FROM THE WEIBO WATCH PREMIUM NEWSLETTER

China’s Xiaohongshu (Rednote) has seen an unprecedented influx of foreign “TikTok refugees” over the past week, giving rise to endless jokes. But behind this unexpected online migration lie some deeper themes—geopolitical tensions, a desire for cultural exchange, and the unexpected role of the fictional character Li Hua in bridging the divide.

Imagine you are Li Hua (李华), a Chinese senior high school student. You have a foreign friend, far away, in America. His name is John, and he has asked you for some insight into Chinese Spring Festival, for an upcoming essay has to write for the school newspaper. You need to write a reply to John, in which you explain more about the history of China’s New Year festival and the traditions surrounding its celebrations.

This is the kind of writing assignment many Chinese students have once encountered during their English writing exams in school during the Gaokao (高考), China’s National College Entrance Exams. The figure of ‘Li Hua’ has popped up on and off during these exams since at least 1995, when Li invited foreign friend ‘Peter’ to a picnic at Renmin Park.

Over the years, Li Hua has become somewhat of a cultural icon. A few months ago, Shangguan News (上观新闻) humorously speculated about his age, estimating that, since one exam mentioned his birth year as 1977, he should now be 47 years old—still a high school student, still helping foreign friends, and still introducing them to life in China.

Li Hua: the connector, the helper, the icon.

This week, however, Li Hua unexpectedly became a trending topic on social media—in a week that was already full of surprises.

With a TikTok ban looming in the US (delayed after briefly taking effect on Sunday), millions of American TikTok users began migrating to other platforms this month. The most notable one was the Chinese social media app Xiaohongshu (now also known as Rednote), which saw a massive influx of so-called “TikTok refugees” (Tiktok难民). The surge propelled Xiaohongshu to the #1 spot in app stores across the US and beyond.

This influx of some three million foreigners marked an unprecedented moment for a domestic Chinese app, and Xiaohongshu’s sudden international popularity has brought both challenges and beautiful moments. Beyond the geopolitical tension between the US and China, Chinese and American internet users spontaneously found common ground, creating unique connections and finding new friends.

While the TikTok/Xiaohongshu “honeymoon” may seem like just a humorous trend, it also reflects deeper, more complex themes.

 
✳️ National Security Threat or Anti-Chinese Witchhunt?
 

At its core, the “TikTok refugee” trend has sprung from geopolitical tensions, rivalry, and mutual distrust between the US and China.

TikTok is a wildly popular AI-powered short video app by Chinese company ByteDance, which also runs Douyin, the Chinese counterpart of the international TikTok app. TikTok has over 170 million users in the US alone.

A potential TikTok ban was first proposed in 2020, amid escalating US-China tensions. President Trump initiated the move, citing security and data concerns. In 2024, the debate resurfaced in global headlines when President Biden signed the “Protecting Americans from Foreign Adversary Controlled Applications Act,” giving ByteDance nine months to divest TikTok or face a US ban.

TikTok, however, has continuously insisted it is apolitical, does not accept political promotion, and has no political agenda. Its Singaporean CEO Shou Zi Chew maintains that ByteDance is a private business and “not an agent of China or any other country.”

🇺🇸 From Washington’s perspective, TikTok is viewed as a national and personal security threat. Officials fear the app could be used to spread propaganda or misinformation on behalf of the Chinese Communist Party.

🇨🇳 Beijing, meanwhile, criticizes the ban as an act of “bullying,” accusing the US of protectionism and attempting to undermine China’s most successful internet companies. They argue that the ban reflects America’s inability to compete with the success of Chinese digital products, labeling the scrutiny around TikTok as a “witch hunt.”

Political cartoon about the American “witchhunt” against TikTok, shared on Weibo in 2023, also published on Twitter by Lianhe Zaobao.

“This will eventually backfire on the US itself,” China’s Foreign Ministry spokesperson Wang Wenbin predicted in 2024.

Wang turned out to be quite right, in a way.

When it became clear in mid-January that the ban was likely to become a reality, American TikTok users grew increasingly frustrated and angry with their government. For many of these TikTok creators, the platform is not just a form of entertainment—it has become an essential part of their income. Some directly monetize their content through TikTok, while others use it to promote services or products, targeting audiences that other platforms like Facebook, Instagram, or X can no longer reach as effectively.

