🔥 China Trend Watch (week 12½ | 2026) Part of Eye on Digital China by Manya Koetse, China Trend Watch is an overview of what’s trending and being discussed on Chinese social media. This edition was sent to paid subscribers — subscribe to receive the next issue in your inbox.

On Tuesday, March 24, rumors that something had happened to China’s most popular educational influencer were flying across Chinese social media. Some said he had collapsed, others said he was barely hanging on, while others still were refuting the rumors.

This is about “Teacher Zhang Xuefeng” (张雪峰老师, 1984), the man who carved out a big place for himself in China’s online landscape over the past decade by focusing on a sweet spot that virtually all Chinese parents and their children care about: how to choose majors strategically to ensure future employment prospects.

Among Zhang’s common questions: “What kind of salary do you want your child to have in the future?”

Besides the relevance of his focus, Zhang’s northeastern accent, comic remarks, blunt criticism, and talent for triggering controversy also amplified his online appeal, ensuring that his name frequently became part of China’s public discourse.

Like that time when he advised China’s young people against studying journalism, even stating that if he were a parent, he would “definitely knock the child unconscious if they insisted on studying journalism,” deeming it a major that lacks depth and prospects. Although it became a major controversy at the time, a poll of 42,000 voters showed that 39,000 agreed with Zhang.

Zhang capitalized on the collective anxiety in China surrounding the gaokao (高考), the national university entrance exam that determines future paths, as well as concerns that even graduates from top universities may face unemployment if they choose majors with limited practical value. Zhang’s view: choice is more important than effort.

This Tuesday evening, news emerged that Zhang Xuefeng had died on the afternoon of March 24 at the age of 41, after suffering sudden cardiac arrest.

His death has had a huge impact on Chinese social media, where many people are responding with disbelief and shock.

It’s not just that Zhang was widely known (and while not everyone liked him, many respected him)—it’s perhaps also the fact that he spent so much of his life advising others on how to control their careers and income, building great personal wealth in the process, only to die so young, at the peak of his career, with no strategy to protect him.

Besides being “chronically overworked,” Zhang also pushed himself to exercise and run frequently. Adding to this, he had been under pressure since last fall, when he became a target of official criticism and platform regulators.

Isn’t it ironic that, in the end, the most important takeaway Zhang might leave behind is not his advice on choosing majors or making smart career moves, but rather the reminder to sometimes step away from the rat race and appreciate everyday life and health, because you never know when it might all end.

Zhang leaves behind his wife and 11-year-old daughter.

Let’s dive into some of the other trends that have been major talking points this week.

What Really Stood Out This Week

Chinese Woman Who Sold Abducted Toddlers Captured After Two Decades

[#梅姨落网#] [#人贩子梅姨落网#]

A woman who played a key role in a series of China’s notorious child trafficking cases, causing relentless suffering for many families, has finally been caught after being on the run for two decades. The arrest of the woman, referred to as “Mei Yi” or “Auntie Mei” (梅姨), has dominated Chinese social media over the past week, ever since Guangzhou police announced on March 21 that they had finally captured her.

This story touches upon multiple issues that have turned it into such a major topic.

Mei Yi was involved in a series of child trafficking crimes carried out by a gang led by Zhang Weiping (张维平) and Zhou Rongping (周容平) across multiple areas in Guangdong province between 2003 and 2005. She acted as a middleman responsible for transferring and selling abducted children, mostly toddler boys. In just over two years, the group abducted and trafficked nine young children.

The parents of these boys never stopped searching for them, while Chinese authorities worked for years to crack the case. In 2016, eleven years after the last abduction, police arrested five core gang members, including Zhang, who later confessed and revealed that the person reselling the children was a local elderly woman nicknamed “Mei Yi.” However, her real identity and whereabouts remained unknown for years. Zhang Weiping and Zhou Rongping were both sentenced to death and executed in 2023.

Thanks to new technologies—from digital tracking systems to DNA matching—the abducted children were located one by one and reunited with their biological families over the years: the first in 2019 and the last in 2024. By then, the boys were roughly between 14 and 21 years old, meaning they had spent nearly their entire childhoods with the families who had bought them.

