I grew up in the countryside and still return to live with my parents during holidays. However, I don’t feel any deep affection for rural life. The village I’m from makes me lament the hardships of its people.
Memories of Rural Changes
Since I haven’t conducted—nor do I wish to—a detailed survey to substantiate my views, everything I describe here is based on my personal experiences and observations of rural life.
I’m 25 years old and still haven’t completed my education, which means I have long holidays every year to return home and spend time with my family during the New Year and other breaks.
The village is becoming increasingly empty, with slightly more people around during the New Year. But even then, it doesn’t feel livelier. Unlike before, families no longer visit each other’s homes. At most, neighbors who live close by might gather for a chat when the weather is nice and they’re not busy, using the time to vent about work stress or the loneliness of life. These conversations usually last anywhere from a few minutes to half an hour.
I remember a time when people would gather at someone’s home or in their yard on sunny days, sitting together for hours. Children weren’t constantly clinging to adults for attention either—they had their own ways of entertaining themselves. Boys played marbles, girls jumped rope, and everyone joined in games like hide-and-seek, freeze tag, or catch. The simplest activities never seemed to bore them. Every day, they played until their mothers stood at the door or behind the house, calling their names repeatedly. Back then, our playground was the entire village—we knew every hole in the ground and every pile of straw. Nowadays, children’s worlds are confined to their own homes. As a result, I’m only familiar with my niece, Manman; I don’t know any of the other kids, and they don’t seem interested in playing with me either.
With China’s socioeconomic development, changes brought by progress have inevitably reached the countryside. In recent years, the economic and agricultural reforms I’ve witnessed have been far from satisfactory, often sparking widespread criticism from villagers toward local officials.
Three incidents stand out in my memory. The first happened many years ago when a company aggressively promoted the cultivation of Cili (a type of berry) across the county’s rural areas. They partnered with farmers, paying them rent for their land and planting Cili on it. The company promised to buy the harvested berries. On paper, it seemed perfect: farmers could move away from growing corn, potentially earning more from Cili, with all parties benefiting. But this ideal scenario collapsed when the company stopped purchasing the berries. For the first year or two, they did buy them, albeit at lower prices than promised. Farmers were content as long as the land generated some income, regardless of the amount. Eventually, however, the company stopped coming altogether. Many remote plots planted with Cili became overgrown with weeds, rendering them unusable for crops like corn.
The second incident occurred when I first started university. This time, it seemed more official, led by the township government. Another industrial reform was introduced, with a specialized cooperative established where farmers contributed their land as shares to develop fruit orchards. What followed was something I witnessed firsthand. Since the land was now part of the cooperative, farmers could no longer grow their usual crops. Many, including my mother—and even me—ended up working for what seemed like a mix of government and business figures. That winter, my mother took me to plant trees all over the hills. We earned about 40 yuan per day, with a team leader keeping track of attendance in a small notebook. For over ten days, we planted trees across almost every plot in the village—soft-seed pomegranates, apples, pears, plums, and apricots. As we worked, I mostly listened to the villagers’ chatter while daydreaming about the day these trees would bear fruit, imagining myself picking and eating them to my heart’s content. But my naive fantasies were shattered less than two years later when villagers were told the trees were no longer wanted and they could “handle them themselves.” Hearing this news left me speechless—just another failure by “those officials.”
The third incident involved a reform of rural drinking water sources. I wasn’t involved in installing the pipes, but during one holiday, I returned home to find a new water pipe outside our door—though without a faucet yet. While I’d seen such pipes in cities, it was shocking for someone like me, who had drunk mountain spring water for over 20 years. For lifelong villagers, it must have been even more startling. But their surprise and excitement were pointless—the pipes had no water.
The above accounts reflect only my small village. I’m sure not all rural areas are like this, and farmers have indeed benefited from some policies, like the installation of cabinets in every home. Though not particularly sturdy, these cabinets have brought convenience and improved daily life.
Other changes are harder to recall, but this time when I returned, I noticed a concrete base for a solar streetlight outside our home. I hope to see the light installed by my next visit.
