THE LIFE AND DEATH OF WORKER XU LIZHI

ALIENATION?
WHAT DO YOU THINK?

Friends of Xu Lizhi, a Foxconn worker who committed suicide in September at the age of 24, are honoring their friend by publishing translations of his poems into English. Xu Lizhi’s poems reflect on his experiences working in the factory.  Before he took his life Xu Lizhi regularly contributed poetry to Foxconn People, which was the internal newsletter at the huge factory complex where he worked.

Like millions of other young Chinese, Xu left his home in rural Guangdong province in 2010 to find work in the big city; he had been working intermittently on Foxconn’s electronics assembly line for four years.

You remember Foxconn. Foxconn is a firm responsible for assembling as much as 40% of global consumer electronics products (producing electronics for such major brand names as HP, Dell, and Apple, to name just a few), and has received international infamy for the inferior labor conditions at some of their China-based plants.  It's the Taiwanese corporation which in response to worker suicides at its Shenzhen plant put up nets for prevent workers from jumping off dormitory roofs.

Capitalism is so sweet.

Xi is everywhere.

Business Week with audacity and of all places writes:

Xu’s poetry gives voice to the alienation he and many others of his generation feel on the assembly line: “I swallowed a moon made of iron/ They refer to it as a nail/ I swallowed this industrial sewage, these unemployment documents/ Youth stooped at machines die before their time/ I swallowed the hustle and the destitution/ Swallowed pedestrian bridges, life covered in rust / I can’t swallow any more/ All that I’ve swallowed is now gushing out of my throat/ Unfurling on the land of my ancestors/ Into a disgraceful poem.”

A frequent theme is how he felt the monotony of factory life sapping away “the last graveyard of our youth.” In one poem, Xu wrote: “With no time for expression, emotion crumbles into dust/ They have stomachs forged of iron/ Full of thick acid, sulfuric and nitric/ Industry captures their tears before they have the chance to fall.”

Xu also described the desolate conditions of his rented room: “A space of ten square meters/ Cramped and damp, no sunlight all year/ Here I eat, sleep, sh–, and think/ Cough, get headaches, grow old, get sick but still fail to die/ Under the dull yellow light again I stare blankly, chuckling like an idiot.”

One poem alludes to worker suicides at the Shenzhen plant: “A screw fell to the ground/ In this dark night of overtime/ Plunging vertically, lightly clinking/ It won’t attract anyone’s attention/ Just like last time/ On a night like this/ When someone plunged to the ground.”

After his death on Sept. 30, a factory worker and friend, Zhou Qizao, wrote a poem in Xu’s memory: “The loss of every life/ Is the passing of another me/ Another screw comes loose/ Another migrant worker brother jumps/ You die in place of me/ And I keep writing in place of you.”

The following is from the Black Orchid Collective.

Alienation and Death: The poetry and brief

 life of Foxconn worker Xu Lizhi

This was the weekend of Dia De Los Muertos and of All Souls Day. I missed the events at the Northwest Detention Center commemorating the deaths of millions of displaced immigrants who risk, and sometimes lose their lives crossing the US-Mexico border. I was stuck at work, where as a nurse, I try to care (within the limitations of this role) for patients encountering death and illness. “Trauma season” is over, we say at work, and it is the period for different kinds of mishaps to be dominant — Tuberculosis, pneumonia, flu and the like. Even illnesses claim their monopolies.

And in the cold, bland Foxconn factories in Shenzhen, China, suicide claims its territory over this subcontractor of Apple products. In 2010 alone, 18 workers — migrant and youthful — attempted suicide. 14 people died. In subsequent years, Foxconn’s attempt to reduce these shameful statistics was to install nets on the dormitory buildings, literally thwarting suicides mid stream.

24 year old Xu Lizhi is only the latest casualty of Foxconn’s working conditions. It is clear through his writings and the obituary that his death was caused by the alienation, drudgery and meaninglessness of factory life. Time structured by pay slips, overtime, exhaustion erase meaning and passion from a much desired youthfulness. His death is timed with the new release of the iPhone 6. We can only speculate on the coincidence.

These translations of Xu Lizhi’s poetry are a commemoration to the lives, struggles and resistance of Foxconn workers.  Those of us who have translated his poems are honored to have this opportunity, as tragic as the circumstances are.

