Lying in bed one night in 2021, Zhang Zirui was swiping through Weibo when she came across a post that gave her pause. The post, by feminist influencer Lin Maomao, argued that women don’t owe their family any obedience. In others, she called on women to be selfish, mean, and not care about their partner, their parents, or anyone but themselves.
The message hit home. At the time, Zhang felt trapped — in her family, her relationship, and her hometown in Ningxia, an underdeveloped and conservative inland province. Her parents looked down on her. They had forbidden her to study physics, her dream university major, because “it is not for girls.” Instead, she was studying to become a preschool teacher. Her boyfriend, with whom she had once wanted to start a family, mistreated her and made her believe it was all her fault.
After reading Lin’s post, Zhang put down her phone and took a deep breath. It was like she had finally seen a glimmer of light from an outside world. From then on, “I was reading her posts every day to reinvigorate myself,” she told Rest of World. “For the first time, I knew women could live differently.”
Through further online exploration, Zhang learned about concepts like misogyny, gaslighting, and toxic beauty standards, and realized she had to turn her life around. Step by step, she changed her university major to physics, moved to a big city in a coastal province, and left her abusive boyfriend. This summer, marking a break with her earlier self, she shaved her head. For the first time, she felt free.
“I discarded the diamond ring that imprisoned me, ripped off the mask of discipline, and smashed the cosmetics that claimed to make me beautiful,” Zhang, now 25, wrote on lifestyle app Xiaohongshu in July. In a photo accompanying the post, she looks straight into the camera, her once carefully shaped eyebrows now unruly and her hair just millimeters long. The bold new look earned her 1,778 likes.
Many Chinese women of Zhang’s generation have walked a similar path, inspired by online communities to question traditional notions around gender and women’s role in Chinese society. The country’s social media platforms — including Weibo, XiaohongshuXiaohongshuXiaohongshu, which translates to “little red book” in Chinese, is a lifestyle e-commerce and social media platform.READ MORE, TikTok sibling Douyin, super-app WeChat, and culture discussion platform Douban — buzz with feminist content. Women’s rights-related hashtags rack up millions, if not billions, of clicks. China’s #MeToo movement has had dozens of women taking to social media to make allegations against powerful men like state TV anchor Zhu Jun, who denied the accusations; and former vice premier Zhang Gaoli, accused of sexual assault by tennis player Peng Shuai, who never publicly responded.
News stories about gender-based violence regularly turn into referendums on the merits of marriage, with millions of participants arguing that being a wife is more trouble than it’s worth — and dangerous to boot, considering the country’s weak divorce and domestic violence laws. Government figures suggest such calls are being heeded. Marriage and birth rates are at historic lows. The divorce rate’s steep, decades-long climb only stopped in 2021 after the government made it harder for couples to separate.
While other factors — such as cost of living concerns — influence these trends, they are related to a growing awareness of women’s rights, according to Leta Hong Fincher, author of Leftover Women: The Resurgence of Gender Inequality in China. “[It is] mainly women who are resisting marriage and babies,” she told Rest of World. In May, a Communist Party-affiliated think tank wrote in a report on China’s crashing birth rate: “The spread of radical feminism has had a negative impact on women’s individual beliefs and desires regarding childbirth.”
The Chinese government, always preoccupied with maintaining social stability, has over the past five years persecuted feminist activists and commanded social media sites to ramp up restrictions on feminist content. Similar methods have successfully diminished campaigns for social causes such as labor rights and LGBTQIA rights, and overt activism for women’s rights is now all but impossible, too. But while the loudest voices have been silenced, feminist ideals are shared more broadly than ever. The flame of Chinese feminism still burns — nowhere brighter than online.
Given the aggressive censorship of China’s online feminist movement, Hong Fincher said, “It’s quite extraordinary how influential it is.”
“I feel like today, every woman who uses social media is a member of the feminist community,” Xiaoniao, a 28-year-old #MeToo accuser, told Rest of World, speaking under a pseudonym for fear of retribution from Chinese authorities. The impact of the women’s rights movement on China’s internet is so profound, she said, that “as long as you are online, you cannot escape the influence of feminism.”
The unique thing about China’s feminism movement is that it almost entirely happens online.”
Online feminism has a short but turbulent history in China, its intensity ebbing and flowing alongside the country’s ever-shifting red lines of permissible speech. Young women like Zhang are largely unaware of earlier waves of activism — long since erased by government censorship — but not unaffected.
Lü Pin, a prominent feminist activist, remembers the golden age of Chinese social media. Weibo launched in 2009, and grew to 500 million members within four years — in part because foreign competitors like Facebook and Twitter were banned in China. The platform was a place where journalists, writers, and academics could comment on China’s most important issues with relative freedom. In 2010, Lü registered the account Feminist Voices. It published commentary on domestic violence, sexual harassment, and other women’s rights issues, and grew to become the most influential feminist account.
