China’s Gen Z

Young people​ in China have never lived in a world without the internet and many have had access to smart devices since childhood. Life offline is difficult for them to imagine. They are the most educated generation in history, but they are living through an economic slump following decades of high-speed growth. The vision of upward mobility has waned, replaced by the rat race (though many prefer the term neijuan or ‘involution’). Working for tech giants or ambitious start-ups means seventy-hour weeks, going bald by thirty and earning a salary that you don’t have the time or energy to spend. Meanwhile, other industries are stagnating. Young people without jobs live with their parents, scrolling on their phones all day. Some celebrate their lifestyle on social media, calling themselves ‘rat people’ because they’ve dropped out of the race.

This passive-aggressive ‘lying flat’ attitude is easily dismissed as laziness, but Gen Z-ers have developed a philosophy to counter the accusation. Praising idleness sounds last century; instead, they like to invoke Marx: while capitalists would rather throw away their goods than give them to workers, we workers would rather be idle than give our labour to capitalists. Higher education no longer guarantees a decent job, so anxious parents have begun favouring vocational colleges such as the Police Academy, Customs University and Railway Technology College – these at least will ensure their child finds a stable job at a state-owned enterprise. The civil service exam has always been competitive, but each year is worse than the one before. In 2024, three million people took part, an average of 76 people for each position.

Overseas study has become less appealing. Parents who once looked up to Western countries are now disenchanted. For their children, it’s much easier: they were never enchanted in the first place. China provides a much more convenient life. The cost of living is low and everything they need is just a click away. Given the choice, they would rather ‘rat around’ in a comfortable home eating cheap, delicious food delivered from a nearby restaurant than ‘eat bitterness’ in a foreign country. Overseas education, especially at a prestigious Western university, used to be valued by employers; now, many companies seem to prefer graduates who were trained at home. ‘We absolutely do not hire overseas returnees, as there are spies among them,’ the entrepreneur Dong Mingzhu said in April. ‘For safety’s sake, I only hire talents from Chinese universities.’ Her remarks soon disappeared from the internet. Better not to say it out loud.

Following the news in January that TikTok might be banned, many users in the US and Europe registered with the Chinese social app RedNote. The sudden influx of ‘TikTok refugees’ shocked many young Chinese people who thought the Great Firewall worked in both directions and that Westerners couldn’t access Chinese social media. They soon calmed down and started doing what they do best. Since the time difference between China and the US is around twelve hours, they decided it was fair enough for Americans to use the app while they were asleep. But on one condition: the refugees were asked to pay a ‘cat tax’, i.e. post a picture of a cute cat (handsome men could pay an ‘ab tax’ instead).

After paying their cat taxes, American children started asking the Chinese for help with their maths homework, while the Chinese children asked the Americans to help them with their English. Soon, adults started to compare notes on things such as salaries, food prices, healthcare and housing costs. Americans were shocked by the low cost of living in China, and the affordability of healthy food (especially the variety of vegetables). Chinese were shocked by how high American medical bills are. RedNote’s coding team worked overtime to make the translation function available within three days. Traditional media outlets praised it as a ‘global village’ or a ‘Tower of Babel’. One RedNote user didn’t get to enjoy this rare moment of Sino-US harmony, however. Maye Musk’s account was flooded with insults from newcomers and she had to disable comments for a while. She has lived in Shanghai on and off since her son Elon launched a Tesla gigafactory there, and Chinese women often praise her elegance and beauty on RedNote.

Western sceptics quickly noticed something odd about RedNote: too many users called themselves ‘momo’. The assumption was that they must be bots controlled by the Communist Party. While Westerners tend to use their real names and pictures on social media, Chinese users prefer to remain anonymous online. ‘Momo’ was once the default name provided by Chinese social media sites for newly registered users, and young people found it convenient. They formed the ‘momo army’ and adopted the slogan: ‘One momo did a bad thing; millions of momo share the blame.’ Chinese Gen Z-ers don’t want their parents or colleagues to know what they say, watch or read in the virtual world. Plus, cyber violence is rife: who wants to be doxxed over a silly comment?

After Trump delayed the TikTok ban, the refugees went home. The cultural exchange was fun, but it couldn’t last. The differences were too great. As well as the usual regulations for Chinese users (no criticism of the government, no comments that might incite social conflict, no flaunting of wealth), TikTok refugees regularly had to be reminded of the ‘no sex, no drugs, no religion, no politics’ policy. Posts involving sensitive issues might not be allowed to appear at all. What’s more, RedNote is a matriarchal community: one of its founders is a woman, and almost three-quarters of users are female (most of them under the age of 35). Users call one another ‘sis’ instead of ‘bro’. There are unspoken rules. If a girl asks a guy to post a picture of his abs and he does, he’ll receive ‘wows’ and heart emojis. However, if a guy sends a message to a girl asking her to show him her legs, it’s deemed harassment. Double standards? Perhaps, but only for men and older generations. From the point of view of young women, the transaction is complete when they give a man positive feedback. ‘I complimented your ab pic. Why are you asking for more?’

