in Shenzhen. They enrolled her in a private school in Longhua. That same year, Xiao Ling became pregnant with their second child.
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With their daughter now in Shenzhen, and with a new baby in her belly, Xiao Ling had to adjust her work schedule, which meant a significant reduction in their household income. Their daughter’s tuition was over 30,000 yuan a year, and combined with the cost of living for the family of three, the financial pressure on Fu Xiong was immense. “Yet being able to see my daughter every day, to watch her grow and develop, made all the hardship and exhaustion worthwhile.”

​I consulted Shenzhen’s Urban Administration Office, which explained that EV charging station distribution depends on a variety of factors, including density of EV, availability of parking lots, and safety concerns. According to the municipality’s 2025 Specification for Fire Safety Management of EV Supercharging Station (Piles), there are 7.84 million EVs in China, resulting in over 3000 fire accidents. Thus, the city government’s Market Supervision Administration issued a series of Directives and Guidelines regulating fire safety and resource utilization of EV charging facilities, setting specific, unified standards for reviewing and approving charging station construction projects.
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Most urban villages lack parking locations, as only a few residents own cars. They are typically overcrowded with old, shoddy constructions that present a range of safety concerns, their cramped passageways blocking firetrucks and ambulances in emergency cases. Consequently, charging EVs in urban villages violates fire safety standards, while demand for charging is scarce in the first place. Shenzhen’s taxi drivers, most of whom live in urban villages because of its affordability, face a paradox. Their jobs entail the ownership of cars incongruous with their socioeconomic standing, engendering unique challenges as they fight to reconcile this paradox.
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And still, Li prefers the electric model to gas. “It’s cheaper long-term—the car’s cheaper with state subsidies, and electricity’s also cheaper than gas. And no smell. But they should give drivers more support.”

I arrived at the gate of Zhaowen factory half an hour before the workers’ night shift ended, so I decided to take a walk around the area. Heading north along the road on the east side of the factory, I heard distant sounds of street vendors, chatting, talking, shouting to promote their street food. The sound came from around 200 meters away, a bustling square around a crossroad. Vendors with food carts sold all kinds of snacks: grilled sausages, cold noodles, meat pancakes, seasonal fruits, coffee, milk tea…This was a gathering place for workers from nearby factories to unwind after a long day. Many of the vendors here were former factory workers themselves. They left their work on assembly lines to spend more time with their family and children, opting for jobs with more flexible schedules. They prepared ingredients during the day and set up their food carts at 5 p.m., cooking and selling street food until they head home after midnight. You could tell they were tired, but their faces still beamed with smiles – perhaps it was a natural instinct for those in business. The street foods here were very tasty and much cheaper than what I was used to. After buying a few cups of fruit tea, I returned to the gate of Zhaowen Factory, waiting for the night-shift workers to clock out.

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First a few, then groups, then waves after wave of workers exited the gate. They walked quickly and mechanically, not rushing but not strolling either, like the engine and frame of an old bus, jogging and jolting each other forward in silence against the clanging noise of factory bells. I approached them, introducing myself and inviting them to a chat. A tall, slender, handsome young man paused, accepting the invitation. He led me to a bench in front of an apartment building a few steps towards the South of the factory. This apartment is where he lived.

Now men in their forties, boys back when they arrived at Shenzhen, Uncle He and a group of Henan folks followed a subcontractor to a construction site in Nanshan District. Their first day began as steel beams were silhouetted against a rising sun. They became what was called “carpenters,” formworkers who assembled and held wooden frames that shaped liquid concrete into walls and pillars during pouring. “The pay was slightly higher than most factories, whether you were paid per piece or per hour,” Uncle He recalled, “I got a little over 200 [RMB] per day. That was about the highest you could’ve got on construction sites. Only external scaffolding workers came close in terms of wage rates. As for scaffolding, that job was perhaps the most torturous. You were exposed to raw wind and heat and rain, always in danger of falling. Carpenters were a bit different. Safety risks and work intensity went into our higher pay for sure, but we also had to read architectural drawings and figure out the exact positioning of frames. Not everyone can master that.”
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Indeed, not everyone could cope with the intensity of construction work. “Sure, I wasn’t standing or sitting at a single spot, and I didn’t have to keep up with no lines,” Uncle He contemplated, “but by the time I end a day’s work after sundown, every muscle and joint ached.” He did not receive sufficient rest either: “At the very first, I lived in one of the white, primitive tin houses near the site. The walls were way too thin. Not only were they not soundproof, they made noise themselves if anything came into contact: raindrops, wind, etc. Tin sheets also got heated easily. The houses were always hotter than the outside over summer, and colder over winter. But later on, most tin houses were disassembled as construction expanded.” It was then that Uncle He rented a small room in Baishizhou, Shenzhen’s largest urban village, well absorbed into Shenzhen’s sprawl: “It was more convenient. Baishizhou was inside of Nanshan District, relatively close to where I worked. It was more expensive than urban villages on the outskirts, though.” As with most urban villages, Baishizhou’s jostling buildings left little space for sunlight to penetrate even in summer. “Rainy seasons,” Uncle He described, “made everything moldy, muddy, slippery.”