Years ago, I agreed to do an interview.

I was in hotel quarantine in Sydney when a relative called me. She said a journalist wanted to interview me about my life and work in China.

“It won’t be a hit piece. Just think about the doors an article like this could open for you in Australia,” she said.

I asked who the journalist was and made some enquiries. I have friends in the media too, and they all strongly advised me not to do the interview, for a variety of reasons.

So I politely declined.

A day or two later, the same relative called again, disappointed by my decision. She twisted my arm, and eventually I agreed. I trusted her. She was family.

The interview took place shortly after I returned home to Brisbane for three months of long-service leave. Then I largely forgot about it. At the time, I was trying to find a way to have my marriage to my late husband annulled. I had exhausted every avenue in China: no death certificate, no document proving that he had passed away. Thanks to bureaucracy—and the unwillingness of anyone to help—I appeared destined to remain married to a dead person forever.

Even the Australian consulate abandoned me, despite the years I had spent hosting its events and interviewing its diplomats. One of the diplomats was allegedly an ideologue who disliked what he believed my views to be, or so I was told.

Other Australian consulates had no such concerns. One even flew me to another city to host an event and sing at an event. The New Zealand, Canadian, British, and even U.S. consulates were all happy to engage with me too. And I appreciate them all sincerely for that.

But I digress.

Three months later, I was back in quarantine—this time in Guangzhou, for three weeks, under China’s evolving COVID-19 policies. A few days into quarantine, the article I had almost forgotten about was published.

It misrepresented my views. I contacted the journalist, but my concerns were dismissed.

I found the timing interesting. Why wait months? And why publish it only after I was back in China and confined to quarantine? Was it because, once I was back there, I would have far less ability to dispute publicly what the article claimed?

The article portrayed me as dismissive of Western media reporting about Xinjiang. What I actually said—roughly, not verbatim—was that my work focused on local Guangdong news and that, as someone who had never been to Xinjiang, I found it difficult to know what was true. The BBC said one thing; CGTN said another.

I had lived and worked in a Chinese media environment for years. You can be certain I had been asked similar questions many times by Chinese journalists. I had learned that an answer like this was a reliable way to ensure Xinjiang was left out of the resulting article.

I did not want to discuss subjects on which I could not speak truthfully. That was all. And no Chinese journalist would have considered mentioning that I followed the BBC’s reporting on Xinjiang—or even alluding to it.

For years, I avoided talking about Xinjiang. My news programme never aired stories about the region on days when I was anchoring. I refused to read the lead, proofread those stories or provide dubbing for them.

That was my form of protest, and it worked for me.

Until that article was published.

The following day, it was translated into Chinese for Cankao Xiaoxi, a state-owned publication read by Communist Party officials.

After that, the approaches began again: approaches to participate in propaganda about Xinjiang, which I continued to refuse until I resigned from GRT and announced my departure on my news programme; and approaches to engage in espionage, which I also refused and which were later documented in an ABC article.

The same masthead that originally published the story later ran an interview in which I explained how the first article had led to increased pressure and targeting. None of this is merely my recollection. It is documented.

I sought legal advice. I was advised that I may have had a strong case for defamation—and potentially more.

However, I have ultimately decided to be the bigger person. Instead of suing or publishing a long exposé naming and shaming everyone involved, I have decided to sing a song.

My cover of Meghan Trainor’s “Chef’s Kiss” is primarily for the relative who set me up and who, to this day, denies everything—including the phone calls she made while I was in quarantine.

But it is also for everyone involved in producing that article.

You made my life incredibly difficult and, at times, frightening because you had an ideological axe to grind. You caused enormous harm while I was grieving my husband, enduring the isolation of COVID overseas, and suddenly finding myself highly visible in an intensely political environment. At one point, I became suicidal. I’m good now, though, in case you are wondering.

So, I wish you a little choking on your food, hair that you’re gonna lose, an itty-bitty rock in all of your shoes, brick walls blocking all of your views, and icebergs on all of your cruises.

And the next time you think you’re onto a hot story, take a chill pill. Remember your journalistic ethics—if you have them—and ask yourself: Am I causing harm? Do I understand the story clearly? Do I have all the facts?

If not, get a grip. Grow up and recognise that your words have consequences.

But it’s all good. I no longer need an apology or even an acknowledgement.

All I need is a “Chef’s Kiss”—available now on all major streaming platforms, including Chinese platforms.

A chef’s kiss. That’s all this is. 💋

If this one isn’t your cup of tea, please know it wasn’t necessarily intended for you. Feel free to explore some of my other writing… I’m capable of forming properly structured paragraphs when needed!

One of the strangest things about leaving China wasn’t learning how to live in Australia again.

It was realising how Chinese I had become.

I moved to China when I was 20 years old.

By the time I left, I was 32.

I had spent almost my entire adult life there.

Just shy of 12 years. Long enough that China stopped feeling like a foreign country and simply became normal life.

Many of the habits, assumptions, and social instincts that shape who we are as adults were formed there for me.

Which meant that when I returned to Australia, I wasn’t just coming home.

In many ways, I was arriving as a stranger.

When I returned to Australia in late 2022, I expected culture shock.

What I didn’t expect was reverse culture shock. Especially in the ways I experienced it.

Everyone talks about adjusting to China.

Very few people talk about adjusting back to Australia.

The assumption is that you simply go home.

But what happens when home isn’t quite the same home you remember anymore?

What happens when you’ve spent so long adapting yourself to one culture that you no longer realise you’re doing it?

Over the past few years, I’ve slowly been “un-Chineseing” myself.

Not because China was wrong.

Not because Australia is better.

But because I eventually realised I was applying Chinese social rules in a place where nobody else was playing by them.

And it was making life much harder than it needed to be.

Some of the differences were obvious.

Others were things I didn’t even realise I had absorbed until I came home.

The way I communicated.

The way I approached rules.

The way I handled friendships.

The way I viewed authority.

The way I thought about privacy.

Even the way I thought about the human body.

None of these things seemed particularly Chinese while I was living there.

They just felt normal.

It was only after returning to Australia that I realised how much of China I had brought back with me.

And how much of Australia I needed to rediscover.

Relationships Before Rules

One of the biggest differences between Australia and China is that China is fundamentally relational.

Australia is individualistic.

That doesn’t mean Chinese people don’t value individuality, or Australians don’t care about relationships.

They do.

But the default settings are different.

In China, relationships often come first.

In Australia, systems come first.

For example, in China, many things operate through trust networks.

You know somebody.

They know somebody.

A problem gets solved.

A favour gets done.

An exception gets made.

The relationship itself is often the mechanism through which things happen.

When I first arrived in China, I found this confusing.

By the time I left, it felt completely normal.

If something went wrong, my instinct was often to think about who I could talk to.

Who might know somebody.

Who might be able to point me in the right direction.

Not because I was trying to break rules.

Because that’s simply how many things worked.

Relationships weren’t separate from the system.

They were often part of the system.

Australia feels different.

People generally expect systems to work without relationships.

You don’t need to know somebody.

You fill out the form.

You wait your turn.

You follow the process.

When I first came back, I found this strangely cold.

I remember thinking:

“But why don’t people just help each other?”

Over time, though, I realised Australians would probably ask the opposite question.

“But why should knowing somebody change the outcome?”

Neither approach is completely right or wrong.

Both have strengths and weaknesses.

China can sometimes feel warmer.

Australia can sometimes feel fairer.

China can sometimes be more flexible.

Australia can sometimes be more predictable.

The challenge for me was remembering which set of assumptions I was operating under.

After twelve years in China, I had become extremely relationship-oriented.

I expected relationships to solve problems.

Australians expected processes to solve them.

It took me a while to realise we were operating from entirely different assumptions.

And once I understood that, a lot of things that had been frustrating suddenly started making sense.

The Strict Rules Nobody Follows

Another thing that took me years to understand properly is the relationship between rules and reality.

From the outside, China often looks incredibly strict.

The regulations are extensive.

The policies are detailed.

The laws can seem overwhelming.

Before I moved there, I assumed this meant people followed the rules very closely.

Then I arrived.

And I discovered something fascinating.

On the ground, people are often surprisingly relaxed.

Deadlines move.

Rules bend.

Exceptions appear. Quite frequently, actually.

People negotiate.

They improvise.

They adapt.

In fact, one thing I gradually learned is that many Chinese people expect you to bend the rules a little.

Not necessarily in a corrupt or malicious way.

More in the sense that rules are often viewed as a starting point rather than an immovable wall.

If a problem exists, the goal is often to find a practical solution.

Sometimes that means finding a workaround.

Sometimes it means calling somebody.

Sometimes it means asking for an exception.

Sometimes it means quietly pretending a minor problem doesn’t exist.

A lot of social energy goes into making things work.

And often, making things work together.

I remember countless situations where the written rule said one thing, but everybody involved understood that some flexibility was expected.

Nobody was shocked by this.

Nobody thought society was collapsing.

It was simply how things operated.

