China’s unemployed are flocking to Communist Party service centres

Vincent Xue has been searching for a job for six months. Almost every day, he sits in a Starbucks in downtown Beijing, sending out resumés and checking on outstanding applications.

The shop is air-conditioned − a lifesaver in the sweltering North China summer − and the WiFi is faster than at home. To avoid paying for too many drinks, Mr. Xue brings a clear cup filled with instant coffee in the morning − a tip from social media. “No one bothers you sitting there with your own drink − the baristas are too busy to care.”

With China’s economy stuttering and youth unemployment stubbornly high, many jobseekers are looking for ways to avoid the so-called “Starbucks tax,” the cost associated with looking for work − be it buying coffee at a café or the higher electricity bill incurred by staying home all day.

For unemployed tech workers in Shenzhen, the southern megacity neighbouring Hong Kong, there is no need for money-saving hacks. Every day, thousands flock to local “mass service centres,” public spaces offering free internet, cheap food and work desks, with some adding child care, fitness facilities, art classes and well-stocked libraries to the mix.

In a country with minimal welfare benefits and a brutally competitive work culture, these centres, run by the Chinese Communist Party, can feel like a return to an earlier time in the People’s Republic, when people looked to their danwei − or “work unit” − for everything from health care to child care, sports teams, clubs for retirees and even bathing facilities.

Such benefits have been largely done away with since China’s reform and opening era, as many state-owned enterprises were dismantled or privatized, wiping out millions of “iron rice bowl” positions, known as such for the job security they once provided. But while the liberalization of China’s economy helped kick off its decades-long economic boom, it also created a distance between ordinary people and the Communist Party, depriving it of a level of grassroots support that it has been trying to win back ever since.

“This is an all-inclusive public space open to everyone, where anyone can find a suitable corner for themselves,” said Gu Yuanyuan, who works at a mass service centre in Shenzhen.

Mr. Gu’s centre sees about 3,000 people pass through every day to take advantage of the free drinking water, WiFi, air conditioning, a massive canteen offering meals for 19 yuan (about $4) and a food bank for those who cannot afford to pay.

At a centre in the Shuibei district, known for the jewelry trade, Coco Li runs an “AI night school,” teaching workers how to take advantage of new technologies, providing skills training and helping the unemployed apply for new positions.

“If you are looking for a job, you can enroll in the night school to learn relevant skills and then be matched with suitable employment opportunities,” she said. Introductory classes are free, while others are provided at a subsidized rate.

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Party service centres were originally intended for card-carrying Communists, replete with the works of President Xi Jinping and daily lectures on Marxist ideology. But in 2019, Shanghai rebranded its centres and opened them to the public, and dozens of other cities have since followed suit.

In Shenzhen, the party operates more than 2,300 service centres of varying sizes, from the 26,000-square-foot Futian district centre, known as the “People’s Library” for its collection of 20,000 books and 24-hour reading area, to a tiny station at the city’s airport, with karaoke booths and a flight simulator.

This has not come cheap. One service centre in Fuyong, a neighbourhood in Shenzhen’s Bao’an district, has an annual budget of nearly $4-million, including $2-million for staff and $995,000 for various community projects, according to official government data.

When service centres began the transition from serving party members to the public, there was concern the money was being wasted. One article in party mouthpiece People’s Daily warned that many centres were “empty shells,” where the “hardware is classy but the service doesn’t match and footfall is low.”

Even today, many centres in Beijing are poorly equipped and sparsely occupied. Some require visitors to fill out extensive forms to use the facilities or have vast spaces but next to no seating.

In Shanghai and Shenzhen, however, service centres are booming, and the party has seized on their success as a major propaganda win, both domestically and overseas. Locations that once hid their Communist Party affiliation now wear it proudly, while videos produced by English-language state media tout them as an example of how “people-centred philosophy continues to shape people’s daily lives and keep the 105-year-old party young and vibrant.”

But while the centres have been a success, the root of their popularity may hint at something the party would rather ignore: a faltering economic recovery and a youth unemployment crisis that seems poised to worsen as AI wipes out more jobs across the white collar and service sectors.

“The biggest hurdle I’m facing isn’t just the lack of jobs − it’s the shockingly low salaries companies are offering,” Mr. Xue said. “Life has gotten really tough for ordinary people these past few years.”

With files from Alexandra Li in Beijing