Thanks to Nao project for initially putting up our translations here

———————————————————————————–

The Poetry and Brief Life of Xu Lizhi

Translators’ note: Below are translations by friends of the Nao project, starting with Xu’s departing poem and an obituary, followed by other poems from 2011 to 2014. By translating these poems, we aim to memorialize Xu, share some of his excellent literary work, and spread awareness that the harsh conditions, struggles and aspirations of Chinese migrant workers (including but not limited to Foxconn) have not diminished since the more widely-publicized spate of 18 attempted Foxconn suicides in 2010, resulting in 14 deaths. Insiders report that thereafter, although the frequency of suicides decreased (mainly due to Foxconn’s installation of nets making it more difficult for workers to jump from their dormitories, along with the development of workers’ collective resistance), such suicides have continued to the present. Including Xu Lizhi, at least 8 cases have been reported in the media since 2010, but insiders say that many other cases go unreported. We hope that in the future, workers in Foxconn and elsewhere manage to find ways around such companies’ military-style discipline and surveillance, come together, and forge collective paths out of this capitalist world of death, into a world worth living in. Don’t give up!

Feel free to repost these translations on not-for-profit websites, but please acknowledge that these were first translated and published here on the Nao blog.

Several of these poems were included in the Shenzhen Evening News article linked and translated below; the others are widely available on the web, such as this post on Douban.

Contents:
Obituary + “On My Deathbed” (2014)
“Conflict” (2013)
“I Fall Asleep, Just Standing Like That” (2011)
“A Screw Fell to the Ground (2014)
“A Kind of Prophecy” (2013)
“The Last Graveyard” (2011)
“My Life’s Journey is Far From Complete” (2014)
“I Swallowed a Moon Made of Iron” (2013)
“Rented Room” (2013)
“Upon Hearing the News of Xu Lizhi’s Suicide” by Zhou Qizao, a fellow worker at Foxconn (2014)

Obituary from Shenzhen Evening News, including Xu’s departing poem
by Li Fei and Zhang Xiaoqi
10 October, 2014

《我弥留之际》
“On My Deathbed”

我想再看一眼大海，目睹我半生的泪水有多汪洋
I want to take another look at the ocean, behold the vastness of tears from half a lifetime

我想再爬一爬高高的山头，试着把丢失的灵魂喊回来
I want to climb another mountain, try to call back the soul that I’ve lost

我还想摸一摸天空，碰一碰那抹轻轻的蓝
I want to touch the sky, feel that blueness so light

可是这些我都办不到了，我就要离开这个世界了
But I can’t do any of this, so I’m leaving this world

所有听说过我的人们啊
Everyone who’s heard of me

不必为我的离开感到惊讶
Shouldn’t be surprised at my leaving

更不必叹息，或者悲伤
Even less should you sigh or grieve

我来时很好，去时，也很好
I was fine when I came, and fine when I left.

– Xu Lizhi, 30 September 2014

Shy, quiet, introverted, solitary

In 2010, Xu Lizhi went [from his home in rural Jieyang, Guangdong] to work at [a] Foxconn [electronics factory in Shenzhen], beginning life on the assembly line. From 2012 until February of this year [2014], over 30 of his writings were published in Foxconn’s internal newspaper Foxconn People (富士康人), including poems, essays, film reviews, and news commentaries {…} Xu posted the titles of these writings on his blog in a post called “The Maturation Given to Me by a Newspaper,” indicating his gratitude for this platform for his literary aspirations. The first time his friend Zheng (pseudonym) read Xu’s poetry, he was astonished to discover that this young man could be so talented. Henceforth, Zheng always looked for Xu’s writings in the newspaper.

Zheng’s impression was that Xu was a shy boy, “of few words, but not silent.” “Xu asserted his convictions, but he seemed quite solitary – very much the air of a poet.” When Zheng heard of Xu’s suicide, his entire [week-long] break for [China’s] National Day was shrouded in grief. He could not go outside for days.

Turning feelings into poems; fearing they be read by family

Most of Xu’s early poems were descriptions of life on the assembly line. In “Workshop, My Youth Was Stranded Here,” he described his conditions at the time: “Beside the assembly line, tens of thousands of workers [dagongzhe]1 line up like words on a page/ ‘Faster, hurry up!’/ Standing among them, I hear the supervisor bark.” He felt that “Once you’ve entered the workshop/ The only choice is submission,” and that his youth was coldly slipping away, so he could only “Watch it being ground away day and night/ Pressed, polished, molded/ Into a few measly bills, so-called wages.”

