Tea Leaf Nation

The Decline of the Expat: Foreigners in China Proliferate, But Become Less Special

2013-02-24T22:14:51-05:00

Tiffany Wang is a contributor at Tea Leaf Nation.

In recent months, the "China expat" has been making international headlines. Several longtime residents of China announced their intention to leave on public forums, explaining that living in China was not only hazardous to their health, but worse, an alienating experience.

However, their much-publicized exits seem to be the anomaly, not the trend. The Shanghai Daily reported that Shanghai's expat population now exceeds 173,000 - a 6.7% increase from 2011. What's more, that figure only accounts for a quarter of the total number of foreign residents currently residing in mainland China.

The rise of the expat

China's expat population has grown every year since 2000; in 2004, the government even introduced a green card system allowing foreign citizens to gain permanent residency. Before then, newcomers arrived in China to find a world stringently guarded against the outside. These early expats were the pioneers, the ones willing to carve out a life for themselves in cities bereft of cheese, English signage and sit-down toilets. Local food was dirt-cheap, and Western fare impossible to find outside of hotels. Instead of streets clogged with cars, dusty bicycles reigned supreme. Meanwhile, anyone with a white face and/or foreign passport was associated with wealth and prestige, regardless of their actual status.

Mark Kitto - a Welshman who has spent the last 16 years of his life in China, and whose exit set off the aforementioned spate of farewell letters in the Sinophile blogosphere - puts it best: "When I arrived in Beijing [in the mid-'80s], China was communist ... The basic necessities of life: food, drink, clothes and a bicycle, cost peanuts. We lived like kings - or we would have if there had been anything regal to spend our money on."

A changing climate

Life changed dramatically in the last decade, however, at least in China's major metropolises. These days, expats are practically spoiled for options, from Western grocery stores to pubs, international fast-fashion retailers to luxury brands, Burger King to Michelin-starred restaurants. Part of this can be attributed to the influx of expats, with local businesses adapting their offerings to keep up with demand, and part to expats themselves opening up restaurants, bars and boutiques that cater to foreign tastes.

But far more significantly, the market has been redefined by a burgeoning Chinese urban middle class with more spending power. In an interview with CNN Money, consultant Helen Wang notes: "The Chinese are shopping a lot more. Retail is booming like a wildfire in China. There are a lot more consumers and they are demanding a lot more services." This domestic growth, coupled with the economic downturn in America and Europe, has many Western companies expanding across the mainland, looking towards China to fill the gap.

At the same time, even more expats are flocking to China. Expat Clarissa Sebag-Montefiore, in an op-ed piece for The New York Times, explains: "[Besides] well-paid executives ... there are also younger expats [who have been] pushed away from home by unemployment and pulled to Asia by work and travel opportunities, combined with lower living costs."

Shifting roles

What does this mean for China's expats? First off, they are less and less a novelty. Once upon a time, they were asked to pose for photos wherever they went. While this is still true in most areas, they are now hardly given a second glance in the trendier areas of big cities. With more of them around, expats have been demystified - and more opportunities for interaction have perhaps led local Chinese to a startling revelation: that many foreigners are poor students, or are struggling to make ends meet, while China's middle class is only growing more and more wealthy.

If "laowai" (a colloquial Chinese term for foreigners) are no longer assumed to be rich, of course they will be entitled to fewer privileges. In July 2010, China-based journalist Mitch Moxley wrote an article called "Rent a White Guy" for The Atlantic about his experience as a fake businessman in a third-tier city in China, where the "only requirements were a fair complexion and a suit."

Is this sort of scenario still possible? Absolutely. Will it be in another ten years? Probably not. At China's current rate of growth - The Guardian recently cited a U.S. Intelligence report that predicts China will be the largest economic power by 2030 - local Chinese will have plenty of rich people among them. Its urban areas will likely become less and less affordable for the young foreign college grads who have been drawn to China in recent years. (2009 already saw a 25% jump in housing prices in Beijing.)

Bloomberg Businessweek writer Shaun Rein cautioned, "[foreigners] need to remember that operating a business here is not easy, and they need to be patient. China is no longer a cheap place to do business, and competition from domestic companies is fierce."

Exploring the fears surrounding this shift, French expat Benoit Cezard released a photo series, "China 2050," that reimagines expats as construction workers, maids and street vendors, taking on the roles traditionally filled by China's devastatingly poor migrant worker population.

Most telling are Chinese netizens' reactions to the pictures, which have since gone viral. On Sina Weibo, China's Twitter, @六耳猕猴在北京 said: "By 2050, China will be the economic superpower. The white devils who come to China will have to take on the low-paying positions. If only I could see this happen in my lifetime." @陈大瓏琦 commented: "This is a reminder to white people what the consequences of high welfare and complacency are." It's worth noting these commenters both conflate being foreign in China with being white; China's resident foreigners are more diverse than that.

