A Father Who Refused Leave His Daughter Behind (Part 1)

August 26th, 2023:

Mr. Fu (Fu Xiong), exiting the factory front gate

August 26th, 2023, 9 p.m. The building of Zhaowen Textile & Garment Factory in Longhua was still brightly lit. Through the large glass windows, the moving contours of workers could be seen – workers deftly operating machines, cutting cloth, sewing pieces, stitching edges, trimming thread, pressing, checking, folding, packing. Pieces of raw fabric flew seamlessly through their hands, and bundles after large bundles of finished clothing were piled up in a corner. Several trucks were parked beside the building. Based on my experience interning at a garment factory last summer, I can tell that they were rushing to meet the order deadlines. Facing fickle fashion trends in the apparel market, big fashion retailers demand fluctuating amounts of clothing from upstream manufacturers, often placing no orders in one month and orders in the millions in the next. This volatile demand translates into the workers’ uncertain lives – when orders overflow, they might be asked to work seven days a week; but in the off-season, some might be asked to leave work early so that the factory canteen doesn’t have to offer them subsidized meals.

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.

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.

He walked differently than most other workers. His eyes had a different light in it too, originating deep in mind and gleaming through filters of untold stories and experience. He agreed to my interview because he had a daughter of my age. Seeing me, he said, gave him an inexplicable sense of warmth and closeness. He asked about my school life, and talked about that of his daughter’s as well. His eyes were filled with worry, but even more so with hope. It was more than a young man speaking. It was a father.

His last name was Fu, hereafter I’ll refer to him as Fu Xiong (surname appears before given name in Chinese). In Chinese, Xiong means “heroic,” and the pseudonym Fu Xiong means “the hero of his daughter.” As soon as we sat down on the bench, Fu Xiong habitually pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and asked if I minded him smoking. I told him, “go ahead, whatever makes you comfortable.”

Fu Xiong’s hometown was in rural Jingzhou, Hubei Province. He grew up in a family of five: he had two brothers, and his parents were farmers who juggled farming with raising the children. When Fu Xiong was born in the 1980s, families of five were rare in Fu Xiong’s hometown. Despite the state’s determination to strictly enforce its one-child policy, most villages in rural Jingzhou had over 4 children under each roof. “At that time, you know, boys were preferred over girls, and every family wanted a male heir to carry on the family lineage. There were families, families in our village, who’ve given birth to 6 girls in a row, but were still having more babies in hope that the next one will be the boy. [The family lineage carried on by male heir] was the lineage of the husbands’ side, of course, but wives also wished to give birth to boys. Married women get treated better by husbands and fathers-in-law after they give birth to boys. All my siblings were male, so my parents didn’t keep on having children (laugh).” With fewer mouth’s to feed, Fu Xiong’s family supported a relatively manageable life in the countryside at a time when some of their neighbors still starved now and then. Fu Xing had been a mischievous kid, not fond of studying. “My favorite hobby? Leading a ‘gang’ of children in my town, playing, scuffling around the empty ground at the village entrance. In my memory, that place was huge and flat, a large, dusty square.” His parents, realizing he wasn’t cut out for academic life, didn’t push him to study. The only hope they had was for him to learn a trade to support himself.

There was an old tailor shop run by a man named Master Yu in the village. Be it children’s or adults’ clothing, most of the clothes made and worn in the village were made and sold by this shop. Fu Xiong often wandered around the shop, cutting paper with scissors as Master Yu sectioned garments into shapes, his hands tracing the movements of Master Yu’s hands. When Fu Xiong failed the high school entrance exam in his third year of middle school, he wanted to become Master Yu’s apprentice and learn the trade from him.

When Fu Xiong failed to get into high school in his third year of middle school, he wanted to learn the trade from Master Yu. But Master Yu declined, citing his family tradition of not passing the craft to outsiders. “[Master Yu] said that only a member of the Yu’s can inherit the crafts of the Yu’s. But that was, you know, more of an excuse. I’m saying that because a few years after Master Yu said no to me becoming his apprentice, he picked a successor not from his family but from the family that lived right next to me, a successor who wasn’t surnamed Yu. The real reason I was rejected by Master Yu? He felt me too restless to stick with the repetitive task of cutting and sewing.”

