FROM THE WEIBO WATCH PREMIUM NEWSLETTER

China’s Xiaohongshu (Rednote) has seen an unprecedented influx of foreign “TikTok refugees” over the past week, giving rise to endless jokes. But behind this unexpected online migration lie some deeper themes—geopolitical tensions, a desire for cultural exchange, and the unexpected role of the fictional character Li Hua in bridging the divide.

Imagine you are Li Hua (李华), a Chinese senior high school student. You have a foreign friend, far away, in America. His name is John, and he has asked you for some insight into Chinese Spring Festival, for an upcoming essay has to write for the school newspaper. You need to write a reply to John, in which you explain more about the history of China’s New Year festival and the traditions surrounding its celebrations.

This is the kind of writing assignment many Chinese students have once encountered during their English writing exams in school during the Gaokao (高考), China’s National College Entrance Exams. The figure of ‘Li Hua’ has popped up on and off during these exams since at least 1995, when Li invited foreign friend ‘Peter’ to a picnic at Renmin Park.

Over the years, Li Hua has become somewhat of a cultural icon. A few months ago, Shangguan News (上观新闻) humorously speculated about his age, estimating that, since one exam mentioned his birth year as 1977, he should now be 47 years old—still a high school student, still helping foreign friends, and still introducing them to life in China.

Li Hua: the connector, the helper, the icon.

This week, however, Li Hua unexpectedly became a trending topic on social media—in a week that was already full of surprises.

With a TikTok ban looming in the US (delayed after briefly taking effect on Sunday), millions of American TikTok users began migrating to other platforms this month. The most notable one was the Chinese social media app Xiaohongshu (now also known as Rednote), which saw a massive influx of so-called “TikTok refugees” (Tiktok难民). The surge propelled Xiaohongshu to the #1 spot in app stores across the US and beyond.

This influx of some three million foreigners marked an unprecedented moment for a domestic Chinese app, and Xiaohongshu’s sudden international popularity has brought both challenges and beautiful moments. Beyond the geopolitical tension between the US and China, Chinese and American internet users spontaneously found common ground, creating unique connections and finding new friends.

While the TikTok/Xiaohongshu “honeymoon” may seem like just a humorous trend, it also reflects deeper, more complex themes.

 
✳️ National Security Threat or Anti-Chinese Witchhunt?
 

At its core, the “TikTok refugee” trend has sprung from geopolitical tensions, rivalry, and mutual distrust between the US and China.

TikTok is a wildly popular AI-powered short video app by Chinese company ByteDance, which also runs Douyin, the Chinese counterpart of the international TikTok app. TikTok has over 170 million users in the US alone.

A potential TikTok ban was first proposed in 2020, amid escalating US-China tensions. President Trump initiated the move, citing security and data concerns. In 2024, the debate resurfaced in global headlines when President Biden signed the “Protecting Americans from Foreign Adversary Controlled Applications Act,” giving ByteDance nine months to divest TikTok or face a US ban.

TikTok, however, has continuously insisted it is apolitical, does not accept political promotion, and has no political agenda. Its Singaporean CEO Shou Zi Chew maintains that ByteDance is a private business and “not an agent of China or any other country.”

🇺🇸 From Washington’s perspective, TikTok is viewed as a national and personal security threat. Officials fear the app could be used to spread propaganda or misinformation on behalf of the Chinese Communist Party.

🇨🇳 Beijing, meanwhile, criticizes the ban as an act of “bullying,” accusing the US of protectionism and attempting to undermine China’s most successful internet companies. They argue that the ban reflects America’s inability to compete with the success of Chinese digital products, labeling the scrutiny around TikTok as a “witch hunt.”

Political cartoon about the American “witchhunt” against TikTok, shared on Weibo in 2023, also published on Twitter by Lianhe Zaobao.

“This will eventually backfire on the US itself,” China’s Foreign Ministry spokesperson Wang Wenbin predicted in 2024.

Wang turned out to be quite right, in a way.

When it became clear in mid-January that the ban was likely to become a reality, American TikTok users grew increasingly frustrated and angry with their government. For many of these TikTok creators, the platform is not just a form of entertainment—it has become an essential part of their income. Some directly monetize their content through TikTok, while others use it to promote services or products, targeting audiences that other platforms like Facebook, Instagram, or X can no longer reach as effectively.

Initially, the mass migration of American users to Xiaohongshu was a symbolic protest against US policies. Users advocated for the right to choose their preferred social media, and voiced their frustration at how their favorite app had become a pawn in US-China geopolitical tensions. Rejecting the narrative that “data must be protected from the Chinese,” many pointed out that privacy concerns were equally valid for US-based platforms. As an act of playful political defiance, these users downloaded Xiaohongshu to demonstrate they didn’t fear the government’s warnings about Chinese data collection.

