The Loneliness of Migrant Children - by Lydia Dowden

The recent plight of ‘Frost Boy’, the Yunnanese child who walked 2.8 miles through snow and blizzard in order to attend his rural primary school, captured the hearts of both Chinese and western media. Sensationalised as a national hero by Weibo users, this image of the young Wang Fuman with snowflake eyelashes and cheeks red with cold, has been praised as a symbol of the raw determination of China’s migrant class. Yet the laughing children in the background of the photo sheds light on a far more melancholy issue: loneliness.

Known in China as the ‘Left Behind Children’ (liushou ertong), they represent the dark side of the PRC’s shining economic growth. These are the children whose parents moved to the cities to work and, as a result of the strict household registration system, were left behind in the process.

Since 1958, this hukou system has managed taxation and controlled internal migration, functioning as a kind of urban passport for China’s ever-growing population. The hukou is issued by each city and town in China, giving residents access to social welfare and education. Yet in the present climate of rapid urbanisation, it has proven unable to stop the mass flow of workers from the countryside to the cities, with dire consequences for some 70 million children.

Often left in the care of illiterate grandparents, these children are still entitled to the healthcare, welfare and education benefits attached to their hukou, yet many report seeing their parents only once a year, with some only receiving an annual phone call. They are often ostracised in the classroom, stigmatised by both their peers and teachers for their perceived rudeness and dirtiness, which has unsurprisingly led to higher rates of depression and anxiety. However, whilst much has been said about these 61 million children who are left behind, less has been said of the other 9 million, the ones who have been taken in tow by their parents to join the so-called ‘floating population’ of unregistered migrants.

Without the safety of their hukou, these children slip between the cracks of China’s busiest cities, and are vulnerable to trafficking, sexual exploitation and forced labour. Indeed whilst the official number is 9 million, some have put the figure of urban migrant children aged 14 years and under at more than 22 million, comprising approximately 10 percent of the national population within this age range.

These children face countless barriers in accessing education and welfare and although the State Council has regularly called for all local governments to comply with the Compulsory Education Act (1986), many schools are reluctant to do so. Local parents view schools with a higher proportion of migrant children as being of a lower quality (suzhi) and as such put pressure on teachers to segregate the children, so as to avoid compromising their own child’s chances of success.

There have also been reports of some teachers entirely ignoring the migrant children in their classes, refusing to mark their homework and cutting them out from participation in lessons. Matters are made worse as the children grow up and face even greater obstacles when trying to access middle schools, high schools, and sit the gaokao college entrance exam. The result has been social exclusion and cultural isolation, which has given rise to varied and complex psychological problems. Indeed, surveys conducted in Shanghai, Beijing, Hangzhou and Chongqing found that 70% of migrant children suffered from academic anxiety and were 32% more likely to suffer from other psychological problems compared to their urban counterparts.

The alternative for parents are the profit-driven privately run migrant schools. Existing in the educational grey zone, they are often unlicensed and housed in dilapidated buildings, warehouses or simply open land. The classrooms are cramped and the teachers are able to supply only a rudimentary knowledge as a substitute for a basic education. However, faced with the alternative of marginalisation in a public school, this is often a preferred option for both the parents and their children. Here, the children feel a sense of community and solidarity. Yet, it remains a far cry from offering a viable solution to this burgeoning problem.

Indeed, Beijing is in the midst of the largest crackdown against migrants in recent history. With demolished schools and bulldozed neighbourhoods, it is the migrant children who have born the brunt of this aggressive campaign. In recent months dozens of these schools have been shuttered, with officials claiming they breach fire safety regulations and constitute a violation of public security. This has only served to deepen the already vast education gap between migrants and urbanites and has placed countless children at greater risk of harm.

The only long term solution to China’s internal migrant crisis is a wide-ranging and systematic reform of the welfare system, leading up to an ultimate abolishment of the hukou household registration. Interim solutions might include compensating local schools to admit a higher proportion of migrant children, or at the very least increasing the availability of social welfare for these children. But whilst there has been a tentative effort to reform, with the government now allowing skilled workers to change their hukou registration, not enough is being done to help China’s most vulnerable children.

Social dislocation has been the cost of China’s mammoth development and it is the children who have consistently been the victims of the PRC’s failure to reform. For now, children like Wang Fuman and his counterparts in the cities continue to face gruelling conditions in the classroom and at home. Yet even more heart-breaking is the utter loneliness and destitution they face as victims of state sanctioned social seclusion.