Featured image created by Xiaohongshu user “小罗Design”, title:《🥟饺子里的温暖 —— 回家过年》/ “The Warmth of a Dumpling – Going home for the Chinese New Year”

PREMIUM NEWSLETTER | ISSUE #45

Overview:
▶ Dear Reader – Watching the CMG Gala
▶ What’s on Weibo Chapters – 15 Years of Weibo
▶ What’s Popular – The “China Chic Girl” & Sketchy Takeout Food
▶ What’s Noteworthy – China’s Artificial Sun
▶ What’s Memorable – “The Spring Festival Survival Toolkit”
▶ Weibo Word of the Week – Fake Foreigners

Dear Reader,

This week, trending topics in China were dominated by two themes: Trump and the Chinese New Year. Unsurprisingly, it’s clear which of the two is the most significant for most people: the Spring Festival and the journey home. The phrase “回家” (huí jiā), meaning “returning home,” has been flooding social media in recent days.

The Chinese New Year, or the Spring Festival, falls on January 29 this year, welcoming the Year of the Snake. Spring Festival is the most important time of the year for family reunions, and for some, it’s the only time of the year to be together. The travel home, whether by car, plane, or train, often comes with sentimentality and melancholy. Adult children who lead important and busy professional lives suddenly find themselves transformed into their parents’ “babies” again, getting stuffed with food and peppered with endless questions.

“Going home” visualized by Xiaohongshu users through AI and digital images.

Although it is a joyous occasion, the social aspect of the Chinese New Year is not welcomed by everyone. On apps like Xiaohongshu, netizens are publishing guides on how to survive the celebrations, and the term “Spring Festival Social Anxiety” (春节社交焦虑) pops up frequently. Younger people, in particular, who want to avoid questions about their personal lives—such as their work, marital status, or income—often feel stressed out by family reunions and the pressure of not meeting their family’s expectations. For years, netizens have been sharing the questions they dread the most.

 
Spring Festival Gala: The Ultimate Distractor
 

But there is one major ray of light during the long Chinese New Year’s Eve, it’s the show everybody loves to hate but still watches—the China Media Group (CMG) Spring Festival Gala. As the ultimate distractor, it captivates millions of households, providing a much-needed escape from awkward conversations and family pressures.

Better known as Chunwan (春晚), the Spring Festival Gala is one of the world’s most-watched live televised events. Lasting a total of four hours, roughly from 8pm to 1am Beijing time, it has been annually broadcasted since 1983 and has become an integral part of the Chinese New Year’s Eve. While many young people consider the show corny and old-fashioned, it has become deeply ingrained in China’s social media culture, where complaining about the show on Weibo has become its own New Year tradition.

Since 2016, I’ve annually live-blogged the entire show from start to finish. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to do so this year as I’ll be on the road, but here are some key pointers on what to pay attention to.

 
Mixing Official Propaganda with Entertainment
 

📺 First, you might ask: why should you watch the Gala at all? One reason is its sheer viewership and the chance to be part of a collective experience. Last year, over 420 million people reportedly watched the show, generating billions of mentions across social media platforms.

🇨🇳 An even better reason, though, is to see what the show is highlighting. As CMG is under the direct control of the Central Propaganda Department of the Chinese Communist Party, the Gala serves as an important moment for the Party to convey its official ideology, promote traditional culture, and showcase the nation’s top performers. While it’s also a commercial event, the Gala remains highly political, mixing official propaganda with entertainment.

Watching the entire show from start to finish be a bit much, but keeping an eye on the key highlights and noteworthy moments is definitely worth your time. It offers insights into important themes across culture, entertainment, politics, diplomacy, and even military affairs.

🪖 For example, last year’s Gala drew attention with the performance of the PLA song “Decisive Victory” (决胜). Delivered by artists from the PLA Cultural and Artistic Center, the performance featured soldiers in combat gear marching and dancing, with a backdrop of rockets, tanks, and war-like scenes. Taiwanese media framed the song as a reflection of mainland China’s military stance toward Taiwan, and some Weibo users interpreted it similarly. The performance gained further attention because it followed a duet of the song “Etiquette” (礼序) sung by performers from both Taiwan and mainland China, interpreted by some as a statement of “diplomacy comes before violence” (先礼后兵).

🏔️ This year’s Gala will not only feature performances from Beijing but also sub-venues in Wuhan, Lhasa, Wuxi, and Chongqing. For these cities, it’s a valuable opportunity to promote local culture and attract more tourists.

