Journalist Cao Jingxing (曹景行), whose work impacted media development in both Hong Kong and China, passed away on February 11 at the age of 75.

Born in Shanghai in 1947, Cao was among the first group of students to return to university studies in 1978, the year after the college entrance examinations, or gaokao, were reinstated, having been suspended in 1965 ahead of the Cultural Revolution.

In 1982, Cao joined Yazhou Zhoukan (亚洲周刊), the Chinese-language edition of Asiaweek magazine, which had been founded in 1975 by former colleagues at Hong Kong’s Far Eastern Economic Review. Cao was promoted to editor-in-chief of the magazine, often called “the first Chinese language international affairs newsweekly,” in 1994, the same year the magazine was purchased by Hong Kong’s Ming Pao, where Cao was also an editorial writer.

From 1997, at the time of Hong Kong’s handover to China, Cao was editor-in-chief of the news channel at the Chinese Television Network (香港传讯电视). The next year, he left CTN to become deputy director of the Phoenix InfoNews Channel, a paid television news channel in Hong Kong owned by Phoenix Television.

University of Hong Kong professor Xu Zidong (许子东), a long-time friend of Cao’s, told Shanghai’s The Paper: “He was a very good newsman, exceptionally poised, and he made people feel that they could trust him.”

Xu also said, according to The Paper, that the popular news talk program, Behind the Headlines With Wen Tao (锵锵三人行), a pioneering format at Phoenix launched in April 1998 that spawned many imitators, was first proposed by Cao Jingxing. “He phoned me before the show even aired and said it was going to bring together a few readers for a chat, something that hadn’t been done before,” Xu recalled. “I always remembered after that that he said something like, ‘The point of the show is not the content of the talk, but the method of the talk.'”

Among Cao’s best known works are a pair of memoirs, Drifting Over the Sea of Life (浮過了生命海) and Me and My World (我與我的世界).

Cao Jingxing’s father was renowned Republican Era journalist and author Cao Juren (曹聚仁), who was reportedly close to such May Fourth writers as Lu Xun (魯迅) and Zhou Zuoren (周作人), and was active as a writer in Shanghai before arriving in Hong Kong in 1950.

On August 27, the Cyberspace Administration of China (CAC), the chief body for internet regulation and censorship, announced new measures that state media referred to as a “heightened crackdown” on China’s so-called “fandom culture,” or fanquan wenhua (饭圈文化). These measures capped a series of actions by the Chinese government this year to tighten control of private internet companies – including a punishing anti-trust fine for Alibaba, the suspension of 25 mobile apps operated by ride-hailing giant Didi Global, restrictions on China’s educational technology market,  online gaming curbs and draft regulations limiting the use of “algorithmic promotional services.” 

Since the internet clean-up campaign was formally launched by the CAC back in May, much coverage in the state media has focused on the above-mentioned actions as a matter of moral urgency. The official discourse from the CAC has stressed the need to “strengthen moral construction in the online space” (加强网络空间道德建设). And fandom culture in particular has been characterized as an attack on the “moral bottom line,” “poisoning China’s youth” (毒害青少年).

While there certainly are any number of legitimate concerns in Chinese cyberspace that might be pursued in the public interest, from protecting privacy rights and data security, to grappling with problems like cyber-bullying and doxing, a closer look at the official discourse around these moves to “cleanse” China’s internet elucidates a clear underlying objective – the re-consolidation of the Chinese Communist Party’s dominance over ideology and public opinion in order to maintain political control.

Moves in recent weeks and months to curb the influence of fandom culture are a clear case in point. For many Chinese youth, fandom culture has been a rare arena of choice, self-identification and community formation. For the Party-state, however, these online communities, although formed around shared infatuations that can seem effete and shallow, pose a real challenge to the CCP’s control of ideas and agendas.

From Idol Worship to Shared Community

Fandom culture can be traced back to the idol worship of the 1980s and 1990s, following on trends in South Korea and Japan. In the past, idols were selected and produced by talent scouts or TV shows and then promoted through traditional media. As a result, there was a sense of distance between the idol and their fan base, and idols were seen as superior and unreachable. In the era of interactive new media, however, the gap between fans and idols has snapped shut.