(If they had the option, by the way, they would have installed Douyin—the actual Chinese version of TikTok—but it is only available in Chinese app stores, whereas Xiaohongshu is accessible in international stores, so it was picked as ‘China’s version of TikTok.’)

Xiaohongshu is actually not the same as TikTok at all. Founded in 2013, Xiaohongshu (literal translation: Little Red Book) is a popular app with over 300 million users that combines lifestyle, travel, fashion, and cosmetics with e-commerce, user-generated content, and product reviews. Like TikTok, it offers personalized content recommendations and scrolling videos, but is otherwise different in types of engagement and being more text-based.

As a Chinese app primarily designed for a domestic audience, the sudden wave of foreign users caused significant disruption. Xiaohongshu must adhere to the guidelines of China’s Cyberspace Administration, which requires tight control over information flows. The unexpected influx of foreign users undoubtedly created challenges for the company, not only prompting them to implement translation tools but also recruiting English-speaking content moderators to manage the new streams of content. Foreigners addressing sensitive political issues soon found their accounts banned.

Of course, there is undeniable irony in Americans protesting government control by flocking to a Chinese app functioning within an internet system that is highly controlled by the government—a move that sparked quite some debate and criticism as well.

 
✳️ The Sino-American ‘Dear Li Hua’ Moment
 

While the initial hype around Xiaohongshu among TikTok users was political, the trend quickly shifted into a moment of cultural exchange. As American creators introduced themselves on the platform, Chinese users gave them a warm welcome, eager to practice their English and teach these foreign newcomers how to navigate the app.

Soon, discussions about language, culture, and societal differences between China and the US began to flourish. Before long, “TikTok refugees” and “Xiaohongshu natives” were collaborating on homework assignments, swapping recipes, and bonding through humor.

For instance, Chinese users jokingly asked the “TikTok refugees” to pay a “cat tax” for seeking refuge on their platform, which American users happily fulfilled by posting adorable cat photos. American users, in turn, joked about becoming best friends with their “Chinese spies,” playfully mocking their own government’s fears about Chinese data collection.

The newfound camaraderie sparked creativity, as users began generating humorous images celebrating the bond between American and Chinese netizens—like Ronald McDonald cooking with the Monkey King or the Terra Cotta Soldier embracing the Statue of Liberty. Later, some images even depicted the pair welcoming their first “baby.”

🇺🇸 At the same time, it became clear just how little Americans and Chinese truly know about each other. Many American users expressed surprise at the China they discovered through Xiaohongshu, which contrasted sharply with negative portrayals they’ve seen in the media. While some popular US narratives often paint Chinese citizens as “brainwashed” by their government, many TikTok users began to reflect on how their own perspectives had been shaped—or even “manipulated”—by their media and government.

🇨🇳 For Chinese users, the sudden interaction underscored their digital isolation. Over the past 15 years, China has developed its own tightly regulated digital ecosystem, with Western platforms like Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and YouTube inaccessible in the mainland. While this system offers political and economic advantages, it has left many young Chinese people culturally hungry for direct interaction with foreigners—especially after years of reduced exchange caused by the pandemic, trade tensions, and bilateral estrangement. (Today, only some 1,100 American students are reportedly studying in China.)

The enthusiasm and eagerness displayed by American and Chinese Xiaohongshu users this week actually underscores the vacuum in cultural exchange between the two nations.

As a result of the Xiaohongshu migration, language-learning platform Duolingo reported a 216% rise in new US users learning Mandarin—a clear sign of growing interest in bridging the US-China divide.

Mourning the lack of intercultural communication and celebrating this unexpected moment of connection, Xiaohongshu users began jokingly asking Americans if they had ever received their “Li Hua letters.”

What started as some lighthearted remarks evolved into something much bigger as Chinese users dug up their old Gaokao exam papers and shared the letters they had written to their imaginary foreign friends years ago. These letters, often carefully stored in drawers or organizers, were posted with captions like, “Why didn’t you reply?” suggesting that Chinese students had been trying to reach out for years.

Example letters on Xiaohongshu: ‘Li Hua’ writing to foreign friends.

The story of ‘Li Hua’ and the replies he never received struck a chord with American Tiktok users. One user, Debrah.71, commented:
“It was the opposite for us in the USA. When I was in grade school, we did the same thing—we had foreign pen pals. But they did respond to our letters.”

Then, something extraordinary happened: Americans started replying to Li Hua.

One user, Douglas (@neonhotel), posted a heartfelt video of him writing a letter to Li Hua:

📝”Dear Li Hua, I’m sorry I didn’t get your letters. I understand you’ve been writing me for a long time, but now I’m here to reply. Hello, from your American friend. I hope you’re well. Life here is pretty normal—we go to work, hit the gym, eat dinner, watch TV. What about you? Please write back. I’m sorry I didn’t reply before, but I’m here now. Your friend, Douglas.”

