Chapter Dive
China Is Not Censoring Its Social Media to Please the West
Russian recruitment ads, China’s censorship, and how Western media sometimes guess Beijing’s stance by reading between the wrong lines.
Published
1 year agoon
FROM THE WEIBO WATCH PREMIUM NEWSLETTER
Dear Reader,
Recently, news broke that two Chinese nationals were captured by Ukrainian forces while fighting on the Russian side in eastern Ukraine. Their capture quickly made international headlines, not just because of their nationality but also because of how they allegedly got there.
As I worked on an article about this case, I kept running into something noteworthy: the recurring assumption that if something is visible on Chinese social media, it must have the government’s tacit approval.
Here, I’ll briefly get into more about the story and why that assumption misses the mark.
Russian Army Ads on Chinese Social Media
Earlier this month, Ukrainian President Zelensky announced that two Chinese nationals fighting for Russia on Ukrainian soil were captured by Ukrainian troops. On Monday, April 14, the two Chinese men – handcuffed and guarded – spoke during a press conference in Kyiv. They were identified as the 33-year old Wang Guangjun (王广军) from Henan and the 26-year old Zhang Renbo (张仁波) from Jiangxi.

Zhang and Wang during the press conference, image via Weibo user @边沁-Bentham.
Zelensky has claimed that at least “several hundred” more Chinese citizens are fighting on Russia’s side in Ukraine. On April 9, he stated that Ukraine had obtained the surnames and passport details of 155 Chinese mercenaries recruited by Russia through social media platforms.
The Kyiv Independent reported that both Wang and Zhang stated that they were not sent to the war by the Chinese government, and joined of their own free will.
While Wang claims he joined the Russian army after seeing an advertisement on Chinese social media, Zhang said he came to Russia in December for construction work and was recruited for military service there. Both men joined for monetary gain. Wang said he was promised to make $2,000-$3,000 per month, but that his phone and bank card were later taken from him.
The news that Chinese nationals were captured while fighting on the Russian side made international headlines — particularly the claim that Russia is recruiting Chinese mercenaries through social media, which has become a focal point in various media reports, such as this one by The Guardian, this article by ABC News, and this video report by RFE.
Some reports, including the latter, suggest a link between online recruitment ads circulating on Chinese social media, Beijing’s stance toward Russia, and the fact that these ads have not been censored. Zelensky himself stated that Russia has been recruiting Chinese citizens via social media, and that “official Beijing knows about this.”
RFE writes:
📰✍️ “Zelenskyy himself has stopped short of saying the Chinese government authorized the mercenaries’ involvement in Ukraine, but he has accused Beijing of turning a blind eye to Russia’s recruitment of its citizens.
And there’s some indication Chinese authorities haven’t made a concerted effort to stop them.
The Chinese Internet is heavily censored, and social media is closely monitored and controlled, yet many of these recruitment posts — some of which are months old — are still online and being shared.”
Kafkaesque Territory
Over recent years, I have noticed a recurring assumption in English-language media coverage when it comes to interpreting China’s stance on certain issues — from international conflicts to social issues: if something is not censored, it is assumed to be officially condoned.
A 2023 report by Human Rights Watch (HRW), for example, argued that China needs to take more robust measures to combat anti-Black racism on social media platforms. The report suggested that Chinese authorities systematically fail to properly address this issue, and that platforms like Bilibili, Kuaishou, Weibo, and Xiaohongshu should intensify efforts to remove problematic content that perpetuates racial stereotypes, belittles interracial relationships, impersonates Black people, etc.
One radio editor who later called me to talk about this report also suggested that surely, if it was not being censored, the authorities must approve of it?
Similar discussions came up when there was a significant rise in anti-Jewish sentiments and anti-Semitic posts on Chinese social media after the beginning of the Israel-Hamas War. An opinion piece in the Washington Post by Josh Rogin titled “Fueling online antisemitism is China’s new tool against the West” argued that, because antisemitism was ubiquitous on Chinese social media, it thus must be promoted by Chinese authorities — suggesting that this is how it works “on China’s internet, where no opinion is allowed to flourish without government approval.”
Rogin wrote:
📰✍️ “This unprecedented surge in antisemitism online in China could be possible only with the blessing of the Chinese government, which appears to be using anti-Jewish hate as a tool of its anti-U.S. and anti-Western diplomacy.”
