31 Dec 2025 | Asia and Pacific, China, Features, Volume 54.04 Winter 2025
This piece first appeared in the Winter 2025 issue of Index on Censorship, Gen Z is revolting: Why the world’s youth will not be silenced, published on 18 December 2025.
Some 50 years after Mao’s successors began to open up China’s economy and transform the country, its explosive growth is slowing. Gone are the days when the economy doubled every three to five years and rags-to-riches stories were a dime a dozen.
Today, many lament that the possibility of reinventing one’s fate or guaranteeing a better future for one’s children feels like it’s vanishing.
China’s economy still has extraordinary bright spots, particularly in tech. Its supply chains of rare earth minerals, renewables and electric cars are cause for international envy and fear.
But many of the dividends of that technological progress are concentrated in a few hands, while the social mobility of the early reform years has ossified into a new class structure.
Terms such as neijuan (involution) and tang ping (lying flat) have become fashionable – the former refers to the unrelenting rat-race that is modern life while the latter is the temptation to bow out of the race completely. The Chinese mindset was already deeply competitive and cynical – traumatised, perhaps, by years of war, poverty, famine and communism.
But a new type of disillusionment is spreading across society as a whole, where even “eating bitterness” (a Chinese phrase meaning to endure hardship without complaint) isn’t enough to change your life.
Beijing fears this negativity. While it isn’t always directed at the government, the line between just moaning and blaming the authorities is fine – after all, all-encompassing rule means all-encompassing blame when things go wrong. The government also fears that younger generations will become lazy and simply give up. It needs them to strive – but to strive with hope, not despair.
So, while some arms of the government are looking to reinvigorate economic growth and diffuse the rewards of technology through society, the censors are hard at work on a new mission. For the last couple of years, it has no longer been just dissent they are policing but “gloomy emotions”. In the China of today, censorship isn’t just about what’s not there but moulding what is.
In September, the Cyberspace Administration of China (CAC), the country’s top internet regulator which reports directly to the president, Xi Jinping, began another one of its regular Clear and Bright campaigns to sanitise the internet. This time its focus was explicitly on four types of content: that which polarises, that which spreads panic, that which incites hostility and online violence, and that which exaggerates negative sentiments.
Three high-profile influencers fell victim – their censoring dubbed by Chinese social media as the sanlianfeng (the three consecutive censures). One was 27-year-old Hu Chenfeng, whose main gimmick is cost of living videos demonstrating how far money goes in an average supermarket. Another was Zhang Xuefeng, a viral educator who advises students (and their parents) on what degrees are the most lucrative. And the third was Lan Zhanfei, a professional gamer turned travel vlogger who documents his proudly bachelor life.
As ever, the censors didn’t give reasons for their censure, leaving others on social media to piece together the clues. It seems possible that they were each emblematic of different types of negativity.
Hu Chenfeng, for example, is interested in economic inequality in the country. The first video that got him in trouble was of a 78-year-old grandmother from Nanchong, made in 2023. In it she tells him that her only regular income is her pension of 107 yuan each month. Hu takes her shopping to show the viewer exactly how much food 107 yuan (or $15) can get in a Chengdu supermarket. It is some rice, flour, eggs and a few pork chops.
The video blew up within hours, with many viewers shocked at the level of poverty that still existed in the country – hadn’t the government already declared victory over absolute poverty? It took only a few hours for the video to be taken down, with Hu’s accounts on multiple platforms censored.
Hu returned to social media later that year, but his videos were much less politically sensitive – for example conducting cost of living experiments in other countries – so his latest censure came as a surprise.
A WeChat blog from the Zhejiang Provincial Party Committee following Hu’s cancellation gives a clue. It refers to the tendency of “certain vloggers” to divide society into classes and specifically calls out the use of Apple and Android as signifiers for people’s wealth. Hu had been using brand names as adjectives: he described anything high-end and good quality as Apple (Apple people, Apple lifestyles, Apple cars, Apple universities etc), with Android the defective, low quality, opposite end. Left unsaid was that Chinese-made phones (such as Huawei and Xiaomi) are all Androids.
“You have to ask what hidden arrows exist behind these social media accounts?” the blog asks. It says that the Apple-Android divide politicises people’s phone brand choices, sowing social division. Separately, the blog also spells out the link between Android and indigenous Chinese brands, going as far as to say that Hu is effectively “handing a knife to those forces who would choke off ‘Made in China’”. Hu was not only politicising even gadget choices but was actively unpatriotic.