Initially, the mass migration of American users to Xiaohongshu was a symbolic protest against US policies. Users advocated for the right to choose their preferred social media, and voiced their frustration at how their favorite app had become a pawn in US-China geopolitical tensions. Rejecting the narrative that “data must be protected from the Chinese,” many pointed out that privacy concerns were equally valid for US-based platforms. As an act of playful political defiance, these users downloaded Xiaohongshu to demonstrate they didn’t fear the government’s warnings about Chinese data collection.

(If they had the option, by the way, they would have installed Douyin—the actual Chinese version of TikTok—but it is only available in Chinese app stores, whereas Xiaohongshu is accessible in international stores, so it was picked as ‘China’s version of TikTok.’)

Xiaohongshu is actually not the same as TikTok at all. Founded in 2013, Xiaohongshu (literal translation: Little Red Book) is a popular app with over 300 million users that combines lifestyle, travel, fashion, and cosmetics with e-commerce, user-generated content, and product reviews. Like TikTok, it offers personalized content recommendations and scrolling videos, but is otherwise different in types of engagement and being more text-based.

As a Chinese app primarily designed for a domestic audience, the sudden wave of foreign users caused significant disruption. Xiaohongshu must adhere to the guidelines of China’s Cyberspace Administration, which requires tight control over information flows. The unexpected influx of foreign users undoubtedly created challenges for the company, not only prompting them to implement translation tools but also recruiting English-speaking content moderators to manage the new streams of content. Foreigners addressing sensitive political issues soon found their accounts banned.

Of course, there is undeniable irony in Americans protesting government control by flocking to a Chinese app functioning within an internet system that is highly controlled by the government—a move that sparked quite some debate and criticism as well.

 
✳️ The Sino-American ‘Dear Li Hua’ Moment
 

While the initial hype around Xiaohongshu among TikTok users was political, the trend quickly shifted into a moment of cultural exchange. As American creators introduced themselves on the platform, Chinese users gave them a warm welcome, eager to practice their English and teach these foreign newcomers how to navigate the app.

Soon, discussions about language, culture, and societal differences between China and the US began to flourish. Before long, “TikTok refugees” and “Xiaohongshu natives” were collaborating on homework assignments, swapping recipes, and bonding through humor.

For instance, Chinese users jokingly asked the “TikTok refugees” to pay a “cat tax” for seeking refuge on their platform, which American users happily fulfilled by posting adorable cat photos. American users, in turn, joked about becoming best friends with their “Chinese spies,” playfully mocking their own government’s fears about Chinese data collection.

The newfound camaraderie sparked creativity, as users began generating humorous images celebrating the bond between American and Chinese netizens—like Ronald McDonald cooking with the Monkey King or the Terra Cotta Soldier embracing the Statue of Liberty. Later, some images even depicted the pair welcoming their first “baby.”

🇺🇸 At the same time, it became clear just how little Americans and Chinese truly know about each other. Many American users expressed surprise at the China they discovered through Xiaohongshu, which contrasted sharply with negative portrayals they’ve seen in the media. While some popular US narratives often paint Chinese citizens as “brainwashed” by their government, many TikTok users began to reflect on how their own perspectives had been shaped—or even “manipulated”—by their media and government.

🇨🇳 For Chinese users, the sudden interaction underscored their digital isolation. Over the past 15 years, China has developed its own tightly regulated digital ecosystem, with Western platforms like Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and YouTube inaccessible in the mainland. While this system offers political and economic advantages, it has left many young Chinese people culturally hungry for direct interaction with foreigners—especially after years of reduced exchange caused by the pandemic, trade tensions, and bilateral estrangement. (Today, only some 1,100 American students are reportedly studying in China.)

The enthusiasm and eagerness displayed by American and Chinese Xiaohongshu users this week actually underscores the vacuum in cultural exchange between the two nations.

As a result of the Xiaohongshu migration, language-learning platform Duolingo reported a 216% rise in new US users learning Mandarin—a clear sign of growing interest in bridging the US-China divide.

Mourning the lack of intercultural communication and celebrating this unexpected moment of connection, Xiaohongshu users began jokingly asking Americans if they had ever received their “Li Hua letters.”

What started as some lighthearted remarks evolved into something much bigger as Chinese users dug up their old Gaokao exam papers and shared the letters they had written to their imaginary foreign friends years ago. These letters, often carefully stored in drawers or organizers, were posted with captions like, “Why didn’t you reply?” suggesting that Chinese students had been trying to reach out for years.

Example letters on Xiaohongshu: ‘Li Hua’ writing to foreign friends.