Today, communities of fans, or “fandoms,” have parasocial interactions with their idols that seem far more intimate. According to Lin Pin (林品), a researcher at China’s Capital Normal University: “This kind of idol industry, which has emerged along with China’s digital transformation and the popularity of Gen Z-focussed services like live-streaming, provides fans with a certain type of intimate relationship, or ‘quasi-intimacy,’ whereby fans can imagine themselves as an idol’s girlfriend, wife, sister, boyfriend, husband and so on. Back in the 80s, referring to yourself as your idol’s girlfriend would be seen as pathological, but the fandom culture nowadays completely normalises it.”

For many fans, participation in fandoms has been empowering as well as entertaining, enabling them to actively support and promote their favourite idols. “The rise of fan circles is understandable because they meet the fans’ needs for socializing and self-realization,” Zhang Sining of the Liaoning Academy of Social Sciences told the China Daily last month. One example of this process of self-realization can be seen in the hit show “Idol Producer” (偶像练习生), launched in January 2018 on the Chinese online video platform iQiyi. The show allowed fans to directly choose and promote aspiring idols from among 100 contestants, the group pared down over four months to just nine performers forming a male idol group (偶像男团). Fans closely following “Idol Producer” devoted a great deal of time organizing events on Weibo and other social media platforms to promote their chosen idols, then just trainees, and to help them make their debuts.

Fandoms for Social and Political Activism

Viewed purely as entertainment, this type of interaction and opinion formation may seem like innocent fun. But fandom culture also has the potential to impact the ideas and values of China’s youth, particularly those born in the 2000s. And it can give rise to organized communities of interest that impact on other issues and agendas.

In the early stages of the Covid-19 epidemic in China in early 2020, as the government responded slowly on many fronts to immediate challenges like lack of protective equipment, private voluntary groups online offered a crucial avenue of support. The existing networked structures arising from fandom culture were in fact the informal infrastructure that empowered a rapid response in the midst of crisis. “They are a huge population, are well-organized, and have a clear division of labor, giving them an explosive power many would find astonishing,” the Shenzhen-based scholar Chen Chun wrote of fandoms in March 2020.

On January 21, 2020, the day after China confirmed human-to-human transmission of Covid-19, the fan network of Chinese actor Zhu Yilong (朱一龙), organized a charity support platform that solicited donations to purchase more than 200,000 protective masks and other supplies that were sent to the city of Wuhan, the epicenter of the epidemic, within 24 hours.

Fandoms were also organized across borders, one prominent example being the so-called “666 Alliance” (666联盟), a group connecting 27 fandoms from mainland China, Hong Kong and Taiwan, with members across the globe. Within days of Wuhan’s lockdown in 2020, the alliance had mobilized to respond to the crisis, with clear division of labor. By January 30, the “666 Alliance” had donated at least 410,000 yuan worth of essential medical supplies, including 30,000 sets of disposable surgical gloves, 1,000 face shields and 8,200 sets of protective coveralls. And all of this equipment was in transit to Wuhan.

The organizational power of China’s fandoms was by this time already evident to anyone studying the phenomenon of online nationalism. Fandom networks were instrumental in the planning and execution, for example, of the so-called “Diba Expedition” (帝吧出征), a self-organized campaign by online fan communities from China to defend the nation in the midst of the Hong Kong protests in 2019. As scholar Du Yannan wrote of this 2019 campaign: “The results indicate that collective fandom actions are enabled by the fandom communities’ collaborative organization, clear division of labor, and proficient digital media skills. These contribute to the speedy nationalist mobilization.”

In the context of “fandom nationalism,” the Party-state has often been obliquely supportive of the actions of fandom culture to the extent that they support national objectives. While state media coverage of the recent campaign to “rectify chaos” in fandom culture has stressed problems like cyber-bullying and doxing, state media have in fact encouraged such behaviour in the past when it has served the Party-state agenda around sovereignty and territorial integrity.

Given the clear power of fandom culture to mobilize youth for collaborative solutions around shared concerns, from the fortunes of a beloved star to political events in Hong Kong, it was only a matter of time before the government sought to restrain them.  