Activists could also spread their ideas offline. On Valentine’s Day in 2012, for instance, three feminists walked down a busy street wearing red-stained wedding dresses to raise awareness of domestic violence. The same month, a campaign launched to “occupy” men’s rooms to call for more public toilets for women.
The tide turned in 2015, during Chinese President Xi Jinping’s first term. That March, Beijing police detained five feminist activists who had been handing out stickers against sexual harassment on public transport. The month-long detention of the Feminist Five, as they became known, was a landmark event. “It meant organized feminist events and groups are not welcomed by the government,” Lü told Rest of World. She was in the U.S. when the five were taken into custody, and decided to stay there.
More restrictions followed. In 2016, a new law gave the security apparatus control over the funding and activities of NGOs, causing the country’s most prominent women’s rights organization to close. Police increasingly asked feminist activists to come “drink tea,” a euphemism for being interrogated.
Women retreated to social media. “The unique thing about China’s feminism movement is that it almost entirely happens online,” Lü said. Feminist Voices got more attention than ever, reaching more than 250,000 followers across platforms at its peak. But the move online, said Lü, was not an entirely positive thing. “The real flourishing of online feminism came after the increasing restriction of offline space,” she said. “So from this perspective, the development of the internet is not about an expansion, but a contraction of public space.”
The global #MeToo movement, in which women shared stories of sexual abuse and harassment, reached China on January 1, 2018. In a long Weibo post, Luo Xixi, a PhD graduate of Beijing’s Beihang University, accused her former advisor of sexual harassment. More women followed her example. Students from over 40 Chinese universities signed open letters calling for anti-sexual harassment measures at schools. Beihang dismissed the advisor, who claimed he hadn’t done anything illegal.
Weibo censored the hashtag #MeTooInChina in mid-January. Chinese social media companies usually don’t reveal how or why they make such decisions, but experts told Rest of World the government has a heavy hand. “The rules for the Chinese government to deal with social movements in general is that they don’t want anything to form a social force that is strong enough to make an uprising or to do anything that can bring them instability,” said Huang Qian, assistant professor in the Centre for Media and Journalism Studies at the University of Groningen. “They are constantly monitoring whether a specific hashtag or a specific online event will develop into something bigger.”
The #MeToo movement made feminist discussion online more sensitive. On March 9, 2018, Weibo permanently deleted the Feminist Voices account for “violating relevant regulations.” The ban came on the heels of Feminist Voices publishing an article that urged readers to mark International Women’s Day by commemorating women’s rights, rather than going shopping — Chinese brands and online stores have co-opted the day as a commercial holiday. The organization’s WeChat account disappeared the same day.
Since 2020, social media platforms have increased their scrutiny of feminist content, often deploying the explanation that they want to limit animosity between men and women. That year, Weibo gave Lin Maomao, the influencer who inspired Zhang, a one-year suspension for “instigating antagonism between different groups.” Douban and YouTube-equivalent Bilibili also deleted her accounts. Lin did not reply to interview requests from Rest of World. Douban and Bilibili did not respond to requests for comment.
A few months later, Douban closed more than 10 feminist groups, notifying members that “due to reports from internet users and the requirements of relevant authorities, the group you participated in has been dissolved, as it contained content related to extremism, radical political affairs, and ideology.”
In January 2021, Weibo began citing “provoking gender opposition” as a reason for removing an account. Lin Maomao’s accounts were never reinstated.
Zhang saved screenshots of Lin’s posts and still looks at them from time to time. “That she was censored proves that what she said was all true,” Zhang said.
Today, women involved in China’s online feminism ecosystem don’t just have to worry about government censorship. In recent years, groups of nationalistic men, often referred to as anti-feminists, have taken to tracking down women whose posts they think are politically incorrect. They then report the women to the platforms with the aim of triggering a ban, with frequent success. Despite ginning up plenty of gender-based antagonism for themselves, these social media users have faced little scrutiny.
Two years ago, a group of such vigilantes came for Xiaoniao, the #MeToo accuser.
She had made her accusation, against a well-known NGO director, during the early #MeToo wave in 2018. The NGO director admitted to the abuse and stepped down. After an initial wave of interest in her case, Xiaoniao became less active on Weibo, and her life quieted down.
But in December 2021, she saw a particularly cruel anti-feminist doxxing campaign, and felt compelled to speak out.