The story of ‘Li Hua’ and the replies he never received struck a chord with American Tiktok users. One user, Debrah.71, commented:
“It was the opposite for us in the USA. When I was in grade school, we did the same thing—we had foreign pen pals. But they did respond to our letters.”

Then, something extraordinary happened: Americans started replying to Li Hua.

One user, Douglas (@neonhotel), posted a heartfelt video of him writing a letter to Li Hua:

📝”Dear Li Hua, I’m sorry I didn’t get your letters. I understand you’ve been writing me for a long time, but now I’m here to reply. Hello, from your American friend. I hope you’re well. Life here is pretty normal—we go to work, hit the gym, eat dinner, watch TV. What about you? Please write back. I’m sorry I didn’t reply before, but I’m here now. Your friend, Douglas.”

Another user, Tess (@TessSaidThat), wrote:

📝”Dear Li Hua, I hope this letter finds you well. I’m so sorry my response is so late. My government never delivered your letters. Instead, they told me you didn’t want to be my friend. Now I know the truth, and I can’t wait to visit. Which city should I visit first? With love, Tess.”

Examples of Dear Li Hua letters.

Other replies echoed similar sentiments:

📝”Dear Li Hua, I’m sorry the world kept us apart.”

📝”I know we don’t speak the same language, but I understand you clearly. Your warmth and genuine kindness transcend every barrier.”

📝”Did you achieve your dreams? Are you still practicing English? We’re older now, but wherever we are, happiness is what matters most.”

These exchanges left hundreds of users—both Chinese and American, young and old, male and female—teary-eyed. In a way, it’s the emotional weight of the distance—represented by millions of unanswered letters—that resonated deeply with both “TikTok refugees” and “Xiaohongshu natives.”

Emotional responses to the Li Hua letters.

The letters seemed to symbolize the gap that has long separated Chinese and American people, and the replies highlighted the unusual circumstances that brought these two online communities together. This moment of genuine cultural exchange made many realize how anti-Chinese, anti-American sentiments have dominated narratives for years, fostering misunderstandings.

Xiaohongshu commenter.

On the Chinese side, many people expressed how emotional it was to see Li Hua’s letters finally receiving replies. Writing these letters had been a collective experience for generations of Chinese students, creating messages to imaginary foreign friends they never expected to meet.

Receiving a reply wasn’t just about connection; it was about being truly seen at a time when Chinese people often feel underrepresented or mischaracterized in global contexts. Some users even called the replies to the Li Hua letters a “historical moment.”

 
✳️ Unity in a Time of Digital Divide
 

Alongside its political and cultural dimensions, the TikTok/Xiaohongshu “honeymoon” also reveals much about China and its digital environment. The fact that TikTok, a product of a Chinese company, has had such a profound impact on the American online landscape—and that American users are now flocking to another Chinese app—showcases the strength of Chinese digital products and the growing “de-westernization” of social media.

Of course, in Chinese official media discourse, this aspect of the story has been positively highlighted. Chinese state media portrays the migration of US TikTok users to Xiaohongshu as a victory for China: not only does it emphasize China’s role as a digital superpower and supposed geopolitical “connector” amidst US-China tensions, but it also serves as a way of mocking US authorities for the “witch hunt” against TikTok, suggesting that their actions have ultimately backfired—a win-win for China.

The Chinese Communist Party’s Publicity Department even made a tongue-in-cheek remark about Xiaohongshu’s sudden popularity among foreign users. The Weibo account of the propaganda app Study Xi, Strong Country, dedicated to promote Party history and Xi Jinping’s work, playfully suggested that if Americans are using a Chinese social media app today, they might be studying Xi Jinping Thought tomorrow, writing: “We warmly invite all friends, foreign and Chinese, new and old, to download the ‘Big Red Book’ app so we can study and make progress together!”

Perhaps the most positive takeaway from the TikTok/Xiaohongshu trend—regardless of how many American users remain on the app now that the TikTok ban has been delayed—is that it demonstrates the power of digital platforms to create new, transnational communities. It’s unfortunate that censorship, a TikTok ban, and the fragmentation of global social media triggered this moment, but it has opened a rare opportunity to build bridges across countries and platforms.

The “Dear Li Hua” letters are not just personal exchanges; they are part of a larger movement where digital tools are reshaping how people form relationships and challenge preconceived notions of others outside geopolitical contexts. Most importantly, it has shown Chinese and American social media users how confined they’ve been to their own bubbles, isolated on their own islands. An AI-powered social media app in the digital era became the unexpected medium for them to share kind words, have a laugh, exchange letters, and see each other for what they truly are: just humans.

