每個(gè)人的心里都有一塊綠洲，它的名字叫“故鄉(xiāng)”

譚云飛

Once a sacred family obligation， the annual migration home for Spring Festival increasingly brings feelings of alienation and culture shock for Chinas urbanizing population. Several transplants from the countryside share with TWOC their feelings about this season of togetherness， and their evolving views about a home they used to dream of leaving behind.

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Renowned writer Yu Kwang-chung （余光中）， who fled to Taiwan with the Nationalists via Hong Kong in 1950， once compared his lifelong exile to a “narrow boat ticket”： “I am here， the mainland is there，” he concludes his poem “Homesickness.”

I can sympathize. Like millions of other Chinese on the move， my distance from home has been measured out in tickets ever since I moved away to college. These days， family celebrations， emergencies， and holidays like the Spring Festival mean nine hours on the high-speed rail from Beijing to Qidong county， Hunan （or 16 to 25 hours on the slow train if the gaotie?is sold out）， an hour and a half on a long-distance coach （probably standing-room only） to the town of Buyunqiao， then a 15-minute motorbike ride to the small village of Guanyin.

Its a journey of over 1，620 kilometers， and I make it at least once every year at the Spring Festival. Since the late 1970s， when hukou?（household registration） reforms first allowed citizens to leave their hometowns to seek work and education， millions have made this ritual migration home， known as chunyun?（春運(yùn)） or “spring transport，” into an annual spectacle. During the 2016 chunyun， according to CNN， hundreds of millions of Chinese traveled 2.9 billion trips by train， boat， and plane， logging a combined distance of 1.2 billion kilometers—the worlds biggest annual human migration， enough for four trips to the Sun and back.

The staple montages of workers laden with bags， stubbornly camped outside train station for tickets， are presented in domestic and international media as heartwarming clichés of persevering family ties. Yet， when I spoke with friends and neighbors working in cities all around China， many felt that geography was the least part of the distance from their hometowns.

My childhood friend， Yan， is one of those who will not return this year. “We may stay in Foshan，” she tells me， referring to the city in Guangdong province where she has worked for four years and obtained a new apartment. “According to our local custom， its bad luck for a family to leave their new home empty on the first Spring Festival after they ‘light the fire”—that is， after they move in.

But this isnt the only reason. On each of her visits back over the years， Yans chief takeaway is that “everyone has moved out，” she observes. “The village is empty.”

In 2015， the number of trips made during chunyun?decreased for the first time. Since then， it has remained around 2.9 billion each year—a full 700 million short of the all-time record， 3.6 billion， set in 2014. Most explanations are linked to urbanization： Over 80 percent of Chinese still lived in the countryside at the start of the reform era， but by 2011， over 50 percent were in cities and towns—a stunning turnaround in 33 years. In the last decade， the countryside has lost 160 million of its permanent residents， and continues to lose an estimated 20 million， 3 percent of its total population， each year.

These patterns are a decided triumph for the government， which has identified urbanization as the future engine for GDP growth since the early 1990s （though more recently， there has been a renewed emphasis on developing regional cities and small towns， to reduce overcrowding in first-tier metropolises）. Its also a triumph for our own village. Land reform came to Guanyin in 1980， giving villagers the right to farm their own land for money， but it wasnt until the 90s that opportunities increased for those with only a primary or middle school education to leave the village.

By the time I was growing up， my peers were imbibing the lesson of getting into a prestigious university to break free from poverty， which was synonymous with moving to the city. When I return to the village this year， I will be participating in a homecoming of individuals whove achieved their own versions of this success story in various far-flung corners of China， while hearing about those， like Yan， whose success may be all the more palpable due to their absence.

With college degrees， white-collar jobs， and （for some） homes in the city， we are fulfilling our parents dearest wish of being better off than themselves—parents whove had to leave their own children behind with grandparents while toiling at menial jobs in cities， flocking seasonally between the two worlds like migratory birds. Our children will grow up in urban apartments， hopefully with urban hukou， and attend urban schools， writing the next chapter of this story of upward mobility.

And yet as we compare notes this Spring Festival， there will be an unspoken question： Can you truly return to a home that youve been urged all your life to leave？ Is going back simply a matter of having the right tickets， like Yu Kwang-chung—or are we bound by the same fears as the protagonist in One Way，?a novel by French writer Didier van Cauwelaert， “In these busy and anxious times， Ive just realized that home is a place where I can never return.”

On the mountains of my upbringing， farmers once grew rice， peanuts， day-lily plants， sweet potatoes， and other crops typical of southern China. In order to supplement the income from their two to fourmuof land—approximately 0.33-0.66 acres， hardly enough to feed a family of four， let alone pay tuition fees—able-bodied adults left to work in developed cities， and the money they sent back was often reinvested into building new homes in the village， where these workers eventually hope to retire.

Yans parents took turns “going out” before she got into high school， and her younger brother joined them after finishing vocational school. Now her parents have a pair of furnished two-story houses with modern conveniences in our village. Over the years， other earthen-walled farmhouses from my childhood have been replaced by multi-level constructions of tile and stone， but their grandeur is， literally， empty. “I remember the village being such a lively， human place，” my middle-school classmate Tan Fangli， who grew up in a neighboring village， lamented recently. “Anyone who had good food to eat would bring it out to share. Now， its so quiet and cold.”

Fanglis parents had also migrated to Foshan to work while she was growing up， and she joined them after middle school. The family has not been back for Spring Festival in over a decade. “Our old house hasnt been repaired for so long， its probably not fit to live in anymore，” Fangli reckons. Across the courtyard from my own home， I have watched a similar fate befall the “new” house of one Uncle Chun， as it slowly crumbled over the last 20 years with its owner yet to spend a single night inside.

Uncle Chun himself was one of the first to leave Guanyin in the 80s. With a middle school education， he has taken on construction and factory work in a variety of cities in the last 36 years， and is currently serving as a manager at a stationery factory in Dongguan， Guangdong. Last year， against the advice of all his family， he began construction of yet another new home to replace the first one in the village， calling it a “l(fā)ong-term” investment. “Even if we could afford the down payment for an apartment in Dongguan， we dont have an ‘iron rice bowl. Any unforeseen accident could cause big trouble，” he says.

Yet the younger generation now wants more， and our desires are increasingly bound up in the context of the city. In contrast to Uncle Chun， my classmate Liu Yanping is sinking all her energy， as well as savings from half a decades work in Beijing， into establishing a foothold in the capital against all odds. “I can never live in the village again，” she vowed. “Ive struggled more than 20 years to make it to Beijing， and to give my child a headstart over the kids in the village.”