Evading Capture by Being Ordinary

One aspect of this case drawing attention is not just how Mei Yi was caught, but how she managed to evade arrest for so long. The crimes took place more than twenty years ago, in factories, rental housing, and other areas with dense migrant populations, leaving very little traceable evidence. It is also unclear how accurate the composite sketch of Mei Yi—circulating since 2017 and updated in 2019—actually was. Authorities have not released a confirmed photo following her arrest, and it is possible her real appearance differed significantly from the sketch.

A lawyer close to the case told Chinese media outlet The Paper that what made her so hard to catch was probably not how clever her tactics were, but that she appeared so normal to those around her, who might have never guessed she was a criminal. Besides arranging illegal “adoptions,” Mei Yi also acted as a local matchmaker and fortune teller, and she even lied about her identity and used aliases with someone who was her partner for two years.

Official media do not disclose exactly how Mei Yi was eventually tracked down, but it’s clear that the authorities got much closer after all the abducted children were found in October 2024, undoubtedly leading to important clues that connected all the cases.

Not Such a Happy Ending

Chinese state media have largely framed the case as a story of justice served: Mei Yi as a long-sought villain, the police as persistent heroes, and China’s advancing technology as the key to solving the case. A kind of “happy ending.”

But the truth seems more complicated, with a loud silence surrounding nine families where the abducted boys spent their entire childhoods. Their willingness to pay for a male child is part of a broader issue linked to China’s one-child policy, relatively light penalties for buyers of trafficked children (or even legal limitations due to statutes of limitation), and a deeply rooted son-preference culture that was especially strong in those years 2003- 2005.

Some online commentators did argue to “not let those hypocritical ‘adoptive parents’ off the hook.” Yet the situation is complicated by the fact that some of the boys still consider these families their parents, and in some cases choose to stay with them rather than return to biological families they barely remember.

The fact is that Mei Yu is just one chapter in a much larger story that is far from finished.

Just earlier this week, the story of another abduction case also went trending. It concerns a man named Du Jun (杜军), who was abducted in 1991 at the age of 3 while playing outside a shop with his sister. Du Jun, who spent 35 years separated from his biological family, finally reunited with his biological mother following a successful identification process that is part of a continuing series of long-separated family reunions facilitated by China’s expanding DNA-matching and digital tracking systems.

Du, now 38, had not known he was trafficked as a child, nor that his biological family had searched for him for years. He became an orphan at a young age and built a life for himself. He was found through online search efforts, the dedication of volunteers, DNA research, and a specific detail only his biological family knew: that he had a bend at the joint of his left middle finger because of an accident as a toddler.

Du Jun as a young child before his abduction, and Du Jun reunited with his biological mother in 2026. Images via Hongxing Xinwen.

As with the nine abducted boys, Du Jun’s reunion with his family does bring light to a long, dark tunnel – but it doesn’t bring back the missed childhood, the shattered families, and the endless, tear-filled years.

Let’s hope many more “Mei Yis” will be brought to justice in the years ahead.

On the Feed

“The Most Expensive Music Video in the History of Mandopop”

In early February, as China settled into the quiet anticipation of the Chinese New Year, one of the country’s leading investigative journalists, Han Futao (韩福涛), dropped a bombshell report that sent shockwaves of anger across the country.

Han Futao is known for breaking massive scandals. In 2024, he exposed how tank trucks that delivered chemical products also transported cooking oil, without being cleaned. That food safety scandal sparked waves of outrage and prompted a high-level official investigation, leading to criminal charges for those involved.

In his latest explosive report, published by Beijing News (新京报), Han has turned his lens to malpractice in China’s hospital sector. His investigation led him to Xiangyang, in Hubei province, a city with more than twenty psychiatric hospitals, cropping up on every corner “like beef noodle shops” over recent years.

Recruiting Patients

Han found that multiple private psychiatric hospitals lure people in under the guise of free care, promising treatment for little or no cost, along with medication and daily expenses. Some even dispatched staff to rural villages to recruit “patients.”

Troubled by the unusual marketing procedures of these psychiatric hospitals, Han went undercover at several facilities as a caregiver, and sometimes posing as a patient’s family member, only to expose a disturbing reality.

Except for a handful of genuine patients, these hospitals were filled with healthy people who actually received no treatment. Many were elderly citizens swayed by the promise of “free care,” checking in with the hope of finding a free retirement home.