“Of course, not all criticism of Israel is antisemitic, and antisemitism existed in China before Oct. 7. But via its internet censorship regime and state-controlled media, Chinese authorities have been fueling the flames of anti-Jewish hate online.”
The piece also quoted Aaron Keyak, the US Deputy Special Envoy to Monitor and Combat Antisemitism, in saying:
📰✍️ “What we saw after October 7 was a drastic change in the social media within China. The antisemitism became more unplugged, more free-flowing,” (…) “And because we know that the Chinese internet is not free, that’s a conscious decision by the Chinese government to allow that kind of rhetoric to be greatly increased.”
The pervasiveness of both anti-Black racism and anti-Semitic content on Chinese social media raises significant concerns. Belonging to a different category of concern, it’s understandable that certain Russian army recruitment ads circulating on various Chinese platforms trigger some alarm bells.
However, this line of arguing that lumps together the censoring policies of various Chinese social media platforms and Beijing’s official stance is not only flawed — it is also heading into somewhat Kafkaesque territory, where Western media outlets, generally rooted in free speech ideals, end up criticizing China not for censoring too much, but for not censoring enough.
Getting China’s Censorship Dynamics Wrong
There are several misunderstandings in the line of thinking that if something circulates on Chinese social media, it must ipso facto be tolerated by the authorities.
🔍 1. Mistaking China’s Censorship Model for the Western One
First, it conflates how censorship operates on Chinese platforms with how moderation works on Western platforms.
Those who are not used to surfing around Weibo, Douyin, Kuaishou, and others might be surprised to find just how much questionable content remains uncensored on Chinese social media. From graphic violence to deadly accidents, bloody war videos, raunchy images, doxxing, discrimination, or dangerous stunts — scrolling these apps can sometimes seriously be bad for your blood pressure.
At the same time, doomscrolling Chinese social media also makes you realize how tightly platforms like Facebook, TikTok, YouTube, or Instagram are moderated (TikTok’s parent company is Chinese, but its community guidelines are tuned to align with EU/US standards). Even the slightest hint at shocking or sexual content or violence could get you flagged on Western social media.
(For example, one video I made years ago about a Chinese woman intentionally tripping a 4-year-old in a restaurant got flagged by YouTube for “graphic violence,” another post I made about a deadly flash flood in the mountains of Pengzhou was removed by TikTok for “promoting dangerous activities”).
The emergence of online videos showing military violence, assaults against women, bullying among schoolchildren, or irresponsible pet ownership does not suggest that Beijing tacitly endorses violence, misogyny, campus aggression, or animal cruelty. Rather, it reflects the realities of a vast and multifaceted online ecosystem where millions of videos, images, and posts get uploaded every single day, and where, with over a billion users, not every corner of social media is going to be wholesome or tightly controlled.
It also means that some issues, even though they could be considered sensitive, are not prioritized by social media moderating systems (whether automated or human) or by Chinese regulators.
🔄 2. China’s Censorship is Selective and Shifts Over Time
Censorship in China is not static. It constantly changes in response to evolving and changing social, economic, and (geo)political contexts.
There are many laws & regulations regarding online content, involving the Cyberspace Administration of China (CAC) and other regulatory bodies, which set rules for internet content — from Weibo posts to online advertisements, from livestreaming to online series and web novels. Social media platforms moderate their own content in various ways, adhering to state regulators and self-censoring through AI algorithms and human reviewers.
Outside the regulatory framework, there is a lot of grey area. For state regulators, social media censorship is just one way to protect national security, Party power, economic stability, and cultural cohesion. For Chinese platform businesses, it is a necessary evil — they must navigate complicated dynamics between keeping social media flourishing while keeping (cyberspace) authorities content. If they don’t, they risk punishment, which affects business. They are busy enough moderating priority content and generally won’t touch content that poses no immediate threat to their operations, even if it could be considered sensitive.
This doesn’t mean censorship cannot fluctuate with the times — on the contrary, it changes all the time. Something that once seemed unharmful might later be perceived as disruptive and still get censored.
In some ways, there is overlap with how companies like Meta (Facebook, Instagram) moderate their content; they also use a combination of AI tools and human moderators to identify and remove content. However, the regulatory frameworks from which they operate are closely tied to their respective legal, historical, and social contexts, resulting in very different censorship practices.
