Refugees or Pariahs? The Plight of Chinese Migrants Under Trump's Return

The return of Donald Trump to the political forefront brings renewed anxiety for many Chinese migrants in the U.S., who fled authoritarianism and now face the specter of harsh immigration policies and a shifting political landscape. Individuals like Pan and James illustrate the struggles of finding hope, as they navigate economic hardship, cultural isolation, and fears of deportation, questioning whether their sacrifices for a better life were worth it.

Pan, a man in his fifties from China, now works at a Chinese restaurant in Barstow, California, after having come to the US by way of Latin America two years ago. When Pan decided to leave his homeland in early 2023, he did so with a conviction that his future no longer belonged there. As he headed to America, he dreamed of a freer society, a fairer economy, and a life lived with dignity – things he said he could never claim in China, where his home had been forcibly demolished by the local government for real estate development. To chase that dream, he embarked on a journey of thousands of miles from China to Ecuador in 2023, from which point he trekked jungles as part of his long route. About two months later, he finally made it to the US.

Pan is one of tens of thousands of Chinese nationals who have made this perilous journey in recent years. Known colloquially as zou xian ke, or "those who walked the line," they represent a new wave of migration driven by the authoritarian tightening at home and the sometimes naïve, often desperate, belief that the US still offers a fair shot at a better life. Their reasons for exodus vary, but their experiences once on American soil follow certain trends: many have ended up isolated by language, burdened by debt, and surviving on gig work as they wait for their asylum claims to crawl through an overwhelmed immigration system.

Some remain hopeful. Others are unravelling. And all of them are now living in the long shadow of President Donald Trump's political return. Fatman Ding Plaza, sitting at the center of Monterey Park, a city outside of Los Angeles, is the "ground zero" of Chinese migrants who came to the US. Pan works in a Chinese restaurant, even though back home, he prided himself on his farming know-how. In America, those skills don't translate since the soil conditions are different, and he doesn't speak English. Past lives hold little currency. For a while after arriving, Pan wandered from city to city, sleeping on borrowed couches or bunking with fellow migrants. Eventually, he landed in Barstow, California, a dusty industrial town.

His life today is penned within a tight radius. He cooks and sometimes waits tables at the restaurant during the day and video-calls his wife and children in China at night before repeating the cycle. He lives in a room attached to the kitchen. To outsiders, and even to his family back home, Pan's life might seem unbearably monotonous. But to him, it's defined not by what's lacking, but by what's no longer present—no land seizures, no meddling officials, and no fear of arbitrary punishment. "My family doesn't understand," he said with a half-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 quiet but stubborn. Two years ago, in a cramped hotel room in Quito, Ecuador, he told me that even if he died en route, it would be worth it. He still says the same. Like many newcomers, Pan doesn't have meaningful social ties—the mounting language and cultural differences confine his life to interactions with fellow migrants. Occasionally, he travels to Los Angeles to join protests outside the Chinese consulate, partly to bolster his asylum claim by establishing a public record of political dissent—and also because, after decades of silence, he can.

On the anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre—an event scrubbed from China's public memory—he stood again outside the consulate chanting anti-Chinese Communist Party slogans, amidst familiar faces. Among them, he spotted James, a young man in his early 30s who also journeyed from Ecuador through the Darién Gap to the US border. If Pan's story is one of quiet stoicism, James's narrative unfolds with restless energy. After his release from a US immigration detention center, James bounced between cash gigs in Monterey Park and ultimately bought a cargo van, making it both his livelihood and home.

James was hustling even in China, but after pandemic-related economic downturns and political crackdowns, 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," he reflected. While both men are carving out lives within a new landscape rife with uncertainty, Trump's political resurgence compounds their anxiety. The wave of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raids across Southern California targets many similar migrants, triggering fears of detention and deportation.

Amid these pressures, nearly all of the migrants I reconnected with now hold an Employment Authorization Document (EAD) allowing them to work legally in the US but have not yet attained official asylum status, making them vulnerable to the very policies that they feared. The climate in America has shifted; amidst protests over ICE raids, the looming specter of a Trump presidency has immersed the conversations among the Chinese migrant community in a sea of uncertainty. Many express doubt over whether America is worth their sacrifices.

Kevin, a man in his thirties from China's Fujian province, exemplified this disillusionment. He and others like Pan and James traversed Latin America to reach the U.S., only to question their American dream amidst escalating fears of deportation. "Everything feels uncertain," Kevin shared, reflecting on his life in California's San Gabriel Valley with his wife and newborn son. "So, no, I don't feel settled." His sentiment echoes a broader anxiety: "America, to me, feels like it's becoming another China—a Darwinian society."

Faced with the realities of life in a new land, these former hopefuls reckon with a precarious existence. As Trump continues to frame China as a national security threat, many Chinese migrants perceive a deepening mistrust and hostility toward their presence in America. Feeling simultaneously unwanted by the U.S. and rejected by Beijing, they navigate a treacherous path fraught with emotional turmoil.

Pan, for one, is bracing for the worst. "The future here doesn't feel as certain anymore," he shared somberly. "I'm worried I might not be allowed to stay. And if I go back to China…" He trails off, leaving the great weight of the unsaid hanging between us. For a moment, he gazes out at the bustling traffic—a world racing by unknowingly indifferent to his struggle. That thought, he reflects with steadiness, "is unbearable." Recalling his determined expression from that hotel room in Quito, there remains a core of absolute resolve—a quiet mantra: no matter what happens, Pan intends to stay.