In early 2023, Pan made the resolute decision to leave his homeland, convinced that his future lay elsewhere.
He embarked on a journey to America, drawn by the promise of a freer society, a more equitable economy, and a life of dignity – aspirations he felt were unattainable in China, where the local government had forcibly demolished his home for real estate development.
To realize this dream, he undertook a journey of thousands of miles from China to Ecuador in 2023, traversing jungles as part of his arduous route. Approximately two months later, he successfully reached the United States.
Pan, a soft-spoken man in his late 50s hailing from a small village in Jiangxi province, eastern China, is one of tens of thousands of Chinese nationals who have undertaken similar journeys in recent years.
Known colloquially as “zou xian ke,” or “those who walked the line,” they represent a new wave of migration fueled by increasing authoritarianism at home and the belief – sometimes naive, often desperate – that the U.S. still offers a fair chance at a better life.
While their reasons for leaving vary, their experiences upon arriving in America often follow similar patterns: many find themselves isolated by language barriers, burdened by debt, and relying on gig work while awaiting the outcome of their asylum claims within an overburdened immigration system.
Some remain hopeful, while others are struggling.
All now live under the shadow of President Donald Trump’s political resurgence, which has further strained the already tense U.S.-China relations of recent years.
Pan is among a group of Chinese migrants whom I first encountered two years ago. Like many of his fellow travelers, he now works in a Chinese restaurant, despite having taken pride in his farming expertise back home.
In America, his skills are largely irrelevant due to different soil conditions and his lack of English proficiency. His past accomplishments hold little value.
Upon arriving, Pan spent some time moving from city to city, sleeping on borrowed couches or sharing accommodations with other migrants. Eventually, he settled in Barstow, California, a dusty industrial town.
His life today is confined to a small radius. He cooks and occasionally waits tables at a restaurant during the day, video-calls his wife and children in China at night, and repeats this routine daily. He resides in a room attached to the kitchen.
To outsiders, and even to his family back home, Pan’s life might appear unbearably monotonous. However, he defines it not by what he lacks, but by what is absent: no land seizures, no meddling officials, and no fear of arbitrary punishment.
“My family doesn’t understand,” he said with a faint smile. “They ask why I left a comfortable life behind. But here, even if it’s simple, it’s mine. It’s free.”
Pan’s sense of freedom is understated but resolute. Two years ago, in a cramped hotel room in Quito, Ecuador, he told me on the eve of his journey that even if he were to die en route, it would be worth it.
He maintains that belief. “All of this,” he reiterated, “is worth it.”
Like many newcomers, Pan lacks a meaningful social network, with language and cultural barriers limiting his interactions to fellow migrants.
Occasionally, he travels to Los Angeles to participate in protests outside the Chinese consulate. He admits that this is partly to bolster his asylum claim by establishing a public record of political dissent. However, it is also because, after decades of silence, he now has the freedom to do so.
On June 4, the anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre – a date erased from China’s public memory by the authorities – he once again stood outside the consulate, chanting anti-Chinese Communist Party slogans. On that day, he spotted James among the familiar crowd.
James, a young man in his early 30s from western China, had traveled with Pan from Ecuador through the Darién Gap to the U.S. border. However, while Pan’s story is one of quiet stoicism, James’s is more dynamic and restless.
After being released from a U.S. immigration detention center, James worked various cash jobs in Monterey Park, a Chinese-majority suburb east of Los Angeles. He eventually bought a cargo van, drove to Palm Springs, and transformed the vehicle into both his livelihood and his home.
The van is filled with sleeping bags, gas canisters, and a portable charger – all he needs to be content. During the day, he delivers food around the city; at night, he parks outside a 24-hour gym and sleeps with the windows open.
James had always been a hustler in China, but after the COVID-19 pandemic devastated the economy and political crackdowns stifled opportunities, he decided to leave.
“At least your hard work here brings hope, but back in China, you could work over ten hours a day and see no future,” James explained.
Yet, hope alone is not enough. For nearly all the newcomers, including James and Pan, who are largely content with their lives in the U.S., Trump’s political return has reawakened a nagging sense of instability.
The recent wave of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raids across southern California, Trump’s continued push to deport undocumented immigrants, and escalating U.S.-China tensions, including trade tariff disputes, have collectively fostered a climate of paranoia.
As I reconnected with the migrants whom I had first met in 2023, clashes between protesters and law enforcement were unfolding in downtown Los Angeles in response to the recent ICE raids.
The raids were part of the president’s plan to carry out the “biggest deportation operation” in U.S. history – a pledge that helped him regain the White House last year. A CBS News/YouGov poll conducted in early June revealed that 54% of Americans approved of his deportation policy.
The administration asserts that its raids primarily target individuals with criminal records, although critics argue that innocent people have been caught up in the process, fueling anxiety among migrants.
Nearly all the migrants I reconnected with now possess an Employment Authorization Document (EAD), which allows them to work legally in the U.S., but they have not been granted official asylum status. Individuals with the same status as these migrants have been arrested during Trump’s expansive ICE raid campaign.
What drives the fear is a sense of uncertainty – of whether and when these raids will affect the Chinese community, or when the next downturn in U.S.-China relations might occur.
Between the two Trump presidencies, U.S.-China relations saw little improvement during Joe Biden’s time in the White House. The Democrat maintained earlier Trump tariffs, and tensions escalated as Beijing intensified its rhetoric regarding the status of U.S. ally Taiwan.
For some, this unease has prompted a question that many Chinese migrants have quietly begun to ask themselves: is America worth it?
Kevin, a man in his thirties from China’s Fujian province, doesn’t think so. Like Pan and James, Kevin journeyed through Latin America to reach the U.S., but the American dream he once believed in now seems like a mirage.
When I asked him how settled he was in California’s San Gabriel Valley, where he lives with his wife and their newborn son, he alluded to the ICE raids in L.A. and replied: “Everything feels uncertain. So no, I don’t feel settled.”
Kevin’s disillusionment runs deep. “To me, America feels like it’s becoming another China,” he said. “A Darwinian society.”
“If I had known what it would really be like, I might not have come,” he added.
For a long time, the shared experience of the treacherous journey was what bound these migrants together.
Now, that bond has an additional layer: the emotional undercurrent they now face two years after arriving in the U.S. It is the growing realization that their place in America is precarious, that the country they gambled everything on might not have room for them after all.
The “zou xian” wave was fueled by desperation, but also by an almost childlike faith in the American ideal: that this country, despite its flaws, still offered a chance at dignity – a delivery job, a small plot of land, or a bed behind a restaurant where no one would come knocking at night.
Now, with Trump portraying China as a national security threat, warning of “infiltration,” and promising sweeping crackdowns on many things China-related, even those modest hopes feel more threatened than ever.
The effect is clear. This new wave of Chinese migrants – many of whom are still awaiting asylum – now find themselves caught in a vise: mistrusted by Americans, unwanted by Beijing, and often suspended in legal limbo.
Pan, for one, is preparing for the worst. “The future here doesn’t feel as certain anymore,” he said, standing outside the restaurant in Barstow, watching the freeway traffic blur past. “I’m worried I might not be allowed to stay. And if I go back to China…”
He trailed off, pausing for a moment in silence. Then, he looked at me, steady, calm, and resigned.
“That thought,” he said, “is unbearable.”
It was the same look I remembered from that hotel room in Quito, two years and a world ago: worry flickering behind tired eyes, but beneath it, a core of absolute resolve.
No matter what happens, Pan told me, he’s staying.