Wuchang After the Floods: Affected Farmers Fade from View on Livestream Sales Cameras

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A Note from Foodthink

In early August this year, Wuchang in Heilongjiang province was struck by rare torrential rain and severe flooding, submerging around 40 per cent of its 2.5 million mu of farmland.

Two months on from the floods, live-streaming hosts were already pushing Wuchang rice on e-commerce platforms. Against a backdrop of seemingly bountiful fields, they assured viewers that the damage was minimal and urged them to buy Daohuaxiang rice with confidence.

What exactly did Wuchang endure this summer? And what might these conflicting narratives reveal—or obscure? Through the story of an ordinary farming household, the author Yvonne seeks to understand how extreme weather events are reshaping the lives of those who work the land.

As explored in previous Foodthink features, farmers are the “unsung heroes” in the fight against climate change. As COP28 convenes, we hope this piece will serve as a call to look beyond the fleeting wave of post-disaster sympathy and commit to providing farmers with sustained attention and support.

At the end of July, Typhoon Doksuri made landfall along the coast of Jinjiang in Fujian province. While working in Nanjing, I was casually tracking the storm’s progress on live streams. I never expected its relentless northward push to carry it all the way to Heilongjiang—my home province. Wuchang city, renowned for its rice production, was hit by a catastrophe not seen in decades. I had always assumed that tropical cyclones such as typhoons and hurricanes were confined to coastal zones, and that the extreme rainfall they bring rarely penetrated deep into the interior of northeast China.

So, what was the reality on the ground in Wuchang? Did the news reports reflect the true scale of the devastation? Relying on a close friend’s connection, I managed to piece together a few fragmented accounts from the affected regions.

I. The Flood Arrives

“I’ve never seen water like this in my entire life…”

These were the words of Grandpa San, a resident of Yingchengzi Village in Wuchang City. To him, even the great flood of 1998 paled in comparison. Now in his seventies, the old man still tends the fields, missing not a single seasonal task. Over the phone, he described the flood’s terrifying devastation.

On the morning of 6 August, Grandpa San hurried to the edge of his fields only to find the ground completely unrecognisable; before him lay a vast, unbroken sheet of water. An endless expanse of yellow mud had swallowed the rice paddies, stretching to the horizon. Only a few scattered rice ears poked a couple of centimetres above the silt, swaying with the current. He stood alongside numerous other villagers on the raised field banks, surveying the scene in silence. The men smoked heavily, utterly dumbstruck.

Between Grandpa San, his wife, and his daughter’s family, they farm a total of 100 mu (roughly 16.5 hectares) of land—70 mu under contract and 30 mu allocated to the household. The larger 70-mu plot sits on higher ground, about two kilometres from the Lalín River, so it was largely spared. But the remaining 30 mu, located in the low-lying river meadows, suffered a total crop failure this year.

● The scene at Grandpa San’s rice paddies along the Lalín River on the morning of 6 August; the entire field lay completely submerged beneath the floodwaters.
Under normal market conditions, 30 mu of Daohuaxiang No. 2 rice would generate roughly 90,000 yuan in sales. Once you deduct 60,000 to 70,000 yuan for seedlings, agricultural supplies, hired labour, and machinery, the family could expect to pocket a profit of 20,000 to 30,000 yuan. This year, all that capital was fully committed, only to yield absolutely nothing. A full year of work essentially boiled down to a net loss of 60,000 to 70,000 yuan.

Third Grandpa’s daughter, Aunt Xiuer, vented her frustrations to me: “Farmers toil away for a whole year, only to make no money and even lose out. While the remaining 70 mu of land will still cover the family’s basic food and living costs, this year’s backbreaking effort has been completely wasted.”

2. Before and After the Flood Release

Before the rice paddies were submerged, Wuchang had endured days of unrelenting rain. On the morning of 2 August, Wuchang’s meteorological station issued an orange warning for heavy rain; by the afternoon of the 3rd, it was escalated to red. Over those few days, villagers hunkered down at home, waiting for the skies to clear.

