Pan is one of several Chinese migrants who I first met two years ago. Like many of the group who he travelled with, he now works in a Chinese restaurant, even though back home, he prided himself on his farming know-how.
In America, those skills don't translate, since the soil conditions are different and he doesn't speak English. Past lives hold little currency.
For a while after arriving, Pan wandered from city to city, sleeping on borrowed couches or bunking with fellow migrants. Eventually, he landed in Barstow, California, a dusty industrial town.
His life today is penned within a tight radius. He cooks and sometimes waits tables at a restaurant during the day, video-calls his wife and children in China at night, and repeats the routine the next day. He lives in a room attached to the kitchen.
To outsiders, and even to his family back home, Pan's life might seem unbearably monotonous. But to him, it's defined not by what's lacking, but by what's no longer present. No land seizures. No meddling officials. No fear of arbitrary punishment.
"My family doesn't understand," he said with a half-smile. "They ask why I left a comfortable life behind. But here, even if it's simple, it's mine. It's free."
Pan's sense of freedom is quiet but stubborn. Two years ago, in a cramped hotel room in Quito, Ecuador, he told me on the eve of his journey that even if he died en route, it would be worth it.
He still says the same. "All of this," he repeated, "is worth it."
