Vietnam Will Pay A Price For Its Anti-Chinese Violence

Last week's anti-Chinese protests led to vandalism of Chinese and Taiwanese factories, causing casualties and property damage. But Vietnam could wind up the worst victim in the long run.

Evacuating Chinese workers hit by violence in Vietnam on May 13.
Evacuating Chinese workers hit by violence in Vietnam on May 13.
He Jun*


BEIJING — Last week's violent anti-Chinese rioting is the most serious that has occurred in Vietnam in 20 years. It was ostensibly triggered by protests against China"s oil exploration in the Paracel Islands, but in reality it may have represented organized violence.

Taiwanese businessman Tsai Wen-Rui, who has invested in Vietnam for 14 years, told the Taiwanese daily China Times that the Vietnamese are generally gentle people. In the past, strikes and protests were for specific appeals, but this time several attacks were organized simultaneously in different places within Binh Duong province. All of them more or less followed the same pattern, starting with masses gathering in front of factories.

The factories were forced to shut down, and the Vietnamese workers were allowed to go home first. Afterwards another batch of demonstrators arrived, scaring and intimidating management. Then came the mobs, the vandalism and the looting of anything valuable. Finally, the protesters set fire to the factories.

These incidents will have a significantly negative impact on Sino-Vietnam relations, on the Vietnamese economy, and on Vietnam's relations with neighboring countries. More specifically, they will represent a serious setback for Vietnam's investment environment because the vandalized foreign enterprises include companies from China, Taiwan, South Korea, Singapore and Japan, many of which are already considering retreating from Vietnam.

To avoid trouble, certain Taiwanese companies shut down their operations temporarily while others shifted their orders to Chinese factories. As some foreign executives have pointed out, if the Vietnamese government is incapable of getting the situation under control, acute withdrawal of foreign capital will be inevitable. By then, the results of Vietnam"s 28 years of reform and opening up will be destroyed in one fell swoop.

The Vietnamese economy is in serious danger after last week. Since Vietnam admitted in 1986 the failure of its planned economy and began taking drastic measures to reform and to introduce foreign capital and technology, economic development has thrived there. But the violence will strain economic and trade relations.

After all, the Vietnamese economy depends considerably on China. In 2013, Vietnam's imports from China totaled $37 billion and accounted for 28% of Vietnam's total imports. Its exports to China totaled $13.3 billion, accounting for 10% of its exports.

Besides, China's strategy within the Association of Southeastern Asian Nations (ASEAN) is bound to be affected. China's peripheral diplomacy depends on ASEAN countries. It wants to strengthen economic cooperation within the region to redeem its passive diplomatic approach of the past.

But the anti-Chinese violence will no doubt trigger China's to reassess this cooperation strategy. Negotiations of the Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership (RCEP), a proposed free trade agreement between the 10 ASEAN member states, originally expected to be completed by 2015, will now face more obstacles. The same is true for the Free Trade Area of the Asia Pacific (FTAAP) negotiations.

The violence will probably also impact cross-strait relations. Some in Taiwan have criticized President Ma Ying-jeou's policies regarding the mainland, saying they are to blame for Taiwanese enterprises becoming targets. The Democratic Progressive Party, the island’s opposition party, also attacked the government's policy. This adds considerable uncertainty to the Taiwanese administration, especially on the heels of repeated public outcry against a free trade deal with the mainland and the forced halt of a nuclear plant project.

Vietnam's anti-Chinese violence has sounded an alarm to China. It is most likely to disrupt China's economic and trade strategies in the ASEAN countries, but may also undercut Vietnam's own development.

*He Jun is a senior researcher at Anbound, a Chinese think tank and consultancy.

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The Food Truck, A Sign That The White And Wealthy Are Moving In

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.

Balboa Park Spring Fling Food Truck festival

San Diego Food Trucks via Facebook
Pascale Joassart-Marcelli

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.

Food vendor at outdoor international marketplace called Fair@44.

Fairat44 via Instagram

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?

Food vendor at outdoor international marketplace called Fair@44.

Fairat44 via Instagram

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.The Conversation


Pascale Joassart-Marcelli is a Professor of Geography and Director, Urban Studies and Food Studies Programs at San Diego State University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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