Editor’s note: “My Brothers and Sisters in Picun” is a new book about a community of young working-class people with literary aspirations in Picun, an urban village in Beijing’s Chaoyang District. In simple and understated prose, it conveys their commitment to pursuing romantic literary dreams in the face of challenging circumstances.
The author, Yuan Ling, is a renowned writer and investigative journalist from the northwestern Shaanxi province, as well as a volunteer at the Picun Literature House. Over seven years, he spent several periods living in Picun, where he met more than a dozen residents at different stages of their journey from migrant worker to writer. Following is an excerpt from his book.
On Feb. 2, 2023, three days before the Lantern Festival, I put a long-held plan into action and rented a one-room apartment on Picun’s main street for 600 yuan ($82) a month.
The first time I visited Picun was in April 2017. I was looking for Feng. Earlier that year, having recently published a book, I accepted an interview from a reporter at a Shanghai media outlet who had mentioned that her then-intern, Feng, had graduated from a prestigious university in Beijing but had chosen to become a volunteer at the Picun Migrant Workers’ Home rather than land a conventional job. There, he had found his lifelong mission to serve the working class. He seemed very content.
This piqued my interest, and I decided to visit Picun. Through the reporter, I connected with Feng on instant messaging app WeChat, and inquired about Picun’s location and the address of the Migrant Workers’ Home. Three days later, I took a bus to the village.
At that time, Picun was already quite famous. Despite covering less than 3 square kilometers and having a population of only about 1,800 permanent residents, the village was home to more than 17,000 migrant workers. It also boasted a Museum of Working Culture and Art and the Picun Literary Group, a writing club formed by and for migrant workers — resources that made it a beacon for laborers from around the country.
Using the address Feng had given me, I found the museum’s iron gate, with a distinctive red star embedded at the top. This was clearly a unique building in Picun. Since it was afternoon, the museum had no visitors, so I had the place to myself. The exhibition hall was dimly lit, probably to conserve electricity.
While I wandered the exhibits, a short, friendly woman walked in and turned on the lights. She appeared to be an employee of the museum. It wasn’t until later that I learned that she was Fu Qiuyun, the heart and soul of the Picun Migrant Workers’ Home.
I was intrigued by the Picun Literature Group, and some time later, I went back to Picun to attend one of its community writing classes. That evening, after class, everyone went out for a late-night dinner at a Northeast Chinese restaurant called Golden Finger — probably the most upscale dining place in Picun — and more people joined us at the table.
Just like that, I had a place to be in Picun. Instead of leaving immediately after class with the nannies and workers rushing to catch the bus, I stayed with everyone at the restaurant until late into the night, listening to their lively beer- and literature-fueled conversation. My classmates’ highbrow discussions contrasted starkly with the harsh realities of their working lives, creating an atmosphere that felt both highly authentic and somewhat surreal. I was especially struck by the stories of my friend Hai, a poet, and Zhang Xing, a self-taught scholar of the foundational Taoist text “Zhuangzi,” whose respective day jobs were secondhand clothing store clerk and construction site security guard. Another active participant was Zhang Yu, who cleaned range hoods for a living.
After finishing our meal, everyone dispersed. I left with Mo Xiaoming, a fellow participant I’d met during the event, who had invited me to stay at his place. His room was mostly filled with books. We pushed aside the books and miscellaneous items scattered across his bed and slept there together, the faint smell of our stinky socks mingling in the air. That was my first night in Picun.
From then on, I gradually became familiar with the people at the Picun Migrant Workers’ Home and the Picun Literature Group. I visited some of those migrant workers who had left their WeChat contacts that day. I also visited Hai’s secondhand clothing store from time to time, and became a teacher for the Picun Literature Group. At the invitation of Fu, the woman working at the museum, I started participating as a jury member in the annual New Worker Literature Awards.
I’ll never forget those first two literary awards ceremonies, held in a dilapidated conference room with no heating or air conditioning. Under the table, my feet froze on the cold cement floor; I had to continually stamp them to fight the numbness. But above the table, the atmosphere was warm and lively. Crowded around the table, the attendees fogged up the room with their steaming breath; their faces shone through the mist with irrepressible excitement and joy. The barriers that separated us in our daily lives were flattened as award recipients, presenters, and attendees alike basked in the glow of their shared ideals. This moment encapsulates the essence of the Picun Literature Group.
For a while, I regularly visited Picun to chat with people in the community and wander around the neighborhood. Spending my lonely afternoons killing time there became a part of my routine when I was living as a lone drifter in Beijing. Friends from Picun also visited my rented place twice. Of course, through teaching, attending writing classes, and participating in plays, movies, and New Year’s Eve parties at the Migrant Workers’ Home, I got to know more members of the Picun community. I learned about their struggles and humble daily lives, as well as their dreams growing in the cracks of society — some related to writing and literature, others to different pursuits.
