Li had not properly slept in weeks. As a land acquisition administrator in rural Chengdu, he was responsible for convincing—or compelling—farmers to leave their ancestral homes to make way for urban development. Today, he would face Wang, an elderly resident who had lived in her farmhouse for over fifty years. She was the last holdout in a development zone where construction crews were already waiting. Li knew that if he could not persuade her to accept compensation and relocate, he would have no choice but to authorize forced eviction. ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m caught between two fires,’ he confided, ‘Either I displace people from their homes, or I fail at my job. There’s no third option.’
This paradox lies at the heart of one of China’s most pressing social challenges—an unprecedented campaign of rural land acquisition. Between 1990 and 2008, Chinese authorities seized more than 4.2 million hectares of rural land for urban development—an area larger than Switzerland. Behind these numbers lie profound human costs: each year, an estimated 2.5 to 3 million farmers lose not just their land, but their homes and way of life. The disruption to their lives extends beyond physical displacement, as they face the challenge of rebuilding their communities, adapting to entirely new environments, and seeking alternative livelihoods.
Not Just Greedy Officials: The Ground-Level Reality of Land Acquisition
The prevailing view in academic spheres identifies two main culprits behind China’s aggressive land seizures: local governments eager for urban economic growth, and weak legal protection of rural land rights. This simple narrative, however, misses a crucial piece of the puzzle. At the heart of this complex story lie the grassroots land acquisition administrators who carry out the actual work of displacement. These officials find themselves in a paradoxical position: unlike the superior governments, they cannot reap the economic benefits of land development, nor do they wield significant authority in the centralized, top-down land management system. Yet, they are the ones who must knock on doors, negotiate with residents, and ultimately enforce evictions when talks break down. Many of these administrators claim they have unwillingly become faces of a system they themselves often oppose.
‘Everything would be so much easier if we could allow voluntary participation, letting farmers choose whether to transfer their land rights. But unfortunately, we cannot,’ said a land acquisition administrator in Chengdu. As he described his role in displacing farmers from their land, the discomfort in his voice was unmistakable. ‘People think we’re the bad guys, but we’re trapped in the same rigid system as the farmers we’re forcing out,’ he explained. ‘The policies that are supposed to make our work easier actually make it much more difficult.’ His experience reflects a broader pattern among Chinese grassroots land acquisition officials, who approach their tasks with visible reluctance. Many express their anguish over creating involuntary homelessness, yet find themselves bound by a system that ultimately leaves them no choice but to resort to forced evictions.
When Protection Becomes Dispossession
To understand this contradiction—how a bureaucratic system forces unwilling bureaucrats to dispossess unwilling farmers—we need to examine the unique Chinese land management policies. Central to this crisis lies an unexpected culprit: China’s ambitious farmland protection policies. In a cruel twist of fate, the very system designed to preserve China’s agricultural heritage has become a driving force behind the dispossession of those who have cultivated this land for generations.
The roots of this crisis trace back to 1998, when China established what it called the ‘strictest land management system in the world.’ Facing rapid urbanization that threatened its food security, the government created an elaborate land planning system to prevent unchecked farmland conversion. At its centre was the ‘1.8-billion-mu red line’—China’s declaration that it must maintain at least that much farmland (about 120 million hectares) to ensure food self-sufficiency.
How does this protection system end up breeding conflict? China’s land management can be compared to an intricate puzzle where every piece must be perfectly arranged several years in advance with the approval of the central government. Local governments cannot simply expropriate land when they need it—they must first navigate a complex web of regulations built around three key elements: the farmland parcels, development quotas, and rigid planning requirements. Every fifteen years, Beijing issues a master plan that determines how much farmland each region can convert to urban use. In light of this master plan, land development quotas—special permits for the conversion of farmland to urban constructive land—would be assigned by the central government to each administrative region. Local officials then create annual plans detailing which plots of land within their jurisdiction will be developed. Such planning is mandatory before land acquisitions can be enforced. This process, however, faced a major challenge. Once a piece of land was designated for development and included within the necessary land development quota, that quota is considered used, whether or not the land was successfully acquired. This situation is analogous to paying a non-refundable entry fee to participate in an auction, where the fee must be paid regardless of whether you ultimately succeed in winning any items.
Inside China’s Land Management Maze
The rigidity of this system sets China’s rural land acquisitions apart from similar processes worldwide. While it is globally common for property owners to hold out in the hope of securing a better price or for other sincere reasons when their land is needed for development, China’s system uniquely amplifies this tension in ways that often lead to extreme outcomes—from the emergence of isolated “nail houses” standing alone amid completed developments where owners steadfastly refuse to sell despite being surrounded by construction, to forced evictions where resistant residents are ultimately removed from their properties through coercive measures when development plans cannot be delayed any further.