Idols and Ideology

Official scrutiny of fandoms in China came into focus from February to July last year in the wake of what became known as the “227 Incident” (227事件), an online controversy surrounding the actor and internet idol Xiao Zhan (肖战). Xiao, who had starred in the 2019 television series “The Untamed” (陈情令), had millions of adoring fans, connecting online through dedicated fan sites and chatrooms. One such site was “Archive Of Our Own,” known also as “AO3,” a global science fiction and fantasy platform allowing users to freely create their own fanworks, including fictional tributes to idols. The site was the recipient of a “Best Related Work” award at the Hugos, the annual science fiction and fantasy awards, in 2019.

In January 2020, AO3 was host to a work of fan fiction called “Falling” (下坠) that centered on Xiao and his 2019 male co-star Wang Yibo (王一博). While many of Xiao Zhan’s fans enjoyed “Falling,” a work fairly typical of the popular gay fiction genre known as “Boys’ love,” “BL” for short, the overt homoeroticism of several installments of the series in February infuriated some. Fans unhappy with this fictional portrayal of their idol, Xiao Zhan, retaliated by reporting the AO3 website to government authorities, who responded not just by targeting the series but by blocking access to the entire website in China. Furious in turn with this attack on a cherished space for self-expression, fans in China then launched an aggressive campaign against Xiao Zhan and his fan community that included a boycott of brands with which Xiao had been associated, including the likes of Cartier and Estée Lauder. Xiao Zhan vanished from the Chinese internet and social media as brands and platforms rushed to distance themselves from his sudden toxicity.

The storm of attacks and counter-attacks, of cyber-bullying and doxing, that resulted from the “227 Incident,” named such because it broke out on February 27, prompted the Xiao Zhan Studio to issue an apology on March 1, expressing regret for the incident, which it said had “occupied certain public resources” in the midst of an epidemic.

For state media in China, the “227 Incident” was one of the most obvious illustrations of the social consequences of the dramatic growth of fandom culture in the country. In early May, Guangming Daily (光明日报), a newspaper published by the CCP’s Central Propaganda Department, addressed the incident in an article called “A Philosophical Reflection on Fandom Culture” (饭圈文化的哲学省思). The article explored the potential impact of fandoms on Chinese culture from theoretical and psychological perspectives, and it spoke of fandom culture in terms of pathologies (病态).

Beneath the discourse of pathology, however, the article hinted at the broader political and ideological implications of the fandom phenomenon as it became a kind of “religionized” (宗教化) pursuit of celebrities. In its conclusion, the article voiced concern over the impact fandoms might have on “other ideologies,” an unmistakable reference to the dominant ideology of the CCP:

Therefore, the need for self-identity construction and the indiscriminate promotion of fandoms across many aspects, has caused fandoms to constantly intrude upon or subsume other ideologies to form a fierce and aggressive, and highly-organized machine. As for its possible future trajectory, and the potential social influence in broader arenas, this must not be underestimated. Perhaps from their birth, the trajectory of fandoms has been one of conquest and expansion.  

In Chinese official discourse, such concerns have since 1989 generally centered on the phrase “correct guidance of public opinion,” or zhengque yulun daoxiang (正确舆论导向), the need to maintain political stability by leveraging media and internet controls to set the agenda and establish the CCP’s policies and ideology as the “mainstream” (主流), Mirroring this official prerogative, the Weibo platform announced in mid-July that it had meet with members of Xiao Zhan Studio on July 9 to stress that celebrities like Xiao should be responsible for “guiding and restraining fan behaviour.” At the same time, Xiao Zhan issued a public apology saying that “I do have a duty to ‘guide correctly and to actively advocate [for the correct values].”   

Yet again mirroring official language on internet controls, the apology affirmed that both Xiao Zhan and his studio had a duty along with fans and the public to ensure a “clean and healthy internet environment” (风清气正的网络环境). This is identical language to that used routinely in official documents and the state media in the Xi Jinping era to refer to internet governance, “correct guidance of public opinion,” and “positive energy” (the need for uplifting and pro-Party messaging over criticism and negativity).

