Chapter Dive
“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.
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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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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.
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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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©2026 Eye on Digital China/Whatsonweibo. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce our content without permission – you can contact us at info@whatsonweibo.com.
Chapter Dive
“Going to Town to Handle Business”: How Adidas Went from Hated in China to a Chinamaxxing Brand
Why has Adidas regained cultural relevance in China while Nike is struggling despite its global strength?
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Just five years ago, Adidas was one of the most criticized foreign brands in China. Now, it seems to have become one of the most celebrated. Ironically, the brand’s biggest success in China yet started with a mistake it made last month.
In 2021, Adidas – along with Nike and other foreign brands – faced severe backlash and boycotts in China for participating in the Better Cotton Initiative (BCI) move to stop sourcing cotton from the Xinjiang region, which Chinese consumers viewed as a hostile anti-Chinese political stance (and was framed that way by state media and official channels).
Chinese livestreamers for the brands were scolded online, Adidas employees were brought to tears, and stores across the country saw their sales drop. People began posting videos of themselves burning their Nike Air Jordans on Weibo. For the brands involved, it became a marketing nightmare.
Screenshot of SCMP report about the Nike sneakers being burnt, Adidas employees facing backlash back in 2021.
But now, Adidas has managed to completely turn its image around in mainland China, where it is being praised for its top-of-game PR skills.
Adidas: Heading to Town to Take Care of Business
Over the past few years, Adidas has increasingly embraced “New Chinese Style” (新中式), a design direction that blends Chinese aesthetics with contemporary fashion. The October 2025 launch of its “Chinese New Year Jacket”—combining tang suit-inspired elements with classic Adidas sportswear—became a huge hit, not just in China but globally.
The Adidas Chinese New Year collection became a huge hit in 2025. On the left: American influencer Hasan Piker wearing the jacket while visiting Tiananmen Square in Beijing.
But that was only the beginning of Adidas’s social media success in China.
In late May, some netizens spotted a machine-translated text on the Adidas website that immediately went viral for its unintentional humor.
A jacket promoted in English with the unremarkable phrase “pair it with jeans for errands around town“ appeared on the Chinese website as the clunky “pair it with jeans to handle business in the city“ (搭配牛仔裤，在城里办事 zài chénglǐ bàn shì).
The original English text and the clunky machine translation on the right.
More than a simple mistake, it was a cultural mistranslation. Running some errands is not the same as 办事 bàn shì in Chinese, which is more formal, bureaucratic language for handling affairs, such as going to the bank, notary, or police station—not a quick run to buy some eggs and milk.
For many Chinese netizens, the phrase evoked an image of an old villager cycling into the county town for official business, all while wearing an Adidas jacket.
Although the website was quickly adjusted, the meme was already snowballing and evolved into the more playful “off to town to take care of business” (进城办事 jìn chéng bàn shì).
One popular comment played on the rural-to-city associations of the phrase:
💬 “While you’re back in the village talking trash about me, I’m already wearing Adidas and heading into town to take care of business.”
Adidas responded with surprising speed and wit.
Instead of apologizing for the mistake, they posted a video showing their own “off to town to do business” T-shirt, which quickly became available for sale online and at flagship stores in Beijing, Shanghai, and Chengdu.
Chinese actor and Adidas ambassador Li Xian (李现) was later spotted wearing a “handling business” T-shirt, and the comment sections exploded.
Adidas read the room and went on to launch a marketing campaign featuring China’s popular possum meme wearing one of its jackets alongside slogans such as “Wear Adidas, Handle Serious Affairs” and “Wear Adi, Handle Big Things“—a nod to the original mistranslation and a series of viral wordplays built around the brand’s Chinese name (including “穿Adi办大事” and “穿Adi, 办das”, with das meaning dàshì 大事, “important business” here).
They also put up signs labeling some of their stores as “Adidas Errands Office” (阿迪办事处).
Rather than distancing itself from the joke, Adidas amplified it, becoming even funnier than the netizens themselves.
Other brands in China, from Lays to Alipay, saw the hype surrounding the meme and also started incorporating the “handle business” phrase into their online campaigns, referencing Adidas.