In non-democratic regimes, the concept of ‘authoritarian bargaining’ serves as a key governance strategy—offering economic benefits in exchange for citizens’ political compliance. China’s rural land acquisition process exemplifies this approach. Despite having broad eminent domain power to seize rural property for “public interest”—a term the Chinese government can in fact interpret at its discretion—Chinese land acquisition administrators typically prefer negotiation over immediate coercion to avoid potential social conflicts. They often engage in informal discussions with holdout families, offering flexible compensation packages tailored to each household’s circumstances to get their compliance. As one interviewed official explained, this negotiation process is similar to ‘finding reasons to give money.’
However, China’s rigid farmland protection system has unexpectedly warped this supposedly efficient bargaining process. This dynamic resembles a poker game where all the cards are revealed from the start. As development plans must identify target plots in advance, rural families immediately recognize their land’s strategic importance to government initiatives. This transparency grants them unprecedented negotiation power, encouraging more of them to hold out opportunistically for higher compensation. It is, however, a poisoned chalice. While they can bargain for better terms, these families find themselves trapped in a high-stakes game with no exit. Their land, once designated for development, leaves them vulnerable to forced eviction if the officials decide to end negotiations.
Prisoners of Procedure: When No One Can Back Down
Unlike their counterparts in other countries, Chinese grassroots land acquisition officials have no room to manoeuvre, besides offering additional compensation when faced with stubborn holdouts. They cannot circumvent the holdouts by adjusting the land-taking scope or looking for alternative locations. The officials are bound by unmodifiable plans approved at higher levels and quotas that, once assigned, cannot be moved elsewhere. ‘It’s like being forced to buy a specific house at a specific address,’ one interviewed expert explained, ‘If the owner won’t sell, you can’t just go buy the house next door instead.’
Moreover, the farmland protection system has made the costs of failed or incomplete land acquisition unbearable for land acquisition officials. As mentioned above, the system has created a cruel trap: once land quotas are committed to land use plans, they become effectively locked, regardless of acquisition outcomes. The inflexibility of the system has turned land development quotas into irreplaceable and irrecoverable resources for local governments. These quotas represent more than just numbers—they are golden tickets to economic growth and revenue, as valuable as the development rights themselves. This spawns a perverse incentive structure where officials feel driven to complete acquisitions precisely at any cost, even if it means resorting to force. The spectre of wasting these precious quotas looms larger than concerns about social unrest or public backlash. As one expert commented, ‘sometimes grassroots land-taking officials know forcing people out will cause problems, but letting those hard-earned development opportunities go to waste seems even worse to them.’ This is a classic sunk cost fallacy played out in real estate, but with far graver stakes—instead of just money, it is people’s homes and livelihoods that are hanging in the balance.
Thus, the tragic irony of this system becomes clear: in attempting to protect farmland through rigid top-down controls, China has created conditions that make the forcible displacement of rural families more likely, not less. The system’s inflexibility creates a pressure cooker of conflict. Land use plans are locked in by upper-level government decisions, while development quotas are rigidly tied to specific plots of land with little room for adjustment. This bureaucratic straitjacket transforms what should be routine property negotiations into zero-sum battles where neither side has the option to walk away.
Street-level officials, hamstrung by their limited negotiation power and minimal autonomy, often find themselves trapped in an endless cycle of bargaining, continuously increasing compensation offers until they hit their budget limits. When these bargaining attempts fail—especially when compensation demands exceed what the government is willing or capable of paying—administrators face the very situation their negotiation strategy was designed to avoid: the need to resort to coercive measures, transforming from negotiators into enforcers. On the other hand, families who have lived on their land for generations may find themselves with no real choice: accept whatever compensation is offered, or face eventual forced eviction. The brutal mathematics of bureaucracy turns what should be a simple land transfer into a forced displacement—a tragic outcome that serves neither the land-taking officials nor the farmers they are tasked with removing.
The Price of ‘Perfect’ Control
This reveals a deeper truth about the governance challenges China faces: sometimes the most damaging policies are not the overtly flawed ones, but well-intentioned measures that create unintended consequences through their rigid implementation. While China’s highly centralized governance structure is often lauded for its efficiency and ability to implement sweeping policies, the same centralized framework that allows Beijing to enforce strict farmland preservation has inadvertently created a system where both administrators and farmers are ensnared in a web of inflexible rules and zero-sum outcomes in land acquisitions. As China continues its massive urbanization spree, understanding these systemic pressures becomes crucial for finding ways to protect both farmland and farmers’ rights. The solution may lie not in abandoning farmland protection, but in building more flexibility into the system—allowing local officials the autonomy to negotiate more humane solutions when conflicts arise.
Until then, millions of Chinese farmers will continue facing the paradox of a system that values their land so highly it is willing to forcibly evict them to protect it.
Author’s Note: This article is based on interviews and real-life events, but some details have been fictionalized or altered to protect the identities of those involved. While the narrative structure is crafted for readability, the story reflects real themes and insights from these conversations.