Before relocating to Hong Kong, Professor Zeng spent 13 years in the UK, where he built his academic career. At 31, he was appointed Professor of China and International Studies at Lancaster University, becoming one of the youngest full professors in Britain.

Simultaneously, he served as Director of Lancaster University Confucius Institute. Under his leadership, the Institute grew into an award-winning institution while successfully navigating unprecedented challenges — from the global pandemic and the abrupt dissolution of the Confucius Institute Headquarters to a political campaign by the UK’s then-ruling government to shut down Confucius Institutes. These experiences are chronicled in his three-volume memoir, Memoirs of a Confucius Institute Director, with the first volume released in August 2025. Before embarking on his academic career, he worked at the United Nations’ Department of Economic and Social Affairs in New York City.

Highlights:

03:41 - What does a Confucius Institute director actually do — and why Zeng took on the role at a politically sensitive moment

13:34 - The biggest misconceptions about Confucius Institutes in British society

17:34 - Cultural engagement vs. propaganda: where the line really lies

19:19 - Confucius Institutes and the British Council: similar missions, different politics

22:43 - Inside the “Confucius Institute of the Year” award

25:13 - Leading a Confucius Institute through crisis: pandemic, politics, and pressure

33:10 - How Zeng reads the current China–UK reset — and why Starmer’s China visit matters

42:22 - What’s next: a preview of Volume Two of Memoirs of a Confucius Institute Director

Recommendations:

Jinghan Zeng: Black Myth: Wukong (a video game inspired by the ancient Chinese tale “Journey to the West”)

JJ: Memoirs of a Confucius Institute Director, Volume 1: Challenges, Controversies, and Realities (available on Amazon), by Jinghan Zeng

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This episode was recorded on Jan. 29.

The original Chinese piece of this story was first published on Jan. 13 on the WeChat blog of Direct Connect (正面连接), an independent Chinese online media outlet that uses the tagline “Facing Complexity.” The article follows two independent bookstores — and the very practical question of how they stay alive — at a time when Chinese people’s lifestyles and reading habits are shifting fast.

Neither store survives by chasing bestsellers. Instead, they curate by taste: recommending books to subscribers based on their own aesthetic and intellectual judgment, building trust over time, and learning what their readers actually want. In some cases, that credibility gives them leverage to do what large publishers and mainstream channels often can’t: bring long out-of-print titles back to life, finding a second readership for “small” books that the market has already written off.

Subscription-based book clubs are hardly new. What is distinctive here is how independent booksellers, facing algorithms, price wars, and shrinking attention spans, reclaim selection as an editorial act. Their choices are shaped by long familiarity with readers, by personal conviction, and by a willingness to stand by books that might otherwise disappear. In this sense, selection itself becomes a form of authorship.

In the past, when the pieces I chose were especially long, I would sometimes shorten them before publishing, trimming sections without affecting the core argument. This time, however, I’ve decided to translate and publish the article in full. I believe that those who are genuinely interested will naturally make the time to keep reading.

For the independent bookstores and books mentioned in the piece, I’ve added their Chinese names alongside the translations, following the original text, in case some of you would like to seek out these bookstores in person or track down the books discussed in the article. Any highlighted passages reflect my own emphasis.

When you think about opening a bookstore, what is your first reaction?

If you start weighing investment against returns, chances are you would hesitate.

Most people agree on one thing: people need to read, and readers need bookstores. Bookstores — especially independent ones that do not sell exam-prep materials or “success studies” in China — are often seen as spiritual refuges for readers, but rarely as places of consumption. Those who commit themselves wholeheartedly to this line of work usually do so with the expectation of losses, or even eventual closure.

Yet new changes are also taking place. In Chengdu, Youxing Bookstore (有杏书店) closed and later reopened. In Wuhan, a year after Baicaoyuan (百草园书店) shut its doors, Sincerity & Authenticity (诚与真书店) emerged. In distant Guilin, Wild Mountain Bookstore (野山书店), run by a husband-and-wife team, surpassed one million yuan in monthly sales by selling only books on RedNote. And many other bookstores we can readily name — All Sages (万圣书店), Floating in the Wild (浮于野书店), Avant-Garde (先锋书店) — have also built thriving spaces within online communities.

Over the past year, amid an environment where low-price competition has reached its limits, we found that bookstores operating through RedNote e-commerce saw overall revenue growth of more than 30 percent, with nearly ten thousand brick-and-mortar bookstores collectively moving onto the platform. In this interest-driven community, buying books is no longer a purely price-centered commercial act. People are rediscovering what physical bookstores uniquely offer: breaking out of information cocoons, encountering an unexpected good book, and sharing it with those around them. Genuine and friendly relationships between people are also taking root here.

Curious about how all this has happened — how independent bookstores manage to survive and thrive, and what readers actually gain from them — we traveled to Guilin (a well-known tourist city in south China’s Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region) and Wuhan (in central China’s Hubei Province) to meet the Wild Mountain couple and “Old Wang,” the owner of Sincerity & Authenticity.

“For the Encounter Between People and Books”

Wild Mountain Bookstore is located on a commercial street in Guilin’s High-Tech Zone.

The street is divided into an outer section, a middle section, and an inner section. The outer street is lined with restaurants doing street-front business and remains lively day and night. By the middle section, foot traffic has already thinned considerably. The bookstore sits near an entrance to the inner section, facing a residential compound and turning its back to pedestrian sightlines. Few people ever wander here by chance.

The location is hard to find. Reader Song Shuang still remembers the suddenness of spotting Wild Mountain for the first time. On a rainy night in August 2025, a driver dropped her near the compound. The navigation app was inaccurate. As she walked through the pitch-dark night, constantly looking left, she happened to turn her head to the right—and the warm yellow characters “Wild Mountain Bookstore” suddenly leapt into her view.

The reason she felt she had to visit the bookstore was simple: curiosity.

Even before coming, Song Shuang had come across posts by Wild Mountain on RedNote. In those posts, the bookstore owners—”Mountain Pig” and “Wild Rabbit”—shared how they had witnessed a new book being reprinted: in order to fulfill shipments for readers subscribed to their “Annual Reading Plan,” Wild Mountain snapped up the final remaining stock of the book. The Annual Reading Plan is a new product offered by the bookstore. Subscribers receive one carefully selected book each month, accompanied by a handwritten reading guide.

Song bought a book through RedNote, The Moss Forest (《苔藓森林》), which explores how moss grows and adapts in different natural environments. One of its translators is Wild Rabbit herself. What attracted Song was a line on the RedNote page: “From seeing the small, learn to love life.” Beyond buying the book, she also subscribed to Wild Mountain’s Annual Reading Plan.

Song studies history. Her usual reading habits closely follow her academic discipline—books on silk, opium, the history of the English language—digging deep into such narrowly defined perspectives.

But Wild Mountain’s Annual Reading Plan brought many other types of books into her hands. First came Transitional Labor (《过渡劳动》) and Higher Than the Mountains (《比山更高》), which sparked her interest in nonfiction and anthropology. In May, she received The Little Fox in My Head (《我脑袋里的小狐狸》), a picture-book story about bipolar disorder. Song had stopped reading picture books after high school, thinking they had “too few words to be interesting,” but this book made her realize that what picture books can carry is not limited by form.

Through Wild Mountain’s reading plan, Song felt she had gained a stretch of reading time outside her information cocoon. Without the couple’s recommendations, she would never have thought to search for a picture book about a little fox on her own.

At the very back of Wild Mountain Bookstore are two square tables for readers, with message notebooks placed on top.

These curated book lists — reflecting the owners’ personal aesthetics and deeply connected to the city’s cultural and humanistic fabric — are, for readers, “just-right blind boxes.” They are also precisely what gives independent bookstores their reason to exist. Song noticed that Wild Mountain carries almost no popular bestsellers. Most of the books are in the humanities and social sciences, and nearly all were published within the past year.

Both Wild Rabbit and Mountain Pig work in publishing. Mountain Pig approaches the bookstore with a product-design mindset. He wants to create a scene for buying books: at a time when people are so accustomed to goal-oriented online shopping, independent bookstore owners can, through bookstores infused with their own knowledge, experience, and care, offer readers a possibility — a possibility of discovering their true reading interests, of seeing lives beyond their immediate field of vision, and of re-encountering and reconnecting with others through the specific space of a bookstore.

In Wuhan, Old Wang has been running bookstores for thirteen years. A year after Baicaoyuan closed, he relocated and opened what is now Sincerity & Authenticity.

Old Wang has an exceptionally sharp eye for selecting and evaluating books. On the day I visited, an editor from a publishing house had come in person with new titles, specifically to thank him for the feedback he had offered. Many of the out-of-print books in the store were personally selected by Old Wang from publishers’ warehouses.

He knows that most readers who find their way to Sincerity & Authenticity already have strong reading preferences and clear expectations. What he wants to offer them is scarcity. One experiment is the “out-of-print book blind box”: every buyer can request one specific out-of-print title. Old Wang photographed all the out-of-print books in the store and uploaded them as a single image on RedNote—The Book of Snowy Mountains (《雪山之书》), A Roll Call of Modern Academic Circles (《现代学林点将录》）, Burning the Boats (《焚舟纪》), and more. He then shows, during RedNote livestreams, how he assembles each blind box based on readers’ requests.

Perhaps only in RedNote livestreams can such a patient, slow atmosphere exist. There are no flash sales, no price slashing, no exaggerated performances. During the livestreams, Old Wang selects books, assembles packages, and answers questions. The blind-box purchase link sits quietly at the bottom of the screen while staff pack orders. Viewers are not just watching; they often offer suggestions for choosing books. A good livestream can sell over 20,000 yuan (about 2,870 U.S. dollars) worth of books; even a weaker one still brings in five or six thousand yuan.

Once, Old Wang received a blind-box order from a woman who provided almost no information about books, mentioning only her situation: newly married, and curious about Old Wang’s “first-instinct” recommendation.

He spent more than an hour selecting the book—the longest time he had ever spent on a single blind box. During the livestream, viewers suggested parenting books or titles about romantic relationships. Old Wang rejected them all. Why, he asked, would someone who has just gotten married and feels secure about marriage need a book telling her how to handle parenting or relationships? What he sensed was her happiness and ease.

The book still wasn’t decided. Some viewers urged him to “move on to the next one,” and Old Wang pleaded with the equally engaged audience: could he assemble it privately? The viewers refused—they insisted he make the choice on the spot.

Reopening a bookstore seemed almost impulsive. About a year after Baicaoyuan closed, Old Wang was strolling through Tanhualin when he saw a shop for rent. He stepped inside and found that the layout was identical to Baicaoyuan’s old space. The rent was paid quickly. At first, green plants sat in front of the bookstore’s bright display windows, but soon more of Baicaoyuan’s style returned to Sincerity & Authenticity: too many books, stacked everywhere, so that when more readers arrived, they had to brush past one another constantly.

Inside Sincerity & Authenticity Bookstore

Why reopen a bookstore? I asked Old Wang. His answer was, “Because I have the resources for selecting books” — meaning that reopening felt natural. In earlier years, he had also said, “After the pandemic, Wuhan can’t be without an independent bookstore.” At that time, nearly all the independent bookstores of Baicaoyuan’s generation had already closed.

The Wild Mountain couple and Old Wang share a basic belief: people need to read, and readers need bookstores. Independent bookstores are a special kind of bookstore, usually run by long-term locals, with selections reflecting the owner’s personal taste. You typically won’t find school textbooks or prominently displayed bestsellers there. They may be seen as niche pilgrimage sites for literary youth, but rarely as places of consumption.

For this very reason, independent bookstore operators face a difficult reality. They must continually invent new models in response to rapidly changing lifestyles and reading habits to sustain the pleasure of reading. The Annual Reading Plans, blind boxes, and revived out-of-print books that Wild Mountain and Old Wang developed on RedNote are such experiments.

During the Baicaoyuan era, a line posted above the bookstore entrance read, “For the encounter between people and books.” At Sincerity & Authenticity, it became, “Sincerity & Authenticity embraces the book trade and reaches far.”

How to Survive?

In the first days after Wild Mountain opened, Wild Rabbit and Mountain Pig hosted events, including a screening of a documentary about Baicaoyuan’s closure. Some readers asked whether it was inauspicious. Mountain Pig replied, “Given our human limitations, closure is inevitable.” By this he meant that changes in independent bookstores are closely tied to the lives of their owners; any life change can affect the bookstore.

In reality, far more than personal life changes shape a bookstore’s survival: a city’s population size, number of universities, store location, and surrounding environment all matter. Baicaoyuan closed in 2021 because the landlord forcibly reclaimed the space.

In the months before closure, Baicaoyuan had its water and electricity cut off. Readers used phone flashlights to search for books. In the final days, someone approached Old Wang, asking him to serve as a book-selection consultant, calling him “talent.” Old Wang shot back, “Talent? What kind of talent runs a bookstore into the ground?” He wasn’t trying to snap at them; he was simply deeply dissatisfied with himself. As the owner, Baicaoyuan’s failure was his failure.

Yet this same Old Wang, who exited with embarrassment and bitterness, had already reopened Sincerity & Authenticity by the time Baicaoyuan’s closure documentary was screened at Wild Mountain. The bookstore’s name comes from the philosophy book Sincerity & Authenticity, which traces the evolution of the concept of the “self” across four hundred years of Western cultural history.

Old Wang is indeed a person of strong selfhood. When we met, he casually leaned against a pile of unopened books, constantly responding with questions of his own. In running a bookstore, he is ambitious and confident. Usually publishers choose bookstores to work with, but Old Wang also chooses publishers. For those who insist on selling books cheaply in their own livestreams while refusing to offer bookstores better terms, his view is simple: unnecessary. Bookstores are not begging publishers for business; as different actors in the same industry, they should enable one another.

Old Wang sits right in this aisle, assembling blind boxes for readers.

Indeed, when selling books becomes no different from selling any other product — when everything revolves around price — bookstores can no longer sell books.

In the publishing value chain, publishers, as upstream players, have gradually developed shelf-based e-commerce and livestream sales beyond offline channels. Today, virtually every publisher in China runs its own livestream. Bookstores, at the very bottom of the chain, have lost their original sales function.

They cannot obtain books at low prices from publishers because they struggle to achieve volume. As Old Wang explains, if a bookstore buys a book at a 40 percent discount, it must sell it at 80 percent of the list price just to make a profit. But in a publisher’s livestream, the same book may sell for 30 percent. “Readers aren’t stupid,” he says. “Why buy at 80 percent when you can get it for 30?”

Publishers are not deliberately targeting independent bookstores. The reality is that publishers have limited manpower, and the tiny quantities ordered by most independent bookstores are not worth the effort required to maintain relationships and offer low prices.

For independent bookstores to survive, they must gain bargaining power with publishers — that is, the ability to negotiate lower discounts. And to negotiate, they must achieve volume.

For Wild Mountain, the decisive factor in gaining bargaining power was the Annual Reading Plan launched on RedNote. In 2025, the plan sold more than 2,000 subscriptions; by the very beginning of 2026, it had already surpassed 5,000.

This means that over the course of a year, for twelve selected books, Wild Mountain can guarantee sales of more than 5,000 copies each. For most humanities and social science titles, initial print runs typically range from 4,000 to 5,000 copies to avoid unsold inventory.

Old Wang’s bargaining power is even more distinctive. It lies not only in volume, but in his confidence to sell niche books that others cannot. A philosophy book, On Certainty (《论确定性》), shows only 102 readers on Douban, China’s leading review platform. It was printed in 6,000 copies, failed to sell through e-commerce, and was returned to the publisher. Old Wang took it on and sold more than 800 copies.

Moreover, among independent bookstores nationwide, Old Wang has a unique capability: reviving out-of-print books. He contacts publishers, advances funds, and buys out the reprinted inventory, relieving publishers of sales pressure. He then sells the books in his store. The Book of Snowy Mountains (《雪山之书》), an ethnographic study of Meili Snow Mountain by ethnologist Guo Jing, is one such example.

First printed in 2012 with 2,000 copies, The Book of Snowy Mountains soon went out of print. On second-hand platforms, its original 68-yuan price was inflated to nearly 300 yuan. Old Wang had his eye on it for seven or eight years. After repeated inquiries with no response, he called Yunnan People’s Publishing House again in May 2025. The distribution department said the book was old and needed to be discussed with editors. Over a month later, the reply came: it should be possible. Old Wang immediately asked when it could be printed — and waited again. The author needed to revise the text; editors had to proofread; internal procedures had to be followed. Another month passed before the contract was finally signed. In October, brand-new copies arrived at the bookstore’s door, and only then did Old Wang feel at ease.

To revive out-of-print books, Old Wang has invested more than one million yuan over time. His approach is simple: once the costs of one revived book are recovered, he moves on to revive the next.

Because of Sincerity & Authenticity, The Book of Snowy Mountains became a highly wished-for title on RedNote. In less than three months, Old Wang had recouped his costs. RedNote is the only platform he operates — he does not want to be merely a shop assistant listing books online, but to convey his understanding and feelings about each book.

The Book of Snowy Mountains

For Wild Mountain, the sales of the Annual Reading Plan mean the bookstore no longer needs to worry about mere survival. “A bookstore can make money” — this is what the couple wants to prove. What they now need to consider is scale: how big do they want the business to become?

Reading Is Contagious

One afternoon in late December, Old Wang and I were discussing details of The Book of Snowy Mountains inside Sincerity & Authenticity. An elderly man with gray hair stood nearby selecting books and listened for quite some time. When we paused, he stepped forward and asked, “Which book were you just talking about?”

Sincerity & Authenticity reminded me of the bookstore outside my middle school years ago. Back then, before smartphones, students in identical uniforms would weave past stacks of exam-prep books at the front and gather in the fiction and magazine sections. Some sat on the floor reading; others drifted along rows of spines.

Sometimes I was drawn to what others were reading; sometimes I simply wandered, deciding at random which book to open. Buying books then took time — it wasn’t about searching, ordering, and waiting for delivery, but felt more like a journey of discovering one’s interests.

The morning I went to Sincerity & Authenticity, I entered almost simultaneously with another middle-aged man. He stopped at every shelf. At one point he asked staff whether they had books on ancient architecture in Shanxi. Later, I noticed a book he placed on the counter—Chiang Kai-shek and Modern China (《蒋介石与现代中国》). I asked if I could take a look. It was the only unsealed copy in the store. He glanced at me and said, oddly, “Just flip through it.” As if my asking was unnecessary—of course one should read if one wants to, even if the book had already been bought.

After skimming a few pages, I asked staff to reserve a copy for me. This book would almost certainly never have appeared in my online browsing, nor would I have thought to search for it on any platform. But in the bookstore, like the gray-haired man earlier, I was infected by the interests of those around me. A few days later, on January 2, I returned to Sincerity & Authenticity—the store was so crowded it was hard even to open the door.

Two readers consulting staff at Sincerity & Authenticity about book selections

Compared with the bustle of Sincerity & Authenticity, Wild Mountain Bookstore — tucked deep within a commercial street — sees few visitors. Mountain Pig told me that only after opening did they realize bookstores also “depend on the weather.” When it is too hot or too cold, people don’t go out. If there are no other shopping areas nearby, readers are even less likely to make a special trip for a single bookstore.

Fortunately, Wild Mountain’s RedNote shop has several thousand Annual Reading Plan subscribers scattered across the country. Online communities partially recreate the reading atmosphere of physical stores, allowing interests to spread.

In the comments under Wild Mountain’s RedNote posts, hesitant users asking about the reading plan are often met with enthusiastic recommendations from other readers — covering shipping schedules, the surprise of receiving the books, and how precisely the selections resonate.

Now, Wild Mountain’s reading-plan shipments can fill an entire delivery truck.

In Wild Mountain’s online community, some local reading groups receive their books earlier each month, sparking “guess the title” games. Wild Rabbit shared the varied clues readers give: “The color scheme is red and blue,” “The title has eight characters,” “The author is French.” Remarkably, some people do manage to guess the title of newly released books from these hints.

Wild Rabbit wears straight bangs and round-framed glasses. She speaks gently, at an unhurried pace, with language that is polished but never pedantic—precise, direct, and clear in viewpoint. When we met, discussing academic books, she said, “Scholarship is starting to move toward accessibility. There’s really been more popular academic writing in recent years.”

Mountain Pig, with yellow-toned skin and black rectangular frames, speaks more quickly, but with few filler words or repetitions.

The Meaning of a Bookstore’s Existence

After opening a bookstore on RedNote, one of the Wild Mountain couple’s deepest realizations is this: reading can happen anywhere, and with anyone.

Among the shipping addresses left by readers, some are in villages the couple had never heard of; others read “on the cabinet of the fire brigade’s emergency supply box,” or hospitals, law firms, police stations. They call this the bookstore’s anthropological observation. “It’s incredible,” Wild Rabbit sighed.

An elderly man buying books at Wild Mountain Bookstore

“Pine Tree” is Wild Mountain’s third courier. In his thirties, with high cheekbones, he is usually quiet. Pine Tree is his WeChat nickname, and people call him that. He is meticulous: when he sees that parcels contain books, he stacks them neatly in woven bags to prevent damage. Staff member Yuhe and the couple therefore show him extra warmth—offering water and helping load packages.

Yuhe is enthusiastic and efficient, always animated when speaking. She often chats with Pine Tree. One afternoon, after he finished loading packages, Yuhe casually invited him: “Do you want to come by the bookstore after work tonight and read a bit?”

It was an invitation without expectations — Yuhe often made such offhand offers. To her surprise, Pine Tree actually came. Delighted, she rushed out from behind the counter and picked seven or eight of her favorite books for him. Pine Tree sat quietly at a small table in the corner and began reading.

About twenty minutes later, the couple arrived after receiving Yuhe’s message. After a brief discussion, Mountain Pig picked up Delivering Packages in Beijing (《我在北京送快递》) and wanted to give it to Pine Tree. Pine Tree immediately stood up, waving his hands in refusal. Mountain Pig persisted: “Take it! Books are meant to be read! We have so many here—it won’t hurt to take one!” Pine Tree continued to refuse, saying he didn’t read much and that it should be sold instead. Yuhe also tried to persuade him, but to no avail. So the three chatted around him: where he was from, why he worked for STO Express, and whether their deliveries were slower than others’.

Although Pine Tree did not accept the book, he read most of it and later shared his thoughts with Yuhe: it wasn’t quite like his own work, because the author handled individual consumer deliveries. Pine Tree splits his time between individual and commercial deliveries. He said he didn’t encounter “that many trivial hassles” in daily work.

More importantly, Yuhe emphasized to me that once Pine Tree began reading in the bookstore, “our relationship changed.” They were no longer just people coordinating work. After that, Pine Tree came to the bookstore roughly every two weeks. Before coming, he would always message Yuhe. He usually arrived around 8:30 p.m., stayed for an hour, and kept Yuhe company until closing.

At first, Pine Tree wandered among different shelves, but later he often stopped at the natural history section, flipping through books about plants. Yuhe described this reading preference as “special.”

One evening in April or May 2025, Yuhe handed him a book. Pine Tree took it and suddenly said, “Yuhe, I’m going to quit. I’m going home.”

Yuhe couldn’t believe it. After confirming several times, she finally asked what he planned to do back home.

His answer was even more unexpected: to grow sugar oranges.

Is April or May the season for planting sugar oranges? Yuhe didn’t know. In winter, when sugar oranges were about to come onto the market, she messaged Pine Tree to ask how his planting was going. A while later, he replied: “Still planting—almost done. I’ll send you photos when they bear fruit.”

Yuhe doesn’t know whether any of the natural history books Pine Tree read mentioned sugar oranges. But that no longer seemed to matter. By the time he began growing them, his WeChat nickname had changed from “Pine Tree” to “Carefree and at Ease.”

Munetaka Masuda, founder of Tsutaya Bookstore, once said, “Bookstores exist because of customers’ spiritual needs; profit is merely a natural result.” Innovations in setting and packaging are simply means of attraction. Understanding readers’ needs, inspiring the desire to share, and cultivating a space of ongoing exchange may well be the true core of independent bookstores’ success. Enditem

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In his China Translated newsletter, Robert Wu compiled a telling list of these listings — from GPU and AI-chipmakers such as Moore Threads, MetaX and Biren, to foundation-model developers like Zhipu AI and MiniMax, alongside memory and accelerator players preparing to tap public markets later this year. The compressed timing and breadth of these offerings underscore how China’s AI industry is now moving into a new, capital-market-driven phase.

Among this cohort is Zhipu AI, which OpenAI has previously described as one of China’s “AI tigers” — startups building large language models intended to rival leading Western players. Zhipu listed on the Hong Kong Exchange on Jan. 8, raising HK$4.35 billion and achieving a valuation close to US$9 billion, making it China’s first AI software company to go public.

Compared with some of its peers, including MiniMax, which debuted a day later, Reuters cited Omdia chief analyst Lian Jye Su as saying that MiniMax’s focus on the consumer market appealed more to investors seeking high-growth opportunities, whereas Zhipu’s enterprise- and government-oriented model was perceived as more stable but less exciting in a market driven by hype.

According to STAR Market Daily, Zhipu grew out of Tsinghua University’s Knowledge Engineering Lab and has built a full-stack model portfolio spanning language, multimodal systems and AI agents. By mid-2025, its GLM model series had served more than 12,000 enterprise clients and 45 million developers worldwide, with nine of China’s top ten internet companies adopting its services. In 2024, Zhipu ranked second among China’s general-purpose foundation-model developers by market share — and first among independent developers.

The listing has also brought renewed attention to the personal story of Zhipu’s founder and CEO, Zhang Peng. An engineer trained at Tsinghua University, Zhang spent more than two decades in academia before turning laboratory research into a commercial AI company now valued at over HK$50 billion, according to STAR Market Daily.

Shortly before Zhipu’s IPO, one of my favorite Chinese-language programs, 張小珺Xiaojùn Podcast, released a nearly two-and-a-half-hour, long-form interview with Zhipu AI founder and CEO Zhang Peng. The conversation goes well beyond a standard IPO or founder profile. It ranges from why large-model companies are going public before AGI has been achieved, to how Zhang understands the relationship between capital markets, technological cycles, and long-term AGI research.

Zhang speaks at length about Zhipu’s strategic choices — including its enterprise-first orientation, its restrained approach to consumer products, and why it prioritizes stability and controllability over hype-driven growth. He also reflects on misconceptions surrounding Zhipu as a “to-G” company, discusses comparisons with peers such as MiniMax and Kimi, and offers unusually candid views on commercialization paths, investor expectations, and whether today’s AI boom should be understood as a bubble.

Beyond strategy and markets, the interview delves into Zhang’s personal trajectory: from Tsinghua University’s Knowledge Engineering Lab to founding Zhipu, navigating China’s evolving rules on academic commercialization, and building a company while remaining anchored in long-horizon AGI ambitions. The discussion also touches on talent competition, research-to-product translation, and how Chinese AI founders assess risk, patience, and timing differently from their U.S. counterparts.

Following the episode, the host published a carefully curated written version on the Language Is World WeChat blog. I’ve translated that text into English and am sharing it here.

I’m highlighting this podcast — and others like it — for a reason. I believe stories of how Chinese technology companies are built are still seriously underestimated outside China. Competition in China’s tech sector, both in markets and in talent, is extraordinarily intense, and firms that manage to break through are worth closer attention.

Long-form podcasts provide a rare opportunity to understand how these companies and founders actually think. I’ve previously collaborated with Zhang Xiaojun on introducing the development story of TikTok, and have also published English write-ups of several podcast episodes hosted by Luo Yonghao. If you’re interested, you can find links to those pieces at the end of this post.

01

On Going Public

“I guess I’d just wish everyone good luck.”

Zhang Xiaojun: I was thinking about it, and Zhipu might become not only China’s first large-model company to go public, but possibly the first in the world — moving faster than OpenAI. Why is it that AGI has not yet been achieved, yet companies like yours are already lining up to go public?

Zhang Peng: There are indeed many reasons behind this. I have never believed that achieving AGI would be easy, nor that it could be accomplished in a very short time. It is a marathon — a long-distance race. You have to persist.

At different stages, you have to get through the journey in different ways. For example, at the start of a marathon, if you want to break free from the congestion, you need to speed up a bit to get into the leading pack. In the middle stage, when many people can no longer hold on, you need to go to the supply station, replenish yourself, maintain your stamina, and constantly balance energy expenditure and intake. At different stages, the entire system needs to operate in different ways.

In our planning from the very first day the company was founded, we expected that in about six or seven years, we would be facing an IPO.

Zhang Xiaojun: When did you formally start preparing for the listing?

Zhang Peng: If you count backward based on the three-year performance period, it started around 2022 and 2023 — including how to commercialize, how to generate revenue, how to control costs, and how to grow the team. All of these were carried out simultaneously.

Zhang Xiaojun: In your view, not just for you but for this wave of AI companies going public, what kind of milestone does this represent for AGI?

Zhang Peng: From the perspective of capital markets, when you are still in the primary market, it’s like you haven’t really left school yet — you’re still learning, being nurtured, and growing. After entering the secondary market, you move into a stage that is much closer to the real market.

For the industry, it is also a milestone. It proves that this is not something illusory — not a flower in the mirror or the moon reflected in water. It is something that can truly reach an industrial scale.

Zhang Xiaojun: Is part of the reason that, at this point in time, investors also want an exit and want to lock in their gains?

Zhang Peng: I don’t rule out that some people think that way. But I think many of our investors share the same beliefs and ideas as we do — wanting to continue walking this path together and achieve even greater success.

It’s not that we go public and then immediately exit, cash out, and say, “OK, we’ve made money.”

Zhang Xiaojun: Recently, people often discuss you together with MiniMax, because both of you are competing for the title of “China’s first large-model stock.”

(On the day of the interview, it was still unclear who would become the first.)

Zhang Peng: Mainly because the timing is so close. I’ve seen online analyses, and many of them are quite fair. The two companies each have their own characteristics and their own development paths.

Of course, I won’t comment on MiniMax itself. But at least from our own perspective, the ideals, ideas, and underlying motivations that Zhipu carries are not something that can be clearly understood from a prospectus or a few dozen pages of materials.

Recently, I’ve also spent time talking with many friends, hoping to help people better understand the thinking behind Zhipu and the motivations behind what we are doing, so that unnecessary and one-sided misunderstandings don’t arise.

Zhang Xiaojun: Is there anything you’d like to say to MiniMax CEO Yan Junjie?

Zhang Peng: I’ve spoken with Teacher Yan a bit less recently; before, we talked quite often.

Zhang Xiaojun: Why less recently?

Zhang Peng: Fewer chances to run into each other.

Zhang Xiaojun: So is there anything you’d like to say to him?

Zhang Peng: I guess I’d just wish everyone good luck.

Zhang Xiaojun: How do you view the possibility that OpenAI might also go public?

Zhang Peng: I’ve heard that they are preparing as well. OpenAI is probably another story altogether. In the U.S. environment, it’s what you’d call “high risk, high investment, high return” — the “three highs.”

Zhang Xiaojun: And you?

Zhang Peng: We are relatively more aligned with China’s conditions. In high-risk or high-tech fields, we pursue stability, controllability, and predictability.

Zhang Xiaojun: How do you deal with post-IPO pressure — technical investment, computing-power investment, and pressure from the secondary market? After going public, could you instead become an ordinary, mediocre company?

Zhang Peng: I don’t think so. This is also why I mentioned earlier why we hope, through your program, to let more people understand what Zhipu is really thinking and doing. Many things originate from gaps in understanding between people and from mutual misunderstanding.

Zhang Xiaojun: What do you think is being misunderstood?

Zhang Peng: Some people may think: “Look, they’re just doing project outsourcing, a to-G company, revolving around government.” I don’t think that’s the case. There are many deeper factors involved.

On the surface, nine of China’s top ten internet companies are our clients, and they are all very important clients. About 60% of our clients are enterprises. The government side accounts for only about 20% — actually quite small.

If you say we are a to-B company, that I can accept. To-G is not what truly makes up the majority of our business.