Work and Income
In the countryside, aside from farming, there are few other ways to earn a living—which, of course, is the traditional role of rural areas. The village I’m from is hilly, with farmland scattered across slopes in small, uneven patches—some so tiny they can only support a few corn plants. No matter how poor the land, it’s enough for self-sufficiency; at the very least, no one starves. The corn grown can feed two pigs and one cow (here, I’ll note an unequal treatment: farmers usually raise at least two pigs because they worry the animals will feel lonely, but cows are almost always solitary—no one seems concerned about their loneliness. Coincidentally, I was born in the Year of the Ox).
However, as society develops, rural families can no longer settle for mere self-sufficiency. Two pigs and a cow can’t sustain a household anymore. Children in the countryside need better education, healthcare, and modern welfare benefits. Older generations have no concept of retirement age or pensions—the elderly I know work their entire lives until their last breath. With no other options, young people are forced to leave home and migrate to cities for work, building urban centers to support their rural families.
Students study hard, acquiring knowledge and skills, only to realize that what they’ve learned doesn’t translate to opportunities back home. Most become high-level migrant workers, leaving the countryside unchanged while the cities they help build flourish.
Perhaps there’s something fundamentally flawed in our social structure, economic system, or production models—something that overlooks certain groups of people.
My father is 55. For most of his life, he worked in coal mines. Last year, he decided to quit, and I didn’t want him to continue either. His reason? A petty supervisor who constantly belittled him. Mine? Coal mining is dangerous, and I just want him and my mother to live out their remaining years in peace and health.
But after the New Year, my mother urged him to start looking for work again. When asked about his age, she quickly interjected, “He’s only 54.” Fifty-five might not seem old, but thinking ahead 15 years to when he’ll be 70 is sobering—we all know how fast a decade passes.
Given his age, coal mines are wary of hiring older workers. Everyone knows that after decades in the mines, their lungs are likely filled with dust, making them highly susceptible to pneumoconiosis between the ages of 50 and 60.
Unsurprisingly, my father hasn’t found work yet. He and my mother worry endlessly—I’m unmarried, still job-hunting, and will need money. To reassure them, I’ve proudly declared that I’ll end up better off than 70% of people, though I haven’t mentioned the string of failed job interviews I’ve had.
Children and the Elderly
I have an older brother and sister, both married. My brother has a stable job, but my sister is raising two children alone—one four years old, the other just three months. My grandfather will turn 90 this June. His vision and hearing are nearly gone. Rural toilets aren’t indoors; ours was built in 2004 as part of a biogas project—before that, it was just a pit. For my grandfather, navigating the path to the toilet is terrifying, especially in winter, so someone usually has to accompany him. Last year, I bought him a portable toilet, but he’s never used it. Despite his frailty, he still clings to his pride.
Last year, due to the pandemic, my brother-in-law barely earned anything. He left to find work right after the New Year, leaving my sister to care for the children. Soon, my grandfather will return home, adding to my mother’s burdens—farming, tending livestock, and now looking after him. If my father doesn’t find work, at least he can help share some of the load.
By rural standards, my family is relatively fortunate. At least no one has suffered a major illness that would upend our lives. But in the countryside, I’ve seen and heard of too many people falling sick from relentless labor. They’re terrified of hospitals—not because of pain, but the cost. For any ailment, getting an IV at a small clinic is already a major compromise. But diseases don’t wait. Many miss their best chance at treatment by avoiding proper hospitals. My beloved uncle passed away from prostate cancer because of this.
Every time I return home, I emphasize to my parents how important their health is—money is secondary. But most of the time, their focus remains solely on us.
The countryside has few people, but many elderly and children. The elderly will never leave; the children will never stay. And the struggling younger generation? They can’t return to the village, nor can they truly settle in the cities.
The Future
Some questions only time can answer:
Do we still need rural areas like those in Guizhou?
Will these villages eventually become cities?
Where do we go from here?
Perhaps, there will be no more nostalgia for home.
Or:
Maybe, homesickness will be no more.
(Note: The original Chinese phrase “再无乡愁” conveys a sense that the feeling of longing for one’s hometown or homeland might cease to exist. The translation captures this meaning while maintaining the poetic brevity of the original.)