Twelve Years Home: The Spirit of the Land

I. I.

Around ten years ago, two successive waves of university-educated young people returned to their home villages, seen by the public as those “swimming against the tide”.

The first wave, driven by a critical spirit and a reflection on hyper-urbanisation and the expansion of capital, returned to the countryside hoping to reshape their lives and even their values. They viewed agriculture as a way of life distinct from urban existence, emphasising the ecological nature of farming and the cultural essence of the village. They maintained a wary distance from the trend of wholesale commercialisation of the countryside, and avoided catering to or echoing government directives in their pursuit of independence; at times, they were even “uncompromising”.

The second wave of young people, meanwhile, focused on the commercialisation of agriculture, specialising in marketing and creative industries. Ten years later, many have become local agricultural ‘promoters’, lauded by e-commerce platforms and local governments alike.

Ten years on, most of those from the first wave are bruised and battered; some have vanished without a trace.

A writer who has long followed the theme of returning to the countryside asked me whether conditions had improved, as she felt that more and more young people were making the move.

I honestly didn’t know how to answer. Thinking back to my twenty-five-year-old self returning home, I felt a shudder of retrospective dread, as if I had almost faced total ruin.

Of course, this is a retrospective from ten years on. Over those ten years, there was almost no overlap between these two waves of young people. The first wave, supported by non-profit organisations and community self-organisation, explored the ‘fringes’ of society; the second wave strode confidently down the path of mainstream commercialisation. Even if they had crossed paths physically, they likely would have found each other incomprehensible, and perhaps even looked down on one another.

I first ‘discovered’ this in Hainan. At the end of 2019 (before the pandemic broke out), the Wotu Sustainable Agriculture Development Centre organised a study tour. One of the stops was a pomelo farm; the owner was around my age, yet already possessed thousands of mu of land and was investing heavily in hotel and cultural tourism projects.

She also mentioned two other partners: one with thousands of mu of apple orchards and a hotel, and another with thousands of mu of cornfields and a factory.

This was my first experience of these two waves of returning youth ‘colliding’.

II.

There was, of course, a sense of shock. We began to worry that if we could not communicate our reflections on the countryside and agriculture and find broader support, the ‘first model of returning’ that we believed in would become unsustainable.

By then, we had spent several years learning composting under Hideo Ikeda of the Fertile Land Sustainable Agriculture Centre. Even in his eighties, Mr Ikeda had come to China after retiring to voluntarily promote ecological agriculture. Just before his departure from the country, he introduced the ‘spirit of the Tokunōka’. In Japan, ‘Tokunōka’ is an honorific term for agricultural practitioners who are deeply committed to their craft and passionate about agricultural research.

It was proposed that we establish a joint brand centred on the ‘Tokunōka spirit’—a way for us to unite, conduct joint research and experiments, and together engage with the wider world.

‘Breaking out’—expanding our reach beyond our niche—became the central theme of our exploration between 2020 and 2021. We were researching mainstream agricultural wholesale markets at four in the morning; visiting a massive 2,000-mu orchard in Weihai; and meeting a veteran strawberry farmer in Laiyang, Shandong, who exported his berries to Tokyo while providing technical consultancy and selling agricultural supplies in Shaanxi and Gansu.

Having taken a tour, I remained deeply conflicted. Opening my notes from back then, I found them riddled with such doubts.

At a fruit tree pruning workshop organised by Lijun, I even tried to dissuade a friend who had adopted the “first model” of returning to the countryside.

She was a devotee of Anastasia—a “Xia-friend”. Aged 35, married with children, she had resigned from a research institute with plans to return home to take up farming. She asked Lijun for wild apple seeds, reasoning that “wild apples don’t need pruning; they can grow as they were meant to. Why does farming have to be so exhausting?”

“Wild apples aren’t particularly tasty, are they?” I asked, wanting to remind her that apples without commercial appeal would likely be difficult to sell.

“But they’re nutritious! Does ‘tasty’ necessarily mean better?”

I didn’t push the point further. I resisted the urge to adopt the tone of someone who had ‘been there and done that’ and warn her not to be so naive.

I wrote in my notes:

Cherish every person you meet who seems excessively passionate. Stop discussing strategies, pathways, pragmatism and experience; embrace this rare, worldly courage to carve through the mundane self!

III.

Most of those who returned later chose the second path.