One thing that is prevalent in the guidelines of companies like Meta or Google is the need to keep content far away from explicit material or violent and shocking content, in order to remain “advertiser-friendly” within their socio-cultural and legal contexts. This is very different from the Chinese online environment, where one of the main priorities for social media companies is to avoid politically controversial or subversive content to keep things as “Party-friendly” as possible.
🌏 3. Imposing Western Ethical Standards on China
An (overlapping) misunderstanding behind the suggestion that any sensitive or questionable content that emerges on Chinese social media must be tolerated by the authorities is that Western media outlets are projecting Western ethical standards onto China’s internet governance.
Assuming that all sensitive content must be immediately censored or flagged — because that’s what would happen under Western frameworks — ignores China’s different historical, political, and social contexts.
China’s censorship is not intended to please the West; it serves domestic political, cultural, economic and social goals under the Party’s leadership. Besides the censorship, there’s a major propaganda apparatus that goes beyond deleting posts and focuses on guiding public opinion and controlling the official narrative.
Criticizing China for censoring too little on issues that are of concern in the West misses the point. China’s censorship serves Chinese interests, not the moral priorities of the international community.
Furthermore, telling the country known for having the world’s most sophisticated censorship apparatus that it is “not censoring the right things” is not only somewhat Orwellian – it also reinforces existing frustrations in China that the West often acts as a morally superior enforcer on the global stage, pointing fingers at China despite ongoing instances of violence, racism, and injustice within their own societies.
Two Soldiers, One “Hype”?
Back to the article I’ve been working on and the case of Chinese mercenaries Wang, Zhang, and the Russian recruitment ads circulating on Chinese social media. These army recruitment ads definitely circulated (example, example, example, example), although not ubiquitously — they mostly appeared within specific circles on platforms like Douyin or Zhihu, and mainly if you were looking for them. Often, they seemed to be shared more for their novelty or news value rather than for direct recruitment purposes. (Similarly, some Ukrainian recruitment ads were also shared online.)
Before Zelensky’s big reveal, there had already been speculation about whether Chinese nationals might be serving in Russian military units. In March 2025, some influential X accounts claimed that footage from Donetsk showed Chinese individuals wearing Russian military uniforms. At the time, as you can read here, this suggestion caused some banter and disbelief on Chinese social media. Some users suggested that the men seen in the footage could be cosplayers or Chinese vloggers who had traveled to Russia to play-act as soldiers — since military cosplay and related tourism are popular in certain online niches — the same niches where those Russian recruitment ads were being shared.

Stills from the video that made its rounds online in early March 2025.
Recent reports and various online accounts, however, indicate that Chinese nationals fighting in the Russian army is more than just cosplay — it is a reality, although it remains unclear how many people are actually involved. At the same time, the “cosplay” and “military enthusiast” (军迷COS) theory is not far-fetched and seems to hold water in some cases. In fact, these two realities may very well coexist.
In response to Zelensky’s statements about Chinese nationals fighting in Ukraine and Beijing’s alleged role, one sentiment raised online is that the issue is being purposely “hyped” by foreign media and by Zelensky himself.
This idea was echoed in some popular internet posts. In one post that circulated on social media (Zhihu, Weibo), author Liu Renzhi (刘任之) on the WeChat account of Russian Big World (俄语大世界) wrote: “Why does Zelensky continue to hype up the incident of Chinese nationals captured by the Ukrainian army? There are three reasons” (“泽连斯基为何要持续炒作中国公民在乌军被俘事件?有三方面原因”).
In this piece, Liu suggests that Zelensky intentionally amplified the story about Chinese nationals in the Russian army — among other things, by posting at least two videos about them on social media (link, link) — even though, as Liu notes, “it is nothing new that foreign nationals fight on both sides, and China’s position has been clearly stated.”
China’s Foreign Ministry has previously responded to questions about Chinese nationals in the Russian army, stating that:
🇨🇳📢 “We’ve issued multiple security alerts to ask Chinese nationals to stay away from areas of armed conflict, avoid any form of involvement in armed conflict, and in particular avoid participation in any party’s military operations.”