At first Xu Lizhi found it difficult to adapt to the constant switching between dayshifts and nightshifts. In another poem, he described himself by the assembly line “standing straight like iron, hands like flight,” “How many days, how many nights/ Did I – just like that – standing, fall asleep?” He described his working life as exhausting, “Flowing through my veins, finally reaching the tip of my pen/ Taking root in the paper/ These words can be read only by the hearts of migrant workers.”

Xu once said that he never showed his poetry to his parents or other relatives, “because it’s something painful; I don’t want them to see that.”

Failed efforts to get a job related to books

Although Xu lived in Shenzhen for only a few years, he identified deeply with the city. “Everyone wishes they could put down roots in the city,” he explained, but most migrant-worker [dagong] poets write for a few years and then return to the countryside, get married and have children; Xu hoped to avoid that fate. He tried setting up a street stall with a friend, but failed. He also tried transferring from the assembly line to a logistics position, where he would have more freedom. He understood that very few such poets could get out [走出来]: “[we] have to constantly fight for our lives [为生活奔波]; it’s hard to go any further than that.”

In February of this year, Xu quit his job at Foxconn and moved to Suzhou, Jiangsu. His friend explained that Xu’s girlfriend worked there, but apparently things did not go well for Xu in Jiangsu. He told Zheng that he had trouble finding a job, but he did not go into detail about what happened there.

Half a year later, he moved back to Shenzhen. In an earlier interview, Xu had said that he loved this city, that he derived great pleasure from its Central Book Mall and public libraries. If he were to return home [to rural Jieyang], there were only a few small bookstores, and “even if I tried to order books online, they couldn’t be delivered” [to his remote address].

Due to his love of books, the first job application he submitted upon his return to Shenzhen in early September was to the Central Book Mall. Zheng recalled that Xu had told him, while working at Foxconn, that his dream was to become a librarian. Unfortunately, he did not get the job, and Zheng thinks this was a major disappointment. Two years earlier, Xu had applied for a position as librarian at Foxconn’s internal library for employees, in response to a call for applications, and Xu had been turned down then as well. {…}

Returning to the workshop for one day prior to the incident

Xu was running out of money, so after these disappointments, he returned to Foxconn, beginning work on September 29, in the same workshop where he had worked before. This should have been a new beginning, but it was not. That evening he mentioned to Zheng via online chat that someone had found him another job, so he might leave Foxconn again, but Zheng did not consider this anything special, figuring that Xu would not leave very soon, having just resumed work at Foxconn.

The next Zheng heard of Xu was two days later, when people forwarded the news of Xu’s suicide on WeChat. Zheng could not believe it: “Hadn’t we just chatted two nights ago?” Later Zheng learned that Xu had committed suicide only the morning after they had chatted, not two days later as the media had reported.

Refuting online rumors that Xu was an orphan

[Although it has been 10 days since Xu's death,] when it is mentioned, Zheng still cannot bear the grief. He thinks that Xu’s suicide resulted from both internal and external factors: not only the disappointments he had undergone, but even more so the solitary poetic spirit in his bones.2

After Xu’s passing, some online obituaries claimed that as a young child he had been orphaned, neglected and insulted until a poor old women adopted and raised him, and that this foster-grandmother had died a few years ago, leaving Xu alone in the world.

Zheng [refuted these rumors, pointing out that] Xu’s writings often mentioned his mother and homesickness. His second poem published in Foxconn People [for example], was called “Summertime Homesickness.”

Xu’s poetry is cold and pensive, directly facing a life of misery. His poems trace a trajectory in which the scent of death becomes more and more pronounced. He had already rehearsed death hundreds of times in his writing, so the final act was merely a small step over the edge.