As for Zhang Xuefeng, there are two theories for why he got in trouble. First, his advice tends to be incredibly cynical – he has advised youngsters to avoid studying journalism in favour of more lucrative, practical degrees such as civil engineering. Nanfang News, an outlet under the umbrella of the Guangdong provincial government, attacked Zhang. “Education is a 100-year strategy, it shouldn’t be hijacked by an impatient commercial logic,” it fretted.
But the restrictions on his social media presence – not a total ban but a temporary limit from getting more followers – also came around the time that a video of him was leaked.
In the clip, Zhang raves about the 3 September military parade. He goes on to pledge that “the day that the guns sound” – referring to an invasion of Taiwan – his company will donate 100 million yuan (£10.8 million) to the military campaign, half of that from him personally.
Could this statement have been seen as boasting about a level of wealth out of reach for the common Chinese? Or perhaps as goading Beijing on to a military invasion which it wants to reserve maximum flexibility on?
In the case of Lan Zhanfei, it might have been simply that the travel vlogger was enjoying his single life too much.
He’s known for saying things such as “if you don’t marry, you won’t go broke”. In a country struggling with youth disillusion and declining fertility, the CAC possibly decided that a role model like Lan was not good at all.
Both Lan and Zhang are now back on their usual platforms after a temporary timeout. Hu, however, is yet to be seen. One presumes that such lucrative streamers will demand clearer explanations from the CAC in private and the regulator, in turn, will demand less negative content. The smartest influencers comply but, even if their livelihoods are saved, they are defanged.
With the latest Clear and Bright campaign, the government is confirming its direction into even more intervention – now not satisfied with erasing just political dissent but also expressions of any wider societal disillusionment.
Censors are now curators of a more cheerful online community. But the clear and bright world they create is at risk of being more and more detached from the reality that many Chinese live in.
29 Dec 2025 | Europe and Central Asia, Features, France, Volume 54.04 Winter 2025
This piece first appeared in the Winter 2025 issue of Index on Censorship, Gen Z is revolting: Why the world’s youth will not be silenced, published on 18 December 2025.
La Mutinerie sits in the heart of Paris’ bohemian Marais district. Two pairs of kohl-lined eyes gaze out from a mural at all who enter.
Inside, on stage, is a familiar scene you might see late at night in neon-lit venues across the French capital. Violente Violette, the host for the evening, delivers a racy blend of music, comedy and striptease, dressed in a tight-fitting corset, leather skirt and suspenders – flaunting a sparkly moustache and beard.
Once a month La Mutinerie, one of the most famous queer bars in Paris, hosts the Purple Slut cabaret. Violent Violette is a cabaret performer, sex worker and Purple Slut’s creator.
Violette started the show a little over a year ago in the hopes of providing a platform for artists from queer and sex-worker communities. The atmosphere is warm, welcoming and full of joy. The audience is packed tightly on benches. Those who can’t find a seat gather along the bar and latecomers crowd around the door, peeking over shoulders just to catch a glimpse of the show. There is a lot of cheering, not much clothing, and plenty of purple. People just seem happy to have a stage and a space.
Yet the Purple Slut cabaret’s very existence is under threat, and Violette says Meta is to blame.
Each show ends with a plea from Violette: “Please show us love online, our Instagram accounts keep getting suspended, many of us are systematically reported, so every follow helps keep these shows running.”
Many in the LGBTQ+ community say that Instagram and Facebook have become increasingly hostile places following policy changes announced by Meta boss Mark Zuckerberg in January 2025.
The changes were significant in two ways. Firstly, previous restrictions were lifted and the moderation guidelines shifted to much broader language. The term “hate speech” was changed to “hateful conduct”, a blurry concept at best. Secondly, how these guidelines are enforced changed. Previously moderation on these platforms was carried out using large teams of human moderators. Following the announcement, thousands of moderators working for Meta were made redundant. Now, users of Meta’s platform – the community – flag content they think breaks its rules. Facebook says that it is reviewed by “technology and human reviewers”.
The platform’s shift towards community moderation paves the way for co-ordinated mob-like behaviour, where moderation tools are weaponised against underrepresented members of society.
The platform’s rules are not only more vague, they allow for homophobia and increased attacks on the LBGTQ+ community. This is most obvious in the “hateful conduct” section of Meta’s guidelines.
