中國(guó)作家協(xié)會(huì)主管

流動(dòng)，近四十年最主要的中國(guó)經(jīng)驗(yàn)

先說(shuō)一個(gè)小故事。

故事發(fā)生在我寫(xiě)這篇發(fā)言稿的前一天。一位三十年沒(méi)有聯(lián)系過(guò)的初中同學(xué)加了我的微信，他說(shuō)當(dāng)年他也是文學(xué)的狂熱愛(ài)好者，每次語(yǔ)文老師將我的作文當(dāng)范文讀時(shí)，他都暗暗地不服，認(rèn)為老師沒(méi)眼光。他甚至偷偷藏了我的一個(gè)作文本。后來(lái)，他和我一樣，初中沒(méi)有畢業(yè)就離開(kāi)家鄉(xiāng)，長(zhǎng)江中游，江漢平原南岸一個(gè)算不上富與算不上窮的小村。和我一樣，到廣東。在東莞的工廠打工，做過(guò)各種苦逼的工作。但是，他對(duì)我說(shuō)，在當(dāng)下的中國(guó)，生于1970年之后的這一代人是最幸運(yùn)的。我們不像父輩那樣，縱有天大本事，也只能面朝黃土背朝天地過(guò)一輩子。出生在城里的，進(jìn)工廠，經(jīng)歷下崗，或者在一個(gè)廠里工作到老也很難升職到處長(zhǎng)，廳長(zhǎng)。我們這代人面臨著更多選擇，更加自由，有更多機(jī)會(huì)。當(dāng)然，他最后沒(méi)有忘記告訴我，說(shuō)他現(xiàn)在做生意做得還可以。

他特別強(qiáng)調(diào)了一句，說(shuō)比我想象的可能會(huì)更成功一些。

我告訴他，我對(duì)他生意做多大并沒(méi)有想像。他說(shuō)，他在一個(gè)行業(yè)的細(xì)分領(lǐng)域，做到了全球老大，一年?duì)I業(yè)額有七個(gè)億。他前年將工廠從東莞搬到湖北，建占地幾百畝的工廠，有上萬(wàn)員工。公司正在IPO。我對(duì)他說(shuō)，作為一名苦盡甘來(lái)的成功者，你當(dāng)然可以說(shuō)我們遇上了最好的時(shí)代，那些沒(méi)有成功的人，遇上了這么好的時(shí)代都沒(méi)有成功，是因?yàn)樗麄儽俊５谖铱磥?lái)，少數(shù)他這樣的成功人士背后，是無(wú)數(shù)人在血汗工廠里打工，付出全部努力，青春，最后一無(wú)所有。我的富豪同學(xué)說(shuō)，這是經(jīng)濟(jì)學(xué)的規(guī)律。只有大量人的付出無(wú)所得，才會(huì)造就少數(shù)人的成功，才會(huì)推動(dòng)社會(huì)經(jīng)濟(jì)發(fā)展。

對(duì)于經(jīng)濟(jì)學(xué)我是外行，也許，我的富豪同學(xué)是對(duì)的。作為作家，我觀察的立場(chǎng)和角度，顯然和他不一樣。他關(guān)注的是時(shí)代帶給了我們這代人機(jī)遇，造就了許多如他的成功者，而我關(guān)注的是這時(shí)代車(chē)輪滾滾背后，那失敗的大多數(shù)。我想起了我的同事，詩(shī)人鄭小瓊的一首詩(shī)。許多年前，我還在深圳當(dāng)自由撰稿人，年輕的鄭小瓊還在東莞一間五金廠打工。一次偶然的聚會(huì)，我讀到了她的一首詩(shī)，《黃麻嶺》，當(dāng)時(shí)淚奔，嚎啕大哭，把聚會(huì)的朋友們嚇壞了。后來(lái)，我在散文《尋親記》中，引用了她的這首詩(shī)，以表達(dá)敬意，同時(shí)，也是向千千萬(wàn)萬(wàn)的打工者們致敬。

