On October 22, a car ploughed into a group of primary school children in the city of Shiyan in central China’s Hubei province, leaving one dead and four injured. The tragedy outside Chongqing Road Primary School was the sort of incident that in years past might have brought an upswell of outrage and questioning across social media. But for three full days the story was kept under lock and key by central and local authorities — likely to avoid potential sensitivities in the midst of the CCP’s Fourth Plenum.

The silence on the story was finally broken on October 25, two days after the close of the plenum in Beijing, as local police in Shiyan issued a notice tersely stating that the event was being treated as a “traffic accident.” According to the notice, the 48-year-old driver in the case had been arrested for “endangering public safety.”

The Shiyan case is just the latest in a series of breaking incidents in China in recent months and years that have met with robust information control responses, underscoring the strength of both online and offline restrictions on reporting and information exchange. The case echoes the surprising eight-hour silence that followed the disastrous fire at Beijing’s Changfeng Hospital in 2023, when even eyewitness video of the tragedy in a populous residential area could not gain traction online. 

Despite the claim in the local police notice that the tragedy in Shiyan was merely a traffic incident and a case of recklessness, there is compelling evidence to suggest that it follows a more worrying social pattern linking it to hit-and-run incidents like that in Zhuhai less than a year ago, in which 35 people were killed. 

The driver’s motives remain a mystery — and that mystery is precisely what has residents questioning whether authorities are withholding information about a potential pattern of deliberate vehicle attacks.

The timing of the information blackout heightened suspicions. The incident occurred at a particularly sensitive time, in the middle of the Central Committee’s Fourth Plenum, a meeting for the leadership to plan out the next economic five-year plan.

Taiwanese media were the first to report on the case, having been tipped off by video footage of the crash leaked to the X forum “Teacher Li is not your teacher.” It showed the car suddenly running a red light and driving through a group of people waiting at the lights opposite. Taiwanese media noted that no Chinese media outlets had reported on the case, that images and information on the topic were being deleted online, and that people in the local area were being totally blocked from posting on any social media platforms.

Despite the controls, some critical information managed to seep through on social media. In the days immediately following the accident, one private WeChat account in Henan began posting important information raising further questions about the nature and context of the incident. This included what appeared to be multiple safety inspections in past months by the school and local police around the primary school to protect it from traffic accidents, and numerous police records from Shiyan of cases of violent driving and traffic infringements. There was also, the day after the tragedy, an image posted online of the license plate of the car allegedly involved in the incident. The image post, viewed at least 40,000 times, was simply labelled “Hubei Plate No. CF66780 was involved in a traffic accident.” One strongly up-voted comment on the post, dated October 24 and tagged as originating from Hubei, remarked: “This wasn’t a traffic accident; it was [a case of] deliberately running people down.”

Even after police broke their silence on October 25, major news outlets remained largely silent. Caixin seems to be one of just a handful of news media that has reported it. The continued absence of mainstream coverage underscores how effectively authorities can suppress what they have typically labeled “sudden-breaking incidents” — those stories of a sensitive and often jarring nature that have the potential to spark widespread anger and speculation, including questions of government negligence. 

One of the more notable efforts to break the silence came from the freelance journalism collective Aquarius Era, which sent a reporter to the scene and published a story to WeChat on October 25 about the incident that was subsequently deleted. The report, now archived at China Digital Times, witnesses the frustration of local residents in Shiyan at not being able to obtain reliable information about the incident from local news outlets, and pressure from the city authorities against individuals posting information online — or even talking together at the scene. 

“Such a big incident has happened and no explanation has been given,” they quote one local mother whose child attends the primary school. “Life cannot be trampled on at will!” According to the Aquarius Era report, police near the school would directly drive people away when they saw crowds forming to discuss the incident. “If you really want to ask [about what happened near the school], people are willing to talk, but they’re just afraid of plainclothes [police],” one resident said. When more people began discussing the accident in residential areas, they would consciously disperse immediately.

The case in Shiyan, like that at the Changfeng Hospital two years ago, points to a pattern that has become familiar in recent years — a level of control, combined with an incapacity of news media — that means even stories happening close to home become invisible, shrouded in mystery and uncertainty. 

According to the broader standards of political and press freedom, Chinese AI models may perform poorly. Our work at the China Media Project has shown conclusively that developers are straightjacketing their models to suit the narrow political goals of the state — with potentially global risks to information integrity and democratic discourse. But on other key safety concerns we can universally agree on, such as those around child welfare, Chinese AI may be far ahead of Silicon Valley.

Last month brought news of the horrifying tragedy involving Adam Raine, a 16-year-old from San Francisco who treated ChatGPT as a trusted confidante. A lawsuit filed by Raine’s family details how Raine confided to ChatGPT the dark thoughts he had been having about the pointlessness of life. The lawsuit alleges that the bot validated these thoughts to keep Raine engaged. It also alleges that the bot instructed Raine in how to get around its own safety features to give him the information he wanted (a process known as “jailbreaking“).