Meta policy does not allow for conduct which alleges mental illness or abnormality unless it is motivated by “gender or sexual orientation, given political and religious discourse about transgenderism and homosexuality and common non-serious usage of words like “weird”. The use of the terms “transgenderism” and “homosexuality” are equally concerning, said Violette. “Transgenderism” has been used by far-right and transphobic groups, intended to imply that being trans is an ideology, says Violette. The advocacy group Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) calls “homosexuality” an “outdated and pathologising way of referring to LGBTQ people”.
The Meta changes were met with outrage by some human rights organisations.
USA-based LGBTQ+ advocacy group Human Rights Campaign decried the dismantling of the hateful conduct policy which “expressly permits abuse against LGBTQ+ people while forbidding the same abuses against all other communities”.
Violette told Index their accounts are suspended every few weeks or so and after their first suspension they hired a lawyer. Every time it happens they send a letter to Meta Europe’s headquarters in Ireland through the post, an old-school strategy to ensure that their request will be “seen by a human”. Methodically, the letters go through the supposed reason for the suspension and argue their case to get their accesses reinstated.
Violette says they know the regulations by heart now. They say they exclusively use Instagram (instagram.com/cabaret_purple_zlut) to post photos and promote the cabaret. Since the platform is particularly sensitive to nudity, they know how to self-censor their posts and avoid automatic suspension. While nudity in general can be an issue on the platform, they say LGBTQ+ nudity comes under much more scrutiny.
“A lot of people don’t like what we do, so they use the tools Meta gives them, which is reporting, and by reporting us over and over again, they eventually manage to get our accounts taken down.”
In most cases, suspensions are due to users reporting the account as inappropriate or sexually explicit. In their letters, Violette and their lawyer systematically compare the accusations to the photos or posts, knowing that each one was posted taking into account Meta’s guidelines. It takes a few days for their request to be processed and for the account to be reactivated.
Violette says that some of their fellow queer cabaret performers have given up Instagram altogether, fed up of having to fight the platform. Some tried to move over to less effective social media platforms such as Bluesky or Mastodon. If they are not considered to be able to contribute to the promotion of an event effectively, then they do not get booked. Those who choose to stay on Instagram but who cannot get their accounts back often have to start again, building their following back up from scratch. LGBTQ+ cabaret performers are struggling to make ends meet online, but is this just the symptom of a much larger homophobic and transphobic problem?
Human Rights Watch technology researcher Deborah Brown argues that the platform had already shown patterns of anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment, but the January changes demonstrated that Meta was no longer even pretending to align its content guidelines with human rights norms – protecting against homophobia. “Even if they were not actively properly protecting LGBTQ+ communities before,” she said, “at least they used to communicate that they needed protection.”
The new policies also decrease the reach and visibility of “political content”. Accounts which publicly share political content are left out of algorithms which might otherwise amplify their message. Since then, many pro-equality or LGBTQ+ rights groups have seen their audiences drop significantly, leading many to accuse social media companies of “shadow-banning”.
Difficult to trace and even harder to prove, shadow-banning is broadly defined as limiting the visibility of social media users without their knowledge. While social media companies often justify the practice by arguing they protect users from harmful content, this algorithmic censorship can disproportionately impact LGBTQ+ communities. According to a recent study by the University of Sussex, shadow-banning is “often mis-applied and overly-targets the LGBTQIA+ community and other minorities” and has contributed to what they call “the algorithmic erasure of drag”.
Violette said many queer artists feel like they are fighting the algorithm. “It is a constant battle, the problem is it is difficult to prove.”
Brown added that shadow-banning is often the result of an account being previously flagged. “If there is a strike on an account, then that will affect the reach of the content it posts online,” she explained.
Meta’s policies and guidelines were never perfect to begin with, now they are “simply unacceptable”, believes Violette. The platform’s latest iteration hinders the reach and visibility of LGBTQ+ content, paving the way for homophobic and transphobic behaviour, whilst also reducing the protections offered to people from marginalised communities.
A platform which presents itself as the pinnacle of free speech cannot foster free expression if people feel unsafe. Brown said: “If you accept that that kind of abuse is permissible, then people will be forced to self-censor or leave.”
It means that there is less “space” for LGBTQ+ communities and their content online, the impact of which is being felt beyond our screens. Violette has struggled to fill clubs and theatres.
They said: “If our social media presence isn’t a useful communication tool, then venues won’t book us. If people don’t know we exist, then they won’t come to our shows. If clubs aren’t full, then they can’t survive.”