Australia feels almost the opposite.

Our laws and regulations often appear less intimidating.

The language is simpler.

The expectations seem more relaxed.

But when a deadline exists, people generally expect you to meet it.

When a rule exists, people generally expect you to follow it.

The system assumes compliance.

Nobody is negotiating.

Nobody is looking for creative interpretations.

Nobody is asking whether there might be a workaround.

The answer is often just:

“No.”

One of the biggest adjustments for me was realising that Australians often experience rule-bending very differently.

In China, if somebody finds a clever way around a bureaucratic obstacle, people will often admire their resourcefulness.

In Australia, the same behaviour can create genuine anxiety.

People start worrying about fairness.

Whether somebody is getting an advantage.

Whether everybody is being treated equally.

Whether the integrity of the system is being undermined.

I don’t mean this as a criticism.

In many ways, it is one of the reasons Australian institutions function as well as they do.

People trust systems because they expect the rules to apply to everybody.

But after spending twelve years in a society where flexibility was often considered a virtue, I found it surprising how uncomfortable many Australians become when somebody openly tries to bend the rules.

In China, people often ask:

“How can we make this work?”

In Australia, people are more likely to ask:

“What do the rules say?”

At first, I found Australia’s approach rigid.

Then I began to see the advantages.

Things are often more predictable.

Processes are clearer.

Outcomes are more consistent.

At the same time, I occasionally miss the flexibility of China.

The feeling that, if a problem appeared, people would sit down together and find a way around it.

Neither system is perfect.

Both have strengths.

Both have weaknesses.

But when I first came home, I kept expecting flexibility where Australians expected compliance.

And I didn’t realise how Chinese that expectation had become until it stopped working.

Just Tell Me What You Mean

This was probably the hardest adjustment of all.

Communication.

Chinese communication can be remarkably indirect.

People circle around topics.

They imply things.

They hint.

They suggest.

Sometimes entire conversations happen without the actual subject ever being mentioned.

Everybody is expected to read between the lines.

Everybody is expected to understand context.

Everybody is expected to pick up subtle signals.

When I first arrived in China, I found this exhausting.

I was Australian.

If somebody wanted something, why didn’t they just say it?

If there was a problem, why didn’t they just tell me?

Over time, though, I adapted.

Then I adapted some more.

And eventually I became very good at it.

I learned to listen for what people weren’t saying.

I learned to recognise hesitation.

I learned to pay attention to tone.

I learned that a conversation often had two versions: the words being spoken and the meaning underneath them.

After twelve years, it felt completely natural.

Then I came back to Australia.

And suddenly I found myself communicating like a Chinese person in a room full of Australians.

The results were not always successful.

I would hint at something.

Nobody picked it up.

I would carefully imply a problem.

Nobody responded.

I would gently steer a conversation towards a topic.

People would walk straight past it.

At first, I thought Australians had become less socially aware.

Then I realised something important.

Many Australians had noticed exactly what I was doing.

They simply didn’t want to engage with it.

What they wanted was for me to say it.

Directly.

Clearly.

Out loud.

Australians aren’t necessarily bad at reading subtext.

In many cases, they simply view excessive indirectness as inefficient.

If something needs discussing, discuss it.

If you want something, ask.

If you disagree, say so.

If there is a problem, identify it.

One phrase I heard repeatedly after returning home was some variation of:

“Just spit it out.”

The first few times, I found it almost aggressive.

Now I find it refreshing.

There is something liberating about not having to decode everything.

Not having to analyse every pause, every hesitation, every carefully chosen phrase.

Of course, direct communication has downsides too.

Chinese communication can sometimes feel more graceful.

More considerate.

More sensitive to context.

People often work very hard to preserve social harmony and avoid unnecessary embarrassment.

Australia can occasionally feel blunt by comparison.

But there is also a certain efficiency to saying what you mean.

One of the strangest parts of coming home was realising that I had become a person who expected everybody to understand the unsaid.

Meanwhile, the Australians around me were wondering why I wouldn’t simply tell them what I wanted.

It took me a surprisingly long time to realise that nobody was doing anything wrong.

We were just following different sets of social rules.

And after twelve years in China, I had become far more fluent in one set than the other.

Experience Isn’t Always Authority

One thing that surprised me after returning to Australia was how differently the two cultures treat expertise.

In China, experience carries enormous weight.

Age carries weight.

Qualifications carry weight.

Professional achievement carries weight.

People generally assume that somebody who has spent decades doing something probably knows what they’re talking about.

That doesn’t mean Chinese people blindly follow authority.

Far from it.

But there is often an underlying assumption that expertise should be respected.

If somebody has spent twenty years studying a subject, most people are willing to listen.

If somebody has spent decades building a career, their opinion tends to carry additional weight.

After twelve years in China, I had become accustomed to that.

Then I came home.

And suddenly I found myself back in Australia.

A country that has many wonderful qualities.

But also a country that possesses perhaps the world’s most advanced tall poppy syndrome.

Australians are deeply egalitarian.

We dislike hierarchy.

We dislike status.

We dislike people acting as though they are more important than everybody else.

Most of the time, I think this is a good thing.

It keeps people grounded.

It prevents excessive deference to authority.

It encourages people to judge ideas on their merits rather than simply accepting them because somebody important said them.

But there is a downside.

Sometimes expertise itself becomes suspect.

Sometimes a person can spend years developing knowledge in a particular field, only to be treated as though they are showing off for mentioning it.

Sometimes explaining your experience can be interpreted as bragging.

Sometimes stating your qualifications can be mistaken for arrogance.

I found this surprisingly difficult to adjust to.

Not because I wanted special treatment.

But because I had spent years in an environment where experience was generally viewed as an asset rather than something that needed to be downplayed.

Over time, though, I realised Australians aren’t rejecting expertise.

They’re rejecting self-importance.

Those aren’t the same thing.

An Australian will happily listen to an expert.

What they won’t necessarily do is automatically place that person on a pedestal.

Respect has to be earned continuously.

Not just through qualifications.

But through behaviour.

Through humility.

Through how you treat other people.

In some ways, I think there is wisdom in both approaches.

China reminds us that experience matters.

Australia reminds us that experience doesn’t make somebody better than everyone else.

After spending twelve years in China, I had become accustomed to one perspective.

Coming home reminded me of the other.

And like many aspects of reverse culture shock, I found myself somewhere in the middle.

Believing expertise deserves respect.

While also believing nobody should take themselves too seriously.

The Naked Human

Another cultural difference I never expected was nudity.

Not sexual nudity.

Just ordinary nudity.

Before I moved to China, I could probably count on one hand the number of people who had seen me naked.

Today, I’ve completely lost count.

One reason is that, in many parts of China, nudity simply feels less sexualised.

That doesn’t mean Chinese people don’t experience attraction, embarrassment, or modesty.

Of course they do.

But there is often a more practical attitude towards the human body.

The body is a body.

A tool that carries you through life.

Something that gets washed, exercised, healed, and looked after.

I once saw one of my senior female leaders leave a comment on a colleague’s WeChat post — a before and after of him in his undies, showing off a perkier butt.

“Keep up the good work!”

In Australia, that comment might raise eyebrows. In China, nobody thought twice about it.

When I first encountered public bathhouses, spas, and sauna facilities in China, I found the experience confronting.

Everybody was naked.

Nobody cared.

Nobody stared.

Nobody acted awkward.

People chatted.

Relaxed.

Used the sauna.

Sat in magnesium pools.

Had massages.

Received body scrubs.

It was all treated as completely normal.

At one point, I even had a full-body scrub from a man who was probably in his sixties.

And when I say full-body scrub, I mean full-body.

Not a square centimetre was left unscrubbed.

Everywhere.

All of this happened completely out in the open while other naked people wandered between pools and saunas as though nothing unusual was occurring.

Because, to them, nothing unusual was occurring.

I also became accustomed to friends changing clothes in front of me with little warning.

No dramatic announcement.

No request for privacy.

No awkwardness.

They simply needed to change their clothes.

So they changed their clothes.

The first few times this happened, the Australian part of my brain short-circuited. The first time a mate asked me to join them at the sauna, it just about exploded.

Eventually, though, I stopped noticing.

It became normal.

Then I came back to Australia.

Suddenly the rules had changed again.

People seemed more cautious.

More private.

More aware of where their bodies ended and everyone else’s began.

Nudity wasn’t necessarily taboo.

But it often felt more connected to sexuality.

More connected to privacy.

More connected to vulnerability.

And neither approach is necessarily better.

There are obvious advantages to personal boundaries and privacy.

But I sometimes miss the freedom of the Chinese approach.

There was something refreshing about being reminded that a human body is just a human body.

Not every moment of nudity needed to be awkward.

Not every exposed body needed to be sexualised.

Not every situation involving naked people needed to carry deeper meaning.

After twelve years in China, I became surprisingly comfortable with that idea.

Coming back to Australia, I realised how unusual that comfort had become.

And how much of China I had quietly carried home with me.