Another user, Tess (@TessSaidThat), wrote:

📝”Dear Li Hua, I hope this letter finds you well. I’m so sorry my response is so late. My government never delivered your letters. Instead, they told me you didn’t want to be my friend. Now I know the truth, and I can’t wait to visit. Which city should I visit first? With love, Tess.”

Examples of Dear Li Hua letters.

Other replies echoed similar sentiments:

📝”Dear Li Hua, I’m sorry the world kept us apart.”

📝”I know we don’t speak the same language, but I understand you clearly. Your warmth and genuine kindness transcend every barrier.”

📝”Did you achieve your dreams? Are you still practicing English? We’re older now, but wherever we are, happiness is what matters most.”

These exchanges left hundreds of users—both Chinese and American, young and old, male and female—teary-eyed. In a way, it’s the emotional weight of the distance—represented by millions of unanswered letters—that resonated deeply with both “TikTok refugees” and “Xiaohongshu natives.”

Emotional responses to the Li Hua letters.

The letters seemed to symbolize the gap that has long separated Chinese and American people, and the replies highlighted the unusual circumstances that brought these two online communities together. This moment of genuine cultural exchange made many realize how anti-Chinese, anti-American sentiments have dominated narratives for years, fostering misunderstandings.

Xiaohongshu commenter.

On the Chinese side, many people expressed how emotional it was to see Li Hua’s letters finally receiving replies. Writing these letters had been a collective experience for generations of Chinese students, creating messages to imaginary foreign friends they never expected to meet.

Receiving a reply wasn’t just about connection; it was about being truly seen at a time when Chinese people often feel underrepresented or mischaracterized in global contexts. Some users even called the replies to the Li Hua letters a “historical moment.”

 
✳️ Unity in a Time of Digital Divide
 

Alongside its political and cultural dimensions, the TikTok/Xiaohongshu “honeymoon” also reveals much about China and its digital environment. The fact that TikTok, a product of a Chinese company, has had such a profound impact on the American online landscape—and that American users are now flocking to another Chinese app—showcases the strength of Chinese digital products and the growing “de-westernization” of social media.

Of course, in Chinese official media discourse, this aspect of the story has been positively highlighted. Chinese state media portrays the migration of US TikTok users to Xiaohongshu as a victory for China: not only does it emphasize China’s role as a digital superpower and supposed geopolitical “connector” amidst US-China tensions, but it also serves as a way of mocking US authorities for the “witch hunt” against TikTok, suggesting that their actions have ultimately backfired—a win-win for China.

The Chinese Communist Party’s Publicity Department even made a tongue-in-cheek remark about Xiaohongshu’s sudden popularity among foreign users. The Weibo account of the propaganda app Study Xi, Strong Country, dedicated to promote Party history and Xi Jinping’s work, playfully suggested that if Americans are using a Chinese social media app today, they might be studying Xi Jinping Thought tomorrow, writing: “We warmly invite all friends, foreign and Chinese, new and old, to download the ‘Big Red Book’ app so we can study and make progress together!”

Perhaps the most positive takeaway from the TikTok/Xiaohongshu trend—regardless of how many American users remain on the app now that the TikTok ban has been delayed—is that it demonstrates the power of digital platforms to create new, transnational communities. It’s unfortunate that censorship, a TikTok ban, and the fragmentation of global social media triggered this moment, but it has opened a rare opportunity to build bridges across countries and platforms.

The “Dear Li Hua” letters are not just personal exchanges; they are part of a larger movement where digital tools are reshaping how people form relationships and challenge preconceived notions of others outside geopolitical contexts. Most importantly, it has shown Chinese and American social media users how confined they’ve been to their own bubbles, isolated on their own islands. An AI-powered social media app in the digital era became the unexpected medium for them to share kind words, have a laugh, exchange letters, and see each other for what they truly are: just humans.

As millions of Americans flock back to TikTok today, things will not be the same as before. They now know they have a friend in China called Li Hua.

By Manya Koetse

(follow on X, LinkedIn, or Instagram)

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WHAT’S ON WEIBO CHAPTER: “15 YEARS OF WEIBO”

Weibo has turned fifteen. As one of China’s most popular social media platforms, its journey over the past decade and a half not only tells the story of Weibo as a platform but also reflects the transformations of China’s internet at large.

It was August 14, 2009, when a new Chinese social media platform was first launched. Its name was Sina Weibo (新浪微博): ‘Sina’ because it is owned and created by Sina Corporation, a Chinese online media company founded in 1998. ‘Weibo’ because the platform allows users to post short ‘blogs,’ with wēibó (微博) literally meaning micro-blog.

At the time of its launch, Sina Weibo faced little competition and quickly gained traction. Within four months, it surpassed 5 million users. Now, over 15 years later, Weibo has over 580 million monthly active users (Ke 2024; Liang 2022).

As one of the pioneering platforms in China’s social media landscape that managed to stick around for so long, its story has become an important part of China’s internet history. Its rise, transformation, and future is closely connected to the broader evolution of Chinese online developments.

