Editor’s note: After leaving education at 16 to work in factories and as a courier, Zhang Sai’s passion for literature made him an outcast among his peers — so much so that he even hid it from his wife. Yet he never abandoned his love of writing. This year, the 38-year-old published a memoir, “Workers Don’t Dream of Factories: 20 Years of Work Like This,” which he wrote while working at a sanitary napkin factory in Quanzhou, in China’s eastern Fujian province. Here, he shares his journey in his own words.

In the fall of 2021, I decided to quit my job as a food delivery driver in Wuhan (capital of the central Hubei province) and return to Shiyan (a city about five hours’ drive northwest) to be with my wife and child. I’d grown tired of being separated from them. But the night before I’d planned to leave, I crashed my bike and broke my leg. It was especially bad timing, as it happened on my way home from work — it wasn’t considered a work-related injury, so I had to cover all the medical costs myself.

Recovering at home in Shiyan with no income and a mortgage to pay, I felt I needed to get back to work as soon as possible, so I headed south and took a train to Quanzhou in Fujian province. Following the crowds at the station exit, I remembered the first time that I’d arrived there 18 years ago. That day, my older brother, who was already working in Quanzhou, was waiting for me. When I spotted him among a thousand faces, a tangle of joy and heartache welled in my chest. Now, as I limped out of the station, I felt the same bittersweet emotions.

I called my wife’s cousin to ask if his place was hiring. He was at a sanitary napkin factory where I’d worked for a year until 2015. I found many former coworkers were still there. A job ad at the factory gate listed openings for general workers aged 18 to 45, but plenty of employees were in their 50s. Young people don’t want to work in factories anymore. They’d prefer to work in bubble tea shops or as delivery drivers.

Even though I’d worked at the factory before, my cousin still took time to explain the company’s rules and regulations. The plant operates from 8 a.m. to 8:30 p.m., with breaks for lunch and dinner. Each workstation has a daily production target, and you can finish your shift as soon as you meet that target. If you don’t, you work until 8:30 p.m.

The factory didn’t allow us to use our phones during work hours, but the shifts were really long. My old colleague Wang said, “Every time I go to the bathroom or smoke a cigarette, I lose 10 minutes. When the quality inspector comes to chat, I lose 10 minutes. If I check my phone or nap, that’s 20 minutes. How much time is left for work?” I’d pass the hours by letting my mind wander. I was always miles away.

For the first few months, my leg hurt and I had an obvious limp, but no one commented on it. No one cared. One night, I heard in passing that a manager had broken his hand and was in hospital — no one had mentioned it. A decade ago, if a coworker had suffered a serious injury, we’d all go to the hospital to visit them, bringing gifts of fruit. This manager was not well-liked, but personality was not the only reason for the lack of concern — with the rise of smartphones, people have become distant.

Another obvious change is that no one dates anymore. There are a few workers in their late teens, but I haven’t seen any of them couple up. When I got my first factory job in 2003, the workers were all kids about the same age, and dating was common. That’s how my wife and I ended up together. But now the workers are mostly middle-aged and have little to discuss.

After about six months back in Quanzhou, my foot was completely healed. I had planned to stay for just 12 months and then return to Hubei, but when I started thinking of writing about workers and their stories, I decided to stay for another two years.

“College boy”

I posted about my writing project on a long-dormant blog I’d had that many former coworkers had followed: “When I think back to my first factory job, where I met so many peers with so many stories, I remember remaining silent. I was too shy, too afraid to disturb anyone. But I hope to record your stories or your thoughts in writing.” Three former coworkers liked the post, and it got 29 views.

I also started privately messaging former colleagues, inviting them for interviews. Some refused, some blocked me, some didn’t even reply. It was frustrating. It felt like my peers didn’t see any place for themselves in the world of literature.

This attitude didn’t come from nowhere; it was ingrained in them in school. Students who got good grades were “morally superior”; the others were “troublemakers” or simply ignored. Over time, they accepted this perspective, and they instinctively felt that anything to do with literature, learning, or self-improvement had nothing to do with them.

When I started working in a factory at 16 after leaving middle school, my coworkers called me “college boy” because I liked to read — a nickname that was part endearment, part insult. I shared a dorm with several guys, including my older brother. One of them, Jin, asked why I was always reading even though I’d quit school, suggesting it was “useless.” My brother would stand up for me, but after he left, I became the black sheep.

In a factory, it’s not OK to have intellectual pursuits.

Literary dreams

For about six years I stopped writing. But then, in 2020, the pandemic broke out, and I was working as a takeout courier in Wuhan. I felt a strong urge to document what was happening. Before this, I’d hardly written a word apart from the occasional poem.