Let’s Talk About Poo While Eating

Another thing I completely forgot about until I came home was how differently the two cultures talk about the human body.

Chinese people can be remarkably practical when it comes to bodily functions.

Stomach problems.

Digestion.

Constipation.

Diarrhoea.

What colour something was.

How often it happened.

Whether a particular food caused it.

None of this is necessarily considered inappropriate conversation.

In fact, some of these discussions can take place right in the middle of a meal.

The first few times I encountered this in China, I was horrified.

The consequences of consuming gluten as someone with coeliac disease was often an uncomfortable conversation that came up, too.

I remember thinking:

Surely we can discuss literally anything else while eating lunch.

Apparently not.

Then I got used to it.

Then I stopped noticing it.

And eventually I found myself participating in these conversations as though they were completely normal.

Which, in that environment, they were.

Another thing that surprised me was how openly many women would discuss their periods.

Not in a political or activist sense.

More in a practical, everyday sense.

A colleague might explain she wasn’t feeling well because she had her period.

Someone might talk about cramps over lunch.

Another person might discuss whether a particular food was helping or making things worse.

Nobody seemed especially embarrassed.

Nobody acted like it was some forbidden topic.

It was simply treated as a normal bodily function that half the population experiences.

After a while, I found that quite refreshing.

There was a straightforwardness to it.

A sense that the body was simply the body.

Sometimes it worked well.

Sometimes it didn’t.

And there was little point pretending otherwise.

Then I came back to Australia.

And I realised that, despite Australians often being very open about many aspects of life, there were still different boundaries around these topics.

Not always.

But certainly more than I had become accustomed to in China.

Australians will happily discuss politics, religion, sex, divorce, mental health, and family drama over dinner.

But start describing your bowel movements and suddenly everybody develops an urgent interest in the weather.

It’s one of those tiny cultural differences that nobody writes books about.

Yet it perfectly illustrates a broader point.

Chinese culture often approaches the body in a practical and matter-of-fact way.

Australian culture tends to draw a stronger line between public conversation and private bodily functions.

Neither approach is necessarily better.

One prioritises openness.

The other prioritises discretion.

But after twelve years in China, I occasionally found myself forgetting where that line was.

Nothing makes you realise you’ve been away for a long time quite like discovering that a conversation you consider completely normal has made everyone else at the table lose their appetite.

Nobody Tells You How to Come Home

The strangest thing about reverse culture shock is that almost nobody believes it exists.

When somebody moves to China, everyone expects an adjustment period.

People expect language barriers.

Cultural misunderstandings.

Homesickness.

Loneliness.

Everybody understands that living in another country changes you.

But when you come home, nobody expects anything.

You’re Australian.

You already know Australia.

What could possibly be difficult?

The answer, as it turns out, is quite a lot.

Because the person who left isn’t the same person who came back.

The country changes.

You change.

The world changes.

And now you’re trying to fit those pieces together again.

For a while, I felt like I was living between two worlds.

Too Australian for China.

Too Chinese for Australia.

I could see both cultures clearly.

I could see the strengths and weaknesses of both.

But I wasn’t entirely comfortable in either.

Sometimes I would find myself defending Australia to Chinese people.

Other times I would find myself defending China to Australians.

Neither side quite understood why.

The answer was simple.

I had spent twelve years learning how to see the world through two different sets of assumptions.

And once you’ve done that, it becomes very difficult to fully return to just one.

One of the biggest surprises was discovering how many things I no longer noticed while living in China.

The indirect communication.

The flexibility around rules.

The comfort with nudity.

The conversations about bodily functions.

The emphasis on relationships.

While I was there, these things simply felt normal.

It took leaving to notice them.

And it took coming home to realise how much they had changed me.

People often ask me whether Australia or China is better.

I never know how to answer.

Because that isn’t really the right question.

The longer I lived in China, the more I realised that every culture is making trade-offs.

China gains things that Australia loses.

Australia gains things that China loses.

The trick isn’t deciding which system is superior.

The trick is understanding why each system evolved the way it did.

And understanding which lessons are worth carrying with you.

The older I get, the less interested I become in deciding who is right.

And the more interested I become in understanding why people think the way they do.

Living in China taught me that.

Coming home taught me that as well.

Please note: I am continually updating this article with additional resources and information, and this post will remain a work-in-progress.

Hi.

If you’re new here, my name is Harry, but since I was a kid, my friends have called me Hazza. Around 2009, I signed up for a Weibo (China’s answer to Twitter, and more recently also X) account and chose “Hazza” as my username.

Little did I know that soon many people would know me by that name. In my early twenties, fresh out of university with a degree in linguistics (majoring in Chinese and Korean), I moved to China. A couple of cover songs I’d posted online had gone viral and even been featured in Chinese news reports. Someone suggested I should “go there and give it a shot.” Give what a shot? I had no idea.

In the early 2010s, I was a Mandarin-language singer. My videos had racked up more than 100 million views, and I landed a part-time gig at the local television station — never mind that my visa situation was… let’s just say, positioned in a grey area.

Back then, the Chinese internet was a bubble. Radio and television were largely domestic affairs.

Recently, I decided to look back on my career, only to find that many of the footprints I thought I’d left in China no longer exist.

A lot of the videos that went viral did so on platforms that no longer exist. Many TV segments have been wiped. I still exist on the Chinese internet, but old content is often scrubbed to make way for the new, to save server space. Some content has almost certainly disappeared because it no longer fits within China’s “harmonised” online environment.

I also realised that quite a bit has been written about my career in China that isn’t entirely accurate. So I went through my old WeChat Moments, cross-checked with online records, and put together a professional timeline.

Sometimes I was a journalist. Sometimes a singer. Sometimes a viral meme for a risqué comment on a talk show. Sometimes the target of online abuse. Sometimes a cultural ambassador. A lot has happened that didn’t receive much attention outside of China, or hasn’t been properly archived — so I’ve decided to archive it myself.

For context, I wasn’t interested in China for ideological reasons. I lived a very local life — public, yes, but local nonetheless. I rarely saw beyond Guangzhou in the early years, and I assumed there were others doing what I was doing, only better, in Beijing or Shanghai. Now I realise that what I did was unusual. In fact, I’ve yet to meet another foreigner who’s worked under contract and full-time for provincial media in China. If you’re out there, get in touch.

Finally, I want to acknowledge that China has changed. I’m fairly sure that doing the same thing in 2025 would be all but impossible. But I hope this can help fill in some gaps. I experienced China much like my young Chinese colleagues — idealistic and passionate at first, but increasingly aware of the limits and censorship as time went on. And it’s true that in those first few years in Guangzhou, the city felt far freer than it does today.

Here’s the timeline I’ve compiled and fact-checked. It focuses on professional highlights and milestones only.

Hazza Career Timeline (2009–2022)

2008–2010

• While studying at Griffith University, began posting Mandarin and English song covers to RenRen.com and then later, Chinese video platforms such as 56.com and Youku.

• One cover (海阔天空) reached over 10 million views in its first week, and collectively the videos went on to amass more than 100 million views.

• Featured in Australian and Chinese media for performances.

Late 2011

• Travelled briefly to Beijing and Guangzhou.

• One month later, relocated permanently from Australia to Guangzhou.

• Joined Guangdong Radio and Television (GRT), known as Guangdong Television (GDTV) at the time, as a bilingual television and radio presenter, after being featured on a talk show as a guest interviewee about music endeavours.

2012

• Continued regular hosting work for GRT across radio and television platforms. Hosted and contributed to a range of programmes, including children’s shows, variety segments, and bilingual news content.

• Hosted 《感知广东》(Amazing Guangdong), a co-production between GDTV World and Guangdong Satellite Television (广东卫视）

• Hosted/appeared as guest on 56.com/RenRen.com entertainment programming

2012 (Music)

• Recorded and released debut single 《该走的都走吧》 (Let Go) in June.

• The song was played on various radio stations in southern China and eventually reached #1 on Guangzhou’s local radio music chart and remained in the Top 10 for 13 consecutive weeks after a music video for the song was released later 2012 (radio play began in 2012, charted in 2013).

• Music video for Let Go filmed in Australia and released on iTunes on 8 August 2012.

• Won Most Popular Internet Celebrity 2011 at the 56.com Short Film Awards in Beijing.

• Won Best Male Newcomer at local music awards

2013 (television)

• Became a recurring host of travel series 《行走中国》 (The Great Walk of China) on GDTV World.

• Competed in 《麦王争霸》（King of the Mic), GRT’s highest-rated Cantonese singing competition, making it to the televised finals as the show’s first non-Chinese participant.

• Let Go continued to chart locally in 2013.

• Left GRT to sign contract with HKSTV as pay negotiations stalled with GRT (then GDTV).

2014–2015 (television and radio)

• Joined HKSTV in Hong Kong and Shenzhen as a host and reporter.