The campaign was spearheaded by Ziwu Xiashi, a prominent nationalist influencer who became popular after he made a series of posts alleging that Chinese feminists, including Lü Pin, the Feminist Five, and #MeToo accusers, were puppets of nebulous “Western forces” bent on bringing China down. At first, he had targeted well-known women. But this time, he turned his attention to a Weibo user with just 200 followers.
He combed through his target’s post history, collecting comments such as her mocking men as having small “enoki mushrooms” for penises, and found clues that she worked at a government bureau. He called on his more than 1 million followers to report her to her employer for “anti-men” comments and for “doing unrelated things during working hours” — the woman had posted while at work.
Xiaoniao felt this was absurd. In response, she launched a small campaign of her own, encouraging fellow feminists to send letters to the government bureau urging them not to fire the woman. But their efforts were in vain: The woman deleted her account and lost her job. (When contacted by Rest of World, the woman declined to be interviewed because she “just wants it to pass.”)
Afterward, the anti-feminists turned their attention to Xiaoniao. They quickly found her personal information, even though Xiaoniao had set her Weibo profile to only be visible to people who had followed her for at least 30 days. “They are very well-trained,” she said. “They had been keeping an eye on me for a long time.”
Xiaoniao decided to respond to the abuse head-on. On Douban, she posted a video of herself in a red sweater, singing and playing a song on her ukulele — the first time she had shown her face on social media. “I was scared,” she said. “But since they must really want to know what I look like, I thought I could just show them on my own, only in this way I could make myself feel better.” From then on, Xiaoniao changed her Douban account name every month to make it harder for trolls to find her.
Feminists feel social media’s crackdown on “gender opposition” is one-sided. Baidu, a Chinese tech giant best known for its search engine, operates a Reddit-like site called Tieba. This May, a photograph circulated online showing the platform had given one of its “Outstanding Forum Leader of 2023” awards to the administrator of a 3-million-strong community of mostly men. The community has made headlines for spreading sexist comments and sharing explicit pictures of women without their permission. To Chinese feminists, it was further evidence that Chinese tech companies have no issue with misogyny. Baidu, as well as Weibo and Xiaohongshu, did not respond to requests for comment.
The government is also clearly on one side. Coordinated anti-feminist trolling aligns with its own crackdown on women’s rights activism, said Hong Fincher. “It’s all very consistent with the government’s feeling that feminism, in general, is a threat to the government and that these feminist voices can become dangers and can be bad for social stability,” she said. In recent years, government policies have promoted traditional family values, including a reversal from the one-child policy to overt support for couples having more children.
At times, the messaging is more direct. Last year, social media users criticized China’s Communist Youth League, a party organization for young people, after it did not include a single picture of a woman in a series of photos on the Communist Party’s history. The League responded angrily. “‘Extreme feminism’ has become more and more rampant and virulent,” it posted on Weibo. “It is urgent to excise this malignant tumor and restore the peaceful online environment!”
媎妹
- Feminists refer to themselves as jiemei, a homophone of 姐妹 (sisters). It swaps out the 姐, which radical feminists believe has misogynistic connotations, for the rarely used 媎.
米兔
- Since “MeToo” is banned on the Chinese internet, users have adopted mitu, which literally means “rice bunny,” or its emoji equivalent: 🍚🐰.
婚驴
- Hunlü, or “marriage donkeys,” is a derogatory term more radical feminists use to mock married women.
服美役
- Fumeiyi, a play on “military duty,” means “beauty duty” — the labor women do to meet society’s appearance standards.
不婚不育保平安
- Buhun buyu baopingan, or “not marrying and not having children ensures safety,” is Chinese feminists’ recipe for a peaceful life.
蒂
- Di is a slang term for “clitoris.” It is a feminist alternative to 屌 or diao, which means “penis.” Like diao, di is used colloquially to mean “cool.”
娇妻
- Jiaoqi, or “doting wife,” is a derisive term used by radical feminists to describe women who are happy to be in a relationship without gender equality.
Girls help girls
- University students popularized this English-language rallying cry for solidarity as part of their campaign to provide free menstrual pads in women’s bathrooms.
Chinese feminist online slang
In March, a feminist trend cost Wang Qi her job. The 24-year-old social media manager had been reading posts on Xiaohongshu about fumeiyi, or “beauty duty” — a twist on “military duty” that criticizes the social obligation for women to buy expensive clothes, cosmetics, and haircuts. Inspired, she went to a hair salon and walked out with a buzz cut.
At the time, Wang had just received an offer to work at a coffee shop. But when she met the boss again, he thought her new look was unacceptable and rescinded the offer. She has no regrets. “I never felt this close to my true self,” Wang wrote in a Xiaohongshu post with before-and-after pictures. Previously, she told Rest of World, “If I was going out, I would need at least two hours to dress up and do my make up.”
