Changing Cast

At the Yangtze River Economic Belt Development Symposium in January 2016, Chinese President Xi Jinping stated that ecological restoration of the Yangtze must take priority over excessive development. Later that year, the city of Honghu launched projects to remove enclosure nets from Honghu Lake and resettle fishers. In 2018, the local government took the lead in fishing ban along the Yangtze, accelerating fishers’ relocation ashore. 　

After resettling, Xu Bao’an bought an apartment in a designated area for displaced fishers. From his window, he can still see the lake’s shimmering surface. 　

According to the Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Affairs, the national 10- year fishing ban in key Yangtze waters, which took effect on January 1, 2021, led to the retirement of 231,000 fishers across 10 provinces and municipalities, including Hubei, Hunan, Jiangxi and Jiangsu. Like Xu, they gave up inherited fishing skills and now face the challenge of building new lives on land. 

At its peak, the lake supported 1,465 fishing households and more than 4,000 fishers, with rods and nets stretching across the water. 　

Lake Honghu collects runoff from more than 10,000 square kilometers of the Yangtze River Basin. But since the 1990s, overfishing and enclosed aquaculture have severely weakened its ecological functions. According to a 2014 report by the Hubei Daily, the lake suffered worsening water pollution, degradation of aquatic vegetation and sharp declines in wild aquatic species, especially fish and waterfowl. Surveys recorded 81 fish species before the 1970s. After river-lake connectivity was severed, that number fell to 57, with fish showing a clear trend toward smaller body sizes. 　

Mei Lianqing, a fisher from Meitan Village in Honghu, worked on the water for three decades before the fishing ban. After finishing primary school, he began fishing alongside his father. During the 1996 flood season, the two earned about 300,000 yuan (US$42,605) fishing in the Yangtze, enough to build a house and allow Mei to marry soon afterward. “Fish resources were abundant back then, and prices were good,” Mei said. He believed he would fish for the rest of his life. 　

Over time, the populations of major commercial species such as silver carp, bighead carp and tapertail anchovy plummeted. By the mid-2010s, Mei said, some species had disappeared from his nets altogether. 　

Honghu began implementing the fishing ban and promoting fishers’ resettlement in 2018, a process that proved far from easy. 　

Wan Kai oversaw the resettlement program. As a member of the Standing Committee of Honghu Municipal Party Committee, Wan recalled boarding fishing boats countless times to explain the policy to fishers. Their biggest concern, he said, was how they would make a living after giving up fishing, a trade passed down through generations. 　

Wan detailed the compensation package: each fishing license was reimbursed at 85,600 yuan (US$12,157), boats and gear were appraised on site by third-party agencies, typically yielding 3,000 to 6,000 yuan (US$426-852), and each household received a 5,000- yuan (US$710) vocational transition subsidy. Mei said that each retired fishing households in his village received about 120,000 yuan (US$17,040) total in subsidies. The city of Honghu also provided a one-time transitional living allowance of 31,500 yuan (US$4,474) per household. 　

In 2016, Honghu’s human resources bureau organized a job fair on the lake to assess fishers’ skills and employment preferences. Wang Huan, deputy director of the city’s Public Employment and Talent Service Center, told NewsChina that although the boats rocked violently in the wind, some fishers still came to learn about onshore job opportunities and wages. 　

Others were eager to move ashore. Xu Bao’an noted that life on the lake lacked access to education and healthcare and carried constant safety risks, especially during floods. To prevent accidents, fishers often tethered young children to their boats. Xu said that one of his younger sisters drowned after falling into the lake. 　

Many fishers still vividly remember the day they handed over their boats. Wang Linkun piloted his small motorboat ashore, where officials registered, photographed and appraised it. His houseboat was valued at less than 50,000 yuan (US$7,101), with compensation transferred directly to his bank account. 　

Official data shows that Honghu has retired 1,910 registered fishing boats and resettled all 3,417 local fishers. 　

Yang Nuo, a scholar from a Chinese university who has led surveys of retired Yangtze fishers, told NewsChina that most have little formal education and lack professional skills beyond fishing, limiting their employment options to low-skilled, low-wage jobs. 　