Selected Poems by Xu Lizhi

《冲突》
“Conflict”

他们都说
They all say

我是个话很少的孩子
I’m a child of few words

对此我并不否认
This I don’t deny

实际上
But actually

我说与不说
Whether I speak or not

都会跟这个社会
With this society I’ll still

发生冲突
Conflict

– 7 June 2013

《我就那样站着入睡》
“I Fall Asleep, Just Standing Like That”

眼前的纸张微微发黄
The paper before my eyes fades yellow

我用钢笔在上面凿下深浅不一的黑
With a steel pen I chisel on it uneven black

里面盛满打工的词汇
Full of working words

车间，流水线，机台，上岗证，加班，薪水……
Workshop, assembly line, machine, work card, overtime, wages…

我被它们治得服服贴贴
They’ve trained me to become docile

我不会呐喊，不会反抗
Don’t know how to shout or rebel

不会控诉，不会埋怨
How to complain or denounce

只默默地承受着疲惫
Only how to silently suffer exhaustion

驻足时光之初
When I first set foot in this place

我只盼望每月十号那张灰色的薪资单
I hoped only for that grey pay slip on the tenth of each month

赐我以迟到的安慰
To grant me some belated solace

为此我必须磨去棱角，磨去语言
For this I had to grind away my corners, grind away my words

拒绝旷工，拒绝病假，拒绝事假
Refuse to skip work, refuse sick leave, refuse leave for private reasons

拒绝迟到，拒绝早退
Refuse to be late, refuse to leave early

流水线旁我站立如铁，双手如飞
By the assembly line I stood straight like iron, hands like flight,

多少白天，多少黑夜
How many days, how many nights

我就那样，站着入睡
Did I – just like that – standing fall asleep?

– 20 August 2011

《一颗螺丝掉在地上》
“A Screw Fell to the Ground”

一颗螺丝掉在地上
A screw fell to the ground

在这个加班的夜晚
In this dark night of overtime

垂直降落，轻轻一响
Plunging vertically, lightly clinking

不会引起任何人的注意
It won’t attract anyone’s attention

就像在此之前
Just like last time

某个相同的夜晚
On a night like this

有个人掉在地上
When someone plunged to the ground

– 9 January 2014

《谶言一种》
“A Kind of Prophecy”

村里的老人都说
Village elders say

我跟我爷爷年轻时很像
I resemble my grandfather in his youth

刚开始我不以为然
I didn’t recognize it

后来经他们一再提起
But listening to them time and again

我就深信不疑了
Won me over

我跟我爷爷
My grandfather and I share

不仅外貌越看越像
Facial expressions

就连脾性和爱好
Temperaments, hobbies

也像同一个娘胎里出来的
Almost as if we came from the same womb

比如我爷爷外号竹竿
They nicknamed him “bamboo pole”

我外号衣架
And me, “clothes hanger”

我爷爷经常忍气吞声
He often swallowed his feelings

我经常唯唯诺诺
I’m often obsequious

我爷爷喜欢猜谜
He liked guessing riddles

我喜欢预言
I like premonitions

1943年秋，鬼子进
In the autumn of 1943, the Japanese devils invaded

我爷爷被活活烧死
and burned my grandfather alive

享年23岁
at the age of 23.

我今年23岁
This year i turn 23.

– 18 June 2013

《最后的墓地》
“The Last Graveyard”

机台的鸣叫也打着瞌睡
Even the machine is nodding off

密封的车间贮藏疾病的铁
Sealed workshops store diseased iron

薪资隐藏在窗帘后面
Wages concealed behind curtains

仿似年轻打工者深埋于心底的爱情
Like the love that young workers bury at the bottom of their hearts

没有时间开口，情感徒留灰尘
With no time for expression, emotion crumbles into dust

他们有着铁打的胃
They have stomachs forged of iron

盛满浓稠的硫酸，硝酸
Full of thick acid, sulfuric and nitric

工业向他们收缴来不及流出的泪
Industry captures their tears before they have the chance to fall

时辰走过，他们清醒全无
Time flows by, their heads lost in fog

产量压低了年龄，疼痛在日夜加班
Output weighs down their age, pain works overtime day and night

还未老去的头晕潜伏生命
In their lives, dizziness before their time is latent

皮肤被治具强迫褪去
The jig forces the skin to peel

顺手镀上一层铝合金
And while it’s at it, plates on a layer of aluminum alloy

有人还在坚持着，有人含病离去
Some still endure, while others are taken by illness

我在他们中间打盹，留守青春的
I am dozing between them, guarding

最后一块墓地
The last graveyard of our youth.

