Reporter's note: Modernization in rural Xinjiang speaks louder than false accusations

Four years is a fleeting moment in the grand sweep of history, yet on the Narat grasslands of Xinjiang, it feels like a generational leap. I remember my last trip here in 2021, filming a story about China's poverty-relief "pairing assistance" program which gives more remote towns in Xinjiang access to more funds, talent and projects through links with more developed provinces. Back then, China had just declared victory over absolute poverty, and the mood was one of cautious, hard-won optimism. Xinjiang was under an international microscope, accused by some Western politicians and think tanks of "human rights abuses" and "forced labor" allegations that cast a shadow over nearly every policy – even those designed to bring clean water, paved roads and schools to outlying areas.

I still remember bumping along a dirt road deep into the prairie with a county official sent 4,000 kilometers west under the aid program. He was no desk-bound bureaucrat – his days were spent knocking on doors, crouching beside herders' sheep pens, and listening to their worries: such as the new hospitals and street lamps that villagers were eager to build, insurance they wanted after wild boars had destroyed their year's hard work. The concerns back then were basic and the moment felt raw, almost fragile to me, as if this place was fighting two battles at once – against nature's hardship and against the narratives imposed from far beyond.

Justice at the doorstep

Therefore, returning to Xinjiang this September felt almost like déjà vu. Our car once again wound through the emerald sweep of Narat's grasslands, following a convoy of local civil servants. But gone were the sacks of flour and veterinary kits that marked the old days. This time, the cargo was court files, a gleaming national emblem, and all the trappings needed to assemble a mobile courtroom.

The judges and clerks of the Narat People's Court have swapped marble court halls for canvas tents so that no dispute is left unresolved simply because of distance.

The case that day could not have been more ordinary, payment for a leased summer pasture had fallen through. But what fascinated me was the process. Plaintiff and defendant – both herders – sat cross-legged on felt mats as the judges tallied losses on-site, heard both sides and guided them to a settlement before the tea had cooled.

"Justice should be as close as their doorstep," judge Jarkhin Mukhash told me. Here at Narat People's Court which serves some 80,000 residents scattered across three townships, that means dispatching some of the best judiciary workers on horseback or bumping along in SUVs to reach remote settlements. Small as it sounds, but the message sent is powerful. The state isn't just handing out resolution, they now deliver self-governance and confidence in the system, directly to herders' doorsteps and their hands, teaching citizens how to exercise their rights instead of enforcing order.

The blend of rule of law and local custom is even more striking in a nearby yurt marked "Akhsakhal Mediation Room." In Kazakh, akhsakhal means "elder." "We Kazakhs have a tradition, to respect and trust our elders," mediator Nurlan Satibaldi explained. Here, respected community leaders like him, with three decades of grassroots working experience, mediate disputes before they escalate. "My job is to find the root of conflicts and help both sides reach a solution they can live with," he said. 

This is not just about resolving fights. It's about making the rule of law familiar, accessible, and predictable – the kind of legal certainty that allows markets and investment to take root. That particularly matters for a region that once filled international headlines with allegations of "security crackdowns" and "human rights violations." Watching the court convoy roll from one remote settlement to the next, I realized Xinjiang's narrative had shifted. This is no longer a story of mere survival, but one of weaving a social fabric sturdy enough to withstand both economic shock and geopolitical scrutiny.

In a world where debates are often reduced to a binary of governance versus freedom, Xinjiang offers a more nuanced case study. When stability comes with real justice, it empowers people to take charge of their own lives. The court has even set up a dozen "tourism circuit tribunals" in major scenic spots, resolving visitor complaints with speed and using each case as a live classroom for locals and businesses on contracts, liability and consumer rights. And it's working. While official data show criminal cases in Xinjiang falling for five straight years, with public-safety satisfaction steady at over 99 percent, what I saw was never a society under strain but one where the legal system has become the backbone on which stability and development are built.

Where gobi sprouts growth

Beyond a tourism sector that is now more orderly, international, and profitable, Xinjiang's other industries – some seeded under China's national "pairing assistance" program – have taken root and begun to flourish. They are no longer mere branches transplanted from the east, but growth engines in their own right.

Drive west from Narat and the picture widens. In Qapqal County, a local historian walked me along the banks of a two-century-old man-made canal, describing how it transformed a rocky wasteland throughout the decades. Today, thanks to electric pumping stations and modern canal management, it irrigates more than 40 percent of the county's grain fields, making this one of Xinjiang's largest rice-producing bases.

The shift is visual, kilometer after kilometer of green paddies under the desert sun, but agriculture is only half the story. Standing on the edge of a pond, I watched Pacific white shrimp dart through clear water, in what was once a parched inland county. "One source of water, two incomes," said Guan Xiaoping, who runs a sprawling ecological base here, explaining how rice paddies now double as aquaculture ponds, multiplying farmers' revenue streams. His base alone expects 80 tons of aquatic output this year, worth more than $400,000, and he is piloting a land-based recirculating system that turns fish waste into fertilizer, creating a closed-loop that boosts yields while cutting pollution. "We'll expand next year," Guan told me. "The returns are high and fast."

And when farming moves beyond subsistence and no longer just fills granaries, it fills tour buses and social media feeds.

Rural festivals now feature "rice art": giant portraits and pop-culture characters etched into paddies, inviting visitors to wander the fields with cameras in hand. "Our sales have jumped sharply this season," said Gulmira Alxirjan, who helped with stalls near one of the installations. The once-quiet countryside now hums with overlapping revenue streams – farming, aquaculture, tourism – merging into a self-reinforcing rural economy.

The evolution of Qapqal's canal mirrors the wider shift in Xinjiang's agriculture. It brought back memories of my 2021 trip to the cotton belt, when drip irrigation and plastic mulch felt like cutting-edge innovation. Today, irrigation is digitally monitored, water use is precisely rationed, and drones handle much of the labor that once bent farmers' backs.

Such technological leaps, moving beyond merely squeezing yields from the land, has made the old labor model obsolete. The workforce has been freed up for more diverse, better-paying jobs. Young people who might have once spent their autumns picking cotton are now technicians maintaining GPS-guided harvesters, as e-commerce specialists selling Xinjiang's produce to the rest of the world, as tour guides leading visitors across the Narat grasslands and so on. The economy has moved up the value chain and its people are rising with it.

Xinjiang in Motion

Beyond these individual stories, the macro picture is striking.

In 2024, Xinjiang's grain output hit 23 billion kilograms, ranking first nationwide. Its trade volume hit 434 billion yuan and its Free Trade Zone is attracting investors from Central Asia to Europe. These numbers translate into better lives – rural per capita income rose to 19,427 yuan in 2024, more than doubling in a decade. These gains make the continuing Western narrative about "forced labor" feel increasingly disconnected from ground reality, not an "isolated frontier" many imagined, but a critical hub in the Belt and Road Initiative connecting China to Central Asia and Europe.

It's impossible to stand here, witnessing this multifaceted transformation, and not think of the sanctions that are less about human rights and more about the attempts to curb Xinjiang's edge in global supply chains. Those trade barriers once cast a shadow on the very industries, like textiles and solar energy, that were lifting people out of destitution. But they seem to have failed. The trade barriers did not crush the spirit of the people I met, nor did they halt their relentless drive for a better life. If anything, they may have catalyzed a stronger push for self-reliance and innovation.

Through the dust of geopolitical controversy, a modern, sustainable, and increasingly open Xinjiang is emerging.

Its modernization is no longer just about catching up – it's about setting its own course. And the people here seem more open, more connected and more confident. They are not waiting for anyone to "save" them and they are inviting the world to come and see it for themselves.