BEIJING — What is holding back trade expansion with Southeast Asian countries? And why are they always turning to the U.S. whenever something happens?
These two questions capture Chinese central concerns as voiced at the recent "China-ASEAN-East Asia: Cooperations and Challenges" forum, an event held by the think tank on China's public policy Anbound Consulting.
"Their closeness is unmatched since China and Southeast Asian nations started a dialogue in the 1990s," said a Chinese foreign officer who attended the forum. "Yet now is not the best moment."
The reason? While becoming increasingly dependent economically, China and countries from ASEAN (Association of Southeast Asian Nations) like Vietnam and Thailand find their political relations growing more and more divergent.
Several crises lie behind this paradox. The foreign officer points out the fact that China conceded "a lot of our interests during the free trade area talks, but after all these years, many of the ASEAN countries think they're in a weaker position."
The May 2014 24th ASEAN Summit in Myanmar — Photo: Official website
Fan Zuojun, vice-dean of Guangxi University's China-ASEAN Research Institute, understands Southeast Asian countries' complaints. "It's a basic economic principle that a major power will gain more benefits from cooperation," Fan said.
"Of China's outbound investments, 85% of businesses are operating at a loss. The most profitable projects are based in Africa and Southeast Asia," he added. "People are criticizing China for being neocolonialist abroad. We should reflect on this too."
Surveys show that Japan is much more influential — and gets many more positive comments — than China in the ASEAN region, Jiang Gongyin, a senior fellow at Anbound Consulting, said. At the same time, the U.S. accounts for $200 billion worth of investments in the area.
Not only distributed in diverse sectors, these businesses largely contribute to local public welfare projects, Xu Ningning, the executive director of the China-ASEAN Business Council, noted.
Countries like Japan also offer more competitive advantages when it comes to financing and investments. Chinese companies, on the other hand, are mostly concerned about mines and other natural resources. This difference in terms of investment models affects confidence and trust among local residents.
"It's not that investing in mining resources is in itself bad," said Li Yao, president of the China-ASEAN Investment Cooperation Fund. "But it's about doing it correctly." Li is convinced that Chinese businesses need to earn local people's trust first, through social responsibility and environmental actions.
Recent disputes in the South China Sea, along with rising nationalist sentiments within Southeast Asia, have become another obstacle to cooperation with China. Several countries in the region are still wary of China, the foreign officer said, despite its willingness to sign "good-neighbor" treaties with them.
On the Vietnam/China border — Photo: Zhou Hua/Xinhua/ZUMA
"It's unlikely that Southeast Asian countries won't feel anxious facing such a behemoth," the foreign officer said. "Gaps between these countries and China will grow even bigger given its might."
The South China Sea disputes aren't a new issue — some were already taking place in the 1980s and 1990s. Yet these tensions are rising with Vietnam and the Philippines' constant provocations. Factors like the U.S. influence also play a role in worsening the situation.
As a result, these disputes are starting to have an impact on economic and trade developments between China and its neighbors. Zhu Hao, director of the Indochina Research Office at the China Institute of Contemporary International Relations, said that trade at the Sino-Vietnamese border has plummeted sharply because of recent conflicts between the two countries.
This doesn't mean China and Southeast Asian countries are moving toward full confrontation. The two parties have a natural geographic interest in working together.
Moreover, the reality is that views about China among ASEAN countries vary. Because of very different interests — Vietnam, for instance, claims sovereignty over the Xisha and Nansha Islands, while the Philippines only reclaims part of Nansha — it remains difficult for them to work together.
Zhu considers that the international balance is tilting towards China. At the same time, the U.S. is constantly developing its efforts in Southeast Asia. Ultimately, the long-term goal for these smaller Asian nations is striking the right balance between bigger powers. When America's presence oversteps its bounds, these nations will likely use China as a counterbalance.
In San Diego, California, a researcher tracked how in the city's low-income neighborhoods that have traditionally lacked dining options, when interesting eateries arrive the gentrification of white, affluent and college-educated people has begun.
SAN DIEGO — Everybody, it seems, welcomes the arrival of new restaurants, cafés, food trucks and farmers markets.
What could be the downside of fresh veggies, homemade empanadas and a pop-up restaurant specializing in banh mis?
But when they appear in unexpected places – think inner-city areas populated by immigrants – they're often the first salvo in a broader effort to rebrand and remake the community. As a result, these neighborhoods can quickly become unaffordable and unrecognizable to longtime residents.
An appetite for gentrification
I live in San Diego, where I teach courses on urban and food geographies and conduct research on the relationship between food and ethnicity in urban contexts.
In recent years, I started to notice a pattern playing out in the city's low-income neighborhoods that have traditionally lacked food options. More ethnic restaurants, street vendors, community gardens and farmers markets were cropping up. These, in turn, spurred growing numbers of white, affluent and college-educated people to venture into areas they had long avoided.
This observation inspired me to write a book, titled The $16 Taco, about how food – including what's seen as "ethnic," "authentic" or "alternative" – often serves as a spearhead for gentrification.