現(xiàn)在，我想再讀一讀她的這首詩(shī)：

我把自己的肉體與靈魂安頓在這個(gè)小鎮(zhèn)上 

它的荔枝林，它的街道，它的流水線一個(gè)小小的卡座 

它的雨水淋濕的思念，一趟趟，一次次  

我在它的上面安置我的理想，愛(ài)情，美夢(mèng)，青春 

我的情人，聲音，氣味，生命 

在異鄉(xiāng)，在它的黯淡的街燈下 

我奔波，我淋著雨水和汗水，喘著氣 

——我把生活擺在塑料產(chǎn)品，螺絲，釘子 

在一張小小的工卡上……我的生活全部 

啊，我把自己交給它，一個(gè)小小的村莊 

風(fēng)吹走我的一切 

我剩下的蒼老，回家 

有人衣錦榮歸，有人只余下蒼老回家。有人生活鮮花著錦烈火烹油，有人兩手空空一無(wú)所有。

接著講故事。我的這位同學(xué)和我的爭(zhēng)論沒(méi)有結(jié)果。我們觀察社會(huì)的角度不同，結(jié)論自然不一樣。富豪同學(xué)告訴我，當(dāng)年的初中同學(xué)建了一個(gè)微信群。群里的同學(xué)們時(shí)常聊起我。他把我拉進(jìn)了群。三十年前的同學(xué)，大多數(shù)我已記不起名字，沒(méi)有一絲印象。同學(xué)們熱情歡迎了我這個(gè)所謂的大作家。我驚奇地發(fā)現(xiàn)，當(dāng)年湖北石首調(diào)關(guān)鎮(zhèn)一所普通鄉(xiāng)村中學(xué)，一個(gè)班五十個(gè)同學(xué)，現(xiàn)在群里聚集了近四十七人。這四十七人中，身家過(guò)億的富豪居然有十多位。我發(fā)現(xiàn)一件很有意思的事，當(dāng)年這批同學(xué)，初中畢業(yè)就出門(mén)打工的，大多成了富豪，而當(dāng)年學(xué)習(xí)成績(jī)好，上高中大學(xué)的，現(xiàn)在或者當(dāng)普通教師，或者在政府某個(gè)部門(mén)混個(gè)小處長(zhǎng)。我突然理解了富豪同學(xué)所說(shuō)的，我們這代人是幸運(yùn)的。1987年，我們初中畢業(yè)，那些早早離開(kāi)農(nóng)村到廣東打工的，在經(jīng)歷磨難之后，抓住改革開(kāi)放之初的機(jī)遇，實(shí)現(xiàn)了他們的財(cái)富夢(mèng)。

似乎可以換個(gè)角度來(lái)看中國(guó)的這三十年。

說(shuō)完富豪同學(xué)，我再說(shuō)另外一個(gè)人的故事。這個(gè)人是我的叔叔。我曾經(jīng)在散文《四十年來(lái)丹青夢(mèng)》中寫(xiě)過(guò)他。我把這篇文章中叔叔的一段讀讀：

當(dāng)作家，是許多年以后的事，我少時(shí)的夢(mèng)想，本是想當(dāng)畫(huà)家的。

這夢(mèng)想，大抵源于我幺叔的影響。我幺叔是鄉(xiāng)間少有的才子，寫(xiě)一筆漂亮的趙體字，會(huì)許多種樂(lè)器：月琴、口琴、琵琶、二胡、手風(fēng)琴、腳風(fēng)琴、笛子、吉他……幺叔講過(guò)，他童年時(shí)，一次放學(xué)路上，聽(tīng)見(jiàn)有人吹口琴，那是他第一次聽(tīng)人吹口琴，聽(tīng)得入了迷，跟著那人走了很遠(yuǎn)，天黑了，他迷了路。后來(lái)，我以此為原型，寫(xiě)成了短篇小說(shuō)《口琴，獐子和語(yǔ)文書(shū)》，那小說(shuō)，是幺叔的故事與我的故事的結(jié)合體。

幺叔還會(huì)寫(xiě)鵲體字，用一塊橡皮，沾了廣告色，幾筆就畫(huà)出一只喜鵲、蝴蝶，再添幾枝梅花、竹枝、蘭草，組合成字。過(guò)春節(jié)時(shí)，別人門(mén)前貼墨筆字春聯(lián)，幺叔家門(mén)前貼神奇的鵲體字。我在南方的工業(yè)區(qū)和一些旅游景點(diǎn)見(jiàn)過(guò)寫(xiě)鵲體字的，給人寫(xiě)一條姓名收費(fèi)三十元，全是一些彎彎繞，一只鵲也沒(méi)有，比起我幺叔，相差遠(yuǎn)矣。

