Chinese border crossers chase the American dream, with mixed success (2024)

In many ways, Shen Jiahui had been preparing for America long before his arrival in September 2023. Shen, who renamed himself Capote after the American writer Truman Capote, spent much of his 20s and 30s living outside his home province of Zhejiang, reading Western literature and dreaming of a life outside China.

Had he known about the US border crossing route earlier, the 38-year-old said he would have come sooner. Unlike most of his fellow migrants who heard about it through Chinese video-sharing app Douyin, Shen first found out through Twitter.

Spending much of his non-working hours with the words of Sigmund Freud and Ernest Hemingway, Shen says he frequently felt stifled by the political environment and misunderstood by those around him.

“I always felt that my lifestyle was quite unique or different from the mainstream in China, so I thought I might have more in common with Westerners,” he said.

Shen describes a distant relationship with his parents. He had a girlfriend before leaving, but he couldn’t convince her to make the trip with him.

Over half a year into life in Monterey Park, California, he has no complaints, appreciating everything from the American transportation system to the freedom to express his thoughts.

Despite having moved apartments and jobs several times, spending much of his day washing dishes at a restaurant, and barely speaking English, he says he has adjusted well.

“I’m not super ambitious,” Shen said, adding that perhaps more time in the US would help sharpen his goals. For now, his aspiration is to learn enough English so he can move to rural America and be away from people – particularly other Chinese people.

Unable to speak English, they settle in Chinese-majority neighbourhoods like Monterey Park and Flushing, New York. Months and years in, their stories reflect a mixed bag of fulfilled expectations and dashed dreams.

Shen, with his detached demeanour and affinity for Western culture, is one of the luckier ones. Indeed, the migrants’ assessments of their new lives are partly dictated by their experiences in China – whether economics, politics or other reasons drove them out – presenting a complex reality of agency and adaptation that contradicts some immigration critics’ representations of them as lazy or dangerous.

And while shifting border policies in the US and Latin America will likely decrease their numbers in the coming months, those who have already arrived will undoubtedly shape the communities they reside in for years to come.

For Yang Xin, the move was about escaping harassment. A videographer from Henan province, Yang said he decided to leave after being targeted by local officials for trying to film and post videos about Covid-19 in Chinese hospitals.

Like many of his fellow migrants, the 36-year-old didn’t dare to think in detail about his new life before departing. All he knew was that he had to leave and that it was possible to get to the US via a boat from the Bahamas. He eventually made it there, but was soon detained by immigration officials.

It was only in detention, through online posts, that he learned about getting into the US through the now-popular South American route.

Yang crossed the US-Mexico border in December 2021, before the route became widely known among Chinese.

After documenting his journey, he unintentionally became one of the early influencers for the tens of thousands who came after him. “It was like an adventure,” he says of his trip, countering the tales of danger that his fellow migrants have told.

After being released from US immigration detention, he spent his first weeks travelling, using up his savings before finding a construction job. Six months after arriving, Yang received his work permit through the asylum process and bought a pickup truck.

Now, two and a half years into life in Monterey Park, he is still waiting for asylum approval but says he’s in a good place. He continues to reject offers to serve as a paid consultant for would-be border crossers.

In April he quit his job to focus on learning English at a local community college. “I was busy earning an income so I didn’t have time for English. I finally do now,” he said.

An active member of the Democratic Party of China in California, Yang knows he has little chance of returning to China. Hearing that his parents were being harassed because of his absence, he decided to install a camera at their home so he could keep track of them from the US. “They’re the only things I miss about China,” he said.

It’s unclear how many Chinese border crossers came primarily for political reasons, but those who did are often ready to put China behind forever.

Those who came chasing the economic dream had different expectations, hoping that America would offer relief from the economic downturn and uneven recovery that have bogged down the world’s second-biggest economy.

The US economy has defied fears of recession since the country emerged from the Covid-19 pandemic, but some migrants are struggling to benefit months or years after arriving.

“I’m very disappointed in the US,” said Wang Jiawei, a border crosser from Jiangxi province who arrived in January 2023. “I want to leave but I can’t,” explaining that his passport is with immigration officials while his asylum case is pending.

Unlike his counterparts who found America later in life, Wang’s American dream began when he was a young child. Growing up poor in the 1980s, Wang, now in his 40s, remembers the joy he felt when a godmother in the US sent back packages of goods.

America, in his mind, was a place of riches, and that image stayed with him as he moved from China to Vietnam in search of better fortunes.

Wang eventually came to the US by way of Southeast Asia, after working there for two years.