By the end of 2022, the central government had invested more than 26.9 billion yuan (US$3.82b) to help fishers transition to new livelihoods. Governments at all levels rolled out targeted measures, including resettlement subsidies, vocational training in aquaculture, logistics and tourism, and dedicated employment service windows. In Ma’anshan, Anhui Province, more than 10,000 fishers had resettled ashore by 2019, many shifting to aquaculture or joining river patrol teams. By 2023, all 4,674 employable fishers in the city had found jobs, with “fishing-to-farming” projects boosting 376 households’ annual income by an average of more than 80,000 yuan (US$11,361). 　

Today, Mei Lianqing works as a river patroller, guarding a stretch of the Yangtze near his home. Each morning at 6 am, he rides his motorcycle to the river dyke. The damp wind hits his face as he scans the riverbanks and shoals. When he spots illegal fishing or harvesting, he approaches and urges offenders to leave. 　

“No anglers found during today’s patrol,” Mei types, attaching a selfie by the river before posting his first update of the day to his patrol team’s WeChat group. 　

“This job requires a lot of persuasion, and it’s not easy,” Mei said. Honghu has 135.5 kilometers of Yangtze River shoreline, where living off the river remains a way of life. Poaching still occurs from time to time, with some locals fishing for leisure and others traveling from neighboring cities to cast their lines. 

When Wang Linkun first moved onto land, he tried running a dry noodle stall and working on construction sites. Around 2019, as Lake Honghu began developing tourism, he earned a boat operator’s license and spent two years working as a tour boat captain. 　

Yang Nuo told NewsChina that fishing skills passed down through generations are highly specialized and do not transfer to most industries. Many resettled fishers end up in low-skilled jobs such as factory work, security or cleaning. 　

Labor-intensive local employers have become key to fishers’ career transitions. Xie Cao, a director with Honghu’s Bureau of Human Resources and Social Security, said Honghu’s freshwater aquatic products industry and its processing factories provide vital alternative employment. Wang Linkun’s wife works on a fish-gutting production line at one such factory, earning more than 3,000 yuan (US$426) per month. 　

Another major employer is Weihong Shoe Factory, facility established in Honghu for an international brand. Chen Hongkun, the factory’s general manager, said that when the factory first opened, it faced a severe labor shortage. Municipal employment authorities stepped in, recommending dozens of resettled fishers. 　

At first, it was difficult. Chen said many fishers lacked discipline, resisted management and struggled on assembly lines. Some quit after only a few days. Yang Nuo said that fishing is an inherently flexible profession: fishers follow fish migrations, cast nets in the morning, haul them at noon and decide independently whether to work. “After years of such freedom, it was inevitably hard for them to adjust to a fixed 9-to-5 schedule,” Yang said. 　

Xu Bao’an and his wife joined Weihong Shoe Factory. To help new hires adapt, Chen brought more than 20 training instructors from the company’s Sichuan headquarters. 　

The factory pays over 3,000 yuan (US$426) a month, roughly the local average wage. But some fishers found the pay too low, and filed complaints to higher authorities. 　

A turning point came in 2020. Although production was suspended for nearly four months due to the Covid-19 pandemic, the factory still allocated 10 to 20 million yuan (US$1.4 to 2.84m) to cover employee salaries. This decision fostered a strong sense of belonging among workers, including former fishers. As time passed and the fishing ban became an accepted reality, attitudes shifted. Workers grew more committed, and relations between employees and management improved. 　

Yang Nuo argues that the greatest challenge in fishers’ resettlement is mindset change. Most factory jobs require little specialized training, and fishers are capable of performing them if they are willing to adapt. “The key is whether they are prepared to change,” he said. By 2023, Weihong Shoe Factory employed more than 200 former fishers, most of whom had successfully integrated into the workforce. 　

Xu Bao’an was promoted to supervisor, overseeing a small assembly-line team. “My fishing income depended entirely on the weather, some days we made 1,000 to 2,000 yuan, other days nothing,” he said. “Now my wife and I earn more than 6,000 yuan (US$852) a month. It’s less free than fishing, but far more stable. And I can spend time with my parents and children, that’s enough for me.” 