Despite the warnings, Third Grandpa was initially unconcerned that the heavy rain would jeopardise the crops along the riverbank. When he went to check the fields on the morning of the 4th, he saw that although the water level had risen, it had not yet submerged the rice panicles. Years of farming experience told him that as long as the rice shoots could still poke through the surface, they would recover once the water receded.

The critical turning point came on the 5th. That day, Third Grandpa and his wife received notice from the village committee: after days of heavy rain, the Mopanshan and Longfengshan reservoirs upstream had reached capacity and would need to open their sluice gates for flood discharge. For everyone’s safety, villagers along both banks of the Laolin River were required to evacuate. Third Grandpa said there was simply no time to think it over. He quickly packed a few clothes and some dry rations, then he and Third Grandma got into a vehicle provided by the village officials and headed to a temporary relocation centre in a nearby town.

That night, the reservoirs discharged their waters. The flood surged over the river embankments, transforming tens of thousands of mu of rice paddies into a vast inland sea. Early on the 6th, Third Grandpa grew frantic. He insisted on hitching a ride back to see the state of the fields, which is how he came to witness the scene described at the beginning.

●South of Yingchengzi Village, where Third Grandpa resides, lie the Lalin and Mangniu Rivers. Many fields sit right along the riverbanks, and further upstream to the south-east are the Mopanshan and Longfengshan Reservoirs, both of which were undergoing emergency flood discharge.
●The condition of downstream villages and farmland following the emergency discharge from Longfengshan Reservoir. Image credit: self-media blogger ‘Rural Big Brother Hanbing’.

Third Grandpa has told me time and again that had the flood arrived just a little earlier or later, the damage would not have been so severe. A month earlier, the rice would not yet have flowered or pollinated. A month later, it would already be in the late grain-filling stage or the waxy maturity phase. Even brief flooding would not have wiped out the entire crop. The absolute worst timing is when the fields are submerged just as the rice is flowering and beginning to fill grain.

●Rice in the flowering stage, just as grain filling begins. The grains are shrivelled and underdeveloped, with mud still clinging to the panicles after the floodwaters have receded.
Along with the 30 mu of rice paddies, the vegetable gardens at the front and back of his home were waterlogged. Fruits, vegetables, and the chicks in the coop were all wiped out. Fortunately, the floodwaters only just crested the threshold, leaving the household goods inside largely unscathed.

However, Third Granduncle said he’d heard the damage was far more severe in other areas. Relatives in a village merely a few kilometres from the reservoir suffered greatly; after the floodgates were opened, a corner of their house collapsed and water flooded their kang (heated brick bed), ruining all the electrical appliances. Local cattle farmers, who relied on their herds for a living, couldn’t evacuate in time before the surge, and dozens of dairy cows—essential to their survival—drowned.

When it came to the upstream reservoir releasing water, Third Granduncle reflected: “I don’t know the specifics. There’s no point looking for someone to blame or resent. It’s an act of nature; no one can hold it back.”

3. Post-Disaster Reconstruction

Though the disaster has passed, reconstruction remains a lengthy undertaking.

Of Third Granduncle’s 30 mu of river-loop farmland, some sections were buried under silt and have become sand mounds. Other parts lie exposed in the sludge—a field of muddy-grey rice paddies where every stalk and ear is caked in thick mud. With total crop failure now a certainty, he no longer sees the point in trying to restore the land to its former state; he can only wait until next year to till and replant.

They had taken out agricultural insurance on the paddies, which offers compensation of around 200–300 yuan per mu for a total loss. In practice, however, collecting the payout is a relatively drawn-out affair. Previous reports have noted that the journey from submitting a claim to receiving funds involves a prolonged procedure: farmers must contact the local claims office, wait for specialists to verify the damage, have payouts calculated according to their policy terms, and only then will the insurer release the money. This process, though, demands time and bureaucratic knowledge well beyond most farmers’ everyday experience. As a result, despite the safety net that agricultural insurance provides, not everyone has insured their crops or successfully navigated the claims process. By late September, when I spoke to him, nearly two months had passed since the floodwaters rose and receded, and Third Granduncle’s family had still received no compensation.