IV.

If returning home is simply a matter of transplanting the city and its logic, then why return at all?

In October, after the autumn silkworms had spun their cocoons, I went to Shanghai to discuss the experience of returning home with a group of young people working in ‘social innovation’. Faced with mounting doubts, I felt a pressing need to find answers.

The organisers divided those returning to the countryside into five categories based on their ‘rurality rate’: Urban Ruralism, Urban-Rural Proximity, Digital Nomads, Rural Migrants, and Rural Rooted.

For instance, the organisers described the ‘Urban Ruralist’—the type with the lowest ‘rurality rate’—in the following way:

‘Daizi is a sustainable living enthusiast active on Bilibili. She used to be indifferent to issues of agriculture and food, but now she believes that regenerative agriculture is a powerful tool for reversing the climate crisis, and that purchasing responsibly produced agricultural products can bring peace and health to the mind, body, and soul. Now living in Shanghai, Daizi orders organic vegetables from a farm in Pudong. In addition to eating locally and seasonally, she opts for a “blind box” subscription: “whatever the land yields, that is what I eat”.’

As for myself, I fall into the final category: the ‘Rural Rooted’ type, with the highest ‘rurality rate’.

In the past, I likely would have been reluctant to take part in such events. I would have been “wary” – how could city dwellers with little experience of rural life truly understand the countryside?

Yet, to my surprise, although I probably had the highest “rurality quotient” among the five different types of rural dwellers, I still found inspiration in those with the lowest. I learned how to prepare ginkgo nuts from Daizi, and upon returning to my village, I gathered a bag from the roadside and roasted a tray of them in the oven.

When it comes to returning to the countryside, no one is a born mentor or expert. Nor should the rural world belong solely to the farmers.

Of course, through this exchange, I also realised that rural issues still attract little attention in a metropolis like Shanghai, despite having been the central theme of China’s ‘Number One Document’ for many years. Many are entirely unaware of debates such as ‘moving farmers into apartments’. Greater communication between the city and the countryside is essential.

V. V.

In November, I spent a solid fortnight harvesting Hangzhou white chrysanthemums. Because of the constant bending, in previous years I would have given in after just half a day. This year, however, I managed to keep going from dawn until dusk.

I thought of how my father had tended to every single seedling with such meticulous care—the cuttings, the fertilising, the weeding, the layering, the pinching of the tips, and the erecting of fences. I could not let his efforts go to waste; a quiet resolve settled over me.

A few friends from Qingpu, Shanghai, came to visit and took me to a rural project site where one of them had previously worked. The village had been entirely demolished, and at the entrance stood a vast tourist reception centre converted from an old factory. I looked at it with envy, unable to stop thinking how wonderful it would be for our silk cocoon workshop! There were also several newly built, white Mediterranean-style holiday villas with swimming pools. We didn’t get to see the camping base as it had already grown dark.

My friend was very critical of her former company, feeling that these rural development projects often spend hundreds of millions of yuan yet have absolutely no connection to the original village culture; they are simply commercialised tourist attractions designed to serve city dwellers. The villagers have all been moved out and relocated to centralised resettlement estates.

I had mixed emotions.

I had heard of this rural development company before; they were quite controversial, and I couldn’t bring myself to like them either. I just hadn’t expected a former employee to be the first to lodge a complaint, venting her frustrations while picking chrysanthemums.

On the other hand, in practical terms, the project provided local employment opportunities for the village’s young people. Although few, it meant that some of them didn’t have to leave their hometowns to make a living in the city.

Most of the local villagers were eagerly awaiting ‘demolition’. Agriculture itself doesn’t earn much, and the younger generation abandoned it long ago. Rather than clinging to the empty shell of a village in name only, it was better to finally tear down the last veil. They could receive a compensation payout and build new houses in the estates, and occasionally pick up some casual work in the new ‘tourist village’.

I fear that the dissatisfaction and concern my friend and I felt were merely the naive perspectives of scholars.

VI.

Perhaps the old farmer is not as fragile as the scholar imagines—that the demolition of the village would leave them utterly broken. The world does not permit them such fragility. Were it so, how many more times would this land be submerged in tears? He simply raises his hoe, stands, and trudges onwards, a faint silhouette. But when the land, the houses, and the village are all precarious, where is the farmer to find a place for himself?