We have always said that we serve enterprises, because enterprises are where productive interests are most concentrated in society and where conversion efficiency is highest. A technology at the level of a productivity revolution naturally needs to land in such places.

This is the most straightforward logic, and it’s something that people with engineering or science backgrounds like us easily arrive at.

02

On Entrepreneurship

“But you’re right.”

Zhang Xiaojun: I feel that you weren’t fully prepared when you became CEO, and then you were pushed into a huge wave. Over the past three years, what has that felt like?

Zhang Peng: How do you know I wasn’t prepared?

…

But you’re right.

Zhang Xiaojun: Why did Tsinghua have you start this company? Who asked you to become entrepreneurs?

Zhang Peng: No one asked us to do it. It was something we wanted to do ourselves.

When I was working in the lab, I was responsible for engineering transformation. Professors led students to do research, and after the research was done, they might publish papers — but I had to deliver it to enterprise clients.

Enterprise clients don’t just want a paper or a prototype. They need a system, a product. I led a group of people to do exactly that.

Zhang Xiaojun: Has Tsinghua always had positions focused on engineering transformation?

Zhang Peng: Our department always has, and our lab especially so. It’s our tradition.

Since my advisor founded the lab, he has placed great emphasis on this. He proposed a concept called P2P — Paper to Project, or Paper to Product. That is, your research results in papers must be transformed into products or systems that can actually be used.

In 2017, we began trying to figure out how to make this commercialization path work within the university system.

At that time, it was not allowed for people within the system to start companies.

Zhang Xiaojun: Were there no precedents before?

Zhang Peng: There were, but not through formal, official channels. A professor might quietly start a company outside, and as long as no one reported it, it would pass. But strictly speaking, this required reporting to and approval from the university.

Zhang Xiaojun: Did you ever think about just doing it quietly and dealing with it if discovered later?

Zhang Peng: That would always leave loose ends. This was an obsession for our group — to take the official route.

The turning point came in 2018, when the state — including the Ministry of Education and several other ministries — jointly issued an opinion allowing in-service researchers at scientific institutions to commercialize the results of their research.

It was like opening a window — people suddenly saw that there was another path outside. But it wasn’t like opening a wide door saying, “Go ahead, do whatever you want.” It still wasn’t easy. We took this policy and talked with the university: “What do we do? We want to do this — how do we proceed?”

The university actually also wanted to do this. That regulation came out in January 2018. Studying the details and completing the entire process, the company wasn’t registered until June 2019 — a year and a half.

We were the first to eat the crab.

Zhang Xiaojun: When you first went out to raise funds and talked to investors, were they excited?

Zhang Peng: Investors didn’t understand at all. They completely didn’t understand. “What is this thing? How do you make money? How do you commercialize it?” These were the questions they asked.

I remember one investor very clearly. We chatted online, and he said, “Can this thing actually become money? Look at how bad the macro environment is right now, how bad the economy is. Why don’t you cut your valuation in half?”

When ChatGPT became popular, it helped us enormously. No one questioned anymore what this thing actually was.

We just said to them: “You know ChatGPT, right? You’ve seen it, right? What we’re doing is moving in that direction.”

03

On Comparison

“He can do things beautifully, but there isn’t much emotional value.”

Zhang Xiaojun: I’ve heard a comment about Zhipu. Zhipu has never really been the most star-like project in the market, nor the one with the highest attention. You have technology and vision, but you seem a bit boring.

Someone described it to me as “like cement” — not very interesting, but very stable. Is that a fair assessment?

Zhang Peng: I think it’s fairly accurate — just like how people describe Tsinghua engineering guys: boring.

Very smart, very capable. If you give them a serious task, they can execute it beautifully. But there isn’t much emotional value.

Zhang Xiaojun: Compared with you, isn’t Kimi a bit cooler? Also a Tsinghua engineering background.

Zhang Peng: Yes. That’s something I really admire about Zhilin. He’s very good at capturing the attention of ordinary people, knowing how to promote things and how to understand users’ needs and thinking. We may not do as well in that regard, and it also relates to our positioning.

Zhang Xiaojun: When did you decide not to go deeply into to-C? That must have been an important decision.

Zhang Peng: It’s not that we decided not to do to-C. We actually do — we developed the Zhipu Qingyan app, and the cloud version of ChatGLM, and we are still working on them.

It’s just that we don’t bet everything on a single option. We look at three or four models simultaneously and see which one can really work.

Zhang Xiaojun: Did you ever buy traffic for Zhipu Qingyan?

Zhang Peng: Of course we did. There’s no need to deny that.

Zhang Xiaojun: How long did it take to realize you couldn’t win that battle?

Zhang Peng: It’s been a while. Later we realized that China’s consumer market has very weak willingness to pay. People really don’t like paying.

We did make some money from Qingyan.

Zhang Xiaojun: Did you ever think about competing directly with Doubao or Kimi?

Zhang Peng: That’s not our style.

Zhang Xiaojun: To-C will always be more attractive to investors than to-B.

Zhang Peng: I don’t really understand where that attraction comes from. Later I guessed one reason: the numbers are easier to calculate. How much is one user worth — that’s relatively straightforward.

But to-B is too complex. How much is a client worth? There are countless variables. It’s very hard to calculate clearly.

Zhang Xiaojun: When I look back now, the first thing that left a deep impression on me in 2023 was that Lao Wang issued a “hero’s call,” and then Wang Xiaochuan (founder and CEO of Baichuan Intelligence） entered the game.

When you saw these very successful entrepreneurs starting over and entering a market you had cultivated for years, what were you thinking? Did you worry about losing in business competition?

Zhang Peng: We had been doing this for a long time, and our understanding was relatively deep. Even though ChatGPT became popular, the road ahead is still long — it’s not that fast or easy.

Xiaochuan was actually nearby at the time — our offices were in the same building — so we often ran into each other downstairs.

He has a habit: when thinking, he would go downstairs to the open plaza in the tech park and sit cross-legged on a bench, thinking with an iPad in hand. Sometimes when I went down to buy coffee and ran into him, we’d chat for a bit.

Zhang Xiaojun: Then in 2024, the protagonists of the market seemed to change, becoming Yang Zhilin (founder and CEO of Moonshot AI) and Yan Junjie (chairman and CEO of MiniMax). How did you view Yang Zhilin at the time?

Zhang Peng: I had interacted with Zhilin several times. After all, he came from our lab. At school, he was the top-student type. When he later started Kimi, I thought he could succeed.

Zhang Xiaojun: How does it feel when fellow students start competing in the business world?

Zhang Peng: Tsinghua people have this trait — we’re all engineering types, quite rational.

When we’re together, we chat happily about being classmates. But business is business. When it comes to competition, you do what needs to be done. Everyone has their own rules and communication style.

Zhang Xiaojun: How do you view Yan Junjie of MiniMax?

Zhang Peng: He’s extremely smart. First, he chose the right direction; second, the right market. On that basis, he knows very clearly what he wants.

Zhang Xiaojun: What does he want?

Zhang Peng: I think he’s aiming directly at commercialization.

Look at what he’s doing — Talkie, voice, multimodal — all moving in that direction. Consumption, entertainment, spiritual value, emotional value. He’s very clear.

04

On the Bubble

“If it’s a bubble, can going public save AI?”

Zhang Xiaojun: I once talked with a founder from the AI 1.0 era, and he said that large-model companies going public now are essentially “escaping.”

Some market views suggest that the AI bubble might burst in 2026, and expectations for 2026 aren’t very optimistic. So at the end of 2025 and the beginning of 2026, if you can go public, you should do it quickly — it might be a favorable window.

Zhang Peng: First, assuming it is a bubble — can going public save us? Or can it save AI?

Zhang Xiaojun: It can save investors’ wallets.

Zhang Peng: That doesn’t save me, does it?

Whether it’s a bubble has no necessary relationship with whether you go public. You’re mixing two things together — I don’t agree with that. Logically, there’s no inevitable connection.

Second, there’s been a lot of discussion recently about whether it’s a bubble. I’m used to asking a counter-question: how do you define a bubble? What is a bubble?

Zhang Xiaojun: Every cycle has bubbles. What people worry about is a major crash like in previous cycles.

Zhang Peng: Why did those crashes happen? Overheated investment —投入得不到相应的回报.

So what’s the bubble now?

Zhang Xiaojun: The internet.

Zhang Peng: Everyone will tell you that the most recent bubble was the internet bubble. But look — even after it burst, what did it leave behind?

Many of the things people use and enjoy today were left behind by that bubble era. Why should you fear bubbles?

Zhang Xiaojun: Because you’re afraid of being the one that gets popped.

Zhang Peng: At the end of the day, it’s still about worrying about the money in your pocket.

It’s about whether you can recover your investment returns in time — not whether what you invested in actually produced real things, real productivity, or lasting value.

Once you look at it from that angle, the problem becomes easier to resolve. From an investment perspective, is investment in the U.S. enough? Is it enough in China? If investment isn’t enough, how can it be called a bubble?

Zhang Xiaojun: People think it’s not enough because AGI is still very far away.

Zhang Peng: Then if it’s far from AGI, should we stop pursuing AGI?

Zhang Xiaojun: Is AGI even achievable under the current technical paradigm?

Zhang Peng: If we don’t invest, will it just naturally happen?

Zhang Xiaojun: It won’t.

Zhang Peng: Then that’s the answer.

This is the general historical trend. The questions I’m asking are logically connected step by step. If you answer them, you’ll see that worrying about this is meaningless.

There will inevitably be bubbles during certain periods. The only question is the size of the bubble. You ask whether investment is enough — many people think it’s not.

I don’t dare say whether the U.S. has enough, but China definitely doesn’t.

Zhang Xiaojun: China has much less than the U.S.

Zhang Peng: Far less — only a fraction, maybe one-tenth or even one-twentieth. And much of that investment goes into infrastructure, scattered broadly rather than concentrated on a few leading players like in the U.S. So the situation is very different.

If you say there’s a bubble, maybe from a capital-market perspective in the U.S., there is one. But in China, it doesn’t exist.

It’s far from enough.

Zhang Xiaojun: I understand that you’re looking at this from a long historical perspective. But from a company perspective — Zhu Xiaohu (managing partner of Jinsha River Venture Capital) has said that the “six little AI dragons” of large models may end up not even as good as the previous generation’s “four little AI dragons.”

You started your companies to pursue a second-generation AI paradigm. So from the perspective of a listed company, what is the fundamental difference between second-generation AI companies and first-generation ones?

Zhang Peng: I’m not trying to refute his view, but I think his conclusion comes too early. The previous generation of AI companies are still alive — some of them are.

We’re still very early. If you count from 2023, it’s only been three years. If you count from our founding in 2019, it’s only been six-plus years.

Isn’t it too early to draw final conclusions?

He made a prediction. We’ll just let time prove it.

05

On Hope

“A pathfinder.”

Zhang Xiaojun: Since going public, are there any interesting behind-the-scenes stories?

Zhang Peng: Let me think. I went to attend Moore Threads’ bell-ringing ceremony. We’ve cooperated with Moore for quite some time, and they invited me. I told them I was going to learn and see how the bell-ringing works.

It really hasn’t been easy for anyone — this wave has been extremely, extremely difficult. Everyone has their own challenges. To make it this far, everyone can be called a hero.

Zhang Xiaojun: The act of ringing the bell seems kind of magical. Will you ring it hard or softly? With how much force?

Zhang Peng: I’ll first see how big the bell is — just kidding, just kidding.

Zhang Xiaojun: What kind of person is Zhipu’s chief scientist, Professor Tang Jie?

Zhang Peng: Professor Tang is exceptionally smart, but also highly execution-oriented and very passionate. Once he has figured something out, he pushes extremely hard, with great passion and focus.

Zhang Xiaojun: What is he pushing hardest right now?

Zhang Peng: Pushing the team relentlessly to keep improving the model’s capabilities. Of course, he’s also very concerned about the IPO.

You see why we always start our story from 2016 — it’s to convey one message: Zhipu isn’t simply about starting a company to make money. Our original intention is to explore what AGI actually is.

We just believe that doing this through a company, within industry, better fits the current stage of AI development — rather than just doing research, or simply making money.

Zhang Xiaojun: If you had to choose between building a company that achieves AGI and a company that makes huge profits, which would you choose?

Zhang Peng: Of course, the one that achieves AGI. No hesitation.

Zhang Xiaojun: Even if Zhipu achieves AGI and then fails — would that be acceptable?

Zhang Peng: That’s too inauspicious to say…

Of course we don’t want to fail. And I believe that if we can achieve AGI, we won’t fail. We would also be a great company. The two are not contradictory.

Zhang Xiaojun: Looking five years ahead, what outcome would leave you dissatisfied?

Zhang Peng: If we only make money but have no technological output or contribution to the industry, I would definitely be dissatisfied.

Zhang Xiaojun: A hundred years from now, if Zhipu appears in the history books of artificial intelligence, how would you like it to be written?

Zhang Peng: From my personal perspective, I hope there would be a line in the footnotes saying: Zhipu was a pioneer in the history of AGI.

We started doing this very early, including many technical breakthroughs. In many cases, we were the first to eat the crab.

Zhang Xiaojun: Being early matters to you.

Why not “innovator,” but “pioneer”?

Zhang Peng: A pioneer is often an innovator. A trailblazer — someone who clears the path. (Enditem)

Hosted by Tsinghua University, Public Management Review is a leading academic platform specializing in public administration and public policy. It was officially launched in December 2019, building on a continuous publication first established in 2004, and is currently issued quarterly.

Before you dive into the article, it may be helpful to clarify a basic institutional concept in China’s urban governance: the respective roles of a city’s Party secretary and mayor.

In China, the municipal Party secretary, as the top official of the Communist Party of China (CPC) at the city level, is responsible for setting the overall direction, ensuring policy consistency, and overseeing major strategic decisions in line with central and provincial requirements.

The mayor, as the head of the municipal government, focuses on day-to-day administration, economic and social development, and the implementation of policies and decisions. The two roles operate in close coordination, with the Party providing overall leadership and the government handling executive functions—together forming a governance framework designed to support effective decision-making, policy execution, and social stability.

What do prefecture-level party and government officials in China do every day? How do their priorities shift over the course of a term? And how do officials of different ages and career backgrounds behave differently?

These questions naturally intrigued 杨泽森 Yang Zesen, a scholar of political science and lecturer at the School of Public Administration, Jinan University, and 王心怡 Wang Xinyi, a PhD candidate in the Department of Political Science, School of Social Sciences, Tsinghua University.

By chance, while conducting separate research, they discovered a unique dataset from City A (a prefecture-level city anonymized for research purposes) in a central Chinese province. The dataset consists of official chronologies documenting the daily work, inspections, and official visits of the city’s Party secretary and mayor between 2010 and 2019. In total, it contains more than 7,000 individual duty records, amounting to over 2.73 million Chinese characters.

Based on an analysis of these data, the two scholars jointly published a paper in June 2025 titled 地方主官履职行为及其模式研究——对中部A市的长时段分析 “The Performance of Local Principal Officials and Its Patterns: A Long-Term Analysis of City A in Central China”, in the academic journal Public Administration Review (公共管理评论).

What follows is an interview between Southern Weekly (南方周末) and Yang Zesen.

1. “What Officials Pay Attention to” vs. “What Officials Actually Do”

Southern Weekly: How did you come across City A as a research sample?

Yang Zesen: It was purely coincidental. While working on another project, I needed to consult local government materials and came across City A’s chronicles of Party history events. Starting in July 2010, the Municipal Party Committee of City A regularly published, on a monthly basis, detailed chronologies of the daily official activities of the municipal Party secretary and the mayor, through the local Party history website.

These chronologies meticulously recorded activities such as inspections, research visits, and official trips. To my knowledge, this is the most detailed publicly available dataset documenting the behavior of local government officials that I have ever encountered.

Southern Weekly: There seems to be relatively little academic research on what local officials actually do on a day-to-day basis.

Yang Zesen: Over the past two to three decades, the most influential theory in Chinese political studies concerning officials has been the “promotion tournament theory”, proposed by scholars such as 周黎安 Zhou Li-An. The idea is that higher-level governments evaluate lower-level officials using comparative benchmarks, with performance—especially in promoting local economic growth—as the primary criterion. Officials who perform better are given greater promotion opportunities, creating a competitive environment.

From an empirical perspective, much of the literature focuses on how promotion incentives motivate officials to adopt policies that stimulate economic growth. However, there is a missing link in this chain. Incentives are directed at officials, while empirical studies often examine policy outcomes at the local government level. What lies in between—what officials actually do in their daily work—has largely remained a black box.

In recent years, many studies have shifted toward analyzing officials’ “attention”—that is, what issues officials focus on. Scholars typically infer this from officials’ written instructions (批示, pishi) or published speeches and articles. But what officials pay attention to and what they actually do every day are not the same thing.

Attention certainly matters because it influences policy implementation. But from the perspective of official performance (履职, lüzhí—the fulfillment of official duties), attention is only part of the story. Basic facts about what officials do in practice remain unclear. Senior officials receive dense media coverage, but for the much larger group of mid- and lower-level officials, systematic data are scarce. As a result, many studies rely on theoretical assumptions rather than direct behavioral evidence.

Southern Weekly: Can the City A chronologies be used to test these existing theoretical assumptions?

Yang Zesen: The main value of this study lies in the data themselves. We did not impose heavy theoretical modeling; instead, we focused on presenting factual changes in the behavior of local officials. Since there are already many hypotheses and conjectures, the most straightforward approach is to test them directly with data.

Our original motivation stemmed from basic questions: Are local officials’ behaviors largely pre-arranged? Do different individuals behave in the same way once they assume the role of principal local officials (地方主官)? Or do individual characteristics lead to systematically different behavior patterns?

Southern Weekly: How large is your sample?

Yang Zesen: We extracted all records from City A’s chronologies. Considering that the major public health event in 2020 (i.e., COVID-19) likely had a fundamental impact on officials’ behavior, we limited our analysis to the 2010–2019 period, covering a full decade.

The final dataset includes approximately 7,000 duty records involving four municipal Party secretaries and six mayors, totaling around 2.73 million characters.

Southern Weekly: From a macro political-economic perspective, what notable changes do you observe between 2010 and 2019?

Yang Zesen: In terms of political leadership activities, behaviors such as conveying and studying instructions and guiding principles from higher authorities (传达学习上级指示和精神) and implementing inspections conducted by higher-level authorities (落实上级巡视) became significantly more prominent over time.

For municipal Party secretaries in particular, implementing higher-level inspections emerged as a core duty. Activities such as receiving inspection teams, accompanying supervisory checks, and implementing rectification measures increasingly became high-frequency categories.

These trends corroborate a broader pattern since the 18th National Congress of the Communist Party of China (CPC) in 2012, whereby the central government has strengthened regulation and guidance over local governments through enhanced macro-level governance and oversight.

2. Different Priorities: Party Secretaries vs. Mayors

Southern Weekly: How did you categorize such a large volume of data?

Yang Zesen: We conducted a typological analysis of officials’ performance of duties. The behaviors of municipal Party secretaries and mayors were each classified into 20 categories.

Overall, the most frequent category for Party secretaries was “conveying and studying instructions and guiding principles from higher authorities.” This was followed by activities such as inspections and research visits, and providing guidance on urban development.

For mayors, the largest category was also “conveying and studying instructions and guiding principles from higher authorities,” but their remaining activities showed different emphases.

These differences reflect the division of responsibilities under unified leadership. Party secretaries tend to focus more on social governance (社会治理) and primary-level Party building (基层党建), while mayors place greater emphasis on urban development and economic construction.

Southern Weekly: How have economic policy-related activities changed over time?

Yang Zesen: Over time, four major categories—guiding urban construction, economic development, urbanization, and investment promotion (招商引资)—all showed a declining trend in proportional share for both Party secretaries and mayors.

This does not mean that the absolute number of such activities declined, but rather that their relative weight decreased. This suggests that under a more diversified performance evaluation system, local officials’ work has become more dispersed. Unlike in the past, officials can no longer focus almost exclusively on economic growth while devoting little attention to other areas.

Areas with markedly increased attention tend to be those subject to strong accountability mechanisms, such as environmental protection, which has become an increasingly important component of both Party secretaries’ and mayors’ duties.

Notably, Party secretaries have significantly increased their activities in social governance and public services, including guiding primary-level governance, visiting and consoling local residents (慰问群众), and overseeing agriculture and rural development.

Southern Weekly: What factors influence officials’ behavior, and how can they be analyzed?

Yang Zesen: Officials’ behavior is shaped by factors at three levels.

First, at the macro level, changes in political and economic conditions matter. From the perspective of local officials, this manifests in three ways:

1.Diversification of development goals: Whereas economic development once dominated, recent years have seen greater emphasis on social security and people’s livelihoods.

2.More comprehensive incentive mechanisms, combining both positive and negative incentives.

3.Central–local relations: As the central government strengthens top-level design, the extent to which this influences local officials’ behavior deserves careful examination.

In addition, two other factors matter: officials’ tenure and individual characteristics.

Because local officials do not know exactly when they will be promoted or transferred, they effectively operate under conditions of uncertain tenure. How do officials adjust their behavior under such uncertainty? One common hypothesis is that officials pursue large-scale construction projects early in their tenure—the so-called “three fires of a newly appointed official” (新官上任三把火)—to make their achievements visible as quickly as possible.

Southern Weekly: Does the same official behave very differently at different stages of their tenure?

Yang Zesen: Yes. We analyzed Party secretaries and mayors separately.

As their tenure progresses, Party secretaries tend to conduct more inspections and social engagement, focusing increasingly on primary-level governance, while reducing activities closely tied to economic growth, such as investment promotion and urban construction.

Mayors, by contrast, tend to intensify efforts in government reform, overseeing key projects and national-level new areas in the later stages of their tenure, while reducing inspection activities. In terms of urban construction, their behavior follows a “U-shaped” pattern—rising early, declining mid-term, and rising again toward the end.

Southern Weekly: Why do Party secretaries and mayors diverge in their priorities toward the end of a term?

Yang Zesen: This is related to changes in how officials are evaluated. Since the 18th CPC National Congress, evaluations have become more comprehensive, placing greater weight on people’s livelihood outcomes.

Moreover, Party secretaries and mayors operate under different incentive structures and divisions of labor. Party secretaries have stronger political responsibilities, and as their tenure lengthens, they increasingly focus on social governance.

For mayors, the U-shaped pattern in urban construction reflects strategic behavior. Officials often seek to accumulate visible achievements early on. If their accomplishments remain insufficiently recognized by the middle or later stages of their tenure, they may push for a new round of urbanization or construction initiatives toward the end.

3. Locally Promoted Officials vs. Officials Transferred from Elsewhere

Southern Weekly: You mentioned that individual characteristics also lead to differences in behavior. Could you elaborate?

Yang Zesen: We focused on two variables: age, a natural attribute, and official origin, meaning whether an official was locally promoted or transferred from another locality.

Age is a strong proxy for incentive intensity. Younger officials generally have greater promotion prospects and thus stronger incentives. As officials age, expectations of future promotion decline. Comparing officials across age groups helps reveal whether incentives shape behavior.

We found that Party secretaries and mayors aged 55 and above are significantly more active in environmental governance, while their involvement in urbanization projects is markedly lower than that of officials under 55. As retirement approaches, activities such as investment promotion, public outreach, and foreign affairs decline, and mayors also engage less in inter-regional cooperation and inspection visits.

There are also incentive differences between locally promoted officials and those transferred from elsewhere. Officials transferred from other regions are often appointed by higher-level authorities for specific purposes and tend to have more optimistic political prospects, exposing them to different incentive structures.

Our data show that externally transferred Party secretaries are significantly more active in investment promotion, conveying higher-level directives, and conducting inspections, but relatively less involved in environmental governance. Externally transferred mayors focus more on innovation and entrepreneurship and urbanization, while investing less effort in advancing government reform.

Southern Weekly: Did any findings exceed your expectations? What are your plans for future research?

Yang Zesen: This paper mainly confirms earlier conjectures, partially filling the research gap—or “black box”—between officials’ incentive motivations and government behavior. By offering a deep, localized analysis, it supplements existing knowledge. However, because the study is based on data from a single city, its conclusions are inevitably limited in scope.

After publication, scholars studying official attention contacted me to discuss integrating attention and behavior—for example, examining which policy issues officials focus on and which of those actually translate into concrete actions, and how the two relate. This is a promising direction for future research.

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I’ve long been interested in China’s younger generations, and recently I came across an academic article on the website Aisixiang, an aggregator of scholarly writing on a range of topics from top Chinese experts. The article, titled “Key Features and Formation Mechanisms of the Social Mindset of the Post-2000 Generation,” is written by Hu Xianzhong, a professor at the Central School of Communist Youth League of China.

According to Aisixiang, this article is part of “国家社科基金高校思政课研究专项重点项目” a key project under the National Social Science Fund’s special research program on ideological and political theory courses in higher education. It was originally published in People’s Tribune (人民论坛), an academic journal affiliated with People’s Daily, and later made available on Aisixiang. The article was first published on Sept. 16.

The article looks at the social mindset of China’s post-2000 cohort from several angles, including self-confidence, views on employment, attitudes toward life, information habits, social interaction, and consumption patterns. I think it’s worth sharing here. Since the piece is fairly long, I haven’t translated the final section on policy responses — if you’re curious, the original is available online.

At its core, the article argues that the social mentality of China’s post-2000 generation resists simple labels. It is shaped by overlapping tensions—between confidence and anxiety, stability and mobility, competition and withdrawal, private feeling and public concern. Growing up amid China’s rapid rise and deep digitalization, this cohort combines strong national and cultural confidence with unease over economic uncertainty and shifting values.

Rather than portraying them as either disengaged or relentlessly driven, the author shows how contradictory orientations coexist: pragmatic career planning alongside experimentation, the pursuit of “small but certain happiness” alongside concern for fairness and social justice. The article also highlights the internet’s dual role in empowering and enclosing digital natives, shaping their emotional lives, consumption choices, and search for a workable definition of a “good life” that balances individual dignity with social progress.

Key Features and Formation Mechanisms of the Social Mindset of the Post-2000 Generation

Social mentality is characterized by wholeness, diffuseness, and universality, while at the same time displaying diversity, differentiation, and distinctiveness across different social groups. The post-2000 generation in China (those born in or after 2000), who are currently between the ages of 16 and 25, began entering secondary school around 2012, moved into universities starting in 2018, and gradually entered the workforce from 2020 onward. They have now become a dynamic social group with distinctive characteristics.

Specific Manifestations of the Social Mentality of the Post-2000 Generation

Every generation of youth is situated within a specific social coordinate system, and shifts in mentality inevitably bear the imprint of broader historical change. In the course of national rejuvenation and the building of a strong country, the post-2000 generation has enjoyed the dividends of reform and opening-up while simultaneously confronting unprecedented developmental challenges, giving rise to a distinctive social mentality.

As a more confident generation, the post-2000 cohort demonstrates strong patriotism and national pride rooted in a high degree of political identification and national identification. They grew up during a period of rapid expansion in China’s comprehensive national strength, with major national achievements—such as crewed spaceflight, aircraft carriers, the J-20 stealth fighter, and the Five-hundred-meter Aperture Spherical Telescope —forming part of their collective memory.

The perception of a country “born strong” has endowed them with the confidence to view the world on equal footing. They actively embrace mainstream films and television productions and disseminate narratives of Chinese strength through social media; cultural confidence is clearly externalized, as seen in their support for domestic brands such as Huawei and Hongxing Erke, and in their promotion of hanfu (the traditional Chinese attire) and traditional Chinese music onto the international stage.

Within their respective social contexts, young people of the post-2000 generation display abundant self-confidence and fervent patriotism: border defense soldier Chen Xiangrong fulfilled his vow of “pure love, only for China” through concrete action; university student Wang Juntao became China’s 20,000th hematopoietic stem-cell donor, stating plainly that “saving lives is the greatest honor”; and tennis player Zheng Qinwen declared on the Olympic stage, “I’m exhausted, but I can still play three more hours for my country.”

At the same time, some young people exhibit more extreme mentalities, often substituting political stance for factual judgment and engaging in doxxing and online violence against those holding different views. Such behaviors, in essence, confuse public discourse through far-fetched logic, undermine legitimate civic rights, and may easily give rise to extremist thinking.

The employment mentality of the post-2000 generation shows clear stratification and differentiation, with a coexistence of risk-avoidant stability-seeking and high mobility.

Overall, their employment outlook is relatively pragmatic. They tend to plan career paths based on factors such as the social influence of their universities, the market compatibility of their majors, the level of social resources available to them, and their personal interests, resulting in diverse employment orientations.

On the one hand, amid global economic uncertainty, graduates’ preference for stability has continued to intensify, with a stronger inclination toward stable jobs and incomes. According to Zhaopin’s 2024 College Students’ Employability Survey Report, the top two preferred employers are state-owned enterprises (47.7 percent) and government agencies (14.7 percent). Among priority considerations, “salary and benefits” (71.2 percent) and “stability is most important” (51 percent) rank highest.

On the other hand, the rise of new occupations and new business models has made individualized aspirations a key criterion in career choice. Highly mobile career trajectories have become the norm for some in the post-2000 cohort, who explore career directions through mobility, create opportunities, and experience freer, more autonomous, and more open working arrangements.

The rise of the internet society and advances in information technology have broken down temporal and spatial barriers, providing a boundless online arena.

Many post-2000 individuals are enthusiastic about cross-sector and cross-field part-time work, becoming so-called “slash youth,” a term for young people piecing together a living through multiple part-time jobs. For example, a best-selling online writer’s primary occupation may be that of a government civil servant, while an online illustrator earning tens of thousands of yuan per month may be a university student. Through active experimentation with different social roles and life experiences, they enrich their career trajectories. In addition, some recent graduates are neither employed nor enrolled in further education six months after graduation—either continuing to search for satisfactory jobs or preparing for another attempt at postgraduate entrance exams or civil-service exams after initial failure. Most of these “slow advancement” graduates rely on parental financial support.

The coexistence of “小确幸” (small but certain happiness) and “小而美” (small-scale beauty) in self-perception with an expanding range of public concerns creates a distinctive tension in the social mentality of the post-2000 generation.

Compared with other age groups, they are particularly adept at capturing small moments of everyday happiness: the warmth of the first milk tea in autumn, the surprise of a long-lost call from a relative or friend, or the pleasure of a short trip can all spark joy. In a modern society dominated by instrumental rationality, individual expectations are continuously lowered; through concrete and subtle life experiences, “small happiness” restores subjectivity to personal lives that have been alienated. This pursuit of happiness can be understood as a poetic resistance to one-dimensional life under a performance-driven society.

Notably, while attending to their own feelings, the post-2000 generation also extends its concern to rights and the broader environment. Issues ranging from gender equality and educational resource distribution to employment opportunities and data privacy; from technological innovation and comprehensive rural revitalization to carbon neutrality and public health security—all have entered their field of attention.

“Small but certain happiness” represents the projection of survival needs for the post-2000 generation, while the pursuit of fairness and justice reflects a value sublimation of developmental needs. The micro-level entry points and macro-level perspectives of their social mentality may appear incompatible, but in essence both reflect the value integration and spiritual aspirations of this cohort during a period of social transformation.

These are dialectically unified in their perceptions and reflections, as well as in their holistic definition of a “good life”: they seek both micro-level safeguards of individual dignity and macro-level progress in social civilization. When anxiety arises, they may retreat to “small happiness” and enjoy the pleasures of everyday details; when they perceive institutional fairness, they may become more actively engaged in public affairs.

In this sense, the emotional stability provided by “small happiness” supplies the psychological energy that enables young people to sustain attention to public issues, while a fair social environment lays the foundation for individual happiness. Together, these form the bedrock of youth social mentality.

Between the alienation of performance evaluation generated by rat race and the meaning vacuum induced by quiet quitting, the post-2000 generation continues to explore the value of life. In terms of individual life stages, the youngest members have entered secondary school, most are studying at universities, and some have already joined the workforce. Pressures from academics, employment, and work first manifest as rat race.