While the expat underclass that Cezard imagines is an extreme rendition, he does make one important point: that the influence of expats is waning as China's world status grows. Does this mean that fewer opportunities will be available to them? Certainly, they will no longer be able to rely on their "exotic" looks to land a job. But an increasingly powerful China will continue attracting expats, who will simply have to adapt and face new challenges. And while that will make life less "interesting" for expats, it will also make life more fair.

On China's Twitter, Discussion of Hacking Attacks Proceeds Unblocked

2013-02-19T15:53:22-05:00

By David Wertime, co-founder of Tea Leaf Nation

As The New York Times reported yesterday evening, U.S.-based cybersecurity firm Mandiant has just released a deeply troubling report called "Exposing One of China's Cyber Espionage Units." The report alleges wide-spread hacking sponsored by the People's Liberation Army, which is controlled by the Chinese Communist Party. The report states, "Our research and observations indicate that the Communist Party of China is tasking the Chinese People's Liberation Army [PLA] to commit systematic cyber espionage and data theft against organizations around the world."

In particular, the report fingers the PLA's General Staff Department's 3rd Department, 2nd Bureau-also called Unit 61398-as the main source of such attacks. Mandiant describes the difficulty of finding online references that link Unit 61389 to the Chinese Government.

This does not mean, however, that one cannot read Chinese language discussion of Unit 61398. Tea Leaf Nation recently conducted searches for terms related to the Mandiant report on Sina Weibo, China's pre-eminent social media discussion platform, and found them all unblocked. These included "Mandiant," "61398," Chinese terms for the PLA units found to lie behind the hacking ("61398部队," "总参二局," and "总参三部二局"), and words referring to particularized Mandiant terms, such as "Comment Crew" and "Apt1."

China's Defense Department promptly replied that it "has never supported any hacking activities," further stating that "hacker attacks are a global problem. Like other countries, China also faces a serious threat from cyber attacks, and is among the world's major victims of hacker attacks." A number of mainstream Weibo outlets carried the news, including China Central Television, or CCTV (@央视新闻), China News (@中国新闻网), and Breaking News (@头条新闻). On China's frequently censored Internet, the current state of play likely reflects a calculation by Chinese authorities that it is better to begin with a public challenge to the Mandiant allegations, perhaps allowing online discussion in order to glimpse how grass-roots Web users react to the official argument.

Among several hundred aggregate reactions to the Mandiant report, an outline of preliminary grassroots reaction could be clearly discerned.

Perhaps unsurprising in a country where the state remains heavily involved in its media, many commenters evinced a monolithic conception of the United States that linked Mandiant, media outlets, and the U.S. government. In particular, users responding to the CCTV post took a negative tack toward the U.S., telling the "yankees" that "America is always turning a little mirror towards others, and never towards itself!" Others felt that turnabout was fair-or necessary-play. One wrote that the U.S. "has been openly seeking top hackers; [it's] China that has been timid." Another commented, "China has far more people, American technology is better. In an online war, it would be 100 on 1."

But the domestic perception of China as an underdog remains, and many simply found it sensible for China's PLA to employ hackers. One wrote, "These days, can an army without hackers even be called an army?" Another observed that hackers were "today's special forces." One user cast hacking as a fact of life: "Where there's an Internet, there will be hackers." Another commented that "hacking attacks have long been a method used by every country."

One user sought to put the matter in historical context: "I think the U.S. hyping online warfare is like [President] Reagan's Star Wars [missile defense] program, which was the final straw that broke the Soviet economy." The user compared pursuing online warfare to an arms race in space: "China knows it can't beat the U.S., but it cannot remain uninvolved."

Commenters appeared split on whether to be proud or ashamed at the news. One said it was a "loss of face" that the unit had been discovered; another was "proud, but [does] not believe it."

As always, Weibo users fancied themselves sleuths. One user astutely noted that there appeared to be a white license plate or two in the New York Times photograph of the Shanghai apartment building from which Mandiant believes many Chinese cyber attacks originate. Chinese Web users are keenly aware that a white plate connotes PLA affiliation. In addition, a number demonstrated the Chinese Web's enduring fascination with Lanxiang (蓝翔), a school in Shandong province. As Tea Leaf Nation reported on January 31, although Lanxiang bills itself as a vocational school and "advertises tirelessly on local television as the training grounds for future tractor drivers, chefs, auto repairmen and hair dressers," Chinese Web users have continued to believe that Lanxiang doubles as a training ground for elite hackers.