La Mutinerie and the Purple Slut cabaret have a pay-what-you-can policy, designed to keep their safe space open to everyone in their community. Violette and their partner make Purple Slut merchandise which they sell to support the artists as best they can.
Queer and trans venues in Paris are crucial cultural and safe spaces, their disappearance would be devastating to the under-represented communities they welcome.
Both space and speech should be protected, be it on or offline. Today’s online environment enables homophobia and is slowly suffocating LGBTQ+ spaces, leaving communities fighting for air. Social media is fast becoming a far-right tool for political influence and algorithmic erasure, where the whims of billionaires take precedence over the brilliant diversity of humanity.
But the show must go on, and Paris’s queer cabarets will keep dancing through these dark times in joyful defiance.
24 Dec 2025 | Europe and Central Asia, News, Turkey
When I met Can Dündar in London, he was in a jovial mood. His book, I met my killer (Ich traf meinen Mörder) had been published in Germany to much acclaim.
When we met, Dündar had just flown in from Berlin to London to present the Index Arts Award to Mohamed Tadjadit, a slam poet imprisoned in Algeria for reciting his poets during the Hirak protests. Dündar is a friend of Index on Censorship and was one of the judges for the 2025 Freedom of Expression Awards.
Dündar, a dapper man in his early 60s, is a fearless journalist, once the editor of Turkey’s largest newspaper Cumhuriyet. But he’s now in exile. He was enjoying the anonymity of London when I saw him. Dündar has lived in Berlin since 2016, and he is sometimes attacked in the capital’s street verbally by Turks who want to prove their loyalty to the regime. They film themselves while doing it, so that they can post videos on social media. But as Dündar explains, he would rather be in Germany because he also enjoys huge support and it’s a place he’s given a serious hearing.
People in Germany care about Turkey precisely because of the large Turkish diaspora (the biggest in the world) who first came over in the 1950s as Gastarbeiter. Increasingly Turkish-Germans are in positions of influence in politics, business and the arts.
Dündar’s new book describes in vivid detail the kind of mafia state Turkey has become – it’s more Godfather than Le Carré. In it, Dündar tells the story of how he uncovered the full extent of Erdoğan’s ties with organised crime.
Dündar had to leave Turkey for good after being jailed for his journalism and then attacked in a botched assassination attempt on a square outside the Istanbul Palace of Justice while his case was being heard. He was only saved because of the quick-thinking of his wife Dilek who took hold of the collar of the killer’s shirt when she saw him point a gun at close range towards her husband.
He landed in trouble with Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s government because he published a story the Turkish authorities would far rather had never come to light – that the Turkish secret services were smuggling arms and rocket launchers, under the guise of humanitarian aid across the border to IS and other extremist groups in Syria during the war there in 2015.
It all began when lorries carrying arms were stopped by local police and prosecutors near the Syrian border. Excited that they had uncovered an illegal gun-running operation, they filmed the search and the arms they found (thousands of mortars and tens of thousands of machine gun rounds). An accompanying secret service man was hauled out of the lorry and handcuffed on the ground. There then ensued a huge battle between Turkey’s various police and secret services forces – and an intervention by the government’s justice minister who knew about the illegal arms delivery and ordered it to continue. The saga is all described in gripping detail in the book.
Dündar’s newspaper was passed the video footage and he ran the story despite knowing he would be prosecuted. Dündar spent three months in jail and later a court sentenced him to 27 years in absentia. But the government decided that a jail term was not enough. They needed to silence him forever and officials asked their links in the underworld to murder him.
It was at the end of 2020 after four and a half years in Germany when Dündar received a letter from a man in jail in Buenos Aires, Argentina. The man wrote: “I was given the contract to kill you. Now I’m prepared to tell you everything I know.” The man’s name was Serkan Kurtulus.
In the end Kurtulus had refused to carry out the hit and it was another man who did it. But Kurtulus was able to tell him who had ordered the job, and the deep connections between the government and Turkish organised crime. Kurtulus had also been on the gun-running trips to Syria. He told Dündar he didn’t want to be deported back to Istanbul and thought that getting his story out would give him some sort of protection. As Dündar writes he was put in the uncomfortable position of being able to potentially save his would-be killer’s life.