Facing intense workplace competition, although the post-2000 cohort has been labeled as “rectifying the workplace,” many still find themselves torn between leaving work on time and coping with last-minute overtime. The roots of involution lie in resource scarcity and a singular evaluation system. When educational credentials, salaries, and positions become the primary yardsticks of value, young people may be forced into a “theater effect,” in which those in the front rows stand up and those behind must tiptoe. Yet rat race is not entirely negative: it can drive efficiency gains, technological innovation, and even breakthroughs in certain fields, and in some sense also represents a form of youthful striving.

Before the echoes of “佛系 (fo xi),” roughly translated to “Buddha Style” referring those who advocate refusing societal pressures and forgoing ambition, detachment have faded, the discourse of quiet quitting has surged forward, accompanied by new terms such as “摆烂 (bai lan),” or let it rot in English, and “摸鱼 (mo yu)”, or slacking off.

Rather than viewing quiet quitting as total surrender, it is more appropriate to understand it as a posture adjustment: when effort and reward are mismatched, and when hard work is alienated into meaningless consumption, some in the post-2000 generation choose “low desire” as a way to counter “high rate race.” The latent risk of quiet quitting, however, lies in masking confusion with detachment and dissolving responsibility through nihilistic culture, potentially eroding willpower and evolving into passive withdrawal from society.

The coexistence of quiet quitting and rat race, especially the phenomenon of “45-degree quiet quitting,” vividly captures the contradictory state of being unable to compete further yet unwilling to fully disengage. In reality, quiet quitting is often a rhetorical outlet for stress relief; most post-2000 individuals are “physically quiet quitting but mentally unsettled.” As a generation at the forefront of the times, they are searching for a third coordinate of youth—neither tools alienated by competition nor hermits escaping reality, but modern individuals with integrated and complete personalities.

The mentality barriers created by information “cocoons” have left some in the post-2000 generation feeling confused and anxious. As a cohort raised under careful family protection, some entered “defensive mode” early: opportunities for independent social practice are limited, close peer relationships are weak, and a “snowflake” is easily formed. Defensive mechanisms built across cognition, emotion, attitude, and behavior gradually solidify, intensifying the cocooning of social mentality. Algorithmic information “feeding” via smartphones undoubtedly exacerbates this trend.

Under such mental patterns, some post-2000 individuals tend to select information aligned with their interests, judge issues and viewpoints based on subjective needs, and struggle to accept differing perspectives. Their social circles are narrow, consisting primarily of interactions with “like-minded” individuals, and they fail to establish robust social networks in life and work, lacking proficiency in interpersonal cooperation. Others prefer to construct virtual social relationships online to compensate for deficiencies in real-world connections, resulting in the contrast of being “social butterflies online but socially anxious offline.” At the same time, information cocoons and cognitive cocoons induce mental anxiety among some in this cohort. When confused, some turn to online mysticism and digital divination apps, while comment sections become important spaces for relieving anxiety and seeking spiritual comfort.

Driven by distinctive aesthetic sensibilities and a strong desire for self-expression, some post-2000 individuals exhibit consumption and leisure patterns that blend tradition and modernity. As material needs give way to spiritual ones, their consumption values not only lead mainstream trends but also transcend them. They are among the first to shift life priorities from the “material” to the “spiritual,” fueling the rise of “reverse consumption.” For example, floral cotton jackets and military coats have become popular on university campuses, with students remarking, “It’s not that we can’t afford down jackets—it’s that military coats offer better value.” Feature phones, seemingly obsolete, have regained popularity among some post-2000 users due to their alignment with minimalism and “digital detox” ideals. They reassess their relationship with technology, pursue simpler lives, and explore healthier digital lifestyles.

According to the 2025 Youth Emotional Consumption Trends Report, 88.2 percent of young people report being under stress, with “emotional value” becoming the core driver of consumption. This has fueled explosive growth in industries such as designer toys, cultural tourism, pets, and food, while stress-relief gadgets and creative novelty items serve as “mental fast chargers.”

This consumption outlook reflects an awakening of self-awareness among young consumers, emphasizing the essence of life, the pursuit of inner tranquility, and a return-to-basics aesthetic. In fast-paced modern life, they increasingly seek spaces that soothe the mind and restore simplicity. Many in the post-2000 generation favor more economical, comfortable, and enjoyable forms of travel, prioritizing authentic experiences and diverse needs at destinations.

The Formation Mechanisms and Risk Assessment of the Social Mentality of the Post-2000 Generation

The formation of each generation’s social mentality is closely linked to the economic development, technological progress, and social transformation of its time. It is both the outcome of interaction between tradition and reality and characterized by relative stability alongside real-time evolution. Like other cohorts, the social mentality of the post-2000 generation contains both positive and negative elements as it adapts to and negotiates with dominant social mentalities.

The social mentality of the post-2000 generation is rooted in the social environment shaped by China’s rapid economic growth since reform and opening-up. Unlike their grandparents and parents, they grew up during a golden era of national economic ascent. Strong comprehensive national strength, abundant material and spiritual resources, and rapidly evolving digital technologies not only laid a solid foundation for their self-esteem, confidence, and resilience, but also endowed them with the confidence to engage the world on equal terms.

At the same time, they inhabit an era in which traditional values are continuously reconstructed and social structures rapidly reorganized. From value systems to development pathways, from lifestyles to life goals, the support structures of “certainty” are shifting. Finding a certain self in an uncertain world has become an inevitable task in their growth.

For society, structural change is the norm; for youth, anxiety and exploration are the norm. The uncertainty released by social transformation brings development opportunities while also fostering desires for stability, fatigue, and anxiety. Changes in youth social mentality thus reflect both passive adaptation to dramatic external shifts and active efforts to seek order, meaning, and security under new conditions.

The pressure exerted by group mentality on individual rationality may lead some post-2000 individuals to conformist “cognitive downgrading.” Social mentality emerges from the aggregation of individual mentalities, yet once a collective mentality takes shape, it in turn influences individuals through conformity effects.

As Gustave Le Bon observed, “In the psychology of crowds, individual ability weakens, personality converges, heterogeneity is swallowed by homogeneity, and the unconscious gains the upper hand.” Conformity not only hinders independent thinking and rational evaluation, but also drives individuals to follow majority behavior or opinions out of fear of exclusion. This mechanism may be reinforced through alignment with partial individual cognition or distorted by group pressure.

In turn, conformity can amplify collective bias, leading to misinformation and error propagation. When individuals accept and spread group viewpoints without careful consideration, inaccuracies are magnified. Among the post-2000 generation, negative mentalities are particularly prone to online transmission, gradually forming group-level consensus and generating crises of trust and identity. Once such dynamics reach a critical mass, conformity effects may draw more young people toward majority positions, deeply shaping value formation and potentially posing risks to ideological security. The tension between conformity and individual autonomy reflects the fundamental contradiction between humans as social beings and as individuals pursuing self-realization.

As the most significant environmental variable, the internet influences—and even shapes—the social emotions of the post-2000 generation. Compared with other groups, their defining characteristic is co-growth with the internet; they are often described as “digital natives” and “permanently online,” with an inherent dependence on digital space.

For them, the online world increasingly supplants offline society as the primary arena of life. The anonymity and decentralization of online interaction sharply contrast with offline realities, eroding social, physical, and geographic attributes in virtual space and leading some to neglect real-world behavioral norms and interpersonal rules. Combined with the internet’s tolerance for individuality and diversity, this reinforces self-oriented tendencies and may foster egocentrism in social interaction.

The immediacy of online information dissemination encourages reliance on digital communication, reducing time and attention devoted to embodied interaction in physical space. Learning, leisure, and even social relationship construction shift online, heightening risks of social anxiety and cocooning.

Negative emotions are easily triggered at critical junctures. In times of rapid change, fast-paced life weakens empathy, rising individualism reduces tolerance, and layered pressures—from economic stress and social conflict to developmental bottlenecks and personal setbacks—allow suppressed emotions to erupt through emblematic incidents, producing a “wild-horse effect.” This manifests as online harassment, malicious complaints, baseless accusations, and even physical confrontations in public spaces. Negative emotions erode rational thinking, intensify social conflict, undermine moral boundaries, and foster real-world violence, posing serious threats to social stability.

For the post-2000 generation, subjectivity plays a crucial role in modern social formation, providing a pathway toward freedom and emancipation. As Marx and Engels noted, “In our time, every phenomenon appears to contain its own contradiction.” Yet excessive or disordered assertion of subjectivity can generate interpersonal “pressure,” ultimately breeding negative emotions. Meanwhile, online public sentiment is easily manipulated, fostering extreme and radical discourse that provides fertile ground for emotional escalation. Enditem

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Please feel free to download them. I’ll share my reflections later.

For readers following the details of China’s upcoming 15th Five-Year Plan for economic and social development (2026-2030), I’ll also be sharing my reflections once the full set of proposals is released.

Lastly, in response to the recent reader survey — most of you said you’d like me to continue covering Luo Yonghao’s podcast show. I’ve been keeping up with every episode (each running three to five hours), but the latest ones are deeply rooted in local Chinese context, packed with cultural and linguistic nuances that might be challenging for international audiences to fully grasp. For that reason, I haven’t produced a new newsletter on them yet — but rest assured, I’m keeping a close eye on what’s next.

Opinion | Shatter the mirror

The concept of the Thucydides Trap, predicting conflict between China and the US, projects the West’s conquest-driven history onto Chinese civilisation

Weijian Shan

In the shadow of escalating tensions between the United States and China, Graham Allison’s concept of the Thucydides Trap has become a staple of geopolitical discourse. Coined by the Harvard scholar, the term evokes the ancient Greek historian Thucydides’ observation that “it was the rise of Athens and the fear that this instilled in Sparta that made war inevitable”.

Allison’s study of 16 historical cases, where a rising power challenged a ruling one, found war in 12 instances. He warns that China’s ascent threatens American hegemony, potentially dooming both to conflict unless deliberate efforts are made to avert it.

Yet, this framework is itself a conceptual trap for the West. By drawing from the histories of the West and Japan, Allison projects onto China a narrative of inevitable aggression. This is like gazing into a mirror: the West sees only its own reflection of historical conquest and rivalry – from European empires to Japanese imperialism – concluding that China, as it gains strength, will behave similarly.

But China’s 5,000-year history tells a different story. Its cultural DNA is profoundly landbound, shaped by geography and ecology. For much of history, Chinese civilisation has thrived within the 400-millimetre annual rainfall isohyet, the climatic threshold separating fertile agricultural heartlands from arid steppes.

This line, roughly aligning with the path of China’s Great Wall, demarcates zones where rainfall exceeds 400 mm per year, sufficient for stable crop yields, and the drier northern regions, suited largely for nomadic herding. South of this boundary, wheat fields and rice paddies sustained vast populations, fostering a society incentivised to defend its productive core rather than venture into marginal lands.

Northern steppe peoples roamed the grasslands, chasing scarce water and forage. Their survival depended on mobility and raiding, inevitably leading to clashes with other nomadic tribes. The Xiongnu, Mongols and other steppe peoples repeatedly made southward incursions, prompting a defensive response from China in the form of fortification and counter-attacks.

Farmers work in a paddy field in Danzhai county, Guizhou province, on June 6, 2023. Photo: Xinhua

Indeed, China’s territory reached its maximum historical extent not through outward expansion but via inward foreign invasion and occupation. The Mongols established the Yuan dynasty (1279-1368), bringing their vast steppe domains into Chinese maps. The Manchus founded the Qing dynasty (1644-1911), incorporating new territories. Over time, these invaders were assimilated into Han culture, adopting Confucian bureaucracy and sinicising their rule.

This contrasts sharply with the cultures of the nomadic and sea peoples that gave rise to European civilisations, which blended herding with subsistence agriculture across fragmented polities. Sea peoples like the Vikings and Japanese raiders, driven by scarce resources and mobility, developed cultures of raiding and conquest, clashing with rivals to secure survival.

To protect its agricultural heartland, China’s strategy relied on fortifications like the Great Wall, built from at least the Qin dynasty (221-207 BC) onwards, which shielded the northern frontier from nomadic invaders. Coastal defences, like those during the Ming (1368-1644) and Qing dynasties that relocated populations inland, restricted maritime activity and blocked threats from pirates, but also severely hindered trade, a major reason the country had resisted opening up its ports for trade until after the Opium Wars.

Moreover, China’s maritime ventures, such as those under Zheng He, were not for conquest or colonisation; his Treasure Fleet, the most advanced in the world with over 300 ships and 27,000 men, sailed to East Africa, carrying treasure as gifts to foster relations with the countries along the Indo-Pacific coasts.

A painting by Shen Du dated 1414 shows a giraffe acquired in Africa for the Ming emperor during one of Zheng’s naval expeditions. Photo: Taipei Museum.

In stark contrast, Western history, shaped by nomadic Indo-Europeans and seafaring powers like the Vikings and Portuguese, was driven by scarcity and mobility, fuelling aggressive expansion from Rome’s legions to Britain’s global empire.

Small European states, which struggled to buffer against famines due to fragmented lands, turned to international trade, expansion and colonisation, a pattern echoed by sea peoples like the Japanese, whose 16th century invasions of Korea and the piracy along the Chinese coasts, 19th century annexation of Okinawa and Taiwan by force, early 20th century colonisation of Korea and the 20th century imperialism reflect a maritime-driven conquest ethos, especially after Westernising itself after the Meiji Restoration in 1868.

Allison’s cases – such as Anglo-German rivalry and the Napoleonic Wars – stem from this volatile mix of semi-nomadism and agricultural fragility, not universal laws of power transitions. The United States, whose culture, tradition and expansionist impulse originated in Europe, was engaged in imperial expansion once it became powerful, taking territories from Mexico, Hawaii and Spain.

Archaeology illuminates this divide. The Sanxingdui archaeological site in Sichuan province, which dates back thousands of years, yields bronze artefacts that are overwhelmingly ritualistic: masks, treelike altars and eye-like motifs symbolising cosmic order. It symbolised a culture focused on maintaining the existing social hierarchy characteristic of an inward-looking society.

As pointed out to me by Dr Ruiliang Liu, curator of the early China collection at the British Museum, Chinese burial objects were predominantly used for hierarchical rituals, with bronze carriages for elites and pottery for commoners, which suggests a stable agrarian society.

Objects unearthed from thousands of tombs dating back millennia confirm the social status of the buried, as there were strict rules on the number and kind of objects each social station was allowed to use. Buried in sacrificial pits, these ritual objects evoke ceremonies binding communities to ancestors and land, not mobile warbands.

By contrast, European burials like the 7th century Sutton Hoo ship burial in England, laden with helmets and swords, reflect a warrior culture geared for mobility and conquest. European Neolithic finds brim with utilitarian arms: flint axes and spearheads from Corded Ware cultures, signalling a world in perpetual motion. Celtic and Roman sites, similarly rich in weapons and trade goods, underscore this expansionist impulse.

To the Western eye, Sanxingdui’s esoterica might seem alien, but they underscore China’s focus on enduring order amid agrarian plenty. This land-bound tradition persisted in later centuries and is deeply embedded in Chinese culture. Early Chinese diaspora communities lacked dedicated cemeteries; Chinese immigrants still prefer to repatriate remains to ancestral soil as they believe “leaves [must] fall to their roots.”

People walk in and out of Wuhou Shrine. The site is dedicated to military and political leader Zhuge Liang, among other figures depicted in the epic Romance of the Three Kingdoms. Photo: Handout

This practice views the homeland as the sole repository for eternal rest. As US justice Stephen Field wrote in a decision of the US Supreme Court related to the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, “[Chinese immigrants’] dying wish is that their bodies may be taken to China for burial”.

This ritual stems not from clannishness but cultural psyche: the belief that spirits are tethered to the homeland, not foreign wanderings. This homeland-bound identity historically diverged from the mobile traditions of ancient nomadic and seafaring peoples.

Chinese history cycled through wars and peace. Overpopulation and famine often precipitated internal conflicts, leading to fragmentation into warring states, as epitomised in the 14th century epic Romance of the Three Kingdoms: “The country, if divided for long, inevitably unifies; if unified for long, inevitably fractures”.

Yet the pull towards unity, driven by a shared culture, language and unitary governance since the Qin dynasty, was irresistible. The political unity of the land enabled grain reallocation from abundant regions to those hit by crop failures in any given year, a necessity for an agrarian society. These factors explain why China is one of the longest enduring civilisations in the world without much history of foreign conquest.

Spectators take selfies as flag-guarding helicopters fly over Tiananmen Square in Beijing, on September 3. Photo: Xinhua

China never developed a universal religion like those in other civilisations. Instead, its belief system, centred on ancestor worship, reflects an identity bound to the ancestral homeland and familial ties. Its syncretic pluralism absorbed foreign faiths like Buddhism, Islam and Christianity without exporting dogma.

Europe wielded faith as a crusader’s sword with proselytism justifying centuries of wars in God’s name and imperial expansion. In contrast, China’s non-proselytising culture avoided such aggression, reinforcing its defensive character.

Allison’s Thucydides Trap risks a self-fulfilling prophecy. Allison himself urges escape via diplomacy, yet his Eurocentric assumptions blind the West to China’s defensive history. To avert war, the West must shatter its mirror, recognising that a rising China seeks security and territorial integrity based on historical claims, not the seas of empire. Only then can mutual understanding replace reflexive fears.

Weijian Shan, Executive Chairman of PAG, a private equity firm, is the book author of Out of the Gobi, Money Games, and Money Machine.

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In 1995, Beijing hosted the Fourth World Conference on Women, where the Beijing Declaration and Platform for Action became a global milestone for advancing women’s rights. Thirty years on, as China prepares to host the Global Leaders’ Meeting on Women this October, how far has the country come in promoting gender equality and women’s well-rounded development?

In this episode, Professor Song shares her insights on:

• how women’s growing participation in higher education in China has impacted women’s career paths and social mobility,

• the persistent challenge of balancing career pursuit and family responsibility,

• evolving attitudes toward marriage, social roles, and self-fulfillment,

• policy efforts to support working women and build a family-friendly society,

• and the role of social media in shaping gender discourse.

We also touch on how China’s approach compares with some Western and East Asian countries, and what priorities lie ahead in the face of demographic shifts like population aging and declining birthrates.

Highlights

04:02 - Current legal, educational, workplace, and healthcare landscape for women in China

09:47 - The rise in female higher education enrollment and its role in facilitating social mobility in China

16:28 - Policies supporting family-friendly environments and women’s careers

24:34 - Paternal leave in China: status quo and future outlook

27:33 - Shifting views on personal fulfillment and social roles among Chinese women, with social media as a key factor

34:12 - Song’s take on the differences between Chinese and Western feminism

39:04 - Progress and remaining challenges compared to other Eastern Asian countries

45:01 - Key priorities for advancing women’s development in China over the next decade

50:41 - Song’s recommendation on a TV series exploring the modern Chinese woman’s life

Recommendation

Yueping Song: Ode to Joy (TV series)

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Also available on 小宇宙 Xiaoyuzhou FM for listeners in China.

This episode is edited by Yifei Shi.

In the previous piece, He looked back on his early entrepreneurial journey and shared why he returned to build an EV company after financial freedom. He also reflected on XPeng’s brand positioning and the staggering scale of R&D investment he believes an AI-driven car company must commit to.

This time, the discussion turns sharper. He lays out why he expects China’s EV market to shift within five years from a knockout stage to an all-star game with only about five serious players left. He shares his perspective on automotive industrial design, offers a comparison of how autonomous driving may evolve differently in China and abroad, and describes his exploration into flying cars — from early trials to plans for mass production. He also delivers candid views on which Chinese companies are genuinely committed to AI and which are merely paying lip service.

Once again, while I’ve distilled the conversation into highlights, the full three-hour dialogue is packed with insights. If you understand Chinese, I strongly encourage you to watch or listen to the entire podcast — it’s well worth your time.

In the past two weeks, Luo has put out two more episodes. I had expected him to keep bringing on guests from China EV industry, but instead his latest conversations featured Chinese comedy sensation He Guangzhi and Renke, frontman of China’s much-loved folk rock band Wutiaoren.

I haven’t yet decided whether to continue this newsletter series or in what form to present it. Personally, I really enjoy listening to Luo’s podcast, but producing this series takes quite a bit of time—his talk with Renke alone ran nearly five hours.

If you’d like me to keep covering this series, please take a moment to vote in the poll.

About He Xiaopeng

Prior to serving as chairman and chief executive officer of XPeng, Mr. He served at Alibaba Group Holding Limited, a public company listed on the NYSE (symbol: BABA) and the Hong Kong Stock Exchange (stock code: 9988), from June 2014 to August 2017, including serving as the president of Alibaba mobile business group, chairman of Alibaba Games and president of Tudou.com. In 2004, Mr. He co-founded UCWeb Inc., a Chinese mobile internet company that provides mobile internet software technology and services, and served as the president of product from January 2005 to June 2014. In June 2014, UCWeb Inc. was acquired by Alibaba Group Holding Limited. Mr. He previously served as an independent director and a member of the audit committee of HUYA Inc., a game live streaming platform company in China listed on the NYSE (symbol: HUYA) from May 2018 to May 2020.

Mr. He received his bachelor’s degree in computer science from South China University of Technology in July 1999. Mr. He obtained the qualification certificate of senior economist (technology entrepreneur) in business administration issued by the Human Resources and Social Security Department of Guangdong Province in January 2020.

6. He Xiaopeng's analysis on the future landscape of China’s EV market.

Luo: You’ve often compared the auto industry to a knockout stage and an all-star game. In your view, when do you think can we finally see the winners and losers of this game?

He: In China, about five years.

Luo: Who's going to survive?

He: Different companies may have different perspectives. Personally, I lean on the aggressive side. I'd say in China, we’ll probably end up with around five major players. And of course, a few overseas automakers will still last too.

Luo: Which one is definitely going to make it?

He: No one can confidently say it has the ticket. For the industry, it’s both a challenge and an opportunity.

Luo: Globally, Tesla is definitely safe, isn't it?

He: If you’d asked me last year, I’d probably agree with you. But this year, even Tesla’s facing new challenges. In China’s auto industry, the top-ranked new players tend to come across turbulence within 12 to 24 months. For the big, legacy giants, the cycle comes around four to five years. So, honestly, it still feels way too early to make a definitive call today.

Luo: So on the one hand, you’re saying the knockout stage of China’s auto market will settle within five years. But on the other hand, you’re saying not a single company has secured a ticket yet. That makes the whole competition sound even more brutal.

He: But also more interesting.

Luo: Indeed. And XPeng has been around for almost 10 years now, right?

He: 11 years.

Luo: Looking at where we are today, how would you rate your domestic competitors? Let's focus on the positive side, after all we’re not the type of podcast to stir the pot. Maybe just tell us which companies you personally respect or admire, and highlight some positives you see in them.

He: I’d say every automaker has its own advantages. For example, Volkswage, our partner and also one of our investors. It's sure that, right now in China, a lot of companies are getting recognized by the media, by the industry, and by users. People think we’re doing great, and that we can be really strong on a global scale. But honestly, I feel we’re still pretty far from that. Ten years ago, we were a little too lacking in confidence, but now it feels like the pendulum has swung the other way. There’s maybe a bit too much confidence.

Luo: Maybe it's because our domestic new energy vehicle industry have taken off, so people are now swinging to the other extreme and become somehow overly confident.

He: Yes. Take Germany as an example. Can you name a Chinese car brand that's popular out there? Its market is open to us, unlike the U.S., so in theory there should be someone.

So every company’s got its strengths. People love to say things like, “Oh, Volkswagen or Toyota, their software sucks, their user experience isn’t great.” But compared to them, our scale is way smaller. Our ability in areas like management, globalization and building service networks are still in the cradle in their eyes. If you score it out of 100, we might feel like we’ve hit 60 in some areas, but for them, we’re more like a 20 or 30.

That’s why I keep saying no one has the ticket yet. Some companies look really strong, but they’ve still got gaps in key areas. Some others are dominating certain domain, but are too small in scale.

So relatively speaking, Tesla is one of the few companies that can be called "well-rounded", but even they’ve hit ups and downs. Chinese automakers all have their bright spots, but this first knockout round still has about five years to play out. After that, it’s the All-Star Game. Until then, everyone’s got plenty of homework to do.

Take Lei Jun's Xiaomi as anoither example. They've done an amazing job, but they’re also facing challenges. Therefore, the one ultimate principle for us is to move steadily, stay grounded, learn from others, and fix our own weaknesses. That’s the only way to become truly all-around. And honestly, we’re all still on that journey.

7. He Xiaopeng compared the future prospects of autonomous driving in China and the world.

He: I believe in the future, there will only be two kinds of cars. The first kind has a driver, but also has L4 autonomous driving ability, so you could be driving thousands or even ten thousand kilometers ,before you actually need to take control of the steering wheel once.

The second kind won't need a driver’s seat anymore. It drives itself, and any possible override would be operated from distance or on the cloud.

So down the line, cars will split into the man-driven type with L4 and the driverless type also with L4. And I think that shift is going to play out in the next two to five years.

Luo: If fast enough, maybe in two years?

He: Technically, yes. But when it comes to user adoption, I'd say it would take 5 to 20 years. Every country has its own condition and relevant rules and regulations, so as an entrepreneur, the real challege is about figuring out the best development pace for the company.

People in many countries of the world don't even have any clue about autonomous driving. How can you talk them into an L4 self-driving car? So different situations will lead to different development paces.

But from another perspective, I believe that in China and the U.S., we’re probably only 2 to 5 years away from the major turning point, which is going to flip the entire logic of how cars work.

Luo: I’m actually pretty optimistic about China’s tech policy. The government has been pushing the sector strongly, and that makes a big difference.

At first, I used to think it’d be some developed country that would go L4 first, and others would follow after technologies are proved and accident rates drop. But now I feel that the Chinese government might actually be the most supportive one toward L4.

What’s the sense you’re getting from the industry?

He: I have a bit of a voice on this. Over the past couple of years, I’ve been to a number of countries and sat down with regulators to talk about policy and legal changes in transportation. And honestly, what stands out to me is that China’s regulators are both able to keep things under control and, at the same time, among the most aggressive globally in appling new technologies. That’s why I’m confident in achieveing L4 in China.

When I was young, I always thought developed countries had the most open-minded, fast-moving policies to drive technological innovations. But in recent years, I’ve found the reality is the complete opposite. Private companies are not necessarily leading the way in driving technological progress, and governments in advanced economies are also not necessarily be open and eager to push innovation.

That's one of the reasons I think that China’s economy has been able to grow fast. If you go out and compare, you realize our regulators are far ahead of many countries. And that’s something I feel really proud of.

Luo: Especially in promoting technological innovations.

He: I really believe that in China, we're going to achieve L4 in cars both with and without drivers, and be ahead of the whole world in this field.

Luo: That's a confident claim.

He: I'm absolutely confident.

Luo: And it not only owes to our supply chain, but also the whole talent pool of engineers in China. The U.S. has been talking about bringing manufacturing back for a long while, but they can't fill the current engineering talent gap.

In China, making hardware is so convenient, especially in Shenzhen. Any problems with hardware can be solved in a half-day drive in this city. Of course, auto-making is too complecated to be done in such a short period of time. But other hardwards are just a stone's throw.

He: Not just the supply chain. Take Mexico for another example. Suppose we're setting up a factory out there, what do you think is the biggest challenge? Electricity shortage.

We've been doing business in China for so many years, but electricity is something we'd never even thought about.

But in Mexico, when I was there trying to invest in a factory, people there would simply tell me "Sorry, we don't have enough electricity here, and you'll need a lot of money or pull some strings to get your factory powered."

Luo: Yeah, that's something you probably only heard about in China like decades ago.

He: At least in the 90s'. But over the past 30 years we've never heard of anything like this in China.

Yet, many countries in the world are still bothered by this issue. That's why I believe that the high-level infrastructure foundation of China, including things like stable water and electricity supply, broad roads, solid communication network, drainage system and paved lands, makes the fundamental competitiveness of China's supply chain.

China has gone far ahead than other countries in infrastructure, so I firmly beliece that China can get even stronger in the next one and two decades.

Luo: A lot of foreign companies keep talking about moving their supply chains to this or that country, but honestly it’s actually really difficult. It’s not something you can just pull off overnight. China’s well-developed supply chain is the result of decades of accumulation.

He: Yes. And I think a lot of companies that do end up moving out of China will still remain on China's supply chain, which is eventually make our global supply chain even stronger. And I'll say the whole process of transfer may take 10 to 20 years.

8. He Xiaopeng talked about his experience in developing flying cars in China

He: Developing flying cars is a tougher and longer journey, mainly because building an aircraft itself takes a really long cycle, and honestly, its commercial viability hasn’t really been proven yet.

But I’m still confident that in the next era, whether it’s in 3 years, 5 years, or maybe a bit longer, we’re gonna see a major breakthrough in the flying car industry.

Luo: So when can we expect to see your first model of flying car in the market?

He: In the second half of 2026.

Luo: Is our government supporting this sector?

He: Yes it is. China has been strongly encouraging low-altitude economy since 2023. Policymakers have released at least six or seven documents mentioning or emphasizing the development of this sector.

More interestingly, Trump has also said recently that the U.S. needs to get into the low-altitude economy game too, because of China’s influence in this space.

Luo: I've heard that the U.S. also has similar teams.

He: Yes, there are two two publicly traded companies in the U.S. working in this area. But they were originally focused more on electric versions of helicopters to tackle urban traffic issues.

The aviation policies in the U.S. is pretty open, so I believe both China and the U.S. have massive opportunities in the low-altitude economy

Luo: Could you arrange a flight for me of your model if I come to Guangzhou right now?

He: Absolutely.

Luo: How many times have you taken your low-altitude model？

He: Not much, less than 10 times. But we run test flights around 10 thousand times per month.

Luo: Is the test zone still that little test shed wrapped with cloth that you mentioned before.

He: No, in open areas.

Luo: Because of the policy shift?

He: We apply for thousands of test flights in designated areas every day.

Luo: So I can try it out anytime I come to Guangzhou?

He: Definitely OK. I suggest you come over in the first quarter of next year, because starting from this fourth quarter I’ll be personally piloting our new model. So yeah, next year is the perfect time for you to come and experience it.

Luo: You’re flying it yourself? Don’t you need full-on pilot training for this kind of aircraft? Okay, let me throw in a serious question here — throughout your whole low-altitude aircraft development, up to this point, has anyone ever lost their life during the experiments?

He: Not once. But our founder's crashed three times.

Luo: That's inevitable. But not a single casualty during the whole process?

He: Never. We’ve actually been kind of lucky. Our founder, Zhao Deli, has been building low-altitude aircraft for years. And yeah, he’s fallen out of the sky three times and even ended up in the hospital.

Luo: But honestly, without someone like him, this wouldn’t even be possible. This kind of personality is just perfect for the early stage of a startup that’s trying to make innovations.

He: So, if we really want our low-altitude aircraft to become as common as cars one day, we need to make them thousands of times safer than cars. Right now, our target is three thousand times. That means ultra-safe and totally controllable, which is already insanely hard to pull off. Of course, making flying vehicles mainstream is definitely going to take many years.

Luo: But you’ll already be commercializing and selling the very first batch of these aircraft next year.

He: Right.

Luo: I feel like buying one even just to support your idealist spirit. Your pricing isn’t going to be super expensive, right?

He: It should be around 1 million yuan.

9. He Xiaopeng's view on Chinese companies’ real vs. pretended commitment to AI

Luo: When it comes to AI, how exactly is XPeng setting itself apart from the other carmakers?

He: Honestly, I think most companies that say they are "working on AI", they’re not really serious about it.

Luo: It’s more like lip service.

He: Exactly. Like when I first got into this industry about ten years ago, everyone was saying, "Software will redefine the car." But honestly, I didn’t really see them doing anything groundbreaking with software.

And then you’d hear people saying, "Data is priceless." But most of them were simply storing the car data. So I asked, "What are you actually going to do with it?" And they’d say, "These data will be a goldmine someday."

