The Sleeping Village: Shenzhen Before 1979

Picture this: it’s 1978, and you’re standing on the banks of the Shenzhen River. Across the water, the glittering skyline of Hong Kong pulses with neon lights and the hum of commerce. Turn around, and you’re in a different world—a landscape of emerald rice paddies, winding canals, and villages where time seems to have stalled decades ago. This is Bao’an County, a sleepy border region of roughly 30,000 souls in its urban core, utterly unaware that its name is about to become synonymous with the most dramatic urban transformation in human history. To understand the miracle of Shenzhen, we must first step into this “before” picture—a place of profound simplicity, where life unfolded at the pace of the seasons and the only horizon was the next rice harvest.

A Land Shaped by Water and Borders

To grasp the essence of pre-1979 Bao’an, one must first understand its geography, for the land itself dictated the rhythm of life. The county occupied a slender strip of land, barely 50 kilometers wide at its broadest point, squeezed between the towering peaks of the Wutong Mountains to the east and the vast, shimmering expanse of the Pearl River Delta to the west. Its southern edge was defined not by a neat line on a map but by the murky, silt-laden waters of the Shenzhen River (then often called the “Bao’an River” locally), a natural boundary that was more of a suggestion than a barrier. This river, no wider than a city avenue in many places, was the county’s most important—and most troublesome—feature. It separated two worlds: the bustling, capitalist enclave of British Hong Kong and the quiet, planned economy of socialist China.

The land was a patchwork of fish ponds (鱼塘, *yútáng*), rice paddies (稻田, *dàotián*), and banana plantations. The soil, rich with alluvial deposits, was fertile but required constant toil. Canals, some centuries old, snaked through the countryside, serving as irrigation arteries and the primary transportation routes for farmers. Before roads were paved, a flat-bottomed wooden boat (* sampan*) was the most efficient way to move a harvest or visit a neighbor. The air carried the earthy smell of wet soil, the sweet scent of ripening fruit, and, closer to the river, the briny tang of mangrove swamps.

This watery landscape fostered a culture of resilience and adaptation. For generations, the people of Bao’an were boat people (疍家人, *dànjiārén*), a distinct community who lived their entire lives on junks and sampans, speaking a unique dialect and following customs that set them apart from their land-dwelling neighbors. They were master fishermen and traders, their lives governed by tides and monsoons. Even those who farmed the land understood the rhythms of water—when to release it into the paddies, when to drain it for harvest, and when the summer rains might flood everything.

The border itself was porous and strangely intimate. In many spots, you could toss a stone from a Bao’an field into a Hong Kong backyard. Families were split by the line, with relatives on both sides. This created a unique psychological landscape: a constant, low-grade tension between separation and connection. The border was marked by simple bamboo fences or wire mesh, patrolled by guards from both sides, but it was never completely sealed. The “frontier zone” (边境区, *biānjìngqū*) was a liminal space where official rules blurred into informal practice.

A History of Gateway and Garrison

Bao’an’s significance long predates its 1979 rebirth. The name itself—meaning “protected peace”—was bestowed in 331 AD during the Eastern Jin Dynasty, making it one of the oldest continuously administered regions in the area. For centuries, it served as a military outpost and a customs checkpoint for the imperial court in Guangzhou (Canton). Its strategic location at the mouth of the Pearl River made it a first line of defense against pirates and foreign intruders.

During the Song and Ming dynasties, Bao’an was a bustling port for the maritime “Silk Road” (海上丝绸之路, *hǎishàng sīchóu zhī lù*). Junks from Southeast Asia and beyond would anchor in its estuaries to pay taxes and resupply. The old county seat, located near what is now the modern Nantou area, was a walled city with a governor’s office, a Confucius temple, and a market street. Archaeologists have unearthed Song Dynasty coins and ceramics from local fields, silent evidence of a once-thriving trade hub.

But by the 20th century, Bao’an’s glory had faded. The rise of Hong Kong as a major port under British rule siphoned away its maritime importance. The county became a quiet backwater, a place people passed through rather than a destination. The 1911 Revolution, the Japanese occupation, and the Chinese Civil War swept over it with little lasting change. When the People’s Republic of China was founded in 1949, Bao’an was a largely agrarian county under the administration of Huiyang Prefecture. Its population was small, its economy stagnant, its identity rooted in the past.

The creation of the “British New Territories” lease in 1898 carved a deep wound into the county’s territory. Britain leased the New Territories—including the area north of the Shenzhen River and over 200 islands—for 99 years. This arbitrary line split Bao’an in two, leaving the southern portion (modern-day Shenzhen) under Chinese control and the northern portion (modern-day New Territories) under British rule. The border was not just a political line; it was a scalpel that severed communities, farms, and ancestral graves. Elderly residents still recall stories of grandparents who woke up one morning to find their ancestral land now belonged to a different country. This historical trauma created a collective memory of loss and a deep, pragmatic understanding that borders were human-made and could, perhaps, be reshaped.

The Rhythms of a Closed Economy: Life in 1978

By 1978, Bao’an County was a place of profound simplicity and material scarcity. The Cultural Revolution (1966-1976) had intensified ideological campaigns, but its physical impact in this remote border region was less dramatic than in urban centers. Still, politics permeated everything. The county was divided into people’s communes (人民公社, *rénmín gōngshè*), the basic unit of rural organization. Each commune was a collective farm, where land was owned by the state but worked by teams of villagers. There was no private farming; all produce was pooled and distributed based on work points, a system that often disincentivized extra effort.

A typical day for a farmer like Uncle Li (a composite character based on oral histories) began before dawn. He would join his production team in the fields, wading through knee-deep water to transplant rice seedlings or harvest grain. The work was backbreaking, the tools primitive—wooden plows pulled by water buffalo, sickles for cutting, and shoulder poles for carrying loads. His “salary” was a mix of grain, a small amount of cash, and work points recorded in a ledger. In a good year, his family might save enough to buy a bicycle or a sewing machine. In a bad year, they relied on government rations.

Housing was modest: single-story houses made of baked brick or rammed earth, with tiled or thatched roofs. Courtyards were shared, and livestock—pigs, chickens, ducks—often lived under the same roof. Indoor plumbing was a luxury; water came from a communal well, and latrines were simple pits. Electricity, when it worked, powered a single bare bulb per room. Televisions were rare; a community might have one black-and-white set that gathered villagers for the evening news.

Food was simple and seasonal. The diet centered on rice, steamed buns (*mantou*), pickled vegetables, and the occasional protein from home-raised pigs or fish caught in the canals. Fresh meat was a luxury reserved for holidays like the Spring Festival. The state-run communal canteen had long since disappeared after the Great Leap For