🔥 China Trend Watch (week 12½ | 2026) Part of Eye on Digital China by Manya Koetse, China Trend Watch is an overview of what’s trending and being discussed on Chinese social media. This edition was sent to paid subscribers — subscribe to receive the next issue in your inbox.

On Tuesday, March 24, rumors that something had happened to China’s most popular educational influencer were flying across Chinese social media. Some said he had collapsed, others said he was barely hanging on, while others still were refuting the rumors.

This is about “Teacher Zhang Xuefeng” (张雪峰老师, 1984), the man who carved out a big place for himself in China’s online landscape over the past decade by focusing on a sweet spot that virtually all Chinese parents and their children care about: how to choose majors strategically to ensure future employment prospects.

Among Zhang’s common questions: “What kind of salary do you want your child to have in the future?”

Besides the relevance of his focus, Zhang’s northeastern accent, comic remarks, blunt criticism, and talent for triggering controversy also amplified his online appeal, ensuring that his name frequently became part of China’s public discourse.

Like that time when he advised China’s young people against studying journalism, even stating that if he were a parent, he would “definitely knock the child unconscious if they insisted on studying journalism,” deeming it a major that lacks depth and prospects. Although it became a major controversy at the time, a poll of 42,000 voters showed that 39,000 agreed with Zhang.

Zhang capitalized on the collective anxiety in China surrounding the gaokao (高考), the national university entrance exam that determines future paths, as well as concerns that even graduates from top universities may face unemployment if they choose majors with limited practical value. Zhang’s view: choice is more important than effort.

This Tuesday evening, news emerged that Zhang Xuefeng had died on the afternoon of March 24 at the age of 41, after suffering sudden cardiac arrest.

His death has had a huge impact on Chinese social media, where many people are responding with disbelief and shock.

It’s not just that Zhang was widely known (and while not everyone liked him, many respected him)—it’s perhaps also the fact that he spent so much of his life advising others on how to control their careers and income, building great personal wealth in the process, only to die so young, at the peak of his career, with no strategy to protect him.

Besides being “chronically overworked,” Zhang also pushed himself to exercise and run frequently. Adding to this, he had been under pressure since last fall, when he became a target of official criticism and platform regulators.

Isn’t it ironic that, in the end, the most important takeaway Zhang might leave behind is not his advice on choosing majors or making smart career moves, but rather the reminder to sometimes step away from the rat race and appreciate everyday life and health, because you never know when it might all end.

Zhang leaves behind his wife and 11-year-old daughter.

Let’s dive into some of the other trends that have been major talking points this week.

What Really Stood Out This Week

Chinese Woman Who Sold Abducted Toddlers Captured After Two Decades

[#梅姨落网#] [#人贩子梅姨落网#]

A woman who played a key role in a series of China’s notorious child trafficking cases, causing relentless suffering for many families, has finally been caught after being on the run for two decades. The arrest of the woman, referred to as “Mei Yi” or “Auntie Mei” (梅姨), has dominated Chinese social media over the past week, ever since Guangzhou police announced on March 21 that they had finally captured her.

This story touches upon multiple issues that have turned it into such a major topic.

Mei Yi was involved in a series of child trafficking crimes carried out by a gang led by Zhang Weiping (张维平) and Zhou Rongping (周容平) across multiple areas in Guangdong province between 2003 and 2005. She acted as a middleman responsible for transferring and selling abducted children, mostly toddler boys. In just over two years, the group abducted and trafficked nine young children.

The parents of these boys never stopped searching for them, while Chinese authorities worked for years to crack the case. In 2016, eleven years after the last abduction, police arrested five core gang members, including Zhang, who later confessed and revealed that the person reselling the children was a local elderly woman nicknamed “Mei Yi.” However, her real identity and whereabouts remained unknown for years. Zhang Weiping and Zhou Rongping were both sentenced to death and executed in 2023.

