Around the mid-2010s, in a moment of fang (“opening” or loosening of the state power, as opposed to shou, “tightening”), science fiction moved in China from “a fringe genre” into the mainstream. According to the journalist Yi-Ling Lui’s new book The Wall Dancers, this was partly because the Chinese government believed they could use SF works to demonstrate “the Chinese imagination, Chinese style, and Chinese spirit” (pp. 162-163). Liu Cixin’s The Three-Body Problem and its popularity abroad also contributed to the genre’s ascent. At that time, the works of science fiction writer and former tech employee Chen Qiufan (or Stanley Chan) began to be widely recognized and praised by reviewers. “Writing science fiction allowed Stanley to criticize society without being tied to any side of history,” Liu writes (p. 165).
The Wall Dancers is an attempt to understand China and its people through the study of the Chinese internet, from its advent to the present day. Like many other SF writers and readers worldwide, Chen first found a community online; but he also lived in China, and was gaining access to SF content from the West banned by his country’s authorities. Nonetheless, during the fang period “[s]cience fiction provided Stanley a lens through which to understand the world and a vantage point from which to see a panoply of possible futures at a time when the whole country was looking ahead,” writes Liu (p. 69). In other words, Chen Qiufan’s work helped him interpret the world and reveal something about his country and his surroundings.
Because The Wall Dancers is also about understanding the world we live in, both online and offline, Liu intends to teach her Western audience to be critical and open-minded, instead of blindly trusting of narratives about China which are “filtered through the lens of US national security interests” (p. 7). “Reading the Chinese internet,” she writes, “requires rigor and nuance, empathy and skepticism. And now, more than ever, we need better readers” (p. 14).
Equally, the internet and media in China are, Liu shows, fully controlled by the government and the Great Firewall (a system of online censorship and control) they created. Information is disseminated selectively to support the Party and its agenda, while also “filtering out the most subversive ideas” (p. 39). Western messengers and social media platforms, such as WhatsApp and Twitter, are banned. Instead, China has equivalents—WeChat and Weibo—on which users cannot freely post. One line that undermines the government, the use of a forbidden word or phrase, a picture censors would find disruptive based on the directives they receive from the Party: The consequences range from a deleted post or account to the loss of financial security or even arrest.
Liu notices that it’s often not clear what is allowed and what is not, because the rules are purposefully vague. There is thus always a threat of punishment that forces people to censor themselves and question their actions before the Party does. Liu uses the Chinese metaphor, “dance in shackles,” to describe the process of interacting with the government. “To live in China,” she writes, “is to participate in a dance: a dynamic push and pull between state and society” (p. 9). She calls people who engage in this ambivalent relationship with the state—from confrontation to compliance and anywhere in between—wall dancers, and personally interviewed some of them throughout the years of working on her book. The stories of these people, presented against the backdrop of large historical and political events, give Liu’s work a human touch. They make the narrative more intimate, while also serving as embodiments of groups and even generations of Chinese people “dancing in shackles” and jumping the Firewall to find connection, fight for human rights, and discover their identity.
Beyond Chen, there is Ma Baoli, a police officer who created a website for gay people and ultimately founded the most famous gay dating app in China called Blued (ultimately sold and renamed). Liu tells Ma Baoli’s story from his early years in the police academy, to his first experience online where he found likeminded people and the content that spoke to him, to him being one of the most successful entrepreneurs in China, at some points working closely with the state, at others lying low and doing his best to avoid persecution. Ma Baoli’s story showcases not only his personal journey, but also the journeys many Chinese gay people underwent over the years. The internet helped them find connection, while the Party’s occasional periods of acceptance—or indifference—towards the LBGTQ community allowed them to feel, momentarily, more at ease in their country.
Similarly, Liu draws parallels between other people she interviewed and the broad contexts and backgrounds they come from. Lü Pin, the founder of the digital magazine Feminist Voices, Kafe Hu, a hip-hop artist, Eric Liu, a former censor at Weibo—these wall dancers share their personal accounts of how the internet influenced their lives and what they stand for—be it feminism, unrestrained creativity, or the desire to speak the truth. While talking about Lü Pin’s caution regarding in-person meetings, Liu writes, “To a journalist, specific details breathed life into and gave color to a story; to an activist, it meant greater risk” (p. 244). This statement can be applied to anyone who agreed to talk to Liu; but because they did, her book is full of these colorful, lively details: from someone’s pauses before answering a difficult question to the description of their apartment or the way they make other people feel when they speak. I think this aspect of Wall Dancers facilitates readers’ understanding of the Chinese identity and moves them closer to the goal Liu establishes in the introduction.
The book has an impressive list of resources. It’s clear that Liu did a lot of research, both online—which is a changeable and precarious space in China—and offline. She also read a number of SF works, some of them both in the original and in English translation. Chen Quifan’s first novel, The Waste Tide, is set in Silicon Isle, which is based on a real location in China—a large electronic waste processing center. The work features vastly different classes: migrant workers, corrupt government employees, wealthy businessmen. Having been exposed to the toxic waste, the main character transforms into a cyborg and tries to stand out for people like her. “The Fish of Lijiang” is about a burnt-out office employee who travels to a tourist town, “only to discover that everything is artificially engineered, from the blue sky to the fish in the streams to the experience of time itself” (p. 205). The story is based on Chen Qiufan’s years as an office worker at the time of rapid technological growth in China, as well as the tourists he met in Lijiang, similarly exhausted, depressed, and overworked.