• Became a regular co-host on Shenzhen Radio FM971’s daily live Chinese-language programme 《男人帮》“Men’s Club” as one of the only foreigners in China to be permitted to present live on a local Chinese domestic radio station at the time.*

  *This was verbalised to me and I cannot find any secondary proof to verify this online as of 25/08/2025

Late 2015 (television)

• Returned to GRT.

• Became regular host of Guangdong Report, GRT News Channel’s flagship English news bulletin — one of the first in China to be broadcast domestically on a local Chinese-language channel.

• Became regular host of China Chats (“中国谈”）.

• Became lead presenter for《中国体育周刊》China Sports Weekly.

2014 (music)

• Released single 《无所不欢》 (No Worries), a collaboration with Chinese singer-songwriter Wu Huan, on 28 October.

• Song peaked at #3 on local radio charts, and charted for fourteen consecutive weeks.

• Song wins GISA “Fourth Quarter Most Played Track” award.

• Performed as a support act at a major concert featuring JJ Lin, Zhou Bichang, and G.E.M.

2015 (music)

• Released single 《绅士先生》 (Mr. Gentleman). Enjoyed limited success, peaking at #6 and falling off the charts after four weeks.

• Continued chart appearances and live performances.

2016

• Won First Prize at the Guangdong News Award for a radio feature report on innovative Guangdong companies and their links with Australia.

• Participated in programme production for programme exchange partnership between GRT and the Australian Broadcasting Corporation.

• Became co-host of lifestyle programme Canton Today (“今日广东”).

• Joined Xinhua Guandong Bureau part-time as columnist and reporter.

• Became lead host for My Guangdong （“我的广东”）on GRTRadio.

2017

• Won First Prize at the China News Award for journalistic work.

• Became a rotating guest host/panellist on the Pearl River Channel (“珠江频道“）

• Continued to host Canton Today (“今日广东”）rebranded as Little Ma Big Ha （“小马大哈”）with new co-host.

• Became host of educational programme 《郑哈学院》，a Chinese-language show discussing international culture and education on GRTRadio.

2018–2019

• Anchored and reported for Guangdong News Now (“双语新闻”), a bilingual radio news bulletin consistently ranked in the Top 10 in ratings for news-style radio in Guangdong.

• Participated in cultural exchange events and charity initiatives.

• Participated in international co-branded projects with Turkish Airlines, KFC, and the Indonesian Tourism Bureau, among others, across various programmes and platforms.

Filming with colleagues during the COVID-19 pandemic (alongside some very hard-working individuals)

2020

• Released single 《后来我以为》 (I Was Wrong), which peaked at #5 on a national music chart in China, broadcast on more than 25 radio stations across mainland China, Hong Kong, and Macao, while also charting on various regional music charts (Xi’an, Xinjiang, Guangdong/Guangzhou).

• Song enjoyed several weeks of national rotation.

• Appointed as an anti-drug ambassador in Guangdong — described by local media as “a first for the Pearl River Delta” — participating in public outreach events.

2021

• Continued presenting Guangdong News Now and other GRT programming.

• Became regular panellist and co-host for Guangdong Satellite Television (“广东卫视”) entertainment programming.

• Participated in filming for “Splendid China”, broadcast on 7-two in Australia.

• Resigned from Xinhua due to Xinhua’s turn to nationalistic and anti-West propaganda, particularly regarding distasteful social media content making light of rising COVID-related deaths, especially in the United States and other Western countries.

2022

• Stepped down as host of Guangdong Report on 31 August 2022, leaving GRT.

Below are the limited number of screenshots I kept of my songs charting on various music charts around the country. I wish I had saved more — for whatever reason, I truly believed that anything on the Internet was forever. Turns out, that’s not always the case, especially in China.

Additionally, please scroll further down for additional images/resources.

EDIT: (August 25, 2025) changed some dates, added sub-headings to years (to explain the order), removed repeated images from gallery

For links to sources/news reports about my time in China, please visit my website: hazzachina.com

Photos/images spanning 2011-2022:

I never expected to feel more accepted as a gay man in China than in my own home city of Brisbane. But after a brief encounter with a Christian radio station here in Australia, that’s exactly what happened.

I worked for Chinese state media for twelve years. Societal attitudes toward the LGBTQI+ community evolved in China over my time there, embodied by the CPC’s edict in 2021 to ban any depiction of homosexuality, or “sissy boys”, on television, radio, and social media.

I was used to the homophobic undertones at my former employer in China, but I never imagined I would experience something worse here, in Australia — and be rejected for a position because of my sexuality. That didn’t even happen to me once in China, despite my identity being officially banned from screen.

After a year or two of feeling down-in-the-dumps about where life had decided to take me, a new car (well, new-ish, but still very nice) momentarily tricked me into thinking I was finally on the up-and-up.

The first time I drove it, the previous owner had left the radio tuned to 96five, “Brisbane’s Christian Community Radio Station” — as it describes itself on its website.

Listening felt cozy. Light-hearted topics. Then came an announcement from the station calling for volunteers — anyone with media experience or a few extra hours up their sleeve was invited to contribute.

After returning from China in 2022, my family received some bad news. My grandfather was sick, and only had a couple of months left to live. I decided to spend as much time as I could with him and my grandmother, and the simplest way to make that consistent was to go to church with them every Sunday.

I see myself as a Christian, but any connection I had to a higher power had become deeply personal — because for a long time, I felt like the church, or at least many Christians, didn’t accept someone like me. Even though I, too, was one of God’s children.

It turns out my grandparents attended a pretty progressive church. Each week, I listened to sermons about acceptance, kindness, love for all people — regardless of race, sexuality, identity, or creed.

Unfortunately, 96five is not aligned with those core, authentic Christian values.

After a successful interview (and keep in mind — this was for a volunteer position), the person who interviewed me asked if I’d be interested in producing or presenting. I was thrilled by the opportunity — even while I was still studying, I’d be able to put to use some of the skills I’d developed in China. Of course I was keen.

Then they wanted to know a bit more about my faith. I was honest. I said I had only recently re-engaged with church life — that for a long time, it felt like there was no God, that my prayers had gone unanswered. But after my husband passed away, I began quietly praying again. And somehow, that journey had brought me back to church.

When I knew my grandfather’s time was limited, I decided that after he passed, I’d continue going to church with my grandmother — for as long as she wanted me to. I wanted to help her try to hold onto a sense of routine, and stay connected with her community.

To me, that was living out Christian values. Not just talking about them. Not being performative.

Sadly, that’s where the interview went south.

The interviewer informed me that my sexuality would be an “issue.” I was confused. I hadn’t specifically brought up sexuality, and it certainly wasn’t something I planned to discuss on a Christian Community Radio Station. I’m not an idiot.

But I also didn’t expect that someone with experience in radio and broadcasting, applying to fill a volunteer position, would be turned away for being gay.

I was told, “Brisbane just isn’t ready. If we were in Perth, it wouldn’t be a problem. Maybe Melbourne, but not Brisbane. I hope you can understand.”

No, 96five. I don’t understand.

I can’t quite recall which, but later received either a text message or a phone call — an apology, and a question: would I be open to this individual having a “meeting” with upper management in Sydney to ask whether they’d be willing to allow me to volunteer.

I declined.

I didn’t think it was appropriate for a group of homophobic bigots to debate whether or not I was worthy of contributing my time and skills — for free.

96five — it’s organizations like yours, and people like you, who’ve driven people away from Christianity over the years. If you want to know why people have turned away from Jesus’ message, maybe you should consider the messenger.

I’m now a very happy member of the Ipswich Uniting Church congregation. I volunteer with the singing group every other Sunday. I’m deeply grateful for a loving, accepting, and genuinely kind community that lives by the true values of Christianity.

Not exclusion and discrimination — like 96five.

I came home from that interview and cried like I hadn’t cried in a long time.

For years, I looked down on myself for having worked for Chinese state media. But I can tell you this without hesitation: even in that environment, I was treated with at least the bare minimum of respect.

At 96five, I was not.

