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Hidden Cameras and Taboo Topics: The Many Layers of the “Nanjing Sister Hong” Scandal

Behind the hashtag about Nanjing’s cross-dressing ‘Sister Hong’: from legal implications to viral spectacle.

Manya Koetse

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A 60-year-old man from Nanjing became the biggest trending topic on Weibo recently after news circulated that he had cross-dressed as a woman, lured 1,691 men into having sex with him, recorded the encounters, and then spread the videos online. It was suggested that he had exposed the men to HIV and infected at least eleven of them.

That particular story turned out to be inaccurate, but the real story behind the sensationalism was strange enough to pique the interest of countless netizens.

The actual case involves a much younger man: the 38-year-old Mr. Jiao who pretended to be a woman and arranged to hook up with many men, secretly recording the encounters and uploading the footage online.

Mr Jiao and screenshots of some of their videos.

The story first began circulating online in early July. It went viral across multiple Chinese social media platforms after local police arrested the man and publicly announced the case (likely also due to the rapid spread of sensationalized rumors).

This is what the police report of July 8 said:


Police notification


Recently, Jiangning police received reports from members of the public stating that their private videos had been disseminated online by others. Jiangning police immediately launched an investigation and, on July 5, arrested the suspect Jiao (焦) X.

Upon investigation, it was found that Jiao X. (male, 38 years old, person from outside the province) impersonated a woman, arranged to engage in sexual activities with multiple men, and secretly filmed the encounters to disseminate the videos online.

The widely spread online rumor that “a 60-year-old man in Nanjing dressed as a woman and had intimate relations with over a thousand people” is false.

On July 6, Jiao X. was criminally detained by Jiangning police in accordance with the law on suspicion of the crime of disseminating obscene materials. The case is currently under further investigation.

Jiangning Branch of the Nanjing Public Security Bureau
July 8, 2025

By now, the case has come to be known as the “Nanjing Old Guy Hong Incident” (南京红老头事件). In Chinese, “Hong” (红) means “red,” which is not only a color but also carries connotations of celebrity or notoriety in this context.

Jiao initially used the online nickname Ah Hong (阿红). This nickname soon evolved into “Nanjing Sister Hong” (南京红姐), but was later changed by netizens to “Nanjing Old Guy Hong” (南京红老头) after some argued it was inappropriate to refer to Jiao as a woman. Official media posts calling Jiao “Sister” received hundreds of angry reactions, with people demanding an end to the use of the female title.

Jiao had reportedly posed as a woman for a long time, using various social platforms—from WeChat and QQ to Momo—to find men to hook up with.

He wore women’s clothing, a long wig, used heavy white make-up, and also relied on beauty filters and voice-changing tools to appear and sound more feminine to the men he met online.

Since Jiao didn’t charge any money for these encounters, some of the men apparently thought it polite to bring gifts. Leaked footage shows visitors arriving at his apartment with small offerings—from fruit and milk to half-full bottles of cooking oil (how romantic).

Caption: “I’m dying of laughter — someone even brought half a jug of cooking oil from home. There were people bringing milk, fruits, even a pack of tissues — but the funniest thing is someone actually brought half a jug of cooking oil from their own kitchen! Hahaha. Tomorrow morning, when his wife cooks, she’s definitely going to wonder where the oil went.”

Jiao had secretly set up a hidden camera in the rooms to capture the sexual encounters, and later spread these online through online groups where participants had to pay a membership fee of 150 yuan (US$21) per person to join the group.

Some of Jiao’s victims reported him to the police after discovering that videos of their encounters were being circulated online—allegedly after they were recognized by others. By now, several men have been identified by people who know them, and one woman reportedly recognized her own husband in one of the videos.

The exact number of men Jiao met and filmed remains unknown. While authorities have dismissed the viral claim of over 1,600 men as exaggerated — a number reportedly mentioned by Jiao himself — they have not released an official count, and the investigation is still ongoing.

The videos have since spread widely online, showing Jiao engaging in various forms of sexual activity with different male partners, including oral and anal intercourse. While it’s unclear how many of the men initially believed he was a woman, it seems highly likely—if not inevitable—that many realized the truth at some point during the encounters.

Social media discussions around the case now touch on a range of issues, from privacy violations to gender identity and public health concerns.

 
🏛️ Legal Implications: From Violating Privacy to Endangering Public Health
 

First, the legal aspects of the case are drawing significant attention, with various lawyers and legal experts weighing in on what crimes Jiao may have committed. For now, he is under criminal detention for disseminating obscene materials—the production, distribution, and sale of sexually explicit content is illegal under Chinese law.

But Jiao also violated the privacy and portrait rights of others by sharing explicit videos that clearly show their faces without consent.

And what if Jiao is indeed HIV-positive and knowingly engaged in unprotected sex? According to Legal Daily (法治日报), he could then be charged with “endangering public safety through dangerous means” (“以危险方法危害公共安全罪”).

This offense carries a sentence of 3 to 10 years in prison if no serious harm occurs, but if it results in severe injury, death, or major damage, it could lead to life imprisonment or even the death penalty.