🤖 In recent years, the Gala has also become a platform to showcase China’s innovative digital technologies. In 2021, the show explicitly branded itself as a “tech innovation event” by incorporating 8K ultra-high-definition video, AI+VR studio technologies, and cloud-based performance coordination. This year, expect even more cutting-edge tech, including virtual production, 3D effects, and advanced AI, to bring Chinese cultural performances to life while underscoring China’s role as a global tech leader.

🧏‍♂️ Notably, this year’s Gala will feature audio-described and sign language versions for the first time, making it accessible to visually and hearing-impaired audiences. Sign language interpreters, using AR virtual technology, will appear in the Gala studio alongside the live broadcast. A split-screen feature will show both the live program and the interpreters, supported by AI-generated subtitles for hearing-impaired viewers. This marks a significant step toward a more inclusive approach by state media.

📕 One of this year’s key sponsors is Xiaohongshu (aka Rednote), an app that has recently dominated headlines as a surge of “TikTok refugees” migrated to its platform. Partnering with the Spring Festival Gala is a major traffic and visibility boost, making this one of Xiaohongshu’s most commercially successful years since its 2013 launch.

👩🏻 Also noteworthy: for the third time in a row, the Gala is directed by female director Yu Lei (于蕾), who also directed the 2024 and 2023 Gala. The 46-year-old Yu Lei previously also served as the general scriptwriter and overall designer for the Gala. The past year has really been a flourishing year for female directors in China, from cinema to TV, where female directing talent has been more visible and successful than ever before. This rise of female talent is also reflected in the Gala’s top creative team consists of 19 people: 11 of them are female.

📽 By now, the last rehearsal of the show has already been completed. The entire show is usually completely rehearsed a total of five times before Chinese New Year’s Eve. These rehearsals are recorded and almost nothing ever goes wrong during the live show – besides some bad lipsyncing here and there – since the recording is running at the same time so that producers can always switch to a pre-recorded act.

🔶️ On January 28, the show will also air via various channels, from CCTV to Bilibili, and also via Youtube here. The entire programme is usually released a day before.

Happy watching! Wishing you all joy, prosperity, plenty of dumplings, and good health in the Year of the Snake.

Best,
Manya
(@manyapan)

What’s on Weibo Chapters

Last week, I shared the first deep dive of What’s on Weibo Chapters with you. This month, our theme is 15 Years of Weibo. This week, Sinologist and China correspondent Casper Wichmann shares his insights on Weibo’s evolving role in shaping public opinion, its key moments, and whether it can remain a major platform for public discourse in China’s increasingly crowded digital landscape. At the University of Copenhagen, Wichmann previously researched Sina Weibo as a new public sphere on the Chinese internet.

With Weibo now 15 years old, we asked Wichmann about three things:
📌 Weibo’s evolving role in shaping public opinion: Has it become more or less effective, and has its social impact shifted? Which news stories highlight Weibo’s continued relevance or its changing influence?
📌 Changing government strategies on the Weibo platform: What pivotal moments stand out when Weibo emerged as a political tool?
📌 Weibo’s present & future in a crowded digital landscape: Can it still compete as a major platform for public discourse, or is it transitioning into a new role altogether?

Read this feature article to find out what Casper had to say about this:

What’s Popular

The latest buzz in arts, marketing & pop culture

– by Ruixin Zhang

“What should we order for dinner?” is a daily dilemma for millions of Chinese consumers in one of the world’s largest food delivery markets. With numerous platforms, cuisines, menus, and discount options, choosing the right takeout—one that is tasty, affordable, and safe—can feel like a daunting task.

But these days, many Chinese people follow a simple rule to identify bad takeout: if your delivery comes in packaging featuring a playful young woman wearing sunglasses, a traditional Peking opera headdress, and holding a fan—often with the bold trendy character “潮” (cháo, meaning “trend”)—it’s likely to be an unhealthy meal with potential food safety risks.

As one netizen joked, “I was so excited for my takeout, only to see this lady on the package and feel my heart sink.” Why does this seemingly cheerful cartoon figure has come to evoke so much distrust and dislike?

This story starts in 2020, when digital illustrator @YUMI created the “China-chic Girl” image in response to a client’s request for a design that embodied the “China-chic” (国潮, guócháo) aesthetic.

China-chic, or guócháo—literally meaning “national tide”—refers to the rise of Chinese domestic (fashion) brands that often incorporate culturally Chinese elements into contemporary designs. This trend emerged as a reflection of growing nationalist sentiment in China, offering a Chinese counterpart to popular Japanese or Korean-inspired styles. From fashion and makeup to milk tea, ‘China-chic’ quickly became a defining element of China’s consumer culture (read more here).