As millions of Americans flock back to TikTok today, things will not be the same as before. They now know they have a friend in China called Li Hua.

By Manya Koetse

(follow on X, LinkedIn, or Instagram)

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A recent crackdown on Chinese authors writing erotic webnovels has sparked increased online conversations about the Haitang Literature ‘Flower Market’ subculture, the challenges faced by prominent online smut writers, and the evolving regulations surrounding digital erotica in China. But how serious is the “crime” of writing explicit fiction China today?

You might have heard of haitang (海棠), the Chinese crabapple flower, but chances are you haven’t come across Haitang Literature City (海棠文学城)—and you’re not alone. Most people in China haven’t heard of it either. Haitang Literature City is a Taiwan-based, Chinese-language website dedicated primarily to female-oriented smut fiction, with numerous contributors from mainland China.

‘Smut fiction’ is a genre focused on explicit, sexual content and themes. Stories in this genre often emphasize the physical relationships between characters, with detailed erotic scenes. On Haitang Literature City, the most popular category is BL (Boys’ Love), which centers on romantic and erotic relationships between male characters and is written mainly for a female audience (read more here). The site also features a variety of heterosexual and lesbian stories, ranging from straightforwardly explicit to more unusual narratives. One consistent aspect across the site: most of the authors are women, writing primarily for a female readership.

Example covers of online erotica

Haitang Literature City, known as the ‘Flower Market’ (花市) by its users, has stayed relatively underground within certain reading circles. Recently, however, a help post on Weibo has brought this hidden flower market into the spotlight, sparking considerable buzz online.

The post came from a user named “Rain Painted on a Sunny Day” (@晴天画的雨), the younger sister of the Haitang author known as “Yunjian” (云间, “Between the Clouds”). On October 16, she revealed that Yunjian had been detained since June 20 and is only allowed visits from her lawyer. The arrest notice she shared cites the charge: “suspected of producing and disseminating pornographic materials for profit” (“传播淫秽物品牟利罪”).

Yunjian, a prominent author on Haitang, has been writing for over a decade, producing tens of millions of words. Her detention not only forces her to forfeit all the royalties earned over the past ten years—now labeled “illicit earnings”—but also means she faces time in prison. While “Rain Painted on a Sunny Day” acknowledged her sister’s “offense” in the post, she explained that the resulting heavy fines have left their family deeply in debt, struggling to make ends meet. After the post went up, many of Yunjian’s readers expressed heartbreak over her situation and began donating to help.

Meanwhile, Haitang Literature City, once part of an underground culture, has been brought into the spotlight. “What is Haitang Literature City? Why are the authors on this site charged with the crime of producing and distributing obscene materials? Can someone explain? It feels like a completely different world—I truly have no idea about any of this,” one Weibo user wrote. Ironically, the crackdown on the site has led to greater awareness of it, with Chinese netizens now paying closer attention to the long-standing repression of erotic content authors and the ongoing struggles they face.

MONTHS OF CRACKDOWN

“They’re back to where they started, with nothing to their name”

The crackdown on authors of explicit content from Haitang Literature City began earlier in 2024. Blogger @LXC (@洛曐曟LXC), who has been documenting these events, described how police in Anhui Province launched a cross-provincial operation in June. On June 20, they arrested Haitang distributors along with several of its most successful authors. The Haitang site quickly shut down the next day, citing maintenance. The platform remained offline for several days.

During this shutdown, many authors aware of the arrests requested that their published work be hidden. As a result, Haitang locked down all site content, allowing authors to unblock their works only upon request.

Most of the first batch of arrested authors were released around June 20, with some warning others against writing on Haitang due to the high risks involved. However, this information circulated only within a small group, so few were aware of it. Authors who had earned larger sums from their writing were unable to arrange their release and remained in custody.

How did Haitang respond? Despite being aware of the arrests, the site apparently chose not to inform other authors of the risks, possibly prioritizing profits and readership. Blogger @LXC expressed her frustration with Haitang for misleading authors who were completely unaware of the situation, as well as others who had heard unverified rumors, into unlocking their columns for subscriptions. Seeing this, several smaller authors followed suit and unlocked their works as well.

From late July to early August, another group of authors was summoned by the police. Nearly all of this second batch of arrested authors were among those who had reapplied to unblock their columns after the site had reopened. LXC suggested that the site’s mismanagement and silence about the initial arrests were responsible for these authors getting into trouble.