When Han, posing as a patient’s family member, spoke to a hospital manager at Xiangyang Yangyiguang Psychiatric Hospital (襄阳阳一光精神病医院), the director enthusiastically pitched their “free hospitalization” by saying medical fees were completely waived and promising the potential patient a great stay: “Lots of patients stay here for years and don’t even go home for Chinese New Year!”

Meanwhile, the hospitals’ own staff, including caregivers, nurses, and security guards, were also officially registered as patients, complete with admission and hospitalization procedures.

The motive was simple: insurance fraud (骗保 piànbǎo). In China, even after state medical insurance covers part of psychiatric care costs, patients are typically still responsible for a co-pay. These hospitals, both in Xiangyang and in the city of Yichang, exploited the financial vulnerability of those unwilling or unable to pay, using the lure of free accommodation to attract the misinformed. Once admitted, the hospitals used their identities to fabricate medical records and bill the state for non-existent treatments.

According to internal billing records, medication accounted for only a small fraction of patients’ costs. The bulk of the charges came from psychotherapy and behavioral correction therapy, which often leave little material trace and, in these cases, were never actually provided. Many of these hospitals even lacked basic medical equipment and qualified personnel.

Staff were essentially manufacturing invoices, generating around 4,000 yuan (US$580) in fraudulent charges per patient each month, with most funds diverted from the National Healthcare Security Administration (NHSA).

With each patient yielding thousands of yuan, profitability became a numbers game: the more bodies in beds, the higher the revenue. This perverse incentive gave rise to a specialized workforce of marketers who recruited ordinary people from rural areas, developing sales pitches and establishing referral-based kickback chains, offering bonuses of 400 ($58) to 1,000 yuan ($145) for every new “patient” successfully brought in.

To stay under the radar, hospitals periodically discharged patients on paper to avoid scrutiny from insurance auditors, only to readmit them immediately, or never actually let them leave at all. One story involved a patient who was discharged seven times, each time being readmitted on the same day he was “discharged.”

Day after day, the national medical insurance fund, built on the collective contributions and trust of the entire population, was drained through these calculated deceptions.

From Patients to Prisoners

Han uncovered more. Even more harrowing than the scale of the medical insurance fraud was the condition of those trapped inside. To maximize profit margins, these hospitals slashed costs to the bone. Living conditions were terrible: wards overcrowded, beds crammed side-by-side, and daily activities and food substandard at best.

The hospitals treated their patients more like profit-generating assets than human beings. Patients were subjected to a strict regime: they were forced to follow rigid schedules, restricted to designated zones, and faced physical violence if they did not comply.

During Han’s undercover research, he witnessed the horrific sight of patients being tied to a bed for not following orders, with some patients allegedly being restrained for up to three days and three nights.

Photo by Han Futao, in Beijing News, showing a hall filled with beds at the Yichang Yiling Kangning Psychiatric Hospital, where more than 160 people were housed in just one ward. The lower photo, also by Han Futao, shows elderly “patients” kept in their wheelchairs all day at Xiangyang Hong’an Psychiatric Hospital.

Some patients, despite technically being the ones receiving care, were forced to perform manual labor for the staff. They scrubbed pots, cleaned wards, mopped latrines, and moved supplies. Others even had to take on nursing tasks for fellow patients, such as feeding, bathing, and changing clothes, all in exchange for a few cents to buy a cigarette. Their personal freedom and quality of life were virtually non-existent.

Escape was also difficult. The hospitals had no intention of releasing their cash cows. Rarely was a patient discharged on the scheduled date. To ensure long-term residency, many hospitals confiscated patients’ phones and cut off contact with their families.

Some individuals spent nearly ten years in these prison-like conditions; some even died there. Meanwhile, those truly suffering from mental illness received no real treatment, often seeing their condition worsen or developing deep-seated trauma toward psychiatric care.

Fragile Public Trust in Welfare-Related Institutions

In China, there is a common belief that if you spot one cockroach in the room, there are already a hundred more hiding. As the story has gone viral over the past two weeks, netizens pointed out that Xiangyang and Yichang were likely not the only cities using such predatory tactics to cannibalize the national treasury. Han’s investigation struck a deeper nerve, and public anxiety over the security of social insurance once again bubbled to the surface.