Disheartened, Fu Xiong began considering seeking a job outside of his village, in the bustling cities of a rapidly industrializing China. His parents also felt that, as a young man, he needed to venture out and toughen himself up. They started asking around for job opportunities. Fu’s cousin had a job in a garment factory in Shenzhen at that time, and since Fu Xiong had some interest in tailoring, she introduced him to Zhaowen Garment Factory.

Zhaowen Garment Factory, officially named Shenzhen Zhaowen Textile & Garment Co., Ltd., was established in 2003. It is a garment manufacturing company that primarily produces mid-to-high-end knitwear and woven products. With over 1,000 employees, the factory produces 5 million items of clothing annually.

When Fu Xiong first entered the factory, everything was new and exciting to him. He wanted to try his hand at every position, at every type of job. But with no experience, he had to start by working on auxiliary tasks such as distributing materials, cleaning work areas, and cleaning equipment. Three months into his new job, his naturally restless personality grew weary of factory life. “It felt like a prison, you know. You can imagine it: working from dawn till dusk for a meager salary, going back home, sleeping, waking up, and going back to work. You stay at the same place, stuck in the factory, with no hope of advancement. I wanted to switch jobs, at least temporarily. I didn’t know what else I could do. My cousin and co-workers told me that Zhaowen was considered one of the better factories in Shenzhen. They said it had decent pay and working conditions, compared with other ones.” The turnover rate in Zhaowen was quite low; most workers stayed for years. After much deliberation, Fu Xiong decided to stick it out for a bit longer. Nineteen years later, he was still there.

Fu Xiong’s love for tailoring grew during his first year. Through observation, learning, and hard work, he gradually transitioned from an auxiliary worker trimming threads to an official fabric cutter. His job involved taking design blueprints or samples and using semi-automated machines or handheld scissors to cut fabric into the required shapes and sizes. This included inspecting the fabric for flaws or color discrepancies and then cutting them according to the markings on the blueprints.

Fu Xiong’s face lit up with excitement when we talked about fabric cutting. “Fabric cutting involves precise measurements and markings to ensure the shapes and sizes are accurate. You also need to master the technique of operating cutting machines and scissors to improve efficiency. And, of course, you have to understand the fabric's characteristics and the intricacies of the cutting process. Sometimes the job is tedious, exhausting, but when you see the final, beautifully crafted garments, there’s a huge sense of accomplishment.” The pride on his smiling face was unmistakable and unmistaken. Zhaowen factory produced clothing items for major brands and big retailers like ARMANI, MICHAEL KORS, CABI, BODEN, BOGNER, FC, SEED, MOCO, and coincidentally, they’ve also manufactured clothes for a brand I had worked with during my freshman summer internship, Shenzhen Winner.

Fu Xiong’s work and life in the factory were relatively stable. In his third year at the factory, he met a girl from Hubei named Xiao Ling (a pseudonym). Xiao Ling was from Huanggang, Hubei, the same province Fu Xiong came from. She joined the factory as a warehouse manager in 2007. Her job involved checking, counting, and updating the inventory of fabric rolls and other materials in the warehouse, keeping records and reporting to the purchasing team and sales staff. She also handled the receiving, accounting, and distribution of inventory. The role required immense attention to detail and patience. Working in the same factory, Fu Xiong and Xiao Ling met each other often when cloth and other raw materials were distributed. They fell in love and eventually got married.