Yunjian remains one of the authors detained since the initial crackdown in June and has yet to be released. Alongside her, many lesser-known authors are also struggling, with many relying on their writing on Haitang to make ends meet. Among them are stay-at-home moms, low-income students, and young women from rural areas who cannot find work. After all this upheaval, their situations have only worsened, and they are likely in even more dire straits than the more well-known authors.

“To me, it’s straightforward,” @LXC wrote: “These women earned money and, as a result, improved their previously poor lives. Now that money is being taken away from them, they’re back to where they started, with nothing to their name.”

A DECADE-LONG SURVIVAL GAME

“Censorship has reached absurd levels”

This isn’t the first time Chinese online smut writers have been targeted under the country’s strict censorship laws governing pornographic content. Since China launched its “Clean Internet Campaign” in 2014, many smut writers and online fiction platforms have faced consequences. In June 2015, author Ding Yi (丁一) received a suspended three-and-a-half-year sentence for her “explicit” novels on the platform Jinjiang Literature City (晋江文学城). Another writer, Mo Xiang Tong Xiu (墨香铜臭), known for her novel The Untamed and its TV adaptation, was sentenced to three years on “illegal publishing” charges. Although her case didn’t specifically involve “producing and disseminating pornographic materials for profit,” her arrest was still part of the broader anti-pornography campaign due to the erotic themes in her work.

Another well-known BL writer, Tian Yi (天一), faced an even harsher punishment. In 2018, she was sentenced to ten and a half years in prison for her novel Absolute Domination, which included erotic depictions of gay relationships and had earned her around 150,000 yuan ($21,000) from print sales. A young woman who assisted with typesetting was also implicated—she received a four-year sentence and a 10,000-yuan ($1,400) fine for her 3,100-yuan ($430) part-time payment.

While authors have faced relentless crackdowns, websites themselves have also struggled to survive. Jinjiang Literature City (晋江文学城)—a major online fiction platform known for hosting works with mature content—has been shut down and pressured into strict content checks, with some smaller sites shut down entirely. After multiple shutdowns and rounds of scrutiny, Jinjiang became almost hyper-vigilant, enforcing its self-censorship to an extreme. Now, any sensitive terms are automatically replaced with “口口,” as the site pushes to remove anything that might be seen as explicit by the authorities.

Many netizens have pointed out that the “content review guidelines” (link) of the Jinjiang platform are ironically hilarious: “Any depiction below the neck involving intimacy, body parts, sexual acts, sexual thoughts or fantasies, sexual organs, or excessive violence is considered explicit and thus prohibited,” it states. “Even if it’s less direct and more subtle, if the scenes are too lengthy or portray the entire process, they are also counted as explicit content.” Netizens joke that as long as the reviewers think you’re being suggestive, it’s a off limits—censorship has reached absurd levels.

However, readers’ demand for pornographic works hasn’t diminished at all in this decade-long, intense survival game. A quick search for names like “Tian Yi,” “Yunjian,” or “Mr. Shenhai” on Weibo still reveals hundreds, if not thousands, of people actively seeking and sharing resources for their novels.

THE PRICE OF EROTIC CONTENT IN CHINA

“There are people who commit crimes that truly harm others who don’t face such severe sentences”

How serious is the “crime” of writing online smut in China? While Yunjian has yet to be tried or sentenced, online discussions suggest she may face severe punishment. Her royalties over the past decade exceed 250,000 yuan ($35,000), potentially classifying her case as a particularly serious offense under Chinese law for “producing and disseminating pornographic materials for profit,” due to its perceived negative impact on youth and potential to corrupt social morals. This could result in fines of one to five times her earnings and likely a prison sentence of over ten years.

Recent cases indicate similar outcomes: on October 17, a Weibo account called @HuaiBeiLiXinWrongfulCase (@淮北李鑫冤案) posted a plea, revealing that author Li Xin (李鑫), who co-wrote the historical fantasy Six Dynasties with Luo Sen (罗森), was detained on the same charge after earning 300,000 yuan ($42,118) in royalties, which led to a ten-year prison sentence. As a similarly prominent author, Yunjian may face even harsher penalties and potentially an even longer prison term.