Various Chinese brands incorporated the Adidas meme into their own campaigns.
Because Adidas’s response felt effortless, authentic, and on-brand, it greatly boosted the brand’s popularity and appeal among young Chinese consumers.
Nike’s Grass is No Longer Greener
Sportswear giant Nike also became a major trending topic in China over the past week, but for entirely different reasons. Nike hasn’t been doing all that well recently, and the brand’s decline went viral in the same week that Adidas’s success was evident.
Nike became a top trending topic under the hashtag “Chinese consumers are abandoning Nike faster than anyone expected” (中国消费者抛弃耐克比想象中更快) after reports that a pair of sneakers originally sold for 899 yuan (US$132) are now selling for 429 yuan ($63) and still failing to attract buyers.
Nike’s decline is noteworthy because the brand was once booming in China. As with many other Western brands, it symbolized quality, prestige, and a cosmopolitan future for much of the 1990s and 2000s.
In a 2011 study of Chinese consumer aspirations, one respondent imagined a future in which she would drive a Mercedes-Benz, wear Nike, and eat KFC—a vision of modernity built around foreign brands. Another person dreamt of wearing “Nike clothes and Nike shoes (…) on the green grass, swinging golf clubs under the golden sunshine.”[1]
But Nike’s grass is no longer greener. Chinese commenters largely agree that much of the trust and desire surrounding the brand has eroded.
Many former Nike consumers now prefer Chinese brands such as Anta, Li-Ning or ERKE. Multiple posts on Chinese social media cite the Xinjiang cotton controversy as a turning point from which Nike never fully recovered.
The Localization Dilemma: A Strategic Catch-22?
The contrasting fortunes of Nike and Adidas reveal something important about the position of foreign brands in China today.
As domestic brands improved and narratives of national rejuvenation and the “Chinese Dream” gained prominence under Xi Jinping, consumer sentiment toward Western brands shifted dramatically, especially amid a growing number of controversies involving them.
From a Dolce & Gabbana campaign deemed racist to a witch hunt for Western brands listing Hong Kong and Taiwan as separate countries, international brands increasingly started struggling to find their place between politics, patriotism, and consumers who are choosing “Made in China” over global consumer culture.
As Zhihong Gao[2] observed as early as 2012, the rise of cultural confidence and renewed appreciation for Chinese traditions created a dilemma for foreign brands.
They find themselves caught in a strategic catch-22: if they localize too much, they risk losing the distinctiveness that made their brands attractive in the first place, while also reinforcing consumer preference for local cultural elements; yet if they remain too foreign, they risk appearing culturally tone-deaf and disconnected from Chinese consumers.
This is where Adidas appears to have found a sweet spot.
Unlike Nike, which seems to be living off its past success while showing little urgency in adapting to the Chinese market, Adidas has fully embraced Chinese digital culture, local humor, wordplay, and youth trends without abandoning its own identity.
Rather than pretending to be Chinese, Adidas is participating in Chinese culture as a distinctly foreign brand. By celebrating the unique elements of Chinese culture, both in tradition and modernity, it is boosting both its own image and the cultural pride it is tapping into. That is Chinamaxxing in a nutshell.
- Read more about Chinamaxxing here.
- Read more about the rise of ‘proudly made in China’ here.
- Read more about Nike vs ERKE here.
[1] Kelly Tian and Lily Dong, Consumer-Citizens of China: The Role of Foreign Brands in the Imagined Future China (London: Routledge, 2011), 70–71.
[2] Zhihong Gao, “Chinese Grassroots Nationalism and Its Impact on Foreign Brands,” Journal of Macromarketing 32, no. 2 (2012): 184–185.
By Manya Koetse
(follow on X, LinkedIn, or Instagram)
Spotted a mistake or want to add something? Please let us know in comments below or email us. First-time commenters, please be patient – we will have to manually approve your comment before it appears.
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Quack Like a Goose: Why Beijing Street Vendor “Auntie Goose Legs” Sparked a Nationwide Debate
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