幺叔還會(huì)作畫(huà)，常畫(huà)迎客松和桂林山水。天知道，他怎么會(huì)那么多！

我父親說(shuō)，這些都是他瞟學(xué)的。

所謂瞟學(xué)，瞟一眼就會(huì)了。我父親說(shuō)這話時(shí)，很是驕傲。父親從未因我而驕傲，卻常為我幺叔驕傲。

我的整個(gè)童年和少年時(shí)期，幺叔是絕對(duì)的偶像，我無(wú)限崇拜他，喜歡聽(tīng)他坐在月光下用二胡拉《天涯歌女》，“小妹妹唱歌郎奏琴，郎呀咱們倆是一條心……”

幺叔本有極好的前程，他學(xué)習(xí)成績(jī)好極了，從來(lái)都是老師們的寵兒，但“文革”開(kāi)始了，幺叔扎根新農(nóng)村，一扎，就是一輩子。

我曾偷偷翻看過(guò)幺叔的畢業(yè)留言冊(cè)，上面寫(xiě)滿了同學(xué)們真摯豪邁的祝福，“翠竹根連根，學(xué)友心連心，我們齊努力，扎根新農(nóng)村。”幺叔回家后進(jìn)了大隊(duì)小學(xué)當(dāng)民辦教師，教了一輩子書(shū)，大隊(duì)變村，后來(lái)，村里的孩子越來(lái)越少，村小撤了，幺叔下崗，拿了國(guó)家三千元補(bǔ)貼。幺叔老了，不再吹拉彈唱，不再畫(huà)畫(huà)，只在春節(jié)寫(xiě)春聯(lián)時(shí)，才拿一下毛筆，也不再寫(xiě)鵲體字。再后來(lái)，年近六十的幺叔出門(mén)打工，在佛山、東莞漂泊。年紀(jì)大了，不好找工，在陶瓷廠當(dāng)搬運(yùn)，那是我當(dāng)年干了幾天就逃之夭夭的苦力活。

讀到這里，我們不妨假設(shè)，如果我叔叔和我一樣，遇上了農(nóng)民可以自由流動(dòng)的時(shí)代，他會(huì)成為怎樣人？比我優(yōu)秀得多的作家？音樂(lè)家？大企業(yè)家？他的人生有無(wú)數(shù)種可能，但是他們這代人只有一種可能。

我甚至想到了我的父親。我父親只上過(guò)半年學(xué)，可他不是文盲，他能讀書(shū)看報(bào)，會(huì)打算盤(pán)，年輕時(shí)當(dāng)過(guò)大隊(duì)的財(cái)經(jīng)大隊(duì)長(zhǎng)。我父親在本村農(nóng)民中有很高的威望。有些人家里遇上糾紛，會(huì)請(qǐng)他去主持公道。他有很強(qiáng)的統(tǒng)籌管理能力，鄉(xiāng)親們家有人辦喜事，往往會(huì)請(qǐng)他當(dāng)“都管”。我記得在上世紀(jì)八十年代中期，農(nóng)民沒(méi)有自由買(mǎi)賣(mài)糧食的權(quán)力，生產(chǎn)出來(lái)的糧食只能以規(guī)定的低價(jià)賣(mài)給國(guó)家。稱之為交余糧。余糧上交，拿不到現(xiàn)金，只有一張白條。農(nóng)民沒(méi)辦法生存，于是我父親帶領(lǐng)村民抗糧不交，被鄉(xiāng)政府派人捆走，我記得那一夜晚，村里的父老鄉(xiāng)親聚集在鄉(xiāng)政府請(qǐng)?jiān)福厣瞎蛄撕趬簤阂黄谒麄兊膲毫ο拢l(xiāng)政府放了我父親。我說(shuō)這些，是說(shuō)，我的父親是個(gè)有組織能力的人，是個(gè)意見(jiàn)領(lǐng)袖。我寫(xiě)小說(shuō)《尋根團(tuán)》時(shí)，里面寫(xiě)至鄉(xiāng)間的意見(jiàn)領(lǐng)袖王中秋時(shí)，就想到了我父親。但是，他一輩子的命運(yùn)只能在鄉(xiāng)間老去。