China’s national health insurance is a cornerstone of the broader social insurance system and a vital part of life for nearly every citizen. It is generally divided into two categories: Employee Medical Insurance and Resident Medical Insurance. Employers are legally, at least in theory, required to contribute to the employee scheme, typically 6% to 9% of a worker’s salary. Non-employees, such as farmers, students, and freelancers, usually pay for Resident Insurance out of pocket, currently costing around 400 yuan ($58) annually. Under the employee scheme, inpatient reimbursement rates are roughly 80% to 85%; after approximately 25 years of contributions, members enjoy lifelong coverage without further payments. The Resident Insurance, however, offers significantly lower protection.

This system was designed as a fundamental safety net to alleviate the fear of falling into poverty due to illness or being left destitute in old age. For young Chinese job seekers, whether a company pays into social security used to be a non-negotiable criterion. However, as scandals shaking the foundation of this system have become more frequent, the mindset of the youth is shifting: Is it even worth paying into anymore?

Recent years have seen a steady stream of corruption scandals involving the embezzlement of social security funds.

Despite the authorities’ firm stance and high-profile punishments, 2025 was still marked by reports of officials — including the insurance bureau’s finance head — misappropriating funds to play the stock market. A June 2025 report even alleged that 40.6 billion yuan (US$5.8 billion) in national pension funds had been misappropriated or embezzled by local governments.

In one surreal case from Shanxi, a CDC employee’s records were doctored 14 times to create an absurd history of “starting work at age 1 and retiring at 22,” allowing them to pocket 690,000 yuan ($100,000) in pension while still drawing a salary at a new job.

These stories exposing large-scale abuse of the medical insurance system, combined with the extension of the minimum contribution period for retirement from 15 to 20 years amid a slowing job market and a gradually rising retirement age, are leading netizens to question the necessity of paying into the system. This is reflected in comments such as:

-“First it was 20 years, then 25, then 30. They move the goalposts whenever they want, but the benefits never improve.”
-“I won’t buy anything beyond the bare minimum resident insurance; who knows if there will even be a payout in the future?”
-“With a deficit this large, whether we’ll ever see that money is a huge question mark.”
-“I’m not even sure I’ll live to see 65 anyway.”

Echoes of the Cuckoo’s Nest

In response to Han’s latest exposure, local authorities immediately launched investigations, and state-run media outlets issued sharp criticism. By now, fourteen hospital executives have been criminally detained on suspicion of fraud.

Although the official report, published on the night of February 13, acknowledged that there was widespread medical fraud, with patients remaining hospitalized after recovery or empty beds being registered without any patients there, it said no evidence was found that people without mental disorders were admitted, which was one major finding of Han’s undercover operation.

This led to new questions, because how could fraud, abuse, fake discharges, and official corruption be acknowledged while denying the central allegation: that healthy people were being locked up? And how could people prove they were not mentally ill, while being a patient inside a psychiatric hospital?

Political & social commentator Hu Xijin (胡锡进) wrote on Weibo that, while he applauded Han and his team for exposing the mismanagement at psychiatric hospitals in Hubei, he also saw the report’s conclusions about the patients as a reminder that journalists should exercise caution when making accusations. Some sarcastic commenters suggested that perhaps Han had not sacrificed enough and should have admitted himself as a patient instead.

And so, in a way, the debate has now slowly also shifted – from the initial shock over Han’s report, to the anger and distrust surrounding state institutions and social security abuse, to the role of investigative journalism in China today. “He’s a hero,” some commenters said about Han.

In the end, the entire story is so absurd that some commentators have drawn parallels to One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (飞越疯人院), where Randle P. McMurphy (Jack Nicholson) fakes insanity to serve his sentence in a mental hospital instead of a prison work farm, only to find out that the endless chain of control and abuse at the psych ward is much more brutal than a prison cell.

The question inescapably becomes who the sane ones actually are.

Meanwhile, the scandal shows that public anxiety about the future and distrust of state institutions tend to rise quickly and deepen slowly with each new controversy. As trust in the national welfare system appears fragile, one sentiment persists: that there is far more to uncover, and that there are far too few Han Futaos to do it.

By Ruixin Zhang

With additional reporting by Manya Koetse

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