To me, that just complete nonsense.

Luo: Are you referring to those poeple from traditional car companies?

He: To be fair, everyone makes similar mistakes, even us. For example, we've always been saying that designing and styling matters in carmaking. But then Xiaomi came out and gave the whole auto industry a pretty harsh lesson: you guys haven’t been taking designing seriously enough.

So what really matters isn't how a company talks, but what they've really done. What's matter is the time, resources, and processes a company puts in, and ultimately the results they deliver.

For example, at an AI-related conference inside the industry, I asked a room full of companies that how many of them are actually doing pre-training. Out of a few hundred entrepreneurs there, only three or four people raised their hands. That tells you everything.

Luo: So you mean, most of them are probably just doing post-training at best, or maybe not even that?

He: Honestly, I doubt they’ve even done post-training. Let me give you another example. This was a while back, when I was at a really important conference. Everyone there was talking about how amazing AI is. But then, a bunch of people came up to me and told me that they've only heard the buzzwords, but have never actually used AI themselves.

Luo: Are you talking about tech companies?

He: No, they're not.

Luo: Then you mean traditional industries. Somehow I can understand that.

He: So, when we talk about really taking AI seriously, it means actually investing in it. For example, in China, there are tons of cloud computing companies, and the top ones are massive. But if you ask around about how many of them are really building strong AI capabilities on their cloud platforms, I’d say not many at all, and you can easily prove that through their cloud services.

If you're not even applying AI in your business, how can you claim you’re taking AI seriously? That’s why, from my perspective, a lot of companies today are just paying lip service when they talk about AI.

Luo: Also in the new energy vehicle industry?

He: In this industry, among the ones working on autonomous driving, the number of companies actually using massive computing power is just a handful.

Luo: Honestly, you can tell right away if a company is really serious about AI just by looking at how many chips they’ve actually bought for AI training.

He: And the truth is, not many companies have actually bought a lot.

10. He on what really matters in EV design

Luo: How big is your industrial design team now?

He: We’re at around 400 people this year. It’s gotten pretty big.

Luo: That's a lot indeed.

He: Most of them are in Shanghai. People in the industry often say we have technology as the left hand and art as the right. The year before last, I realized that, in reality, the tech side gets hundreds of times more investment than the art side. So clearly, the two "fists" aren’t equally strong.

Luo: When you’re making mass-market products, aesthetics still matter a lot, especially with cars.

He: At the end of the year before last, we finally made up our mind to really invest big in aesthetics, and last year we made a ton of adjustments. Out of those 400 people, a lot are from overseas -- some are Chinese, but plenty are foreigners too.

Luo: You have foreign designers too?

He: Quite a lot. Our head of design is from Europe. I think we need a fusion of East and West, especially since we’re selling a global car. In China, if you’re doing hardware plus software, there are two areas that must become your long suits -- industrial design and AI capabilities. Both have to be strong.

But coupling the two is hard: most hardware companies don’t understand software, let alone AI. And AI companies don’t understand hardware, which involves so much, say design, quality, supply chain, manufacturing, and more. So excelling in both areas is really tough. You know what I mean. You’ve done it before.

Luo: Yeah, right. We’ve done a lot of industrial design. I imagine inside your company, the design team drives most of the decisions, right? Cars are huge projects, so for every model you must go through piles of drafts -- dozens, maybe even hundreds -- constantly refining.

When it comes to the final decision, who gets the say? Your head of design, you, or do you guys actually vote on it?

He: At first, I was the one making the final call. But that caused a lot of issues. If I wasn’t professional enough, or didn’t have a good eye, or only noticed a few things when a car actually has thousands of design details, it was easy to make mistakes. Now it’s more balanced, and we’ve added way more user feedback.

Another thing is we make sure there’s a product manager in charge -- someone who keeps an eye on the big picture. And on top of that, designers need real resources and authority to actually do their job. One more big change is how we handle revisions. Before, when a project started, we’d give designers a bunch of constraints and say, "Here are the rules, now design within them." Now we’ve flipped it: we start with how to make the design great first, and then adjust the constraints to fit it. With this new approach, I’m pretty confident that starting with the XPeng P7 and moving forward, our industrial design capabilities are expected to take a big leap in the next few years.

Today, I want to share with you one of my favorite stories of the year so far. Out of the roughly 300 newsletters I’ve published to date, this one has received the most likes. It tells the story of a Japanese student studying in China who spent 21 days hitchhiking from Nanjing—the capital of Jiangsu Province in eastern China, and also my hometown—all the way to Xinjiang, more than 3,000 kilometers away. Along the journey, he was picked up by 16 different drivers.

The student’s name is Tanikawa Hibiki. At the start of his journey, he set up what he called a “social experiment”: he would ask passing drivers if they were willing to give him a ride. If they said yes, he would then tell them he was Japanese—and observe whether they would still agree to take him. As he put it, the results of this “experiment” aren’t polling data or an official survey, but a reflection of the real, everyday human reactions he encountered across China.

After completing his journey earlier this year, his story was published on the WeChat blog of Bindian Weekly, run by China Youth Daily, and he was also interviewed by The Paper. What I love about this story is its authenticity. Although the number of drivers he encountered is a small sample size, and the randomness of the road plays a big role, it still reveals a side of China that even I, as a native, may not always be fully aware of.

Besides, I’ve always felt that compared to cities like Beijing and Shanghai, China’s grassroots society remains far more unfamiliar—and complex—for overseas readers. In fact, even for someone like me, who lives and works mainly in urban areas, these stories are endlessly fascinating. I often find myself learning a great deal from them—not because they offer a clear-cut picture of something “positive” or “negative,” but because they convey a certain raw, textured sense of reality. The complexity of grassroots China is also one of its most compelling qualities. As Tanikawa himself put it: “What I experienced wasn't just a hitchhiking trip, but a journey through the very fabric of a nation.”

Like Li Xiang, the Li Auto founder and CEO I highlighted in a previous post, He Xiaopeng represents a generation of entrepreneurs who first made their mark in China’s internet industry before pivoting to new energy vehicles.

Both XPeng and Li Auto belong to the group colloquially known as “Hua-Mi-Wei-Xiao-Li” — shorthand for Huawei, Xiaomi, NIO (Weilai), XPeng (Xiaopeng), and Li Auto (Li Xiang). Alongside BYD, China’s largest EV maker, these firms represent the first tier of China’s new energy vehicle players, often setting the pace for innovation and competition in the world’s fastest-growing EV market.

Given the length of Xiaopeng’s conversation with Luo, I’ve selected 10 highlights — each focusing on a different theme — and will share them across two issues.

In this first part, He Xiaopeng opens up about the ambitions that drove him as a teenager, the missteps and lessons from his earliest ventures, and what ultimately pulled him back into entrepreneurship after financial freedom. He reflects on why he chose new energy vehicles as his next frontier, how he envisions XPeng’s place in the market, and the staggering scale of R&D investment he believes an AI-driven car company must commit to. Together, these stories trace the mindset of a founder who blends bold vision with hard-earned experience.

That said, if you understand Chinese, I strongly encourage you to watch or listen to the full podcast. It’s well worth your time.

About He Xiaopeng

Prior to serving as chairman and chief executive officer of XPeng, Mr. He served at Alibaba Group Holding Limited, a public company listed on the NYSE (symbol: BABA) and the Hong Kong Stock Exchange (stock code: 9988), from June 2014 to August 2017, including serving as the president of Alibaba mobile business group, chairman of Alibaba Games and president of Tudou.com. In 2004, Mr. He co-founded UCWeb Inc., a Chinese mobile internet company that provides mobile internet software technology and services, and served as the president of product from January 2005 to June 2014. In June 2014, UCWeb Inc. was acquired by Alibaba Group Holding Limited. Mr. He previously served as an independent director and a member of the audit committee of HUYA Inc., a game live streaming platform company in China listed on the NYSE (symbol: HUYA) from May 2018 to May 2020.

Mr. He received his bachelor’s degree in computer science from South China University of Technology in July 1999. Mr. He obtained the qualification certificate of senior economist (technology entrepreneur) in business administration issued by the Human Resources and Social Security Department of Guangdong Province in January 2020.

1. He Xiaopeng discussed what motivated him to set the goal of achieving financial freedom at 18, and how he chose from the four paths to it.

He: The first time I took a plane, I picked up the in-flight magazine. You know, these magazines often blend advertising with chicken soup. I read about a woman, perhaps in her late thirties, who had successfully achieved financial freedom. As an 18-year-old, her story deeply motivated me, and it planted the seed for me to work towards my own financial independence.

Luo: Was she an entrepreneur?

He: . No, she was a senior executive at a multinational corporation.

Luo: I see. Kind of like the Chinese concept of a “working emperor” for corporate professionals.

He: Yes. So I got the idea of achieving financial freedom in university, although I didn’t immediately have a clear roadmap.

Luo: But you knew working for others wasn’t the correct path to achieving it.

He: After university, I identified three paths to financial freedom. The first was winning the lottery. I admit, I did purchase a significant number of tickets.

Luo: Oh, really? I wouldn’t have guessed that people in the tech sector would buy them.

He: My very first ticket won me 500 yuan (about 70 U.S. dollars), which led me to believe I might have a knack for it. Regrettably, that initial luck didn’t persist across subsequent purchases, spanning several hundred tickets. In 1999, I graduated from university. It was around that period that I began considering acquiring a property as a second path.

Luo: China’s housing market took off at that time.

He: At that time, housing in China was extremely affordable. However, the primary obstacle was the lack of money. My third path to financial freedom was through stock options in a promising company. I was fortunate to join AsiaInfo, and within my second year there, the company went public. This meant I was one of the first individuals in China to receive stock options from a private Chinese company that achieved an IPO.

Luo: You joined AsiaInfo a bit after the initial wave, but you still made some money, right?

He: In that IPO year, I received an allocation of 1,000 shares. That was only my second year at work. The value of those shares was substantial; had I been able to sell them at that time, I could have purchased two properties in Guangzhou.

Luo: They were worth a lot, indeed.

He: Unfortunately, by the time I left AsiaInfo, the stock had fallen below its initial offering price. I remember the offering price was around 20 yuan or 24 yuan, and it was trading at 4 yuan when I left.

Luo: You would lose money when you sold your shares.

He: Exactly. As a result, I didn’t buy a house, and those shares, in a way, became a lifelong reminder of that period.

Luo: What’s the fourth path?

He Starting a business. How did I have the idea? I learned that a senior executive, two levels above me, was among the top individual taxpayers in Guangzhou. My initial thought was, “Wow, if I could reach that level of tax payment, I’d consider myself successful.” However, upon realizing he was nearly twenty years my senior, I reassessed. It occurred to me that it might take me another 20 years, and even then, there was no guarantee I could surpass him, given his significant achievements at that time. At that time, I felt that working for others wouldn’t work out for me, so I decided to pursue entrepreneurship.

Luo: Which year? Was China in the midst of the PC internet wave or approaching the mobile internet era?

He: 2002. In 2002, both China and the global internet market had just emerged from the dot-com bubble. Subsequently, around 2003 and 2004, the internet saw a resurgence, bolstered by sectors such as SP (Service Provider) and gaming. In fact, at AsiaInfo, we were involved with email and SP. We weren’t directly charging users for things like ringtones. Instead, we functioned as a payment gateway company for China Unicom, so we actually performed quite well during that period.

Luo: Once you decided to pursue entrepreneurship, how did you secure your initial funding? Typically, individuals with technical backgrounds are not as accustomed to engaging with capital or venture capitalists, especially in the early stages.

He: Well, in my very first entrepreneurial endeavor, I followed others into a startup.

Luo: What does that mean?

He: Being a follower means I had a minimal equity stake and was not required to contribute any capital. It was during my subsequent ventures, from UCWeb to XPeng, that I began actively engaging with capital and investors.

2. Luo Yonghao and He Xiaopeng talked about unforgettable experiences in He’s early entrepreneurial efforts, including missing out on precious investment opportunities after being misled and not printing his real title on his business card.

Luo: Could you share any memorable experiences you’ve encountered? For example, as a founder seeking capital from major institutions, did you ever have to deal with stakeholders who presented themselves in an overly proud or even belittling manner?

He: Looking back on those experiences now, I actually believe the issue wasn’t with them, but rather with us.

Luo: Many successful entrepreneurs do often say that in retrospect.

He: Back then, I believed I was misled regarding valuations, which led to a significant misjudgment. We had multiple investment institutions willing to invest, but we felt their proposed valuations were unfairly low. To illustrate, they might have presented another company with a valuation of 100 yuan, while offering us only 50 yuan. We couldn't accept this, as we believed our company was stronger. However, it turned out that the other company’s valuation was actually 30 yuan, and they had exaggerated it to 100 yuan.

Luo: It’s true. People tend to puff up the numbers a bit when they’re presenting their case.

He: Sadly I wasn’t aware of it. My focus was primarily on the presented figures. In the end, I declined the offers from several interested investment institutions.

Luo: You missed out on capital that could have been utilized then.

He: Yes. It was a crucial learning experience from the early stages.

Luo: I recall hearing a widely circulated story from your early days. You had titles like VP on your business cards, but not CEO. Was this indeed the case? And wouldn’t investors find it strange? Did you tell the truth when meeting them?

He: Only when they asked us.

Luo: So, when you went out to discuss business cooperation, you were all Vice Presidents, without a CEO. Didn’t you ever encounter major clients questioning you, like “Why are you all VPs? Where’s your actual CEO?” Did that kind of situation ever come up?

He: We would typically respond by saying, “We need to discuss this internally.” We did this for a good reason. At that time, our professional and social experience was still quite limited. A well-known entrepreneur — I won’t mention his name — once invited one of our founding members to dinner. He booked an entire 1000-square-meter hall for the occasion.

Luo: I can imagine. I’ve encountered similar situations myself.

He: A room of that scale isn’t typical. He’d essentially rented out a large hall, filled a table with an abundance of food, all to demonstrate his financial strength. Then, he pressured us to sign something on the spot. The danger was, if you got swept up in the moment, thinking “This person is incredibly impressive,” and signed impulsively, it could lead to significant negative consequences.

Luo: Yes.

He: That’s why, in such circumstances, making on-the-spot decisions is absolutely ill-advised.

Luo: So, using the VP title became a strategic buffer to make it legitimate for you to discuss things internally. However, when you were genuinely engaging with potential partners for actual collaboration, you would be transparent about your true situation, right?

He: Exactly. As our discussions deepened and the potential partners inquired about our organizational setup, we would readily explain our roles.

3. He Xiaopeng revealed the motivations behind his return to entrepreneurship after achieving financial freedom and his rationale for choosing the new energy vehicle sector.

Luo: The second time you started a business, did you ever consider other options than auto?

He: My initial focus was not on the auto sector, which is why the company was not originally named XPeng. I recognized the significant difficulties in shifting from the internet domain to hardware, especially large-scale hardware. The underlying logic is quite different. Within the internet ecosystem, there was a prevalent mindset fueled by stories of rapid success — companies achieving Series A funding in three years or Series B in five. This created a perception that such rapid growth would be universally attainable. Yet, building a business in hardware is a far more arduous path.

Luo: A further reason was the perception among internet entrepreneurs that they represented the vanguard of advanced productivity. This led them to view engagement with traditional industries as a simple choice: either they would succeed, or they wouldn’t even try. There was a strong conviction that if they did decide to enter these established fields, they would undoubtedly excel. This was a prevalent attitude in the industry years ago.

He: Precisely. When I fully committed to XPeng, I brought in someone from my previous tech sector to guide our auto team on the process of car manufacturing. Frankly, I was taken aback, as he had no prior experience in manufacturing cars. His approach was remarkably straightforward: he brought in a Maserati, parked it at the company, and instructed our auto team leads to replicate it, stating, “Just make it like this. You don’t need to achieve the exact same level.”

Luo: Interesting.

He: Tell me about it.

Luo: Then sell the product at a price one third or one fifth that of a Maserati.

He: He expressed this with an unfounded confidence, a trait common among many in the tech industry then, without truly understanding the practical steps required. This meant that entrepreneurs from the internet background had to essentially grow and acquire new competencies to succeed in hardware development.

Luo: This is a pertinent point when it comes to emerging and traditional sectors. The rise of e-commerce led many to believe that traditional retail was destined for demise. However, the market demonstrated that certain aspects of the retail experience are inherently challenging to digitize, even as e-commerce continues to expand its reach.

He: In reality, for everyone, the most challenging aspect of resilience isn’t about mustering courage and uniting a team to press forward during adversity. Instead, it’s about making sound decisions and avoiding impulsive expansion during periods of extreme success, maintaining a controlled pace. It’s unfortunate, but many businesses ultimately collapse due to these very factors.

Luo: From a human nature perspective, achieving that level of control is indeed exceptionally difficult.

He: Too difficult.

Luo: You started out as an investor in the auto sector. At what point did you make the decision to personally lead a venture? Was it a realization that a promising company you’d invested in was stagnating, prompting you to take the helm yourself, or was it more of a growing passion for building your own business that emerged organically during that period?

He: There were two reasons. In 2013, I recognized that intelligent automobiles were the future. The following year, I established a team and told them that I'd invest as much as they need as long as they were willing to put effort into this sector. Around 2016, my own aspiration to lead a venture finally emerged.

A significant moment occurred when I was discussing the future of the internet industry with a close friend. As he was leaving, he told me that my eyes truly lit up when we spoke about cars. He said that my interest in other topics seemed relatively average, but was uniquely enthusiastic when talking about cars.

Luo: So, in a sense, your friend’s words led you to the auto sector.

He: His words had a profound impact on me because my initial inclination was that I shouldn’t pursue the auto industry. But after that conversation, I began to question whether I genuinely possessed a deep-seated passion for cars that I was perhaps unconsciously resisting.

The birth of my child in 2017 served as another significant catalyst, and prompted me to reevaluate whether to start a new entrepreneurial journey. Around the same time, I received a call from Fu Jixun, a senior managing partner at Granite Asia. He said to me in the phine that he believed the convergence of auto and AI is about to come, and that if I didn’t seize this opportunity soon, the window for this sector would close gradually. He strongly recommended that I step out and build my own company, which once again spurred my consideration of founding an car company.

Following those conversations, I spoke with numerous friends. Many, as you’ve touched upon, had taken long breaks of two to three years after achieving significant financial success. I asked about their future plans on their lives and careers. Upon hearing their words, I became more sure that I'm not the type for professional investing, not the type for living a life of pure leisure and indulgence, or even going for emigration. Ultimately, I made the decision to start up a business once more. While I had several viable options, I deliberately chose the most challenging one: the auto sector, which I viewed as a significantly more demanding undertaking than my previous ventures — perhaps a “200%” difficulty compared to a “100%” baseline.

Luo: Absolutely.

He: My thought was that if I was going to undertake entrepreneurship again, I might as well select a path that presented a greater challenge. So the idea of starting a second business came gradually.

Luo: Furthermore, you were young enough to afford to fight for another one decade or two decades. And importantly, at that time, you were still young enough to commit to a decade or two of focused effort without feeling overly burdened.

He: Not as young as one might think. I was already in my forties.

Luo: When I founded my mobile phone company, I was also 40 years old. Looking back, I was a late bloomer; in my youth, I was more of a literary type. While I had a strong affinity for technology, I never considered pursuing it professionally. By the time I had the idea, I was already approaching 40.

He: I consider that fortunate. You were a literary enthusiast, whereas in our youth, we were more like impetuous youths, which is even more unfortunate.

Luo: Even that, you were one with a background in science and engineering, which means you already possessed an inherent alignment with this industry.

Do you remember your first time driving a Tesla? What was that experience like?

He: For me, the most memorable moment was the actual delivery of Tesla in China. I was among the first owners, though not within the absolute first ten. What impressed me most was how someone coming from outside the traditional auto industry could make such a better car. I was driving a Land Rover at the time, and then transitioning to a Tesla came as a revelation. It felt like a sports car — remarkably fast, incredibly quiet, and featuring a large screen. Previously, I rarely listened to music in my car, primarily because the engine in higher-displacement vehicles was noisy, making it difficult to enjoy audio. However, driving the Tesla, I discovered that listening to music in an electric vehicle could be a truly delightful experience. It fundamentally changed my perception, showing me that creating an excellent car was entirely achievable for those without auto manufacturing experience.

4. He Xiaopeng's brand positioning of XPeng

Luo: So who exactly is XPeng’s target audience? And what feature does XPeng stand for?

He: We went through a lot of detours in defining our brand. In the very beginning, we gave ourselves a really simple definition: we wanted to be a tech company, a company with real technology DNA. But the truth is, as a car brand, we didn’t specify our brand positioning enough. You can stack up all the technology you want, but in the end, it’s still just technology. What really matters is how people see you.

Eventually, the image of our brand comes down to two words: technology and fashion.

In China, our customer base is rather younger. When we first started, most XPeng buyers fell within the 150,000 to 300,000 RMB annual income bracket—young customers who love technology and also care about fashion. And even though we wavered a bit on brand positioning along the way, we’ve managed to hold on firmly to this group of users.

5. He Xiaopeng explained how much R&D investment an AI-driven car company needs in a single year

Luo: In one of your interviews, you mentioned that for a car company to truly lead in AI, its annual R&D expenditure has to reach at least 50 billion yuan (about 7 billion U.S. dollars). I wasn’t totally sure what you meant by that. Are we talking about being ahead across the board, or just leading in one or two key metrics? And the other thing is—if we’re really saying 50 billion every year, where does that money even come from?

He: AI has really become a massive trend today. But for small and micro enterprises, this AI game is kind of unfair to them.

Back in the mobile internet age, the bar to start a business was way lower. An internet startup could survive for years with only a couple million RMB. But now, if you put that same amount into AI, maybe you’ll get somewhere if you’ve managed to nail a very sharp niche, but for most companies though, you can hardly get anywhere.

Luo: Maybe a little chance in vertical AI. But for foundation models? Don’t even think about it.

He: For them, building the infra (infrastructure) is already hard enough, let alone a complete foundation model.

Looking at ourselves, we've actually made a lot of choices about what not to do. For example, we’re not touching digital foundation models. Instead, we’re all-in on the physical world—things like autonomous driving, vehicle VLM (Vision Language Models) which is basically a car’s brain, and robotics. The physical world is where our focus is.

Now, out of the 50 billion yuan R&D budget, I’d say maybe 30 billion goes into AI, and the other 20 billion into hardware and other software. Put that together, and honestly, I already think that’s only a very baisc number. Because if we really want to build foundation models, infrastructure, and applications for the physical world, for me, 50 billion is already a conservative figure.

So why would people say that in the future, only big carmakers can survive? Well, if you want to put 50 billion yuan into R&D every year, you need at least 500 billion in annual revenue, because your R&D budget has to stay around 10 percent.

Tesla only spends less than 5 percent of its revenue in R&D, but most tech companies would spend somewhere between 7 percent to 12 percent. So if you take the middle, that's around 10%.

Having 500 billion yuan in revenue is not unusual among Chinese automakers. Many companies would claim that they're making 300 billion to even 800 billion. But what they’re really talking about is what I describe as "gross weight". It’s mostly the revenue from their joint ventures, and they count that as their own. In my view, that doesn’t really count. What truly matters is the part you actually own, and I compare that as "net weight". If you set the bar at 500 billion of "net weight", there are very few Chinese automakers that can really get there.

And even then, you also have to make sure that your business can make solid profit. Some companies might be able to achieve a shiny sales volume, but their cars only sell for 60,000 or 70,000 yuan each, which leaves them just about 1,000 yuan in gross profit per unit, and sometimes the net profit is negative. That’s basically like selling iron by weight.

Luo: Yeah… it’s basically hell.

He: So this business is not for me.

Luo: How much did XPeng earn last year?

He: Over 40 billion.

Luo: So you’d need to hit four to five hundred billion before you can make sure you’re putting 50 billion a year into R&D.

He: At least. We don’t have this year's number yet, but we've already sold more cars in the first half than the last entire year.

In the next piece, He Xiaopeng looks ahead — offering his take on the future of China’s EV market, his perspective on industrial design, and how autonomous driving may evolve differently in China and abroad. He also talks about venturing into low-altitude aircraft and shares candid views on which Chinese companies are truly committed to AI and which are merely paying lip service. Stay tuned for part two.

Both companies belong to the group colloquially known as “Hua-Mi-Wei-Xiao-Li” — shorthand for Huawei, Xiaomi, NIO (Weilai), XPeng (Xiaopeng), and Li Auto (Li Xiang). Alongside BYD, China’s largest EV maker, these firms represent the first tier of China’s new energy vehicle players, often setting the pace for innovation and competition in the world’s fastest-growing EV market. For background on the rise of China’s podcasting scene and how it compares with the U.S. Ecosystem, Zichen Wang has an insightful write-up at Pekingnology.

Li and He were already accomplished entrepreneurs before venturing into EVs. Yet rather than resting on their earlier successes, they chose to take on the challenge of what has become one of the fiercest business battlegrounds anywhere: China’s electric vehicle industry. Years later, both have secured their own place in this intensely competitive market.

In this edition, I’ve selected 11 highlights from Li Xiang’s marathon conversation with Luo Yonghao, translated them into English and shared them here. Each excerpt explores a different theme.

I’ve long believed that the stories and experiences of Chinese entrepreneurs remain underappreciated in the global business community. They deserve more recognition for at least two reasons.

First, while supportive government policies helped fuel China’s EV boom, the entrepreneurial drive of leaders like Li and He has been just as critical. Listen closely to their conversations and you’ll notice how familiar they are with the legends of Silicon Valley — from Steve Jobs to Elon Musk — yet their ability to adapt to China’s uniquely unforgiving market is remarkable, and worth documenting.

Second, these entrepreneurs — or the products they build — are increasingly likely to show up in your daily life. Whether in the form of cars, robots, or even low-altitude aircraft in the coming decade, their creations will be central to the next wave of global business and tech headlines. Knowing the people and ideas behind them offers a richer perspective than simply recognizing them as “brands from China.”

About Luo Yonghao

Luo, 53, is a man of many hats. He first gained fame in China as an English teacher with a sharp sense of humor, known for his engaging stage presence. He later ventured into the world of entrepreneurship, founding Smartisan Technology, a smartphone company. However, his path to success has been far from smooth. He’s faced significant financial struggles and has publicly shared his debts, which once reached over a billion yuan. Despite these setbacks, Luo’s resilience and candidness have kept him in the public eye.

About Li Xiang

Li, a Millennial, instead of taking China's national college entrance exam, decided to drop out of school at 18 and pursue his entrepreneurial dreams. He founded Li Auto, which went public on the Nasdaq in 2020. Under his leadership, the company has become a major player in China’s EV market.

In their four-hour conversation, Luo and Li, who come from different generations, shared their entrepreneurial journeys and discussed the rapid evolution of China’s tech and automotive industries.

Part 1

Li's First PC and the Early Signs of an Entrepreneurial Mind

Li reveals how his father’s willingness to invest in his first PC sparked his tech journey, while his mother’s tough-love financial lessons taught him the value of money from an early age. Despite not growing up in a business-savvy family, Li’s natural entrepreneurial instincts shone at a young age. (07:01-11:38)

Luo: Let me start by asking about your first PC. I remember reading in the media that your father spent 8,000 yuan (about 1,100 U.S. dollars), which was quite a sum back then, to buy it for you. The story goes that you kept begging him until he finally gave in and bought it for you. Is that true?

Li: Yes, it was when I graduated from junior high. That’s when he bought the computer for me.

Luo: How much was your father earning per month at that time?

Li: At that time, my father had started going out to film [Editor's note: Li's father was a director]. I estimate that our family had around 20 to 30 thousand yuan in savings, so he probably spent about a third of that to buy the computer.

Luo: That’s quite a big deal.

Li: My father was very interesting.

Luo: Was it because he was open-minded and understood these trends, or was it because he spoiled you? Are you an only child?

Li: I’m an only child. Later, I realized that my father was truly exceptional. He never put conditions on me, and I now do the same with my kids. My relationship with them is great too. He believed that when you should have something, he would just give it to you. For example, I was the first one in our neighborhood to own an FC, the Nintendo game console.

Luo: We used to have to go to those old, rundown arcades, where you’d pay by the hour just to play.

Li: Yes, he was in Beijing filming, and he saw how popular it was in the Drum Tower area. He bought one for me and brought it back.

Luo: Was he worried that it would affect your studies?

Li: Not at all. It was quite interesting—completely different from what you might expect. He made an agreement with me that I could play every day, but only for a certain amount of time. Once the time was up, I had to stop.

Luo: So, he actually discussed this with you, right? It wasn’t an authoritarian thing? Li: Exactly, and he didn’t set a strict number for the hours. For example, I decided to play two hours every day at lunchtime, and he let me play for exactly two hours. Kids in our neighborhood would come over to our place to play.

Luo: You really had a lucky family, because Asian parents are rarely like this, especially in those days.

Li: Yes, and I could really stick to it. I would stop playing after two hours. In fact, later, I even told him that I didn’t need to play for two hours and would be fine with just one and a half hours.

Luo: So, his respect and trust in you was also linked to your own behavior. Because many kids would say they’d play for two hours, but end up playing for four, and their parents would certainly stop them after that.

Li: Exactly, but he made me stick to it. It was a long enough period. Since we had to go home during lunchtime back then, it meant I could play until lunch was over, but if I played for too long, I wouldn’t be able to attend class in the afternoon.

Luo: Back then, playing Nintendo was so addictive that kids would skip school just to play. You must have had a strong sense of discipline from a young age, right?

Li: I think it was because I had this kind of approach that I developed discipline.

Luo: So you’re saying it was the way your father communicated with you—mutual respect?

Li: Yes, I think that was really important.

Luo: That was actually quite rare in Chinese families of that era.

Li: In our neighborhood, my parents were the only ones who went to university.

Luo: Their views were relatively ahead of their time compared to the wider social environment.

Li:Yes.

Luo: I see. You mentioned that getting the PC for 8,000 yuan was a smooth process. Did you have to explain a lot to your father, or was he immediately on board?

Li: It was a smooth process, no difficulty at all. My mom had a different way of dealing with things, which I found especially important later on. My mom was very different from other parents. From elementary school, she gave me an allowance on a monthly basis. Most kids got a daily allowance of one yuan, but I got 30 yuan per month. She told me I could spend it however I wanted, but once it was gone, I couldn’t ask her for more. So, in the first month, I spent all 30 yuan in just three days. I went to my mom asking for more, but she didn’t give me any for the rest of the month. From then on, I learned how to manage money. Eventually, I even saved up for a few months and spent over 100 yuan to buy a game card I wanted. It also led to me starting to make money when I entered junior high school because I realized this was quite interesting.

Luo: She subtly instilled basic financial management concepts in you.

Li: Yes, I started making money in junior high by buying comic books. We noticed that the comic books that cost 1.9 yuan were available at wholesale markets for 1.2 yuan, so I bought them in bulk and sold them to my classmates for 1.5 or 1.6 yuan each.

Luo: So, you had a strong sense of business from a very early age.

Li: It wasn’t something I deliberately pursued.

Luo: I know, I know. It might have been something you were born with, or maybe it was your parents’ early education and communication that helped you naturally develop that sense.

Li:You’ll notice that my classmates didn’t have that awareness at all. They just didn’t get it.

Luo: I didn’t have that business sense even at 30 years old. I’ve read many biographies of entrepreneurs, and many of them showed this kind of awareness from an early age, whether it was inborn or guided by their parents.

Li: But my parents didn’t have any special talent for business.

Luo: I think maybe it was their healthy communication style with you that had a subtle, positive influence. You were really quite lucky. We’ve all read Elon Musk’s biography. When he was a kid, he was already showing remarkable intelligence with computers. He once went to a lecture by a university professor, and after the lecture, he stayed up late discussing things with the professor. When his dad came to pick him up, he thought something was wrong, but the professor told him, “You really need to buy him a computer, or you’ll regret it.” After some hesitation, his dad bought him one. But you were luckier than him because your father made the decision on his own.

