In the spring of 1942, Mao Zedong—already a dominant figure in the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), though not yet its formally elected chairman—addressed a hall packed with some of China’s leading intellectuals, military brass, and artists. Mao, himself a diligent writer of classical-style poems, shared a vision of creative work that was centered on workers’ experiences and made in service to the masses rather than elites.
“There is in fact no such thing as art for art’s sake, art that stands above classes, art that is detached from or independent of politics,” he reportedly said.
After the CCP took power in 1949, this vision turned into official policy. The party became deeply involved in literary production, using books as a means of nurturing patriotism and capturing the struggle against capitalism.
Much of the doctrine that shaped this vision came from the socialist realism tradition. Introduced at the 1934 First Congress of Soviet Writers, artists were expected to make art understandable for ordinary workers, and to connect imagery to ideology, portraying the peaceful life of Soviet citizens and the nobility in constructing a new society.
In the decades that followed, Chinese so-called workers’ literature depicted peasants and laborers as the leaders of the socialist revolution. Today, workers’ literature often centers on China’s estimated 320 million gig workers, who weave through Beijing traffic on delivery scooters or sell face cream in front of smartphone cameras. Yet one thing has remained consistent: The state decides which worker narratives get elevated—and, in the digital age, which get scrubbed off the internet.
Delivery employees work in Beijing on July 24, 2024. Adek Berry/AFP via Getty Images
“This is … the boundary of Chinese literature: you can depict suffering, but you must remember, your suffering has nothing to do with the government,” said Murong Xuecun, the pen name of Hao Qun, a Chinese novelist now based in Australia who has published multiple books. His writing was banned in China, and he eventually became among the many dissenting voices forced to leave the country.
The CCP thus finds itself in a bind: Its founding principle is to represent the working class, yet it has to manage, and often suppress, the very narratives that reveal the challenges this group faces. “Ideologically the CCP should still support workers’ literature, but this can be problematic when the workers in question write about how tough their lives are in present-day China,” said Michel Hockx, a professor of Chinese literature at the University of Notre Dame.
In July, a collection of poems written by Wang Jibing, a food delivery rider, was awarded one of the country’s top literary awards. In 2023, Hu Anyan became a national bestseller for I Deliver Parcels in Beijing, a memoir about his experience cycling through 19 different jobs in two decades. The two men belong to a broader cohort of worker-writers whose tales about the pressure of gig work have resonated with many people, as China produces its most overqualified-yet-underemployed generation in recent history.
In July, China’s urban youth unemployment rate rose to 17.9 percent. Meanwhile, in the United States, the youth unemployment rate was 9.1 percent in July, according to official data released last month. The bad news for China doesn’t end there. In March, Beijing also set its lowest economic growth target in decades, after three consecutive years of meeting a 5 percent annual growth target.
Job-seekers look at recruitment notices at a job fair targeting college graduates held in China’s eastern Jiangsu province on May 22. CN-STR/AFP via Getty Images/China OUT
Beijing has rolled out a spate of measures aimed at helping its job seekers, from hiring subsidies for firms that will onboard unemployed youth to expanding social insurance. Still, feelings of disillusionment have not abated.
Last summer, discontent managed to slip past Beijing’s extensive censorship apparatus. Under the hashtag “beauty in the time of economic upswings,” users across Chinese social media reminisced about the high-growth period China experienced in the 2000s, a coded way of commiserating over one of the most difficult job markets in decades.
“Social inequality is rampant in China,” said Hockx, and there is “a proletariat that the CCP is supposed to represent, but that really is not benefiting as much from the economic growth as other groups.” China’s Gini coefficient, a measure of inequality, was above 0.7 in 2023, according to research by Li Shi, the dean of the Institute for Common Prosperity and Development at Zhejiang University. That’s higher than official government estimates, which add up to a lower Gini coefficient—signifying less inequality.
While China’s state-backed Chinese Writers Association celebrated Wang’s poems about the hardship and hope of courier work, other worker-writers have met a far different fate. One such writer is Fan Yusu. Her essay about escaping her life of rural poverty went viral after it was published in 2017 on the Chinese social media platform WeChat, but it disappeared shortly thereafter. Experts assume that censors removed it. Fan has not given up on writing; she published her debut novel, an autofiction story called Reunion after a Long Separation, in 2023.
Meanwhile, in 2023, a migrant labor museum in the village of Picun, one of the most prominent hubs for worker-artists and a launching pad for many renowned Chinese writers, such as Xiao Hai and Chen Nianxi, announced that it would shut its doors due to eviction after numerous threats from authorities.
While it is difficult to ascertain exactly why works by writers like Fan are wiped off the internet, academics and writers point to a consistent pattern: The state favors work that spins hardship into optimism, rather than stewing in discontent.