However, when YUMI’s client failed to pay, she chose to release the design for free public use. YUMI’s creation—a blend of traditional Peking opera elements and modern sunglasses—struck a chord with its simple yet iconic charm. Its accessibility made it even more appealing, and the China-chic Girl soon became the go-to design for restaurants looking for affordable, visually striking takeout packaging.

On China’s wholesale website 1688, you can find a wide range of cheap takeout packaging with the “China-chic girl” on it.

The China-chic Girl was all the rage, until last fall.

Starting in September, some delivery drivers began exposing filthy kitchen conditions on social media, warning customers to avoid takeout from certain restaurants after witnessing food safety issues and kitchen hazards while waiting for orders.

Over time, people began noticing a pattern: the dirtiest kitchens were often small, non-chain establishments with no physical storefronts—just cramped spaces dedicated solely to takeout. Operating on tight budgets, these businesses often chose the inexpensive China-chic girl packaging to cut costs, unintentionally associating the China-chic girl with unsanitary and unsafe food practices.

As a result, netizens—especially young people who heavily rely on food delivery—started compiling guides to help each other avoid sketchy takeout options. The warning signs? Restaurants offering “cashback for good reviews” or those that lack a proper storefront, often listing only food items instead of a real restaurant name. These red flags point to private kitchens, poorly managed spaces, or even unregulated food safety practices. Additionally, many of these ‘China-chic takeouts’ thrive within the “group-buying” model on food delivery platforms.

The “group-buying” model, popularized by platforms like Temu and its Chinese counterpart Pinduoduo (拼多多), allows users to invite friends, family, or colleagues to purchase a product together at a discounted price.

This strategy has since evolved into a pseudo-group-buying model, where even without inviting others, the group-buying discount is still applied. These discounts are carefully calculated by platforms to ensure that, even at reduced prices, profits can still be made due to the high sales volume.

Both Meituan (美团) and Eleme (饿了么)—the two largest food delivery platforms in China—have adopted this approach by introducing budget-friendly services such as Pinhaofan (拼好饭) and Pintuan (拼团) to target lower-tier markets.

For example, a typical 30 RMB ($4.15) takeout might cost only half that price through these services, with additional platform coupons and new user discounts making it almost irresistibly affordable.

But, of course, there’s no such thing as a free lunch. As many users have discovered, getting a full meal for under 10 RMB ($1.40) often comes at the expense of quality. These Pinhaofan takeouts commonly feature pre-made dishes with indistinguishable ingredients, flimsy utensils that can’t even scoop rice, a box of suspicious juice full of artificial coloring, low-grade packaging, and, of course, that cheap, once-iconic China-chic design.

(Want to know more? There’s more to know on how “China chic girl” has gone from being a playful symbol of pride in domestic products to representing the problems of China’s fast and cheap takeout industry: read the rest of the article here.)

 

What’s Noteworthy

Smaller headlines with big impact, by Grimm Belterman

Since the week was filled with headlines about Trump’s inauguration, you might have missed another major event: the breakthrough of China’s “Artificial Sun,” a nuclear fusion reactor, which broke its own record and brought humanity closer to achieving near-limitless clean energy. Online, this milestone was celebrated as a sign of China’s growing technological and scientific leadership, with many envisioning a future of carbon-free energy led by China.

The record was set on January 20, when the Chinese Experimental Advanced Superconducting Tokamak (先进实验超导托卡马克实验装置), or EAST, operated stably for 1,066 seconds. EAST is a nuclear fusion reactor located at the Hefei Institute of Physical Science in Anhui province, designed to generate clean and sustainable nuclear energy.

EAST is often called the “Artificial Sun” because it mimics the process that powers stars—fusing hydrogen atoms to release vast amounts of energy in the form of heat. During this experiment, EAST generated temperatures exceeding 100 million degrees Celsius—around seven times hotter than the Sun’s core. This new record surpassed the previous one of 403 seconds, also set by EAST in 2023, by more than double.

This “triumph” sparked widespread excitement on platforms like Weibo. Hashtags such as “Artificial Sun Sets 1 Billion Degrees for 1,000 Seconds” (#人造太阳创1亿摄氏度1000秒纪录# ) and “China’s Artificial Sun Makes Major Breakthrough” (#中国的人造太阳有重大突破#) made it into the top trending lists. Notably, some netizens framed the achievement within the context of global technology competition, proudly highlighting China’s progress as surpassing that of the US and EU.