Like some of his fellow border crossers, he said he had participated in small acts of protest back in China, at one point speaking out against someone pushing the Chinese Communist Party line in Taiwan. As a result, Wang says he was repeatedly harassed by party officials in both China and Vietnam – once, he said, they beat him until he passed out.

But it was still the allure of economic opportunities that pushed him to leave, bolstered by hearing about US President Joe Biden’s reputation for friendly asylum policies. “Economics was my No 1 reason for coming, freedom was No 2,” he said.

These days, Wang describes working long hours, facing stiff competition for jobs, and having to ward off scammers in Monterey Park. “Chinese people here constantly scam other Chinese people,” he said.

If it were up to him, Wang would return to Southeast Asia. “America is too free, it allows people to exploit the law,” he said.

Wang is not alone in wanting to leave; many Chinese migrants interviewed said they knew others who regret coming.

There are no official statistics on how many border crossers have voluntarily left the US, but recent data suggests that some may have been deported. According to the US’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement, 288 Chinese nationals were repatriated in the 2023 fiscal year.

Though the migrants are largely immune to negative portrayals in the English-language press, political developments, particularly the enhanced cooperation between China and the US on deportation flights, are increasingly making them anxious.

Those who return to China not only come back empty-handed after paying tens or hundreds of thousands of Chinese yuan to snakeheads to reach the US but also risk jail or fines, depending on local rules. It’s the prospect of jail that turns many away from considering a return.

Staying, however, means vying for limited work with other border crossers. According to Angela, an agent at a two-decades-old employment agency in Monterey Park that links Chinese workers and employers, the number of jobs available within the Chinese-speaking community has remained steady, while the number of jobseekers has increased.

Most migrants can work only within the Chinese community because they don’t speak English, and many aren’t interested in learning it.

Another obstacle, Angela says, is that they have developed a reputation among Chinese bosses for complaining too much. “They don’t want to work hard,” she says, adding that some of them feel entitled to being in the US.

For better or worse, the border crossers are slowly changing the communities they have joined, staffing massage parlours, restaurants, construction sites and other local businesses. According to Angela, new employment agencies have emerged in Monterey Park to serve the increased demand.

Family hostels, often charging less than US$20 a night, have also seen a rise in clientele. Migrants stay in them, often a few to a room, as an initial landing spot before finding more permanent homes.

Adding to the mix are legal agents, some proffering a cheap, quick and often unreliable path to asylum. “We welcome the border crossers,” said one, who for months stood by Flushing’s Queens Public library with a sign advertising services. “They’re good for business.”

Churches, too, have seen an influx of new adherents seeking documentation of religious activity that might subject them to persecution if they were to return to China.

For border crossers without clear evidence for asylum, much of their free time in their initial year is spent building their case to stay.

Zhou, who arrived from Fujian province in October 2023 and asked to use a pseudonym, said he spends several hours every Sunday at a Chinese church in Flushing, attending services and building a relationship with the pastor.

He says he was recently baptised and received a certificate for it, but is still waiting for his US work permit.

Zhou explained how he and his wife and 20-something son came to improve their economic conditions on the advice of family members, but said America had fallen short of his expectations. “I thought it would be heaven here but it’s hell,” he said.

Unlike the Chinese migrants who traversed the jungles of Latin America, Zhou took an easier but more expensive path: he flew directly to Tijuana, Mexico, then walked over the border.

While the Fujian native says he’s already made back the money he spent on the trip here, he was unprepared for US employers’ higher expectations for work and the high costs of asylum lawyers.

Migrants come with different levels of preparation. With limited resources, some can do little more than join WeChat groups to get a sense of what life might be like if they dare to make the journey.

Once they arrive, they tap into the same networks but ultimately rely largely on themselves, finding it hard to trust others and being unfamiliar with other available services.

Community groups like the New York-based Chinese-American Planning Council, which has been assisting Asians and undocumented migrants for decades, say that few of the border crossers have sought their help.

The more well-to-do migrants come with a bit more preparation, though still struggle to fully adapt.

About a year after arriving with his wife and three children, Cai Zhigang now runs three guest houses for Chinese tourists and recent border crossers in Rowland Heights, California, offering them free assistance and advice about life in America.

Describing himself as a former nationalist who became disenchanted with the gap between the rhetoric and actions of Chinese officials, the 40-year-old says he left because of religious persecution and wanting a better future for his children.

Still, Cai, a former People’s Liberation Army soldier and local cadre, laments leaving behind decades of contacts and a once-thriving business.

Though settling in has been easier than he expected and he is eager to become a US citizen, he still feels like China is home. “America isn’t heaven,” he said. “It just allows you to live more like a human being.”