Compared to Tibet and Xinjiang, its larger and more famous neighbors, Qinghai has been relatively neglected in the scholarly literature of modern China. With its mix of Tibetan, Hui, Mongol, Han, and other ethnic groups, lack of international borders or other distinctive geographical features, and comparatively recent administrative birth, Qinghai struggles to attract in-depth studies of its modern history. Gregory Rohlf's new monograph aims to change that. Combining oral interviews with a careful canvassing of early PRC-era bureaucratic documents, Rohlf presents a detailed study of efforts by the early Communist state to relocate migrants from the overcrowded inner provinces to the unforgiving plateaus of Qinghai.

The result is the first systematic attempt to provide a ground-level view of socialist construction policies in Qinghai during the first decade of the Mao years. In Rohlf's telling, these policies were largely a failure, born of overly optimistic and heavy-handed attempts to bend the fragile mixed-use ecosystems of Qinghai to intensive sedentary agriculture. Most migrants found life on such settlements hard and full of unexpected privations, a far cry from the endless bounty of virgin soil promised them in the inner provinces. And yet misguided attempts by the state to force productive agriculture onto nomadic pastures and other lands ill suited to its application resulted in both very real human suffering—documented in numerous interviews conducted by the author—and long-term damage to the ecosystem, which is today still struggling to recover from the Maoist assault on the fragile natural environment of Qinghai.

Rohlf's monograph is full of rich detail and reveals the texture of many individual lives that were transformed through the turbulent process of resettlement in the early Mao years. These rare and valuable portraits, however, too often fail to penetrate beyond the surface of official media reports, neibu Party documents, and the vagaries of historical memory. Unlike many of the most stimulating and illuminating scholarly treatments of the Mao years to be published over the past decade, Building New China, Colonizing Kokonor does not draw upon archival material—published or unpublished—to narrate its story. The source base for Rohlf's monograph is very much the same as that which was available to scholars in the 1980s and 90s, a fact that makes this otherwise interesting study feel dated almost immediately upon publication. Insights are limited to the author's ability to read through the lines of state-censored newspaper articles, partially candid internal Party discussion documents, and interviews conducted more than forty years after the events in question.

One might also question the utility of such a narrow focus in both time and place. With the exception of an introductory chapter on the Republican era, this is not a study of Qinghai that spans important chronological markers or even one that covers the majority of the Mao years. The bulk of the study is concerned with one decade and one decade alone: the 1950s. In fact, most chapters treat no more than two years at a time, and more than half the book is concerned with only a four-year span, from 1955 to 1958. Had the author introduced a comparative framework that allowed for engagement with other regions of the PRC during the same time period, such a narrow focus might have been justified. As it is, the lack of both archival material and the formulation of a larger comparative framework force most chapters to end with an analytical whimper: things are complex, Rohlf repeatedly tells us, with many diverse peoples acting in many diverse ways, with plenty of “contestation” on all sides. That is undoubtedly true. But for anyone who does not bring a pre-existing fascination with 1950s Qinghai to the table, the lack of a clear analytical takeaway, larger comparative insights, or archival engagement are likely to pose significant obstacles to a full appreciation of the rich detail within.