“China’s position on the issue of the Ukraine crisis is consistent and clear. We have all along been committed to promoting talks for peace and ending the conflict. We urge relevant parties to have a correct and clear understanding of China’s objective and just position and refrain from political manipulation and hype. ”
According to the blogger Liu, Zelensky supposedly “hyped” the situation for these reasons:
➡️ To attract global attention & rally support for Ukraine’s cause at a time when international attention to Ukraine has waned due to Trump and his own efforts to push for a Russia–Ukraine reconciliation. By playing up the “Chinese nationals in the war” narrative, Zelensky is catering to Western media interest and refocusing global attention on Ukraine.
➡️ To specifically seek Western support. Liu writes that Zelensky purposely promotes the news of the Chinese soldiers to hint at Chinese involvement in times of US trade war with China and efforts to ally with Russia against China, as a way to signal that Ukraine is also on the side of the ‘West’ in helping the US in its confrontation with China.
➡️ To put pressure on China. Liu suggests that Kyiv believes China has not remained fully neutral in the war. By exposing Chinese captives, Zelensky therefore aims to apply international pressure on China, pushing it to distance itself from Russia.
It would be interesting to know more about the Chinese online responses to this theory, but Liu’s article has been taken offline from all the sites where it initially appeared.
There is plenty more to say about pro-Russian sentiments on Chinese social media, and about the stories behind the Chinese mercenaries in Russia. But the problem with the latter now is that since this issue became an international political talking point and drew attention on Chinese social media, research has become significantly harder: Chinese platforms collectively started taking down related content shortly after the Wang and Zhang news broke.
Not only has Liu’s post been removed, but so have most posts about the two soldiers — along with the accounts of some young Chinese men who were seemingly vlogging from the Russo-Ukrainian battlefield, such as the Douyin account Li Jianwei (李建伟, nicknamed @狼血龙魂).
Some reporters I spoke with also told me their struggles, pointing at Douyin, Weibo, and Zhihu becoming more active in taking down content related to Chinese nationals fighting on the Russian side.
In other words: when nobody was paying attention, the content was there — hidden in the margins, not a priority for censors. But now that everyone is noticing, it’s getting wiped.
Does that mean Beijing changed its stance? No – it simply became a more sensitive topic, and now falls under stricter censorship.
“It’s making it a lot harder to research the topic like this,” one European journalist complained to me.
The very fact that so much content is now being censored just because Western media are paying attention is yet another reminder that China is definitely not censoring to please the West — and certainly not to accommodate Western media.
Best,
Manya
(follow on X, LinkedIn, or Instagram)
PS If you’re interested to know more about what motivates those Chinese joining the Russian army, see Chai Jing’s interview with a Chinese mercenary, translation via China Digital Times Part 1 and Part 2.
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©2025 Whatsonweibo. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce our content without permission – you can contact us at info@whatsonweibo.com.
Manya Koetse is a sinologist, writer, and public speaker specializing in China’s social trends, digital culture, and online media ecosystems. She founded What’s on Weibo in 2013 and now runs the Eye on Digital China newsletter. Learn more at manyakoetse.com or follow her on X, Instagram, or LinkedIn.
Chapter Dive
China’s CITIC Tower Crash: The Story That Never Trended
How information surrounding the CITIC Tower crash was managed, from a five-day media blackout to a sixth-day official narrative.
Published
4 weeks agoon
July 2, 2026
My premium newsletter covering the stories, memes, debates, and viral moments shaping online conversations in China. Subscribe here to receive future editions.
The story that never went trending was undoubtedly the biggest story of the week. On June 26, an incident at the Beijing landmark CITIC Tower (aka China Zun 中国尊) in the Chaoyang central business district sparked disbelief online. At 5:55 pm local time, a small plane, a Sunward SA60L Aurora, crashed into the tower, after which wreckage from the small aircraft fell to the street below (video).
For those who immediately responded to the incident on social media, it seemed unimaginable that this had happened in the capital. Beijing is one of the most heavily defended airspace zones in China. Since May of this year, recreational drones are also banned in Beijing, with outdoor flights requiring prior approval from authorities.

“A small plane hit CITIC Tower??? How could something like this happen? What happened to the air defense capabilities in our core restricted zone???“ one Weibo commenter wrote on Friday night.