Buttoning Up China’s Youth

The official discourse on fandom culture in recent months makes it clear that concerns over the impact on the CCP’s “mainstream” ideology are the driving factor, even if this concern is enveloped in moral language. On August 9, Zhejiang Online, a website operated by the Zhejiang provincial government, wrote that fandom culture demanded better guidance of China’s youth across media and education:

In the face of fandom culture, helping young people ‘button the first buttons of their lives’ is of crucial importance. Along with digitalization and the emergence of the information age, the value of the ‘traffic economy’ has been prominent in the market, and the commercial logical behind this is self-evident. To eradicate this ‘chronic problem’ requires not only the correct guidance of online media but also the carrying out of targeted work to guide the youth in education.

Buttoning up China’s youth meant restraining commercial impulses and establishing “correct values” and correct cultural views. It is an apt image to describe the overall agenda of the internet clean-up campaign: to ensure that youth communities online are constrained and confined by the imperatives of the CCP, dressed up as moral imperatives. On August 23, the official China Media Group wrote in an article on fandom culture on its news app that fandoms had become “communities of interest” (利益共同体) that spread poor morals and values, and that “the time had come to drive out evil and support the upright”  (驱邪扶正). In this process, the entertainment industry and online platforms, the article said, had “a responsibility to serve a guidance role.”

As fandom culture in China has come under fire, such moral language has predominated across Chinese media. There is talk of “rectification” or “remediation” (整治), of  “moral bottom lines” (道德的底线), of trends that are “deformed” (畸形). When the Cyberspace Administration of China issued its “Notice on Further Strengthening the Management of ‘Fandom’ Chaos” (关于进一步加强“饭圈”乱象治理的通知) on August 27, however, the notice concluded with a revealing line about the need for the authorities across China to “improve [their] political position” (提高政治站位). This is explicit language (for students of Chinese discourse at any rate) about the need to uphold the power and position of Xi Jinping and the central leadership (including the “442 formula”). The language was immediately followed in the notice with a statement about the urgency of “safeguarding political security and ideological security online” (维护网上政治安全和意识形态安全).

There are certainly excesses to fandom culture that demand greater attention. Cyber-bullying and doxing are very real concerns, as is the right to privacy. But beneath the veneer of professed moral concern over these issues, which have routinely been disregarded when politically expedient, the official discourse points clearly to politics and ideology as the overriding motivations. China’s fandoms are in the cross-hairs because they have become organized and potentially powerful communities of young people, pursuing interests and values that potentially at odds with the CCP’s “mainstream” agendas.

The following is CMP’s translation of an eyewitness account recorded by Freezing Point intern Lu Siwei (卢思薇), and edited by Chen Zhuo (陈卓), of one passenger’s experiences on the night of July 20 as she was trapped inside a subway car on Zhengzhou’s Metro Line 5 — as the tunnels surged with rising floodwaters.

The eyewitness account was shared by Freezing Point yesterday through its WeChat public account. Freezing Point is a supplement of the China Youth Daily newspaper, published by the Chinese Communist Youth League. Launched in January 1995, the supplement became known in the years that followed more its in-depth coverage of social and political issues through essays and long-form writing. Reorganized in January 2006 after several of its pieces fell afoul of censors in the Central Propaganda Department, Freezing Point has trudged along ever since, though without the influence it once had under editors Li Datong (李大同)and Lu Yuegang (卢跃刚).

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The Account of a Person Trapped Inside a Subway Car on Zhengzhou’s Line 5:  Water Outside the Car is Above Human Height, and Oxygen Inside the Car is Lacking

China Youth Daily / Freezing Point

Many people had no idea that the rains would fall so relentlessly. Beginning on July 17, Zhengzhou experienced rainfall such as has rarely been seen. The data shows that the single-day rainfall in Zhengzhou surpassed historical extremes (since the establishment of monitoring stations), and single-hour rainfall exceeded the daily historical extremes. The amount of rainfall in Zhengzhou over the past three days has approached average total rainfall during normal years.

Vehicles were overturned by water on the roads and the first floors of many buildings were backed up by flood water. Trains were stopped, public transportation blocked, and many people were prevented from getting home.