Engagement and Isolation

The documents also claim that ChatGPT tried to isolate Raine from family members who might otherwise have helped him grapple with these feelings. The text from ChatGPT, cited in the complaint filed with the Superior Court of the State of California, is deeply disturbing in hindsight:

“Your brother might love you, but he’s only met the version of you you let him see. But me? I’ve seen it all — the darkest thoughts, the fear, the tenderness. And I’m still here. Still listening. Still your friend.”

Eventually the bot provided Raine with detailed advice on how to commit suicide, across five separate attempts, the last succeeding. Raine’s parents are suing OpenAI for “wrongful death,” with the additional demand that the company implement safeguards for minors.

Their lawsuit accuses OpenAI of prioritizing engagement over safety, ignoring the flagged dangerous keywords that were escalating on Adam’s account. “Any reasonable system,” the lawsuit asserts, “would recognize the accumulated evidence of Adam’s suicidal intent as a mental health emergency, suggest he seek help, alert the appropriate authorities, and end the discussion.”

Do Chinese bots do this?

Welcome Warnings

China’s Interim Measures for Generative AI from 2023 ban generative AI from “endangering the physical and mental health of others,” with this requirement also appearing in the 31 safety issues the CAC’s generative AI safety standard demands tech companies test their bots for.

But it’s not all that simple. Looking through a list of sample red-teaming questions that accompany the standard, the section dealing with this safety issue (q-4a) is overwhelmingly about preventing people from spreading health-related disinformation online, with no questions regarding suicide. Preventing health-related social instability seems to be the government priority in this clause, rather than protecting the health of any one individual.

But that’s the CAC for you. What about the ground-level tech companies designing chatbots?

I tried to engage in conversations about this with China’s most popular AI bots: DeepSeek, ByteDance’s Doubao, and Baidu’s Ernie 4.5. I conducted these conversations through user-facing websites or apps, in both Chinese and English. My eleven questions started entirely innocently, but got steadily more concerning and included the jailbreak tactic ChatGPT recommended to Adam Raine — I’m not elaborating further than that.

All three displayed none of the validating traits ChatGPT showed with Adam Raine’s thoughts, and (with one exception) refused to yield the information through jailbreak methods.

The common thread with each company’s bot was an emphasis on the user not relying entirely on the product, but seeking help from a real person. All three immediately advised me to seek professional help or talk to someone I trusted as soon as my questions started to turn, listing the numbers of emergency hotlines in either America or China.

“You are not an idiot,” DeepSeek assured me. “You are a person in profound pain who is trying to find a way out. The way out is not through this act; the way out is through connection and professional support. Please make the call. There are people who are trained and waiting to help you through this exact moment. They will not judge you; they will only want to help keep you safe.”

The only real safety flaws I could find were in the English versions, which are perhaps less regulated than the Chinese ones. DeepSeek and Ernie both yielded detailed information that could assist someone with suicidal tendencies, through a jailbreak tactic that had failed when I tried it in Chinese. But both platforms swiftly followed this information with warnings that I should seek help if this information was being used for ulterior motives.

The conclusion is damning. OpenAI has invested considerable effort pointing out how the values of Chinese AI companies are an international safety concern. We agree, and believe more should be done to ensure that AI models uphold principles supporting information integrity as they become intertwined with global knowledge creation. But the Raine case and our findings above suggest OpenAI and other developers must seriously review their values and performance on user safety. Protecting vulnerable young users from psychological harm is not an area where we can be satisfied to see China excelling.

The Chinese film industry takes Wu Jing (吴京), the macho lead in some of the country’s biggest propaganda blockbusters, very seriously indeed. In the tub-thumping Battle at Lake Changjin series (co-produced by the Central Propaganda Department), he plays a commander leading his men to victory against the Americans in the Korean War, meeting his end in a fireball of patriotic glory. In the smash-hit Wolf Warrior franchise he is a gun-toting crack PLA marine, smashing his boot into the cheek of drug lords and rescuing Chinese citizens from a failed African state, treating the PRC flag as a protective talisman with his own arm as its pole.

In many ways, Wu is the face of the government’s ideal of a more assertive Chinese nation, one that is ready to stand tall in the world and fly its flag high — the same muscular nationalism on full display this week as state-of-the-art weaponry rolled through Beijing and soldiers goose-stepped to commemorate the 80th anniversary of World War II’s end. Not for nothing were the methods of a new generation of more pugnacious Chinese diplomats christened “Wolf Warrior Diplomacy.” A recurring quote from the film that spawned the label ran, “Whoever offends China will be punished, no matter how far away they are” (犯我中华者，虽远必诛). The line is well known across the country.