After videos and images of the incident spread, online discussions were swiftly and thoroughly censored. That same day, while media outlets around the world began reporting on the crash, it did not appear among the top 50 trending topics on Chinese platforms—in fact, it wasn’t reported anywhere at all. As related keywords and hashtags were taken offline, it quickly became clear that this was the “6.26 Incident That Shall Not Be Mentioned.”
Even the next day, when Chaoyang authorities issued a brief official notice, republished by state media, the name of the tower was never mentioned, just that “a single-engine, two-seat light sport aircraft collided with a high-rise building during flight,” and that an investigation was underway. The one person on board, the pilot, died in the crash. Thirteen others were injured.

Later, flight tracking data revealed that the aircraft had taken off from Shifosi Airport, northeast of Beijing, and had come close to a Hainan Airlines passenger jet, forcing at least two commercial flights to abort their landings.
For the five days following the incident, little to no official information was available on the highly unusual incident. Meanwhile, Chinese authorities reportedly ordered a nationwide suspension of most general aviation activities, including recreational flying.
Why the CITIC Tower Incident Triggered an Information Blackout
But why has the censorship surrounding this incident been so intense, leading online censors to scrub all footage and discussion of it from the internet?
This has to do with the nature of the incident.
It is not uncommon for major incidents to be heavily censored, especially when the details surrounding them are still unfolding. But this kind of information “blackout” generally occurs only when incidents are considered particularly sensitive, and the regular toolkits used to manage and control information are no longer deemed sufficient.
Some examples include:
▪️The 2011 Wenzhou Train Crash, which happened at a time when the prestige and reliability of China’s high-speed rail system was celebrated as a flagship national project.
▪️The 2013 Tiananmen SUV ‘Suicide Attack’, which happened in a tightly guarded, already politically sensitive public space and the symbolic heart of the state.
▪️The 2022 Anti-Party Protest Banner at Sitong Bridge, which happened just before the opening of the 20th Party Congress that confirmed Xi Jinping’s unprecedented third term.
▪️The 2024 Beishan Park Stabbings of American Tourists, which happened just as China’s inbound tourism was beginning to recover in the post-COVID era and “China is safe” narratives were playing an increasingly important role in official messaging.
All of these incidents are different in nature, but what they have in common is not just that they are examples of bad news being suppressed, but that they reflect a specific pattern in which news that is bad for the Party-state is suppressed. In their own ways, these incidents—and the discussions and speculation surrounding them—challenge one or more foundational narratives about the competence of China’s leadership, its modernization, its security, its stability, and its capacity to maintain social order.
📌 The 6.26 CITIC Tower incident is particularly sensitive because it touches on several of these core narratives. It immediately opened the door to a flood of politically sensitive questions: How could this happen in the capital? Were the authorities really in control? Were the security systems adequate? Was it a deliberate attack? This all directly contradicts the logic of “Safe China” (平安中国), a grand strategy for governance in the Xi era that seeks to project an image of a closely monitored society in which risks are anticipated and prevented through the integration of efficient public security, surveillance, and Party leadership (see Trevaskes & Lin 2024)1. A small aircraft striking Beijing’s tallest building—located in one of the country’s most tightly controlled airspaces—challenges precisely this claimed capacity to maintain order, guarantee security, and keep China safe.
📌 Another reason why incidents like the 6.26 one are censored so heavily is that they have the potential to snowball or even trigger copycat behavior. What begins as an isolated accident can quickly evolve into broader discussions about political dissatisfaction, which might spiral into social unrest – and protecting domestic stability is central to the Party-state’s legitimacy and maintenance of power.
📌 A third factor is the symbolic significance of the location. Unlike an ordinary office building, the CITIC Tower is a symbol of Beijing’s cosmopolitan skyline and of China’s economic rise and state-led modernization. Situated in the heart of the capital’s central business district, next to CCTV headquarters and visible across much of the city, it is one of Beijing’s most recognizable landmarks. An incident involving such a building inevitably carries far greater symbolic weight than one occurring in a less prominent location.
⮕ Taken together, these factors make the 6.26 incident unusually sensitive in political, social, and symbolic terms. It is not just a random aviation accident; it touches upon national security, state competence, political control, social stability, and the protection of one of the country’s most symbolic urban spaces. Rather than threatening a single Party narrative, as some of the other aforementioned incidents did, it threatens several at once. This helps explain why it was treated not as an ordinary censored event, but as one requiring an almost complete information blackout.