On the morning of July 8, a local CDC official confirmed that health authorities were now involved in the case. While Jiao’s health status is considered private, officials said they’ll share updates if and when it’s appropriate.

 
💥 Social Shock: Public Health and “Hole-Sexuals”
 

There has also been significant social shock over the story. The footage that’s been circulating online shows dozens of different men visiting Jiao — from student types and businessmen to men from all walks of life, including fitness trainers, married men, college athletes, and also young foreign men.

Many netizens expressed that the story changed the way they view the people around them. The men visiting Jiao were not some ‘basket of deplorables’ — they included wealthy older men, young and attractive guys, educated tech professionals. That realization unsettled many, shaking their worldview on multiple levels.

Although this triggered many jokes, it also raised uncomfortable questions not just about how little people may know their friends, neighbors, or even romantic partners—but also about public health. If Jiao did pose an HIV risk, it means these men—many of whom are married or have families—may have unknowingly brought that risk home with them after these unprotected encounters arranged online.

Chinese commentators and bloggers therefore tied the case to women’s sexual health, suggesting that a significant number of gynecological infections among married women are actually caused by their own husbands.

There were multiple online posts suggesting that the entire story reflected the sexual repression experienced by many Chinese men. Jiao, as a man himself, may have understood male psychology well — and was simply giving these men the emotional and physical attention they were lacking at a time when their sexual needs were not being met.

Some argued that such situations are a byproduct of the crackdown on KTV bars and massage parlors, hinting at the shrinking space for illegal prostitution in mainland China.

“Sometimes it really feels like heterosexuality is a joke,” blogger Chen Shishi (@陈折折) wrote: “These men are so filthy, and yet they go back and pretend to be good boyfriends, good husbands, good fathers, good men.”

She added: “As long as there’s a hole, they’re in.”

In doing so, Chen used the term 洞性恋 (dòngxìngliàn), a satirical play on the Chinese word for “homosexual” (同性恋, tóngxìngliàn, literally “same-sex love”).

By replacing the first character 同 (“same”) with 洞 (meaning “hole”), the term becomes “hole-sexual” instead of “homosexual,” mocking those men who sought out Jiao without caring what “she” looked like — or even whether she was secretly a man — as long as there was a “hole” to satisfy them. Recently, 洞性恋 (dòngxìngliàn) has been used a lot by Chinese netizens commenting on this case.

 
🛑 Politically Sensitive: Controlling the Narrative
 

Apart from the criminal charges Jiao may face, this story inevitably has some deeper layers that are politically sensitive and are therefore flattened and rewritten into safer territories.

Chinese well-known blogger Lu Shihan (@卢诗翰) recently commented on this issue on Weibo and Zhihu, critiquing how Chinese media and public discourse have framed this story. According to Lu, the narrative was intentionally shifted away from any discussion of a possibly trans, marginalized sex worker.

Lu suggests that censorship, social discomfort, and political sensitivity around class struggles and LGBTQ+ issues force both media and the public to stick to the safest possible framing.

That “safe narrative” is a comical and odd case about a ridiculous old man in a wig, crossdressing for his own fetish pleasure and spreading obscenity, scamming straight men into a sex scandal.

Acknowledging that many of the men may have known (or didn’t care) that “Nanjing Sister Hong” was biologically male would turn the incident into a conversation about queer identity and sexuality. And as Lu points out, that’s a no-go zone.

In his commentary on the issue, Lu Shihan mentions the story of another “Sister Hong” (红姐), an older street sex worker who became well-known in Shenzhen’s Sanhe district and even gained some online fame at a national level.

“Sanhe Sister Hong” came from a mountainous village and ran away as a teenager to work in the city. After being abused and abandoned, she fell into homelessness and eventually turned to sex work to survive in Sanhe, a place known for its lower-class young (post-1990) male day laborers who hop from job to job, self-precariously calling themselves the “great gods of Sanhe” (三和大神). In this environment, Sister Hong stood out not just as a sex worker but also as a vagabond woman, and she has almost reached cult-like status for some—she’s now known the legendary Sister Hong.

Sanhe Sister Hong.

“Nanjing Sister Hong” ultimately got that nickname because of the “Sanhe Sister Hong.”

Lu argues that around China, from Nanjing to Shenzhen to Guangdong, there are many “Sister Hongs,” and their vulnerable position, marginalization, and methods of income have to do with much deeper issues about gender and class struggles that go beyond some clueless straight men who just happen to stumble into their bedrooms.

On Chinese Q&A site Zhihu, some commenters are convinced that Jiao’s ‘customers’ were very well aware that he was not a woman — but that it is common to see men dressing up as women for a certain group of closeted men who feel more at ease in ambiguous, feminized encounters that don’t directly confront their own sexual identities. Also, for them, people like Sister Hong feel like safer territory.

