Chen Man never thought that she would be branded a “traitor to China” over a photo. After the 41-year-old star photographer from Beijing photographed an Asian model for a Dior handbag advertisement, she was suddenly pilloried on the Internet in mid-November: Chen’s pictures were based on Western stereotypes of Chinese women, wrote outraged users on Chinese social media channels such as Weibo. Her eyes were too narrow, her cheekbones too high, her make-up and clothes reminiscent of a “creepy concubine” from the Qing dynasty. Chinese beauty looks different.
The state-run newspaper Beijing Daily also joined the chorus of public indignation: The photo would “distort Chinese culture.” In response, Chen apologized for her “naivety” and “ignorance“. However, the “Rénròu Sōusuo 人肉搜,” or “Human flesh search engine,” how the online hunt is known in China, was already in full swing by then. Users were systematically working their way through Chen’s portfolio, collecting evidence photos that could be used to prove her supposedly unpatriotic stance.
Images of a scantily clad model on the Three Gorges Dam, which Chen had published back in 2008, were suddenly deemed “anti-Chinese”. To avoid “hurting people’s feelings,” the fashion photographer, who is in demand around the globe, deleted all “problematic” images from her portfolio. “In the meanwhile, I will educate myself on Chinese history, attend more relevant events, and improve my ideologies,” Chen said in an open letter on Weibo. Self-criticism straight from a party guide.
China’s Cancel Culture could hit anyone
The practice to brand the originators of inappropriate statements and, wherever possible, to silence them, has established itself in the US and Europe as well. Over recent years, this became known as “Cancel Culture”. Anyone who says something inappropriate is sharply criticized by the Internet community and their opinion is “erased” or “undone,” in other words: canceled. This tendency exists in all political camps, from left to right and from religious to liberal. In China, its manifestation as a patriotic movement is particularly pronounced.
China’s nationalistic cancel culture does not spare anyone these days. The business world also learned this painful lesson. The list of companies that have already been punished for hurting the “feelings of the Chinese people” grows longer with each passing month. VW, H&M, Nike, Zara, Burberry, Adidas, Puma, Dolce & Gabbana, and even the US basketball league NBA are just a few examples of international players that have been publicly criticized and boycotted in China.
Sometimes the bone of contention was the use of a Dalai Lama quote, sometimes the perceived malicious audacity to label Taiwan as a separate country on a company’s website. “Anyone who offends the Chinese people should prepare to pay the price,” Hua Chunying, the spokeswoman for China’s foreign ministry, commented earlier this year on the collective anger over H&M’s announcement that it would no longer use cotton harvested from forced labor in Xinjiang.
It is often hard to tell what actually is made by the Chinese people and what is orchestrated by the government in such online smear campaigns, explains Adam Ni, a member of the board at the China Policy Center, an independent Australian China think tank. In Ni’s column “Neican 内参,” published in his blog “The China Story,” the lawyer has extensively covered the phenomenon of Chinese cyber-nationalism. “I think government activities and Internet users’ outrage are mutually dependent and fuel each other.”
Today’s internet mob is young and well-educated
It is no secret that the Chinese government has been deliberately manipulating opinion in online forums and social networks with paid commentators since the mid-1990s. These keyboard warriors are often referred to as “Wumao 五毛,” a term that suggests they are paid 0.5 yuan, the equivalent of seven cents, for each of their comments. However, the image of the mindless cyber mercenary is outdated. The loudest and most aggressive voices in China’s online community are now typically middle-class digital natives who access Western media and networks through VPN channels. They are also known as “Little Pinks,” 小粉红 “xiǎo fěnhóng,” named after the color of an online forum where the young cyber-nationalists used to gather.
According to a survey by Asian Barometer Survey (ABS), the “Generation Z” of Chinese born between 1990 and 2000 places great value on individual self-expression. At the same time, they have grown up with Xi Jinping’s propaganda machine, which calls for the “rejuvenation of the Chinese nation.” It accuses “foreign forces” of sabotaging China’s rise. Tensions with the West and the belief that China has managed the Covid pandemic better than the rest of the world fill the young Chinese with pride, but at the same time fuels defiance against the outside world. This has created an explosive combination that can quickly turn into open aggression.
One well-known representative of the patriotic online movement is the blogger Guyanmuchan, who has around 6.5 million followers on Weibo, but also uses Western portals such as Twitter to incite hostility against “China’s enemies”. The aesthetics of her channel is tailored to teenagers. Memes and cute cartoon characters are combined with headlines such as “Europe is just a dog on a US leash”.
The Chinese state is deliberately catering to this nationalist sentiment by visibly rejuvenating its own propaganda. Government channels have long been using Internet slang. State-produced cartoons make fun of the West. “Red” rap songs celebrate the CCP’s achievements. In some cases, the comments and essays from the Little Pinks universe are picked up and spread by official media. “Often a smear campaign begins with honest outrage. But when the state has its agenda on the topic at hand, it continues to pour fuel on the fire,” explains Adam Ni. This, he says, is also the big difference with the Western manifestation of the so-called Cancel Culture. “In China, the government is at the forefront.”
A pop song against Xi Jinping’s patriots
Because they create a mood of fear, critics like the writer Xia Shang, who lives in Shanghai and New York, have already compared the Internet agitators to the Red Guards. For Adam Ni, this comparison goes too far: “During the Cultural Revolution, the consequences were more terrible than today,” the blogger explains. Chaos had gripped the country, people had been murdered in reality. “Many officials experienced the suffering at that time first hand. This is something the party wants to avoid from happening again at all costs.” The situation today is more like a pressure cooker, with Beijing keeping a tight grip on the lid, Ni said. “The government knows exactly how to take the pressure off at any time.”
This can happen, for example, when a state-run newspaper itself suddenly becomes the victim of the online mob, for example, because it has taken a position that it feels is too soft on foreign countries. Critical comments and accounts are then deleted by the censors, and appeasing articles are launched as a counterweight. “It’s pretty obvious that the Little Pinks are not helping to improve China’s image in the world,” Ni explains. On the other hand, the government purposely uses mass outrage to justify foreign policy positions, for example, when it declares that calling for an independent investigation into the Covid pandemic hurts “the feelings of the Chinese people.”
A pop song is now even singing about just how fragile these feelings are. In October, the two Taiwan-based artists Namewee and Kimberly Chen released “Fragile,” a musical parody of the “glass hearts” of China’s online warriors, which could shatter at the slightest criticism. “I’m sorry for hurting your feelings,” the chorus goes. “I hear your fragile self-esteem shattering into a thousand pieces.” The music video is full of cross-references, from cotton referencing the H&M scandal to Winnie The Pooh, whose resemblance to Xi Jinping is still one of the many taboos in the Chinese Internet landscape. As expected, the song was quickly banned in China, along with the artists’ accounts. The two musicians take it lightly. Australian citizen Kimberly Chen explains that she still has Instagram and Facebook. And Singaporean rapper Namewee writes in a post on Instagram that it wasn’t him who was blocked: “Those who are really blocked are those who don’t have the right to listen to music in freedom.”
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