图片来源：press.princeton.edu

声明：我并不想用激烈或好战的语言，只是想尽量用客观、理性的方式表达我的观点。

中国正在迅速失去西方的朋友。普林斯顿大学访问团最近访问新疆，就是一个很典型的例子。

现在在西方，已经很难说服机构或者个人愿意花时间和精力去投入中国的事务了。很多机构觉得，这件事“太难搞”，而声誉风险和对诚信的破坏就是其中一个重要因素。

这次，普林斯顿大学因为其中一位学者的言论，在社交媒体上遭到了舆论攻击，而且很可能很快也会出现在主流媒体的风口浪尖。

后来也公开了一个细节：普林斯顿最初被告知是要参加一个访问行程，但直到最后一刻才被告知目的是去新疆。

在当地的时候，当然也有地方媒体和国家级媒体全程跟拍、提问、安排采访。

普林斯顿现在面临的所有争议，都来自一个三分钟的视频。视频中，该学者称赞了“多元化”和“不同文化可以和平共处”，而视频经过剪辑，配上了维吾尔族和其他少数民族跳舞的画面。

我想问中国的国家媒体：你为什么要这样对待一个还在努力维护中美关系、保持联系的个人和机构？这个学者真的在中国待了那么久，最后就只讲了三分钟的赞美言论吗？

当然不是。有受过相关教育的西方人都知道，在处理中国事务时，表达一个看法，通常要先说一些积极的内容，才能慢慢带出问题。

但中国的国家媒体往往会（也确实对我本人和其他很多人多次这样做过）：把一些本来是公正客观、经过深思熟虑后以善意表达的评论，进行剪辑、删除“负面“内容，只保留“正面评价”，让观众以为嘉宾只是在表扬中国。

但现实是，全世界的人都知道中国有问题。我们也都知道新疆确实存在问题。中国这么大，这么复杂，各级政府和媒体水平参差不齐，有问题很正常。看看美国，这个世界上最富有、最有权力的国家，也照样有很多问题。但至少目前为止，在美国，大家还是可以公开谈论这些问题的。他们会觉得，接受专业媒体采访时，大多数情况下，自己的观点会被全面、真实地呈现，而不是被剪成一段宣传片。

我真心的、出于善意的建议是：请不要再伤害那些努力维护中外联系、为了这些联系牺牲了个人时间和职业发展的好人。每一次你们这样做，都会让人更加犹豫是否继续合作，也会让人对像新疆这样的地方更不信任。

最关键的是，这是对信任的破坏，也是对个人信誉的伤害。

现在很多人问我，还值不值得学中文、了解中国。我依然会说，值得。我们确实需要更多澳洲人去理解中国和中国文化。但我也会补充说：请务必远离中国媒体，远离一切涉及中共的政治内容。不要接受采访，不要参与任何政治评论。哪怕你只是稍微感到不舒服，也要坚定地说“不”，并准备随时退出。

经历了我经历的一切后，很多人都很惊讶，我竟然还鼓励别人和中国保持接触。但老实说，我现在也开始重新思考自己的态度了。

如果别人向我寻求建议，我也有责任提供一个真实、公正的建议，不能让他们冒不必要的风险。在我们西方，这叫做“duty of care”，是一种对他人的责任。

所以，拜托，请不要再伤害、操控或利用那些可能没有完全按照你的意愿思考或发言、但其实仍然在努力维系联系的人。

我自己早就放弃了。但我真心希望中国能意识到这是一个严重的问题，不然就真的来不及了。

现在，其实已经差不多了。

If we have but 100 years or less on this Earth, it is almost impossible to fully grasp the “real China” or even begin to define what that could mean. Yet, over the past two decades, I have fallen in and out of love with the country multiple times. I built a career and lost it. I started to build a family, only for that future to be taken away when my husband passed away from a heart attack in 2019. I may not know the “real China,” but I have had many real, sometimes heartwarming, sometimes confronting experiences in the country.

Rather than rehashing the past, I want to share ten life lessons—ways in which I have come to better understand myself after living, loving, and losing in the People’s Republic of China. I am publishing this to look back on and reflect upon my views in two, five, or even ten years from now. In the meantime, I hope that some of the thoughts I share here may be of value to others.

1. Assumptions can be useful, but they can also be counterproductive

We all rely on assumptions. They help us navigate life without constantly starting from scratch. If we had to reassess everything at every moment, we would never get anything done. But when it comes to China, I have learned that it is essential to frequently revisit and challenge the assumptions we hold.

In recent years, especially in Australia, debates over engagement with China have intensified. Some argue that economic, academic, and cultural exchanges should continue unfettered, with economic considerations outweighing concerns over foreign interference or human rights. Others contend that China has changed, and that the once-common belief—that Australia’s prosperity is intrinsically tied to China’s rise—no longer aligns with reality.

I frequently find myself in conversations where arguments arise from clashing assumptions. Some people, who have not set foot in China for years, describe a country that is perpetually opening up, misunderstood by the West, and committed to peaceful trade above all else. A few years ago, I largely agreed with that perspective. Others form their views solely from media reports or social media content, which often either idealise or demonise China.

Personally, I believe neither perspective fully captures the China of today. It remains our largest trading partner, a land of immense opportunity, yet it is also the greatest strategic rival to our closest ally, the United States, at a time of rising global tensions. Public sentiment within China can shift rapidly, and outdated or misguided assumptions can lead to poor decisions—whether in business, diplomacy, or personal relationships.

Instead of fixating on why someone holds a particular assumption, I have found it more useful to explore how they arrived at that belief. Most importantly, I have learned to give little weight to the opinions of those unwilling to entertain the possibility that they might be wrong. In China, what was considered a norm yesterday may no longer be so today. That is how quickly things can change and evolve—and if we are to engage meaningfully, we must keep up.

2. Considering the mental health of those engaged in cross-cultural spaces is paramount

The “China space” attracts a wide range of personalities. For me, it was Chinese culture, particularly music, that sparked a curiosity I had no choice but to explore. I have an inquisitive mind, and if I do not understand something, I tend to make it my mission to do so. For many years in China, I was not involved in anything political. I hosted light-hearted talk shows, released music that made it onto the charts, performed at concerts and events, and immersed myself in the Guangzhou music scene. It was not until four or five years into my time in China that I began forming friendships with fellow expats.

Though my views on immigration have evolved, I will admit that when I was younger, I held some fairly conservative opinions—such as a prejudiced frustration with certain communities’ supposed unwillingness to integrate into Australian society or learn English fluently. So, when I moved to China, I made a conscious decision to be respectful by learning the language to a level that would allow me to function in a workplace setting. I wanted to meet Chinese people, make local friends, and hear what China meant to them. I wanted to learn how to “fit in.”

Over time, largely due to my work in state media, I gradually met both Chinese and foreign nationals who were more politically inclined. Before 2019, one could hear a range of views. Some did not support communism or socialism but acknowledged that life in China was improving overall and, for that reason, did not oppose the government. Some were openly critical of the CCP. Others expressed admiration for it.

I came to realise that geopolitics, particularly where China is concerned, attracts highly ideological individuals, some with an eternal axe to grind. Some see China purely through a political lens, disregarding the human aspect—the vast number of Chinese people who are largely indifferent to politics. I recall attending a birthday dinner for a friend of a friend, where I was introduced as a television host. A young guest asked, “So, what did you report on today?” I replied that I had covered comments made by Li Keqiang. Their response: “Who is Li Keqiang?” I was surprised, but it was a reminder that we should not impose political biases on people simply because they are from China.

Those who are deeply ideological often speak in absolutes and engage in black-and-white thinking. Regardless of where one stands—whether labelled a “panda hugger” or a “China hawk”—it can be difficult to engage with people if they perceive you as part of the opposing tribe.

Amidst all this, people’s lives continue. Outside of political arguments, people have their own personal struggles. The world keeps turning. Behind the bravado of the most outspoken individuals, there can be pain or anger—whether about their personal lives or the societies they come from. Some face mental health challenges such as anxiety or depression. Others are on different spectrums. I have witnessed outbursts of anger, indignation, and even personal abuse directed at those who have merely expressed an opinion.

I have been the target of online abuse—at a time when I was already struggling. I know what it is like to face a mental health crisis while simultaneously being attacked for my perceived political views. I did not prioritise my mental health when I should have, and I am now living with the consequences of that. However, I have made much progress.

Because of this experience, I refuse to engage in discussions that become overly personal or hostile. If we are to one day reach a place where people can exchange views respectfully, we must move past tribalism and accept that, at the end of the day, we are all just human beings, trying to make sense of the world with the cards we have been dealt. None of us have all the answers.

3. What doesn’t kill you will always make you stronger—it just takes time

In December 2019, my husband passed away from a heart attack at 34. After having only been married a short time following the legalisation of same-sex marriage in Australia, and after both of us had come out—me to my parents and friends, and Wayne to his friends and a select few family members—it felt like a cruel twist of fate. My world imploded.

Then COVID hit. Despite everything, I still felt a strong bond to China, the country I had lived in for a third of my life, and I felt a responsibility not to leave so soon after Wayne’s death. So I stayed. The political environment became increasingly fraught, and I found myself in a highly visible role as a presenter for state media during this time. I became an easy target—not just for people overseas who derided me as a CCP puppet or traitor, but also for those domestically who harboured resentment towards Australia and the West.

Every day, if the Australian Prime Minister made a comment about China, or if the Global Times amplified a fringe politician’s remarks, I would tense up. I knew I would have to face the same exhausting questions repeatedly: “Why does your country hate us so much?” “What is wrong with your government?” “How does it feel to be an American lapdog?” Some questions do not bear repeating, but that did not make them any easier to hear.

I left China in 2022. I had not properly grieved Wayne’s death. I was emotionally exhausted from the isolation and xenophobia that COVID had brought. I was disillusioned after being harassed and targeted multiple times. I was worn down from years of trying to engage with my late husband’s surviving family, hoping to obtain the documents I needed to move on with life back home—documents that would allow me to prove I was no longer married if I were ever to remarry. My confidence was shattered. I had lost the love of my life, my career, the existence I had built, friends I once held dear, and my optimism.