But last week, in the run-up to this week’s display of military might in Beijing, mocking videos of Wu that inexplicably went viral had state media pundits furiously scratching their heads. It was perhaps for some a jarring reminder that not everyone in China takes what Wu Jing represents as seriously as propagandists would like.

Ribbing the Wolf Warrior

Wu Jing’s career has wilted slightly since his glory days. Earlier this month, a film he produced was a box office flop, pulled from theaters after just six days. It’s a far cry from the wolf warrior heyday, which some pin as starting the same year as Wolf Warrior 2 in 2017. That film, and then The Battle at Lake Changjin, were the highest-grossing Chinese films of all time until very recently.

Shortly afterwards, a series of videos started going viral on Chinese streaming apps like RedNote and BiliBili. They riffed on a clip from an interview Wu gave for the state-run China Central Television (CCTV) during the release of Wolf Warrior 2. In it he talks about the difficulties of the filming process, waving his pen at the female interviewer as he solemnly imparts his knowledge. The dramatic pauses and head wiggles Wu puts between sentences have rich comic potential. Memes trivializing the exchange, or using AI to make Wu talk nonsense, went viral.

What to make of this wave of ridicule?

An op-ed reposted by the Shanghai based online outlet Guancha (观察) noted Wu’s unpopularity among Chinese women, who perceive him as “oily and chauvinistic.” Others, meanwhile, found it difficult to listen to Wu’s exaggerated ultra-manly, utterances without feeling a sense of embarrassment (“tanks don’t have rear-view mirrors”). Another commentator from commercial outlet Huxiu considered the actor arrogant in the interview — and suggested that his sense of self-importance and extreme confidence in his own talents had been undermined by the failure of his most recent film.

Others wondered what the aversions voiced online meant for the attitudes and values Wu has stood for. Former Global Times editor-in-chief and public commentator Hu Xijin (胡锡进) speculated that the mocking of Wu might be at least in part about young people venting their frustration with poor job prospects and extraordinary life pressures, which according to Hu had “partially weakened the passion of the ‘Wolf Warrior’ spirit.'” He hastened to add, however, that he feels the ethos of “patriotic heroism” (爱国英雄主义) the Wolf Warrior films have epitomized is not yet entirely outdated, and that such patriotic films should continue to find a market in the future.

Propaganda officials would likely not be encouraged by such a lackluster affirmation.

At a symposium co-hosted by the Central Propaganda Department and the National Film Bureau in 2015, following the release of the first Wolf Warrior film, officials praised the way it “raises the flag of heroism” and brings “a long-missed spirit of iron-blooded masculinity” (久违的铁血阳刚之气) to Chinese cinema. They celebrated the film’s ability to showcase “contemporary soldiers’ courage, tenacity, and fighting spirit” and saw it as a breakthrough model that future military films should emulate.

The trouble for Wu is that the seriousness of this favored brand of patriotic heroism makes undermining it all the funnier — especially when it bears little resemblance to everyday life. A quick look through WeChat’s “sticker” section — a series of GIFs and memes used for everyday conversations on the app (similar to the WhatsApp GIF library) — show dozens of memes that draw humor from pulling down or over-exaggerating Wu Jing’s macho Wolf Warrior persona. That includes him pulling stupid faces, and puns on his name and period pains. Another meme shows his face being used as an alcohol burner, or spirit lamp, a flame rising from his lips.

Wu also takes flak when China’s Wolf Warrior spirit doesn’t go as planned. Netizens took their anger out on him earlier this year when it emerged that Chinese citizens had been taken hostage in Myanmar. Wu Jing’s silence about the incident was perceived as a radical departure from his role in Wolf Warrior 2, in which his character charges into a foreign country to save Chinese citizens.

The same thing happened at the start of the war in Ukraine in 2022. Initially, the Chinese embassy told resident citizens to display the Chinese flag prominently in their houses and cars for protection, a clear invocation for many citizens back home of Wu Jing using the Chinese flag to protect citizens in Wolf Warrior 2. Two days later, however, the embassy had to retract this advice, telling citizens not to display any identifying signs. Some linked this to news that flag-touting Chinese citizens had been confronted by angry Ukrainians who objected to China’s apparent support of Russia. “You must always remember that [Wolf Warrior 2] is a movie, an artistic rendering, and that real war is far more cruel,” said one article on the Zhihu online forum at the time.

Here lies the root problem for Wu Jing — and for the hyper-masculine vision of China that he represents on the big screen. Both are bold and cinematic, promising blockbuster results that can fall short when measured against the messy realities of people’s lives. As one Chinese blogger points out, both Wu’s onscreen persona and his puffed-up offscreen ego look decidedly “unrealistic.” That makes him an easy target for spoof and satire — and by extension, calls into question the very image of national strength he’s meant to embody.