Despite the evident lack of heavy censorship at this early stage, the volume commentary on this issue has thus far remained thin. While Chinese cyber attacks are deeply troubling to Americans, Chinese Web users must remain constantly aware of authorities monitoring, and sometimes deleting, their own words. In this respect, hacking, or its cousin, censorship, is a fact of life for China's online citizens. That perhaps explains why some users drew an explicit-if humorous-line between hackers and censors. Using the incisive gallows humor so common on the Chinese social Web, one user wrote, "It's a rumor! We don't call them 'hackers,' we call them 'Sina's little secretaries,'" slang for Sina's in-house censors. To one commenter, it actually showed "progress" if the PLA was in fact hacking the U.S.; "Before, the army was only able to oppress Chinese people."

Chinese Netizens 'Slut-Shame' Singer and Model for Volunteering to Teach Poor Children

2012-10-18T19:00:00-04:00

By Liz Carter, Tea Leaf Nation contributor

It's not easy being a famous woman, especially in China. In a post that went viral yesterday on Sina Weibo, China's Twitter, Chinese model and singer Lu Jing, who describes herself as possessing "the most beautiful natural breasts in China" was run through the proverbial ringer after posting an update in which she said she was going to volunteer to teach at a school for underprivileged youth in Shaanxi province. The post, translated below, was reposted over 25,000 times in less than 24 hours:

"Last month after I said I had been chosen as a lecturer for a school, many people on Weibo left comments mocking and even insulting me. At first I didn't want to say anything more about it, but my boyfriend said helping to teach the less fortunate is a good thing that we should raise awareness about. The school is in a poor, mountainous part of Shanbei. I hope that everyone will join in and help out with this charity work. As for those of you who want to throw me together with people like Teacher Aoi [Japanese adult film star Sora Aoi] and those unwritten rules [in the entertainment industry], now you've got pictures and proof, are you happy?"

Copyright Lu Jing

Sora Aoi herself has been the object of similar attacks after breaking the same set of "unwritten rules." Last month, during the height of Sino-Japanese tensions over the Diaoyu/Senkaku Islands, Aoi tried to use her celebrity status to promote peace between the peoples of China and Japan on Weibo. For her trouble, in addition to being called a number of unsavory words, she was accused of playing the peacemaker in order to protect her own financial interests.

Lu fared no better. The vast majority of the more than 9,000 comments on Lu's post comprised vicious insults about Lu's appearance, her style of dress, her supposed promiscuity, and her Weibo "attention whoring." Some said she was ugly and disgusting, while others accused her of having had plastic surgery. One Weibo user said she looked like she was "selling meat" in the picture she posted. Another chided "If you didn't show so much cleavage, no one would berate you." An entitlement to judge and critique Lu's appearance and behavior was the unquestioned premise of almost all of these comments.

The online evisceration of Lu Jing is nothing unusual-in China or anywhere else, sadly-but the nature of her predicament does have some unique Chinese characteristics. Lu Jing makes her living by fitting into the Chinese image of what a woman should be: Young, thin, feminine and beautiful. She has been a car show model, commercial actress, and winner of numerous modeling competitions. On the other hand, she has had to dodge accusations that she became famous by sleeping her way to the top according to the "unwritten rules" of the entertainment industry; actress Zhang Ziyi has been the object of similar accusations. Many Chinese, believing the industry corrupt and competition fierce, suspect that celebrities and models may only become famous by finding favor with directors.

Chinese social norms and traditional views about appropriate women's behavior reinforce the idea that Lu should not be too sexual, too desirable. The profitability of the modeling and entertainment industry suggests that consumers are willing to pay to see sexualized women, but public discourse shows that they also want to shame them for doing so. Chinese society, which has been growing and changing at a breakneck pace, accommodates these conflicting demands without reconciling them. As a result, women often feel they must choose between money and love, relevance and acceptance. Judging by Lu Jing's implied jab at Sora Aoi, even Lu seems to think that sexuality and goodness are, at some level, incompatible.

Lu attempted to convince her followers that she fell on the "good" side of this dichotomy while Sora Aoi fell on the bad, she was not very successful. Weibo user @蘇三說__ remarked, "You're a nobody, and yet you still dare to compare yourself to Teacher Aoi? You're not even fit to help her with her shoes. She donated money after the earthquake, and what are you going to do, go breastfeed those children in the mountain passes?" Others noted that Lu Jing was not as successful as Sora Aoi, who has over 200 times as many fans on Weibo and an international following.

Many netizens questioned both Lu's and Aoi's motivations, but most did not question whether it was right, necessary, or appropriate to insult the women and demand that they conform to varied and conflicting expectations about what a woman should be. Lu Jing may end up getting some publicity from all of this, but what truly stole the show was the continued acceptability of slut-shaming in public discourse.

This article originally appeared on Tea Leaf Nation.

In Chinese Migrant Workers' Viral Video, Glimmers of Digital Activism's Future

2012-10-10T20:07:36-04:00

By David Wertime, co-founder of Tea Leaf Nation

It's performance art, parody, social media genius, and a desperate cry for help all in one. If any further proof of social media's power were necessary, it's arrived: An underpaid Chinese migrant worker has made a viral video in which she mimics an official in China's Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MFA) while asking for her own unpaid salary. The video was uploaded to Youku, China's Youtube, four months ago. But it appears to have gone viral on Sina Weibo, China's Twitter, after netizen @卫庄 posted it on October 8. Since then, netizens have re-posted the video over 23,000 times.