I was treated unfairly after COVID hit. I would not wish my experiences on anyone. The pain still lingers years later. If I could go back in time, there are certainly things I would change.

But today, in 2025, I am engaged again and planning to marry in the near future. I have earned a master’s degree, achieved with Distinction while mourning the two subjects in which I fell short of a high distinction, in typical Chinese helicopter-parent style. I have found meaningful and rewarding work, which has taken me to interesting places and introduced me to fascinating people. I have travelled again. I have plans for the future, and I feel optimistic.

At 29, when Wayne passed away, I felt as though my life was over. My career was all I had left. A couple of years later, when that too was gone, I felt as though I had no place in China-related discourse—that I may as well write off the last twenty years of my life and pursue something completely different. Part of who I am today was shaped in China. Elements of my personality carry “Chinese characteristics,” so amputating myself from a life connected to China was painful.

My near- and medium-term goals no longer involve China, and I am at peace with that. Now that the past is behind me, the future feels manageable—almost easy by comparison. Challenges will arise, but I have confidence that I am equipped to face them.

What happened to me in China nearly broke me. It killed my spirit for a time. But I am now at a point where I am grateful for having been tested so severely. I survived. My mental and physical health took serious hits, but today, I am stronger than ever.

I used to mask my lack of confidence well. Now, I can say—without needing to mask anything—that I am quietly confident. And I would not have reached this point without my experiences in China.

4. The loudest people rarely have anything useful to say

I believe that, across the world, societies share similar structures. Cultures differ, but they prioritise the same elements in different ways. In every country, there exists a minority of loud, obnoxious individuals who feel left behind by the world—and China is no exception. Neither is Australia. There will always be people unwilling to engage in self-reflection or consider that they may not always be right. This vocal cohort is often highly influenced by media, especially social media, and is perpetually fixated on the next crisis, disaster, or catastrophe that, in their view, should demand everyone’s undivided attention. They believe the world is lying to them, that society is a scam, and that they alone hold the answers.

Then, there is the much larger segment of society—including in China—that does not care about politics. Their primary focus is their families, their businesses, their hobbies, and making the most of life.

When I first moved to China, I was not a political person in the slightest. Embarrassingly, I did not even know the difference between Australia’s Liberal and Labor parties or which was left-wing and which was right-wing. I did not feel the need to be politically engaged. When I voted for the first time, I gave my preference to the “Sex Party” simply because I liked the name and their support for gay rights. That was the extent of my political involvement—I did not even listen to political discussions outside of election day. Politicians, I thought, were all just as bad as each other.

Over time, I was pulled into politics. It is difficult to remain apolitical when working for Chinese state media, even if you believe you are managing to do just that. Looking back, I should have left as soon as I sensed things shifting, but I did not. Instead, I gradually started seeing the world through a political lens too.

Especially in the year after I lost my husband, I became overly affected by the loudest voices on both sides of the China debate. I was labelled differently depending on who was speaking—some saw me as an anti-China neoliberal colonialist, while others accused me of being a CCP spy or sympathiser. Instead of simply living my life and focusing on what mattered to me, I allowed these vocal extremes to influence my thinking. They distorted my reference points.

I was convinced that if I engaged with both sides, I would find the truth in the middle. But the truth was never found in those two opposing factions. It was always held by the vast majority of people who simply did not care. I found it by engaging with real people—those living their lives, doing things, not just talking about doing them. Not those who commentate from the sidelines, critiquing the political views of people they have never met.

I will never fully cut myself off from learning what people with extreme views think—it provides insight into a segment of society that exists everywhere. But I will no longer dedicate time to analysing, listening to, or debating with those who speak the loudest yet rarely have anything meaningful to say.

5. There are people who actively seek and benefit from division, and this must be acknowledged

Politically, I see myself as a centrist with poor balance. I lean from one side to the other, but I always return to the middle — or sit on the fence. I enjoy bringing people together, trying to understand different perspectives, and learning what makes people tick. Conversations where everyone agrees can become dull very quickly.

But not everyone appreciates people like me. Some do not like those who refuse to take strong stances. Making an effort to understand opposing views is often taken as a personal attack by some. Actually, scrap the “almost”—it is taken as a personal attack, against their own opposing ideas and biases.

Then there are those who, instead of building fences to sit on, would rather build walls to separate. There are people who thrive on division, fear, and anger. For some, their livelihoods depend on fuelling frustration and directing hate at their chosen targets.

Recently, when hundreds of thousands of TikTok users flocked to RedNote, the early days saw some genuinely interesting and good-faith exchanges. But soon enough, certain individuals began politicising the event. It became clear that, for some, the influx of foreigners with foreign perspectives on Chinese social media was a threat—whether to expats who had carved out their own online niches or to Chinese individuals who had studied abroad and positioned themselves as gatekeepers of information.

Occasionally, wonderful things happen spontaneously. If a person’s first reaction is to ridicule or criticise cultural exchange from thousands of kilometres away, or even a little closer to the action, one has to ask: what is it that they truly want? Do they desire a world where people are quarantined from each other? A world where people cannot explore and assess things for themselves? A world where only a select few profit from misunderstandings, ensuring conflicts persist indefinitely?

Moving forward, I will be actively aware of those who see mutual understanding as a threat to their relevance, existence, or even financial gain.

6. Self-reflection and self-awareness are important, but gaslighting is never acceptable

After I left China and shared my story with the Australian public broadcaster, ABC, I was shocked—and, to be honest, disappointed—by some of the reactions.

I speak Chinese fluently, I lived in China for twelve years, and I worked within a Chinese state-owned company. I may not fully understand China in its entirety, but I was certainly not new to it. What hurt the most was the suspicion and unwillingness to believe that what had happened to me was real. Being told that my experiences were mere misunderstandings was an insult to my intelligence. Suggestions that I had been paid to “smear” China were equally hurtful. Accusations that I had fabricated my story to reintegrate into Australian society were particularly upsetting.

As someone who often engages in self-reflection, I initially took some of that criticism to heart. Was I imagining things? Had I misinterpreted so many situations? Did I come across as dishonest? For a time, I questioned myself.

But after hearing some of the rumours circulating about me in China—such as the claim that when I returned to Australia for three months of long-service leave in 2021, I had secretly been recruited by an intelligence agency and received training before returning to China as a spy, only to be discovered and expelled—I reminded myself that self-reflection does not mean doubting reality. It is one thing to be open to new information, but I had not hallucinated for two years.

Perhaps I wear my heart on my sleeve too obviously. Perhaps I give off the impression that I am unsure of myself. For a time, I lacked confidence, and I had become so accustomed to people criticising everything I said that I just expected it.

The ABC investigation gave me answers. Thanks to the efforts of Echo Hui and her colleagues, I now know who approached me in China. When I reported the harassment I experienced, I was initially told that I had been targeted by Falun Gong, who were supposedly attempting to recruit sympathetic foreigners across China. That was a lie. The person who harassed me—relentlessly, for weeks on end, not long after my husband had died—was a member of China’s United Front Work Department. In other words, it was not Falun Gong. It was the government. Having that piece of the puzzle helped—it allowed my mind to put something to rest.

One particular comment that cut deeply came from someone who knew I had been married to a Chinese person. They told me that I was misguided about China, that I had become an anti-China mouthpiece, and that if I had married a Chinese woman, perhaps I would have truly understood Chinese culture. That remark stung. I may not have been married to a woman, but I was married to a Chinese person nonetheless. And perhaps, having loved and lost, I experienced a side of Chinese culture that this individual had not—and I hope they never have to.

Gaslighting, judgement, and knee-jerk conclusions about others, without considering their circumstances or why their perspectives may have shifted, are unacceptable.

If you are a person who values critical thinking and self-reflection, it is important to remember that when others make judgements about who you are or what motivates you, they are not drawing from lived experience. They are basing their opinions on their own perceptions, filtered through their own assumptions. Not taking personal attacks to heart is crucial, especially if you want to engage effectively in cross-cultural settings.

7. Many crises are borne out of incompetence, not evil intent—but some will never be convinced of that

Whether in the United States, China, or Australia, disasters and crises are often the result of human error or incompetence rather than malicious intent. But some people refuse to see it that way.

For them, everything happens for a reason—and rarely a good one.

If a plane crashes en route to Guangzhou, it is not due to pilot error or the possibility that mental health played a role; it is because the U.S. has a secret ability to bring down planes at the push of a button. If stock markets crash, it is not due to domestic policy failures or bearish signals from the capital; it is because “foreign forces” have meddled with the system or spread propaganda to incite hysteria. If a virus jumps to humans in a crowded, unhygienic wet market, it is not a freak event; it was intentionally leaked from a Chinese lab to destabilise the West. Or, alternatively, the virus was not from China at all—it was developed in a U.S. lab and secretly introduced at the Military World Games.