On July 20, the Wulongkou Parking Lot for Zhengzhou Metro Line 5 and the area surrounding it became serious flooded. At around 6PM the same day the water flowed over a retaining wall and entered the main line section, causing trains in the Metro Line 5 tunnels at Haitansi Street Station and Shakou Road Station to stop running. Flood waters backed up into the underground tunnels and inside Line 5 trains, and passengers were trapped inside the cars. During this time, news and videos continually emerged from inside the Line 5 trains, as water in the cars rose to the chests and even heads of the passengers.

Rescuers arrived at the scene quickly after being notified by the public. By 3:10 AM on July 21, all the people trapped in the subway tunnel had been brought to safety. According to official figures, more than 500 people were evacuated in the incident, 12 people died after rescue attempts were futile, and 5 people were sent to the hospital with injuries. The following is an account as dictated by one of those trapped [inside the trains].

In the afternoon of July 20, I took the train from Central Business District Station on the Zhengzhou Metro Line 5 to head home. Probably because of the rainy weather, there weren’t too many people at the station. The subway did not run smoothly, and starting from the Huanghe Road Station there were emergency stops and other issues. Passengers still boarded along the way, so I didn’t think there was any serious problem.

The accident happened between Haitansi Street Station and Shakou Road Station. In fact, as the train arrived at Haitansi Street Station, an emergency stop was already made. But afterward the train continued ahead. At the time, I thought we would quickly reach Shakou Road Station. But before long that train had stopped once again.

Looking out from the carriage, you could already see the water rushing upward on both sides. At the time the conductor walked from the front of the train all the way to the back, and he maintained constant contact with [personnel] above ground. The conductor also tried to take the train back to Haitansi Street Station. But by that time, probably because the subway had automatic safety procedures in place, the train was locked on top of the tracks and there was no way to move. At that time, we could see sparks flashing on the tracks.

Gradually, water started pouring into the carriages. At first, most of the people in the car were gathered at the rear, but because the subway traveled from east to west, and the terrain in the west was higher than in the east, the water rose more quickly toward the back of the train, so at the conductor’s instruction everyone kept moving toward the front part of the train. As we reached the head of the train, the conductor opened the door of the car in the very front.

It was then that I learned that the subway has an internal pedestrian passage. Heeding the conductor’s command, everyone grabbed the railing and continued walking along the subway track. At that time, we must have been very close to the Shakou Road Station, and I felt that it might be just over two hundred meters away. A small group of people at the front had reached a relatively safe position, but the water coming from behind was very rapid and violent, and the pedestrian passage under the subway was extremely narrow and crowded, so not everyone could get through, and most people were forced to go back to the carriage halfway through the attempt. The conductor closed the door again and kept contact with ground personnel, awaiting rescue [crews].

During the time we were trapped in the subway, at least in my section of the car, the overall situation was still OK. Perhaps because I’m not so courageous, I had already begun to cry as I saw water entering from the rear of the train — not making a sound, just tears running down my face. Some others around me were crying or extremely anxious, and others in the same carriage would come over and comfort us. There was one girl in the carriage who kept everyone orderly and calmed us down. Everyone seemed to have agreed not to say anything demoralizing. In the end, most people chose just to stay silent in order to keep up their strength.

Everyone was trying hard to make contact with the outside world in various ways — dialing 119 or 110, contacting family and friends for assistance . . . . but the results were not very heartening. Probably everyone [around the city] was busy contacting rescue crews, and the phone network was maxed, so it was difficult for family members and friends outside to reach one another.

Fortunately, one woman inside the train was later able to reach rescue crews outside. Once she made contact, she continued letting everyone inside the carriage know the situation with the rescue crews outside. For example, that rescue crews had arrived at the exit, that they were setting up a rope for rescue, that they were placing sandbags, and so on.

The most terrible time was around 9PM that evening, as the water outside the window reached the height of a person, and looking back you could see that water at the back half of the train had already reached the top. Everyone moved forward and gathered in the first three cars, and at the time I was in the space between cars 1 and 2, right in the middle of the group. Water continued to rise, and the second half of the group were in basically up to their necks, and toward the front the water reached our chests. It was at this time that hypoxic conditions began. One by one, people all around showed signs of hypoxia, hypoglycemia, shivering, gasping for air, dry vomiting. There were children, pregnant women and the elderly in the train who began suffering a variety of physical issues, mostly due to the long hours standing in the water.