Here, we’ll dive deeper into the shifting role of Weibo in China’s digital age and how its struggles mirror those of a rapidly evolving internet ecosystem, where competition, censorship, and user expectations continuously reshape the platform’s journey.

But before diving into its evolution, let’s take a step back to where it all began: the year 2009.

 
Outline:

1. China’s Pre-Weibo Social Landscape
2. Weibo’s Recipe for Success
3. From Grassroots Voices to Government Control
4. Navigating the Next Digital Era
 

The year 2009 was a pivotal moment of change for China’s social media and internet landcape at large. It was the year when many platforms made their exit, when Weibo was launched, and when the beginning of China’s mobile internet era forced companies to rethink their strategies (Xu 2009).

The decade preceding 2009 had been a flourishing one in which the foundations of China’s own internet ecosystem had been solidified. By 1999, nearly all of China’s future internet giants—Alibaba, Tencent, Baidu, NetEase, Ctrip, Shanda, JD.com, Sina, and Sohu—had been founded, and blogging had grown so popular that 2005 became known as the ‘year of Chinese blogging’ (Mao 2020; Yu 2007, 424).

With a lively internet cafe culture, thriving online games and active message boards, those early years of social media in China were exciting, fun. Many people undoubtedly look back on them with great nostalgia.

A Chongqing internet cafe in 2005, via Baike/Baidu.

Were these the golden years of Chinese internet? For some of China’s very first online influencers, they certainly were: in 2003, Muzimei (Mùzǐ Měi 木子美), a Cantonese sex columnist who started publishing a frank web diary of her sexual encounters with numerous men, became super famous for a while. A year later, Sister Lotus (Fúróng Jiějiě 芙蓉姐姐) from Shaanxi became the next DIY celebrity, acquiring her fame for sharing personal stories and posting provocative pictures on Tsinghua message boards. With his critical and outspoken blog posts, writer Han Han (韩寒) became China’s most famous blogger and arguably was the first KOL (Key Opinion Leader) in the Chinese digital sphere (Harwit 2014, 1066; Jeffreys & Edwards 2010, 11).

Muzimei, Sister Lotus, and Han Han (via Baike, Sohu, Kknews)

In this booming blogging time, China’s early social media environment was relatively crowded. Inspired by the success of Facebook, launched in 2004, and Twitter, which debuted in 2006, many Chinese companies tried to copy their formula. By 2007, a series of Chinese equivalents emerged, including the country’s first ‘weibo’ (microblogging) platform, Fanfou (饭否). This was soon followed by competitors such as Jiwai (叽歪), Taotao (滔滔), and other domestic players, creating strong competition for Facebook and Twitter, both of which were still accessible in mainland China at the time.

Then came 2009, a politically charged year on multiple fronts—internationally, domestically, and locally.

➡️ It was the year social media emerged as a powerful tool for activism, fueling various pro-democracy protests abroad, such as the Iranian Green Movement. Dubbed “Twitter Revolutions,” these movements relied heavily on social media for sharing information and organizing resistance. This undoubtedly heightened concerns among Chinese authorities about the potential for similar events in China, especially as the summer of 2009 marked the twentieth anniversary of the Tiananmen Square protests (Harwit 2014, 1077; Zhang & Negro 2013, 200).

➡️ It was the year of the major fire at the Beijing Television Cultural Center, located right behind the brand-new CCTV tower designed by Rem Koolhaas. While traditional media reported on the fire cautiously, the real story emerged through witnesses on the street using Twitter and local microblogs. Some even suggested that the fire was reported in real-time on social media before the local fire station was aware. This event highlighted for authorities the immense power of social media and the growing impact of ‘citizen journalism’ (Sullivan 2012, 775).

The fire at the Beijing Television Cultural Center, 9 February 2009 (Wikimedia source)

➡️ It was also the year of continued unrest in Tibet and major riots in Xinjiang, both of which were attributed to the free flow of information on social media. These incidents led to localized internet shutdowns and tighter centralized online controls. Following the Xinjiang riots, Facebook, YouTube, and Twitter were blocked in China, and popular domestic platforms like Fanfou suspended their services.

The big exit of America’s social media giants in China and the end for early domestic platforms created a window of opportunity for new, emerging players. Local businesses quickly stepped into the social media vacuum.

The first to present a viable plan was the media company Sina. Its CEO, Charles Chao (Cáo Guówěi 曹国伟), trusted by Chinese authorities, assured the government that content on their platform would be tightly regulated and that they would guide the direction of online public opinion by structuring and organizing discussions in certain ways (Stockman & Luo 2017, 199; Sullivan 2012, 775).

Consequently, while Weibo’s launch in 2009 occurred amidst political turbulence, its founding was itself a highly political event. Not only was its creation inseparable from the political climate of the time, but the platform also became a tool for influencing and controlling public opinion and discourse.