For these people, nothing is ever an accident. Nothing is ever a coincidence, an unlucky disaster, or the result of human error. Everything is a deliberate act of sabotage, betrayal, or conspiracy.

For so long, I wanted to understand the minds of people who think this way. Why? What causes them to lose all faith in humanity?

I have given up trying to make sense of it.

Perhaps, for some, it is easier to believe that every catastrophe is the result of deliberate actions—it removes the uncertainty and randomness of life. But the truth is, most people on this Earth are not scheming villains. Most people are kind. They want the best for their families, their communities, and themselves. They try their best but make mistakes. People get tired, miscalculate, or lack the skills required for the responsibilities they hold. Human error happens—a lot. And failing to acknowledge that can lead you down irrational and strange rabbit holes.

I refuse to lose faith in humanity.

8. You will never make everyone happy—and that’s okay

I have come to accept that I am, by nature, a people person. Perhaps even a people pleaser. For years in Guangzhou, I felt I was exactly where I was meant to be. Somehow, I had found a role, in a foreign country, that allowed me to connect with a wide range of people. The radio news programme I hosted consistently ranked among the top ten in Guangdong Province, home to 120 million people. I sometimes hosted children’s shows. I presented in both Chinese and English. I sang in Mandarin and Cantonese. I interviewed diplomats and regularly featured Australian expats and visiting businesspeople on my show. I genuinely believed I was contributing, in my own way, to fostering understanding between cultures.

In China, it can be difficult to find people willing to talk on camera or participate in extensive interviews. But there was always a steady stream of people who trusted me—sometimes proactively requesting interviews. Occasionally, the requests came from embassies and consulates. Even when the Australian consulate wanted nothing to do with me, others—including those from Western countries—were more than happy to invite me to events and have me interview their dignitaries. The Canadian, New Zealand, British, and even American consulates come to mind.

But after I lost my husband, it was as if I had woken up in a China that had changed while I was preoccupied with love and planning my future. I had been so consumed by building a life with Wayne—thinking about where we would live, how we would eventually have children—that I had not noticed the gradual shifts around me.

Suddenly, I was no longer embraced. I was merely tolerated.

Only a few years earlier, an Australian diplomat had introduced me to a former Australian Prime Minister, referring to me as “our unofficial ambassador to this country.” I was frequently approached for my take on Australia-China relations. I often received messages from people thanking me for my balanced perspective.

But all of that changed during COVID.

There was a time when I clung desperately to the life I had built. I held onto the China I knew. I held onto the robust Australia-China relationship I had once championed. I held onto my role as a bridge builder. Grief warps the mind. It was too painful to grieve anything beyond the loss of my husband, so I refused to accept that I was also losing my career, my identity, and my sense of belonging.

I told myself that once COVID was over, China would return to the place I had loved. That patience, resilience, and hard work would allow me to return to the life I had before.

But in my attempts to remain someone respected and appreciated by both sides—by China and Australia—I became a symbol of something else. To some, I was a reminder of clashing cultures, values, and ideologies. To others, I was an opportunistic propagandist.

I found myself in a strange position: I had not strayed from my core beliefs and values, but to many, it appeared that I had.

I made personal sacrifices for what I believed was the greater good, yet others saw me as a pawn. I began over-explaining myself before offering even the most basic of opinions, terrified of how I would be perceived. I felt deeply uncomfortable that people either admired or despised me for views I did not hold.

For an already grieving mind, it was too much to process.

I internalised the hate, the abuse, and the constant pressure to justify myself.

But the truth is, you will never make everyone happy. And if you spend your life focused solely on how others perceive you, you will never be happy yourself.

Basing your self-worth on the approval of others is dangerous. It feels good when people support you, but when that support turns to hostility—so suddenly that it feels like whiplash—it can be devastating.

Seeking recognition and acceptance from others should never come before you offer the same to yourself.

9. Hard work and sacrifice do not always pay off, and exhaustion does not equal success

For many years in China, I worked seven days a week. I took on too many roles—not for extra money or screen time, but because I believed that if I could hold on to my small corner of Chinese state media, I could maintain certain journalistic standards. I felt a responsibility to ensure that truth, even within China’s censorship boundaries, had a place. I wanted to prevent ideologues and anti-Western influencers from dominating the airwaves with misinformation and divisive rhetoric.

I did this for years. I had around 14 days off per year—ten days of paid leave and the occasional long weekend when I returned home.

Eventually, the workload became unsustainable, and I cut back to six days a week. But I was determined to stay. I convinced myself that having someone like me in that space—someone who understood how to navigate the system—was better than leaving the platform to be overrun by propaganda. It was not that I supported increased censorship or the rise in overt nationalism, but I wanted to limit its impact where I could.

Some assume I was handsomely paid for my work. On paper, my salary seemed high. But I only earned that amount because I worked long, relentless days. Some nights, I would be in rehearsals for a variety show until 1 am, only to wake up early to present the morning news, followed by two or three more programmes, and then another rehearsal at night. My life revolved around work. I had little time for anything else.

In the back of my mind, I told myself that hard work pays off. That making sacrifices now would lead to greater opportunities in the long run. That the exhaustion, the stress, the deteriorating mental and physical health—was all worth it.

I now believe that was a myth.

Especially in China, working hard does not guarantee success. Working smart does. I did not need to put myself through the exhaustion of handling multiple shows, six or seven days a week, to make an impact. Perhaps if I had been smarter about how I allocated my time and energy, things would have turned out differently.

Now, in 2025, I enjoy a quality of life that I could have achieved years ago had I stayed in Australia—without the need to sacrifice so much. The time, energy, and emotional investment I poured into my work in China have amounted to almost nothing. I have valuable experience, knowledge, and skills, but I currently have no way of using them.

I do not want those years to have been for nothing. I want to find a way to make use of everything I learned and endured. But for now, my priority is my own health, wellbeing, and the people I love.

10. Difficult times reveal who your real friends are, and people should be judged by their actions, not their words

It may surprise some to know that I still maintain strong relationships with many people in China. Those who truly know me understand that when I criticise China, it is not out of anger or resentment, but from a genuine hope that it can become a more tolerant and accepting place—whether for ethnic or sexual minorities, or for the many ordinary Chinese people who, despite the country’s rapid development, still struggle to make ends meet. These friends recognise that after living in China for so long, leaving was not an easy decision for me.

Our conversations do not revolve around politics. We talk about our lives. What made us happy today? What didn’t? What exciting or frustrating news do we have to share? What are the latest trends? Occasionally, people share political opinions, but I never push for them.

Before leaving China, I would have said I had many friends there. Now, I can count on two hands the number of genuine friends I truly trust—those who respect me, who have shown me empathy, and for whom I do the same in return.

Outside of work, I am a reserved person. On television, I could allow my extroverted side to shine, but in my personal life, I revert to being an introvert.

This is worth mentioning, I believe, because, in my industry, I encountered many people who displayed narcissistic tendencies or thrived on notoriety. For me, television was never about being seen—it was a platform that allowed me to ask questions, to step into other people’s lives and thoughts without intruding. But for some, attention—whether positive or negative—was an addiction.

There were people I once considered genuine friends who disappeared the moment I was no longer a television presenter. Others, who had always held opposing political views, tolerated me for years—until they believed my views had shifted too far from theirs.

For years, I was referred to as a “friend of China.” I have not changed as a person, nor have my values or principles. The years I dedicated to fostering people-to-people and cultural exchanges were not erased simply because my circumstances changed. I did not choose what happened to me—those decisions were made by others. I simply reacted to them. And I told the truth.

For that, I am grateful to the people—both in China and in Australia—who supported me in sharing my story. Shared knowledge is shared power. Anyone who berates you for honestly telling your own story was never a true friend to begin with. And those who condemn you for how you respond to mistreatment are nothing more than manipulators.

Conclusion

If you have made it through this near-6,000-word reflection, I thank you.

Right now, I am on a seven-day cruise around the South Pacific, alone. It feels like the first real opportunity I have had to be with my own thoughts since returning home from China. Slowly, I am allowing myself to enjoy life again.

I have made peace with the fact that I may not be welcome in today’s China—and perhaps not for some time. I have also come to terms with the fact that, here in Australia, many see my years abroad, particularly in China, as a liability rather than an asset.

But I have also realised that our experiences—no matter how painful—shape us. And while we cannot always control what happens to us, we can control how we respond. We can choose to take back our emotions. We can choose to ignore those who try to manipulate us, who exploit our kindness, or who thrive on division. Most importantly, we can learn to forgive ourselves—for the mistakes we made, for the things we wish we had done differently, for simply being human.

China once represented excitement and opportunity for me. In the end, my time there ended much the way it began—with a suitcase, a plane ticket, and little else. But the lessons I learned will stay with me for a lifetime. And to honour my late husband, I will live that life to the fullest.

I will stand by my choices, my values, and my principles. If that means I cannot engage with China for now, so be it. But I believe that, one day, circumstances will change. And when they do, I may once again find a way to contribute meaningfully to the discourse that shaped so much of my life.

