China’s Only Solution Yet for Climate-Ravaged Villages: ‘Move Out’
This is the second article in a two-part series on the devastation caused by extreme weather in central China’s Hunan province and the government’s efforts to relocate entire villages from disaster-prone areas. Read part one.
HUNAN, Central China — “Your whole village will need to be relocated,” Xiao Yanglin, the deputy director of the Hunan Provincial Meteorological Bureau states matter-of-factly. “The provincial government has issued plans. Are you facing any difficulties?”
Standing amid the rubble of his hometown and surrounded by high-ranking officials, Ou Xiaolong considers his answer carefully. As the top official of Yanwo Village, which had been devastated by a deadly landslide last July, he knows that there are still holdouts to the relocation plan.
“Some of the people are willing to leave, but the people here are really poor,” he says at last. “We’ve been compensated with a lot of money, but we still can’t afford to buy an apartment in the city.”
Last July, devastating landslides triggered by Typhoon Gaemi across central China’s Hunan province destroyed 95% of the village’s farmland, leaving a fractured landscape. The muddy fields beneath their feet shift with every step — a stark reminder of just how fragile the ground has become.
As the disaster unfolded, Ou had spent the night making frantic calls, warning villagers as the mountain came down. He saved some, and lost others. The landslides destroyed most of Yanwo’s homes, left at least 50 dead or missing, and displaced over 128,500 people across the surrounding Zixing region.
Now, Ou stands among the wreckage, listening to a government official explain that this — their home, their land — is no longer livable.
This meeting is one of many unfolding across Zixing as the government moves forward with one of the largest relocation efforts against the growing frequency of climate disasters in the region.
To prevent further destruction, entire villages are being moved from floodplains and mountains, with families receiving subsidies to settle in safer areas.
While many families have already agreed to relocate, these are predominantly households whose homes were completely destroyed, leaving them with no real choice. The government’s larger goal is to move everyone from high-risk zones, but the relocation effort is complicated by the uncertainty and risk for those still living in these areas.
The drive from Zixing City, the region’s administrative hub, to Yanwo presents a stark reminder of the stakes involved.
In just 40 minutes, the scene shifts from cityscape to disaster zone.
The journey begins by Dongjiang Lake, a popular tourist destination in summer when thick fog spills over the water. But on this quiet winter morning in late November, only a thin mist lingers, the lake still and untouched by visitors.
Ahead, the road veers northeast, where gray limestone gives way to weathered, reddish granite — rock more prone to collapse. Here, the peace begins to unravel: Collapsed homes. A broken bridge. A somber funeral procession.
With the land still unstable and the risk of future landslides looming, recovery moves at a crawl. A truck carrying 15 meters of concrete blocks the narrow road. Part of the painstaking effort to rebuild local infrastructure, workers say the slabs will be used to replace yet another bridge swept away by the storm.
At Yanwo, one of the hardest-hit villages, a home now doubles as the village’s temporary headquarters. Not far away, the old headquarters looks as if an invisible axe had cleaved it from the sky, slicing off its entire right corner.
On the third floor, curtains still flutter in the wind, though the windows are gone. On the second, a dining table teeters atop two tilted desks. The first floor is a tangle of collapsed walls, plant matter, and debris. A giant tree trunk pierces one room, offering a direct view of the hillside beyond.
For the government, the sheer scale of the damage — and the prospect of another flood season looming on the horizon — has made relocation the only way forward. With little time to waste, officials are fanning out across the region, pressing villagers to take what they call the “best deal yet.”
“The central government has conveyed a clear signal that ‘everyone should move out,’” officials tell Sixth Tone.
In Qingyao Village, a 40-minute drive from Yanwo, Zhong Bailan, 67, has lost everything before. Three disasters since 2000 forced her to rebuild her life from scratch. Each time, she started over — new land, new work, new hope.
But last July, the mountain finally buried her. When the landslide struck, her home collapsed around her, pinning her beneath rubble. With rescue teams hours away, and working alone, her husband, Long Xiaozhong, spent an hour digging through the wreckage with his bare hands.
She survived, but the injuries left her too weak to farm. Now, at 71, Long buys chickens and ducks from others, slaughters them, and sells them at the market. The work is exhausting, but without it, they have nothing.