In 2022, an anthropological study titled *Fake Illness* was published. In it, the author describes the ancient beliefs and local knowledge of a village on the Hangjiahu Plain, reflecting a reality identical to that of my own village, Zhenghebang.

“Every time I return home, I am distressed by some newly built factory; as my hometown is surrounded and encroached upon by these towering grey structures, the sense of estrangement only grows,” writes Shen Yan, a fellow villager who left over a decade ago and is now conducting postdoctoral research at a university.

Yet, through extensive observation and research, she discovered that despite the overarching uncertainty, the villagers are still able to maintain a sense of inner peace through the practice of local beliefs. It is simply that our generation has drifted further and further from the village’s “invisible world”, and we no longer know how to express or embody it.

VII.

In a sense, I am a ‘rural fundamentalist’. The countryside occupies the softest corner of my heart; it is a sanctuary, one that cannot tolerate the slightest impurity.

Unlike most, my return to the village was not an entrepreneurial venture, nor was it a cure for food safety concerns, a retired pastoral escape, or a way to ride the wave of rural revitalisation policies.

I view the countryside as my own identity—a way to answer the question, ‘Who am I?’

Thus, although ‘Plum and Fish’ did not launch until 2013, my actions began as early as 2011. There was no precise calculation as to what I would actually do—whether it would be commercial or non-commercial, agricultural or artisanal; what mattered was putting into practice the fundamental motive of ‘viewing the countryside as identity’.

It began with academic research and sociological rural fieldwork within the framework of Little Donkey Farm and ActionAid; then followed a brief stint farming at Old Shen’s Fool’s Farm in Zhejiang; and subsequently, from 2012 to 2016, a series of life experiments and practices between Shanghai and the countryside, living a ‘half-farmer, half-X’ existence. This has continued to the present day and is what most people know me for: the craft of silk quilts and the promotion of traditional farming and sericulture culture.

In short, I draw a sharp line between the countryside and the outside world.

It was very much like the beginning: leaving the advertising industry to enter rural reconstruction. The education I received from the rural reconstruction team was one of opposition to consumerism and over-urbanisation. It was hard to imagine how advertising could be combined with rural reconstruction, as they were fundamentally different at their core. Let alone ‘integration’—within the team at the time, it was a subject we never broached, as advertising was viewed as a kind of original sin.

Later, while living a ‘half-farmer, half-X’ life between the city and the countryside, it was the same with brand consultancy. I actually resisted, and could not imagine, providing brand consultancy for projects in the rural sector. I found it difficult to detach myself from my identity rooted in the countryside to approach things in an ‘objective’, ‘dispassionate’, or ‘professional’ manner, even for a moment.

Business to business, and the rural to the rural. I didn’t want the essence of the countryside to become impure.

VIII.

But the world is not mine to control.

Just as I wanted to shut the doors of the countryside, ‘strangers’ continued to force their way in.

I recently attended the 14th Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) Conference, held online. Because I’d tested positive for Covid, I missed most of the sessions, but I still noticed more new faces, such as representatives from listed companies, foundations, and investment firms.

Back in 2011, while we were still at Little Donkey Farm, we co-organised the 3rd CSA Conference. I remember it took place at Renmin University, with the majority of participants being students, lecturers, and non-profit organisations. In 2013, after returning to the countryside, I was invited to the 5th conference, hosted by Tongji University. I also visited the farmhouses and greenhouses renovated by ‘Design Harvest’ on Chongming Island; it left a deep impression on me, making me realise that agriculture could be approached in such a way.

Later, I attended CSA conferences in Chengdu, Guangdong and other regions. My overall impression was that their scale and influence were steadily expanding, and the organisers and sponsors had shifted from non-profit organisations and universities to local governments and corporations. As the forums grew larger and the crowds increased, I felt increasingly isolated and marginalised; deep, meaningful discussions became harder to come by.

The theme of this year’s CSA conference was “New Era, New Farmers — Social-Ecological Agriculture Boosting Chinese-style Modernisation”.

One session focused on bio-pesticides. The companies spoke of their struggles, noting that the market is flooded with cheap, fake bio-pesticides—a case of “bad money driving out the good”—which sounded quite challenging. However, when we previously discussed ecological agriculture at the Fertile Land Sustainable Agriculture Centre, we opposed exactly this kind of “simple substitution” mindset: replacing chemical fertilisers with organic ones, or chemical pesticides with bio-pesticides. This is still mechanical reductionism, not true ecological thinking.