I Met My Killer also includes three other interviews Dündar carried out with repentant whistleblowers. One man who ran a gun-running business described how, in the two and a half years up to August 2015 enough weapons were sent over the border to Syria by the Turkish government to arm 100,000 men. His business bought them in Serbia, Croatia and Bulgaria and transported them to IS and others with the support of government officials and the Turkish secret service.
I talk to Dündar later over email when I’ve read the book in German and ask what the reaction in Turkey has been to the revelations about the links between the government and organised crime and just the sheer numbers of weapons that went to jihadists in Syria.
“The aspect of the matter is even more frightening that the scandal itself: there is complete silence. It is as if these things never happened, even discussed. It is impossible for my book to be published in Turkey. Those who write about the subject are punished. Fear grows like a veil over the truth,” Dündar told me.
And in Europe and the EU?
“Nothing so far…. Apart from the astonished looks of readers in the German cities I visited for the readings. I have not seen any reactions yet.”
Dündar is convinced the Americans and Europeans knew what was happening and didn’t do anything about it, either because it wasn’t in their interests or they were powerless to do so.
We talk about journalism. There are far fewer journalists in jail now than there used to be, Dündar says, because the independent press has gone out of business. People like him are in exile and others have simply chosen different jobs. Those that remain are afraid. A colleague lives with a little bag packed by the door, awaiting the day that he will be picked up by the police. I say it reminds me of Julian Barnes novel The Noise of Time about Shostakovich waiting to be arrested by Stalin’s secret agents.
One imprisoned journalist who has fascinated Dündar is Fatih Altaylı. He is no friend though, because Altaylı was once a loyal supporter of the Erdoğan regime, even prepared to change polling number for Erdoğan when he was prime minister to make him look more popular. But Altaylı became disillusioned and compared Erdoğan and his cronies to Ottoman Sultans, reminding them of the fate of Sultans (murdered and plotted against). The regime was not impressed.
“It’s symbolic that someone, even someone who supported Erdoğan once upon a time, could be a target,” Dündar told Index
The police arrested Altaylı, but he continued to report from Istanbul’s Marmara prison where he was being held, because he had access to prominent people who were in the cells with him: judges, lawyers, opposition politicians. His colleagues broadcast his YouTube channel but with an empty chair, where he used to sit, and a narrator reading out his investigations. Unfortunately, now the authorities have silenced him completely and his reports from prison are no longer broadcast.
Dündar is currently working on another documentary with Germany’s international news service Deutsche Welle, about the academic and judicial system in the USA and why it has suddenly been put at risk.
“It’s like the re-release of a film we saw 20 years ago in Turkey… It sounds strange, but I am as a Turkish exile meeting with ‘American exiles’. The country which was a [safe] harbour for exiles until now has suddenly started sending its own exiles. The political epidemic is spreading round he world”.
Finally we talk more about the situation in Turkey itself: the opposition mayor of Istanbul who has been locked up since March and has now been sentenced to more than 2,000 years in prison. Dündar laughs at how ridiculous this. The mayor is in prison because he would be the likely successful challenger to Erdoğan in upcoming presidential elections.
And as for Turkey, has he learnt more about his home country after writing his book? “I knew about the intelligence services collaboration with the mafia, but I saw more clearly that the government had transformed power into a mafia state.”
Dündar is looking for an English publisher of Ich traf meinen Mörder. I hope he finds one. The story is a shocking one, and the English-speaking world should take note.
23 Dec 2025 | Asia and Pacific, China, Hong Kong, News
Earlier this month, Hong Kong’s final remaining major opposition party announced its decision to disband, after 30 years of operation. According to a Reuters report, senior Hong Kong Democratic Party members had previously been approached by Chinese officials or “middlemen” who warned them to disband or “face severe consequences”.
It’s a move that comes after years of security crackdowns, not just for the Hong Kong Democratic Party, but for countless liberal voices.
In late April 2024, the Hong Kong Journalists Association – which has come under immense pressure from the Hong Kong government to disband in recent years – suddenly cancelled its live fundraising concert just four days before its scheduled date, citing force majeure. The event instead moved online. Ronson Chan, the then head of the union, explained on his Facebook page without giving a clear reason: “I really want to say that we’ve all tried our best. But alas, in this world, trying our best isn’t enough.”
A month later, the student press of Lingnan University scrapped a call for articles about the 1989 Tiananmen Massacre. The reason given was, again, force majeure, without any further comment.
