China Tech
ChatGPT in China: Online Discussions, Concerns, and China’s ChatGPT-Style Bots
Why was a ChatGPT-like platform not first launched in China? As ChatGPT is all the talk, so is the discussion about China catching up.

Published
2 years agoon

PREMIUM CONTENT
As OpenAI’s AI chatbot ChatGPT has become one of the fastest-growing platforms ever, it is making headlines every day these days. It is also a hot topic on Chinese social media, where many wonder why ChatGPT was not developed in China and what the future holds for similar platforms in the mainland.
As ChatGPT has been making headlines internationally, the AI software has also become a popular topic on Chinese social media.
ChatGPT is software that uses artificial intelligence (AI) to write pieces of text. It was launched by OpenAI, an American AI lab founded in 2015, and within two months after its Nov. 30 2022 release, ChatGPT reached 100 million active users.
As explained by ChatGPT itself, it has been designed to generate human-like responses to a wide range of questions and topics, based on the text data it was trained on.
ChatGPT is built using the GPT-3 architecture, which stands for ‘Generative Pretrained Transformer 3.’ This architecture allows ChatGPT to generate coherent and contextually relevant responses to a wide range of questions and prompts in many different languages, making it a powerful tool for various applications, including customer service or content creation.
Even if you have not yet visited the ChatGPT chatbot site, you might have come across the technology underlying ChatGPT, which is already used in chatbots for customer service purposes by companies such as Meta, Canva, and Shopify.
ChatGPT on Chinese Social Media
Ever since China’s Spring Festival, ChatGPT has been a hot topic on Chinese social media, with many people interacting with the chatbot and sharing AI-generated texts online, varying from cute poems about Chinese cities to helpful breakfast suggestions.
On Weibo, various hashtags related to ChatGPT made it to the top trending lists recently. Some online discussions relate to what extent applications such as ChatGPT might make certain professions obsolete, or to how to address the problem of students using AI chatbots to make their homework or write essays.
There are also discussions about the privacy- and copyright problems related to the technology. The American linguist and renowned intellectual Noam Chomsky recently said that “ChatGPT basically is high-tech plagiarism,” a topic that also received a lot of attention on Weibo, where a related hashtag received 56 million views (#语言学家称ChatGPT本质是剽窃#).
The hashtag “Will ChatGPT Replace Teachers?” (#教师会被ChatGPT取代吗#) went trending on Weibo on Feb. 11, 2023. Previously, other related hashtags also questioned if programmers might lose their job because of the application.
CCTV also published about ChatGPT on Feb. 11, writing about “Ten Professions That Could be Replaced by ChatGPT” (#可能被ChatGPT取代的10大职业#), suggesting that jobs from various industries, including customer service, programming, media, education, market research, finance, etc., involve daily tasks that could also be executed by AI chatbots.
The hashtag, which received over 120 million views on Weibo, sparked conversations. Although many commenters said that some jobs, including teaching, would never be able to be replaced by artificial intelligence, some also predicted that these kinds of technologies could definitely make some jobs obsolete.
“We all thought that AI would first replace those working in physical labor instead of taking over mental capacity tasks,” one commenter wrote, with another replying: “Construction workers will still have a steady job.”
“Relax, such a chatbot can only do simple tasks, but humans have a different way of thinking from machines,” another person wrote: “Professions such as teachers or programmers need innovative ways of thinking that AI doesn’t have.”
Besides these topics, there are also Chinese social media discussions about why China – as a global AI leader – was not the first to launch such a product. Then there are those discussions about the specific difficulties surrounding the development of such a chatbot in the Chinese online environment.
Why is China not the First to Launch a ChatGPT-like Product?
The question “Why was ChatGPT not made in China?” is one that is frequently asked on Chinese social media these days, and various experts and bloggers come up with different answers.
◼︎ Chinese tech companies focus on fast applications instead of lengthy research and development
In a recent video, the Peking University Sociology Professor Jiang Ruxiang (姜汝祥) tried to answer this question: “Why is this kind of breakthrough, advanced technology not made in China?”
According to Jiang, the reason that ChatGPT is not ‘made in China’ has to do with the whole structure of science and technology in the mainland and the primary area of focus of China’s major tech startups.
Jiang shows a pyramid which, at the basic level, has ‘the foundation of science and technology’; the middle level is ‘applied science and technology,’ and the top layer is the ‘most advanced science and technology.’
Jiang argues that Chinese tech companies are most active at the middle level. They are primarily interested in fast application of science and technology as this gives them the opportunity to become profitable within a relatively short time.
Jiang suggests that it takes most advanced technology companies years of investing before ever becoming profitable. As an example, he mentions the big chipmaker ASML, as it also took the Dutch company many years of heavily investing in research and development before finally making money.
At the same time, some Chinese tech companies, such as Xiaomi, managed to skyrocket their income within a relatively short time after starting their business. The research (first layer) and advanced tech (top layer) that is needed in order for these Chinese companies to launch their platforms and products do not necessarily come from China; they can be imported, adjusted, and optimized.
According to Jiang, Chinese companies should do more to focus on the basic and top level of the science and technology pyramid. By investing in advanced, specific technology areas and deep research, China’s science and tech development would have more long-term vision, knowledge intensity, and strength. Jiang says that the Dutch company Philips, for example, invested in the chipmaker business for years without making money. He also adds that ChatGPT development was made possible through the investments of, among others, Elon Musk and Microsoft.
◼︎ Language Model Training is more difficult in the Chinese language
Other experts claim that making a Chinese ChatGPT is more difficult due to the nature of the Chinese language. The less complex a language is, the easier it is for AI models to learn the rules.
Ding Wensuan (丁文璿), Professor of Artificial Intelligence and Business Analytics at Emlyon Business School, recently told Phoenix News reporters that Chinese AI tech programs are already very strong, but that language model training is somewhat harder due to the rich and complex nature of Chinese language.
ChatGPT does understand and generate text in many different languages, including Chinese, although some Chinese users suggest it indeed fails to capture nuances, such as when telling jokes in Chinese.