說(shuō)了這些人，回到這次論壇的主題：地域，流動(dòng)和文學(xué)。

我想說(shuō)，一個(gè)時(shí)代的文學(xué)，要關(guān)注這個(gè)時(shí)代最主要的問(wèn)題。那么，對(duì)于中國(guó)來(lái)說(shuō)，這幾十年來(lái)最主要的問(wèn)題是什么？或者說(shuō)，中國(guó)最大的改變是什么？是人口不再受出生地域的限制，可以自由流動(dòng)。當(dāng)然，改革開(kāi)放之初，大量人口自由流動(dòng)，幾千萬(wàn)人涌入廣東，廣東無(wú)法承接這么多的勞動(dòng)力，許多人找不到工作，招一個(gè)工人，往往有上百人搶。勞資關(guān)系中，資方處于絕對(duì)強(qiáng)勢(shì)地位，于是，工人的利益被最小化，而資方的利益被最大化，勞資關(guān)系十分緊張。那些在早期開(kāi)始開(kāi)工廠做經(jīng)營(yíng)的，他們的第一桶金，充滿了原罪。過(guò)多的勞動(dòng)力涌入，給廣東的治安帶來(lái)了尖銳的問(wèn)題，于是，收容遣送，成為反人性但又行之有效的手段。直到那個(gè)叫孫志剛的青年大學(xué)生被收容遣送致死后，收容遣送條例才廢止。收容，成為我們那一代打工者無(wú)法回避的命題，也是無(wú)法忘卻的噩夢(mèng)。而這背后，是復(fù)雜的中國(guó)問(wèn)題，中國(guó)經(jīng)驗(yàn)。這就是中國(guó)，我的富豪同學(xué)的命運(yùn)，我的叔叔和父親的命運(yùn)，無(wú)數(shù)打工者帶著蒼老回家的命運(yùn)。這是中國(guó)制造背后復(fù)雜而糾結(jié)的關(guān)系。這是我們這個(gè)時(shí)代最大的改變。

2008年，我的中篇小說(shuō)《國(guó)家訂單》在人民文學(xué)刊發(fā)，卷首語(yǔ)曾這樣寫(xiě)道：三十年來(lái)，無(wú)數(shù)的中國(guó)人在這樣的清晨離開(kāi)了他們的村莊，懷著對(duì)外面的廣大世界的夢(mèng)想開(kāi)始漂泊與勞作。他們是“中國(guó)奇跡”的創(chuàng)造者，他們使中國(guó)成為世界工廠，使“中國(guó)制造”遍布世界的各個(gè)角落。與此同時(shí)，他們也在創(chuàng)造著自身的生活和命運(yùn)，他們夢(mèng)想著奇跡，而前所未有的機(jī)會(huì)與自由在這個(gè)時(shí)代正向著人們敞開(kāi)。王十月和小說(shuō)里的那些打工者是一樣的人，和小說(shuō)里的“小老板”也是一樣的人。他知道他們?yōu)槭裁醋叱鰜?lái)，也知道他們是怎樣復(fù)雜地酸甜苦辣地走向今天。

流動(dòng)。

這是中國(guó)前所未有的景象，數(shù)億農(nóng)民離開(kāi)了土地，離開(kāi)了固守的地域，在大地上流動(dòng)。而這流動(dòng)帶來(lái)的一系列復(fù)雜的改變，這背后的酸甜苦辣，這背后的國(guó)家意志與個(gè)人夢(mèng)想，造就了中國(guó)神話。這這近四十年來(lái)，中國(guó)最主要的真實(shí)。如果中國(guó)作家無(wú)視這個(gè)巨大的真實(shí)，回避它，不去書(shū)寫(xiě)，這代作家是不稱職的。正如，如果唐詩(shī)沒(méi)有杜甫用他沉郁的詩(shī)歌將個(gè)人離亂與家國(guó)動(dòng)蕩記錄在案，那一代詩(shī)人是失職的一樣。所幸，有許多人在書(shū)寫(xiě)中國(guó)這一段經(jīng)驗(yàn)，這樣的書(shū)寫(xiě)被稱之為打工文學(xué)。打工文學(xué)這個(gè)叫法自然不科學(xué)，我們可以不去管它叫什么文學(xué)，我想介紹的是這樣一種文學(xué)的存在。在中國(guó)，它被認(rèn)為是低級(jí)的，是邊緣的，是登不了大雅之堂的。但我想，這樣的中國(guó)經(jīng)驗(yàn)，是我們這代作家必需面對(duì)和回答的：