 
🎭 Cultural Fascination: The Story of Shi Peipu
 

At the heart of this story also lies a deeper cultural fascination: the image of a male figure assuming a female persona to seduce other men — and the taboo topics that come with it. Cross-dressing has a long history in China, from traditional opera to contemporary media.

Some netizens — somewhat jokingly — compared “Sister Hong” (Jiao) to the case of Shi Peipu (时佩璞), a story that inspired the award-winning play M. Butterfly (1988) by David Hwang.

Shi Peipu (1938–2009) was a male Chinese opera singer who pretended to be a biological woman for over two decades. Shi Peipu worked for the Chinese secret service and was involved in what has been called one of the “strangest cases in international espionage.”

Shi Peipu

Shi Peipu was originally from Kunming and moved to Beijing in the 1960s. The then 26-year-old Shi met the French diplomat Bernard Bouriscot (布尔西, 1944) at a Christmas party in 1964, where Shi came dressed as a man.

Shi told Bouriscot that he was actually a female opera singer who had been forced by his father to present himself as a man because he desired a son so much. Bouriscot believed it, and their love affair took off — a romance that also continued when Bouriscot was stationed abroad.

For a period of twenty years, Shi pretended to be a woman during this ‘love relationship’ in order to gather intelligence information from Bouriscot.

Shi went to extreme measures to keep the Frenchman close to him, as ‘she’ even convinced Bouriscot that she had become pregnant with his child in 1965, just before the two would be apart for a long time. Shi adopted a boy from Xinjiang and presented him as their alleged child, which Bouriscot apparently believed.

Bouriscot and his son, who was actually adopted and not biologically his.

In 1982, Shi and Bouriscot moved to Paris, where they were both arrested a year later — Shi’s secret allegedly finally came to light when the CIA informed the French government that secret information from the French Embassy in China had leaked during the 1970s.

Even when the police burst into their home to arrest them, the Frenchman allegedly still believed Peipu was his wife and the mother of his child. It took a medical report for him to realize the truth.

Bouriscot attempted suicide when he discovered that Shi was actually a man. He was convicted of espionage — news that made it to the front pages in France — and both men were sentenced to six years in prison (although both got out earlier).

Front page of France Soir after Bouriscot and Shi Peipu were arrested on June 30, 1983, and later convicted.

Shi, who did not plead guilty to being a spy, passed away in Paris in 2009. About the affair, Bouriscot later said: “When I believed it, it was a beautiful story.”

Shi Peipu’s story has become one of those famous stories that is still discussed online and pops up every now and then — such as in the discussions talking about “Sister Hong.” Because the story is so bizarre, it is mostly discussed in certain frameworks that hardly challenge dominant ideas about gender and sexuality.

📌 So what’s the takeaway in the “Sister Hong” case? On the surface, it serves as a cautionary tale about meeting strangers online, and the potential nightmare of seeing yourself butt-naked on the internet.

But more deeply, the reason this case shook the Chinese internet is because it points to something much larger. It touches on issues that usually remain hidden beneath the surface. It reveals vulnerability on all sides.

The vulnerability of people like “Nanjing Sister Hong” — whether cross-dressing or identifying as transgender, they are operating outside the gender binary. As research by scholars like Eileen Yuk-ha Tsang shows, people in this position often face social stigma, family rejection, discrimination, severe depression, and abuse by their intimate partners (many of whom present as heterosexual men). While none of this excuses Jiao’s actions — secretly recording hundreds of men and exposing their faces and literal private parts online — it does shed light on some of the dynamics that may have pushed him into the darker corners of the internet.

There’s also the vulnerability of the men who were filmed — now watching their lives collapse as their identities are exposed to the public.

And then there’s the vulnerability of the wives and partners at home — not only discovering their partners’ infidelity in the most public way possible, but also having to face the emotional and physical consequences it may carry for their own lives and health.

For now, the “Nanjing Sister Hong” case is already one of the most talked-about topics on Chinese social media this year — the source of endless memes and AI-generated parodies. The story has grown so large that people are even joking that Trump was one of his secret visitors (see AI meme).

There are even memes about the “Sister Hong starter kit” and others mocking the man who brought half a bottle of cooking oil.

Some joked that “Sister Hong” bears an uncanny resemblance to well-known Chinese political commentator Hu Xijin.

These jokes probably won’t help anyone much, but they’re an inevitable product of China’s meme machine. Still, they shine a bit of light on a topic of which many sides will inevitably remain in the dark for a long time to come.

By Manya Koetse

(follow on X, LinkedIn, or Instagram)

PS I mentioned Eileen Yuk-ha Tsang here as one of the scholars focusing on Chinese transgender sex workers. Coincidentally, her new book Unlocking the Red Closet: Gay Male Sex Workers in China is coming out on July 29.

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.

©2025 Whatsonweibo. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce our content without permission – you can contact us at info@whatsonweibo.com.

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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.

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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.

Manya Koetse

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🔎 Originally published in Eye on Digital China.
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


  1. 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.
  2. 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.
  3. 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.
  4. 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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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.

Manya Koetse

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🔥 Originally published in Eye on Digital China.
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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