●The flood-soaked rice paddies have suffered widespread lodging, with mud and water still clinging to the stalks and rice heads.
Beyond insurance and government aid, rebuilding ultimately falls to the farmers themselves. Villagers rent their own water pumps to drain the flooded rice paddies and repair the houses and courtyards washed away by the floodwaters. As they say, a home must be rebuilt by one’s own hands; you cannot rely on waiting or asking for help. Post-disaster recovery is a long, arduous process. A month may be enough to repair a collapsed courtyard wall, and a year might suffice to rebuild a ruined house. But when livelihoods and daily life are more severely disrupted, reconstruction takes considerably longer—a reality we too easily overlook when reading disaster reports.

On the evening of 18 September, the Harbin Meteorological Observatory issued a yellow warning for thunderstorms and strong winds, with gusts of force 7 to 8 and locally reaching force 9 to 10, accompanied by short periods of heavy rain, hail, and lightning. The area around Third Grandpa’s village fell squarely within that localised zone. After a day and night of gales, large swathes of his rice fields were flattened. Although this had little impact on the overall yield, it made large-scale mechanised harvesting impossible. The crop would have to be reaped by hand, and this shift in method alone would double the costs. Yet again, farmers are left to bear the brunt of it all.

Third Grandpa’s daughter, Aunt Xiuer, told me: “To be a farmer is to learn how to coexist with natural disasters.” For millennia, it has seemed an iron law that both the people who till the land and the crops they grow must passively endure the effects of climate change. But as extreme weather events become more frequent, it is only to be expected that their impact on agriculture will intensify, not diminish. Farmers will continue to stand on the front lines as a vulnerable group, bearing the losses and risks of disasters largely without recourse. If we can draw lessons from each catastrophe, and if society and policymakers offer stronger support, then perhaps when the next crisis strikes, there will be fewer scars and more paths forward.

IV. The Aftermath: Has the Rice Crop Been Completely Wiped Out?

The flooding in Wuchang has raised the public’s most pressing question: how severe are the losses to the rice crop? In Yingchengzi Village, where Third Grandpa lives, the villagers’ river-flat fields were almost entirely submerged, bringing yields to near zero. Across Wuchang’s broader production zone, post-flood assessments indicate that floodwaters covered approximately 667,000 of the 1.5 million mu under rice cultivation, with yields expected to drop by 40% to 50%.

Reduced output is now an established fact, yet as the rice reached maturity and harvest time, young local farmers broadcasting on platforms such as Douyin and Kuaishou painted a markedly different picture. Setting up phone tripods in front of their own paddies, they went live daily to sell rice, showcasing the routine sight of combine harvesters at work while explaining why Wuchang rice tastes so good and why it commands such high prices. Contrasting sharply with the widespread media reports of “total crop loss” and “failed harvests” following the August floods, these streamers repeatedly assured their viewers that the heavy rains and flooding had done little damage to the paddies and that the rice crop had not been wiped out. It is true that, on a macro level, a reduced yield does not equate to a total loss; yet for any smallholder facing the prospect of total crop failure, it literally means harvesting nothing at all. This reality also applies to the young farmers selling rice via live streams. So what tensions lie behind this disconnect between marketing narratives and on-the-ground realities? I believe the root causes lie in the challenges surrounding Wuchang rice’s brand development and the broader market disorder.

Wuchang rice has long been renowned for its superior quality and premium price, particularly the celebrated “Daohuaxiang No. 2” variety. When cooked, it delivers a profoundly fragrant, soft and glutinous, mildly sweet grain that can fetch 8 to 10 yuan per jin (500 grams) on the market. However, because the cultivation area is limited, genuinely pure, locally grown “Daohuaxiang No. 2” is exceedingly scarce. Although rice sold under the “Wuchang rice” label is required to carry regional brand certification, weak protection and inconsistent oversight have long allowed a mixed bag of products to flood the market. Consumers struggle to find authentic “Daohuaxiang No. 2”, and in many cases, what they end up buying may not have been grown in Wuchang at all.