While the start of Sina Weibo is intertwined with China’s political climate, the platform is inherently commercial. As the first microblogging platform to be authorized after the 2009 crackdown, Sina Weibo had a clear advantage and stood at the beginning of a new Chinese digital era—one marked by the dominance of domestic players and the rise of the smartphone boom.

Weibo was initially modeled after Twitter in some ways. In addition to allowing users to post images and GIFs, it also had a 140-character limit for posts, focused on real-time, public conversations, utilized hashtags and trends, and implemented a “follower-following” system. This system allowed users to follow public figures or celebrities without needing to be mutual ‘friends,’ like on Facebook.

Weibo’s old layout.

These features quickly earned Weibo the label of the “Chinese version of Twitter.” With its competition out of the way, Weibo emerged at exactly the right time.

Other Weibos: Sohu Weibo, Tencent Weibo, NetEase Weibo.

Although the timing was opportune, Sina needed more than just favorable circumstances to attract a large user base, especially because other ‘Weibos’ soon followed: Tencent Weibo, Sohu Weibo, and Netease Weibo all tried to get their share of the market. With a clear strategy, Sina transformed their Weibo into something far more than a mere Twitter clone.

 
Strategy #1: Right Timing, Right People
 

One important part of the strategy employed by Sina Weibo is that, immediately after its authorization, it started to encourage movie stars, singers and famous business, sport and media celebrities to join their platform (Zhang & Negro 2013, 201).

As an online media company, Sina was already well-connected with public figures and they had previously leveraged celebrity influence to boost their Sina blogging platform in the pre-Weibo years. Just eleven months after launching, Sina Weibo had verified over 20,000 celebrities or influentials on its platform, with some top accounts, like actress Yao Chen (姚晨), boasting over two million followers (Baike 2024).

By 2011, actress Yao Chen had 10 million followers on Weibo. Image source: Steven Millward, Tech in Asia, 2011.

While Sina Weibo competitors focused more on grassroots users, this celebrity-centric approach created a snowball effect; the more influential people joined, the more others wanted to join as well.

Within three months after launch, Sina Weibo had one million users; by its eighth month, they reached 10 million; and a year later, there were over 50 million registered users (Zhang & Negro 2013, 201).

 
Strategy #2: Fostering Weibo Culture
 

From the start, Sina Weibo also chose a noteworthy approach of being very community-driven, promoting “Weibo Culture,” holding various competitons and conferences to invite talents from all over the country to share their ideas and views on the use of Weibo, holding an annual Weibo Night, and setting up its Charity Platform.

To this day, ‘Weibo Culture’ is an important part of the platform, as Weibo is sponsor and initiator of all kinds of events across entertainment, media, sports, academics, art.

Some older and newer examples include Weibo Movie night, Weibo TV & Internet Summit, Weibo dance competition, Weibo mobile photography competition, Weibo developer challenge (2011), Weibo marketing strategy competition (2018), Weibo vlog contest, and Weibo campus awards. These initiatives allow Weibo to increase its influence across various social fields, attract more users, and enhance its brand vaue and engagement.

 
Strategy #3: Weibo At Heart of Unfolding News Events
 

What stands out most about Sina Weibo’s strategy is how it positioned itself at the center of unfolding news events—not only as the key platform for users to discuss incidents but also as an active player in gathering, managing, and disseminating information during critical moments (Li 2023, 738).

One important reason for this emphasis on unfolding news is that breaking events are a “battleground for business”—a prime opportunity to boost viewing rates, attract more users, and ultimately increase revenue.

A notable example is the 2011 Wenzhou train crash, where Weibo quickly emerged as a vital source for real-time updates. Operators actively filtered and manually reviewed posts related to the crash, extracting crucial information. Passenger accounts were highlighted as key contributors, and the platform consistently delivered the latest updates to users.

Furthermore, by showcasing and contrasting different perspectives, Weibo encouraged discussions and amplified the controversies surrounding the incident, drawing significant public attention. As Weibo users shared firsthand accounts, challenged the official narrative, and demanded transparency about what had occurred and why it was being concealed, the incident solidified Weibo’s role as China’s leading social media platform for public discourse and real-time engagement during major events (Le Han 2016, 12; Li 2023, 738).

The Wenzhou train collision, images via China Youth Online.