Watching him struggle, she says, almost to herself: “It would have been better if he hadn’t saved me.” She pauses, then adds, “That way, he could have gotten 450,000 yuan” — the compensation families of those killed in the disaster receive. “He wouldn’t have to work anymore.”
Under the current criteria, 7,000 households, or roughly 20,000 people, qualify for relocation. Sixth Tone learned that the head of each household receives 110,000 yuan ($20,000), with an additional 20,000 yuan for each extra family member.
To meet the demand, the government is constructing four new resettlement communities in nearby towns. Families moving to these four communities are eligible for an additional 20,000 yuan, while those relocating to a city can receive 30,000 yuan.
A government notice posted outside the construction site outlines the resettlement plan.
The first phase targets relocating 4,972 households. By the end of January 2025, records show that 4,112 households — 82.7% of the first group — have already moved into new homes, purchased urban housing, or opted for monetary compensation.
The notice explains that those being relocated have homes that were either “destroyed,” “severely damaged,” or are at imminent risk of disaster. Many have been living in temporary shelters for months after the disaster and now have no choice but to leave.
The second phase will focus on families whose homes remain intact but are in high-risk zones, with relocation set to begin in August 2025 and be completed by July 31, 2026.
For those who are yet to relocate, the cost of moving remains a major hurdle, despite government subsidies and support.
An average resettlement apartment for a family of three costs at least 180,000 yuan — a steep price for most rural families in Zixing, where the per capita disposable income in 2023 was just 29,309 yuan. Urban housing is even pricier, with “charitable discounts” for disaster victims still running up to 300,000 yuan, according to a price list accessed by Sixth Tone.
“The subsidies won’t help me buy a house as big as mine,” rues Li Lankun, pointing around her flooded home in Yanwo Village. “How can we afford to live in the city without savings? In the city, you even have to pay for water. I’d rather stay in my own home.”
As he speaks with officials back in Yanwo, Ou Xiaolong, the village official, concurs. “If we can’t come back, how will we farm? How will we survive?”
“But I must tell you, considering the geological structure, terrain, and climatic conditions here, we truly believe that relocation is necessary,” Xiao Yanglin, from the Hunan Provincial Meteorological Bureau, responds. “This place can’t withstand major rainstorms. If extreme conditions return, your life will be very difficult.”
“The older villagers are unwilling to leave,” Ou says. “They believe in returning to their roots. And some of us think it’s impossible for danger to always come. Even with damage, some homes can still be lived in.”
Xiao presses on. “Frankly speaking, these disasters will only increase, with more extreme weather. One day, another storm could come. After a lifetime of hard work, you could lose everything. And people could die again. What then?”
The question hangs in the air, the conversation fades, and the weight of the decision lingers. But it encapsulates the heart of the dilemma the local government faces: how to persuade people to abandon the land that has defined their families for generations.
Yet, even as villagers resist leaving, the land beneath them is already shifting. The floods will come again. The storms will come harder.
Experts warn that Zixing’s geography, already unstable, is being pushed to the brink by extreme weather patterns. Typhoon Gaemi’s torrential rains were just the latest warning sign.
Forecasts were unable to predict the intensity of the storm, leaving authorities unprepared for the deluge that followed. “There is still a gap between the accuracy, foresight, and the needs of disaster prevention,” one internal report notes.
“People still think of floods as normal,” says Hao Nan, founder of the Zhuoming Disaster Information Service. “They don’t fully grasp the extremity of what’s coming.”
Increasingly erratic weather, combined with the region’s geological instability, means even the most experienced villagers may find themselves unprepared for future storms.
Long before Typhoon Gaemi struck in 2024, the region had been sweltering under more than 20 days of 40°C heat. Then came the rain.
The sudden temperature drop intensified the storm, fueling the extreme rainfall. “It’s like pouring cold water onto a fire,” says Tang Jie, deputy director of the Hunan Provincial Meteorological Bureau.
Typhoons that make landfall in Fujian province, 800 kilometers to the east, push moisture-heavy air inland, funneling through a natural gap in the mountains. There, it rises, condenses, and unleashes torrential rain on the slopes below.
Beneath Zixing’s surface lies eroded granite, broken into sandy soil. “Even 40 meters down, we found nothing but loose material,” says Ye Jun, a geologist who led Zixing’s disaster survey team from 2000 to 2017. When the rains come, the mountains simply collapse.