Take City Heights, a large multi-ethnic San Diego neighborhood where successive waves of refugees from places as far away as Vietnam and Somalia have resettled. In 2016, a dusty vacant lot on the busiest boulevard was converted into an outdoor international marketplace called Fair@44. There, food vendors gather in semi-permanent stalls to sell pupusas, lechon (roasted pig), single-sourced cold-brewed coffee, cupcakes and tamarind raspado (crushed ice) to neighborhood residents, along with tourists and visitors from other parts of the city.
Informal street vendors are casualties.
A public-private partnership called the City Heights Community Development Corporation, together with several nonprofits, launched the initiative to increase "access to healthy and culturally appropriate food" and serve as "a business incubator for local micro-entrepreneurs," including immigrants and refugees who live in the neighborhood.
On paper, this all sounds great.
But just a few blocks outside the gates, informal street vendors – who have long sold goods such as fruit, tamales and ice cream to residents who can't easily access supermarkets – now face heightened harassment. They've become causalities in a citywide crackdown on sidewalk vending spurred by complaints from business owners and residents in more affluent areas.
This isn't just happening in San Diego. The same tensions have been playing out in rapidly gentrifying areas like Los Angeles' Boyle Heights neighborhood, Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood, New York's Queens borough and East Austin, Texas.
In all of these places, because "ethnic," "authentic" and "exotic" foods are seen as cultural assets, they've become magnets for development.
A call for food justice
Cities and neighborhoods have long sought to attract educated and affluent residents – people whom sociologist Richard Florida dubbed "the creative class." The thinking goes that these newcomers will spend their dollars and presumably contribute to economic growth and job creation.
Food, it seems, has become the perfect lure.
It's uncontroversial and has broad appeal. It taps into the American Dream and appeals to the multicultural values of many educated, wealthy foodies. Small food businesses, with their relatively low cost of entry, have been a cornerstone of ethnic entrepreneurship in American cities. And initiatives like farmers markets and street fairs don't require much in the way of public investment; instead, they rely on entrepreneurs and community-based organizations to do the heavy lifting.
In City Heights, the Community Development Corporation hosted its first annual City Heights Street Food Festival in 2019 to "get people together around table and food stalls to celebrate another year of community building." Other recent events have included African Restaurant Week, Dia de Los Muertos, New Year Lunar Festival, Soul Food Fest and Brazilian Carnival, all of which rely on food and drink to attract visitors and support local businesses.
Meanwhile, initiatives such as the New Roots Community Farm and the City Heights Farmers' Market have been launched by nonprofits with philanthropic support in the name of "food justice," with the goal of reducing racial disparities in access to healthy food and empowering residents – projects that are particularly appealing to highly educated people who value diversity and democracy.
Upending an existing foodscape
In media coverage of changing foodscapes in low-income neighborhoods like City Heights, you'll rarely find any complaints.
San Diego Magazine's neighborhood guide for City Heights, for example, emphasizes its "claim to authentic international eats, along with live music venues, craft beer, coffee, and outdoor fun." It recommends several ethnic restaurants and warns readers not to be fooled by appearances.
Longtime residents find themselves forced to compete against the "urban food machine"
But that doesn't mean objections don't exist.
Many longtime residents and small-business owners – mostly people of color and immigrants – have, for decades, lived, worked and struggled to feed their families in these neighborhoods. To do so, they've run convenience stores, opened ethnic restaurants, sold food in parks and alleys and created spaces to grow their own food.
All represent strategies to meet community needs in a place mostly ignored by mainstream retailers.
So what happens when new competitors come to town?
Starting at a disadvantage
As I document in my book, these ethnic food businesses, because of a lack of financial and technical support, often struggle to compete with new enterprises that feature fresh façades, celebrity chefs, flashy marketing, bogus claims of authenticity and disproportionate media attention. Furthermore, following the arrival of more-affluent residents, existing ones find it increasingly difficult to stay.
My analysis of real estate ads for properties listed in City Heights and other gentrifying San Diego neighborhoods found that access to restaurants, cafés, farmers markets and outdoor dining is a common selling point. The listings I studied from 2019 often enticed potential buyers with lines like "shop at the local farmers' market," "join food truck festivals" and "participate in community food drives!"
San Diego Magazine's home buyer guide for the same year identified City Heights as an "up-and-coming neighborhood," attributing its appeal to its diverse population and eclectic "culinary landscape," including several restaurants and Fair@44.
When I see that City Heights' home prices rose 58% over the past three years, I'm not surprised.
Going up against the urban food machine
Longtime residents find themselves forced to compete against what I call the "urban food machine," a play on sociologist Harvey Molotch's "urban growth machine" – a term he coined more than 50 years ago to explain how cities were being shaped by a loose coalition of powerful elites who sought to profit off urban growth.
I argue that investors and developers use food as a tool for achieving the same ends.
When their work is done, what's left is a rather insipid and tasteless neighborhood, where foodscapes become more of a marketable mishmash of cultures than an ethnic enclave that's evolved organically to meet the needs of residents. The distinctions of time and place start to blur: An "ethnic food district" in San Diego looks no different than one in Chicago or Austin.
Meanwhile, the routines and rhythms of everyday life have changed so much that longtime residents no longer feel like they belong. Their stories and culture reduced to a selling point, they're forced to either recede to the shadows or leave altogether.
It's hard to see how that's a form of inclusion or empowerment.
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