Yet, the reality since social-ecological agriculture went mainstream is that reductionism is now prevalent. It seems this is the only way for corporations, capital, and technology to enter the fray and for a viable business model to emerge. I cannot help but reflect: were our previous standards for ecological agriculture too fastidious, to the point of making progress impossible?

An investment firm involved in CSA wrote: “Investment is merely a tool; it is the path to the destination, not the destination itself. The value of a company’s existence is not solely the pursuit of profit maximisation within the bounds of the law (Author’s note: where this is the case, we respect and understand it, but will not discuss it in this article). We believe that just as humans earn a living through work to achieve a better life, rather than being born as labouring machines, the profits earned by a company or investment institution are intended to ensure its sustainable operation and to realise value for society or nature through its business.”

Yueli suggested that we should also invite these large corporations and investors onto our “Tuanli Structure” podcast; while they may not necessarily agree, initiating a dialogue is essential.

IX.

I hadn’t realised that the ‘greedy’ ones were actually us: wanting to preserve the purity of the ‘first type of returning home’, while simultaneously trying to harness commercial forces to make that purity sustainable and allow it to break into the mainstream.

X. X.

Once, in the village’s trendy cafe, Sandy, a researcher who had returned to the countryside, remarked, “I feel there is something different about you; you believe in working with your own hands, treating the body as a method.”

Another friend, Cher, wrote in an interview outline for me: “Although many people these days move to the countryside to escape the crushing pressures of city life, your experience is worlds apart from the petit-bourgeois, idyllic ‘Peach Blossom Spring’ narratives I see on Bilibili. You have truly returned to the soil to farm, cultivating land and rearing silkworms—becoming a peasant once more, reliant on the grace of the heavens for your livelihood.”

Sandy and Cher actually had little experience of rural life; they are typical city dwellers. In an era where ‘returning to the land’ has become something of a fashionable intellectual trend, I was heartened that they noticed the distinct nature of our own return.

The most profound and the most simple are often one and the same.

Yueli, from the Wotu Farming School, moved from the countryside back to the city in 2022, where she now tends a rooftop farm amidst the soaring skyscrapers of Shenzhen. Every week, crowds of city dwellers climb to the roof to hoe the soil, sow seeds, and harvest crops; in some ways, the city is the place that needs nature’s nourishment most. Is this not, in its own way, another kind of ‘returning home’?

I am reminded of something said to me by Lee, a young Thai man who returned to his roots to grow coffee beans: “In the end, all we truly long for is simply to go home.”

XI.

Attending a Future Village gathering organised by the Futurologists Club, I suddenly blurted out: “The village of the future needs to offer the world a logic of rural life that is currently obscured”.

What exactly is this “rural logic”, and why does it remain hidden?

From poverty alleviation to consumerism, mainstream rural initiatives have consistently adopted an economic lens. Moreover, the city often looks down upon the country; the objective is to close the (economic) gap between urban and rural areas. This is, of course, crucial—particularly for villages in central and western China—allowing returnees to settle back in their own villages, towns, or counties with stable employment, regardless of which of the three economic sectors they work in.

However, through the lens of cultural identity, we can perceive possibilities that extend beyond and move past this mere narrowing of the gap.

Rural logic could be the effective response of traditional small-scale farming to environmental challenges such as biodiversity, climate change, and regenerative agriculture; it could be the profound support that local knowledge systems provide for cultural pride and national identity; or it could be the way local beliefs offer spiritual stability to people in a society undergoing transformation.

In short: bringing rural culture to the city.

XII.

Twelve years since returning home, and I still have no answers. There is constant confusion, and a constant need to explore.

My greatest gain this year came during the spring silkworm season, when I suddenly realised: the act of raising silkworms is the purpose itself.

To be able to labour genuinely upon the land is to reconnect, in a physical sense, with one’s perception of reality, nature, and the world. It is a necessity, a faith, and a piece of good fortune.

Thus, far from a fate of marginalisation, if we view the first wave of youth returning to the countryside as pioneer species, then we—having first taken root and improved the ecosystem’s capacity to sustain us—have finally begun a growth that is truly our own.

Unless otherwise noted, all images are provided by the author

Editor: Tianle