I recall that at the time that woman who was relaying rescue information to us from outside said the government had begun pumping water in the back. At the time, though, I felt that one or two pumping machines couldn’t handle such a massive amount of water. So when I heard her say that, I felt really desperate. At that time, I was truly terrified. When I saw the water level outside the cars was over our heads, I began preparing for the possibility that we wouldn’t make it out.

I hadn’t been able to dial out with my phone, but the network could still be used intermittently. Having less than 30 percent battery power at that time, I closed all of my applications to conserve power, leaving only a WeChat so that I could send messages to family and friends. I didn’t dare to talk to my parents, so I sent messages to my cousins and friends. Before 9PM, I kept asking them to contact rescuers, but seeing the water level rise over our heads, my messages to them became about end-of-life concerns.

Inside the car, I could really feel the sense of terror in the people all around me. There was also a little commotion inside the car, as at one point, when the difference in water levels [inside and outside] was most pronounced, someone tried impulsively to smash open the glass door of the car. But on older man stopped him. I feel truly grateful to that uncle. Considering the difference in water levels at the time, if he hadn’t stopped [the man], and the car windows had suddenly been smashed open, the water would have rushed in and surely would have pressed us in and made it impossible to escape.

In the back, things then took a turn for the worse. After the water level outside the carriage reached its crest, the water lines then seem to stabilize somewhat. At the same time, however, our car seemed to have shifted under the impact of the water so that one side was slightly higher than the other. On the higher side, the carriage windows were above the [rushing] body of water [outside]. It was at that time that some people suggested we use the fire extinguisher inside the car to break the windows on the higher side [to let in air] rather than try opening the doors. Once the window of the first car was smashed, the lack of oxygen situation improved significantly, and everyone gradually began resuming normal breathing. Meanwhile, the water level outside did not rise any further. Those of us toward the front of the train also communicated with those toward the back, telling them to use the fire extinguisher to break open the windows. At first there were one or two people saying it. But before long people throughout the car were saying all together, ‘Use the fire extinguisher to break the windows.”

It was also at about that time that rescue workers appeared outside the carriage. They first used the broken window to pass in a tool for breaking out the windows. Inside the cars everyone was passing the window breaker back in a line.

I was closer up toward the front, so I’m not too sure what the situation was behind me, but I remember looking back at the  people in the blackness. Soon after, the rescuers managed to open the conductor’s compartment at the front of the train, and they tried to smash the windows from the outside. But as the process of chiselling at the glass was time consuming, and the car had already been opened in front, they decided not to continue. One after another, everyone was evacuated from the front carriage.

The first to be rescued were probably the two or three pregnant women, who were weak from having stood in the water for so long and from lack of oxygen. The children were rescued next, and then the women. I was among the women to be evacuated earlier on. While the water outside was then flowing more smoothly than before, it was still very fast, especially in the short distance from the carriage to the walkway. The rescuers mostly carried out their rescue efforts from the car to the handrail. As they pulled me up outside the car passengers below helped push me up. All thanks to their support in pushing and pulling me, I could escape from the current. Once I was out of the car and past the rapids, I walked about ten meters, and the water level reached a safer level just below my calves. And in the roughly 200 meters to the exit, we basically held on to each other so that we could walk, those who could walk helping those who couldn’t, following the guidance of the rescue team members up front.

As we reached the exit, we could see that many rescue workers were there trying to hold back the flood. They guided us along the rescue line they had set up so that we could trudge over.  Once we exited the station we could see a lot of people walking back in our direction – rescue workers, medical staff, subway employees, and others whose profession I couldn’t guess, all heading for the subway cars. I could also see those in charge anxiously making phone calls, and employees in subway uniforms inquired about our conditions. Chairs and beds were set up along the walkway. I also saw a young mother and her child on my way out of the station. The child was fine, but the mother was obviously hypoxic and very weak, probably because she had been nursing her child.

From the beginning of the ordeal to our evacuation to safety, the whole thing lasted around four hours. After leaving the station, because the roads in the area were still in a flooded state, I was concerned about manhole covers being washed away, and also about possible electrical leaks, and so I still couldn’t go home and had to stay at a friend’s house.