– 21 December 2011

《我一生中的路还远远没有走完》
“My Life’s Journey is Still Far from Complete”

这是谁都没有料到的
This is something no one expected

我一生中的路
My life’s journey

还远远没有走完
Is far from over

就要倒在半路上了
But now it’s stalled at the halfway mark

类似的困境
It’s not as if similar difficulties

以前也不是没有
Didn’t exist before

只是都不像这次
But they didn’t come

来得这么突然
As suddenly

这么凶猛
As ferociously

一再地挣扎
Repeatedly struggle

竟全是徒劳
But all is futile

我比谁都渴望站起来
I want to stand up more than anyone else

可是我的腿不答应
But my legs won’t cooperate

我的胃不答应
My stomach won’t cooperate

我全身的骨头都不答应
All the bones of my body won’t cooperate

我只能这样平躺着
I can only lie flat

在黑暗里一次次地发出
In this darkness, sending out

无声的求救信号
A silent distress signal, again and again

再一次次地听到
Only to hear, again and again

绝望的回响
The echo of desperation.

– 13 July 2014

《我咽下一枚铁做的月亮》
“I Swallowed a Moon Made of Iron”

我咽下一枚铁做的月亮
I swallowed a moon made of iron

他们把它叫做螺丝
They refer to it as a nail

我咽下这工业的废水，失业的订单
I swallowed this industrial sewage, these unemployment documents

那些低于机台的青春早早夭亡
Youth stooped at machines die before their time

我咽下奔波，咽下流离失所
I swallowed the hustle and the destitution

咽下人行天桥，咽下长满水锈的生活
Swallowed pedestrian bridges, life covered in rust

我再咽不下了
I can’t swallow any more

所有我曾经咽下的现在都从喉咙汹涌而出
All that I’ve swallowed is now gushing out of my throat

在祖国的领土上铺成一首
Unfurling on the land of my ancestors

耻辱的诗
Into a disgraceful poem.

– 19 December 2013

《出租屋》
“Rented Room”

十平米左右的空间
A space of ten square meters

局促，潮湿，终年不见天日
Cramped and damp, no sunlight all year

我在这里吃饭，睡觉，拉屎，思考
Here I eat, sleep, shit, and think

咳嗽，偏头痛，生老，病不死
Cough, get headaches, grow old, get sick but still fail to die

昏黄的灯光下我一再发呆，傻笑
Under the dull yellow light again I stare blankly, chuckling like an idiot

来回踱步，低声唱歌，阅读，写诗
I pace back and forth, singing softly, reading, writing poems

每当我打开窗户或者柴门
Every time I open the window or the wicker gate

我都像一位死者
I seem like a dead man

把棺材盖，缓缓推开
Slowly pushing open the lid of a coffin.

– 2 December 2013

Translators’ notes:

1. From the 1990s through the 2000s, dagongzhe referred mainly to migrant wage-laborers from rural areas, often working in precarious employment positions, as opposed to urbanites working in stable positions (usually in state-owned enterprises), who were called gongren, the socialist-era term for urban “workers” with permanent positions in state-owned and collective enterprises. In the past few years, however, these two terms have become somewhat interchangeable (perhaps reflecting the convergence of conditions among different types of workers), so here we translate dagongzhe simply as “workers.” (Below we add “migrant” in a few cases where it seems necessary for clarification; in general, the term reflects the ambiguity of migrant workers’ status in China today – as workers differentiated from other workers, as neither urbanites nor peasants – somewhat like the ambiguous status of international migrant workers in other countries, such as people from rural Mexico working in the US.) For discussions of these two terms as used in the 2000s, see “China’s Migrant Workers” by Prol-position, and the introduction to Made in China by Pun Ngai (Duke University Press, 2005).

2. We at Nao would like to point out that this explanation neglects the profound hatred of life on the assembly line reflected so clearly in many of Xu’s poems quoted above and translated below, coupled with his desperation after repeatedly failing to find a more satisfactory way out of that life, including the possibility of returning home to the empty, poor village where he would be cut off from access to books – his main source of pleasure and meaning in life (along with – presumably – the possibility of being together with his girlfriend or getting married, which would require more money than Xu would have been able to make in the countryside). This account also fails to explain why so many other workers – at Foxconn and elsewhere – have chosen to commit suicide – even those who were not poets.