men April 2022, a resurgence of Covid spread seemingly unchecked through the financial hub of Shanghai. Government imposed a strict lockdown, confining millions to their homes, triggering mass testing on a scale not seen since the initial outbreak, and outraging wealthy urbanites who were increasingly skeptical of China’s Covid-zero policy. In an attempt to control public opinion, the government told social media sites, including WeChat, the super app used by two-thirds of China’s population, to delete and remove posts deemed negative or critical of politics.
But the censorship failed. There was an unprecedented public outcry, which turned into a virtual protest. A video documenting the dire consequences of the lockdown has started circulating online. The six-minute clip known as april voices – a montage of audio recordings encompassing the cries of babies separated from their parents during quarantine, residents demanding food, and the pleas of a son seeking medical help for his seriously ill father – resonated with the tens of millions in Shanghai and more across the country. The video was quickly marked as prohibited content and removed from social media platforms in China. On Weibo, the equivalent of Twitter, even the word “April” was temporarily restricted from search results.
The video was seen by many as a neutral but essential documentation of the human cost of closing Shanghai. A backlash ensued, as defiant users repeatedly shared the video in ways that could sidestep web censors. Some posted the video upside down, others overlaid words or images or embedded other images. WeChat censors tried to delete the posts sharing the video, but it was like a multi-headed hydra: as soon as one was blocked, another appeared. This seminal moment embodied the dynamic between the Chinese government and the country’s tech giants. I was in the front line Tencentthe entertainment and technology conglomerate that owns WeChat.
For the better part of three decades, Beijing tolerated and even celebrated entrepreneurship. As the country leaped into the digital age, China produced a $1 billion worth of business every 3.8 days in 2018, just one year later. Tencent overtook Facebook to become the fifth largest company in the world. The amount of money China-focused private equity and venture funds raised nearly quadrupled to $120 billion. That generosity helped transform China from an industrial backwater to one of the most dynamic and coveted markets on the planet.
In addition to generating revenue, companies like Tencent complied with government orders to monitor their citizens. For an authoritarian regime ruling over a population spread out over an area almost as large as the US, an app that dominates all facets of life comes in handy. Some say that WeChat should be called WeCheck, such is its mass surveillance capability.
The early days of Chinese technology also saw the construction of the Great Firewall of China. One in five people on the planet who use the Internet access it through a filter that obscures Facebook, Twitter, Snap, Instagram, the New York Times and YouTube. In a sense, it’s a parallel universe, where almost a billion people live and prosper, to the surprise of Westerners, in the Chinese equivalent of those pillars. There’s Meituan for Deliveroo, Didi Chuxing for Uber, WeChat for WhatsApp and Facebook.
Services are often even better in terms of comfort and design. the Swiss Army Knife of a super-application, WeChat is most adept at merging the functions of various Western platforms, allowing people to chat, shop, or order takeout. Domestically, WeChat is known as Weixin, and the company has emphasized that it works as two apps on and off the mainland. China’s deficit of privacy controls means its companies and government have an advantage when it comes to collecting the data that powers the algorithms that filter, monitor, shame and sometimes imprison its citizens.
The dynamic between Chinese tech companies and the authorities is unique. Before the pandemic I once sat down with an official and talked about the vicissitudes that startups and entrepreneurs go through. “No matter what kind of star you are, we’ll always have a way to show you who’s boss,” the person said, making a casual comment about Tencent owner Pony Ma. you moved to Singapore or some other country abroad, we can’t do anything for you”. The official told me that when regulators felt that Tencent needed to learn a lesson, they would step up censorship efforts, block or shut down web services until the company got the message. The tactics were not always flashy. Given WeChat’s overseas ambitions at the time, they would sometimes disrupt their service for global users, delaying messages or transactions by just half a minute. “That little delay is more than enough to drive users crazy and cause people to abandon the app altogether,” the person said. “That’s how you show them some color.”
The Wall no longer resides only within Porcelain. When the Chinese travel outside the country, the Wall follows them through their telecom providers. A person using a China Mobile SIM card is prohibited from roaming on Google. Authoritarian nations in Africa, Southeast Asia and Russia see the model’s appeal. They also want to create their own intranet. As the internet splits in two, aligning itself between the American and Chinese models, Tencent’s story offers a window into an alternative view of what the global online sphere could become.
Tencent’s products are so convenient and intuitive; however, at the back of everyone’s mind is the knowledge that all their movements, locations and statements are documented and potentially analyzed. Nowhere is this contradiction more apparent than at Tencent’s headquarters, in the heart of Shenzhen’s southern high-tech district.
The Tencent office building took five years and more than half a billion dollars to build. Ma selected NBBJ, the architect responsible for the headquarters of Amazon, Google and Samsung. But the billionaire wanted it to be more than a declaration of financial generosity. With its twin towers gleaming glass and steel, he turned the building into one of the world’s largest laboratories for new Internet services and connected devices. It features holographic tour guides, conference rooms that adjust temperature based on attendance, and alerts on the best parking spots before passengers arrive.
What struck me was that inside the corridors of a building that serves as an imposing hymn to futurism and commerce, the influence of the Communist Party is omnipresent. In its open-plan reading room, along with books on the cosmos and the ancient Greek and Roman empires, Chinese President Xi Jinping’s book, which tabulates his speeches and thoughts on how to rule, features on the most prominent shelves. QR codes in the gym show links to stories documenting victories in battles during the Long March.
Even these displays of loyalty are not enough. Common sense would suggest that the Communist Party would support companies like Tencent and encourage their expansion abroad. But Xi has chosen to ensure that the aspirations of a growing class of immensely wealthy entrepreneurs they are tamed before they become political. It was only a matter of time before he went after these national champions.
A crackdown that began with the fintech industry in 2020 has quickly expanded to encompass everything from online education to gaming, and from transportation to food delivery. With footprints in all of these sectors through its investments in some 800 companies, Tencent has felt the pinch.
Despite Pony Ma’s reputation as the most discreet and cautious of Chinese tech moguls, Tencent has not been spared. China halted the launch of its apps for about a month in late 2021, cut gaming time for those under 18, ordered a review of its financial units, fined it for investment deal disclosure violations and suspended approvals. of new games this year.
The shift in focus to the tech sector is supported by shifts in Xi’s priorities. It reflects the repression in other sectors, including property. As China’s economy slows and Xi attempts to boost the nation’s birthrate, the policies underscore the Communist Party’s growing resolve to respond to growing public dissatisfaction with hoarded wealth and narrowing avenues for progress.
One phrase that has emerged alongside the crackdown is “common prosperity,” which refers to China’s goal of becoming a modernized socialist society. The implications for China’s tech industry are far-reaching and could shape the playbook for decades to come.
There is a Chinese saying “Li yu tiao long men” – “a carp jumping over the dragon gate”. Legend has it that if the carp manages to swim upstream and jump over an arch over a waterfall in the Yellow River, it transforms into an Eastern dragon, a serpent-like creature that symbolizes imperial power. The story of China’s internet tycoons like Pony Ma over the past two decades is one of a generation of carp turning into dragons. The twist, however, is that these idealistic geeks, who ventured out to change the world, are now shackled and have become part of a system they wanted to change. Once self-made dragons have reached the level of success they have in China, the bigger question seems to be: when and how do they get out unscathed?
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This is an adapted excerpt from empire of influence by Lulu Chen, published by Hodder & Stoughton (£25). to support the guardian Y Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Shipping charges may apply