User asks ChatGPT in Chinese to tell a joke, and the app generates two corny jokes that do not seem to translate well about why a mummy doesn’t wear clothes (should be “because it’s all wrapped up” but translated is more like “stripped naked”) and about why birds don’t sing ‘Happy Birthday’ (should be because they already have their own melody, but this says because they were taught to ‘tweet tweet’).
◼︎ Censorship and (politically) sensitive words
Many bloggers and commenters think that the development of ChatGPT-like platforms is more difficult in China due to existing (political) sensitivities and the Chinese online environment, which is closely monitored and subjected to censorship.
When it comes to history, (geo)politics, current events, etc., ChatGPT not only generates certain answers that would otherwise be censored on the Chinese internet, but it also is accused of holding certain biases or double standards in how it handles requests.
“Considering the original principle of ChatGPT, I think it’s useless to compete with products such as ChatGPT in a place that has sensitive words everywhere,” one commenter writes, and others also echoed this view: “It is impossible for a Chinese version of ChatGPT to come out, too many words are sensitive.”
The well-known Chinese political commentator Hu Xijin (胡锡进) was happy to learn about some supposed positive bias on the platform: when one Chinese ChatGPT user asked the chatbox to write a text about him, it turned out to praise Hu, who is also known as outspoken and controversial.
An English poem about the former Global Times editor-in-chief generated by ChatGPT also contained the following:
“He’s a voice for China’s vision,
In a world that’s often torn,
With a mission to inform and guide,
And to keep his readers warm.
Through his words and his leadership,
Hu Xijin has made a name,
And his impact on the world,
Is one that will surely remain.”
Hu Xijin jokingly wrote: “Some domestic platforms are also working on similar artificial intelligence programs, so let’s hope they’ll all stick to this standard when it’s about me.”
China’s ChatGPT-Style Bots
As reported by Reuters, OpenAI or ChatGPT itself is not blocked by Chinese authorities, but OpenAI does not allow users in mainland China, Hong Kong, Iran, Russia, and parts of Africa to sign up.
Nevertheless, people find ways to register. Until recently, there were many shops on the e-commerce platform Taobao selling Chat GPT accounts. On Feb. 9, 2023, various accounts reported that the ChatGPT register services were censored on Taobao, and that affiliated services were also no longer available on WeChat (#淘宝已屏蔽ChatGPT关键词#).