Thanks to new technologies—from digital tracking systems to DNA matching—the abducted children were located one by one and reunited with their biological families over the years: the first in 2019 and the last in 2024. By then, the boys were roughly between 14 and 21 years old, meaning they had spent nearly their entire childhoods with the families who had bought them.

Evading Capture by Being Ordinary

One aspect of this case drawing attention is not just how Mei Yi was caught, but how she managed to evade arrest for so long. The crimes took place more than twenty years ago, in factories, rental housing, and other areas with dense migrant populations, leaving very little traceable evidence. It is also unclear how accurate the composite sketch of Mei Yi—circulating since 2017 and updated in 2019—actually was. Authorities have not released a confirmed photo following her arrest, and it is possible her real appearance differed significantly from the sketch.

A lawyer close to the case told Chinese media outlet The Paper that what made her so hard to catch was probably not how clever her tactics were, but that she appeared so normal to those around her, who might have never guessed she was a criminal. Besides arranging illegal “adoptions,” Mei Yi also acted as a local matchmaker and fortune teller, and she even lied about her identity and used aliases with someone who was her partner for two years.

Official media do not disclose exactly how Mei Yi was eventually tracked down, but it’s clear that the authorities got much closer after all the abducted children were found in October 2024, undoubtedly leading to important clues that connected all the cases.

Not Such a Happy Ending

Chinese state media have largely framed the case as a story of justice served: Mei Yi as a long-sought villain, the police as persistent heroes, and China’s advancing technology as the key to solving the case. A kind of “happy ending.”

But the truth seems more complicated, with a loud silence surrounding nine families where the abducted boys spent their entire childhoods. Their willingness to pay for a male child is part of a broader issue linked to China’s one-child policy, relatively light penalties for buyers of trafficked children (or even legal limitations due to statutes of limitation), and a deeply rooted son-preference culture that was especially strong in those years 2003- 2005.

Some online commentators did argue to “not let those hypocritical ‘adoptive parents’ off the hook.” Yet the situation is complicated by the fact that some of the boys still consider these families their parents, and in some cases choose to stay with them rather than return to biological families they barely remember.

The fact is that Mei Yu is just one chapter in a much larger story that is far from finished.

Just earlier this week, the story of another abduction case also went trending. It concerns a man named Du Jun (杜军), who was abducted in 1991 at the age of 3 while playing outside a shop with his sister. Du Jun, who spent 35 years separated from his biological family, finally reunited with his biological mother following a successful identification process that is part of a continuing series of long-separated family reunions facilitated by China’s expanding DNA-matching and digital tracking systems.

Du, now 38, had not known he was trafficked as a child, nor that his biological family had searched for him for years. He became an orphan at a young age and built a life for himself. He was found through online search efforts, the dedication of volunteers, DNA research, and a specific detail only his biological family knew: that he had a bend at the joint of his left middle finger because of an accident as a toddler.

Du Jun as a young child before his abduction, and Du Jun reunited with his biological mother in 2026. Images via Hongxing Xinwen.

As with the nine abducted boys, Du Jun’s reunion with his family does bring light to a long, dark tunnel – but it doesn’t bring back the missed childhood, the shattered families, and the endless, tear-filled years.

Let’s hope many more “Mei Yis” will be brought to justice in the years ahead.

On the Feed

“The Most Expensive Music Video in the History of Mandopop”

In 2025, Wong Kar-wai found himself at the center of one of China’s most explosive entertainment scandals of the year, one that began as a labor dispute and spiraled into a nationalist firestorm. But when this entertainment-industry controversy crossed into political red lines, something unexpected happened.

It’s safe to say that 2025 wasn’t the best year for Wong Kar-wai (王家卫, 1958), one of the most famous Chinese-language film directors in the world. The Hong Kong movie director is known for classic works like Chungking Express and In the Mood for Love. Besides his work, his iconic sunglasses are also famous – he rarely goes without them and is even nicknamed ‘Sunglasses’ (墨镜) or ‘Sunglass King’ (墨镜王) on Chinese social media.