A migrant worker that the video refers to as Miao Cuihua (苗翠花) exhibits admirable sang-froid throughout her staged four-minute appeal, which mixes plain and forceful language with purposefully stilted bureaucratic jargon. Looking directly at the camera, Miao politely addresses her "comrades" in China's Petition Department (信访部门), demanding for herself and her "farmworker brothers" aggregate back pay of RMB 3.5 million (about US$560,000) in connection with a construction project apparently performed for the Funeral and Interment Management Office in Hangu, a district in the northeastern city of Tianjin.

"We have asked repeatedly and not been paid," Miao politely complains. Unfortunately, she says that "public servants have a close relationship with [our] boss." That missing 3.5 million RMB is "our hard-earned money...we strongly demand that the [funeral office] immediately pay us and without preconditions."

What follows is yet more brave. Without batting an eyelash, Miao continues, "We've seen the [funeral office's] higher authorities, as well as the Hangu government, play a very dishonorable role. We express our strong dissatisfaction." Miao even quotes one government official, Li Pengtong (李鹏同) as telling her, "I represent the government. If I tell you we're not paying, then we're not paying, what are you going to do?"

A man playing a reporter from the imaginary "Wage-Seeking News Agency" (讨薪社) then appears. Standing before a digital banner reading "Not Paying Workers Their Wages Harms [Social] Harmony," the reporter asks Miao a number of rehearsed questions. Among them: "It's said that the Hangu Funeral and Interment Management Office is run like a corrupt family. How would you comment on that?" Cracking a slight smile, Miao replies, "We have no right to interfere in their internal governance. Thanks."

Although the video is crudely cut and humorous-and netizens have enjoyed exhorting the MFA or China Central Television to hire Miao-it marks a potentially significant milestone in the development of the Chinese Internet.

Boston Consulting Group has estimated that over the next several years, Chinese Internet "penetration" (read: use) will grow fastest among rural residents and seniors over 51 years of age than among all other demographics. This finding is not terribly surprising; after all, many richer and younger Chinese on the country's developed coast already have ready access to Internet, so there is less room to grow there. But it means that over time, China's netizens will come to look more and more like China's citizens.

As rural workers like Miao become more likely to use the Internet, they also become more likely to learn the Internet's power-and its limits-as a tool for activism, outreach, and appeal. Although the existence of this viral video darkly intimates the desperation that the unpaid Miao and her colleagues doubtless face, it also heralds a future in which digital activism is no longer restricted to a tech-savvy elite. In the near term, social injustice and unrest will remain a fact of life in a rapidly-changing China. But now, it seems, those who suffer the most have begun to discover a new and powerful channel to share their stories with the world.

This story originally appeared on Tea Leaf Nation.

Splitsville in China: A Ballet Move Goes Suddenly Viral

2012-09-28T17:35:01-04:00

By the staff of Tea Leaf Nation

Two days ago, a photograph of a girl wearing a white vest and ballet slippers and doing a 45-degree split in her dorm room went viral on the Chinese Internet. It led to what Sina entertainment called an online "battle between beauties." Some of the photos feature young women eating lunch or talking on their cell phones while doing the splits.

To those dear readers contemplating participation in this battle: We should warn you that splits can be painful for the untrained. Indeed, our favorites have to be the last two images in this series. Scroll down and you'll see why.

As Recriminations Over Anti-Japanese Protests Mount, Deep Divisions in China Emerge

2012-09-24T19:19:22-04:00

By Yi Lu, a Tea Leaf Nation contributor

The protest, argued all those engaged, was a spectacle of solidarity, and it appeared so at first glance: Beginning September 16, anti-Japanese grievances that had been simmering for months over the Diaoyu Islands, called the Senkaku in Japanese, overflowed into Chinese streets, engulfing more than a dozen cities in an arc along the country's eastern seaboard. Angry mobs of young men and women confronted armies of police, hurling eggs, rocks, and bottles at Japanese establishments that were, by and large, owned by Chinese nationals. Some looted. "Defend the Diaoyu Islands to the death," chanted the crowd, and together they surged.

Yet amid all the calls to remain steadfast and united, there were traces of division that most cameras failed to capture. As reckonings of the protests rolled in, self-criticism on China's micro-blogs quickly descended into sharp verbal attacks based on regional rivalries and class resentment. Beneath a cocoon of nationalistic solidarity, the anti-Japanese movements last week revealed how much potential for fragmentation and disarray exists within modern Chinese society.