I still think I was quite lucky growing up. But looking back, I think the environment you grew up in was even better than mine. I had a good foundation in reading, but in other ways, my parents still had a lot of outdated ideas. I ended up seeing a psychiatrist. It was really quite fortunate.

Part 2

From Being Mocked to Mastery

Li Xiang recalls his childhood ambition of becoming a "General Manager," a dream that was met with mockery by classmates and family. However, his path was shaped by external validation, particularly after he got his first computer, which led to a summer of hands-on learning and earning. (14:46-18:30)

Luo: You immediately had this feeling when you first touched a computer, right?

Li: Yes.

Luo: When you were young, you didn’t necessarily think you were smarter than your peers, but did you ever feel like you had some kind of innate sense of purpose? Not necessarily something you’d share with your classmates, maybe out of shyness or because you didn’t want to make them uncomfortable, but did you ever feel like you were meant to do big things?

Li: When I was a child, there was one thing. It was probably when I was in elementary school. Back then, there was a subject called moral education. The teacher asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up, and I said I wanted to be a general manager. Luo: At that time, that was the biggest title. Later, it became CEO, Chairman, Board Chairman—these titles just kept getting bigger.

Li: At that time, being a general manager was the biggest.

Luo: Yes, yes. When we were young, the title of "general manager" was a very prestigious one.

Li: At that time, my classmates would mock me for it. Definitely, because everyone else wanted to be a soldier, a scientist, or a doctor.

Luo: What year was that? Was individual entrepreneurship already common by then? Li: It should have been the early 1990s.

Luo: I remember you were born in '82?

Li: I was born in '81. Anyway, it was around the 90s.

Luo: Yes, actually, in those days, the idea of becoming a general manager would definitely seem strange in the eyes of teachers and students.

Li: But in reality, I didn’t just have this idea because of some innate desire. My decisions and choices were always based on real external feedback, not like when we were kids, where I was born with such a purpose.

Luo: When I was young, it was probably even worse for me than for you. I grew up in a very backward area. You were in Shijiazhuang, right?

Li: Yes, Shijiazhuang city.

Luo: That’s still a big city. I grew up in the mountains of Northeast China. So, when I tried to talk about my ambitions, I was ruthlessly mocked. It wasn’t the classmates or teachers directly attacking me, but the teachers would smile in a strange way. They wouldn’t say anything cruel, but they clearly didn’t think much of it. And the classmates would always give me these weird smiles. The most discouraging part came from my older brother. He said, “You’re clearly a fool, why do you have all these unrealistic ideas?” I asked him, “How am I a fool?” And he said, “We’re all fools, why can’t you see that?” He kept telling me that, but I always felt like I could do something big. That feeling was severely discouraged when I was young, even though my parents didn’t criticize me, they also didn’t encourage me. They thought I was just daydreaming. So, you didn’t have a strong feeling of that kind, and didn’t suffer from this kind of discouragement when you were young.

Li: I was kind of like undergoing intensive training. I always relied on external feedback to build different changes. The first time I felt like I was the best was when I got the top score in an essay contest, even though my grades were generally poor.

Luo: Just the essay?

Li: But the real, stable cycle started after I got the computer, especially that summer before high school. That summer before high school, I completely changed into a different person.

Luo: Because of the computer?

Li:Because before, my computer knowledge was already solid. My computer knowledge was quite strong.

Luo: Just not enough hands-on practice.

Li: But it didn’t take long. Within a day, I had solved most of it.

Luo: I get it, I meant that when you had solid theoretical knowledge but very limited time in the computer lab.

Li: Yes, I had essentially created a really solid base model through pre-training. From then on, my reasoning and thinking process improved significantly.

Luo: You really built a strong foundation.

Li: The most important first feedback I got was from the store where I bought the computer. It was originally a small shop in a street with low traffic. Later, it moved to a large computer mall and did really well because the computers were all DIY, with custom configurations. When I got home, I took the computer apart and rebuilt it. Later, I did something else: I helped that shop assemble computers at the computer mall. The business was booming, and they didn’t have enough staff. I was good at talking, so when I recommended the configurations to others, they trusted me a lot.

Luo: You have a face that inspires trust, so you definitely had an advantage in selling computers.

Li: At that time, I was particularly impressed. I had worked with Intel CPUs, Asus motherboards, and Philips monitors. I’d played with all of them. When a computer was sold, I would explain the price and configuration to the customers. If they needed hardware that the store didn’t have, I would go to other shops to find it and then come back to assemble the computer. Each computer sold earned me 800 to 1,000 yuan, and I would get a commission of 150 to 200 yuan per computer assembled. It was great feedback. During that entire summer, I assembled the most and sold the most, making our store number one in sales at the computer mall. When I started high school, everyone at the school knew that if they wanted a computer assembled, they should come to me. Even writing articles, it wasn’t something I just did casually; I learned from user feedback.

Part 3

The Power of Standing Up

Li recalls his difficult childhood, being bullied after moving to a new city and feeling inferior due to his accent, appearance, and background. It wasn’t until his mother urged him to fight back that he stood up to the bullies, gaining confidence and respect from his peers. (29:08-33:11)

Luo: It all sounds so lucky. Tell me about your childhood trauma, the setbacks and frustrations in your teenage years, maybe even a first love heartbreak. You seem to have had it so easy—did you really not face any setbacks before you turned 18?

Li: When I first moved back to Shijiazhuang, all the kids in the neighborhood bullied me. Luo: Because you had just moved there?

Li: I had a heavy accent from rural Cangzhou. Luo: So they mocked you.

Li: Yeah, kids are like that. When I first joined the school, I was an “insert student,” so I sat at the side of the teacher's desk, not at a regular desk. It was really tough for a while, and the other kids would bully me. The older kids, too. Most of the scars on my face are from when they scratched me in elementary school. They hit me so hard that they scratched my face to pieces. When you're in a new environment, you don't dare to fight back.

Luo: I also got bullied when I transferred schools, but it wasn’t to the point of getting my face scratched off.

Li: Yeah, they were so mean, kids can be unbelievably cruel. When I look at things like school bullying today, we all went through it back then.

Luo: Back then, calling the police didn’t help, unlike now. These days, if you call the police, the parents end up paying.

Li: My mom told me, "You can only fight back yourself."

Luo: Your parents raised you like that, so you had no choice but to follow it. It’s kind of amazing.

Li: My mom said, "You have to fight back, there’s no other way." I was from Cangzhou, Mengcun County. When I was little, I practiced Bajiquan, so I was actually quite good at fighting. Luo: A famous martial arts region. Li: Yes, and my older brother was a martial arts master, so the whole neighborhood of students practiced with him.

Luo: So why didn’t you resist at first? Li: When you enter a new environment, you actually feel a sense of inferiority. They all spoke Mandarin, but when I spoke, they couldn’t understand me. Luo: And they mocked you. Li: At the time, I was really dark from the sun, from my hometown.

Luo: Maybe you had some countryside redness, too. Li: And my teeth were yellow because the water in Cangzhou had a lot of alkali. You feel like you don’t belong there. Luo: You lacked confidence, so when they hit you, you didn’t fight back. Li: After my mom said that, a few months later, I told her, "They keep bullying me and hitting me. Look at what they’ve done to my face!" She said, “You have to fight back." So I started fighting back. I first hit the biggest one, the one who was two years older than me. After that, my mom said, “You can't bully others.”

Luo: When I was young, I remember always being beaten up. In the second semester of my first year of junior high, I got so angry that I ended up fighting back. As they say, even a rabbit will bite when it’s cornered. I wasn’t the kind of kid who bullied others or fought, but when I was pushed too far, I fought back, and I realized something. There were local thugs who used to come to our school to bully us. After I fought back, they started trying to get on my good side. I quickly understood that when they bully you, they’re calculating the risks and costs. If you’re an easy target, they’ll keep bullying you, but once you fight back, even if you get beaten badly like I did, it’s worth it. They know you’ll resist, and they’ll stop bullying you. After that, when the thugs came around the school, the younger kids started calling me “bro,” and the local tough guys, hearing about how I fought back, came over to befriend me. So, one act of resistance worked. Later, when I started teaching, I would tell my students: if you’re bullied, just resist once and it’ll be over.

Li: You’re right. And another thing is, when I first didn’t tell my mom about it, I was worried that if I fought back, the other kids would start avoiding me. But after I fought back, they actually all started becoming friends with me. I became the "king" of the neighborhood kids. Luo: The more you tolerate, the worse they get.

Li: It got worse and worse.

Luo: So when I later talked to my students, I often told them: whether it's school bullying or when you grow up and face bullying in society, you have to fight back fiercely once. I even see it as a rite of passage. Some people are still timid well into their 30s, always getting bullied. I think this is a matter of fate. Some kids, no matter their upbringing or natural instincts, just keep tolerating it.

Li: I was worried that if I fought back, the other kids would isolate me. But I found out that after I fought back, they all started getting close to me. I became the "king" of the neighborhood kids.

Part 4

The Idols Who Shaped Li

Li shares how his admiration for Shigeru Miyamoto and Steve Jobs evolved over time, with Miyamoto inspiring his youth through Nintendo and Jobs shaping his views on design and leadership. Li also shared his love for Toy Story, the Pixar movie. (55:16-1:01:07)

Luo: So, you didn’t start AutoHome because you liked cars, but in fact, you do really like cars.

Li: At first, I didn’t like cars at all. How much did I dislike them? When we were doing the auto website, Fan Zheng had suggested it early on. He was a car enthusiast, and every year we would go to the car show in Beijing. He was always so excited. During the car show, all he would do is look at cars—it was like a holiday for him. I found it super boring and asked, “Why do you guys love this stuff so much?” It wasn’t until 2003, after their advice, that I bought my first car. By then, I had money and didn’t have to worry about fast development. It was just a small business, but I was making money, so I bought my first car, and that’s when I gradually started liking cars.

Luo: So, you began to like cars while working at AutoHome?

Li: Yes, I bought a car first, learned about them, and then started really liking them after deciding to work on AutoHome.

Luo: In the whole process, from thinking about entrepreneurship to actually starting your business, and up until now, did you have any commercial or technological idols or heroes? Back in the day, we all read Bill Gates' The Road Ahead?

Li: I’ve always had two idols. One is Shigeru Miyamoto. I really like Nintendo, and all the games he created.

Luo: Nintendo is such a dreamy company, almost unreal.

Li: Yes, it’s a very unusual company.

Luo: It’s amazing, truly magical.

Li: When I was younger, I always liked Miyamoto. Back then, I bought every Nintendo console. All those game books used to talk about him.

Luo: In my era, all the Nintendo cartridges were pirated. The machines were often knockoffs, so I never used the originals. I didn’t even know what the real ones were like—I just knew they came from a Japanese game company, and the pirated ones had Japanese writing on them. My family finally bought me one when the Famicom had already been around for many years, and by then it was cheap. I didn’t know whether the cartridges were original or pirated—I just bought whatever was available. Later, I realized most of them were pirated. Occasionally I’d get an authentic one, and it felt unreal—it was so beautifully made.

Pirated versions were always “100-in-1” or “200-in-1.” I grew up feeling like we all owed Stephen Chow a movie ticket. I feel the same about my childhood joy—it was all built on pirated games. Later, when I bought a Switch, it was the first time I ever created a Nintendo account. I’ve had it for years now but have probably played less than 10 hours in total. Every time I think about it, I just leave it there. I keep feeling like I owe Miyamoto something.

Li: Yes, Miyamoto was my idol when I was young. Later, as I grew up, it was really Steve Jobs.

Luo: When did you start thinking Jobs was really impressive? Was it with the iPod? Or earlier?

Li: I think it was when the iPod came out.

Luo: Because, after he was kicked out of Apple, for many years he was seen as a joke in Silicon Valley. I found him strange back then. I didn’t know much about him. But when I bought my first iPod, I was shocked. At that time, it wasn’t officially introduced, so it was sold through gray-market dealers at ridiculously high prices. When I first bought it, it was all about the industrial design. It was so beautiful, like a sci-fi product. I plugged it into my computer, transferred some songs, and was amazed. I thought, how could something be this easy to use? It was a thousand times more convenient than playing songs on a computer.

Li: I had bought a Mac earlier, but didn’t feel much about it.

Luo: Back then, Macs had serious compatibility issues and a lack of software ecosystem.

Li: Yes, after buying a Mac, we still had to buy software to install a virtual Windows.

Luo: Did Macs get better to use, or was it more about the iPod that brought in more developers?

Li: Yes, exactly. There’s something else that really influenced me. My favorite movie of all time is Toy Story, and I didn’t realize until later that it was made by his company.

Luo: He was the major shareholder of Pixar.

Li: I really love Toy Story. I felt like I was the cowboy in it. It was just an amazing feeling. Later on, I would watch every Pixar movie with great attention.

Luo: So, your business idols in life, or in terms of products and technology, are Steve Jobs and Shigeru Miyamoto?

Li: Yes, and in addition to watching various videos and analyzing Jobs, I’ve also studied Tim Cook and Jonathan Ive’s interactions. Many times, I feel like what’s written about Jobs isn’t exactly who he was, but when you look at the collaboration between him, Tim Cook, and Jonathan, you get a more authentic picture.

Luo: What exactly do you mean by that?

Li: People often point to the early, rough side of Jobs as an example. But when you look at what Jonathan Ive talks about, you realize that it’s not about being rough or simple; it’s about high expectations that come after trust is built. The problem is, many of us when we were young misunderstood it as just being harsh. But it wasn’t like that. It was about trust first, then high demands. The attitude was a result of those high expectations. If trust isn’t built first, it’s just plain harshness. That’s the fundamental difference.

Luo: Because there is trust, everyone holds themselves to a high standard. If the standard is not met, then people argue. But if there’s no foundation of trust, it only makes things worse.

Li: And he spent a lot of time building that trust, which I think is very important, but many people overlook it. Without trust, things will go wrong.

Part 5

Li Auto's Fundraising Turning Point

Li’s journey through a near-financial collapse took a dramatic turn when, after exhausting all options, the major food delivery and e-commerce platform Meituan’s CEO offered a lifeline. His timely investment changed Li Auto’s trajectory, marking a pivotal moment in the company’s survival and success. (1:37:29-1:45:28)

Luo: So, was your most serious funding issue before or after the release of the Li One?

Li: It was in early 2019.

Luo: When exactly was the release?

Li: We released the Li One in October 2018.

Luo: So, by the time you were ready to mass-produce, you didn’t have enough funding?

Li: Yes, we were facing two major problems. First, Tesla's market value had dropped to just 30 billion dollars, and they were even considering buying back their own company. Everyone was shorting Tesla. The second problem was that NIO had performed well, but after their IPO, their stock price dropped below the issue price—from around 6 or 7 dollars to just over 1 dollar. And this was exactly when we needed to raise funds.

Luo: But at that time, no one wanted to invest.

Li: Exactly. We met with 150 investors, and to make sure we were presenting ourselves well, we even hired Goldman Sachs as our FA. It was an incredibly difficult period. To make matters worse, I was really sick—it was the worst I’d ever been. I pretended to be fine when meeting investors, but afterward, I had to rest for a long time.

Luo: So you were sick throughout the entire fundraising process?

Li: Yes, I vividly remember it. In the end, we couldn't raise the money we needed. It was our Series C round. The biggest investor in our Series B round was Zhang Ying from Matrix Partners. Zhang told us that they couldn't provide the amount of money we needed in the next round because they were a VC, not a PE. So he called us to his office, along with Goldman Sachs' China GM, and after analyzing the situation, they said there was nothing they could do. Then Zhang asked, “How much money do you have left?” I said, “I’ve put everything I have into this, even the money I earned earlier.”

Luo: At that point, you had already invested all your personal money?

Li: Yes, I invested all the money I had earned earlier—basically, I had nothing left. But I felt secure because my shares were bought with my own money, on equal terms.

Luo: What about your early partners? Did they do the same?

Li: They bought half and got half in options. They didn’t have original shares, and I didn’t either.

Luo: So Zhang Ying told you there was no way to raise the money. What did he suggest you do next?

Li: He suggested I go and visit some wealthy friends to see if there was any last chance.

Luo: I’m curious, what happened during those meetings? Tell me some gossip, just don’t mention names. Any interesting stories? We can’t be too serious on this show.

Li: Sure. One of our biggest partners, who we had worked with the most, ended up rejecting us.

Luo: Was it the boss of your business partner?

Li: Yes, he was an important partner, and he eventually rejected us. I also met with Zhang Yiming. They decided to invest, but only 30 million dollars. At that time, we needed several hundred million dollars, but he still recognized our potential and made that investment. However, ByteDance wasn’t as big as it is now.

Luo: I’m curious, what happened during the rejection?

Li: At that point, I was truly desperate. I had already accepted that only a "lucky break" could save us.

Luo: So, was this the biggest "lucky break" in your entrepreneurial journey?

Li: Yes, absolutely. And why was I so desperate? Because at that time, Meituan's stock price had also dropped significantly, even below the issue price. Things were tough for them too.

Luo: They were also struggling.

Li: Yes, they were. So I tried my best to explain to Wang Xing the value we could offer him, especially how we could help if they decided to enter the ride-hailing market.

Luo: Did they have plans to enter the ride-hailing market at that time?

Li: We didn't really think that far ahead, but I was trying to show them how we could provide value, even if it meant helping with logistics or EV production lines. I just wanted to get a foot in the door.

Luo: Where did this meeting take place?

Li: It was at the Hyatt Hotel. It was during the pandemic, so we couldn't go to many places, but I still met him there.

Luo: You didn’t ask for an investment, right? You just wanted to chat with him?

Li: Exactly. I didn’t ask for any investment at that time. We were just talking about potential collaborations. But then, out of nowhere, he asked me, "Can I invest in your company?" I was shocked.

Luo: When was this? How long after you rejected his investment?

Li: It was just a year later, in 2019.

Luo: At that time, how much funding did you need? A few billion yuan?

Li: We were trying to raise 300 million dollars.

Luo: So, that’s around 2 billion yuan, right?

Li: Yes, and he ended up investing 300 million dollars in us.

Luo: Seems like there were a lot of internal disagreements within Meituan about this investment, right?

Li: Yes, there were many people who didn’t want him to invest in us, because they had already invested in other competitors. Some had invested in Weima, others in NIO, and some in Xpeng. So there was a lot of persuasion to try to stop him from investing in us.

Luo: Do you think your fundraising ability ranks high, medium, or low among the top entrepreneurs?

Li: I would say I’m at the bottom, really at the underground level. The reason we were able to raise funds earlier was because I personally invested the same amount at the same valuation, so I was taking the same risk.

Luo: So, when the whole world was pessimistic about your company, it became even harder to raise funds, right?

Li: Exactly. The more pressure I faced, the more I moved forward. When there’s no pressure, I tend to take a step back. But when the pressure is high, I instinctively move forward.

Luo: And that pressure, once you survive it, can turn into a huge turning point, right?

Li: Exactly. When you face adversity, sometimes you have no choice but to push forward. But when you get through it, the breakthrough can be life-changing.

Part 6

China’s EV Revolution

Luo discusses China’s transformation from envy of foreign cars to leading the global electric vehicle market. Li credits strong manufacturing, a flexible talent pool, and government support for this rapid rise. (01:53:51-01:57:57)

Luo: You know, for people like us, at least people from my generation, the cars we envied the most when we were young were the foreign luxury cars on the streets—especially the really impressive ones. Then, when I first went abroad, I saw those cars on the streets and we envied them so much because of the high tariffs in China. I remember hearing from friends who studied or worked abroad about how much their cars cost, and we were so envious we could hardly stand it. Little did we know, in just over a decade, China’s new energy vehicles have become so impressive. Now, when I go to the U.S. on business trips, the streets are still filled with what they call the "best" cars in their market. But when my Chinese friends see those cars, they suddenly remark, “We used to envy these cars when we were young, but now, not even many years later, when we see all these foreign cars, all we think of is ‘foreign junk.’”

Honestly, every time I think about this, I get really excited. The moment I felt the most excitement was last year at the car show. It was all over the internet, and several big names were there, creating countless headlines. At that time, I thought to myself, how could Chinese cars become this impressive in less than ten years? I was so excited. So I wonder, with the full opportunities given to us, how many more miracles can Chinese entrepreneurs create?

Li: There are actually several important factors behind this. I think the first one is that China’s manufacturing base is actually very solid.

Luo: It’s already solid enough to be number one globally.

Li: Exactly. Even the equipment we use today is mostly made by Chinese companies. For example, the stamping machines—everything is made very well. The second factor is that people from all industries in China are willing to enter new fields. For example, people from the tech industry are now getting into car manufacturing. But in the U.S., only Elon Musk is willing to take on this hard work. Others tend to stay in Silicon Valley or Seattle and are only comfortable doing internet and software work.

Luo: They don’t want to do the dirty or tough work. They rely on high-tech, make big profits, and enjoy a comfortable lifestyle.

Li: Right, exactly. That’s the difference. People in China are willing to enter any industry—whether it's retail, manufacturing, or the car industry. New thinking and technology are transforming old industries, and it’s become a huge trend here.

Luo: Yes, new thinking and new technology are revamping old industries. It’s really becoming a trend.

Li: Exactly. The third reason why China’s new energy vehicles have taken off is also closely tied to the country itself. For example, oil in China is relatively expensive compared to the world; it's in the 70th or 80th percentile globally. But electricity in China is the cheapest in the world, and China’s power grid is also one of the best in the world.

Luo: And then there’s government policy support.

Li: Yes, exactly. Let me give you an example you might not expect. In many European countries, if you want to install a charging station, even if the government encourages it, you have to wait in line for nine months just to get one installed. In places like Singapore, if you want to install a charging station, you have a 99% chance that the homeowner’s committee will reject it, and you can’t install it.

Luo: They have the power to refuse it.

Li: In China, if you decide to install a charging station today, it’ll be done in three days. The company that installs it coordinates everything with the property management and the power grid. And in the end, you still get a special deal. These differences are huge. In China, using an electric car costs only one-tenth of the cost of using a fuel-powered car, but abroad, it’s about the same cost, and the convenience is much lower.

Luo: Yes. So, when I go to Europe on business, I can’t help but make some sarcastic remarks. I’ve seen many mediocre people from China who immigrated to Europe for family reasons. These were people I knew back home, with poor abilities and low overall competence. Yet, they end up working in Chinese companies in Europe, enjoying great benefits. We’ve even spoken to their bosses, and when I said, “Your team doesn’t seem that great,” their boss would reply, “You have no idea. The people we hire locally are much worse than yours. Here, they’re seen as top talents.” I really feel like we’re in a bittersweet moment globally. If it weren’t for geopolitics, I honestly think Chinese cars could dominate the world in the next 10 years.

Li: I also think there’s something interesting about China’s education system. We often criticize it, but it’s actually done a lot of good. For example, in the internet boom.

Luo: You mean basic technical education?

Li: From a technical perspective, yes. You see, the main talents behind the internet boom are those born between 1975 and 1995. This generation has excellent skills in STEM, which means they are very good at understanding software, engineering, and the digitalization of systems. And since there’s enough supply of talent, they are able to enter various industries—not just the internet industry, but all kinds of fields. This is an advantage of China’s systemic approach. With the help of the internet, mobile internet, and smartphones, this talent pool has grown, and they’ve become the foundation of digitalization in the automotive industry. However, in countries other than the U.S., where the competition in mobile internet and smartphones is not as fierce, they simply don’t have this kind of talent.

Part 7

Car Choices reveals different mentalities between the "Old Money" and the "New Money"

Old generations of Chinese manufacturing tycoons buy super luxury cars for some problems far beyond transportation, while the internet generation seems to be more frugal in their choices of cars. (02:01:36-02:05:48)

Luo: When a startup first jumps into hardware, of course there’s the challenge of inexperience. But there’s also this other thing: all those tests the big brands run—you simply can’t afford to replicate every single one of them, right?

Li: We ran all of them.

Luo: All of them? I figured you’d definitely run all the safety tests. But I didn’t expect you to actually do all the others too. So why were there still so many issues popping up?

Li: Because we've done something those big brands have never tried before.

Luo: So you are being innovative, while they keep being conservative, staying in their comfort zone.

Li: Yeah, we're doing what they've never done.

Luo: I can get it. I own a Li Auto myself, and I really like it. And you know me, with my kind of extra way of talking, I went around saying that the Li One is the best family SUV you can get under 5 million RMB (around 700 thousand U.S. dollars). Of course, the internet tore me apart for that. But actually there was some context behind what I said.

When I was down south, I had a bunch of friends in manufacturing, and we were hanging out a lot at the time. Most of them were older than me. I was born in the 70s, but some of them were 10 years older than me. And one thing about that generation of old-school entrepreneurs is that everyone had to drive a luxury car.

Otherwise, say the group goes out to play golf. If you roll up in a 3-million car, and I show up in a 5-million one, and another guy drives, let’s say, a BMW that costs just over 1 million—even though it’s still a luxury car—behind his back people will start saying, "Hey, what’s going on with him? Is his cash flow in trouble? Why’d he downgrade to something that cheap?" And that kind of talk could actually affect his business, far more than his pride. So in that circle, everyone’s driving cars in the 3-to-5-million range, sometimes even 10 million or more.

And because I was spending a lot of time with them talking business, eating and drinking, I ended up getting to ride in basically every so-called legendary luxury car out there. And you know what? I found most of them disappointing. But that’s just something I can say and you shouldn’t. Otherwise, you’ll get roasted online just like I did.

My reaction at the time was basically—wait a second, how can a car that costs five million, even ten million, actually be this bad? So I went online and started digging around, trying to find an explanation. And what I found was, once a car sells for several million, it’s not really about being a vehicle anymore—it’s solving a completely different kind of problem.

Like, take a rich kid in a five-million sports car. He pulls up in front of a bar, waves his hand, and then some girls might hop right in. But if you’re driving a 500-thousand car, you do the same thing, and all you’ll probably get is an eye-roll. So yeah, that’s the ‘need’ those ultra-expensive cars are actually built for.

So this is the thing about those entrepreneurs. In that circle, their old-school mindset just doesn't allow them to show up in a 500-thousand or even a 1-million car. You have to drive something that costs five million with one of those world-famous logos on it, so the moment people see it, they know, "Okay, that’s a five-million car." That way, you avoid all the unnecessary social headaches in that group.

Li: I completely understand.

Luo: And all of those, really, is about other functions beyond the car itself.

Li: And it's also the most socially cost-effective way for them. Like if you roll up to a hotel in a luxury car, you can just park it right out front. But if you’re not driving something fancy, they’ll send you straight down to the basement garage.

Luo: So whether it’s for business, vanity, or whatever reason—you realize none of it actually has anything to do with the car itself. That was the conclusion I came to after riding in all those luxury cars of my friends.

And when I told them about it, they just laughed and like, "Yeah brother, we know you’re not into this stuff. Honestly, we’re not that into it either." Most of the time it’s just part of their job—especially for the older generation.

Li: But the funny thing is, in Beijing’s internet circle, you don’t really see that kind of showy culture. Most people are pretty down-to-earth with what they drive.

Luo: Yeah, it’s the same in Silicon Valley, right? Back then everybody was driving Toyota. Even people like Larry Page were all in these cheap cars.

Li: Exactly. Maybe because we were also influenced by those Silicon Valley guys. I mean, look at Bill Gates, Larry Page…. The cars they drove were all pretty ordinary.

Luo: Actually, for the internet generation, if someone really showed up in an eight- or ten-million car, people would find this guy cheesy and laugh behind his back.

Li: The first person I knew to drive the most expensive cars was actually Elon Musk. Back then he bought a McLaren F1.

Luo: That was back when he was still young and had just made it big.

Li: Yeah, then he sold the company and bought that McLaren.

Luo: Every poor boy has his dream car, right?

Li: That car cost him 1.3 million U.S. dollars.

Luo: I bet when you earned your first pot of gold, you'd also bought a bunch of cars, maybe even a flashy one or two, right?

Li: I actually held back, you know. I just went with another McLaren that cost a little over 400 thousand bucks.

Part 8

Li's View on Internet Haters

Li Xiang believes that it's impossible to eliminate all the online trolls in today's traffic-driven internet environment, and improvements in products is the only way out. (02:26:17-02:27:53)

Luo: But why not just bring in a really seasoned PR heavyweight from the industry? I'm not talking about hiring them to throw mud on other companies, but they at least know all the tricks and have strategies to counter other's attack. Have you thought about that? The reason I’m especially curious is that back in the day, I got dragged through the mud myself real bad.

Li: Nobody had really faced something like the Mega situation before. Let me give you another example—take Zhong Shanshan from Nongfu Spring. He studied journalism and communications and was an excellent media guy. His marketing skills were top-notch, and he worked closely with major outlets, including CCTV. But once he ran into trouble, even someone like him couldn’t handle today’s crazy traffic-driven media environment.

Luo: That's today's environment. People are happy with rumors.

Li: But then there’s another side to it. Even if you can’t fully handle these negative online rumors, it's not going to kill you anyway. Sure, you might not have all the answers, but the damage is actually limited.

Luo: Exactly. If you can hold up solid power, all the rest is really just a gust of wind.

Li: If you can’t hold up, it proves your company really isn’t strong enough. And when a new hot topic comes up, all that attention will just jumps to the next thing. I think that’s how the society works today. Look at Elon Musk. He owns X, but those who want to smear him still do whatever they can to drag him down.

Luo: The logic is fine, but when you get roasted online, I'm quite surprised that you just sit there and take it. I can really feel for you, because not only that I own three Li models, but also it reminds me of all those times I got dragged online back when I was doing hardware.

Li: I think it’s fine. Honestly, we know exactly how they try to drag us down—and which companies are behind it all. It’s disgusting, but if I let myself stoop to that level, I feel like my life would be meaningless. I just don’t want to become that kind of person. Even if they come after me, I refuse to become like that.

And the only thing I can tell myself is that if all that hate actually affects us, it’s because our product isn’t good enough, and we need to work harder and make our product better. Sure, plenty of people have given us suggestions like setting up an anti-smear team and so on, but I don’t want to go down that road.

Part 9

Three key abilities to make a successful entrepreneur

Li Xiang believes that the three abilities to make a successful entrepreneur are being able to choose well, choose far, and most importantly, to play faster than others. (02:42:21-02:46:02)

Li: If you spend time on the wrong things, they end up affecting the important stuff. And if the unimportant things go wrong, you’ have to spend more time cleaning up the mess. So I've realized that if someone just focuses on the three most important things every day, that person can become really, really successful. But if they try to juggle ten "important" things in a day, unless they’re a super diligent genius, chances are none of those ten things will get done well.

Luo: Speaking of diligent genius, I think Lei Jun (the founder of Xiaomi Corporation) is undoubtfully among them.

Li: Yeah, there’s no way I can compete with him.

Luo: It feels like he only needs four or five hours of sleep a day.

Li: I’d catch him on Saturday or Sunday, and he’d still be working. And after chatting with me, he’d just move on to another appointment right after!

Luo: So there was this one time when Lei invited me for a chat outdoors at the tea terrace behind Pangu Plaza. It was past nine at night. We got really into talking, mostly about products, and before we knew it, it was morning. Since we were outside, nobody rushed us, and the waiter just waved and left, because Lei knew him.

I stretched and said, "Alright, I’m going back to sleep." He stretched and said, "I’m going back to work." I was like, "Wait… what? No rest?" He said he had a meeting in the morning, but a three-hour nap on the sofa would be enough.

Later, I told people in his company about this, and they said, "That’s just how he is." And that’s why they feel so pressured—no matter how hard you work, you can never match your boss.

Li: These people are not just capable—they’re insanely hardworking too. Which brings me back to what you were just talking about: learning isn’t really the whole truth. I’ve met all kinds of big shots, had deep conversations with them, including overseas folks, and I started noticing some key common traits. I’ve boiled it down to three.

First, everyone will tell you how they make choices, how they gather information, and how they make judgments. So the first trait is this—they choose well. They choose the right big trends. E-commerce, food delivery… the first rule is to choose correctly.