After their wedding, they rented a single-room dormitory in the factory’s residential building. This is the building in front of which Fu and I sat and talked. In 2008, when Xiao Ling was nine months pregnant, Fu Xiong sent her back to his hometown in Hubei. In Chinese culture, women go through a postpartum recovery of one month (for normal delivery) or 42 days (for cesarean section) after giving birth, a practice called “sitting the month.” Cared for by family or hired caregivers, women sitting the month stay indoors with their newborn baby, feeding them while following a healthy and nutritional diet according to traditional Chinese medicine. Dating over 2,000 years, the tradition of “sitting the month” can be traced back to the ancient practice of “Yuenei,” documented in Western Han Dynasty’s (202 BC – 9 AD) Book of Rites. From the perspective of traditional Chinese sociology and medicine, this period of postpartum confinement is a critical transitional phase for new mothers to smoothly navigate the physiology and psychological changes to their lives. The reason Fu Xiong sent his wife back home for childbirth was simple: “in Shenzhen, there’s no one to take care of her, and our income couldn’t cover the cost of childbirth and childcare. Back home, my parents could look after her, and costs of living were much lower.”

In November 2008, Fu Xiong’s wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. The birth of their daughter felt like a star lighting up Fu Xing’s world. He made up his mind that he “would do everything to ensure [his] daughter became the happiest person on Earth.” The abrupt end to his 10-day paternity leave, however, soon extinguished the flame of hope. Fu had to say goodbye to his daughter, not yet a month old, and return to Shenzhen, to his place on the assembly line. Holding his sleeping daughter, he gently touched her little hand – soft like cotton – and rubbed it softly against his rough cheek. Tears streamed down his face – not just from sorrow and reluctance, but more from a deep sense of guilt. “I thought, you know, I couldn’t, I’m unable to keep my wife and daughter by my side. And that was on me.”

When their daughter was three months old, Xiao Ling’s maternity leave ended as well. Xiao Ling couldn’t bear to leave her daughter, still nursing, behind. She wanted to bring the baby with her to Shenzhen, and the couple discussed the possibility for a long time. “We realized that balancing work and childcare was basically impossible. So Xiao Ling applied for unpaid leave from the factory.

Seeing their daughter, who was still nursing, Xiao Ling couldn’t bear to leave her behind. She wanted to bring the baby with her to Shenzhen, and the couple discussed the possibility for a long time. In the end, they realized that balancing work and childcare was impossible. Xiao Ling applied for unpaid leave from the factory, but when their daughter turned six months old, she made the painful decision to leave the child in the care of her grandparents and return to work in Shenzhen. Their daughter, just six months old, became one of China’s millions of left-behind children.

A left-behind child refers to a minor under the age of 16 who is left in the care of others (typically a grandparent) in a rural hometown because one or both parents have migrated away from the hometown for work. Growing up in an environment lacking parental companionship, care, or communication, it’s hard to imagine how these children’s personalities, psychology, and values develop. The 2023 Rural Education Development Report documented 9.02 million left-behind children in China in 2023, a significant decrease from 22 million in 2012, but still a staggering and heartbreaking number. Of greater concern is the fact that the research institution producing the report – China Development Research Foundation (CDRF) – adopted a more restricted definition of left-behind children in 2023 than in 2012, meaning that many children separated from their migrant worker parents were not qualified to be considered as left-behind. “Numbers lie.”

The thought their daughter was a left-behind child kept Fu Xing and Xiao Ling awake at night. They worked tirelessly, “never daring to lose any opportunity to save a little more money, while always looking forward to the Chinese New Year. New Year was when we could return home, stay for a week in our hometown, and to spend time with our daughter. That was it. Year after year after year, and time passed without you noticing.” Over the years, their daughter waited with eager anticipation for her parents’ arrival. She was ecstatic when her parents arrived and torn apart when they kissed her good-bye. This scene played out in Fu Xing’s life countless times.

“One year, right after the Spring Festival, my wife and I said goodbye to our parents and daughter, and we were just boarding the bus back to the city. The bus station was fairly far away from our home, and our parents and daughter walked that long distance with us. We parted when the bus came. The bus didn’t stay for long. A few minutes, maybe? But after the bus started moving again, after it’s moved over a fair distance, I think, we saw our daughter from the window, chasing after the bus and crying out with all her strength, and her grandmother chasing after her. She ran for a very long distance, very very long.” She ran for what seemed like an eternity, hoping her parents would either stay at home or take her with them to the city. Her small figure grew ever smaller in the distance, her body frail against the backdrop of the departing bus. “I turned my head away. I couldn’t bring myself to look back. The sound of my daughter’s cries were desperate. ‘Mama, Papa, Mama, Papa…’ It tore our hearts to pieces. This was the kind of pain that can only be fully understood by parents, perhaps.”