The center of contention was Guangzhou, China's third largest city, where protesters attacked the city's landmark Garden Hotel on September 16. The Japanese consulate, located inside, was unscathed. "It pains me to learn that the mob assaulted the Garden Hotel!" wrote @老莫_且将流年换不悔, addressing the protesters directly in his comment via Sina Weibo, China's Twitter. "You only know that the Japanese consulate is inside, but don't you know that the very name of the Hotel was hand-written by [former Chinese leader] Deng Xiaoping? Don't you know that there are other consulates inside? Don't you know that this place has long been the pride of Guangzhou? Today, Garden Hotel is a barometer of our civility."

Torrents of blame, often laced with hostility toward any outsiders, soon emerged among Guangzhou netizens, who began to see the day in protest more as a defense of their hometown than of the Senkaku Islands. "Among the crowd, those who shouted to defend the Diaoyu Islands to the death were mostly non-locals who spoke Mandarin; those who marched to defend public order were mostly local students who spoke Cantonese," observed @羊城网小劳. "And for those who sold Chinese flags along the way, they just wanted to make a quick buck out of this mess."

Such fears of outsiders reverberated well beyond Guangzhou. Swelled by strong local pride, netizens across major Chinese cities grappled consciously with the anxiety of losing ownership of neighborhoods that, the protests had suddenly rendered dangerous. "Be careful if you speak Suzhou dialect in Suzhou, or you'll be taken as a Japanese and the migrant workers will give you a nice beating," mocked @mavis-m宝, pointing to tonal similarities between the two tongues. "I don't want to be a bigot discriminating against people based on their regions, but in light of the recent disturbances, I am now really worried about my hometown. All those with ill intentions, get lost!"

"Is there a 'Defend Suzhou' movement?" @mavis-m宝 later asked. "I'll sign up."

Such nativist comments, appearing often in conjunction with photos to name and shame rioters, kindled an outburst of counter-criticism. Many netizens defending the protesters argued that accusations based on innuendo only solidified regional prejudices and promoted insularity. They also argued that these comments unfairly targeted the protesters' sense of patriotism, which many hold close as a unifying theme. Yet for staunch natives who hold their regional pride even dearer than their national pride, such moral censure represented a kind of bad faith.

"To those who claim that Guangzhouers are rioters, didn't you see that there was actually no one from Guangzhou in the mob?" wrote @Ciceroo, a Guangzhouer, calling into question whether anyone protesting in Guangzhou could be legitimately called a "Guangzhouer." "Don't you realize that by accusing us, you are the real cause of fragmentation in China? You fake patriots."

Geographic origins are not the only force that threatens to divide a country that seemed so united just last week. Many netizens have begun to argue that the protests, which resulted in destruction of Japanese property and accounts of widespread looting, sprang from the bottom half of China's population, mainly working-class citizens who used the day to express their anti-elitism and class resentment.

"I just saw the news story about a man in Xi'an who owned a Japanese car and got hit in the head, and it tore me apart," wrote @飞远的家雀儿. "This reminds me of all the innocent victims during the Cultural Revolution. Those who cannot afford their own cars smashed those of others, all in the name of patriotism! Are these people really human? How can they ever get rich like this? You have to work hard to move up in this world, and hating the rich does not help anything!"

Significantly, many of the most shocking images of internecine hate available on Weibo involved cars--mostly Japanese models--scratched, damaged, and in some cases, overturned. As a sign of both physical and social mobility, a car in China embodies the aspirations of an emerging middle-class, whose ranks most migrant workers seek to join. In this regard, images of wrecked cars offered a glimpse into an ingrained sense of injustice and unfairness that helped draw youth mobs to violence.

"Why were thousands of Hong Kongers able to organize a protest in perfect discipline, while we mainlanders couldn't even maintain the most basic order?" asked @许纪霖. "Crowds were mobilized and only practiced sheer wanton vandalism; they had no sense of personal reckoning. As a result, national conflicts turned into class conflicts based on hatred of the rich."

"There is only one key to curb reactionary populism," he finally said. "Create an autonomous civil society."

Hope for a freer China was voiced online, but dull cynicism soon echoed back. Many netizens on Weibo did not appear to trust the generally hard-working but otherwise reflexively patriotic migrant workers. Nor did they trust the government to unfetter full civil participation.

@飞行的劳拉 's comment evinced this mistrust of authorities: "Public demonstrations like this did not just happen overnight. These events, requiring more than mere days of planning, were just like political rallies typical of Mao's times. The purpose of all this spectacle was two-fold: On one hand, the protests diverted people's anger towards the government, and on the other, it was also an effective scare tactic. For those who want to politically mobilize, today's chaos will [lead to] fear of tomorrow, [as] everyone saw how terribly things could go wrong." He asked, "Do you still dare to mobilize?"