Fudan University’s Mengying Li conducted extensive research on Sina Weibo’s operational strategies during its early years. Focusing on major incidents or Weibo’s ‘hot event operations’ (热点事件运营), she carried out 21 in-depth interviews with Weibo operators and opinion leaders. Li found that Weibo, much like a news editor at a newspaper, played a pivotal role in helping incidents go viral—a practice that continues to influence the platform’s approach today (736-738):

🔸Weibo as News Agent: Weibo recruited and spotlighted journalists and intellectuals, prominently featuring their posts to shape public narratives.
🔸Weibo as an Information Curator: Weibo operators closely monitored breaking news incidents and acted on them immediately.
🔸Weibo as Relevancy Filter: Weibo ensured that posts from IP addresses linked to where an incident took place were prioritized and created topic pages to enable centralized discussions.
🔸Weibo as Amplifier of Key Voices: Weibo operators invited those at the center of incidents (e.g., victims or witnesses) to open verified accounts, providing them with a platform to share updates directly with the public.
🔸Weibo as Content Promoter: Weibo strategically amplified its own content by identifying and boosting key posts and user contributions through its recommendation mechanisms, distributing them via multiple channels.
🔸Weibo as Diverter: By steering attention toward new content and limiting the lifespan of trending topics, Weibo ensured a dynamic flow of fresh material to sustain user engagement and interest.

By 2011, it was clear that Sina Weibo was the ‘winner’ among microblogging platforms, leaving competitors far behind. Looking back, Chinese commentators such as Michael Anti have referred to Weibo’s early years (2009–2013) as its golden era (Koetse 2014). Sina Weibo crowned its success by acquiring the weibo.com domain name in 2011, cementing its status as the definitive “Weibo.”

From its early years, Weibo had strong appeal—not only as a celebrity-focused platform but also for companies, brands, NGOs, and regular users. As it quickly grew into one of China’s leading social media platforms, Weibo also became increasingly attractive to state and government-related actors.

 
Encouraging Government Engagement
 

The first government-run account to pop up on Weibo in 2009 was ‘“Weibo Yunnan” (微博云南), an account belonging to the Yunnan Provincial Government Information Office. The Vice Minister of the local Party Committee’s Propaganda Department, Wu Hao (伍皓), was the one to initiate the move to Weibo as a channel for local leadership to effectively communicatie with the public and address incidents. “The more transparent the information, the more likeable the government” (“信息越公开, 政府越可爱”) he said (Henan Shangbao 2009).

In 2011, Party Chief Cai Qi (蔡奇) became one of the first high-level officials to open an active Weibo account. The Party newspaper People’s Daily joined Weibo in 2012, paving the way for many more official accounts and state media outlets to follow. By the end of its first year, there were 41 government agencies and 60 public security bureaus actively using Weibo, along with 466 major news organizations that had established their own accounts (Baike 2024; Shao & Wang 2020, 47; Wei 2016).

From the beginning, Sina Weibo took an active role in shaping the leadership’s attitude toward the platform and encouraging government engagement. The company invited government departments to create accounts and provided training on managing public opinion during crises. CEO Charles Chao even delivered lectures at the Central Party School of the Communist Party and recorded video courses for government users, covering topics such as “How Weibo Could Help the Government.” These efforts paid off, with Weibo becoming a key platform for government institutions to share information: by 2014, over 130,000 Weibo accounts were official government accounts (Li 2023, 739–740; Hou 2017, 151).

 
New Interactions in the Digital Age
 

As these official accounts, celebrity accounts, and many others joined Weibo in large numbers, it became evident that the platform had evolved into a unique digital space where multiple societal layers could converge. It enabled actors from diverse sectors, who might never interact in other settings, to engage directly and publicly—facilitating a wide range of dynamic interactions. Besides interactions between celebrities and fans, this led to numerous interesting and insightful case studies throughout the years:

🔸 Celebrities vs. State Media: For example, when state media outlet CCTV reported that famous actor and director Zhang Guoli (张国立) advocated for stronger monitoring of web dramas during the plenary sessions, Zhang publicly contradicted them on Weibo, stating he hadn’t even spoken yet. This put CCTV in an awkward position, as it became clear to the public they were reporting on discussions that had not even occurred yet (read here).

🔸 Party Organizations vs. Online Regulators: In another case, a local branch of the Communist Youth League unexpectedly voiced support for China’s gay community on Weibo after online regulators listed homosexuality as an “abnormal sexual behavior” (read here).

🔸 Netizens vs. Corporations: Another noteworthy example is the Wei Zexi scandal. Wei, a 21-year-old cancer patient, died after being misled by false treatment information found on Baidu. The incident sparked widespread outrage on Weibo, exposing profit-driven malpractice in China’s healthcare market and implicating both Baidu and the Putian Medical Group (read here).

 
Bottom-up Movements, Top-down Regulation
 

From its early years to present, Weibo has always been a platform for public-driven movements, enabling users to address social injustices, create awareness on pressing issues and influence local politics.

🔹 In 2011, for example, sociologist Prof. Yu Jianrong (于建嵘) launched a Weibo campaign called “Take Photos to Rescue Child Beggars” (随手拍照解救乞讨儿童) during the Spring Festival. Over a span of just 14 days, participants from across the country contributed more than 2,500 photos and messages. With the assistance of law enforcement, the campaign successfully reunited six abducted children with their families. Among them was Peng Wenle (彭文乐), who had been kidnapped in Shenzhen in 2008; thanks to the campaign, he was finally brought home. This highlights Weibo’s role as a platform for opinion leaders to drive meaningful social impact (Chongqing Business Newspaper 2011; Zhan & Negro 2013, 203).