Onlnie services to register for ChatGPT
Some commenters predict that there are no chances of survival for ChatGPT in China.
At the same time, while ChatGPT is receiving so much attention, Chinese tech giants announced their plans on developing similar AI platforms this week.
Baidu announced it plans to launch an AI chatbot called ErnieBot following testing in March (#百度类chatgpt产品名为erniebot#).
Tencent also announced their chatbot-related research is also “advancing” (#腾讯正有序推进ChatGPT方向的研究#).
Sources at Alibaba also said the company is already developing ChatGPT-like chatbots which are already being tested (#阿里类chatgpt产品正在内测#).
Chinese e-commerce company JD.com also said it would launch a similar product titled ChatJD (#京东正式推出产业版chatgpt#).
Chinese media outlet Caijing published an article about ChatGPT on Feb. 12, 2023, titled “Is the Chinese Version of ChatGPT Coming Soon?” (中国版ChatGPT快来了吗), in which it suggested that although China currently does not have an application that is comparable to ChatGPT yet, it will not take long for Chinese tech companies to catch up with OpenAI since China already has all the ingredients, including vast amounts of data, to create such a platform.
The article also argues that China should learn from ChatGPT’s success and to use its weaknesses as an advantage for its own chatbots.
“We can still catch up,” some commenters write. Although others agree, they also think that China’s online environment needs to be further liberalized in order for such AI platforms to flourish.
One blogger indicates that these kind of AI language models are already difficult enough to develop, let alone if they also have to avoid sensitive words or take certain censorship policies into account: “Of course we should not let AI talk nonsense, but it should be able to talk relatively neutral and objectively. In the end, the most important thing is whether or not they have the courage and insight to let go of the control of written language.”
By Manya Koetse
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Manya is the founder and editor-in-chief of What's on Weibo, offering independent analysis of social trends, online media, and digital culture in China for over a decade. Subscribe to gain access to content, including the Weibo Watch newsletter, which provides deeper insights into the China trends that matter. More about Manya at manyakoetse.com or follow on X.

China Arts & Entertainment
How K-pop Fans and the 13-Year-Old Daughter of Baidu VP Sparked a Debate on Online Privacy
What began as K-pop fan outrage targeting a snarky commenter quickly escalated into a Baidu-linked scandal and a broader conversation about data privacy on Chinese social media.