Liu also pays attention to Chen Qiufan’s other works and how they reflect reality. Even though criticism of life in China might seem obvious in The Waste Tide and “The Fish of Lijiang,” a work of fiction can still be interpreted in many different ways without indicating who the author opposes or supports. Chen Qiufan is an expert wall dancer. Chinese publishers tell him what is okay to write about and what is not. While interacting with government officials, he emphasizes “the importance of sci-fi as a tool to strengthen innovation and promote creativity” (p. 210). Just like many other personalities in Liu’s book, Chen Qiufan strives to prove to the Party that what he does is useful, while also staying true to his values.
Liu summarizes the main theme of Chen Qiufan’s works as follows: “At their core, his stories were ultimately driven by a question that plagued everyone, not only in China but across the world: What were the consequences of human beings’ relentless drive toward technological growth, and at the end of the process, who would we become?” (pp. 165-166) This statement correlates with the overall message of Liu’s book: By looking at individual dancers, we can try to draw conclusions about Chinese society, as well as the mindsets of people outside of the country.
Yet, while reading Wall Dancers I couldn’t shrug off the feeling that the audience of the book is narrower than the author intended. On that note, Yi-Ling Liu herself has lived, studied, and worked in at least two countries: China and the US. She speaks both languages fluently and has absorbed local culture in a way that allows her to compare and contrast these two places. This seems to be both her asset and her limitation. Most Chinese phenomena are explained in detail, which is great for people unfamiliar with this culture, but American phenomena are often overlooked and given as facts without any supporting evidence. For example, Liu explains reforms introduced by Chinese politicians and the reasons behind them, but makes broad, sweeping statements about American politicians and their policies. She assumes that her readers would know what Trump’s vices are and what Trumpism entails. If the book is written for an American audience, then this is probably true. If the author meant to include a wider range of readers, then she should probably validate or explain some of her statements.
Another question that I had while reading the book is understanding what an average Chinese person thinks and feels about the internet and the limited access to the Western media. Every dancer Liu interviewed is presented as an example of a group, but, in many ways, they are also exceptional. Musicians, entrepreneurs, activists, writers—they all are or have been fascinated by Western (primarily American) ideas at some point in their lives. The internet and the opportunity to travel abroad helped them develop this fascination. Some, like Kafe Hu, got disappointed and disillusioned in the US. Others, like Lü Pin and Eric Liu, found shelter and a new home in the country.
I’m curious, though, if there are Chinese people who have never found Western ideas appealing, even being aware of their existence. Based on Liu’s book, it seems that people do everything they can to emigrate from China. The ones who cannot, due to the lack of financial resources or other obstacles, stay and refuse to have children and participate in the state economy. Susan, the young activist who appears in the book’s epilogue, believes in her work and hopes to make changes from within her country—that’s why she stays. Even she, however, while traveling to the US, finds New York “a breath of fresh air” (p. 275).
Considering her background, it often appears that Liu views China and Chinese identity through their relationship with the US. It’s certainly an angle, but what I think could have made The Wall Dancers even more thorough and comprehensive is the inclusion of other perspectives, not directly related to the US. Throughout her work, Liu mentions different forms of patriotism—from its extreme manifestations like online nationalists Little Pinks to the self-preservation tactics of “performative patriotism” and “speech tax” (“words often spoken contrary to the speakers’ own hearts” [p. 192]). She also points out what she calls the “smug triumphalism” and “indignant pride” that some Chinese people felt during the first waves of the Covid pandemic, while comparing the functional Chinese government with the dysfunctional US leadership (p. 196).
All of this makes me wonder what authentic Chinese patriotism looks like and if it’s possible at all. If Chinese values are not the same as the values of the Party, what are they? Is it openness to the world and unquestioning acceptance of other cultures? Is it a mixture of traditionalism and liberalism? Or something else entirely? I wonder, too, if it’s possible to talk about China without connecting it to the US. In her work, Liu states that Chinese identity abroad is often reduced to whether a given individual is either a supporter or an opponent of the state. Wall Dancers attempts to eradicate this simplistic thinking, but I wish it could go a bit further. It would be interesting to know what a factory worker thinks about the Party’s current level of censorship and if they notice it; if an office employee jumps the Firewall or if they’re too tired (or scared) to do so; how school teachers use social media and if VPN is their go-to; what videos farmers watch and if they care about the news from the West at all. If they don’t, what do they care about? Maybe they contemplate the themes brought up in Chen Qiufan’s science fiction. Maybe they think about survival. I don’t know, but I would like to find out.
Despite the questions that I still have after finishing The Wall Dancers, this book taught me a lot about China through the lens of the Chinese internet. Readers knowledgeable in American culture and politics will find it interesting, but even if you’re as ignorant in political matters as I sometimes feel, you can still enjoy this book. The stories of people “dancing in shackles” create a vibrant narrative and bring us closer—if not quite close—to understanding China and its people.