Fumeiyi is currently one of Xiaohongshu’s most widely discussed topics. The challenge to beauty standards has sparked a trend of women like Zhang and Wang proudly sharing pictures of their shaved heads. According to NewRank, a Xiaohongshu analysis platform, fumeiyi posts have been viewed more than 35 million times.
That such a trend took off on a different platform than Weibo shows how, over the past few years, online feminism has shifted. Weibo, which has more monthly active users than X (formerly Twitter), remains the most popular platform for general discussion in China. But in part because of the platform’s harsh policing and relentless trolls, women have increasingly congregated on Xiaohongshu, where they outnumber male users more than two to one. Women have found ways to trick the app’s recommendation algorithm so their posts are shown mostly to other women. Douban, where many interactions happen within semi-secluded groups, is another feminist refuge.
Lü, the activist, describes the retreat from Weibo to Douban and Xiaohongshu as a shift from “a public plaza” to “a friend’s living room.” In the latter spaces, female empowerment is less about trying to create structural change and focuses more on less sensitive everyday topics: conflicts with boyfriends or discussions about whether to marry, have children, or use makeup.
On Douban, too, feminist discussion mostly appears in lifestyle-focused communities, such as the 370,000-member “Douban Breakup Group,” where women go to discuss relationship issues. While it’s not exactly a bastion of activism, discussions in the group often espouse feminist views.
Last year, Wan, 28, had a fight with her boyfriend. While she wasn’t ready to have children, he didn’t mind risking an unplanned pregnancy. She decided to get a contraceptive implant without telling him. When he found out, he thought this showed a lack of trust. Wan, who used only her family name for privacy reasons, wanted to talk to someone, but she couldn’t ask her friends — “They will think I’m too sensitive” — and definitely not her mother, who was anticipating grandchildren. Instead, she turned to the Douban Breakup Group.
“Why do women need to discuss contraception with their partners? Can’t we even make decisions about our own bodies?” read one much-liked comment under Wan’s post. “Sister, you are indeed a decisive girl. Only brave girls like you can truly get freedom,” read another. Sufficiently emboldened, Wan broke up with her partner a week later.
Zhuozi, a 23-year-old video director and editor, has been a member of the breakup group for several years. She has noticed members’ relationship advice evolve. “A few years ago, if a member said in the group that she broke up with her boyfriend, people might say it’s the woman’s fault,” she told Rest of World. “But now, they will analyze the situation, and say that even if she left the man, she could still have a good life.” Zhuozi asked the group about her own boyfriend, who insisted she could not have any male friends, and then broke up with him.
Both Zhuozi, who requested the use of a pseudonym for privacy reasons, and Wan have mixed feelings about the group’s popularity. “The reason that China’s feminism discussions mostly focus on intimate relationships is because we’re unable to effect changes in broader social issues,” said Wan, who works in the legal industry.
“We women have very few choices,” she said. “The only time it seems like you have a choice is when you’re choosing a partner.” She is unsure she will ever marry.
About a decade after the rise of online feminism in China, its influence is at once undeniable and ambiguous. In several arenas — elite politics, labor participation, income equality — the position of Chinese women is slipping. #MeToo posts also no longer carry any hope of systemic change. Court decisions favor alleged harassers and no Chinese university has announced anti-sexual harassment measures.
But support for women’s rights issues appears only to have grown. By numbers, China’s online feminism is bigger than ever. The firestorm of discussion with the original #MeToo hashtag, in 2018, totalled over 4.5 million views on Weibo before it was censored, according to China Digital Times. Today, discussions about gender-related news items can rack up many more. Last year, a woman with mental disabilities, who had eight children, was discovered living chained up inside a shed. Weibo posts with hashtags about the incident — which often touched on how Chinese women lack rights and are treated as baby-making machines — were read more than 10 billion times.
Zhang, meanwhile, has graduated with a physics degree and now teaches at a tutoring center. Her students are often curious about her short hair. Outside of work, she spends hours every day on Xiaohongshu, giving tips on how to report domestic violence or sharing words of wisdom like, “Tolerance is not a good virtue for women, anger is.”
Many of the women Rest of World spoke with expressed that — despite the prevalence of online feminism — making connections in real life is difficult. Restrictions on gatherings are so severe, it’s hard for like-minded women to find each other.
But Zhang is confident that millions of women like her will continue to speak out and live their beliefs. “One day, I might see a girl with a shaved head on the street, and we will exchange smiles,” she said.
Story illustrations: Chinese feminist activists and other notable women, including Zhou Xiaoxuan, Lü Pin, the chained mother of eight, the Feminist Five, and others.