While any discussion of the government's role in planning the recent protests is purely speculative, it is fair to say that last week's protests appeared to be sanctioned by at least some quarters of Chinese officialdom. The police protected and chaperoned the crowd, keeping the situation from spiraling out of control. Following the protests, Chinese media called for restraint, but also took care to stoke patriotism by emphasizing that the protests reflected Chinese people's righteous anger and self-determination.

Yet if comments on China's Internet are any guide, the homogenous image of one nation unified against Japan's territorial claims merely avoided the political challenges that it generated. At a time when locals are afraid of non-locals, the middle class afraid of the poor, and the government afraid of its own people, the recent anti-Japanese protests in China offer a telling reminder of the many regional and socio-economic divisions that continue to hold sway in the country today.

This story originally appeared on Tea Leaf Nation.

Can Online Protests Change China?

2012-09-14T09:42:00-04:00

By David Wertime, Tea Leaf Nation co-founder and editor

What would a world without Weibo, China's Twitter, look like? It's increasingly hard to fathom one without it. Earlier this week, Mark MacKinnon of The Globe and Mail called it "the largest national public square in history." But he also noted the oft-repeated refrain of blogger Michael Anti, who argues forcefully that Weibo is "yet another tool of control."

Weibo can, of course, simultaneously be both a platform for debate and a steam valve for citizen discontent. But one of the most crucial questions about Weibo's social role has remained relatively unengaged: Can Weibo change China? Has it already?

The question is impossible for a mere mortal to answer

The question is so intriguing precisely because it can never be definitively answered. It requires what lawyers call a "counterfactual": If there had been no Weibo, what would have happened in the alternative? In particular, is Weibo acting as a steam valve-that is, siphoning off the energies of those who would take "real action" but are now content to complain online? Or, has Weibo drawn in Chinese who would otherwise never have become involved with political discussion at all? Or both?

Instead of resorting to abstractions, we must work backwards, looking at high-profile political events in China and searching for evidence that Weibo played some role. Certainly it is hard to believe Weibo has has noeffect on the world around it. The real question is, how much of an effect? Has it tilted in the direction of greater political participation, or, perversely, in the opposite direction?

One tempting case study-among many-is the reversal of fallen financier Wu Ying's death sentence. Ms. Wu was condemned to death by a provincial court earlier this year for "illegal fundraising," but when the Supreme People's Court conducted the required review of her death sentence, it essentially converted the sentence to life in prison. What happened? In the hours after Wu Ying's death sentence was announced,millions of tweets decrying her sentence flooded Weibo, at least before censors reduced that number to a mere 600,000.

Weibo as social proof

Some observers argued it was China's legal scholars and high-level opinion makers who tipped the scales, and not Weibo. But that's a false distinction. Many scholars, opinion makers, and government officials read Weibo tweets, and many tweet actively themselves.

While it may have been the final word of a scholar or official that saved Wu Ying, it's not hard to imagine high-level decision makers reading Weibo at some point in the months between Wu's death sentence and its reversal. In China's recent past, those who had an inkling Wu's sentence was wrong might merely have shared their feelings with friends in hushed tones and let the matter rest.

But in the age of Chinese social media, a quick visit to Weibo would have instantly proven those instincts to be widely shared. Opinion-makers and decision-makers privately opposed to Wu Ying's sentence may thus have felt more confident pushing for a reversal in the traditional, "real world" ways-in person, on the phone, over dinner.

That's "social proof" in a nutshell. When in doubt, people look at the behavior of those around them to ascertain what's appropriate conduct. In China's political arena, where ambiguity reigns, social proof's importance is only magnified.

Gather 'round! There are "shadow protests" every day

This all sounds like good news, but it's too much to say that Weibo thus functions as a "shadow democracy." At best, it's a weak simulacrum shot through with exceptions, deletions, and danger.

But, there is at least the ability to conduct a "digital protest," or a "shadow protest." In netizen parlance, it might be called "wei guan," (围观) or "gathering 'round." Netizens use the term broadly to call attention to the trivial, but also to the profound.

"Gathering 'round" perfectly captures both the power and the passivity of online protest. On one hand, netizen commenters or re-tweeters are doing nothing more than bearing witness to injustice. And yet, the number of witnesses is itself a projection of power. It sends the message that a large number of Chinese find a behavior, or an outcome, unacceptable. This remains true even if censors move to delete comments after the fact.

But it's not enough for netizens to express themselves; the government has to pay attention. The evidence suggests that it does. In the last year alone, the number of government officials or government organs with official Weibo accountsspiraled from 5,000 to 20,000. Surely, those using these accounts sometimes read as well as tweet.

And let's not forget those censors. Their overall influence is surely anti-democratic. But how do they receive their marching orders without telling someone high in the firmament where online sentiment is trending? It's likely high officials want at least a basic overview of political chatter on Weibo, even if it's to help them issue a gag order.

A new kind of protest

To be sure, famous Chinese blogger Han Han would not be impressed with all this "gathering." As he said in a 2011 interview with The Economist, "You feel like you could go open the window and you would see protesters on the street...but once you open the window, you realize that there's nothing there at all."