Young Chinese bros enjoyed a Sino-US meet cute in the Swedish video game Helldivers 2. In the game, only two megacities, New York and Shanghai, are left standing after a ferocious alien attack. Players from around the world decided to abandon New York and defend Shanghai together. Once again, American and Chinese users worked in relay thanks to the time difference. Chinese players believed a rumour that the game’s Swedish developer wanted all the megacities to fall so that the final battle could take place in Stockholm. They review-bombed the game in an attempt to influence the ending, a tactic that almost never fails in the Chinese market.

The ACGN (animation, comics, game and novel) industry is where Gen Z-ers congregate, and where they have a sense of agency. The virtual characters are adored, if not the ‘evil capitalists’ (usually the developers) who create them. As one fan decree puts it, ‘review-bombing the developer is proof of love for the characters.’ Cultural observers have put a positive spin on the practice, seeing it as the ‘first political negotiation’ a younger generation experiences: ‘Players, influenced by like-minded peers and current social sentiment, have begun to try various methods to participate in discussions and attempt to decide the future of the games they play.’

Research tells us that professionals who have been in their job for at least ten years are likely to derive a sense of accomplishment and identity from it. This is not the case with Gen Z-ers. They dislike repetitive work, find office politics exhausting and hate being criticised. If the pressure is too much, they will lash out and quit. According to a ‘workplace mental health report’ last year, many young people feel anxious if they haven’t been promoted to a management position within five years and can experience a mid-career crisis as early as 28. This leads them to switch jobs every year or two in the hope of quicker advancement. Some people in their late twenties have already worked in more than ten places.

Questions such as ‘How do I quit?’ are always trending on social media. Posting about your ‘rat life’ might bring you five minutes of fame, but these fads come and go: attention spans are short. A new type of entertainment called ‘vertical drama’ has emerged: shows filmed in vertical format to suit smartphone users. Each episode lasts between two and five minutes, and after a few teaser episodes you have to pay to watch the rest. The dramas are usually taken from popular web novels. A title can be produced in less than a week, and the requirements for the actors are basic: they just have to look good on camera. Nuance and subtlety are the preserve of artistic films; verticals need as many flips and twists as possible. Production is often sloppy. If a line is deemed problematic by viewers, the voice is simply muffled, without any attempt to cut or reshoot. The stories are sensational. One that has got lots of viewers excited is the supposedly forthcoming Trump Falls in Love with Me, a White House Janitor. According to an industry report, vertical drama viewers now number 696 million, including almost 70 per cent of all internet users in China. Last year the vertical market was worth 50.5 billion yuan (£5 billion), surpassing movie box office revenue for the first time. It is projected to reach 85.65 billion yuan by 2027. As one critic put it, the rapid pace and intense conflicts of verticals allow viewers to experience the ‘tension-anticipation-release-satisfaction’ cycle in a matter of minutes.

Young actors who don’t have connections in the oversubscribed film industry naturally wish to participate in vertical dramas. They get to play leading roles and the pay is good (sometimes twenty thousand yuan, or £2000, a day). If the drama is a hit they can gain millions of fans and commercial opportunities will follow. This is a much safer option than acting in high-risk, high-return ‘boys’ love’ (BL) dramas. The biggest recent story in the entertainment business concerned the Chinese-produced BL drama Revenged Love. Mainland regulations prevent BL dramas from being broadcast on TV or streaming platforms, so BL enthusiasts shared Revenged Love via cloud drives. The lead actors, Tian Xuning and Zi Yu, have become superstars. Zi’s first magazine cover sold almost a million copies in one day. Tian’s first commercial with the Japanese cosmetics brand Decorté generated up to 70 million yuan in sales revenue. The National Radio and Television Bureau isn’t happy about BL dramas bypassing mainland censorship and has threatened to ban actors who participate in future productions.

Veteran participants of China’s intense fan culture know that real-life idols can disappoint. It’s safer to worship the dead or invented than the living. The most popular deceased idols include Li Bai and Du Fu, two great poets from the Tang dynasty, and Liu Bei and Zhuge Liang, statesmen from the Three Kingdoms period. During the season of grave visits, or on the idol’s anniversary, fans make pilgrimages and take offerings to the grave. Li Bai was known for his alcoholism – one story claims he drowned while trying to reach the moon from the water when drunk – so fans bring the best liquor to his grave, hoping he will enjoy it. The Ming dynasty reformer Zhang Juzheng (1525-82) is said to have died from complications related to haemorrhoids, so his fans bring haemorrhoid ointments to ease his discomfort in the afterlife. Those who experienced stigmatisation in the past offer hope to victims of cyber violence today. Fans write letters sharing their experiences and try to restore their idol’s reputation. One of the most unusual and random tributes to circulate online lately was a Labubu doll placed in front of Marx’s tomb in London.

Gen Z-ers have a digital solution for every mental health issue. They talk to AI chatbots about their frustrations and negative feelings. They find loving virtual boyfriends and girlfriends in video games. Chinese otaku are much happier than Western incels because they have a virtual harem of ‘gal’ game characters. Young women who feel maternal but don’t want to get married or have children can adopt cotton babies – cute dolls modelled after popular gaming characters – as part of their simulated families. If you like Sylus from the game Love and Deepspace, for example, you can buy a mini Sylus cotton baby and raise it as your child. There is a popular saying about such virtual families: Mum is a bunch of cells, Dad is a string of data and the child is a ball of cotton. Everyone is happy.