Second, which is a bit counterintuitive, but you hear it in all the success stories—they choose far. They can accept things to take a long time to show results, because things that yield quick results often comes with problems. Look at the really famous companies today—they’ve been around 20, 25 years. So the second rule is to choose far. And that’s not a bad thing. Sometimes projects that could finish in a year or two are in spaces where someone else can just jump in at any moment. The third one comes as the most critical. Honestly, people who can nail the first two are already one in a hundred, but the third is what really sets them apart. Every top entrepreneur I know, the best in the world like Jensen Huang, Wang Xing, Zhang Yiming, they all share this trait.

Most people think, "Okay, pick the right trend, pick for the long run, now we can just slowly work our way through." Wrong.

These people do something completely counterintuitive—they take a path that requires a long time to succeed, and they iterate at an insanely high frequency. It’s absolutely ridiculous.

Luo: The longer the game, the faster you have to play.

Li: Exactly. Most people think the key is patience or trying to be perfect. But that’s not it. The third thing is something almost nobody can do — really, almost nobody. When I was in the graphics card business, it was obvious that NVIDIA could release a new generation every single year, while others needed three years. That’s why they crushed brands like 3dfx Voodoo, and in the end it came down to just NVIDIA and AMD. And when NVIDIA built CUDA, it also took more than ten iterations before it finally worked out

Part 10

What does a Chinese entrepreneur's family look like?

Li's perception about family, his relationship with his wife and his children's education. (03:47:29-03:51:37)

Li: Back when I was running Autohome (An auto service platform founded by Li in 2005), I wasn’t really thinking about family at all. But when I started Li Auto, I positioned it for families—because by 2015, I already had two kids, and later on, even more. That changed my perspective.

Part of it also goes back to my childhood. I didn’t actually spend much time with my parents. In primary school I was raised mostly by my grandparents, and then for middle school I lived with my grandmother so I could be closer to a good school. By 18 I was already starting my first company, and soon after I moved to Beijing.

So in many ways, I only realized what "home" really means much later—after getting married, after building my own family. I used to think I wasn’t missing anything, but now I see that family is one of the most precious things.

Luo: And your relationship with your wife have always been strong.

Li: Yes, we got married in 2008 and had our wedding in 2009. And I’m most grateful for that change among the shareholders, because in the past I used to think all the problems were on my partner’s side — but I don’t see it that way anymore.

Luo: So that experience triggered a reflection that eventually reached into your family life as well.

Li: I think one really interesting thing about my relationship with my wife is that from the very beginning, I told her something very clearly: I need her far more than she needs me. And I genuinely believe that. I’ve always said it to her directly, and I think that’s been a very important part of our relationship. At the same time, she also wants to feel that she’s important to me, that she can actually support me.

What’s also quite interesting is that, even though she has to take care of our family everyday, she has developed a deep understanding of the auto industry. She reads all kinds of news, follows every company’s financial reports, and sometimes she even knows more than I do because I’m so caught up in my own work. Often, it’s her telling me what’s happening at other car companies. I find that fascinating. And she’s also very sensitive to my stress—she can tell when I’m under pressure, but she usually chooses not to point it out directly.

Luo: Some of my old friends from Smartisan still think I married one of my fans. But actually, she almost never interferes with what I do outside, while at home, I listen to her 100%. Sometimes she even jokes with me, saying that when we’re out, she’ll just pretend to be my fan. But that’s really not the case. I feel very lucky about this. Because for many entrepreneurs, if you don’t manage your family life well, then you lose your final safe harbor. And that’s a really tough thing to go through.

Li: Yes. At home, my wife is also the boss of everything. Even the money I earn, I hand it all over to her.

Luo: It actually feels pretty great. You know, during those ten golden years when the mobile internet was booming, a lot of young boys and girls caught the wave, built their careers, and made a fortune. But the truth is, quite a few of them ended up divorced—and the media loves to dig into those stories.

Li: Indeed.

Luo: You’re a very successful entrepreneur now, and you also have quite a big family. Have you ever thought about the possibility of those kind of "family feuds" drama that often comes with wealthy families?

Li: I’ve pretty much left that to my wife. From the time the kids were little, she’s always told them that brothers and sisters should never fight each other. What matters most is sticking together and protecting the family as a whole.

Luo: So you're quite confident in yourself, your wife and your children, right?

Li: These subtle influences actually matter a lot. They really shape the kids. At home they may bicker sometimes, but once they’re outside, especially at school, they stick together as one. I think that’s something you really have to cultivate from an early age.

Part 11

Which Chinese EV boss can be qualified as a super product manager?

Li believes that there's no shortcut to car R&D but time. Only with time, talent and hands-on management combined can someone create "super products". (03:54:27-03:56:19)

Luo: I’d like to follow up with a question: among all the leaders of China’s EV startups, who do you think also qualifies as a super product manager type of founder?

Li: Definitely Lei Jun.

Luo: You are the only two who really understand product.

Li: Or to be able to create "super products."

Luo: Yes, I feel the same.

Li: When it comes to developing a car, there are hardly any shortcuts other than putting in the time. Of course, you need the skills and expertise, but at the end of the day, it still comes down to the time you’re willing to invest.

Luo: Putting time alone isn’t enough. It has to be a fifty-fifty thing. You need to be a genius-level product manager, and at the same time, you have to give yourself fully to the work.

Li: Indeed. In this business, you need to live alongside your design, engineering, and product teams. You can’t just sit back and show up for reviews once in a while just because your're the boss. That simply doesn’t work.

Luo: Maybe that’s really how those old-world ICE car bosses do. When Lei Jun said he was entering the EV game, did you feel any pressure?

Li: Not at all. In fact, Lei even called me for that once. We talked for almost two hours. I actually had a late-night interview scheduled with an overseas candidate, but he just kept me on the line, so the interview kept getting pushed later. He asked me a lot of things, about my view of Tesla, about BYD, about Huawei, and we went really deep.

In the end, he asked me, "If you could only give me one piece of advice, what would it be?" And I told him: "Don’t use any proxies. Just go all in yourself, and you’ll succeed." That was the only advice I gave him. And later on, whenever we faced challenges, Lei Jun and his team really helped us a lot.

But you may ask: why should a tutor who helps students pick their college majors be worth paying attention to? In my view, what makes Zhang notable is not only his advice, but also the exchanges that unfold in his livestreams with students, teachers, and parents. These conversations reveal much about the realities of contemporary China—the concerns people carry, the direction of industry, and the pulse of society itself.

To be clear, presenting excerpts from his livestreams here does not mean I endorse all of his career suggestions—I’m not an expert in that field. Rather, I see his livestream room as a window into Chinese society. Below, I’ve shared a selection of dialogues along with some of my own reflections. If you find this valuable, feel free to leave a comment—I still have plenty of other interesting material that didn’t make it into today’s newsletter.

[Please note that the selected livestream clips are not necessarily from this year, but I believe some of the content is timeless]

Why China's national college entrance exam (gaokao) is now seen as increasingly competitive

Excerpt from 2:55-6:07:

Zhang: Talking about college entrance and talent selection—China’s honestly the fairest place in the world, no contest.

You may say, Mr. Zhang, that rat race in China is mad, and that kids in middle and high school are under huge pressure. You’re right about that. But then tell me this—if we switch to some other way of selecting talent, can you guarantee it will be absolutely fair? And suppose there's really a way for absolutely fair selection, will you buy it?

Suppose we ditch the college entrance exams and try "all-round education". Whose kid does better in sports? Whose kid plays better piano? Whose kid speaks better on stage, has stronger leadership, better communication skills? If we use that to decide who gets into university and who counts as talent, sure, the kids might feel happier in school. But do you really think that’s an acceptable way to select talent?

Let me put it this way—do you know why kids today feel so stressed, so burned out? In reality, their enrollment rate is way higher than when we were students. The gross enrollment rate for high school and for universities is much higher than in our time, after all those years of enrollment expansion in China. But why we feel today’s kids are under even more pressure?

It’s actually because that the parents’ mindset is different nowadays. Back in our time, honestly speaking, our parents didn’t place such high expectations on us. Most of them lived in the rural areas or small towns, so their expectations weren’t that high. But today’s parents? Totally different. Think about it—you’ve worked so hard to buy a school-district apartment in Beijing, to settle down in a city like Suzhou, to build a life in Shenzhen. Parents nowadays are already outstanding themselves.

Now imagine this—you tell a pair today, that their kid can only go to a vocational school. Will they accept it? No, they won’t. And that’s the real reason kids feel so much pressure today: parents can’t accept the fact that maybe their child won’t make it to high school. Back in our day, parents could accept that. But now? What really makes education so heated is the parents’ mindset. It’s us—our generation of parents, especially people like me, born in the 80s. Starting from the late 90s, China expanded higher education enrollment. I went to college in 2003. Most of us back then made it from the countryside to the cities through education and hard work. And once we settled in the city, we wanted our kids to make their living there too. We don’t want to accept our kids going to a technical or vocational school. So at the root of it all, it’s our mindset as parents that drives this pressure. Enditem

Comment: China's college entrance examination, or gaokao, may not be the most popular selection system, but it is perhaps the one that best fits China’s current realities. At the same time, mechanisms such as the “strengthening the foundation” (qiangji) program in recent years have created more possibilities for students with exceptional talent in certain subjects, even if such initiatives remain a topic of debate.

My parents were born in the 1960s, part of China’s baby boom generation. As their children, those of us born around 1990 also belonged to a particularly competitive cohort. I still remember reading statistics back in middle school and realizing how intense the competition was for my generation — what people today would call the most “involuted” (rat race, or "juan"). Yet, nearly 20 years later, competition among Chinese students remains just as fierce. I believe that high-quality educational resources will continue to be in short supply for quite some time, especially in first-tier cities like Beijing and Shanghai, where competition for access will always be intense. On the other hand, I agree with Zhang Xuefeng’s point that parents’ mindsets differ significantly across generations.

For our generation, whether in the gaokao or the transition from middle school to high school, failing to get into a university and instead attending a technical or vocational school was not considered unacceptable. Besides, very few of our parents had university degrees. In my own case, neither of my parents ever attended a regular university, and in fact no one in my extended family had gone to college before me. Expectations at the time were therefore focused simply on achieving the goal of entering university.

Today’s parents, by contrast, increasingly have university educations themselves. The market for gaokao tutoring and college application counseling has expanded rapidly, while social media has opened up far more channels of information. As a result, the information gap around filling out applications and planning for the future has narrowed to some extent. At the same time, however, certain majors — such as civil engineering — have lost their appeal as China’s economic model shifts. Parents now worry not only about whether their children can get into university, but also about whether they choose the right major, since the wrong choice could limit their future development.

Zhang Xuefeng speaks with a high school student in her fifth consecutive year of retaking the national college entrance exam

Excerpt from 12:16-15:31:

Zhang: Don’t ever believe that a degree can give you everything, it can't. There are plenty of bachelor’s, master’s, even PhD graduates out there who still can’t find a job, who end up achieving nothing. So don’t fool yourself into thinking that a degree solves everything.

Student: But I'm still not sure which subjects to choose for my college entrance exam. [Editor's note: In China's national college entrance exam (Gaokao), beside Chinese, Math and Foreign Language, students select three out of six from two streams of subjects: Arts (Humanities) or Science, with Arts representing History, Geography, and Politics, and Science representing Physics, Chemistry, and Biology. Different choices in Gaokao subjects have a huge say on the range of university majors that a student can apply for.]

Zhang: Don’t get stuck on this, kid. Remember—scores for Science subjects can go endlessly low, but at least with Arts they won’t. If I were you, honestly, I’d probably choose Arts subjects only. Let me give you an example. Take Geography—say in human geography, you get zero. Fine, then just focus on physical geography. If you memorize everything about physical geography, you can score at least 40 points.

Student: But if I choose pure arts, then later on I can only stick with the humanities majors. Won’t that make my career really limited?

Zhang: Let me put it straight, kid. You pick Science, but you can only score a little over 40 in physics. Do you really think it can give you a wide career path? When you get to university, will you even be able to understand what you’re studying?

Student: After repeating school for so many years, I honestly don’t even know whether my struggles with physics and chemistry were because I really couldn’t understand them, or because I just never studied hard. I’m already confused.

Zhang: What you really need to learn is how to review and reflect. Remember this: society works like this—it’s about discovering problems, analyzing problems, solving problems, and then verifying results. Most people can’t even do the first step. If you can get to the second step—analyzing the problem—you’ll already do pretty well in this world. If you can reach the third step—actually solving the problem—you’re already quite successful. And if you can make it to the fourth step—verifying results—you’re truly outstanding, the best of the best.

Zhang: Most people only get as far as step one: they just see a problem, but they don’t know how to analyze it. If you can analyze, you’ll do fine. If you can solve it, you’ll do very well. If you can verify results, then you’re at the top. So, my advice—focus on at least making it to step two, okay?

Zhang: And one last word to you, kid. If you still can't make it to undergraduate this year, choose a vocational school and move on. Everything I just told you, I said not only for you, but really to help save your parents. Enditem

Comment: When I was studying in the United States, I never really talked with my American classmates about their college application experiences. What I did know was that some of them would take a gap year after being admitted to college to gain life experience, but I rarely heard of anyone retaking entrance exams for several years just to get into a university. If you know more about this, feel free to share in the comments.

When I was in college in Shanghai (2008-2012), one of my three roommates had taken the gaokao three times before being admitted. The other two were local students from Shanghai (in China, students who apply to universities in their home province generally enjoy an advantage over out-of-province applicants). A close friend of mine from the dorm next door also had to retake the gaokao once before making it into my university. In China, there are even schools dedicated specifically to students who repeat a year or more, and in such places you really do see students who have been at it for more than one extra year.

In fact, Chinese academics have also debated the amount of time invested in schooling. For instance, economist Yao Yang suggested last year that the zhongkao (the high school entrance examination) should be abolished to reduce the excessive years of exam-focused competition. The question remains unresolved, but if someone were to raise such a proposal in the future, I would not be surprised.

Red Star News: You have repeatedly called for “abolishing the zhongkao and shortening the school system.” What is the starting point for this proposal?

Yao Yang: First, looking at the current state of education, students are wasting at least two years — the third year of high school is spent cramming for the gaokao, the third year of middle school is spent cramming for the zhongkao, and even the sixth grade of primary school often turns into test-prep. So ten years of compulsory education is entirely sufficient. Abolishing the zhongkao would help reduce parents’ incentive to push their children into endless competition.

[Editor's note: China’s current education system consists of six years of primary school, three years of junior middle school, and three years of senior high school. Under current regulations, China guarantees students six years of primary education and three years of junior middle school, known collectively as the nine-year compulsory education stage.]

Second, many major Chinese enterprises are actively promoting industrial automation. Today, the level of automation in domestic factories is already very high, and the workers operating these modern machines are themselves becoming more skilled. We can no longer define workers with outdated notions; modern workers need to have a certain degree of creativity and problem-solving ability. At a minimum, they should have received junior college or vocational college education in order to handle the demands of today’s production lines.

That is why I propose abolishing the zhongkao and implementing ten years of integrated compulsory education — the goal is to ensure that all children go on to high school, rather than being diverted too early into secondary vocational education. The selection of talent should be left to the gaokao; only at that stage should students decide whether to pursue technical training or continue on to university.

Zhang Xuefeng tells students success in China’s system is not all about connections

Excerpt from 7:44-9:36:

Zhang: Honestly, when it comes to working inside the system (or tizhi, mainly referring to China's public sector, including branches such as government bodies, public institutions, and state-owned companies), it’s not at all like what many of you imagine. People say, "oh, you need connectionsgu, or guanxi." But let me tell you, if that’s the way you think, your vision isn’t that broad yet.

Once you’ve seen how things really work inside, you’ll realize—luck matters a lot. Timing and fate matter a lot. Things don’t play out the way you picture them. It’s extremely complicated, and you can’t explain it in just one or two sentences. Anything can happen, any decision can happen. Honestly, it feels like metaphysics sometimes.

I’ll give you an example. I had a friend—if he hadn’t transferred to another place back then, today he might already be deputy division chief (or fu chu, a rank in China's bureaucratic hierarchy, which applies to all branches of China's public sector. A deputy county head ranks at deputy division chief level). But just because that move, now his own apprentice has even risen higher than him, and he’s still stuck. That’s how unpredictable it is. It really is like fate, like metaphysics.

So don’t reduce everything to "it’s all about connections." Please don’t. Of course, connections can play a role, but that’s not the whole picture. There are different paths, different ways. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. It’s not as simple as "if you have it, you succeed; if you don’t, you fail." No—it’s about finding the correct path. But sometimes whether you can find this path depends really on luck.

However, behind what looks like luck or fate, what really matters is to put effort into it. Where you put your time, your energy, your focus—that’s what makes the difference in the long run. Enditem

Comment: I know that in many “China 101” materials for international visitors, there is often a special section devoted to explaining guanxi. Wikipedia, for example, has a line that contrasts Chinese and Western practices in this way: “Unlike in the West, guanxi relationships are almost never established purely through formal meetings but must also include spending time to get to know each other during tea sessions, dinner banquets, or other personal meetings. Essentially, guanxi requires a personal bond before any business relationship can develop. As a result, guanxi relationships are often more tightly bound than relationships in Western personal social networks.”

I don’t fully agree with this view. It’s true that connections in Chinese culture have their own distinct features, but to suggest that in the West you can get things done without connections—or that relationships don’t matter there—doesn’t seem accurate either. I remember during my MBA studies in the United States, we had dedicated networking sessions where you were expected to build ties with company representatives over banquets or cocktail events.

In fact, I think that in most countries and societies, the importance of connections is more or less the same. What differs are the forms these connections take and how they are cultivated [tea versus coffee, for instance]. If a Chinese student believes that working within the system is impossible without preexisting connections, that is absolutely a misconception. Every individual, as a member of society, is constantly building a personal network throughout their career. These networks inevitably shape the development of both their work and their lives—and this is by no means unique to China.

A senior high school teacher sought advice from Zhang Xuefeng about his students’ future paths

Excerpt from 00:00-07:08:

[Editor's note: This section of the dialogue has been partially abridged for brevity]

Teacher: Our school is at a relatively low level. For example, when the full score of the zhongkao (senior high school entrance exam) in our town was 850. The top high schools set their cutoffs around 750, while our school admitted students with scores as low as 400.

Zhang: Let me ask you one question. Each year, how many of your students go on to an undergraduate program?

Teacher: We have a little over 300 students in the graduating class, and only about 10 make it into undergraduate programs. My first question is this: if some students barely meet the cutoff for the Second Enrollment Batch (二本/Erben), what should I tell them when they ask whether to pay the high tuition for Erben or to choose a public vocational/junior college instead?

[Editor's note: In China, universities used to admit students in different “enrollment batches” — Yiben (first batch), Erben (second batch), and Sanben (third batch) — with Yiben generally seen as the most prestigious, though the government is now reforming the system to phase out these divisions.]

Zhang: Which province are you in?

Teacher: Gansu. Also, what we now call Erben in some places includes what used to be the third enrollment batch (Sanben), and the tuition can be quite high—18,000 yuan (about 2,500 U.S. dollars) a year, even over 20,000. Many of our students are from poor rural families. That’s why I’m raising this: our students’ families have limited means and limited exposure, so when it comes to filling out applications after the gaokao, the only people they can really turn to are us teachers. So for those who just scrape past the Erben cutoff (二本线), should we encourage them to enroll in Erben, or advise them to step down a notch and choose a public vocational college with stronger programs?

Zhang: First, let’s give this teacher a big round of applause. I truly want to thank you on behalf of your students. If most high school teachers in China had your mindset and sense of responsibility, our education would only improve. What you’re doing is far greater than what I do—you’re working directly at the grassroots to help many students. In our respective fields, we’re both doing our part for the country.

Now, to your question: if a family’s finances are tight, I don’t think it’s necessary to pay such high fees just to enroll in Second Enrollment Batch (二本). That’s why I asked which province you’re in—baseline standards differ by region. Frankly, in the Northeast and Northwest, if a student only just meets the Erben line, their academic foundation often isn’t comparable to peers from some other provinces. For example, the Erben cutoff in Heilongjiang might be just over 300 points; in Gansu it may be under 400. If a student is scoring in the low-to-mid 300s, it’s unrealistic to expect that they’ll scrape into an undergraduate program and then go on to a master’s. It’s very hard.

Second, many vocational/junior colleges now lead to strong employment outcomes. In Suzhou, for instance, many manufacturing firms are in real need of highly skilled technicians. If someone picks up solid skills in certain science-and-engineering fields and works steadily for a few years, the pay is not low. People often say blue-collar wages and status in China lag behind those abroad. But consider this: in many countries, people treat so-called blue-collar work as a lifelong career. How many of us do that here? You often see young people quit factory or corporate jobs after a year because the work feels too hard.

I think this reflects a broader social restlessness—people are dazzled by talk of million-yuan salaries, and inflated consumption desires make everyone impatient, which really affects young people.

So, if a student can learn strong technical skills at a good vocational/junior college and then enter a quality firm, in many cases their employment prospects won’t be worse than those of undergraduates. If the family is well-off or the student is personally determined to continue studying, then a First Enrollment Batch (一本/Yiben) undergraduate path is an option. But if money is tight, I would recommend a solid vocational/junior college, learn a trade, and broaden one’s horizons.

In my view, if a student at a good vocational school is humble, grounded, and sticks with a field for three to five years—or five to ten years—they won’t be worse off than so-called undergraduates. That’s my personal take. Enditem

Comment: The reason Zhang Xuefeng publicly praised this teacher during the livestream is that he knows many middle and high schools in China evaluate teachers largely based on their students’ gaokao results. Yet enrolling in so-called “better” universities does not always mean choosing the path best suited to a student’s personal circumstances. This teacher, by putting students’ long-term interests first even at the expense of his own performance evaluation, showed a rare sense of dedication.

At the same time, Zhang’s remarks about some young Chinese quitting blue-collar jobs quickly—or being unwilling to take such jobs at all—do reflect reality. This is also why, in recent years, some media outlets have urged students to “take off Kong Yiji’s long gown,” meaning that even those with higher education should have the openness and awareness to consider blue-collar work, and to take a more practical approach in choosing careers. This reflects broader dynamics tied to China’s economic transition, challenges in the job market, and attitudes among students toward employment.

Readers of my newsletter will know I often feature work from the WeChat blog of the Portrait (人物) magazine. Recently, they ran a call for submissions and received over 1,600 personal stories from Chinese people across the country and around the world — with those abroad mostly being Chinese travelers. More than 100 of them mentioned “summer period,” so the editors created a special summer-themed issue. The format is simple: each entry lists the contributor’s name (often a screen name), their location at the time of writing, and their age.

From the details provided, you can tell that the youngest contributor was about 15, the oldest around 46, with most falling in the 20–40 range. The content itself was remarkably varied: a young delivery worker caught in China’s food-delivery price wars, a Chinese tourist in Japan, someone savoring the rare summer joy of biting into a perfectly crisp peach, a fresh graduate waiting for a job offer, someone reflecting on the “shape of life,” another searching for housing in a new city, one reeling from a partner’s infidelity, and someone whose day was simply marked by buying an ice cream … only to drop it on the ground.

These days, more and more people prefer bite-sized information or short videos. I’ve often wondered whether the newsletter format would be affected by this trend—I don’t think it will. That said, today’s edition could almost be seen as a text-and-image version of TikTok: each entry, as I mentioned, is short and quick to read, and scrolling through them feels a bit like swiping on TikTok. I’m not sure if the editor of Portrait had that in mind when designing this issue, but it wouldn’t surprise me. (I didn’t count precisely, but the editor included at least around 80 entries in a single article.)

You might also spot my own entry among them—one I wrote in the same style as the others and added in this newsletter. Shouldn’t be too hard to find; think of it as a little game. Because of surgery on my left foot, I’ve spent most of this summer in bed. I want to thank the friends who visited or sent kind messages during this summer.

It’s impossible to capture everyone’s summer in a single sentence. So—what was yours like? Feel free to share it in the same format.

Part 1 Those still blessed with summer vacations

Xuxu @ Fuzhou, Fujian, 22：

Just graduated and taking a gap at home. At my aunt’s place, looking at the distant mountains through a fish tank and a window — life is a verb.

Bamboobro @ Anshun, Guizhou, 22:

Had my last dinner at home on July 1st. It was pouring outside, but I still put on a raincoat and went out to buy all the ingredients I wanted. First time buying meat and veggies on my own without mom's help. Graduating from college didn't magically turn me into a "read adult", but maybe a bit of innocence is just part of who we are. I bought the groceries home anyway, didn’t I?

Mashimaro @ Hangzhou, Zhejiang, 22:

Grandpa hadn't been feeling too well after his surgery in June, so he came to us in Hangzhou for a check-up. Since my parents both need to work, I was in charge of grandpa's lunch during his stay. He loves to mix soup with rice, so I had to come up with different soups every day for him, and somehow, it also helped me keep my own meals on track.

This was the first time since I grew up that I got to spend such a long time with Grandpa, and together we shared some special moments. Since I've just graduated from college, I showed Grandpa my graduation photos. My graduate admission letter also arrived during his stay, and Grandpa was the first other than me to see it.

Before Grandpa went back home, I took him to a famous restaurant in town. He'd always been so frugal for his entire life that he even refused to go to a restaurant at the very beginning, but I still managed to persuade him into this happy meal.

When Grandpa left, I felt a little empty inside. Who knew a summer with someone around could feel so warm? It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever…

Little Sheep @ under Mount Fuji, 22:

spent my graduation trip cycling around Lake Kawaguchi at the foot of Mount Fuji with someone special. We kept riding on and on, all the way into the endless greeness, like we never wanted to stop. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure about growing up anymore. I wish I could just seize my youth in this summer forever.

winnie @ Ordos, Inner Mongolia, 25:

Lying in the desert, staring up at the sky, I found myself wasn't even able to count the stars in the tiny sliver of sky above me. Being on the dunes, I couldn’t care less about the world, but just want to hold onto this moment. I guess this is the simple happiness of a kid who’s stolen two months of summer after quitting a job.

Xiao Hao @ Guangzhou, Guangdong, 22:

On his last day of work before summer vacation, Dad and his workmates gathered to have a meal together. Turns out, even adults celebrate the arrival of summer vacation in their own way.

Part 2 Summer before twenties

Xiao Sun @ Shanghai, 15:

Speaking of July, the moment that my high school entrance exam results popped out on the computer screen is definitely the first thing that comes to my mind. I was lucky enough to be accepted into my dream school, and I could only remember my heartbeat while looking back at that moment.

The notebook in the photo holds every little detail of my final year of middle school. Looking back now, every moment, with all its mixed emotions of bitterness, joy and excitement, was totally worth it!

411 @ Zhengzhou, Henan, 17:

5000 rope jumps in one go for the first time, nice!

McDonald worshipper @ Beijing, 17:

July is probably the freest month of summer for students who have finished the college entrance exam. Too bad I’m still 300 days away from it as a new senior. Balls left on top of the class locker were still telling the story of our carefree youth, but putting balls up there was actually not allowed, so this scene in the photo lasted only one short afternoon.

A new senior @ Dongguan, Guangdong, 17:

Just spent an anxious and fleeting July. When it comes to the most unforgettable moment, it’s probably the hour I spent trying to figure out a physics force analysis question for the college entrance exam.

In the not-so-big classroom, all I could hear was pens and paper scratching, and the endless buzzing in my head. Staring at my paper covered by red pen marks with my blurry eyes, I really couldn't tell whether I've understood the question nor not. It's said that people worry about different things at different stages of life. I keep wondering, what’s the adult's world really like?

Satisfied @ Anyang, Henan, 17:

I really love those super crispy peaches, but they’re only available in summer, so every year I would wait eagerly wait for the peach season to come. But his year, I searched for an entire month and still couldn’t find the kind I wanted.

Then, a few days ago, Grandma bought a few random peaches home. I took one bite, and it was exactly the kind I’ve been craving! My mood instantly brightened, and it felt like the peaches were glowing in front of me. It was honestly the happiest and luckiest moment of my summer. I wish all of you a lucky summer as I was at the moment I found that perfect peach.

A basketful of good luck @ Xi'an, Shaanxi, 18:

On a muggy afternoon right after tutoring, my student stopped me at the door, "This bread is really good, please take it.” Honestly, teaching her English took me way more effort than I spent in English myself, and I could be quite frustrating when she couldn't remember things I had already explained many times. But at that moment, it came to me that kids could be pretty cute sometimes. After all, bad grades don’t make a bad person, right?

What's up @ Henan, 18:

The coziest glance of summer captured by my hometown well.

Flying on sauce @ Hefei, Anhui, 19:

Failed again and again in baking. The first time, I forgot to buy a hand mixer, so I had to whip the egg whites by hand. It was so exhausting, like carrying 30 kilos of corn from the field to the town, only to not sell any and carry it all the way back home. The second time, I mistook salt for sugar, and the cake turned out to be so ridiculously salty that I felt like jumpping into the air and throw a boxing combo.

Part 3 My Tough Twenties

Lemon Puncher @ Inner Mongolia, 20:

The biggest winner in the food delivery war—hand-punched 80 cups of lemon juice in one day. Pain-free workout.

Liuxing @ Xiamen, Fujian, 20:

Had to sell the little house my family lived in for ten years to pay off debts. But at least things are more or less settled now, and we’re still together. That’s enough for me.

Middle-aged people can be fragile too, and I hope Dad can find the strength to pick himself up again. Watching old cartoons I used to love, I found myself keep pausing and staring at the subtitles, feeling like I can't laugh anymore. Being carefree is a privilege only for the young.

Gromit @ Fuzhou, Fujian, 24:

It was already 9 PM when I walked out of the studio, and I picked a random ice cream from a random shop, not to enjoy its coolness or sweetness, but just expecting it to fill my stomach.

This July, I really took a summer off for myself, but the sense of freedom, inspiration, opportunities, and breakthroughs I had hoped for never came. I’m still buried in a pile of resumes, wishing to be chosen by someone, proving over and over again how a perfect match I am to a job that barely covers my own living expenses. Sometimes, I feel like being in my twenties is really tough, and I don’t have any way back.

Coconut paste @ Beijing, 24:

Finished school this July and officially started my career, stepping into a new chapter of life. As soon as I arrived I had to work overtime for two consevutive weeks to complete a big task. I was so busy that my days felt dizzy.

Then, on my first day off with no overtime, I took this photo on my way home, and I suddenly found myself filled with mixed emotions. Maybe a shadow like this will be the "shape" of my life for a long time to come, and it’s also the "shape" of most people’s lives in this world.

Xiao Xin @ Sichuan, 24:

Weeding with mama at hometown countryside and it was exhausting! I used to believe I could go back home to farm if one day I get tired of work, but this weeding really showed me how hard being a farmer really is!

Part 4 Earning money feels good

Zuo Zuo @ Beijing, 23:

Back in Beijing for another internship four years later. The last time I was here, I was only 19. It was February, and the pandemic hit. I was all alone in a strange city, breathing cautiously. It was my first time leaving home, I knew nothing, and I didn’t know anyone. I spent a cold winter in a small room with no windows, thinking about life in Beijing was so hard.

This time, I’m confidently talking to real estate agents, I’ve met two great roommates, and I’ve rented a cozy little place with great natural light. After unpacking, I stepped out onto the balcony, and the music in my headphones was just right for a clear summer night. Outside, the cars were rushing by, and I thought, "Growing up feels so good." Turns out, I can face the unknown with ease now.

Du Dong @ Beijing, 25:

Getting tired of my life in the boring day-after-day routine. One evening, I suddenly really wanted a speaker. I’d wanted to get a little Marshall speaker for my room for a long time, but always got caught up in comparisons and indecision.

That night, I didn’t want to wait anymore. I opened a delivery app and found exactly what I wanted, so I ordered it without hesitation. Forty minutes later, it arrived right at my desk. The moment the music filled the room and surrounded me, I couldn’t help but break in tears, as if I had regained some control over my emotions. No matter what, being an adult who can take care of their own expenses and find ways to heal themselves is something worth celebrating.