But this year, discussions about Wong Kar-wai have gone well beyond his talent and looks. He became embroiled in what would turn into one of China’s biggest entertainment scandals of the year after a former staff member set out to expose him for exploitation and misconduct. Once the controversy spilled from entertainment into political territory, however, the dynamics of the story changed entirely.

 
A Fight for Credit
 

This story begins with the young Chinese screenwriter Gu Er (古二, real name Cheng Junnian 程骏年). He is the one who publicly accused Wong of exploitation and unethical work standards on social media (a story which we previously covered here).

Gu Er, a New York Film Academy graduate, returned to China after his studies and began building a career. In 2019, he joined the production team of Wong’s popular TV series Blossoms Shanghai, working long hours for meager pay, despite suffering from Kennedy’s disease, a motor neuron illness similar to ALS.

Cheng Junnian 程骏年, better known as Gu Er

In 2023, after the show premiered, Gu posted an article on Chinese social media titled “The Truth Behind the Writing of Blossoms” (《繁花》剧本的创作真相). He argued that he should have been credited as one of the principal writers but was instead listed only as a “preliminary editor,” buried at the end of the credits. The post sparked some discussion, but the controversy quickly faded.

It was not until last September that Gu Er released another essay titled “My Experience as a Screenwriter for Blossoms: A Summary” (我给《繁花》做编剧的经历——小结), which drew widespread attention. In the piece, he accused Wong Kar-wai of exploitation and detailed his creative work on the series, while also claiming that he was required to cook meals and run personal errands for Wong.

At one point, Gu Er describes how lead screenwriter Qin Wen (秦雯) allegedly tried to remove him from the production team after presenting his draft script as her own. According to Gu, Wong Kar-wai responded dismissively: “It’s just a few thousand yuan; he’s an assistant and can also write the script, it’s a bargain!”

Throughout 2025, Gu Er used his WeChat account to document his experiences and to upload audio recordings of conversations with members of the production team, including Wong Kar-wai and Qin Wen. These recordings were presented as evidence supporting his claims of exploitation, verbal abuse, and the denial of screenwriting credit.

In response to the controversy, the official account of the Blossoms Shanghai television series issued multiple statements denying that Gu Er deserved screenwriting credit and accusing him of abusing his position to secretly record private conversations among staff. The production team vowed to take legal action, and Gu Er’s entire WeChat account was soon shut down.

 
Leaked Recordings and Growing Backlash
 

Although his WeChat presence was erased, Gu Er refused to stay silent. In early November of 2025, he opened a new Weibo account (@古二新语) and, seemingly burning all of his bridges, continued releasing recordings involving Wong Kar-wai and members of the Blossoms Shanghai production team, triggering an unexpected shockwave over the past few weeks.

Gu Er released a series of audio recordings featuring Wong Kar-wai and others, including screenwriter Qin Wen and her assistant Xu Siyao (许思窈). In some of these recordings, they are heard mocking Gu Er; Qin appears to struggle to recall plot details she allegedly wrote herself; and Xu Siyao openly admits that an important storyline in Blossoms Shanghai originated from Gu Er’s writing.

Visuals from Blossoms Shanghai.

Wong Kar-wai and Qin Wen also spend a surprising amount of time ridiculing figures across the Chinese film and television industry, from respected senior veterans to obscure streaming-film directors, dismissively labeling them as “fake.”

What stunned the public even more were Wong Kar-wai’s crude remarks about actresses. In one recording, he comments on actress Jin Jing’s breasts and jokes, “I must get her” (“我一定要搞金靖”). Jin is not a major star, and in the final cut of Blossoms Shanghai, all of her scenes were removed. In another clip, Wong addresses screenwriter Qin Wen in a sexually suggestive and harassing tone, saying that if she had a body like Jin’s, she would not have “survived” her early years in the industry as a writer, because “I would definitely have taken you” (“我一定收你”).