But a street protest is not the only way for citizen outrage to lead to change; it is just one manifestation of discontent. When people take to the streets, they both present, and expose themselves to, the possibility of physical confrontation. They provide a visible counter of how many people are deeply aggrieved, although protesters must take care to reach broad agreement on why they are dissatisfied and what they hope to accomplish.

Protest assumes a different form online. Protesters online may not be enraged enough to take to the streets-they may be only mildly annoyed. And they need not be unified in their complaints, or even think of themselves as protesters. The protest will look different from different angles, depending on what term is searched (or, as An Xiao Mina recently wrote, which memes take hold). It may also reach into the millions, or the tens of millions, far exceeding the scope of a street protest. It can touch on issues of broad, diffuse national interest that would be unlikely to manifest themselves in physical protests limited to a precise place and time.

So does China's government care when millions of people are upset-perhaps for different reasons-as opposed to knowing that thousands of people are outraged? In all likelihood, it does. Its response may simply be to censor the tweets, or to offer insufficient window-dressing, but that is still a response.

Is talk cheap?

"But talk," some may object, "is cheap, especially online." Indeed, Tea Leaf Nation recently covered the perverse "one-upsmanship" that can cause online sentiment to become artificially extreme. As netizens strive to be noticed above the fray, they tend to make increasingly acidic statements-even if their own views are actually more subtle.

Weibo-savvy government officials must be aware of this dynamic when they log in to have a peek. The question is whether they appropriately account for this effect: Do they overreact by not taking anything that gets said seriously? Do they under-react by taking netizen sentiment at something near face value?

Sometimes, they may not care what netizens really think. Every so often, a netizen is expelled from Weibo, or invited to meet with authorities-to "drink tea"-or is simply disappeared altogether in retaliation for a sufficiently heterodox tweet. In one recent example, The Economist reported that former Weibo power user Li Delin was apparently detained for issuing a tweet that inadvertently led to a coup rumor.

These incidents, while isolated, prove that online speech isn't always cheap. Political speech online carries the risk, however slight, of real-world consequences. And that means netizens are showing their own kind of courage when they strive to be heard. It's small wonder, then, that netizens are affecting their own kind of change in China.

This article originally appeared at Tea Leaf Nation.

Why Are So Many Respected Chinese Journalists Quitting?

2012-09-12T10:20:57-04:00

By Yueran Zhang, a Tea Leaf Nation contributor

Recently, Jian Guangzhou (@简光洲), one of the most reputed investigative journalists in China, quit the Oriental Daily (@东方早报) and announced he was ending his reporting career. Even though the specific reasons for Jian leaving his job remain unclear, one of his tweets on Sina Weibo, China's Twitter, revealed frustration and desperation behind the decision. "My ten years with the Oriental Daily have been the most precious in my life, which gave me all the sadness and happiness, all the dreams. I suffered and endured everything because of the dream I had. And now, the dream is dead, and I choose to leave. Take care, my brothers!"

Jian came to fame after a report he published on September 11, 2008, titled "14 infants in Gansu Province are suspected of falling ill with kidney stones because of Sanlu milk powder," generated a domino effect. Further investigation showed that Sanlu, a widely-trusted brand, added large amounts of melamine, a kind of chemical raw material which is prohibited in food industry, to its products. It turned out that almost all the big brands in China's milk industry were involved in the illegal enterprise, only differing in the extent, and about 40,000 infants all over the country were affected. Milk pollution is regarded as China's severest food security scandal in recent years.

By providing this type of audacious coverage under huge pressure, Jian has come to be perceived by many as the "conscience of China." This symbolic layer to Jian's reputation makes his departure rather heartbreaking to many, and has provoked deep pessimism about the future of China's news media.

Independent media: Spring or winter?

Jian's resigning is just one of several "personnel earthquakes" that have struck the Oriental Daily in 2012. Founded in 2003, the newspaper has built up a reputation as one of the most important independent, liberal media brands in China, largely through its in-depth investigative coverage and outspoken editorials. This reputation also makes it among the most vulnerable to government censorship.

On July 18, the publication's president and vice editor-in-chief were dismissed for unspecified reasons. Some rumors said the direct cause might be the Daily's interview with Sheng Hong (@盛洪微博), president of Tianze Economics Institute, which was published in May. In the interview, Prof. Sheng acutely criticized the monopoly of state-owned companies in certain markets.