And Dongjiang Lake, the largest man-made reservoir in central-southern China, designed to trap excess rainwater, also feeds moisture into the air, contributing to extreme rainfall.
The lake’s construction in 1986 submerged a fifth of Zixing’s farmland, displacing 60,000 people. To rebuild, they cleared forests and planted mao, or hairy, bamboo, a fast-growing species used in disposable chopsticks and furniture. But its shallow roots destabilize the slopes. “When one falls, the whole patch goes with it,” says Ye.
In Qingyao Village, where Zhong lives, bamboo now blankets the mountains, leaving the slopes prone to landslides.
Small hydropower stations dotting the mountains have further disrupted river flows, creating temporary “landslide dams” — unstable barriers of debris and water that collapse under heavy rain. When they do, streams turn into torrents, amplifying the destruction.
“The power stations played a major role in the destruction,” says Ye. “Landslides sent trees and soil into these stations, forming artificial reservoirs. But these weren’t real dams. Without reinforcement, they burst, triggering mudslides.”
Sun Dongya, a senior flood risk specialist with the Ministry of Water Resources of China, told the Shanghai-based news outlet, The Paper, that poor river management has worsened the risk. “Flood channels are often obstructed by roads, buildings, or debris from previous storms. When drainage is blocked, water finds its own path — often through villages.”
Hao also underscores that the pace of such events is accelerating. “We’re not looking at a gradual rise, but a sharp upward curve. There’s no sign of an inflection point. The rate of growth itself is intensifying,” he explains.
This is particularly significant in China, where the south’s monsoonal climate and diverse terrain make it one of the most climate-sensitive regions in the world. What happens here could serve as a warning for the rest of the globe.
In Zixing, the global significance of these changes feels distant.
Asked about relocation at one of the many temporary shelters scattered across the area, many simply said: “We are farmers. What can we do in the city?”
The temporary shelters where they now live sit next to the construction site of resettlement communities. But even as these new homes rise, not all villagers see them as a future they can embrace.
For many in their 50s and 60s, the idea of leaving the land they’ve known for decades is daunting. But their children, now accustomed to life as migrant workers, are urging them to relocate.
Lan Fenghuang, who survived a mudslide with two broken legs, speaks to the inner conflict many face. “The policy is good, but it’s hard to let go of the old house,” she says. “But I’m afraid of another disaster. You see, there are still cracks in the mountains.”
Zhong, too, has been convinced to leave. Her son has decided to move the family to Zixing City.
“We’re old now, and their judgment is better,” Zhong says. She’s unsure where they’ll live or whether the relocation payment has been processed yet.
But in Yanwo Village, some have chosen to stay.
Fan Guixiong, 63, is rallying villagers to plant rapeseed amidst the remnants of their fields. Despite the devastation, Fan clings to a vision of recovery, hoping the government could invite experts to instruct them on restoring the farmland.
“The soil is full of bacteria and glass shards,” he says, surveying the land. “Only soil you can walk on barefoot is truly good.”
For Fan, this land holds memory, history, and identity. As a child, he ran through these fields, worked alongside his parents, and built a life here. Even during his years working in the southern Guangdong province, he couldn’t shake the pull of his hometown.
Now, standing among the ruins of his home, where he lived for over 30 years, he can’t imagine leaving.
He managed to salvage a wooden window frame, a broken door panel painted red, fragments of an old water heater, a cracked refrigerator, a green washbasin, and a bench missing all four legs — each a symbol of the life he built here.
In Yanwo, Ou Shezhang and his brother Ou Mojiang long for their lost produce of watermelons, oranges, and ginger. “This year’s watermelon grew particularly large. It would have been so sweet. I didn’t get to eat any, what a pity,” says Shezhang.
Both have firmly decided to stay.
Shezhang glances toward the mountains, their ridges still scarred from the landslide. “If the water rises again,” he says, “I’ll run. I’ll get out. That’s it.”
Additional reporting: Diao Fanchao and Chen Sizhong; editor: Apurva.
(Header image: Fan Guixiong (left) stands at the highest point of Yanwo Village. Wu Huiyuan/Sixth Tone)