我們這個(gè)時(shí)代，究竟發(fā)生了什么。

Mobility, the Main Chinese Reality in the Past Four Decades

Wang Shiyue

I want to share with you a story first.

Just about one day before I wrote this speech, one of my junior high school classmates, with whom I had been out of touch for nearly 30 years, contacted me on WeChat. During our conversation, he told me that back then, he was just as passionate about literature as I was, and “unconvinced” that our teacher always praised me for my articles and read them aloud to the whole class, because he thought the teacher did not appreciate his writing for its true value. He even secretly hid one of my composition notebooks. Afterward, just like me, after graduating from junior high school he left the hometown, an average village, on the south bank of the Jianghan Plain, in the middle reach of the Yangtze River. He made the same choice as me: leaving for Guangdong. He worked in Dongguan and did toilsome manual work. Even so, he thought Chinese people born in the 1970s were lucky enough, for the generation of our parents, born in rural areas, had no choice but to toil hard in the fields for their whole life, even when they actually might have the ability to do much more. For those who were born in the cities, there were just as few options. They might work in factories as ordinary workers until retirement, with no chance to get promoted. People of our generation have more choices, freedom and opportunities. Of course, he didn’t forget to mention that his business was successful.         

He made a point of saying that he was possibly even more successful than I could imagine.

I told him that I had no idea how big his business was. He explained that his company was a market leader in a specific field of a certain industry, with an annual turnover of RMB 700 million yuan. Two years ago, he moved his factory from Dongguan to Hubei Province. That factory occupies a surface of dozens of hectares, employs more than 10 thousand employees, and the company has launched an IPO. I told him he thought our generation was lucky because he succeeded after all the bitter years he endured and he naturally considered those who still had not succeeded in such wonderful times as stupid. From my perspective, such successful stories represent only a small part of the whole story of this era; behind each of them stand numerous average workers who work in sweatshops and contribute all of their energy and youth, but harvest little in return. My billionaire friend said it was an economic law that many people’s efforts have to fail in order to bring about the success of a few, and to trigger social and economic development.

I’m a layman in economy, and perhaps my friend is right. As a writer, my perspective is obviously different from his. He pays attention to the opportunities the times bring to our generation and create successful people like him; by contrast, what I’m concerned about is the unsuccessful majority who are carried away by the overwhelming tide of the times. I remember a poem written by Zheng Xiaoqiong, my colleague and a poet. Many years ago, when I was a free-lance writer in Shenzhen and she was working in a hardware factory in Dongguan, at a party I happened to read one of her poems, Huangmaling. At that time I was in tears, and crying so loudly that my friends were left speechless. Later on, I quoted a few verses of this poem in my essay Looking for My Kin to show my respect to her, and to all the hundreds of thousands of migrant workers.  

Now please allow me to read this poem to you:

I rest my body and soul in this small town

Among its lychee trees, its streets, on the small seat by the assembly line  

Its rain soaks my nostalgia through, over and over again  

Here I lay down my dreams, my love, my fond dreams and my youth

My lover, my voice, my scent and my life

Far away from home, in the dim street light

I run, drenched in rain and sweat, gasped

I build my life from plastic products, screwdrivers and nails

On this small work card, my whole life stands

Ah, I give everything to it, this small village

And the wind scatters it all away

Only my old age remains—time to go home  

Some people return to their hometowns with fame and wealth; others, only with their old age. Some people lead a life full of glory and abundance, while others gain nothing at all.