Published
4 weeks agoon
March 26, 2025By
Ruixin Zhang
For an ordinary person with just a few followers, a Weibo account can sometimes be like a refuge from real life—almost like a private space on a public platform—where, along with millions of others, they can express dissatisfaction about daily annoyances or vent frustration about personal life situations.
But over recent years, even the most ordinary social media users could become victims of “opening the box” (开盒 kāihé)—the Chinese internet term for doxxing, meaning the deliberate leaking of personal information to expose or harass someone online.
A K-pop Fan-Led Online Witch Hunt
On March 12, a Chinese social media account focusing on K-pop content, Yuanqi Taopu Xuanshou (@元气桃浦选手), posted about Jang Wonyoung, a popular member of the Korean girl group IVE. As the South Korean singer and model attended Paris Fashion Week and then flew back the same day, the account suggested she was on a “crazy schedule.”
In the comment section, one female Weibo user nicknamed “Charihe” replied:
💬 “It’s a 12-hour flight and it’s not like she’s flying the plane herself. Isn’t sleeping in business class considered resting? Who says she can’t rest? What are you actually talking about by calling this a ‘crazy schedule’..”
Although the comment may have come across as a bit snarky, it was generally lighthearted and harmless. Yet unexpectedly, it brought disaster upon her.
That very evening, the woman nicknamed Charihe was bombarded with direct messages filled with insults from fans of Jang Wonyoung and IVE.
Ironically, Charihe’s profile showed she was anything but a hater of the pop star—her Weibo page included multiple posts praising Wonyoung’s beauty and charm. But that context was ignored by overzealous fans, who combed through her social media accounts looking for other posts to criticize, framing her as a terrible person.
After discovering through Charihe’s account that she was pregnant, Jang Wonyoung’s fans escalated their attacks by targeting her unborn child with insults.
The harassment did not stop there. Around midnight, fans doxxed Charihe, exposing her personal information, workplace, and the contact details of her family and friends. Her friends were flooded with messages, and some were even targeted at their workplaces.
Then, they tracked down Charihe’s husband’s WeChat account, sent him screenshots of her posts, and encouraged him to “physically punish” her.
The extremity of the online harassment finally drew backlash from netizens, who expressed concern for this ordinary pregnant woman’s situation:
💬 “Her entire life was exposed to people she never wanted to know about.”
💬 “Suffering this kind of attack during pregnancy is truly an undeserved disaster.”
Despite condemnation of the hate, some extreme self-proclaimed “fans” remained relentless in the online witch hunt against Charihe.
Baidu Takes a Hit After VP’s 13-Year-Old Daughter Is Exposed
One female fan, nicknamed “YourEyes” (@你的眼眸是世界上最小的湖泊), soon started doxxing commenters who had defended her. The speed and efficiency of these attacks left many stunned at just how easy it apparently is to trace social media users and doxx them.
Digging into old Weibo posts from the “YourEyes” account, people found she had repeatedly doxxed people on social media since last year, using various alt accounts.
She had previously also shared information claiming to study in Canada and boasted about her father’s monthly salary of 220,000 RMB (approx. $30.3K), along with a photo of a confirmation document.
Piecing together the clues, online sleuths finally identified her as the daughter of Xie Guangjun (谢广军), Vice President of Baidu.
From an online hate campaign against an innocent, snarky commenter, the case then became a headline in Chinese state media, and even made international headlines, after it was confirmed that the user “YourEyes”—who had been so quick to dig up others’ personal details—was in fact the 13-year-old daughter of Xie Guangjun, vice president at one of China’s biggest tech giants.
On March 17, Xie Guangjun posted the following apology to his WeChat Moments:
💬 “Recently, my 13-year-old daughter got into an online dispute. Losing control of her emotions, she published other people’s private information from overseas social platforms onto her own account. This led to her own personal information also getting exposed, triggering widespread negative discussion.
As her father, I failed to detect the problem in time and failed to guide her in how to properly handle the situation. I did not teach her the importance of respecting and protecting the privacy of others and of herself, for which I feel deep regret.
In response to this incident, I have communicated with my daughter and sternly criticized her actions. I hereby sincerely apologize to all friends affected.
As a minor, my daughter’s emotional and cognitive maturity is still developing. In a moment of impulsiveness, she made a wrong decision that hurt others and, at the same time, found herself caught in a storm of controversy that has subjected her to pressure and distress far beyond her age.
Here, I respectfully ask everyone to stop spreading related content and to give her the opportunity to correct her mistakes and grow.
Once again, I extend my apologies, and I sincerely thank everyone for your understanding and kindness.”
The public response to Xie’s apology has been largely negative. Many criticized the fact that it was posted privately on WeChat Moments rather than shared on a public platform like Weibo. Some dismissed the statement as an attempt to pacify Baidu shareholders and colleagues rather than take real accountability.
Netizens also pointed out that the apology avoided addressing the core issue of doxxing. Concerns were raised about whether Xie’s position at Baidu—and potential access to sensitive information—may have helped his daughter acquire the data she used to doxx others.
Adding fuel to the speculation were past conversations allegedly involving one of @YourEyes’ alt accounts. In one exchange, when asked “Who are you doxxing next?” she replied, “My parents provided the info,” with a friend adding, “The Baidu database can doxx your entire family.”
Following an internal investigation, Baidu’s head of security, Chen Yang (陈洋), stated on the company’s internal forum that Xie Guangjun’s daughter did not obtain data from Baidu but from “overseas sources.”
However, this clarification did little to reassure the public—and Baidu’s reputation has taken a hit. The company has faced prior scandals, most notably a the 2016 controversy over profiting from misleading medical advertisements.
Online Vulnerability
Beyond Baidu’s involvement, the incident reignited wider concerns about online privacy in China. “Even if it didn’t come from Baidu,” one user wrote, “the fact that a 13-year-old can access such personal information about strangers is terrifying.”
Using the hashtag “Reporter buys own confidential data” (#记者买到了自己的秘密#), Chinese media outlet Southern Metropolis Daily (@南方都市报) recently reported that China’s gray market for personal data has grown significantly. For just 300 RMB ($41), their journalist was able to purchase their own household registration data.
Further investigation uncovered underground networks that claim to cooperate with police, offering a “70-30 profit split” on data transactions.
These illegal data practices are not just connected to doxxing but also to widespread online fraud.
In response, some netizens have begun sharing guides on how to protect oneself from doxxing. For example, they recommend people disable phone number search on apps like WeChat and Alipay, hide their real name in settings, and avoid adding strangers, especially if they are active in fan communities.
Amid the chaos, K-pop fan wars continue to rage online. But some voices—such as influencer Jingzai (@一个特别虚荣的人)—have pointed out that the real issue isn’t fandom, but the deeper problem of data security.
💬 “You should question Baidu, question the telecom giants, question the government, and only then, fight over which fan group started this.”
As for ‘Charihe,’ whose comment sparked it all—her account is now gone. Her username has become a hashtag. For some, it’s still a target for online abuse. For others, it is a reminder of just how vulnerable every user is in a world where digital privacy is far from guaranteed.
By Ruixin Zhang
Independently covering digital China for over a decade. Like what we do? Support us and get the story behind the hashtag by subscribing:
edited for clarity by Manya Koetse
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China Digital
“Dear Li Hua”: The TikTok/Xiaohongshu Honeymoon Explained
As American ‘TikTok Refugees’ flock to China’s Xiaohongshu (Rednote), their encounter with ‘Li Hua’ strikes a chord in divided times.

Published
3 months agoon
January 20, 2025
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
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