Initially, I hadn’t planned to write about this group as a whole, though I had tried to write stories about two or three of the members, such as Zhang, the amateur “Zhuangzi” scholar, and Shi Yuqin, a maternity nurse and avid diarist from the southwestern Sichuan province who documented her battle with breast cancer, which required a double mastectomy. What changed my mind was, over the past few years, Picun and the Migrant Workers’ Home have experienced many ups and downs. Also, as external funding for the Migrant Workers’ Museum became increasingly difficult to obtain, the community had to resort to an annual online fundraising campaign to collect the tens of thousands of yuan needed to pay its rent.
In 2017, a fire broke out in Daxing Jufuyuan Apartments, prompting Beijing to inspect buildings in suburban areas for regulatory violations. The small factories south of Picun Road were demolished, and many factories in the northern part of the village were forced to vacate. Many workers left the factories, significantly changing Picun’s demographic. The Picun Literature Group saw a decline in engagement, and the Migrant Workers’ Home had fewer volunteers and visitors.
At the end of 2019, the United Heart School, a school for the children of migrant workers founded by the Migrant Workers’ Home, was closed. Then came the pandemic, and the Picun Literature Group’s activities had to move online. Feeling that their opportunities were limited, some members — including several I knew well — ended up leaving Beijing. All the signs seemed to indicate that the Migrant Workers’ Home and the Picun Literature Group’s days were numbered. It was important to document the group before it disappeared. Although numerous articles and short films about the group have been published over the years, most of the members’ individual life stories and dreams remained in the shadows.
The apartment I rented in Picun was on the second floor. It was a single room, only 7 or 8 square meters, with no bathroom or kitchen. There was no heating or air conditioning either — only a rusty electric fan for the summer. It was slightly more expensive than similarly equipped apartments because it had a shared bathroom in the hallway and was close to the main street, with good natural light; it also had a small balcony. These were the main reasons I rented it.
On my first night there, bundled up against the freezing cold, I stood on the balcony looking down at the colorful lights and bustling crowds on Picun’s main street and felt closer to life in the village. I went downstairs and got my dinner from the 10-yuan fast-food restaurant and the beef soup shop along the main street, bought a multiplug unit at a hardware store, and picked up some daily necessities at a dollar store. The prices were all much cheaper than in the city. Occasionally, I walked a little farther to the Picun bathhouse, which charged 18 yuan per visit. In the morning, I could buy a breakfast of stuffed Chinese pancake from the roadside stall by the lamppost, and at night, the hotpot restaurant down the street was packed with young diners until well past midnight.
Sometimes I helped out in the warehouse at the Migrant Workers’ Home or went to Hai’s secondhand store to idle away the time, watching customers of all kinds come and go. I also liked going for walks along the nearby Wenyu River after dinner. In the summer, I occasionally went on boat outings with other community members. Those were unforgettable days.
In the summer of 2023, I learned that the Picun Migrant Workers’ Museum was to be demolished. In the days before the museum closed, the long-quiet exhibition hall and courtyard came to life again as friends came from all over to take photos and reminisce. On the day of the demolition, I was the first person on the scene besides the demolition workers. In the afternoon, the family compound across the street from the museum — which housed a classroom where the Picun Literature Group had held classes for eight years — was also demolished.
Despite the challenges facing the Migrant Workers’ Home, the Picun Literature Group has remained a source of hope. In 2022, the group published a compilation of its members’ works entitled “A Constellation of Laborers,” along with the novel “Reunion After a Long Separation” by Fan Yusu, which was well received.
This year marks the 10th anniversary of the Picun Literature Group’s founding; the Migrant Workers’ Home and its predecessor have been around for over 20 years. Many workers have left, and new ones have arrived. For them, Picun is a temporary haven, a beacon in their rootless lives. The futures of the Picun Literature Group and Migrant Workers’ Home are uncertain. However, to the migrant workers who have lived in Picun, however fleetingly, the community has brought long-lasting warmth. Likewise, my fellow Picun villagers, my brothers and sisters living on the fringes with their gaze fixed firmly on the stars, have also left a lasting mark on my life.
This article is an excerpt from the book “My Brothers and Sisters in Picun,” published by CITIC Publishing Group·CITIC sight. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is published here with permission.
Translator: Carrie Davies; editors: Xue Ni and Hao Qibao.
(Header image: Residents in Picun, Beijing, 2017. IC)
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