I will go on with my storytelling. My classmate and I didn’t come to a common understanding of things during our discussion, for we had different perspectives on society. My rich classmate told me our junior high school classmates had set up a WeChat group, and they often talked about me. He then invited me into the group. Having lost contact with these classmates for 30 years, I couldn’t recall most of their names or faces. They welcomed me warm-heartedly, as in their eyes I was a famous writer. Among the 50 students in our class, 47 of them were present in the group. Our school was just an ordinary school in Diaoguan Town of Shishou City, Hubei Province; but to my surprise, more than 10 of my fellow students possess assets of over RMB 100 million yuan. What I found interesting was that the rich classmates were those who had worked away from our hometown upon graduating from junior high school, and those who had academic abilities and went to high school or even college now were only ordinary teachers or held humble positions in governmental departments. I suddenly realized why my rich classmate believed we were lucky. In 1987, when we graduated from junior high school, those who went to Guangdong to make a living seized the opportunities brought by the reform and opening-up policy, and eventually made a fortune thanks to their efforts.

It seems that we can look upon China’s past 30 years from another angle.

After the story of my rich classmate, I want to talk about my uncle. I depicted him in my essay The Painting Dream of 40 Years, and I want to read an excerpt of it:

To be a writer is a goal I decided upon after I grew up; when I was young, I always dreamed of being a painter.

This dream is probably due to the influence of my uncle. He was a rare talent in such a rural place. He had beautiful handwriting with Zhao Mengfu’s characteristic, and he could play many instruments, including the yueqin, the harmonica, the pipa, the erhu, the accordion, the harmonium, the bamboo flute, and the guitar. My uncle told us that once, when he was a kid, as he was on his way back home from school, he heard someone playing the harmonica. That was the first time he had ever heard anyone playing the harmonica, and he totally lost himself in the melody. So he followed that person for a long way, until it got really dark and he lost his way. When I became a writer, I wrote a short story titled Harmonica, Musk Deer and Chinese Textbook, which was based on a combination of my uncle’s story and my own story.

My uncle could write a special style of calligraphy called “the magpie style.” With a rubber eraser dipped in paint, he could draw characters that were a combination of magpies, butterflies, plums, bamboo branches and orchids—all in just a few strokes. During the Spring Festival, while other people’s doors were framed by new year scrolls written in black ink, my uncle’s doorway was decorated by these mysterious “magpie calligraphies.” I saw other people writing such calligraphy in industrial parks in south China and in certain touristic locations. The painters usually charged RMB 30 yuan for writing a customer’s name. But these “artworks” were actually nothing more than a cluster of curvy strokes without any magpies at all, and were definitely no match for those that my uncle wrote.

My uncle could paint too. He loved to paint The Pine Greeting Guests and Guilin landscapes. How could he be so gifted!

According to my father, my uncle learned all these just by glimpsing.  

What he meant was that my uncle only needed to catch a few glimpses of others drawing or playing instruments to master these skills. My father was very proud when he told me all these. While he never felt proud about me, he often talked about my uncle proudly. 

My uncle was my absolute role model during my childhood and adolescence. I worshipped him so much, and enjoyed listening to him playing the Erhu and singing The Wandering Songstress in the moonlight: “The girl sings while the boy plays music, they are made for each other so wonderfully…”

My uncle could have a promising future, because he was so academically gifted and praised highly by his teachers. But the Great Cultural Revolution changed his fate. My uncle was sent to work in a rural area, and he stayed there until he was old.

I used to secretly leaf through my uncle’s school yearbook. The pages were covered with the sincere wishes and ambitious words by his classmates, such as: “The roots of bamboos grow close to each other; our hearts are linked, and we will strive together to serve the rural places”. My uncle became a primary school teacher in our production brigade, teaching for all his life. Many years later, the brigade was turned into a village. The school children grew fewer and fewer, until the school was closed at last. My uncle lost his job, and received state subsidies of RMB 3000 yuan. He was not young any more. He didn’t play any instruments, nor did he paint. He used a brush only for writing Spring Festival couplets, and he just wrote ordinary characters instead of the “magpie characters”. At the age of nearly 60 years old, he decided to make a living far from home, drifting to Foshan and Dongguan. He was too old to get a good job and had no choice but to become a porter in a ceramics factory, an exhausting job that I did, too, and quit only a few days after I started.

