Shanghai’s Silent Displacement: The Human Cost of Urban Renewal
Sean Wan & Miguel Carriquiry Gomez
Shanghai’s Silent Displacement: The Human Cost of Urban Renewal
By Sean Wan & Miguel Carriquiry Gomez
“Where do you go when you can’t afford to stay? The city moves forward, but we are left behind.” — Ms. Li
“Unless you have a very strong background, say, your close relatives are some high-rank big names—otherwise, you have to obey: if they [the government] wants you relocated, you cannot say no.”—Mr. Min
Ms. Li, a lifelong resident of Xintiandi in her seventies, stood in one of the last remaining Shikumen—Shanghai’s old stone-gated houses that once bustled with life and fostered community—her hands tucked into her coat pockets as the evening chill set in. Just one block away, the narrow alleys where she once played as a child had vanished, giving way to a newly built luxury mall and a 125-floor glass skyscraper under construction.
“I’ve lived here my entire life,” she said, her voice momentarily drowned out by a blaring car horn as a delivery van squeezed through the alley. “It used to be quite lively, everyone knew each other. Now, it’s different.” She sighed, her glance resting on the 80-year-old slab stones she stood upon, before looking back up.
Yet Shikumen’s days are numbered. According to Shanghai government statistics, more than 200,000 of its iconic Shikumen neighborhoods are disappearing at an alarming rate. By 2014, fewer than 100 remained; a loss of about 30% in just five years. During an interview with The New York Times in 2017, Professor Ruan Yisan, director of the National Historic Cities Research Center at Tongji University, predicts that the number will continue to decrease in the future.
Mr. Chu, another lifelong Xintiandi resident in his sixties, echoed the quick draining of Shikumen. “There are only a few Shikumen residences left on this street,” he said as he pointed towards the far end of Danshui Road. “There used to be so many,” he added, widening his hands to emphasize the scale of the loss. The rapid pace of urban redevelopment has replaced these traditional homes with high-end apartments, skyscrapers, and shopping malls, forcing longtime residents to relocate to the city’s outskirts. Yet Mr. Min, a veteran in the real estate industry, suggested the relocation process, which displaced more than 33,000 households in the early 2000s according to government statistics, was far from transparent.
A Century-Old Housing Tradition Under Threat
Shikumen is an architectural blend of Western row houses and Chinese courtyard style neighborhoods. Developed in the 1860s, they dominated Shanghai’s urban landscape in the early to mid-20th century. Characterized by stone gateways, wooden doors, and tiled roofs in row-house configurations, these structures symbolized Shanghai’s cultural fusion. Yet, they are rapidly disappearing as urban renewal projects transform historic districts into luxury shopping areas and upscale residences.
The redevelopment of Xintiandi was part of Shanghai’s 365 Redevelopment and Relocation Initiative in the 1990s, which incentivized developers to clear land by relocating residents. Government records show that over 630,000 households were relocated within the first eight years of the initiative. Over the past three decades, Shanghai’s booming real estate market has only accelerated this process. In the early 2000s, property prices in Xintiandi ranged from RMB 10,000–20,000 per square meter. Today, upscale residences like the Lakeville Regency command over RMB 160,000 per square meter, making it impossible for former residents to return. “The property developers were thrilled; imagine how much money they made from all of this,” Mr. Chu remarked bitterly.
The Struggles of Displaced Residents
While developers thrived, the experience for former residents was vastly different. Interviews with displaced families revealed that “anxiety” and “depression” were among the most expressed emotions when they talked about losing their homes. “I was relocated in 2000 when housing prices hadn’t yet soared,” Ms. Li recalled. “I saw an apartment selling for RMB 142,000 one day, and the next, it had jumped to RMB 143,000. You had to buy immediately [before it became unaffordable]!” Even with compensation, she couldn’t afford another property in the area. “If you don’t have enough money, what can you do? You can only move to the outskirts.”
Mr. Min, who formerly worked at the Bureau of Housing and Residential Properties for over two decades, explained the two options of compensation offered to residents in redevelopment zones; “Either you purchase a government-designated settlement apartment [in the outskirts] at a 10-30% discount, or you take a lump-sum compensation worth 40-60% of the market value of your home.”