Chinese children read books brought by itinerant libraries on Feb. 25, 1964. AFP via Getty Images
Fan’s essay’s “swift deletion from a public WeChat account revealed the government’s unpreparedness—or perhaps inability—to confront the voices of China’s growing marginalized and dispossessed population,” said Ping Zhu, a professor of Chinese studies at the University of California San Diego.
In a 2014 address, Chinese President Xi Jinping, a self-professed bibliophile, framed culture as a key force propelling the existence and development of a nation. He called upon writers and artists to take on patriotism as a theme, and for their work to steer the social mores of the times. The speech built on a push to promote “positive energy” that Xi began soon after his taking power in 2012.
The result, Hockx said, has been a far greater emphasis on cultural production that supports Xi’s own brand of “healthy patriotism, the China dream, and telling the China story well.” Since 2024, Chinese state media has promoted the concept of “new mass literature and art,” which reframes stories of hardship into an approved, uplifting narrative, Zhu said.
The books that are promoted in international markets by Chinese publishing houses—all of which are effectively state owned—are typically “titles about Xi’s political thoughts, the stunning success of China’s poverty alleviation and the fast-growing economy,” Chinese author Lijia Zhang wrote in a 2024 op-ed in the South China Morning Post.
“As long as a work’s social critique remains mild or subtle, its depiction of society’s darker sides and laborers’ suffering can be reframed as a paean to hard work, dignity, and resilience, and incorporated into the official narrative of the Chinese nation,” said Zhu.
A person walks past a billboard showing Chinese President Xi Jinping with a slogan that reads, “Remain true to our original aspiration, and keep our mission firmly in mind,” in Beijing on Feb. 28, 2023. Jade Gao/AFP via Getty Images
Actors perform to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the founding of the Chinese Communist Party in Beijing on June 28, 2021. Lintao Zhang/Getty Images
China’s book censorship runs through three tiers, according to a 2022 journal article about how the practice has developed since the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre. At the top sits the CCP Central Propaganda Department, an internal division of the party that sets ideological rules and gets directly involved in overseeing editorial decision-making. Below that, provincial and municipal officials vet manuscripts on “important topics,” like CCP history and Hong Kong and Taiwan, before publication. At the bottom, editors at China’s state-owned publishing houses comb finished texts, cutting or rewriting anything that is politically sensitive.
Murong’s first encounter with censorship was with the editor who published his 2003 novel, Leave Me Alone: A Novel of Chengdu, and cut 10,000 words, or roughly one-twelfth of the book, without consulting him. Some cuts made sense to Murong, such as a satirical jab at the CCP slogan. But others didn’t, he recalled. “In China, editors—whether they work for newspapers, magazines, or books—are, in the broadest sense, censors,” he said.
At the same time, self-censorship has been a potent force for keeping workers’ literature within acceptable limits before it reaches the presses, said Maghiel van Crevel, a professor of Chinese language and literature at Leiden University. “Censorship overwhelmingly takes the form of self-censorship that is stimulated by a combination of vague and non-codified guidelines and the occasional harsh setting of examples like large fines or imprisonment,” he said. That ensures that authors, editors, and publishers know what is off-limits and keep those red lines in mind.
Still, Hu, the author of I Deliver Parcels in Beijing, has proven capable of pushing red lines and shedding light on uncomfortable realities. Throughout his book, he describes unfair labor conditions with unabashed frustration, though he maintains an air of stoicism in the face of that unfairness. He does not rein in criticism of the companies that govern his working life but stops short of pointing a finger at the government.
Self-censorship has a very specific template, according to the two writers who spoke to Foreign Policy. “If a writer wants to stay safe, it’s best to focus on praise and celebration, and to avoid—or at least minimize—depictions of the real hardships of life,” said Murong. “If such topics must be addressed, they should be presented in a positive light,” as if to say, “although life is difficult, the future holds great promise.”
Chinese political books are displayed at the Hong Kong Book Fair in Hong Kong on July 18, 2012. The fair was known for shedding light on work that had been banned in mainland China. Philippe Lopez/AFP via Getty Images
Liao Yiwu, a Chinese writer, described the same calculus in blunter terms: “It depends on what’s being written—whether it has a positive, uplifting effect on a Chinese society whose economy and politics are both in terrible shape.”
Poems by Wang, this year’s literary award winner, fit that mold. They reflect on grueling working conditions and shed light on what large numbers of Chinese people are faced with today, but they also exude “optimism, perseverance and resilience,” said van Crevel. “Thus, it can be seen to send a message that essentially says: it’s rough, but we’ll get there, as long as we work hard and never give up.”
Wang’s writing about dignity and exhaustion is a much-needed voice in China. But the system that has gushed over him on state media can also just as easily decide that a different writer’s suffering isn’t a story worth telling.
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