Pinecone @ Suzhou, Jiangsu, 29:

Went house-hunting with a real estate agent! Property prices have been gradually dropping over the years, and the apartment I like now only cost half of what it did when I first came to this city.

My family can’t provide me financial support in buying a house, but after working for six years, I can finally afford the down payment and monthly payments on my own. A year ago, I wouldn’t have even dared to dream of this. Now, I feel more motivation for my life. I can finally give my little cat a place to call home.

Lao Si @ Suzhou, Jiangsu, 33:

Never drove a car since I got my driver’s license ten years ago. But this year I had to practice driving again after moving to another city for a new job. It feels so good to be financially independent—I can afford to pay for a driving coach, and their attitude is way better than the one I had ten years ago. And I’m improving little by little.

One day, after finishing my driving practice, I suddenly felt really hungry but just couldn’t bring myself to order takeout or eat instant food. So, I quickly ordered some ingredients and cooked for the first time in this city. I made a pot of pork rip soup with pearl barley and winter melon. I can do a lot of things. I can take care of myself.

Part 5 Mother and Daughter, Sharing Destiny

Zhao Zhao @ Huanggang, Hubei, 20:

Went home for a week in early July and became my mom’s driver, picking her up from work every day. She had been at home recuperating, and this was her first time back at work after three years. When I saw her walking toward me, smiling happily as I picked her up, I suddenly remembered that before she got sick, she was always so confident like that. I hope my mom can stay bright and cheerful like this forever.

Moon keeps me in bed @ Nantong, Jiangsu, 22:

Had a meal with my mom and aunt, three women together. I’m about to graduate and feeling anxious about my future job; my mom has started her own business on her own; and my aunt is doing e-hailing to pay off her car loan. I wish them both a shining middle age, and I hope that I can achieve my own dreams too!

Xiao Wan @ Pingyao, Shanxi, 22:

Went to watch the movie Girl on Edge with my mom. It had been a long time since we watched a movie together because I’m usually away from home for school. I’ve previously bought her films about women like Her Story, Like A Rolling Stone, National Theatre Live: Prima Facie, and There’s Still Tomorrow. Although not many people in our small town watch these kinds of films, and mom might not fully understand their meaning, I still really want her to watch more of them and live her life more for herself.

Xiao Wang @ Chengdu, Sichuan,23:

In July, the stand-up comedian Fang Shaoli shared her 30 years of family sorrow in her show. Also in July, my mom, who had never traveled far alone before, came to Chengdu from our small town to find a job.

She didn’t know how to take the bus or subway, and she couldn’t figure out the complex roads of the city. I said I’d teach her, but she hesitated, saying she couldn’t learn. Over the weekend, I took her through the subway, showed her how to use apps to find routes, and how to take the bus and subway. Though my 53-year-old mom learned slowly, she eventually got the hang of it.

I also took her to visit a temple, and she prayed earnestly, hoping to find a good job. Before coming to Chengdu, she asked me in a video if she would embarrass me by coming here to work. I thought to myself: Of course not. I would be proud of her for being brave enough to step out.

Part 6 Dear Child

Sleepy fish @ Changsha, Hunan, 22:

My little niece gave a V-sign to the camera. The very last second she was trying to steal my ice-cream.

Tanna @ Chengdu, Sichuan, 28:

Another year in kindergarten for my little one, as he turned four and a half years old. My husband and I always juggled work and taking care of him together.

He’s really caring, knowing that we’re busy and don’t have time to take care of him. Since he was two, he’s been sleeping on his own, gets up by himself, puts on his clothes, and even helps me turn on the lights. If I don’t need to get up early, he’ll say, “Mom, I’m going to kindergarten now, sleep well, I love you.” Sometimes, when I’m sick, he’ll quietly close the door for me and bring me water.

There are moments when I feel really sad because he’s only four and a half, but he’s always so thoughtful, remembering all the little things in the house better than I do. In your last year in kindergarten, mom wish you can be a little happier and not worry so much, my dear.

Curly Me @ California, 42:

My number-loving little one was given the nickname "number guy" by his teacher in his first week of kindergarten.

Scene 1: What does two 0 make? Aren’t they 00? No, it’s 8 lying down, 8 needs a rest.

Scene 2: He bumped into something and cried, then pointed to his face and asked, “What number is this?” Mommy was totally confused. “Is there a number here?” “It’s 99,” he answered himself while sniffing, “When daddy cries, it’s 77.” Daddy didn't buy it, said, “77 for small eyes like mine and 99 for big ones like yours huh?"

Part 7 A Corner of the World

Bittermelon bee @ Lijiang, Yunnan, 18:

While walking by Lugu Lake, I suddenly heard someone joyfully shouted: "Wow, it’s so beautiful!" I looked up and was surprised to see a halo around the sun—my first time ever witnessing a sun halo with my own eyes.

Violet @ Beijing, 19:

Just received a precious gift in July. When I first arrived in Beijing, I met a German guy at the airport while charging my phone. He didn’t have a Chinese-standard charger, so I gave him mine, and received a Starbucks muffin, and a piece of fried chicken and McFlurry from McDonald, and the chance to speak in English with a foreigner for the first time in my life. We chatted for 40 minutes, and I’m really grateful to him for giving me a glimpse of a corner of the world.

North Star @ Kyoto, 21:

Went on a trip to Japan in July, and visited a bar in Kyoto that my favorite author, Tomihiko Morimi, often goes to. I didn't say anything since I don't speak Japanese, but after ordering a "fake Denki Bran," the bartender silently handed me the Denki Bran and pointed to Morimi's autograph in the bar’s guestbook.

I really appreciated the unspoken understanding. I chatted with a Japanese guy sitting next to me using a translation app, and when I was about to leave, I spoke with two young Chinese women sitting nearby. It turned out they were also Morimi fans, and I felt a deep connection and happiness in meeting people who share the same interests. It felt very much like a moment from The Night Is Short, Walk On Girl (though I’m a boy!).

Little tree @ Greece, 21:

As a theater lover, I finally had the chance to watch Oedipus Rex at the Ancient Theater of Epidaurus. Surrounded by mountains, with the nebulae clearly visible in the sky and birds flying by, the wind blowing through as Oedipus delivered his monologue—it was a moment when the call of Dionysus felt clearer than ever.

Fay @ Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia, 25:

On the last day in Kota Kinabalu, the sunset outside the café was incredibly beautiful. The entire beach seemed to be bathed in golden light. I asked two Muslim girls to take a picture of me and Lin. Later, when I took their photo, I watched them holding hands—wrapped in headscarves, with only their faces showing, the rest of their bodies carefully covered. We were so different, yet all I saw were two young, slightly shy girls with their pure, clear eyes. I said, "Don’t be shy, imagine you are going to fly!" And as I pressed the shutter, those words became my wish for them: I truly hope they will fly higher and further.

Sister Wang @ in the air, 30:

Just had my first time on an international long-haul flight, and I was excited, nervous, and full of anticipation. I met a kind lady who told me that the sunset wouldn’t happen until 11 PM. I opened the sunshade and captured the sun and clouds at 10 PM. It was beautiful, and it reminded me that life is all about experiencing new things.

Don't angry be crazy @ Hongkong, 30:

Hiked my favorite mountain with a friend who kept shouting "Heat can't stop us" in the hottest month of the year. During the hike I took this photo, which I still love to this day. As I write this now, a song comes to mind: "I want to be the wind, don’t worry about me, just let me find my own way."

Red @ Methven, New Zealand, 34:

Coming down from the snow mountains on my birthday. There was thick fog, and the visibility on the mountain road was less than 5 meters. I could feel the anxiety and tension from the other passengers, but when I saw how relaxed the driver was, I took a photo to capture the moment and then closed my eyes to sleep. I trusted the driver and trusted fate.

tango @ Altay-Hemu highway, Xinjiang, 35:

In the mountains around the outskirts of Altai, you often come across massive rocks. Sometimes only a small part is exposed, other times it's a complete boulder. The locals say they might be signs left by ancient glacial motions. It feels like touching something eternal, and it’s truly awe-inspiring.

Xiao @ Naples, Italy, 35:

Had dinner at a restaurant, and suddenly the music started playing. The servers began dancing—climbing tables, scaling walls, you name it. The customers got the signal too and started swaying with the beat. As an East Asian, my first thought was: Football victory? National Day? Anniversary? I asked my friend: "What happened?" and she said, "They’re just enjoying life." Watching me awkwardly stand there, wanting to join but too shy, one of the servers picked me up from the second floor, carried me to the first, and placed me on a table. Surrounded by a bunch of teenagers, I couldn’t help but let my body lead before my brain caught up.

Er Mao @ Madeira, Protugal, 37:

Spent a holiday on an island famous for its sea of clouds, and of course, had to catch the sunset over the clouds. It was a bit late by the time I got there, and the viewing platform was packed with tourists from all over the world, with unfamiliar languages flying everywhere. But in that moment, just as the sun set, everyone went quiet. Isn’t it strange how the world works? People can hate each other for anything, even go to war, but when the sun sets, we all hold our breath together.

Part 8 Eat well, live well

Qingli @ Xuancheng, Anhui, 20:

Coming up with summer limited recipies with mom during the summer vacation. Pineapple beef, lychee jasmine drinks, sugar-pickled cucumber......

DD @ Beijing, 22:

Spent another summer in campus. The cafeteria closed a few windows, so my friend and I ended up visiting the same noodle stand almost every day for a month. The guy running it got to know us and always asked, “Same as usual?” After a long and exhausting July, he finally got his short 10-day break. On the last day, he gave each of us a free meatball, and we promised to see each other in 10 days.

QQ @ Wuhan, 23:

Just graduated from school and started my job in July! Here's my company lunch!!! I found it way happier to work than to go to school, no more worries about grades, no more bring papers, and no more exams! Colleagues are awesome, the boss is super chill and tolerant, got two-days weekends, and I can even catch the sunset after work! It's hard for others to believe that I still have enough energy to dance for an hour and a half after a whole day of work! Everything falls into where I want perfectly!

Banxia @ Zhongshan, Guangdong, 27:

Cooked perfect sauced beef in July.

I can eat face-big bun @ Taiyuan, Shanxi, 32:

Enjoying lunch combo for 2 bucks downstairs: a bowl of veggies, a giant steamed bun as big as my face, and some green bean soup. So filling, so good, and such a deal, that I feel like plowing two acres of land after finishing it! Honestly, it's such a blessing to have a satisfying meal during work hours.

Tie Tie @ Guangzhou, Guangdong, 33:

Received some summer pine mushrooms from my hometown that my friend made and brought over. All the ingredients are from back home—one bite and I instantly caught nostalgia. So grateful to live nearby and have friends like this!

Jin Xin @ Nanjing, Jiangsu, 43：

July brings me back to those long holidays when I was a kid. Parents used to head out to the fields before dawn, leaving breakfast duties to the kids on vacation. To make breakfast quickly, I'd steam a big batch of buns the night before, then wake up early to cook some porridge, heat the buns, and prepare pickled garlic chives or garlic sprouts. Now I'm revisiting the memories of steaming buns again.

Part 9 Summer Suggestions

I Hate Cigarettes @ Yunnan, 20:

On my coach's car to the driving test. Three guys in the car were all smoking. The smell was still unbearable even though I wore a mask. I struggled the whole way, feeling sick and upset. When we finally arrived, I couldn't hold it in anymore and tearfully told the couch I didn't like the smoke. To my surprise, he immediately threw his cigarette away and told the others to stop smoking too. I felt a lot better, but even so, the smell still lingered, making me feel nauseous. For those who hate smoking like me, just speak up! Let’s stand against secondhand smoke!

Shelly Senbei Rice Cracker @ Shenzhen, Guangdong, 30:

Picked a pomelo from the tree outside the office building for its refreshing scent. It was such an ordinary, yet happy day. Not long after, I turned 30, and then my mom was diagnosed with health issues. She had two surgeries and just got discharged last week to rest at home. The summer heat was intense, and I was biking back and forth between the hospital and work. But every time I remembered that pomelo's fragrance, I felt like that’s what life is—a mix of the sweet and bitter.

On a serious note, for girls that are post-menopausal and experience any bleeding, please, please, see a doctor. Also, don’t skip the HPV check.

Part 10 Summer of Goodbye

Duo Duo @ Honghu, Hubei, 27:

July, when cicadas sing the loudiest in my hometown, my two-year-old puppy ran into a car and left me forever. Holding its warm but lifeless body, feeling no heartbeat anymore, was a heartbreak I had never experienced before. Later, Deepseek told me that "when animals suffer sudden injuries, their bodies immediately activate protective mechanisms and release a large amount of soothing endorphins. It's like how we pull our hand away before we even realize we’re burned—their pain perception is delayed much more than ours." I guess it was meant to comfort me. Next life, it will be my turn to be your puppy. (The photo is the last smile of my puppy.)

Liu1. @ Chengdu, Sichuan, 30:

At the beginning of July, my grandmother, who had always been by my side, passed away. For the past two weeks, I’ve been looking at her photos and videos every day, still in disbelief, unwilling to accept it.

The photo was taken the week before she passed, when I went back home to visit her. Her cancer had recurred and spread to her abdomen, leaving her last days spent in bed, supported only by medicine. As we grow up, we end up having loved ones on both sides of the world. I hope that, on the other side, my grandma can be free from pain and win every poker game.

Wan @ Suzhou, Jiangsu, 38:

Took charge of the family ancestor worship ritual after Dad passed away last year. Being alone in the old house, busying myself with everything, and spent four hours completing the entire ceremony. Got burned by the melted candle, and the elders said it was my family up in the sky responding to me., and their words made me break down and cry.

This year, Mom has been fragile, and I've had to be one with stabler emotion. But then I suddenly realized — I am also a daughter who has lost her father.

Eggplant Ma @ Baicheng, Jilin, 38:

Just finished cleaning out the old house's storage, and realized that the space, once so full, hardly had anything worth keeping. It's a shame that it took my father's sudden passing for me to finally have time to come back and sort through everything. After everything was packed away, I took a photo to say goodbye to this place. From now on, this village will no longer have a place for me to call home......

Murphy @ Qingdao, Shandong, 42:

Lying on the beach, feeling lazy and peaceful. But just a few days later, I was told that my father was critically ill. Now, I'm at the airport, waiting for an 8-hour flight back to him, terrified that he might leave before I can get there. At this moment, I can't stop wondering—wondering whether these years away from home were worth it, wondering if I've let my parents down. Maybe there will be no answers anymore...

Plums @ Zhengzhou, Henan, 46:

Even the most shiny white-collar city guy still has to go back home to water the corn for parents under 38°C...

Part 11 Love is Bitter, Love is Sweet

Purple @ Jinan, Shandong, 21:

Waiting outside the office of my crush, where we found two little kittens together. Sent her a message asking if she could sponsor some cat food, but honestly, it’s more about wanting to see her. Kittys, do you think I’m sneaky?

Galaxy of stars @ Tianjin, 31:

How ironic — on the hottest of days, life brought the coldest of temperatures. The night before our engagement party, our 12-year-long relationship unexpectedly ended. From both of our perspectives, neither was wrong, but even the strongest love can’t withstand the weight of parental wishes. And just like that, everything stopped. I felt powerless, and in that moment, I realized how precious the present truly is. No need to look back, no need to worry about the future. A new day lays down a new path, and people always know how to carry on.

Big Dreamie @ a tiny lovely town, 40:

Caught my husband cheating last week. We've come all the way from two college graduates without a dime to our name to a happy family together in big city. Maybe it was because of my depression and the stress of taking care of our kids that distracted me from his feelings. Although he was still trying to be a good husband and a good father, he'd cheated on me for nearly two years. I’ve barely eaten or slept over the week, relying on sleeping pills to get 3-4 hours a night, and have lost around 6 lbs. I can't take it anymore. July please just go......

Fusi @ Daxing, Beijing, 42:

Met Mr. Yang for the first time on July 1st at a KFC in a gentle evening. Ever since that day, it's been nothing but happiness—feeling like I'm falling in love again. Who knows what the future holds, but I'm enjoying the moment. Right now, I don't feel that same sweetness, but every time we meet, I still get so happy. Not thinking about forever, just focusing on cherishing what we have.

Part 12 July's Healing Moments

With the Wild @ Wuhu, Anhui, 23:

One bollard for every granny to sit on, lovely summer moment.

Tangerine @ Chengdu, Sichuan, 23:

Just left home and moved into an old apartment. No job yet, and not sure about how to get by next month. But the flowers outside my window bloom beautifully.

Chestnut @ Guangzhou, Guangdong, 23:

Tired of Guangzhou's heavy rain following every scorching day in July. One day, as I was walking down the street, I saw little clusters of mushrooms quietly poking through the pavement. Turns out, rain isn’t always that bad.

Happy crybaby @ Xinzhou, Shanxi, 23:

July, one year before graduation. Confused about the present, and anxious about the future. I want to be a boss adult—sharp, skilled, eloquent, slaying one project after another. But they all seem so hard. Just when I’m feeling lost, I looked up and saw a lovely face waiting for me to come home. In my grandma’s eyes, taking train back home from Beijing alone already makes me an awsome kid.

Xiao Lv @ Shenzhen, Guangdong, 26:

Caught the most beautiful sunset after dinner with colleagues. We raced to the top floor of the office like kids to capture the moment. Sunsets just have the magic—they make you forget all the bad things like office stress, the fact that parents love my brother more, and everything else that’s been bothering me.

Xiao Ni @ Shanghai, 26：

Had the first client visit for the new job, and I zoned out during the meeting because I was still getting the hang of the business. In the dim, cramped conference room, I stared out the window and caught a glimpse of a rainbow right after the rain. It lasted only two minutes, but I was the only one who saw it.

happiness @ Guangzhou, Guangdong, 27:

Ran into the annoying leafleteer again who had harassed me before. It's already the third time, but this time he grabbed my arm and tried to stop me from leaving. Disgusting.

I told this to a colleague that I'm having a crush on , and he spent the whole night making me feel better. The next day, before I left work for home, he sent me a full screen of messages, telling me that if I ever ran into this guy again, don't be afraid, and just call the police or go to the nearest police station. He even attached a screenshot of the route map and the police's complaint hotline. When I saw the time on that screenshot— 11 AM, on his day off—I almost started crying. He went all the way out just to send me this info? Even though I still wonder what exactly we are, at that moment, I felt the warmth of being cared for.

Best Persimmon Cake @ Toronto, 32:

On a midsummer day by the lake, I said to my best friend's little daughter, who just turned five, "Let's take a picture together!" I held her hand, and she, with perfect timing, tiptoed and tilted her head back, looking just like a little swan. In that moment, a small piece of happiness was written into every summer to come.

Nnn @ Hangzhou, Zhejiang, 35:

Bought a can of congee on a whim, and found that the plastic spoon that comes with the can now folds in three parts, way handier than the two-fold ones from my childhood. Here’s to all the tiny, beautiful changes in life!

JJ @Beijing, 35 Writing the introduction to one of my favorite pieces this year — Becoming Ma Jingfen — on Substack — from a hospital bed on the eve of foot surgery. I’ve always had mixed feelings about summer. I grew up in a southern city where summer meant stifling humidity, weeks of rain, even the onset of the plum-rain season. Clothes would go musty, water would pool on the floors. And as someone who feels the seasons quite strongly, the heavy, damp air of summer often leaves me restless and uneasy. I’ve come to prefer the dry, crisp climate of the north — for me, it’s a much healthier balance.

Good Health for Mommy @ Zhengzhou, Henan, 38:

Suddenly remembered the beer in the fridge had been there for days while walking out of the gym. Called hubby to ask if he wanted some fried chicken to go with it, but no answer—probably putting the kid to bed. So I decided to head home anyway... and guess what? The kid was already asleep and the fried chicken was waiting for me. He said he thought the beer should be dealt with too! Hahaha, truly my excellent partner of 12 years!

Yuyo @ Beijing, 40:

Got struck by a sudden idea in the suffocatingly hot kitchen, and made a classical beauty with willow-leaf eyebrows, almond-shaped eyes, and a cherry-like mouth to keep me company. And just like that, I felt so much better!

Part 12 July's Special

Dandan @ Taiyuan, Shanxi, 20:

Not happy in July, but at least the gourds in my garden are growing plump and round.

Lyn @ Hongkong, 21:

Hong Kong in July was humid and stifling. The boy I once loved secretly suddenly messaged me, saying he was coming to Hong Kong for his PhD and wanted to meet. I stared at the screen for a few seconds, feeling my heart skip a beat—those familiar flip came rushing back. We arranged to meet at the foot of Victoria Peak.

As we walked, we talked about the past, caught up on life, and shared our future plans—like two old friends reunited after a long time. The conversation flowed easily, no awkwardness, no forced enthusiasm. But as we neared the summit, the sky darkened quickly, and a heavy downpour began. I pulled out my umbrella from my bag, but he stood in the rain, soaking his clothes.

"You go ahead, don't wait for me," I said. He hesitated for a moment, then rushed into the rain. I walked slowly, holding the umbrella. The rain hammered on the fabric, my shoes got totally wet, and every step felt like stepping into a little puddle.

It was a ten-minute walk, and the rain drowned out all sound, but my mind was strangely peaceful. And then it hit me—this is what it feels like not to like someone anymore. No worries about whether he’s getting wet, no frustration about why he didn’t wait for me, not even a thought about what he’s thinking at that moment. All the carefulness, all the anxious uncertainty we once had, vanished into the July rain.

Don't wait till it's gone @ Jiangxi, 23:

It's been a long time since all four pairs of shoes appeared at the door. My parents have been fighting and giving each other the cold shoulder so often lately that my dad hasn’t spent a night at home for a while, instead spending his nights on chair in his little shop. I’ve already given up any hope for their relationship, but seeing those four pairs of shoes at the door still makes me nostalgic for those quiet, happier days.

A Pan @ Fujian, 28:

Just celebrated the 4th anniversary of my career—time really flies! I've been thinking about an old colleague, my mentor, who introduced me to this design industry. After the pandemic, he left the company and moved, but we ended up jumping to the same place together again. I wasn't quite used to the new environment, so I cried for two days. Then, one rainy evening on our way back home, he casually said, "Hey, look, ten bucks on the ground! You take five, I’ll take five." It was so obvious he was pretending, how could anyone find dry cash on the ground in a rainy day?

Even though I’m not in design anymore, I still remember that rainy night when we worked until midnight. Just five minutes ago, I was cleaning out my drawer and found that five bucks.

Yan @ Suzhou, Jiangsu, 30:

Just celebrated my mom's birthday on 26th July. But but my grandma, her mom, has been in the ICU for over a month now. Grandma's condition has been fluctuating and still not looking good. My mom, totally worn out, had already forgotten her own birthday. When I brought a cake home, she just asked me to put it in the fridge.

My mom, as a typical Leo, is usually so lively, but my grandma’s accident has been like a muffler in our home. Our rare conversations these days are mostly about grandma's health. And every time we talk about it, I feel like my mom is trying to protect me from this monster of "death", but still, it’s there.

My grandma spent her life being frugal, but left everything she had to her grandkids. Mom tells me that when I was little, grandma would help carrying water for others in the field for five yuan a day, yet she would spend all ten yuan in her pocket to buy me things. One day I casually mentioned I liked spicy food, and from then on, every time we visited grandma, she’d make snow-cabbage with green chili, even though the smoke would make her cough. Even after I'm well over thirty, that dish is always on the table every time I visit her.

That day, at dinner, mom only had a few bites before she had to head back for grandma. As she was putting on her shoes, I reminded her about the cake in the fridge. She said it could wait till tomorrow, but then hesitated, took off her shoes, walked to the kitchen, grabbed the cake and said, "My birthday is today. If I don’t eat it now, it won’t mean anything." After she left, I stood on the balcony watching the clouds. The sky in Suzhou, affected by the typhoon, was stunning—colorful, ever-changing clouds moving so fast. It reminded me of the song "Yuzhen" that says: "The wind’s picking up, it’s time to go back, you see, you see, all the past is right here." And it turns out my grandma’s name is Yuzhen.

cookie @ Ningbo, Zhejiang, 32:

Nothing more painful than an escaped ice cream.

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Rui just wrapped up a packed trip to China in late July, leading a delegation of AI founders and investors from Silicon Valley, Europe, and India. They visited the 2025 World Artificial Intelligence Conference (WAIC) in Shanghai, held private meetings with leading VCs, and met with a wide spectrum of companies — from tech giants like Baidu, Alibaba, and Tencent (BAT), to unicorns and startups less than a year old.

Since China's “DeepSeek moment” earlier this year, global curiosity about its AI scene has only grown. In this episode, Rui shares what she saw on the ground: how China is approaching embodied intelligence, what international investors found surprising, where China’s AI strengths and weaknesses lie, and why the “energy problem” in China's AI sector may already be solved.

We also discuss Rui’s upcoming deep tech trip to China this September, her thoughts on China’s AI talent pool, fundraising environment, education system, and which cities are emerging as the next big AI hubs in China.

Highlights

06:21 - Robotics, embodied intelligence, and cost-effectiveness

11:56 - Energy is considered a solved problem in China's AI sector

13:35 - Comparing the U.S. and Chinese AI ecosystems

14:55 - Labor models in China’s AI firms

18:25 – Fundraising situation for AI industry in China

20:46 – AI education in China

24:34 – Beijing, Shanghai, Hangzhou ... competition for AI hub heating in China

27:51 – The real headache for Chinese AI companies

30:35 – Rui’s next China trip: four cities, deeper tech

35:08 – Who’s more likely to lead the AI future: China or Silicon Valley?

Recommendation:

Rui: The Ministry for the Future, by Kim Stanley Robinson

JJ: “硅谷AI妈妈” account running by Rui on Xiaohongshu

Like the episode?

Follow Inside the China Room on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or YouTube. New episodes drop every two weeks. Share & rate us to help more listeners discover expert perspectives from inside China.

Also available on 小宇宙 Xiaoyuzhou FM for listeners in China.

Set in a dark fantasy world at the end of the Ming Dynasty, WuChang: Fallen Feathers is China’s latest Souls-like title. It topped Steam’s China preorder chart earlier this year and officially launched worldwide on July 24. But beyond gameplay, it’s part of a growing wave of single-player Chinese blockbusters aiming for global reach — a trend that began with the buzz around Black Myth: Wukong.

In this episode, Jianlin and I share our first impressions of Wuchang, explore its cultural depth, and discuss how Chinese studios are making their mark — not just at home, but globally. We also dive into the business side: how Jianlin evaluates studios and what the future might hold for China's AAA game scene.

Games we touch on

Doom · Dark Souls: Remastered · Cyberpunk 2077 · Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice · Elden Ring · Phantom Blade Zero · God of War · Death Stranding · It Takes Two · Outer Wilds · Kingdom Rush

Highlights

04:35 - Why China’s recent AAA surge matters to gamers like Jianlin

06:02 - First impressions of the new release Wuchang: Fallen Feathers

11:59 - Black Myth: Wukong — trailblazer for Chinese AAA titles

16:18 - Have Chinese AAA games caught up with classics like Sekiro and Elden Ring?

21:12 - How Chinese-themed AAA games engage players and even boost local tourism

26:13 - Jianlin’s philosophy for investing in game studios

31:40 - The next frontier for Chinese AAA titles going global

36:44 - Recommendations

About Jianlin Zhong

Jianlin has been in the banking and investment industry for over 10 years. He began his career at J.P. Morgan as an investment banking analyst, then moved to a major APAC-focused private equity firm. In 2024, he founded his own investment management business, making large stake private investment, including buyouts, in fast growing niche industry leaders. He focuses on new materials, data, and software segments that align with his investment thesis.

Official trailer of WuChang: Fallen Feathers

Recommendations

Jianlin: Outer Wilds, a 2019 action-adventure game developed by Mobius Digital and published by Annapurna Interactive.

JJ: Kingdom Rush, a 2011 tower defense game developed by Ironhide Game Studio and published by Armor Games.

Like the episode?

Follow Inside the China Room on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or YouTube. New episodes drop every two weeks. Share & rate us to help more listeners discover expert perspectives from inside China.

Also available on 小宇宙 Xiaoyuzhou FM for listeners in China.

The 2025 Jiangsu Football City League, dubbed with "Su Super League," -- made up of 13 city teams competing in the east China's Jiangsu province -- has become the most igniting sporting phenomenon in the country this summer. With no big name players and coaches, the amateur soccer league has captured the nation's imagination largely through the fierce passion from local participants and fans.

The Su Super League - like its Guizhou cousin, the Village Super League - are catching fire at a time when the national team continues to struggle. Just a month ago, China’s hopes for the 2026 FIFA World Cup came to an end after a 1-0 loss to Indonesia. It’s now been 25 years since the country last qualified for the tournament — back in 2002.

In this episode, CJ and I discussed what these grassroots leagues can tell us about the future of Chinese sports. We explored the differences on football culture in China and Europe, the challenges and opportunities China face in developing major team sports and the sustainability of amateur soccer leagues in China.

Before joining FIFA six years ago, CJ worked at the Chinese Football Association as an international relations officer — where we were colleagues. He’s also worked with the East Asian Football Federation and Manchester City Football Club.

Highlights:

03:58 - CJ’s journey: from Manchester City FC to the Chinese Football Association, and now FIFA

09:16 - Why an amateur football league captured headlines in China this summer？

13:44 - Football culture face-off: China vs. Europe

16:18 - The key to making football popular in China

21:12 - How FIFA supports football growth in China and East Asia

24:53 - Could the "Su Super League" rival China’s professional leagues?

32:06 - Team vs. individual sports: China's preference and future direction

34:15 - Prospects and challenges for amateur football leagues in China

38:28 - CJ’s recommended read: Mastery by Robert Greene

Recommendation:

CJ: Mastery, by Robert Greene

JJ: The Day of the Jackal (TV series)

You can also listen to Inside the China Room with Jiang Jiang on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or YouTube.

This episode is edited by Yifei Shi.

Note: All views expressed in this episode are solely those of the speakers and do not represent the views of any organizations they are currently affiliated with or have been affiliated with in the past.

As we reassess China’s economy past the midway point of 2025, key questions remain: Where does China’s growth potential lie? How can the country reduce its reliance on exports and low-cost labor? And what will it take to pivot toward a more sustainable, consumption-driven model?

To explore these questions, 财经 Caijing, a Chinese financial media outlet, recently did an in-depth interview with Weijian Shan, the executive chairman of PAG, a leading Asia-focused private equity firm.

As an investor who has lived and worked across the Chinese and American systems, Shan brings a unique lens to China’s ongoing economic transition. Over the past few years, I’ve shared several of Shan’s insights on China’s economy—some of the most widely read and discussed pieces I’ve ever published.

Today’s newsletter features my translation of the sections from Caijing’s latest interview which was published on July 9 that focus on China’s economic challenges and opportunities. The translation is published with Mr. Shan’s kind permission.

Caijing: The issue of expanding domestic demand was actually raised quite prominently at the Central Economic Work Conference in December 2000, when Zhu Rongji was China's premier, who said that "expanding domestic demand is the long-term and fundamental foothold for China's economic development." Twenty-four or twenty-five years have passed since then. More recently, starting from when you wrote that article for Foreign Affairs, China's household consumption as a percentage of GDP was 39.25% in 2019 and 39.13% in 2023. Last year's data hasn't been released yet, but the trade surplus hit a record high last year, so the consumption rate should have declined. Why is expanding domestic demand so difficult?

Shan Weijian: China's exports as a percentage of GDP peaked at 36% in 2006. By 2018, this ratio had dropped to 18%, halving China's export dependence over 12 years. However, since 2019, this ratio has stopped declining, with exports accounting for approximately 18.4% of GDP last year.