●Can you tell these two rice varieties apart? The variety on the left is Changlixiang, long-grained but lacking in aroma; the one on the right is Daohuaxiang, which features 20–40% chalkiness in the kernels and a surface-level fragrance. If the two are blended, they are notoriously difficult to distinguish, yet Changlixiang fetches less than half the price of Daohuaxiang. Image credit: independent content creator ‘Rural Mu Laoda’.

For these local young farmers who have taken up live-streaming, the difference from conventional agriculture lies in their involvement in sales and, to some extent, procurement, which naturally increases their earnings. Yet they are typically left to shoulder the sales fallout from disasters alone. As a result, they turn their phones to the fields, staging an impression of a bumper harvest, and proclaim “no total crop loss” to vouch for the authenticity of their rice. Their immediate priority is preserving consumer confidence; whether the actual yield drop has been severe, or whether the rice they are selling genuinely comes from Wuchang, takes a back seat. This breeds a paradox: livestream shopping appears to offer the public a direct window onto the land, yet the true scale of the farmers’ flood damage remains shrouded in uncertainty.

For consumers, the spectre of “fake rice” has long bred lingering anxiety, a mood the floods have only complicated. On one hand, well-intentioned buyers genuinely hope to support Wuchang’s local farmers by purchasing their grain. On the other, the flood-induced yield drop has driven prices up, leading consumers to suspect that traders are simply exploiting the disaster to justify price hikes, which in turn heightens the fear of ending up with “fake rice”. The floods have thrust Wuchang into the heart of public scrutiny, further fuelling a “crisis of trust” surrounding the region’s rice.

In this murky market, Grandpa San chose to contact rice buyers early on and sell off his remaining 70 mu of paddy. The purchase price has climbed from 2.5 yuan per jin last year to 3.2 yuan per jin this year, with some townships reportedly paying up to 3.6 yuan per jin.

Note: The figures quoted here refer to raw paddy. Once milled, raw grain is threshed and processed into polished rice, typically with a recovery rate of around 50%. For example, a paddy purchase price of 3.6 yuan per jin translates to a base rice cost of 7.2 yuan per jin. Retail rice, however, invariably includes additional overheads for packaging, logistics, and labour. For consumers, price remains a crucial yardstick when judging the authenticity of “Wuchang rice”.

Rice buyers manage and coordinate mid- to downstream supply chain operations, including transport, processing, packaging, advertising, sales, and after-sales support. Backed by dedicated professional teams to expand market reach, manage public sentiment, and drive sales, they are well-placed to diffuse and resolve consumer trust issues stemming from partial crop failures. For independent growers, the procurement price may be lower, but it spares them the hassle of selling directly.

●Mid-October: inside a livestream selling Wuchang rice, the host showcases the harvest.

V. Epilogue

Winter has arrived. After selling their grain, Third Grandpa’s family in the northeast is preparing to head to a heated apartment in the city to hunker down for the winter. This year’s winter weather seems somewhat abnormal to him. Recent temperatures have been around ten degrees higher than in previous years, but since November, there have already been four or five major blizzards. The wet snow, mixed with ice pellets and freezing rain, tends to have more damaging effects than dry snow alone.

For the land, a winter blanketed in white snow is a time to rest and recuperate. “A good winter snow ensures a good harvest,” as the saying goes. Third Grandpa hopes this year’s heavy snowfalls will bring favourable weather next year, leading to a bumper crop.

● Wuchang, rice paddies after harvest. Photo by: maggy

○ References:

https://news.cctv.com/2023/08/06/ARTIfRBnEs83kkpRS7As1pWC230806.shtml

https://politics.gmw.cn/2023-08/28/content_36793461.htm

Foodthink author

Yvonne

Someone dedicated to understanding and explaining the “Anthropocene” as it depletes the world outside. A sociology student on the run, focusing on agriculture, the environment, and climate change.

 

 

 

Unless otherwise stated, all images are courtesy of the interviewees.

Editor: Wang Hao

Published by Foodthink