A Familiar Censorship Playbook
Although these top-censored news incidents are all unique, they follow a similar whack-a-mole-style playbook in suppressing discussion of these events, even though they had only just happened.2
The main playbook is always more or less the same: Sensitive incident occurs → News disappears from front pages and trending search lists → Popular videos and images are taken offline → Incident-specific keywords and hashtags are scrubbed → Censorship expands to generic category-level terms (such as “Beijing,” “Chaoyang District,” or “small plane”) that could lead users back to the incident) → State media remain silent while shifting attention to other news.
(This week, the distraction might have been an otherwise arguably uninteresting controversy involving Chinese singer Han Hong.)3
Offline, the same pattern often plays out through physical scene control: bystanders are asked to delete their footage, journalists are kept away from the scene, or even entire street signs are removed (as happened after the protests on Wulumiqi Road and following the Sitong Bridge protest).
Meanwhile, selected commentary from permitted voices is sometimes allowed to appear online—for example, from former Global Times editor Hu Xijin—although even those posts are not immune from later deletion, as happened following the Beishan Park stabbings. This is often the first step in shaping the official narrative.
A brief authoritative news report may then be released, often ending with a statement that “the incident is under investigation,” which also buys time. Sometimes, however, no meaningful official explanation ever follows. After the 2022 China Eastern MU5735 crash, for example, authorities never released a full public investigation report, even though reports emerging in 2026 claimed the crash, which killed all 132 people on board, was deliberate.
Nevertheless, an official narrative and investigation outcome do usually follow. The 2013 Tiananmen attack, for example, was officially labeled a premeditated terrorist attack orchestrated by the East Turkestan Islamic Movement (ETIM), with Chinese authorities presenting it as evidence that Xinjiang-linked militancy had become part of a broader international terrorist threat. In doing so, the incident was reframed from a local security failure into part of a global fight against terrorism.
Finally, arrests often follow, and people are held accountable. At the same time, those accused of “spreading rumors” online may also face consequences, while foreign media are often criticized for biased reporting or double standards. These counterattacks further reinforce the official narrative while simultaneously shifting attention away from the original incident.
How AI Chatbots Are Part of the Censorship Ecosystem
For the 6.26 incident, the main narrative for the first five days after it happened was that nothing really happened. Even Hu Xijin posted nothing about the incident.
On Weibo, the hashtag “The Story Behind the CITIC Tower Crash Incident” (#中信集团大厦被撞事件始末#) was taken offline, along with many others.
Five days after the crash, Weibo’s Qwen-3 chatbot (powered by Alibaba) claimed it knew nothing about any incident involving CITIC Tower.
The Weibo chatbot responds to a question about the CITIC Tower incident, saying it knows nothing (July 1st).
Six days after the incident, on July 2nd, DeepSeek’s chatbot went a step further. Rather than simply claiming no information was available, it described reports about the crash as fake news, stating that there were no official records or media coverage and that such rumors originated on “overseas social media platforms.” Kimi refused to answer questions about the incident altogether, while Baidu’s ERNIE Bot said it had no information about the incident and warned users not to believe or spread unverified rumors.
The 6.26 CITIC Tower incident illustrates a broader development in China’s online information ecosystem. A great deal has changed since the 2011 Wenzhou train crash. Social media control has become far more sophisticated—not only through better automated filtering, but also through platform regulation, agenda-setting, distraction strategies, and increasingly coordinated narrative management.
Now, AI chatbots have become part of that ecosystem.
Integrated AI assistants (LLM-powered chatbots embedded in platforms such as Weibo, Douyin, and other Chinese apps since 2025) are not merely additional tools subject to censorship. They have become an integral part of the online information environment and increasingly play a role in the handling of sensitive incidents.
Unlike Grok on X, these AI assistants are deeply integrated into the user experience and actively encourage people to ask questions, search for information, and receive summaries of ongoing events and controversies. What makes them particularly powerful from the perspective of propaganda and information control is that they can centralize official narratives at the platform level. Previously, that role was distributed across state media, government accounts, and other official actors.