Now let’s suppose that my uncle had been lucky enough to have the same options as me in an era where people from rural areas had the freedom to seek chances wherever they wanted. What could he become? A much better writer than me? A musician? A successful entrepreneur? His life should have had numerous possibilities. But for his generation, there was only one possibility.  

I even think of my father, who only received education for half a year. He isn’t illiterate. He can read, he knows how to use an abacus, and when he was young, he did the financial management for the village. He was highly admired in his village, and people often asked for his help in settling disputes. Because he also possessed strong organizational abilities, the villagers often counted on him to organize wedding dinners. I recall that in the mid-1980s Chinese farmers were not allowed to trade grain, and were ordered to sell agricultural produce to the government at very low prices. This was the so-called “hand in the extra food” policy. Usually, the villagers handed in their “extra food” but received no cash in exchange, only a debit note issued by the government. The villagers struggled to make a living. My father led his villagers to oppose the policy, and was arrested by the local government. On that night, many of his fellow villagers kneeled in front of the government office, petitioning the authorities to release my father. Under the pressure, the government set my father free. What I want to say is that my father is a man with excellent organizational capacity, an opinion leader. When I was depicting the character Wang Zhongqiu, an opinion leader, in my novel Seeking for Roots, I thought of my father. My father spent his lifetime in the village; he had no other choice. 

Let’s return to the topic of this forum: “Region, Mobility and Literature”.

I’d like to say that a writer should pay close attention to the main social reality of his time. What has been the main social reality in China over the past few decades? Or what is the biggest change happening in China? The answer is that Chinese people are no longer constrained to remain where they were born, and are able to move around freely. During the first several years after the reform and opening-up policy was announced, thousands and thousands of people flooded into Guangdong Province to seek for jobs. But the province hadn’t enough “carrying capacity”, many migrants couldn’t find jobs, or hundreds of people had to compete fiercely for a single position. The employers had the absolute upper hand in the labor relations, where the interests of workers were disregarded, and those of the employers overvalued. The relationship between employers and workers was very tense. People who started their own business early earned their first pot of gold by taking advantage of the workers. Besides, the huge migrant population brought the province serious security issues. To respond to such problems, the government adopted the Housing and Sending back policy, which was inhumane but effective. The policy was not abandoned until Sun Zhigang, a college student, was tortured to death after his sending back. The policy was a nightmare that no migrant worker of our generation could ignore. Underlying this was the complex issue of China itself, and of the Chinese experience. This is China. This is the destiny of my rich classmate, of my uncle and my father, and of numerous migrant workers who returned home in their old age. What lies behind the “Made in China” phenomenon is a complicated tangle. This constitutes the biggest change of our times.

In 2008, my novella The Nation’s Order for Goods was published by People’s Literature. In the preface, I wrote: “For nearly 30 years, numerous Chinese have departed from their villages in such an early morning to the vast outside world, and began their journey of dreaming, drifting and striving. They created the Chinese Miracle, making China the “world factory” and making “Made in China” products ubiquitous all over the world. At the same time, they were building their own lives and writing their own fates. They were dreaming of miracles taking place, with unprecedented opportunities open to them. I was the same as the migrant workers and small business owners in my fictions. I know why they chose to leave their hometowns and all the vicissitudes of life they have tasted from the beginning until now.”

Mobility.

This is an unprecedented phenomenon in China: tens of millions of farmers leave their lands and seek opportunities all over the country. Dramatic changes happening everywhere, a huge number of people experiencing ups and downs, the will of the nation and the dreams of individuals—all of these elements, together, have created the “Chinese Miracle”. This is the main social reality of China. If a writer ignores such a reality and refuses to talk about it, he or she isn’t a qualified writer. Similarly, if the Tang-dynasty poet Du Fu had not written verses full of melancholy about people’s misery in the country’s turmoil, he would not be a great poet. I’m glad that there are so many writers recording what is happening in the country. Their works have been called “the migrant worker literature”, which actually isn’t a proper name. I don’t mind what it is called; I just want everyone to know it does exist. In China, such literature is considered rustic, marginal and not worth mentioning. But I think Chinese writers have the responsibility to think about what on earth is happening in this era.