“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.

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.”

Fu Xiong had always hoped his daughter could attend a public school in Shenzhen. Not only would there be no tuition fees, but the quality of education was also better. So, he kept a close eye on Shenzhen’s education policies. In 2022, the Shenzhen Education Bureau established a new public school in Longhua District, called Huazhong Normal University Affiliated School. Fu Xiong and his wife had been enrolled in and paying into the social security program through their factory jobs for years, and by accumulating enough “credit points” in the social security system, they met the eligibility requirements to apply to this school. Their daughter was successfully admitted. The following year, Fu Xiong brought his parents to Shenzhen to help care for their two children.

This, indeed, was a happy ending.

"Q: Your whole family can finally live together now! Both of your kids got into public schools in Shenzhen, just like you hoped. I’m really happy for you.

A: Yeah, thank you hahaha, little brother.

Q: Besides your kids' education, do you have any thoughts about your own personal career development? You’ve been at this factory for almost 20 years now, and you’ve built up a lot of experience in garment production. Have you ever thought about starting your own business?

A: Factory life… It's the same thing day after day, no picture or thought of the future in sight. You can’t see your future here. I’ve thought about leaving so many times. I’ve thought about starting my own business, too. It’s not that I dislike the Zhaowen factory, but I just want something better, you know, something that would give my family a better living and a better life. But I’ve always lacked the courage and determination. You know, I had a co-worker back then, from Shandong. He worked at the factory for two or three years, and then left to start advertising and selling farm produce on TikTok live-streaming. He’s the kind of guy who’s bold – daring, even. He’s got that adventurous spirit. His hometown, Shandong, is a big province known for agriculture, so he tapped into the resources there. He contacted and connected with local farmers and helped them promote their produce, kind of acting as a bridge between the rural farmers and urban supermarkets. He met some influential people along the way; they helped him out financially so that he could expand his business. His business kept growing, and now he supplies all the yams to every Huahui Supermarket in Shenzhen. Just imagine that. Think about it, in the best year, Huahui supermarkets bought over 200 million tons of yams from upstream suppliers. The person I was talking about, his annual income is over a million yuan now. I really respect and admire him.

Q: That’s a classic case of being in the right place at the right time with the right people.

A: Exactly! Ten or so years ago, it was a lot easier to start your own business. If you had the guts, you could find opportunities. You could even do it alone by yourself, you know. But things are so very different now. You want to change, but there are too many things, too many uncertainties you can’t control. One wrong step and your business might die and you might lose everything. Nowadays, you have to collaborate with others, even with big, established companies, and you need strong backing and support to have a real shot at success, in terms of career and business development.

Q: So, seeking this kind of change nowadays also means you’d have to take on much bigger risks.

A: Yes, that’s right. Right now, my wife and I together earn about 15,000 yuan a month. The rent for our factory apartment is 400 yuan per month. Then there’s the monthly expenses for our six-persons household, and all the costs for the kids. By the end of the month, there’s barely anything left. And I didn’t even factor in unexpected costs like sickness or accidents. I’ve thought about building, putting together my own clothing production team, but, you know, renting a space, buying machinery—all of that requires a huge investment upfront. We have no savings at home. If I fail, there’s no one who’ll support us, and I won’t even be able to afford to feed my kids. So, I can only look at it – the possibility of starting my own business – from a distance but not take the leap.

Q: Are you confident about your future? What’s your future outlook?

A: Well, there’s a lot of heavy pressure, pressure of life. I feel kind of lost, and I don’t see much hope going ahead, you know.

Q: I mean, you’ve already done something amazing. You’ve managed to bring your kids to live with you here in Shenzhen, to be present and see them grow up while working a job. In the factory worker community, you’re already a great father!

A: Hahaha…"

Fu Xing’s phone rang at that moment. It was his daughter calling. It was almost midnight, and she was telling him to come home and go to bed. He really is a nice father.