Because these chatbots do not present themselves as state media or government authorities, they can appear more neutral and objective. Users may perceive them simply as AI-generated summaries with less media bias and greater factual accuracy.4 In the case of the 6.26 incident, they effectively conveyed a state-ordered message to social media users: that really, nothing happened, and that if something happened, it must be fake news.
“A Public Security Incident Caused by Personal Factors”
On July 2nd, Beijing Chaoyang’s verified official account issued a second short statement via its WeChat channel. This time, providing more details about what had happened on June 26.
According to the statement, the pilot was 66-year-old Mr. Liu (刘), a Beijing resident who was self-employed and lived alone. He obtained a sport pilot license in 2021 and a private pilot license in 2024.
Authorities said Liu deliberately deviated from his flight route, subsequently lost contact with the airport, and then intentionally crashed into the building, killing himself. They added that he had suffered from depression in recent years and that his diary contained multiple references to wanting to “end his life.” The incident was officially described as “a public security incident caused by personal factors” (个人原因造成的危害公共安全案件).
It is noteworthy that such a short statement includes details about the pilot’s age, marital status, pilot licenses, mental health, and even diary entries, yet provides virtually no information about the building itself, the security response, or the broader circumstances of the incident. The statement never mentions the CITIC Tower by name, referring only to “a high-rise building near the East Third Ring Road.” It likewise omits any mention of the aircraft entering restricted airspace, the reported disruption to commercial air traffic, or the obvious questions the incident raises about security failures.
On Weibo, the statement was widely shared, but comment sections beneath those posts remained either hidden or only contained a selection of replies.
And so, six days after the incident, there is a slight opening in the media blackout—just enough to establish the official narrative. This framing reduces a wide range of sensitive questions to the story of one troubled individual. It is not about broader questions of public safety or governance, but about a lonely man’s suicide; it is not about the Party-state, but about personal circumstances; it minimizes a news event that received maximum attention and turns a possible mass attack into an isolated incident. And so the message subtly shifts from “nothing happened” to “it’s time to move on.” The playbook is complete. It’s almost as if nothing really happened.
By Manya Koetse
With contributions by Miranda Barnes
- See: Susan Trevaskes and Delia Lin, “Integrating Stability Maintenance into Comprehensive Governance: The Burgeoning ‘Safe China’ Behemoth,” Modern China 50, no. 6 (2024): 671–701. https://doi.org/10.1177/00977004241254709.
- Some might say the 2015 Tianjin explosions also belong here, but that disaster was so large and witnessed by so many people that, while the official narrative was tightly controlled, it did not receive the same near-total information blackout.
- This controversy involved Han Hong (韩红), a popular Chinese singer and philanthropist, who recently urged Beijing audiences in the local dialect to show up at the box office for the underperforming latest Feng Xiaogang film Catch the Spy (《抓特务》), for which she is the music producer. She used the colloquial expression zǒu ge miànr (走个面儿, roughly “show your face”), and was accused of inappropriately putting moral pressure on people to buy tickets, which also led to criticism of her charity work. She made the remarks at a June 17 premiere, and it didn’t become a dominant story until eleven days later.
- See also: Yan Li, “The Impact of Automated Journalism on Media Bias, Accuracy, and Public Trust: Evidence from Young Chinese News Consumers,” Humanities and Social Sciences Communications 13 (2026): 688. https://doi.org/10.1057/s41599-026-06612-6.
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©2026 Eye on Digital China/Whatsonweibo. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce our content without permission – you can contact us at info@whatsonweibo.com.
China Brands, Marketing & Consumers
Quack Like a Goose: Why Beijing Street Vendor “Auntie Goose Legs” Sparked a Nationwide Debate
After the first complaints surfaced, Auntie Goose Legs admitted the truth about her business: she ha been selling duck legs all along.
Published
1 month agoon
June 20, 2026
My premium newsletter covering the stories, memes, debates, and viral moments shaping online conversations in China. Subscribe here to receive future editions.
If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it might still be a goose – or the other way around. That, at least, is the takeaway from two stories that recently went viral on Chinese social media.
The woman at the center of it all is Beijing street-food vendor Chen Xiufeng (陈秀凤), better known as “Auntie Goose Legs” (鹅腿阿姨). Over the years, she became something of a local celebrity in Beijing’s university district. Originally from Jiangsu, the migrant vendor had been selling her famous roasted goose legs to students since 2011.