My wife and I were just beginning our relationship in 2014, and I realized I couldn’t keep losing myself in my writing; I had to be more practical. I wanted to be more like my peers at the factory — drinking after work, going on dates.

This change in my thinking happened over time. At first, I didn’t pay any attention to my roommates’ taunts. I just wanted to read and eventually write something of my own. But after a full workday, I barely had any energy, and the things I wrote were far from the standard I wanted them to be. I considered my greatest strength to be my beautiful metaphors. I wrote many poems and submitted them to various publications, but I never received a response.

Before dating my wife, I also had two failed relationships that made me realize the distance between me and my peers in terms of lifestyle and interests.

One experience left a deep impression. An old middle school classmate sent me a poem written by his friend and asked if I could polish it. The writing style was very different to mine, and I rather disliked the poem, but I agreed anyway. Later, I learned that this friend was unhappy with my changes and felt that I’d ruined their expression. This made me wonder if other people felt the same about my poems.

When my wife and I started dating, I hesitated about telling her about my love for reading. By that point, I’d learned to hide my passion for literature. Whenever I visited the Quanzhou library, for example, I always brought an opaque bag so no one could see the books I’d borrowed. I was afraid she might think I was odd, too.

I eventually decided to tell her, although not about my writing. When I did, she surprised me by asking, “Isn’t having an opinion a good thing?” We got married in 2015.

With a baby soon on the way, we decided to relocate to Hubei, and I began helping out at my brother’s dumpling shop in Wuhan, earning 5,000 yuan ($700) a month plus free meals and accommodation. My wife spent her pregnancy in Shiyan, her hometown. After the baby came, our living expenses increased drastically and my salary wasn’t enough, so I switched jobs. I delivered parcels for a while, then started in food delivery. My family responsibilities left little time for my literary dreams.

Compared with factory work, the pressures of delivering packages are more direct. A factory is a community of familiar faces, but delivery is different. I had to interact with nearly 100 customers a day, dealing with every kind of person you can imagine, and I often found myself on the receiving end of bad tempers. But I gradually came to enjoy the job.

As senior employees left, I was promoted to a core position and reassigned. My workload was lighter, and I earned more. I worked in parcel delivery for three years, but it all ended when the boss skipped town, taking a significant amount of money that was owed to his employees.

That’s when I switched to takeout delivery. I didn’t like it at first, but it offered a lot of freedom. I didn’t have to deal with bosses or coworkers. I did have to tolerate moody customers, but I’d already become numb to that.

Injured feelings

I rarely write poetry anymore; I prefer to express things more directly. If I want to write about work injuries, for example, a poem would be too vague.

Injuries in the sanitary napkin factory tend to be silent and subtle. Not long after I returned to work there in 2021, I started developing bumps all over my skin. Breakouts would last a few days and then disappear. I suspected it was related to the dust that permeated the factory floor; it fell everywhere like snow.

During my first spell working at the factory, I developed tinnitus, so I started wearing earplugs. When my coworkers found out, they mocked me.

Work injuries like these are invisible. In factories, male workers are often assigned to handle dangerous equipment, and their injuries are often acute and obvious — crushed bones, bloody gashes. Female workers’ injuries tend to be chronic and hidden, such as back strain and allergic reactions. These are often brushed off by managers as “just women complaints.” My wife worked as a packager for a month and ended up with tenosynovitis (an inflammation in the wrist) before transferring to the quality control department.

I’ve suffered two severe work injuries. One was over 10 years ago, when I fell two meters from a ladder while operating a machine. I broke my right arm and received three months of paid leave. As there was little pain, I was strangely pleased about the injury — it meant I could stay in the dormitory and read.

The second injury was in 2014. I was operating a newly replaced machine when my right hand got caught. It was a bloody mess and I had to take two months off. At the time I thought it was just a superficial wound and I was embarrassed, so I didn’t ask for compensation. Now, I can no longer straighten one finger on that hand.

A coworker told me he believed that work injuries happen for two reasons: either you operated the equipment improperly or were careless. I disagree. This view shifts responsibility entirely onto the individual. The factory’s work schedule was unreasonable — workers were tired. When the salary system switched from hourly to piecework, it incentivized workers to increase output by keeping their machines running constantly, which meant they had to operate them at dangerously high speeds. This is systemic harm.

I’ve more than 10 years of experience working in factories. Although the machines have evolved rapidly, the lives of workers have not gotten any easier. Society is constantly changing, and so are people, but “change” does not solely mean “progress.”

As told to reporter Wang Jiawei.

A version of this article originally appeared in Southern People Weekly. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Carrie Davies; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.

(Header image: Zhang Sai poses for a photo, while a delivery driver rides past him, in Quanzhou, Fujian province, 2025. Da Shi/Southern People Weekly)