 

What’s Memorable

Best reads from the archive

As the 2017 Chinese New Year approached, a humorous and unique song went viral on Chinese social media. It captured the pressure young people face when bombarded with nagging questions from family and relatives during the Spring Festival.

Composer Jin Chengzhi (金承志) and his choir, The Rainbow Chamber Singers (上海彩虹合唱团), won the hearts of Chinese netizens with their hit song “What I Do Is For Your Own Good” (春节自救指南, literally: The Spring Festival Survival Toolkit). A perfect pick for this week’s archive spotlight—check out the explanation and video via the link below.

Read here 

Weibo Word of the Week

The catchword to know

Fake Foreigners | Our Weibo phrase of the week is 仿冒外国用户账号, fǎngmào wàiguó yònghù zhànghào, meaning “fake foreign user accounts” or “user accounts that pretend to be foreigners.”

The phrase came up in a Weibo hashtag last week that attracted over 210 million views (#抖音已处理1万多仿冒外国用户账号#), about Douyin, the Chinese version of TikTok, having dealt with more than 10,000 fake foreign accounts in the wake of the “TikTok Refugee” trend.

In case you missed it (though you probably didn’t): With a TikTok ban looming in the US (briefly taking effect last Sunday before being delayed), millions of American TikTok users began migrating to other platforms this month. The most notable was the Chinese social media app Xiaohongshu (also known as Rednote), which saw a huge influx of so-called “TikTok refugees” (TikTok难民). Many were searching for what they believed to be a “Chinese version of TikTok” (read more about the story here). Seeing Xiaohongshu’s success, Douyin, the actual Chinese version of TikTok, also opened its registration process to international users.

What started as a protest against the TikTok ban and US policies turned into a surprising celebration of cultural exchange. Chinese and American netizens found a digital space to interact and connect—on the Chinese internet.

However, the hype also brought its downsides. Black market groups quickly jumped on the trend, looking to profit by gaining followers and click traffic. They created thousands of fake “foreign” accounts by reposting videos or even crafting AI-generated foreign personas.

Is the painting moving, or is this just another fake foreigner?

This phenomenon has fueled skepticism among Chinese internet users—already wary of online scams—about connecting with strangers online. One netizen joked, “Don’t buy anything from people and don’t make new friends, and you’ll never be scammed.”

Others commented: “Xiaohongshu and Douyin’s teams must be swamped these days. Meanwhile, Weibo is nice and quiet in comparison!”

This is an on-site version of the Weibo Watch newsletter by What’s on Weibo. Missed last week’s newsletter? Find it here. If you are already subscribed to What’s on Weibo but are not yet receiving this newsletter in your inbox, please contact us directly to let us know.

PREMIUM NEWSLETTER | ISSUE #43

Overview:
▶ Dear Reader – “Dear Li Hua”: Explaining the TikTok Xiaohongshu Honeymoon
▶ What’s on Weibo Chapters – 15 Years of Weibo
▶ What’s Popular – ‘Black Myth Wukong’ at Spring Festival
▶ What’s Memorable – Fleeing to Iceland

Dear Reader,

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.

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, prompting a scramble to recruit 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, 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.”

📝”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.

Best,
Manya
(@manyapan)

PS There is a lot more to say about this topic, and if you’d like to read more, I’d also recommend reading Wen Hao’s Newsletter: “American TikTok users and Beijing found their common villain—the United States.”

What’s on Weibo Chapters

Especially in these tumultuous TikTok and Xiaohongshu times, I’m excited to share the first long read of What’s on Weibo Chapters with you. This month, our theme is 15 Years of Weibo and this is a relevant read to understand the dynamics of Chinese social media.

“15 Years of Weibo: The Evolution of China’s Social Media Giant,” explores how Weibo became one of the most successful social media platforms in China’s internet history. It examines its strategies, struggles, and its role in shaping the country’s digital landscape—past, present, and future.

Here are some key questions the article addresses:

➡️What was China’s social media landscape like in the pre-Weibo era?
➡️Why did Sina Weibo succeed while other platforms failed?
➡️How has Weibo shaped public opinion and discourse in China?
➡️What is Weibo’s current role in China’s social media ecosystem?
➡️What are the prospects for Weibo’s future?

If you’re curious about any of these questions, this article has you covered. From its beginnings as ‘Chinese Twitter’ to its evolution into a digital dinosaur, the story of Weibo offers a window into China’s broader social media landscape.