In his early 30s after settling ashore, He Guangwen started a clothing factory in his hometown. A friend in Wuhan who ran a garment business proposed a partnership, offering a steady flow of orders. Today, He drives nightly to deliver finished garments to Xiantao, a city about 110 kilometers away. 　

Founded in 2018, the factory began as a small workshop with around 10 workers, mostly He’s relatives who were former fishers. Some had sewing experience, while others learned from scratch. He practiced stitching daily. The workshop handled only processing work: clients supplied pre-cut fabric, which workers sewed into finished garments. Margins were slim, but the business managed to break even. 　

By 2020, the workshop had expanded to three assembly lines with more than 100 employees, over 30 of them former fishers. Xie Cao said such businesses helped ease government pressure during resettlement, as they better understand the needs of former fishing families. 　

That year, Honghu provided He’s factory with 200,000 yuan (US$28,404) in entrepreneurship support funds, enabling equipment purchases and expansion. The city government also offered an annual employment subsidy of 2,000 yuan (US$284) for each retained former fisher, encouraging businesses to hire ex-fishers while stabilizing employment. 　

In recent years, however, He’s factory has come under increasing pressure. A surge in local garment workshops has intensified competition, driving down fees and reducing orders. Still, turning down work risks production stoppages and worker layoffs. Many factories now accept low-margin orders simply to keep machines running and retain staff. 　

Xie Cao said broader economic pressures have led authorities to introduce employment stabilization measures, including social security subsidies for enterprise workers. For resettled fishers, the government maintains individual employment files and conducts quarterly follow-ups. If someone becomes unemployed, officials recommend suitable job openings. 　

Ultimately, Xie said, fishers’ career transitions depend on market forces. “Employment depends on the match between individual skills and enterprise needs,” he said. “The government’s role is to build an information bridge, not to replace the market.” 

In 2021, newspaper Farmers’ Daily published an article titled “Yangtze River Fishing Ban: Protection of Yangtze River Fishing Culture Should Be Taken into Account,” written by researchers from the Rural Economic Research Center under the Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Affairs. The authors argued that while the ban is vital for ecological recovery, it must not come at the cost of erasing a distinct cultural heritage. 　

In some regions, entire fishing villages have been demolished, taking with them traditional boats, fishing gear, inherited techniques and the unique architectural styles of waterside settlements. Today, only middle-aged and elderly fishers retain the knowledge needed to pass down these traditions. Yet during the 10-year ban, many have already shifted to other livelihoods, while others are aging out of practice. 　

“If the fishing culture is not actively protected, the historical memory of Yangtze fisheries could fade within a decade,” the article warned. 　

Wang Linkun said that when fishers were not working, they would sing fishing ballads and beat drums on the lake. Each spring, families tied boats together stern to bow to hold solemn waterborne rituals, praying for favorable weather and abundant catches. After his generation moved ashore, these traditions gradually disappeared. 　

“It’s a real pity,” Wang said. “The things our ancestors passed down are slowly fading away.” Many young people today, he added, have never even been on the lake. Some cannot swim, let alone row a boat. 　

Yet there is an inherent contradiction. All the fishers interviewed, including Wang, sent their children ashore to study at an early age, determined that they would not inherit the fishing trade. Poor access to education in lake areas, they said, had limited their own prospects. “We still want our kids to study, gain knowledge and live better lives in the city,” Wang said. 　

Authorities in Honghu have made some efforts to preserve the culture. Wan Kai said that during resettlement, the government retained several well-preserved fishing boats, planning to convert them for future tourism use. In earlier years, Honghu incorporated water-town culture into tourism planning through fishing villages and cultural streets. 　

For now, ecological restoration remains the priority. Wan stressed that once environmental conditions stabilize, development will proceed in compliant areas to help safeguard fishing traditions. 　

Wang, for his part, has never fully lost the skills he honed on the water. In recent years, he worked first as a tour boat operator on Lake Honghu, then took a similar job at Lake Qinghai in Northwest China’s Qinghai Province before returning home due to altitude sickness. In September 2025, he became a patrol boat operator on the Yangtze River, earning about 3,000 yuan (US$426) a month. 　

He still docks boats with the same practiced ease and takes pride in his sharp handling skills. “My boat-driving skills are still as good as ever,” he said.