Can writing smut really lead to such severe sentences? Some netizens have questioned this, speculating that the heavy penalties might actually be due to alleged money laundering or tax evasion. However, these theories were quickly dismissed: the royalties earned by Haitang authors come from legitimate payments made by actual readers, making money laundering unlikely. As for tax evasion, Haitang is a Taiwanese website and isn’t required to pay taxes to the mainland government. Even if mainland authors were guilty of tax evasion, they would likely just be required to pay back taxes rather than face prison time. Relying on these conspiracy theories to justify harsh penalties seems like a way to avoid addressing deeper issues within the current legal system.

Punishment can be actually be heavy based on various other factors. Some netizens have pointed out that the law states that making a profit of 250,000 yuan ($35,000) or achieving over 250,000 clicks is considered an particularly serious offense, potentially leading to a prison sentence of over ten years. But for online writers, especially prominent authors, reaching 250,000 clicks is relatively easy, which put them significantly at risk for for receiving heavy sentencing.

Moreover, the criteria for determining what actually constitutes ‘pornographic materials’ are quite vague. The family of the detained author Li Xin pointed out on Weibo that Article 367 of the Criminal Law specifies that literary and artistic works with artistic value, even if they contain erotic elements, should not be classified as pornographic. While Li Xin’s novels do feature erotic content, they also include a historical, cultural, military, economic, and social insights, leading to a variety of discussions among online readers.

“If this were truly an obscene novel overall, where would such rich discussions have come from?” The family wondered: “While the book does contain some unapologetic depictions of [sexual] relations, they serve only as parts of the story’s progression and character development. Could this limited content really lead to the moral corruption of ordinary people?”

The biggest controversy here centers on the stark contrast between the punishment for writing smut and for committing far more severe crimes. “Ten years is way too long; there are people who commit crimes that truly harm others who don’t face such severe sentences,” one netizen lamented on Weibo in response to Li Xin’s case.

This frustration resonates widely online. According to Chinese law, sentences for rape usually range from 3 to 10 years, with only exceptionally severe cases—such as those involving minors or resulting in serious injury or death—receiving more than ten years.

Angry netizens complain that recent court decisions on heinous crimes like sexual assault, voyeurism, and domestic violence often result in lighter sentences than what Yunjian is facing. Author @LuoSaiEr (@罗塞迩) highlighted a recent case of a man who recorded 75,000 videos for profit over five years and received only a one-year prison sentence. The stark contrast between the punishment for a smut writer and for actual sexual offenders, regardless of the legal complexities, is hard for the public to accept.

In China’s legal circles, there’s a growing belief that the laws around “producing and disseminating pornographic materials for profit” are seriously outdated, with penalties that often don’t align with the actual harm caused to society. Ever since the Tianyi case, legal experts have pointed out that the sentences don’t reflect the realities of today’s world.

Yet for ordinary people who now struggle to find erotic content, discussing legal reform feels almost pointless. With pop-up ads and QR codes linking to porn sites, hidden cameras in hotel rooms, and private videos being sold in group chats, it’s frustrating to see the law come down so hard on smut writers—who have no real victims—while many actual sex offenders walk free. As one netizen put it, this situation “shames the judiciary and makes it look disgraceful.”

Four months later, Yunjian remains in detention. With the support of donations from concerned netizens, her family has overcome their worst financial struggles and no longer accepts contributions. But for them—and for every writer and reader affected by this case—the fight for justice and their right to create still feels like a long, uncertain road ahead.

Update December 2024 (taken from our Newsletter):

We wanted to provide some updates about the erotic content writers we discussed previously, as their final sentencing results were announced recently. One of the authors convicted is Yunjian (云间), one of the more prominent writers of these sexually explicit web novels. As reported by Lianhe Zaobao, she was sentenced to 4 years and 6 months in prison for profiting from illegal activities. Some authors who were unable to gather funds to return illicit gains faced even longer sentences.

On Weibo, some people are outraged over the severity of the punishment, especially since Yunjian reportedly earned no more than 2 million RMB ($275,000) over several years of publishing. However, there are also some who defend the state’s crackdown on online “obscenities,” arguing that distributing such explicit content is a serious crime.

One commenter on Weibo wrote: “I don’t want to describe works filled with hope as ‘obscene materials’ (淫秽物品). I don’t want to define the hard-earned income from creative efforts as ‘illegal earnings’ (赃款). I don’t want to reduce the warm and joyful exchanges between readers and authors to the act of ‘distributing obscene materials’ (传播淫秽物品). This is the most degrading and evil form of humiliation.”

By Ruixin Zhang

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edited for clarity by Manya Koetse

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