The misfortune has also befallen other media brands. On July 16, the editor-in-chief of the News Express Daily (@新快报) was forced to resign because of unspecified "sensitive" contents it had published. On August 23, the Oriental Vanguard (@东方卫报) published on its front page a feature article titled "Liu Xiang knew, officials knew, China Central Television knew, only the audience was waiting vainly for the legendary moment." The article said that official heads of the Chinese Olympic Team, China Central Television (CCTV) and Liu Xiang himself had all known beforehand that his severe injury might render him unable to finish the preliminary heats of the Olympic Men's 110-meter Hurdles, and CCTV had prepared four commentating plans accordingly. The report caused the editor-in-chief, the assistant editor-in-chief and the so-called "news supervisors" (新闻总监) to be dismissed.

Although the government's control over news media has always been tight, the range and intensity of the purge this year has been rarely seen, suggesting that the censors' controlling hand is tightening. As Wang Keqin (@王克勤), a former investigative journalist famous for his coverage of the spread of AIDS and illegal mining plants, comments, "It's getting colder. The winter is approaching."

Wang's comment is especially profound considering that earlier this year, many claimed that "the spring of Chinese media" was coming after the state-owned, usually conservative People's Daily (@人民日报) published a series of op-eds calling for political reforms, widely read as a hint that China's news-control bureaus were liberalizing. However, this interpretation proved too optimistic, with purges beginning in July.

The strange dichotomy between the liberalization of official media and the increasing oppression of independent media can also be found in social media. On one hand, the Weibo account of the Party mouthpiece People's Daily has shown a degree of humanity and independence that has pleasantly surprised netizens, and the account of Xinhua News Agency (@新华社中国网事) bravely challenged military authority when it reported on a military officer beating a flight attendant. On the other, journalists in independent media are being deprived of freedom of expression. @新闻已死 provides the evidence: "I hear that all the professionals working for the Nanfang Daily are required to report their Weibo accounts, even the passwords, to their superior."

The perplexing contrast might reflect the intense battle between conservative and liberal power within the central government. It might also point to an integrated strategy by the Party's Publicity Bureau-winning more popularity by being a bit more liberal in order to edge out independent media, who become more intimidated and likely to self-censor. If the latter is true, the winter of Chinese independent media may truly have arrived.

Investigative journalists: To be or not to be?

Jian Guangzhou is the third distinguished investigative journalist forced to end his career within the last year. In November 2011, Yang Haipeng (@武松-手札), acclaimed as the best investigative journalists specializing in legal issues, left Caijing Magazine (@财经杂志). In July 2012, Liu Jianfeng (@去V的刘建锋), famous for his coverage of Qian Yunhui's death and the uprising in Wukan, resigned from The Economic Observer (@经济观察报). The frequent departures reflect the huge pressure facing investigative journalists.

Under the current circumstances, where the government sees maintaining "social stability" as its priority, any negative news is seen as potentially destabilizing. Thus, investigative journalists, whose mission is to uncover the dark side of society, are seen as "dangerous factors" and often encounter obstacles when trying to publish their pieces. @雪峰NO1's comment is representative: "Now I'm used to an environment like this. I've had more articles killed than published."

Moreover, investigative journalists frequently find their physical safety threatened. The beating of journalists when reporting is almost an everyday phenomenon. Lamentably, Chinese journalism school has to include self defense as part of the curriculum. One journalism teacher (@新闻采写教师-王卫明) recently announced this "good news": "Good news! Martialist Zhao Jilong agreed to teach self defense skills (course topic: security issues for investigative journalists). Journalists are welcome to come!"

Thus, it came as no surprise when a recent research report showed that 55% of Chinese investigative journalists do not want to continue their careers at all or plan to quit within five years. Zhou Wentian (@舟亦洲), an investigative journalist previously working for the Oriental Daily, summarizes why investigative journalists tend to give up: "Chinese journalists, especially those doing investigation and emergent coverage, make a living in a profession for the young. It's not an exaggeration to call them 'cheap labor' ... The dream of journalism is just like poison. At last, journalists are left with wasted youth and poverty. So few investigative journalists retire at the normal age, either because the presses don't want old journalists or they die from overwork."

Yet, despite the unfavorable environment, some journalists still hold on to their dream of documenting China's fast-changing society and utilizing their voices to better it. Shen Yachuan (@石扉客), famous for his reporting of the misjudged case of She Xianglin and corruption of police in Shanghai, is one of them. "Even though there are so many hardships, I still believe that China, in the next ten years, will be full of amazing stories with manifold facets. Media can change China. So, my colleagues, please continue for another ten years."

Even though Jian Guangzhou claims that "my dream is dead," he is determined to keep contributing to society, pursuing his dream in another form: "I will probably not be a journalist again, but I want to do the following: To get a doctorate, to complete a book criticizing the media industry, to found an NGO named "independent journalists' investigation project" with the hope to financially support ten projects annually, in which independent journalists investigate social, environmental and developmental problems, free from all kinds of pressure." Similarly, Liu Jianfeng also announced that he would become an independent investigative journalist. Despite all signs to the contrary, some continue to hold out hope that spring will eventually come for Chinese media.

This story originally appeared on Tea Leaf Nation.