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Coronavirus patients at Wuhan hospital
‘The citizens of Wuhan seemed to have banded together in hard times.’ Quarantined patients in a makeshift hospital in Wuhan Photograph: EPA
‘The citizens of Wuhan seemed to have banded together in hard times.’ Quarantined patients in a makeshift hospital in Wuhan Photograph: EPA

Amid the coronavirus lockdown, Chinese social media is full of laughter and anger

This article is more than 4 years old
With people trapped indoors, online activity of all sorts – funny, inspiring, government sanctioned and not – has bloomed

In many ways, the coronavirus outbreak in China has been one big social experiment, testing the thesis: what happens when an entire country goes into hibernation for weeks?

Since the outbreak was officially announced more than a month ago, less than one-third of China’s 300 million migrant workers have returned to work a fortnight after the lunar new year break; 270 million children, according to China’s official news agency, are staying home as schools remain shut throughout China.

There’s strictly no congregating – or socialising – in this new world order. Many cities have banned public gatherings altogether, and official advice has been “Stay in, don’t go out unless necessary”, resulting in many empty streets. Nationwide, cinemas are closed and performances at Beijing’s top arts venues have been cancelled until April. Wuhan, a city of more than 11 million, remains in lockdown. As a result, online social activity and subcultures have bloomed, and state media has joined in too.

To begin with, it was memes showing bats in soup, or people eating the animals whole, as health authorities announced that bats may have been the source of the viral outbreak. But as celebrations for new year slowed down, hashtags such as #whattodowhenstuckathome and #learnanewskill trended on Weibo, China’s Twitter, giving life to a host of funny videos and entertainment.

Recreating outdoor life indoors became a hit: a man sitting on a high chair in his living room “fishing” from his own goldfish tank; masked women dancing with doctors in Wuhan’s hospitals, reminiscent of the popular group-dancing seen in parks and public squares; Ferrero Rochers being flipped inside their box with cotton buds, a parody of the way that street food stalls cook popular octopus-ball snacks. People’s Daily made montages of the funniest clips, which also went viral on social networks.

Cabin fever has meant that downloads of fitness apps such as Keep, and views of exercise videos on Douyin (Chinese TikTok) and its rival Kuaishou (or Kwai, overseas) soared. One man even reportedly ran a marathon in his flat, evidenced by the step counts he posted on social media. On the video-streaming site Bilibili, views of fitness content jumped by almost 50%. Videos of cats “cooking” – kneading dough with their paws – also gained a large following.

The special restrictions seemed at first to create a burst of life online. A livestream showing the emergency construction of hospitals in Wuhan attracted millions of viewers, making stars of the tractors involved. On Weibo, each type of tractor has its own page and is ranked, with the “cement mixer” coming in at number three with 8,000 followers and the “small fork lifter” at number one with more than 40,000.

The citizens of Wuhan seemed to have banded together in hard times. On 28 January, five days into the lockdown, synchronised chants of “Wuhan add oil” (a reference to car engines that functions as a rallying call), was heard across the city’s apartment blocks, pre-organised by residents’ groups on WeChat. The rally was sustained for several minutes until someone suggested that all the shouting could increase airborne transmission.

But as the number of coronavirus deaths jumped and the severity of its impact became apparent, discontent brewed. Then on 7 February, doctor Li Wenliang, the “whistleblower” who first sounded the alarm of a “Sars-like” virus, died.

The government’s mishandling of the situation was already facing intense scrutiny – news outlets such as Caixin published a series of in-depth analyses of the delayed response to the virus. The fact that Dr Li had been gagged by police for speaking the truth and trying to alert others led to an outpouring of anguish online. Many blamed his death on the government’s failure to provide medical workers with adequate protection. The hospital where Li died denied his death for hours after it was first reported, fuelling further resentment. The hashtag #wewantfreedomofspeech had nearly 2m views on Weibo before it was deleted.

As rage erupted, censors quickly waded in, deleting posts, shutting down accounts and group discussions. Several hours after Li’s death, the social media landscape already seemed more pacified.

‘The presence of Big Brother is keenly felt on every social media platform.’ A woman uses her mobile phone behind barbed wire at an entrance of a residential compound in Wuhan Photograph: Reuters

Many examples of “negative news” online about the outbreak have now disappeared. An article that was titled “If there were bolder media outlets, could the coronavirus outbreak have been avoided?” is inaccessible; the poplar Weibo account of the Wuhan writer Fang Fang, who wrote about what she saw in Wuhan, was shut down.

While citizen journalists and news agencies continued exposing “the reality” inside Wuhan, they faced a new level of repression. A man called Fang Bin who shot scenes inside local hospitals showing body bags is thought to have been arrested.

In recent weeks state media has ramped up its efforts to portray unity and boost patriotism. On the last day of lunar new year, a day after Li’s death, buildings in Beijing lit up in red with “Wuhan add oil”. Similar light displays marked the Communist party’s 70th anniversary in October last year.

Today, social media is still awash with entertaining videos, many portraying acts of selflessness. A short video showing a guard at a “coronavirus test station” in a thick army coat in the blustery, snowy landscape has been viewed millions of times. Xinhua, China’s official news agency, has found its own protagonists of this blitz spirit, such as the crying guard who sits on the ground eating his lunch but jumps up seconds later “when duty calls”, or an Egyptian family who “chose” to stay in Wuhan.

A series of star-filled songs about the outbreak have added to the culture of positivity and patriotism. Jackie Chan sings on both Wuhan, are you OK? and Believe Love Will Triumph.

For now, while plenty bemoan the censor’s heavier hand, government channels remain essential sources of information and updates. The truth is that most people are not interested in being controversial, and are just trying to pass the time and are happy for a morale boost.

Yesterday, a friend urged me not to ask too many questions about coronavirus on WeChat, as it has become “too sensitive”. But beyond the funny memes and songs of unity, you can still find devastating personal stories – the disease has now claimed 2,592 lives in China. Long after posts are deleted, their screenshots linger: look and you can still find reposted threads and articles detailing families torn apart, and gravely sick patients unable to access treatment.

Yuan Ren is a former editor at Time Out Beijing, and has written extensively on China

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