Qin Wen

After this wave of leaks, the recordings—together with Gu Er’s earlier accusations—spread widely across major Chinese social media platforms. Many netizens expressed disapproval of the misogyny, gossip, and backbiting revealed in the recordings and began reevaluating Wong Kar-wai as a person, as well as his past works. Others questioned the legitimacy of Gu Er’s methods, particularly the recordings and leaks. Legal experts noted that secretly recording conversations could violate privacy laws, and that selectively edited clips might even constitute defamation.

 
Crossing the Red Line
 

Then, on November 8, Gu Er released a new recording that fundamentally altered the nature of the incident. The audio features a conversation among Wong Kar-wai, Blossoms Shanghai co-director Li Shuang (李爽), and producer Peng Qihua (彭绮华), in which they discuss COVID controls, Japan, and China’s political system.

In the recording, Wong says that the Communist Party only wants “chives” (jiǔcài, 韭菜) to harvest and describes China as a “greedy one-party state.” In Chinese internet slang, jiǔcài refers to ordinary people who are repeatedly exploited, compared to chives that are cut and grow back, only to be harvested again. When Li mentions his collection of Japanese katanas and samurai outfits, Wong jokes that, given China’s current tensions with Japan, if the collection were discovered, Li would be publicly denounced and paraded, much like during the Cultural Revolution.

Wong even suggested: “If they find [the samurai swords], just put a Chinese flag on them and say you really hate those Japanese devils.”

The Weibo post was deleted within minutes, but the recordings spread quickly.

Nationalist netizens flooded Wong’s comment section, calling him a hànjiān (汉奸, traitor to the Chinese nation), and demanding that he “get out of China.” Some conspiracy-minded users even claimed that the title of Wong’s famous TV series Blossoms (繁花 fánhuā) was intentionally chosen because it sounds like “anti-China” (反华 fǎnhuá), alleging that Wong had embedded a subversive message in the title.

Suddenly, many who had previously viewed the scandal as mere entertainment began taking sides—calling for the show to be taken down and for investigations into Wong, Li, and others involved.

 
Unusual Twist in a Familiar Script
 

In China’s public sphere, once criticism touches on the state or the Party, everything becomes more complicated. Many began questioning whether Gu Er had gone too far in leaking these conversations, and whether this was a political terror tactic disguised as personal justice.

Weaponizing nationalism to ruin a public figure is actually nothing new.

Ten years ago, CCTV host Bi Fujian (毕福剑) was recorded at a private dinner mocking Mao Zedong and was immediately fired, vanishing from public life. In 2021, actor Zhang Zhehan (张哲瀚) was canceled after taking photos near the controversial Yasukuni Shrine in Tokyo—a site that honors Japan’s war dead, including convicted war criminals. In 2022, writer Yan Geling (严歌苓) was erased from the Chinese internet almost overnight after calling Xi Jinping a “human trafficker” in commentary about a trafficking case.

Given this history, and the fact that Wong has remained silent since the leaks began, mainland audiences now fear that Wong Kar-wai could join China’s celebrity “blacklist.” Some even worry they might never see In the Mood for Love again, others fear a broadcast ban for Blossoms.

Will Wong Kar-wai become the Next Bi Fujian? All past punishment-for-speech cases have followed a familiar script: a leak emerges, nationalists erupt, official mouthpieces like Xinhua step in to shape the narrative, and punishment follows swiftly. In Bi Fujian’s case, for example, the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection issued a public condemnation within a week.

But this time, although nationalists are already outraged on social media and calling for Wong’s “anti-China” remarks to be punished, not a single major central media outlet has echoed their anger. In fact, shortly after Gu released the new recordings, the Blossoms team issued a statement accusing him of fabrication and malicious slander—and The Paper, a state-affiliated Shanghai outlet, amplified it. That was the first signal of how authorities might lean.

 
Too Valuable to Cancel?
 

Does this all mean China has become more tolerant of political criticism? Is the red line for what can and can’t be said shifting? Some believe the only reason Wong escaped harsher consequences is that he didn’t mention specific leaders by name, which is the quickest way to get into serious trouble. While that’s plausible, another reason may carry more weight: Wong Kar-wai is useful to the state’s cultural agenda.