In the case of Ms. Li, she had to supplement her compensation with RMB 30,000 to buy a replacement home near her old residence in 2002, despite never wanting to leave in the first place. “You don’t have the right to say no,” Mr. Min added. “All land in China belongs to the state. When you buy a home, you’re only purchasing a 70-year land-use right. After that, you must pay 10-20% of the property’s residual value to extend it. The state owns the land, and they have the right to decide [which part should be relocated].” This policy, known as the Land Transfer Fee, was introduced in 2012 as part of government-managed funds. By 2018, the state had collected over RMB 21.6 trillion in such fees.
Unable to afford homes in central Shanghai, many displaced residents moved to suburban districts like Songjiang and Sanlin, fueling their rapid expansion. Despite improved infrastructure, many former residents feel an enduring disconnect. “Yes, it’s more convenient—shopping is easier, infrastructure is better—but the sense of community is gone,” admitted Mr. Chu.
A similar fate has befallen Tianzifang, another historic Shikumen neighborhood now converted into a commercial hub. Ms. Zhang, who has lived there for 47 years operating a small food cart, lamented, “I used to know all my neighbors. But after Tianzifang became a tourist spot, it got too noisy, and many elderly residents left.”
While tourism has boosted business, it has also made living in these areas unbearable for locals. “My shop does well,” Ms. Zhang acknowledged, “but I can’t live here anymore.” Today, Tianzifang attracts over 10 million visitors annually, with over 200 shops, restaurants, and art galleries replacing former homes.
The Other Side of Urban Renewal
“It’s getting better now,” Mr. Min admitted, reflecting on past relocation practices. “But in the early 2000s, it was a nightmare. The government worked with relocation teams, essentially local gangsters. If you refused to move, they could break into your apartment at night, drag you into a van, and start demolishing everything.”
Following the Reform and Opening-Up Policy and the transition to commercialization, the rise of China’s real estate boom in the 1980s fueled a nationwide frenzy of demolition and reconstruction. “Everyone was obsessed with tearing down and rebuilding—that’s where the money was. Some relocation teams became so desperate they even tore down homes with people still inside. Residents died, but the news was silenced. It happened all over China” said Mr. Min.
These under-the-table deals persisted for over a decade before some of the perpetrators faced legal consequences. Yet, no official data exists on how many evaded accountability.
A City Losing Its Memory
Today, few Shikumen houses remain untouched. While some, like those in Xintiandi, have been remodeled into high-end boutiques and restaurants, others face decay. “We don’t have proper plumbing. The pipes are old, and there are no private toilets,” said Mr. Chu’s wife. “The block is scheduled for renovations soon.” However, such renovations often mark the final stage of gentrification, with experts predicting further relocations likely to follow. “Unless you have very strong background, if your close relatives are high-ranking officials, you have to obey. If the government wants you to be relocated, you cannot say no,” said Mr. Min.
Where generations of Shikumen houses once stood, now, rising in their place is Pacific Xintiandi T1, a gleaming 125-floor skyscraper. “This will be the future skyline of Shanghai,” declared Kohn Pedersen Fox when interviewed by Thepaper.cn, the prestigious architecture firm leading the project, “and in a heartfelt tribute to the city’s unique Shikumen heritage, we’ve designed the Pacific Xintiandi T1 with an innovative rhomboid ‘Shikumen’ veneer…”
“The city keeps modernizing,” Ms. Li mused, gazing at the luxury skyscrapers rising around her. “But at what cost? We built our lives here, and now we are just memories left behind.” She turned away with a final wave, her figure outlined by the winter sunset—one more familiar face fading into the city’s ever-changing skyline.
[1] Wang Rongjiang. “Shikumen at Baoqingfang Lane on Tiantong Road under Demolition.” Shine, n.d., https://archive.shine.cn/metro/society/Fears-for-the-last-of-citys-historic-shikumen/shdaily.shtml.
Sean Wan
Hi, I’m Sean Wan, a student from Class of 2027 majoring in Applied Mathematics and Computer Science. Apart from my academic life, I’m also interested in topics regarding social change, potential social inequality, and the human impacts of policy in contemporary China. With a strong background in speech and debate, I enjoy examining issues from multiple perspectives and is particularly committed to the preservation of endangered languages and dialects in China.
Miguel Carriquiry Gomez
Hey, I’m Miguel, half Italian and half Uruguayan, and have spent over 16 years living in Shanghai, an experience that has shaped my worldview at the intersection of diverse cultures. I’m pursuing a degree in Political Economics with a focus on Public Policy at DKU and Duke University. I’m fluent in four languages and passionate about connecting people and ideas across borders.
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