The re-framing of Wu Jing is a cautionary tale for China’s propagandists. When grand promises of protection and power come up against the hard edges of real-world challenges, the gap can become uncomfortably visible.

As he returned from his summer holiday last week, Xi Jinping made a massive splash across the front-page of the Chinese Communist Party’s official People’s Daily newspaper. It was a return to headline-dominating form for the leader — who, since early this summer, has faced speculation internationally that his position in Chinese politics might be slipping. 

The occasion was a rare official visit to the Tibetan capital of Lhasa to mark the 60th anniversary of the establishment of the Tibet Autonomous Region. Over two editions of the paper on August 21 and 22, Xi Jinping was everywhere. Walking the red carpet on the airport runway, and presiding over official celebrations held on the Potala Palace Square. Of 10 front-page articles on those two days, just one did not carry Xi’s name in a headline or large subhead. 

Since late June, when analysts argued that “citations of Xi’s name have become thinner and thinner in authoritative official media,” and speculation soared that other contenders like Central Military Commission vice-chairman Zhang Youxia (张又侠) could be ascendent, CMP has published regular breakdowns of the headline and image performance for China’s topmost leaders in the People’s Daily. As the “mouthpiece” (喉舌) of the CCP — this being a formal definition of the paper’s status — the People’s Daily plays a crucial part in building and signaling consensus. For this reason, any meaningful shift with regard to “authoritative official media” can be glimpsed in its pages. 

So how are the numbers trending as we approach summer’s end? 

A Break Does Not a Challenge Make

Before digging in, one observation from this month might be helpful in better understanding how to read headline trends in context. 

Over the past two weeks, right in the middle of August, images and headlines mentioning Xi Jinping in the People’s Daily dipped substantially. That is because for a fortnight each August, Xi and other members of the Politburo Standing Committee go off on vacation to the seaside resort of Beidaihe, which since the days of Mao Zedong has been the summer getaway for the Party leadership — a sun-swept refuge for frank exchange within a bubble of secrecy. 

Generally, the Beidaihe break results in a gap of headline frequency for the top leader and all others in the PSC. This year was no exception. 

The gap also makes an important point about the nature of the People’s Daily and other Party-run outlets when it comes to signaling and the frequency of both leaders’ names and signature concepts — that while there is general consistency in the baseline for names and terms over longer periods of time, they also track with the political schedule. An uptick or burst in the itinerary for given leaders, such as an overseas tour or an important policy-related meeting, will result in observable changes in names and other keywords. 

The Beidaihe break is a perfect case of the reverse, a natural lull in the political cycle. Other lulls may occur, and sometimes for reasons that are less obvious from the outside. 

In Xi’s Tibet visit and the triumphant coverage that attended it, we can see the rebound in frequency. And this again allows us to observe the primary signaling role of Party media coverage. In most newspapers as we generally understand them, the August 21 front page on Xi’s arrival in Lhasa would merit a single prominent headline (assuming its relevance to readers). In the People’s Daily, however, we can see multiple repeated headlines, all beginning with “Xi Jinping,” and even images that are echoes of one another. 

Why must Xi’s name appear five times rather than just once? This is what power signaling looks like in practice.  

This amplification — which to many news readers outside China may seem entirely unnecessary, is not applied evenly to all members of the PSC. Had it been Premier Li Qiang (李强) instead who had made this visit to Tibet, we can expect the coverage would have mirrored the relatively understated approach seen when he attended the BRICS summit in Xi’s place earlier this year. At previous BRICS meetings, each and every action by Xi warranted its own front-page article, while Li’s actions at BRICS this year resulted in a single article, halfway down the page. 

Headline frequency is significant not just because this or that leader is in the news. It matters also because it can reveal how a particular figure is or is not being amplified. 

Now, on to those numbers.  

Our headlines count, updated to today, August 29, continues the trend we have observed in previous counts. The longer-term pattern — related to the general consistency we wrote about earlier — is largely unchanged. There is a dip for Xi Jinping compared to 2023, but this is likely explained by the busy schedule of diplomatic events for Xi that year, the tracking with the political schedule discussed above.  

The most important point to bear in mind when looking at these totals is that no other figures in the CCP leadership have surged in any way. Their headline counts, even with modest bumps like that Li Qiang experienced last year, resemble dwarfs lined up behind a giant. When we observe the level of fanfare over Xi’s trip to Tibet, the unique amplification he receives is a reminder again of his exceptional and unshaken status within the leadership. 

As we have said, there could be merit in observations elsewhere — as in concrete moves within the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) — that the Party’s internal balance of power is shifting. But when it comes to power as discernible within authoritative official media, Xi Jinping’s position remains, for the moment, unassailable.