Despite the comments in the recordings, Wong’s stance toward the authorities is not overtly hostile. In recent years, he has cooperated with state-backed projects. Blossoms, in particular, is part of Shanghai’s cultural branding campaign, with full support from Party-led propaganda departments. It received major state funding and was included as a central project on CCTV’s 2024 slate.

Wong is also a globally recognized auteur with real prestige in the West, making him valuable to China’s propaganda strategy of “telling China’s story well” (讲好中国故事).

Dropping such a cultural asset over a scandal stirred up by a disgruntled writer would be politically and culturally costly. This might explain why the official response has been unusually mild.

Many observers mistakenly assume that in China, once public outrage reaches a certain level, authorities will respond accordingly. But that’s only true when popular opinion and official interests are aligned. When they’re not—when the Party-state sees strategic value in protecting someone—public outcry changes nothing. If the Party believes Wong is worth keeping, then some of his comments will simply be forgiven.

 
The Cost of Speaking Out
 

At the center of this entire story is Gu Er. Was he wrong to weaponize nationalist outrage? Were his methods excessive or dangerous? Reactions are mixed. Some argue that leaking private recordings (especially political ones) is troubling and contributes to a climate of fear and self-censorship. Others sympathize, believing that Gu Er, who has suffered so much both physically and emotionally, shouldn’t be judged too harshly.

In the well-known Fanpai Yingping (反派影评) podcast, film journalist Bomi argued that Gu didn’t intentionally politicize the conflict; rather, he was responding within a system that had already politicized his case. Wong’s team never approached the issue as a civil labor dispute. They had enough opportunities to negotiate or settle, but instead, but chose not to . Perhaps it was arrogance. Or perhaps a confidence that the show, backed as a state-supported “main melody” (主旋律) production tied to enormous interests, would never be abandoned.

There seems to have been a clear mission to silence Gu Er. After shutting down his WeChat account, members of staff allegedly tried to intimidate him by visiting the house of his 90-year-old grandmother to deliver legal letters.

In the November 8 statement by the team, they accused him of “inciting social division” (“煽动社会对立”) and “manipulating negative emotions” (“诱导负面情绪”) and claimed he was “evading domestic legal investigation” (“逃避国内司法调查和认定”) by staying overseas—all language that is reminiscent of official state announcements. Some netizens even suggested it evoked the tone of old-school ideological and political denunciation—strong on rhetoric but lacking in substantive legal action. They frame this entire story into the context of a powerful production crew violating labor law treating a powerless writer like a political criminal.

The repercussions of this controversy are far from over, and to what extent it will have consequences for both Wong Kar-wai and Gu Er remains to be seen. Will Wong ever speak out? Will Gu Er be silenced forever?

Regardless, it is clear that Wong’s reputation has suffered. Long regarded as a “hero” of Chinese cinema, this incident has changed how many in mainland China now perceive the famous “Sunglasses.” Some call him a misogynist; others denounce him for exploiting staff. Still others see him as a hypocrite, suggesting that although he criticizes authoritarianism in the leaked recordings, he operates and thrives within that very system. One Weibo commenter wrote that the “Sunglasses King turned out to be the villain of the story.”

Although Gu Er has also received criticism for his actions, he has encouraged others through his insistence on standing up to those in power who bullied and discredited him. Recently, another screenwriter posted on Xiaohongshu about a similar experience: after independently completing the full script for a Chinese drama, he discovered that the boss had listed themself as Head Screenwriter in the end credits. The post was tagged “Gu Er” and received hundreds of comments, with many users sharing their own stories of being exploited as scriptwriters.

Even turning the dispute into a political issue failed to bring Gu Er any justice or revenge on his exploitative former employer. Still, he has gained something else: recognition from others, for whom his resistance has become a source of inspiration. Even if it was not the kind of recognition he originally sought, Gu Er still gets his credit in the end.

By Ruixin Zhang edited for clarity by Manya Koetse

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