Following the enactment of the National Security Law in June 2020, anyone hosting public events in Hong Kong has faced censorship or self-censorship, as state security has been elevated above all other considerations. Data compiled from news reports shows that at least 50 public events in Hong Kong have been cancelled since 2021 for clear political reasons or for reasons plausibly linked to the political stance of event organisers. Among them, 11 cited force majeure, and the use of this justification has been on the rise.
Under normal circumstances, force majeure refers to a legal clause used by event organisers to cancel activities due to natural disasters, riots or technical issues. In mainland China and Hong Kong, however, the term carries a different connotation since 2020.
“Usually, the Hong Kong government or those who pass on messages for the government would not allow their identities or the threats to be revealed,” said Chung Kim-wah, a former assistant professor of social science at Hong Kong Polytechnic University. “The targeted people have no choice but to agree to the demands, or face immeasurable legal and political consequences.”
He added: “The authorities have the military, the police, the national security and the legal system behind them. There is no normal or formal way for those targeted to resist, and thus it is force majeure.”
The first known case of political force majeure occurred in March 2023, when a screening of the British independent horror movie Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey was cancelled. Winnie the Pooh is often used to satirise Chinese leader Xi Jinping. When announcing the cancellation, the organiser, Moviematic, initially wrote on Instagram: “I believe you understand that in Hong Kong nowadays, many things are force majeure.” This line was later removed and replaced with “technical reasons.”
In 2024, four event cancellations cited force majeure. This year, six cancelled events have used the same reason. In some cases, the political link was more obscure. Last month, Japanese duo Yuzu cancelled concerts in Hong Kong, Shanghai and Taipei scheduled for December due to unavoidable circumstances. While the group itself is not in any way political, the cancellations may have been related to heightened tensions between China and Japan following remarks by Japanese Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi in early November regarding the use of force in the event of a Chinese attack on Taiwan.
Since Takaichi’s remarks, yet more events by Japanese entertainers in mainland China have been abruptly cancelled, all citing force majeure. Similarly, an event by the Korean girl group Le Sserafim in Shanghai was cancelled for the same reason, possibly because the group includes two Japanese members. The pressure has even extended beyond China’s borders. Hong Kong singer Ekin Cheng was scheduled to perform in Tokyo on December 5, but the concert was cancelled 10 days beforehand, again with the same explanation.
“For Beijing, slapping force majeure on Yuzu and other Japanese acts is a low‑cost way to signal displeasure with Tokyo’s Taiwan stance, quietly punishing Japanese cultural exports while preserving deniability about overt political retaliation, turning cross‑border art and entertainment into a barometer of Beijing’s grievances rather than a neutral space for exchange,” said Athena Tong, a visiting researcher at the University of Tokyo.
The use of the term has also expanded beyond event cancellations. Following a massive fire at a housing estate in Tai Po on 26 November, University of Hong Kong journalism student Ellie Yuen gained significant attention on social media for reporting on the cause of the fire and speaking to international media outlets. A week later, she posted that she would no longer provide comments or undertake further work related to the incident “for obvious reasons”. In the Chinese version of the post, she used the term force majeure.
“This is a use of dark forces by the authorities, no different from that of a mafia,” said social scientist Chung. “It is an abuse of power that overrides constitutional and administrative authority.”
When organisers cite force majeure, it at least serves as a clear signal that politics may be involved. In other cases, however, the public is left to speculate.
This summer, Hong Kong’s largest LGBTQ+ event, Pink Dot, announced the cancellation of its October event, after its venue in the West Kowloon Cultural District withdrew without providing an explanation. In some instances, venues have offered implausible justifications. Before it disbanded this month, the Hong Kong Democratic Party has been forced to postpone its fundraising dinner six times since 2023 due to venue cancellations, with reasons ranging from urgent gas pipe maintenance to broken windows.
Private companies and venues have to face the public, and they have to come up with reasons, even if they are unjustifiable, Chung said. The authorities, however, do not have to face public pressure and do not even have to give a reason when forcing an event to be cancelled.
Benson Wong, a former assistant professor of political science at Hong Kong Baptist University, explained that in the current political climate, some people and groups in Hong Kong are seen as “untouchables,” from whom service providers and the broader society are pressured to “disconnect”.
“The weird excuses are a way of reflecting how twisted Hong Kong society is,” he said.
But groups have found new ways to avoid censorship, such as booking venues in a personal capacity and not announcing events beforehand, according to Wong. According to him, guerrilla events may be on the rise.