I think the 2023 growth pattern was quite ideal: economic growth reached 5.2%, with 82.5% driven by consumption and net export negatively contributed to the growth rate by 11.4%. This shows that China can achieve economic growth by relying on domestic demand and consumption rather than exports. Following this pattern, China's economic growth would be sustainable and the growth rate could increase substantially. But in 2024, the momentum reversed—30.3% of economic growth was driven by net exports, while consumption’s contribution to growth dropped to 45%. Is there potential for consumption? I believe there's tremendous potential. As I mentioned earlier, household deposits total 160 trillion yuan (about 22.29 trillion U.S. dollars). If just 10% of that went to consumption, that would be 16 trillion yuan or $2.2 trillion. What kind of stimulus policy could compare to that?

Caijing: Even with the 2023 data, if we look at household consumption as a percentage of GDP, it's still below 40%.

Shan: But total consumption (household consumption plus government consumption) contributed 82.5% to economic growth. I completely agree that China's household consumption as a percentage of GDP is too low. My point is that household consumption has great potential for improvement. Take Japan, for example—it's difficult to increase consumption there, but China has tremendous potential because people have the purchasing power. So why has consumption been relatively sluggish over the past three years? Looking at household disposable income, from 2015 to 2019, it grew an average of 8.8% annually, while household deposits grew 10.2% annually. From 2020 to 2024, household income grew an average of 5.9% annually—a significant decline—yet the average annual growth rate of household bank deposits reached 13.4%, double the income growth rate. People's income growth has declined, but their propensity to save has increased.

Why is this happening? Mainly because household balance sheets have shrunk, especially after 2021—people feel poorer. According to the People's Bank of China's 2019 statistics, household balance sheets consist of two main components: real estate, accounting for about 59% of household wealth, and financial assets, mainly the stock market, accounting for about 19% of household wealth. In the three years after 2021, both markets continually contracted, making people feel poorer and reluctant to spend. Now the real estate market has basically stabilized, and the stock market is also relatively stable, so household balance sheets have essentially stabilized as well.

Look at Japan's 30-year recession—it was caused by the collapse of the stock and real estate markets, which led to massive household balance sheet contraction and sluggish consumption. China's conditions are much better than Japan's. China’s household balance sheet has basically stabilized now, the economy continues to grow, and with such substantial household deposits, there's a foundation for shifting toward consumption. The fundamentals can support this transition.

Caijing: This has been your view for many years—that China should transition from an investment and export-driven economy to a consumption-driven economy. You just mentioned that household balance sheets are improving, and neither the housing nor stock markets are continuing to contract. But not continuing to contract doesn't mean returning to previous growth states. Why would we think that just because household wealth has stopped shrinking, people will be willing to spend?

Shan: People won't automatically be willing to spend. What most affects consumer spending is expectations and confidence. How can we boost expectations and confidence? Government policy is crucial. For example, on September 24 last year, the government introduced a series of accommodative monetary policies, and the stock market immediately rallied. When the government introduces policies that can influence expectations and confidence, investment willingness suddenly increases. The same applies to consumption.

For instance, on March 5, the Chinese government announced this year's growth target as 5%. I think 6% would be more appropriate because if the government shows confidence in achieving a higher target, it would boost overall market expectations. Last year was 5%, this year is still 5%, so expectations won't change much. The most important thing is to influence expectations so that people are willing to spend. Here's an example: in the first four months of this year, offline retail grew faster than online retail. This hasn't been the case for the past decade or two—online growth always exceeded offline growth, and many physical stores couldn't survive. But why is offline growth higher than online growth this year? It's because of government consumption subsidy policies. These subsidies aren't issued by the central government but by local governments, which must distribute them to local merchants. Online sales are nationwide, which doesn't concern local governments much, so offline growth has been faster than online this year. This shows that government policies can have a leveraging effect and can change expectations.

Caijing: But consumption subsidies are one-time measures. Expectations about income growth have a greater impact on people's confidence. Consumption is the effect; income is the cause. Only when income increases, or when income expectations improve, can consumption be boosted.

Shan: Yes, we need to change these expectations. The pace of income growth and the stability of household balance sheets all affect consumer decisions.

Caijing: You mentioned earlier that China's fiscal policy is conservative. If fiscal policy became more proactive, besides raising the budget deficit to GDP ratio, what other measures could be taken? After the stimulus policies came out last September, many commentators said the policy intensity should be greater.

Shan: I also believe there should be stronger stimulus policies. China has significant room for both monetary and fiscal policy, which is an advantage that other major economies don't have—they either have high inflation or high debt ratios. China's central government debt is only about 21% of GDP, probably the lowest among major economies. Japan's is 260%, and the United States' is around 130%. China's local government debt, including financing platforms, totals only about 80-90% of GDP. Combined central and local government debt is around 110% of GDP.

Moreover, this only looks at the liability side of the balance sheet, not the asset side. What assets does the U.S. government have? The U.S. Postal Service, which loses money year after year, and the rail system, which also runs chronic losses—the U.S. government basically has no assets. The net asset value of China's state-owned enterprises approximately 145 trillion yuan, compared to GDP of 135 trillion yuan or $19 trillion. The market value should be higher than net asset value, exceeding liabilities, so if you look at net debt, the Chinese government's net debt is actually negative.

In fact, China’s fiscal policy is very conservative. Being conservative certainly has its merits, but the country has significant capacity to raise funds in international markets, especially by issuing offshore RMB (CNH) bonds. Without such products, there is a limited scope to invest CNH, restricting its holding. From China's perspective, the best approach is to issue CNH-denominated foreign debt, which has no credit risk (because the currency is issued by the central bank) and can increase the variety of CNH products, making it beneficial for other countries to hold offshore RMB as part of their foreign exchange reserves. With such low net government debt, appropriately increasing debt to raise capital for economic development gives fiscal policy considerable room to maneuver.

Actually, looking carefully at various stimulus policies, the amount truly used for consumption is almost a drop in the bucket. China has too many areas that need investment. As I mentioned, if household income levels don't increase, consumption will remain subdued. But it's not just income that affects consumption—there's also social security, which removes concerns about rainy days. The national social security fund has a balance of less than 10 trillion yuan, which is far from sufficient for a rapidly aging country of 1.4 billion people.

So the Chinese government should borrow more for domestic investment, especially foreign debt. China's foreign debt is too low. The central government's foreign currency-denominated foreign debt is probably less than 50 billion U.S. dollars. My firm manages 55 billion U.S. dollars. Think about it—China, a major country with a 19 trillion U.S. dollars GDP, has such minimal foreign-currency denominated debt.

Caijing: You just mentioned that income expectations affect consumption. What are your thoughts on increasing household income?

Shan: Current average wage levels in China, calculated in dollars, are about one-sixth of those in the United States, but China's manufacturing labor productivity is higher than America's measured by physical output per worker. This reminds me of Singapore's experience during its development history. Singapore faced the same problem and gradually raised minimum wage levels, forcing companies to shift toward higher value-added activities, which helped raise wage levels.

Caijing: Looking just at manufacturing, you mentioned that China's manufacturing labor productivity exceeds that of the United States, yet wages are only one-sixth of American levels. This means China's wage levels have enormous room for improvement, but why can't this be achieved in reality? Isn't it absurd that China's highly efficient workers receive low wages that essentially subsidize American consumers?

Shan: Yes, that's why we need to think about this issue. I don't have answers to all questions, but I can identify where the problems lie, and this is one of them. Again, Singapore took this path, using minimum wage increases to gradually break away from the path dependence of economic development based on cheap labor. China is also moving in this direction, just moving relatively more slowly.

Caijing: Wage growth exceeding productivity growth is harmful. Some Latin American countries have experienced this, where populist governments raised wages and benefits too high, damaging economic growth and ultimately harming the people.

Shan: China's situation is exactly the opposite. China's current problem is over-competition. Because China's production costs are relatively low, market players can push prices extremely low, with everyone competing to cut prices. For example, China has over 100 electric vehicle companies, but only two or three are profitable—nobody's making money. The same situation exists in batteries and solar panels. But raising wage levels helps prevent destructive competition among companies because they can no longer compete on low costs alone. Moreover, stopping just one company from engaging in destructive competition is ineffective—the entire industry must be prevented from doing so, which would push prices up. Take rare earth exports, for example. After the government regulated rare earth exports, prices tripled. In value-added terms, the rare earth industry's productivity suddenly tripled. So I think the issue of low wages deserves study—China can't always remain in the low-cost territory.

Caijing: Some believe China still has a long way to go in industrial upgrading and many "chokepoint" technologies to overcome, so it's premature to talk about replacing production-driven growth with consumption-driven growth. Is this argument valid?

Shan: These two things aren't in conflict. It's not that you need to become globally number one in all fields before consuming, or wait until you've produced domestic 2-nanometer chips and domestic commercial aircraft engines before consuming. There's no such logic—these two things have no necessary relationship.

Caijing: One final question. Having lived and worked extensively in both China and the United States, what do you think are the strengths of each country?

Shan: That's too big a question. But I can say that Chinese people are the most hardworking—Chinese average working hours exceed those in America.

Caijing: Americans are already considered hardworking in the Western world.

Shan: Yes, Chinese working hours are much higher compared to Europe. Where is America strong? In attracting global talent to high-tech industries. To become a global high-technology innovation center requires five conditions: first, concentration of talent; second, concentration of top-notch higher learning and research institutions; third, availability of venture capital; fourth, deep manufacturing capabilities; and fifth, a massive single domestic market.

In the 1980s and 1990s, the United States was the only country in the world that possessed all five conditions. Today, America no longer has deep manufacturing capabilities—American manufacturing has declined—but it can obtain these capabilities externally, such as through TSMC and ASML. So America's advantage today remains in high technology innovations.

On the other hand, China has now single-handedly achieved all five conditions. These five necessary conditions constitute sufficient conditions, which is why I'm very confident about China's long-term economic development.

Caijing: Is it possible for China and the United States to establish a relationship based on mutual recognition of rules and shared interests?

Shan: Yes, but there's a prerequisite: China's nominal GDP in dollar terms must exceed that of the United States. In terms of purchasing power parity, China’s GDP is now about 30% bigger than that of the U.S. Today we're at a critical juncture—China is about to surpass but hasn't yet surpassed the U.S. in nominal GDP, so America is using every means at its disposal to suppress China’s growth, whether through trade wars, technology wars, or sanctions, all to prevent China from replacing America’s as the largest economy in the world. But if China one day becomes the largest economy, American containment policy would become meaningless. Only then can bilateral relations fundamentally improve. When you're about to surpass but haven't yet surpassed them, that's when bilateral relations are most tense.

Weijian Shan

Executive Chairman and Co-Founder, PAG, Author: Out of the Gobi, Money Games, and Money Machine

Just before China holds the third Supply Chain Expo, Yang Liu sat down with Mr. Yu Jianlong, vice chairman of the China Council for the Promotion of International Trade (CCPIT), the organizer of the expo. He explained what the expo is and why it matters in the time of havoc for global supply chains. You can check the latest Got China show on YouTube or Substack. I had to miss recording this episode because of my foot surgery.

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On July 9 and 10, the 11th Nishan Forum on World Civilizations will be held in Qufu city in east China's Shandong Province. Qufu is renowned as the birthplace of Confucius and the historical heartland of Confucian culture. This year's forum explores the relationship among diverse civilizations and global modernization. Daniel will deliver a speech during the forum.

In this episode, Daniel and I explored the unique characteristics of Shandong that reflect the deep influence of Confucianism. We discussed how Confucian values continue to shape contemporary Chinese politics and society -- from expectations around the moral integrity of government officials to the emphasis on family values. We also delved into how different civilizations engage with one another, and how Confucianism influences the broader process of modernization. Daniel also shared with me his expectations for this year's Nishan Forum on World Civilizations, as well as the main themes of the speech he plans to deliver at the event.

Daniel's research area includes comparative political theory, Confucianism, and Legalism. From 2017 to 2022, Daniel served as Dean of the School of Political Science and Public Administration at Shandong University -- the first foreigner in the Chinese mainland's history to hold such a position. His book, The Dean of Shandong, published in 2023, chronicles his experiences as what he calls a "minor bureaucrat." Daniel has also taught at Beijing’s Tsinghua University for 13 years.

In 2018, Daniel was awarded the Huilin Prize and honored as a "Cultural Leader" by the World Economic Forum. In 2021, he was selected as the People’s Friendship Envoy of Shandong Province.

Highlights:

03:56 – Confucian traits of Shandong and Daniel’s teaching experience there

13:44 – How Confucian values shape politics and society in today’s China

16:00 – Comparing family values in China and the West

20:03 – Moral standards in China’s selection and evaluation of officials

25:52 – Xunzi and the creative dialogue between Confucianism and Islam

31:53 – How Confucianism contributed to modernization in East Asia

35:06 – Civilizational dialogues at the Nishan Forum

37:46 – Ritualized ice hockey in Daniel’s hometown — and its Confucian echoes

41:14 – How Daniel’s next book brings ancient Chinese thinkers into dialogue on today’s biggest questions

Recommendation:

Daniel: The ritualized ice hockey games in Canada

JJ: Why Ancient Chinese Political Thought Matters: Four Dialogues on China’s Past, Present, and Future, by Daniel A. Bell

You can also listen to Inside the China Room with Jiang Jiang on Apple Podcasts and Spotify.

This episode is edited by Yifei Shi.

As of the end of 2024, 67 percent of China’s population — that’s 940 million people — lived in urban areas. Behind this sweeping statistic lies nearly five decades of relentless urbanization. And at the heart of it all: the country’s vast migrant worker population. Every gleaming skyscraper and freshly renovated apartment owes something to their sweat, their labor under the sun.

But once the workday ends, many face everyday hurdles that go unseen — including something as basic as getting home, or finding a place to wash up. A Douyin creator who goes by the name “Good Samaritan Liu Xuejun in Beijing” （京城好人刘学军）has been documenting such encounters, offering migrant workers directions, a word of kindness, and above all, understanding. In one video, Liu empathizes with a worker who hesitates to sit because he worries about staining the subway seat — not out of fear, but out of courtesy.

A recent feature by The Paper (澎湃新闻) took a deeper dive into these lives — not just the hardships, but the voices and quiet dignity behind them. It’s a powerful piece of human-centered reporting that deserves more attention.

One final thought: it’s natural to feel uncomfortable when we see someone whose clothes are visibly dirty. That instinct isn’t inherently wrong — it’s human. The more important question is what we choose to do next. Stories like Liu Xuejun’s and reporting like The Paper’s offer us a path forward — not by denying discomfort, but by meeting it with empathy, solutions, and care.

“I’m Covered in Dust. How Can I Sit?” | A Construction Worker Rides the Subway

Qi Jianjun had just finished a long day leveling floors with cement and sand. Exhausted and coated in dust, he stepped onto the subway. But before he could rest, a familiar question surfaced: Should I sit like this?

This quiet dilemma is one that many workers in the city know all too well.

On April 17, a confrontation on Beijing Subway Line 5 brought this tension into public view. A passenger grew angry at the sight of the man next to him, criticizing his appearance. “You look like a beggar, covered in dust, squeezing in here,” he said. His insults escalated quickly, even calling the man a “bastard.” The man he targeted was wearing a gray jacket, with visible traces of white and gray dust on his pants and shoes. He sat upright, hands folded over his chest, back straight, and positioned at the edge of the seat. Between his feet were two full plastic bags, and in order to keep them steady, he had spread his legs slightly, which brought them closer to the angry passenger.

He tried to explain that he had not leaned back or tried to take up extra space. But the insults did not stop. It was only when another commuter stepped in that the scene changed. “I’m happy to sit next to him,” the person said, taking the middle seat between the two men. The moment was caught on video. It spread rapidly online and sparked widespread discussion. Follow-up reports identified the man who had been insulted as a renovation worker employed at a curtain mall in Beijing.

In cities, reflective vests, hard hats, safety boots, and paint buckets silently identify workers long before they speak. But when labor leaves its mark in the form of dust, sweat, or cement stains, how do these workers navigate shared public spaces while preserving their dignity? The answer may lie in the very dust on their clothes.

“I’m Covered in Dust. How Can I Sit?”

Piles of yellow sand and gray cement formed small mounds in the center of a room. After a full day’s work, these would be spread evenly by Qi Jianjun as the base layer for new tile flooring.

Qi is 53 years old and comes from Zhoukou, Henan Province. This is his seventh year working away from home. Last February, through his wife’s introduction, he took a foreman job on a highway overpass project subcontracted by her younger brother. They agreed on a monthly wage of 9,000 yuan. But as payments were delayed again and again, that monthly salary effectively turned into a lump sum at the end of the year. The stress left him pulling at his hair in frustration. After the Lunar New Year, unable to recover his wages, he cut ties. He blocked both his wife and brother-in-law, shaved his head, and went back on the road. Once again, he took whatever day labor he could find to get by.

Now, he crouches beside freshly poured cement, one hand resting on his knee, toes gripping the floor, his upper body leaning forward. He stretches his other hand out with a trowel, smoothing the cement from far to near. Then he twists his torso, shifts his weight back, and moves forward by a step. He repeats this process hundreds of times every day.

Qi Jianjun leveling a cement floor

Cement and sand are fine-grained and mix into a wet, heavy paste that is difficult to control. Splashes are common during the mixing and pouring process. When he squats down to spread the mix, his knees sometimes touch the ground. Once dried, the cement leaves behind white, yellow, or gray stains. Often by midday, the sleeves, pant legs, knees, and collar of his clothing are already visibly marked.

After lunch, Qi usually gets a 30-minute or one-hour break. The site is full of sand and cement, and there are no chairs. He often looks for a cleaner corner to lean against. Sometimes, if there is an empty room nearby, he lies on the cement floor for a nap. To keep his head off the ground, he props it up with his elbows or leans against the wall. Each break leaves his clothes a little more soiled.

A worker napping on the ground, photographed by Qi Jianjun

It is not just his clothes. Qi Jianjun’s hair often ends up covered in dust too. Over the past six months, as his hair grew out, he gave himself a trendy look, a small patch left on top, dyed bright red. From a distance, it resembled a tiny volcano. He is particular about keeping it tidy. But when his fingers, stained with cement, run across his scalp, the bright red quickly becomes dulled by a layer of white dust. White streaks remain where his fingers passed.

At four in the afternoon, after smoothing out the final patch near the doorway, he stepped outside. Once the foreman checked the work, he would receive his pay for the day. That day, however, the foreman was too busy to drive him home. Qi had to take the subway in his cement-splattered clothes.

At around four thirty, the train was not too crowded. As he stepped inside, he spotted an empty seat and walked toward it. Just as he was about to sit, a voice stopped him. “You are so dirty. How can you sit here?” He looked up. A middle-aged woman sitting next to the seat was staring at him. A wave of frustration rose in him. He had been up since four in the morning, working all day leveling floors. His legs and back were aching, and he still had an hour and a half before he could get home. He wanted to sit. But the look in the woman’s eyes made it clear that there would be a confrontation. So he said, “Sorry. If you think I am dirty, I will sit on the floor.”

He leaned against the railing and sat down. Other passengers quickly spoke up for him. One turned to the woman and said, “Do you own this place? This is a public train.” An older commuter waved to Qi and said, “Don’t listen to her, sir. Sit down. Let’s see if she tries to stop you.” But Qi just replied, “Forget it,” and stayed on the floor.

With dust on his face and clothes, he said he felt he had no grounds to insist on sitting. “Other people are clean. What if I brush against them?” he explained. He also pointed out that the woman had not used any abusive language. “She only said I was dirty. If she had insulted me, I would not have stayed silent.”

This was the only time someone had directly told him not to sit. Most of the time, people who minded would simply move away.

Liu Xuejun sees workers sitting on the subway floor almost every day. After retiring due to illness, he became a volunteer at Beijing subway stations, offering directions and handing out candy to passengers with low blood sugar. He has noticed that many workers choose to stand or sit on the floor even when there are empty seats, simply to avoid making the seats dirty. Once, he saw an older worker with a large bag, gripping the handrail and swaying as he stood, eyes closed. Liu quickly helped him into a seat and asked, “You paid just like everyone else. Why not sit down?” The man pointed at his jacket and said, “People do not like it when you are dirty.” Liu hears that kind of response all the time. He always tries to reassure them. “You are not dirty. Not at all. You are the ones building this city.” When someone is especially hesitant, he hands over a tissue and suggests, “It is fine. Sit down. You can wipe it clean when you leave.”

Liu Xuejun encouraging a worker to take a seat on the Beijing subway

Wanting to sit but choosing not to—for many workers, it is a quiet standard they set for themselves.

A Shanghai Metro employee told reporters that, according to Article 10 of the Shanghai Rail Transit Passenger Code, passengers who are barefoot, shirtless, wearing visibly dirty or greasy clothing, intoxicated and causing disturbances, suffering from serious infectious diseases, or unaccompanied with mental health issues that may pose a safety risk, are not allowed to enter stations or ride trains. Beyond these specific cases, the Metro doesn’t have any formal dress code. If a seat gets dirty, it’s usually cleaned by a sanitation worker who boards at the next station.

That said, the employee also pointed out that sitting on the floor, something some workers resort to, is a safety concern. “If the train brakes suddenly and there are people standing nearby, sitting on the floor can be dangerous,” they explained. Station attendants typically ask passengers sitting on the floor to stand up and hold onto the handrails.

For many workers, it’s a no-win situation: sit on a seat and risk being judged, sit on the floor and be told it’s unsafe, or stand up despite being bone-tired after a long day. Some workers told reporters they’ve thought about changing clothes before getting on the train, but the reality is, most construction sites don’t have anywhere to shower or change.

No Place to Clean Up or Change at Construction Sites

After a full day of dusty, sweaty work, Qi Jianjun still can’t take a shower before heading home. The kind of work he does, leveling floors, usually comes after plumbing and wiring, meaning the building is still in its bare-bones phase. There’s no hot water, no bathroom doors, no tile floors, no showers. The site might have a temporary water supply, but it’s only cold water, and it’s meant for construction use.

It’s not just residential renovations. Factory sites, schools, restaurants, office buildings—most of them don’t have showers either. Several seasoned workers told reporters they’ve never had a place to shower on site. “Even if there was a shower,” one said, “the client wouldn’t let you use it.” A staffer at a renovation company added that many homeowners don’t even allow workers to use their toilets, let alone take a shower. So most workers have no choice but to wait until they get home to wash up and change.

Qi said that most days, the foreman gives him a ride. But when that’s not possible, he’s left to make his own way home. If the site is far, he often ends up riding the subway or bus covered in dust, simply because there’s no other option.

Qi works freelance, so his hours aren’t set. Some days he’s paid by the hour, but on days when he’s paid by the job, he might work up to 12 hours to finish everything. Even when paid hourly, he often chooses to work over 9 hours a day to earn overtime—30 yuan an hour.

And these days, with work being uncertain, he sometimes has to get up at 4 a.m. to wait at a day labor market, hoping to get picked up for a job. By the time he finishes work and boards the subway home, it’s already evening. He’s dead tired and just wants to sit. His clothes are already filthy, so why not just sit on the floor?

Because renovation jobs are short-term and scattered across different sites, and because workers don’t have a place to clean up, they’re especially noticeable when taking public transit.

And it’s not just decorators. Workers who handle piling, bricklaying, concrete pouring, or steel welding often end up covered in cement, mortar, dust, and debris from materials and welding.

Bricklayer Cao Daoyin said none of the sites he’s worked on had shower facilities. If he wants to wash up, he has to return to the dormitory or his rented place. Dorms are usually located a good distance away from the worksite, not right next door. That’s partly for safety, with each area requiring face scan access, and partly to ensure a quieter rest environment. “If everyone stayed right next to the site, there would be overnight shifts and constant noise. No one could sleep.”

Cao just wrapped up a job at a factory construction site that employed over 2,000 workers. It takes more than 20 minutes to walk from the gate to the dorm entrance. Most people use shared bikes, but Cao doesn’t know how. No matter how big the site, he walks, sometimes over 30 minutes one way.

When deadlines are tight, some workers are brought in for short-term help, for just 10 or 20 days. They don’t live near the site, and after work, they have to take the cheapest and fastest option to get home: public transit, still in their dusty gear.

To shower in the dorm area, workers have to go through facial recognition. Even when they get in, evenings are peak time for showers. “When it’s crowded,” Cao Daoyin said, “the line can be over an hour long.” On top of that, the water sometimes gets cut off. Since they often work late to meet deadlines, if they finish at 10 p.m. and then try to shower, they might miss the last subway. So most just tough it out and wait to wash up at home.

It’s not just temporary workers, construction crews at downtown sites rely on public transit too. Because space in city centers is tight, most sites don’t have dorms. And if they do, beds are limited. Some sites in busy areas even strictly forbid overnight stays. “It gets messy, looks bad, and people complain,” explained Cao’s coworker Wang Hui.

So companies usually rent apartments farther out. But rent in the city center is expensive, especially in places like Beijing or Shanghai. A place for five or six workers can easily run over 4,000 yuan (about 560 U.S. dollars) a month. To save costs, companies rent even farther away, meaning workers have to commute by subway or bus.

Chen Jiang is one of those workers. That evening, wearing a bright yellow hard hat and orange reflective vest, he boarded Shanghai’s Metro Line 12 at West Nanjing Road Station. He stood near the car connection, the spot with the least people and farthest from seats. He was heading back to his dorm in Yangpu District, about six kilometers away. Normally, he works as a welder on a site in Yangpu, but today his boss sent him downtown to help out.

He recalled a job last year in a protected heritage site downtown where there were no dorms. He and his coworkers stayed in an apartment two kilometers away. It was a half-hour walk or about ten minutes by metro. So he took the subway every day for two months. Talking about the recent harassment incident on Beijing’s Metro Line 5, he joked, “We’re all just laborers. If you’re so fancy, buy your own subway.”

Since there were no dorms on site, he always had to go home to shower.

During interviews, some workers told The Paper they’d love a simple changing room on-site. Right now, there’s no storage, so their water bottles, tools, and clean clothes get tossed in plastic bags and left on the ground, and end up covered in dust.

Even working in dusty, grimy conditions with nowhere to clean up, many workers do their best to stay clean and fight off stubborn dirt.

“Who doesn’t want to look a little cleaner?”

At 4 a.m. the day labor market was packed. Qi Jianjun parked his electric scooter by the road and leaned on a fence with other workers, eyes scanning for work vans. Slowly, workers climbed into vans heading to job sites. But as dawn broke, Qi still hadn’t been picked.

Early morning at the labor market

“Heading back to wash my clothes.” At 7 a.m., Qi Jianjun hopped on his electric scooter and headed back to his place. The building was a two-story house shared by over ten families. His room was on the ground floor, about 10 square meters, with its own bathroom. He pulled out his dirty work clothes from a shoulder bag tucked in the corner and showed them to the reporter.

Cement on Qi Jianjun’s pants

Cement hardens when it meets water, which is exactly what makes it such a staple in construction. But once it seeps into fabric as wet slurry and solidifies, it becomes a real nightmare to clean. The longer it stays, the harder it is to get out. That’s why the first thing Qi Jianjun usually does when he gets home is take a shower and scrub the cement off his clothes. On days when he’s too tired from working late, the dirty laundry just gets pushed to the next day, after all, he’s going to get messy again anyway.

Every season, Qi Jianjun buys himself two sets of work clothes online. In the summer, a T-shirt costs around six yuan, a pair of pants nine. Outside of work, he likes wearing bright colors like orange and pink, often paired with black leather shoes. But when it comes to workwear, he sticks to army green camo, dark purple, or black, along with safety shoes, all chosen to hide dirt. In the wardrobe at the foot of his bed, he folds and stacks his clothes into neat little squares, the contrast between his everyday outfits and work clothes clear at a glance.

Laundry on a construction site isn’t exactly convenient. Some sites do have washing machines, but according to Cao Daoyin, they usually charge by the minute: 4.5 yuan for twenty minutes. To save money, most workers just wash their clothes by hand.

Cao Daoyin lays nearly 1,300 bricks each day, starting at 7 in the morning and finishing around 5 in the afternoon. With that much contact, it’s no surprise his clothes are constantly brushing up against dust and cement. He often scrapes his knees while working, and there’s no clean place to rest on site. When his legs get sore, he just sits on a brick or a plank, which leaves the backs of his pants caked in dust. “We sit on whatever’s there. As long as you can lean on it, it works,” he says. On hot days, his clothes get soaked with sweat over and over again, leaving them sticky and unpleasant by the end of the shift.

“We change and wash every day,” says Cao. With all the dust in the air and the amount of sweat from working, even in winter, he says you need to wash your base layers at least every other day.

Jackets are a different matter. Workers say they don’t wash outerwear as often as T-shirts, sweatshirts, or pants. Jackets are harder to clean and take longer to dry. Washing them daily would mean buying extras to rotate through, which adds up. Except for the reflective vests provided on site, all work clothes throughout the year have to be bought by the workers themselves. These clothes are both necessary and disposable. Cao usually gets his from roadside stalls near the site. The quality isn’t great, and after a few months of heavy use and constant washing, they tend to fall apart and need replacing.

The real problem is that cement loves sticking to jackets. If they go unwashed for three or four days, the cement sets completely. Even with a stiff brush and a lot of effort, it’s almost impossible to get rid of those pale gray marks.

If jackets are a pain to wash, shoes are even worse. They get the closest to wet cement. Cao Daoyin and Wang Hui showed the shoes they just finished scrubbing. The textured soles and toes had been filled in by cement, making the details almost disappear. The uneven gray-white patches made them look like they were just been pulled out of the mud. But this, they said, was as clean as their shoes ever get. Wang Hui picked up one shoe, rubbed a gray spot along the edge with his fingers, then held his hand up to the reporter. Not a trace of dust.

Cao Daoyin (in army green camo) and Wang Hui (in gray and white) with their freshly scrubbed shoes

Not being able to sit down, not being able to get things clean, these are more than just everyday hassles. They’re part of the job and the environment that comes with it. A worker from Heilongjiang, when asked about a verbal harassment incident on Beijing’s subway Line 5, said, “Who wouldn’t want to look a little cleaner? But we just don’t have the conditions for it.”

The Longing for Dignity

Dignity doesn’t change based on your job. But for many construction workers, the dust, the fatigue, the lack of clean places to rest, the clothes soaked through with sweat, the patchy showers, and the cement that won’t wash out all combine into a daily battle. It’s what makes them the ones you see sitting on the curb, covered in dirt, worried about being looked down on.

Still, when it comes to physical discomfort, most workers just tough it out. They know that what matters more than appearances is getting paid.

Several workers brought up wage delays during interviews. Compared to how they could laugh off the tough work environment or the cement stains on their clothes, their tone changed completely when the topic shifted to unpaid wages. Their faces tightened, their voices rose, and frustration filled their words.

While waiting for his wages to be settled, Cao Daoyin counted his daily expenses on his fingers for the reporter. Just food cost him over 30 yuan a day. What really made him anxious was that the May Day holiday was approaching. Once the company closed for the holiday, it would be even harder to find anyone. All he could do was hope. He hoped the company would keep its promise to pay on April 30. But more than two weeks later, all he received was a handwritten IOU.

On May 9, with no pay in sight and turned away from a new job because he was nearly 60, Cao packed his things and went back to his hometown in Anhui. That’s where he had built his own house, one brick at a time.

Last August, just before a stretch of highway that Qi Jianjun had helped build opened to traffic, he posted a video of the wide new road on social media. His caption read, “This is the result of our hard work.” But even now, he still hasn’t received all the wages he was promised for that job.

In recent years, the government has rolled out policies to try to fix the problem of unpaid wages.

In May 2020, the State Council issued Regulations on Ensuring the Payment of Wages to Migrant Workers aimed at ensuring migrant workers get paid on time. It focused especially on the construction industry, requiring general contractors to pay workers first if subcontractors default, and then pursue legal reimbursement later.

In December of the same year, a national online platform went live for workers to report wage arrears. They can submit information through the site, and local labor inspection agencies will investigate any cases that meet the legal criteria.

In 2023, the Ministry of Human Resources and Social Security launched a nationwide campaign to set up fast-track courts for wage disputes involving migrant workers. Local governments were instructed to prioritize these cases and ensure they were handled quickly.

Getting paid for a day’s labor. That’s the dignity workers are truly hoping for.

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