“Take Photos to Rescue Child Beggars” campaign. Left: one of the photos sent in by Weibo users photographing child beggars. Right: Peng reunited with his dad thanks to the campaign (Images via Chongqing Business News).

🔹 One other famous case highlighting the public-powered impact of Weibo is that of Yang Dacai (杨达才), a former Shaanxi provincial work safety bureau head. For most people, Yang was an unknown bureaucrat—until 2012, when a photograph of him smiling at the site of a tragic traffic accident that killed 36 people went viral. This image of the “Smiling Official” (微笑局长) sparked outrage on social media and quickly led to a digital investigation into his identity and background.

What followed was a striking example of China’s Human Flesh Search Engine (HFSE) in action. Internet users dug up numerous photos of Yang wearing 11 different luxury watches on various occasions, some valued at around 400,000 RMB (approximately $65,000 USD). This discovery led to Yang being nicknamed “Brother Watch” (表哥) and made him the subject of widespread public scrutiny.

Yang Dacai became a target of Weibo’s ‘Human Flesh Search Engine’ after netizens saw him smiling at the site of a traffic accident and then found he owned various luxury watches.

The online pressure eventually triggered an official investigation. Yang was sentenced to 14 years in prison for bribery and possession of assets of unclear origin, showcasing the HFSE’s ability to hold powerful figures accountable. The Yang Dacai case is an early and prominent example of the HFSE’s potential as a tool for online protest and crowdsourced monitoring in China.

While serving as a commercial entity, boosting state-society interactions, and providing a platform for diverse voices and movements, Weibo must also adhere to the various official (and at times murky) regulations of China’s digital environment. Although Weibo employs censorship strategies and follows directives from the Central Propaganda Department (Wang 2016), it still occasionally runs into trouble.

In 2017, for instance, Weibo, along with major platforms like Tencent and Baidu, was fined by Chinese regulators for hosting banned content as part of a broader crackdown on online information deemed inappropriate by the government. In 2018, Weibo was ordered to shut down its hot search and trending topic lists as a punishment for failing to manage its information flows effectively. Similar penalties followed in 2020 for “disrupting online communication order” and “spreading illegal information.” In 2021, the Cyberspace Administration of China imposed a fine of 3 million yuan (approximately $471,165 USD) on Weibo for repeatedly allowing the publication of “illegal information.”

As one of China’s social media giants, Weibo’s priority is to keep its users engaged and stay relevant. At the same, it is also a priority to keep authorities content and keep discussions in check. This balancing act has led to a seesaw movement between greater freedom and increased control on the platform. During periods of tighter regulation, Weibo’s relevance has occasionally appeared to waver, only to rise again.

 
Weibo Loses, Weibo Wins
 

📉 Around 2014-2015, when Weibo’s initial wave of success had settled, there was a growing sentiment that Weibo was on its way out, especially because other social media platforms became increasingly popular. WeChat, launched in 2011, had grown into more than just a messaging app—it became a lifestyle platform. If 2009-2012 was the golden age for Weibo, then 2012-2015 was the prime time for Tencent’s WeChat.

It was also a time when Chinese social media users were seeking their own niche online communities. Some gravitated toward Xiaohongshu (now also known as Rednote), an app launched in 2013 that blended online shopping guides with a community platform. It quickly became popular, especially among female Chinese users with interests in fashion, travel, and lifestyle.

Others turned to Zhihu, China’s first major Q&A website launched in 2011, or Kuaishou, the first Chinese short-video platform also developed in 2011. Meanwhile, video streaming site Bilibili gained early popularity among fans of anime, manga, and gaming with its interactive “bullet comments” (弹幕) feature (this allows viewers to post real-time comments that appear directly on the video screen as it plays).

During this time, Weibo was adjusting to new cyberspace regulations. In 2015, the BBC reported that new rules requiring real-name authentication on the platform could drive users away (Hatton 2015). “Weibo is dead” became a popular statement. Adding to the pessimism was the nervousness among investors during Sina Weibo’s stock market listing, fueled by growing concerns about how Weibo could handle increasing competition.

2014 Twitter conversation on Weibo being dead. (Screenshots by Whatsonweibo)

📈 But in 2016, Weibo saw a major revival with the rise of online influencers and the social media celebrity economy. Among a wave of self-made celebrities emerging during this period, Papi Jiang stood out as one of the “super influencers” (超级红人). The vlogger gained widespread fame with her humorous videos addressing everyday societal issues, becoming a rising superstar on the platform and contributing to its renewed success. Other viral creators who rose to prominence on Weibo included Aikeli Li (艾克里里), Huang Wenyu (黄文煜), Wang Nima (王尼玛), and others (Xiao Yao 2024)

Papi Jiang was one of the super viral Weibo creators of 2016.