She skyrocketed to national fame in 2023 , but became the target of widespread criticism last week after it was revealed that her celebrated goose legs – sold for 16 yuan ($2.20) per piece – were actually duck meat all along.
The controversy came up after the vendor ventured beyond the university area into Beijing’s business district. At the universities, she enjoyed a loyal customer base and dedicated WeChat groups. In her new market, however, customers proved more skeptical. Some noticed that the meat looked suspiciously duck-like; others complained that the color seemed off.

In the university district, Auntie Goose Legs she enjoyed a loyal customer base and dedicated WeChat groups.
After the first complaints surfaced, Auntie Goose Legs admitted the truth on WeChat on June 9.
“The ingredients I originally used were goose legs,” she wrote, “but they have been out of stock for more than fifteen years. The current ingredient is duck legs.”
It turned out that she had only sold goose legs, the product that made her famous, for two months back in 2011 before switching to the much cheaper duck. “Did geese become extinct without us knowing?” some netizens joked.
The revelation quickly exploded online. The hashtag “What Auntie Goose Legs is Selling Turns Out to be Duck Legs” (#鹅腿阿姨卖的是鸭腿#) became the top trending on Weibo for an entire day, with millions of people discussing the topic.
Why did millions of people become so outraged over a single Beijing street vendor selling duck instead of goose?
Piggybacking on the debate, Anhui-based commentators pointed out that a beloved regional specialty has the exact opposite ‘problem.’ Wuwei smoked duck (无为板鸭) is branded as duck, but is usually goose. According to local standards, however, goose products may be sold under this name, prompting discussions about “hanging up a goat’s head, while selling dog meat“ (挂羊头卖狗肉): advertising one thing while selling another.
Because geese are more expensive than ducks in China, and generally considered tastier, the Anhui duck-is-goose story, unlike the Auntie Goose Legs controversy, did not provoke online anger. Instead, many people saw it as an example of sellers prioritizing flavor over cost. Auntie Goose Legs is seen as doing the exact opposite.
But why did millions of people actually become so outraged over a single Beijing street vendor selling duck instead of goose, especially when there were no indications that anyone became ill? The answer has little to do with poultry and everything to do with trust.

Auntie Goose Legs during the prime time in Beijing’s University District in late 2023 (image via Lianhe Zaobao 联合早报).
Food fraud and mislabeling have been longstanding concerns in China. Earlier surveys found that food safety worries even outweighed concerns about public security and environmental issues, and while China’s food safety record has improved in recent years, public trust remains fragile.
Part of these concerns are immediate and practical. Major scandals in the past involving melamine-tainted infant formula or recycled “gutter oil” have posed serious risks to public health. But the issue goes beyond health risks alone.
If a goose can be a duck, then what exactly is the duck?
Whereas food safety concerns in many Western countries often focus on contamination, Chinese consumers are frequently just as concerned with economic deception. It is unfair to pay for a more expensive goose and receive a duck. Even if no one gets sick, Chinese consumer law still treats it as fraud.
More important, however, is what such deception does to confidence in the broader food system. If a goose can be a duck, then what exactly is the duck?
As a major 2023 college canteen scandal demonstrated, the build-up of deceit can reach a breaking point among the public. During that somewhat Kafkaesque “rat head or duck neck” (鼠头or鸭脖”事件) controversy, officials insisted a rat head found in a student’s rice was merely a “duck neck,” even though everyone could clearly see the snout and teeth of a rodent.
This kind of gaslighting shatters social trust and reinforces a generalized sense that, as a consumer, you are entirely on your own. When regulators fail to step in honestly, even a seemingly isolated incident comes to symbolize more dangerous forms of systemic food fraud.
And this is where the Auntie Goose Legs story stings the most.
People did not come to her simply because her food was good. Over the years, she had become part of local student life, and she felt safe and authentic. Her pink scooter helmet, which she continued to wear while working, became an iconic symbol of her no-nonsense and humble image. Her success was built on word of mouth and, above all, on the trust her customers placed in her.
That this particular “auntie” deceived her customers by selling a different product than the one she advertised is no longer really about her. If duck is goose, goose is duck, and your local auntie has deceived you for years, then who can you trust anymore?
- Read more about how Auntie Goose Legs rose to fame in 2023 here.
By Manya Koetse
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