📉 Then in 2019, a year marked by the 30th anniversary of the Tiananmen protests, the US-China trade war, Hong Kong protests, and rising tensions surrounding Taiwan’s future, the censorship on Weibo seemed more stringent than ever before. This inevitably led to a noticeable decline in user engagement on the platform.

A post by a Chinese blogger, suggesting that intellectual discussions on Weibo were dying, struck a chord with millions of users (read the full translated post here). The blogger argued that Weibo was “no longer a place to share news and knowledge, nor a place for open debate.” With major events unfolding that could not be openly discussed, these issues became “like an elephant in the room on Weibo” (Koetse 2019).

📈 The Covid outbreak in late 2019 and early 2020, however, put Weibo right back at the center of China’s social media arena. Much like in its early years, Weibo was actively involved in unfolding incidents, ensuring that the latest Covid updates were readily available on the site and playing a key role in connecting those seeking help with relevant government departments.

While Weibo served as an important channel for Party media to promote narratives of a united China battling the virus, it also became a space where grassroots users expressed anger over local mishandlings and social injustices. This cemented Weibo’s role as a major online news hub during the pandemic, playing an even more “crucial role in shaping public engagement and political participation” than before (Beijing Daily 2020; Li 2023, 730-731).

 
Reshufflings in the AI Era
 

After the rise of China’s major internet companies and platforms in the late 1990s to early 2000s, followed by the transition to the mobile era between 2009 and 2013, we are now witnessing a third major phase of transformation and growth in the Chinese online media landscape: the AI era.

In recent years, Bytedance and its AI-driven apps, most notably Douyin (the mainland version of TikTok) have become increasingly influential in China. Other platforms that were initially more niche, such as Bilibili or Xiaohongshu (Rednote), have also moved into the mainstream, emerging as birthplaces for online trends and memes.

Where does this leave Weibo?

Some voices argue that Weibo’s current path has become too commercial. By prioritizing intrusive ads and clickbait headlines, critics feel it has lost its “human touch,” especially as many influential bloggers and celebrities have either left the platform or stopped updating. Somewhat ironically, they suggest that platforms designed with AI integration from the start, such as Douyin, now feel more authentic to users (Xiao Yao 2024; Tech Nice 2024).

Weibo, meanwhile, is often updates its features and is integrating more AI into its platform, not just to automatically identify and filter content, but also to create trending topic lists and content feeds, or to assist users in finding and understanding information and news events. The Weibo Smart Search AI chatbot (微博智搜), for example, answers questions about hot topics and helps users create posts about them.

Maintaining a strong foothold in China’s social media sphere is not just important for Weibo as a company, it’s also essential for official channels and state media in their efforts to shape public opinion and promote Party narratives. Weibo now has over 17,000 registered media accounts reaching an audience of millions. More than a celebrity platform, Weibo is the social home of China’s newspapers: 97% of the social and current affairs topics on Weibo’s trending lists now originate from media reports (ZGJX 2024).

Weibo’s struggles reflect the shifting dynamics of the online media environment. During a media conference in October 2024, Weibo CEO Wang Gaofei (王高飞) addressed how there has been a “decentralization” in online news consumption. Rather than looking at the centralized ‘hot topics,’ social media users, especially in the post-pandemic era, increasingly turn to personalized, decentralized information feeds. Moreover, the kind of content they prefer is also more interest-driven, which is why the role of AI is so important in social media today—something which companies like Bytedance and Xiaohongshu (Rednote) understand all too well.

Adapting to changing times, Weibo’s centralized trending topic lists are becoming less important, as the platform is now offering users more personalized topics based on their interests. Wang Gaofei remains optimistic about the platform’s future, emphasizing that media integration will continue to be a cornerstone of its strategy.

 
A Digital Dinosaur Standing Tall
 

It’s not easy to survive for 15 years in an online environment that evolves so quickly. Beyond navigating the complex dynamics of official guidelines, managing censorship, keeping users engaged, and satisfying advertisers, Weibo has had to constantly rethink its strategies and adapt to the times.

Despite uncertainties about its future role in China’s social media landscape, Weibo’s impact on the history of China’s internet is undeniable. The platform’s strength lies in its ability to facilitate public opinion, foster interaction across different layers of society, and play a significant role in news discussions. It has consistently balanced official demands with grassroots movements, occasionally stirring controversy to attract attention and highlight contentious news.

Surrounded by newer apps and younger companies, Weibo might already be considered a “dinosaur” in the world of Chinese social media. But it’s a tall one—a major example for emerging players to look up to as they navigate an increasingly complex digital ecosystem.

Even after 15 years, there is still no place like Weibo. It remains relevant as a central hub for discussing both mainstream and niche news. In an increasingly fragmented social media landscape, when something big happens, China still gathers in Weibo’s “living room.” In many ways, Weibo’s best strategy for future success might just be to remain true to what it has always been.

By Manya Koetse

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