Until then, I will continue forward. The world is vast, and I am grateful for every single day I have the privilege to explore it.

I got COVID for the first time, at least to my knowledge, at Christmas. At first, I didn’t realise—I thought that a couple of hectic months, a near-death hospitalization of a loved one, and holiday season overindulgence had simply caught up with me. After two days in bed, only waking up for some food or the toilet, I finally did a RAT test after my mum, who was also sick, tested positive.

The First Two Lines

For the first time since I had initially heard about and started reporting on the “Wuhan mystery virus” at the end of 2019 and early 2020, I saw two lines where I had only ever seen one.

For most, getting COVID in 2024 or 2025 is no big deal—probably a good excuse to get some time off work or actual justification for staying in bed and watching movies all day. And for me, it probably shouldn’t have been a big deal either.

But as I lay in bed recovering, and sometimes shivering, my mind wandered back to those years in China, where, for me, COVID wasn’t just a virus—it was a daily script. Reporting on it, living it, and fearing it consumed almost every moment of my life.

Living Through and Reporting on COVID in China

I worked as a television presenter and news host in Southern China for state media through to 2022, just before China abruptly abandoned its “dynamic zero-COVID” regime. And for roughly three years, almost every single day, my life was consumed by COVID: by the official government press releases, the unofficial news circulating on social media, the COVID tests every other day, and the isolation that being in China during the pandemic brought with it.

For a period, I could write the news on autopilot. How many “confirmed” and “asymptomatic cases” were announced today? Where were they identified? How many close contacts had been traced? Which public transport systems would be temporarily shut down? Where could people now travel? Only to and from work, or was it okay to visit the neighbouring city of Foshan?

There were days when expatriates in Guangzhou would contact me via WeChat to let me know that they had been locked out of their compounds, banned from their gyms, or discriminated against because they looked foreign—even though they hadn’t left the country in years.

The ‘Control’ Obsession

And then, there was the constant dread that you could be sitting in a traffic jam one day, and because your mobile phone had connected to the wrong mobile tower for just long enough in just the right district, your health code would turn yellow, and you’d be considered a “close contact,” despite not leaving the car. Or that you might be dragged off to a notorious “fang cang” hospital—basically rushed, prefabricated mass quarantine facilities with minimal medical equipment on hand to house asymptomatic cases. Of course, state media tried to portray these places as pristine, hygienic, and safe, beneficial not only for patients but also for the community.

But the stories you’d hear from people you knew, and the videos floating around on social media, painted a different picture. No mattresses in some, blocked, overflowing toilets in others. People trapped because they continued to test positive over and over again, as newly infected people were brought in.

All of this to try and control the uncontrollable. Basically, the mantra of the Chinese Communist Party: control.

Subtle Dissent among a Sea of Silence

Even in a China where Xi Jinping had, himself, essentially outlawed disparaging China’s COVID response—or even merely questioning it—there were subtle signs that not everyone in China was happy with the idea that keeping the entire country free from the virus was worth the adverse psychological impacts or the increasingly obvious economic carnage.

Presenting the news each day, I definitely had my finger on the pulse of the direction in which China was moving, and there were some interesting patterns that one could identify.

For example, whenever President Xi Jinping would be away from Beijing—whether visiting a province of mainland China, Hong Kong, or South East Asia for an international conference—the rules would be relaxed ever so slightly. In this case, shorter inbound quarantine times.

If I remember correctly, during one of Xi’s visits outside of Beijing, the State Council announced it was looking into the feasibility of allowing people to quarantine at home instead of being forced into quarantine centres, for example. This, of course, was only shortly after it was— I assume—purposely let slip during a daily Guangzhou COVID press conference that all provinces across the nation had been instructed to construct at least two large quarantine facilities.

At the time, that was a detail that had not been public knowledge, and before the censors could beat me to it, I had published an article and a short video on the tidbit of information. Unfortunately, by the time we were ready to go to broadcast on radio, the instructions had come through: do not amplify the news. Thankfully, my article and video were already out there in the world, and although I wanted to make that revelation the focus of one of the news packages I had put together that day, all I could manage was a strategically worded brief mention.

But I digress—the pattern was clear. Whenever Xi was away, the scientists and experts finally could have their say.

One such expert was Zhong Nanshan, who had almost been elevated to idol status amongst the Chinese population. He played a pivotal role in bringing an end to the earlier SARS crisis and was back for another round to save China from COVID. But after years of being isolated from the world, even Zhong was growing weary of China’s reluctance to open up.

Zhong published a study on the Shanghai lockdown not long after it had been lifted. It showed that, of all the infections across the city, the proportion of people becoming seriously ill or dying was so low that he essentially questioned the necessity of any of it. He stressed the importance of not remaining closed to the world and taking into consideration some of the other impacts of the “dynamic zero-COVID” policy—such as on the economy.

Of course, in China, you can’t simply come out and say exactly that, especially if Xi has explicitly stated, via Xinhua, that one must not. You need to do it in a very roundabout way. You need to stroke the right egos and give a certain level of acknowledgement to the nationalist population, which was more than happy to see China isolate itself from the big, bad world.

But being credited for saving millions of lives and leading China’s “world-leading” response early on was not enough to save Zhong from China’s own internet trolls and vicious state-sanctioned rumour mill.

Attempts were made to discredit even Zhong, due to an association he had with a traditional Chinese medicine that supposedly benefited those with COVID in conjunction with the use of modern medicine. It turns out those claims don’t necessarily stack up.

I used to post snippets of my news programme to Twitter and Weibo while I was still using the platforms actively. I was shocked to see some of the disgusting rhetoric being floated around about Zhong, and my posts were a frequent target. It reminded me of the aftermath of the China Eastern Airlines crash in Guangxi, when trolls were unleashed to spread conspiracy theories about Boeing aircraft (for example, that the US government had a secret switch that could cause any Boeing plane to fall from the sky at any given moment) while praising the airworthiness of China’s yet-to-be-released homegrown passenger jet, mirroring far-right wing conspiracy theories in the West.

I left China shortly before the country decided to drop its COVID policy. I remember at the time being ridiculed by some because I predicted that China would slowly start to open up in the near future (I left China due to non-COVID-related issues). I was told that, in thinking that, I was wishing death upon millions and millions of Chinese people, or that I had been brainwashed by “Western media” who wanted China to open up so that millions of Chinese people would die.

Imagine that—believing that the “Western media” wanted Chinese people to die. That is the level of paranoia that was allowed to fester in China at the time.

In the end, China actually opened up faster than I had predicted. I had imagined some kind of staggered opening, with a gradual loosening of restrictions. Perhaps the Greater Bay Area first, and then an entire province. Or the island of Hainan. Maybe more of an effort to get people vaccinated first, or at least procure sufficient antivirals and rapid antigen tests to hand people back the freedom to be responsible for their own health. Alas, none of that came.

Watching from afar, the opening seemed chaotic. Ill-prepared. Irresponsible. But also very emblematic of what China had turned into under “dynamic COVID-zero”.

Looking back now, I can understand why seeing those two lines on that RAT test in my kitchen felt like they had hit me like a ton of bricks. For years, every single day, all I saw was COVID figures, death tolls around the world, a palatable fear among the people physically around me, constantly. I presented a news show, so almost every single day, that’s also what I spoke about. I developed a fear of the virus—not because I was afraid of the virus itself, but because I was fearful of the repercussions had I tested positive in China.

Being the reason someone else tested positive and got sick—or, God forbid, got sent to a quarantine facility—would have been enough to feel a sense of guilt so great that at the time it would have seemed insurmountable. It was as if catching COVID was some kind of crime; only something that happened to naughty people who didn’t wear masks or routinely wash their hands. Or miscreants who still, despite everything, enjoyed a beer or two at a pub on a Friday night.

But for some reason, in a country where so many decisions were being taken out of the hands of people, one remained: the choice to get vaccinated. And especially among the elderly population, vaccination rates were low.

Vaccines, Optics, and Personal Protest

The vaccine rollout in China was, to be fair, mostly orderly and efficient. But one thing that always sat uneasy with me was the nationalism and patriotism that were being woven, quite expertly, into the creation and use of a Chinese vaccine.

China was testing its vaccines overseas, in the Middle East and other countries. There were constant updates about progress the US and other countries were making with their vaccines in comparison to China. It was almost like a race—a race to see who could produce one first, and to the highest efficacy rates. While the rest of the world wanted a vaccine so that they could survive, China, within its COVID-free bubble, seemed to want a vaccine not to save itself, but to save others. To boast to the world that, even though the US said COVID was China’s fault, China was still going to save the world from it.

It visibly turned into a face-saving operation for the CPC. You would constantly see story after story of China donating COVID supplies to poorer nations, or donating batches of vaccines.

But for some people in China, getting the vaccine proved to be a challenge—myself included.

When the vaccine was first released, much like here in Australia, it wasn’t initially available to everyone. At first, the vaccine was solely reserved (at least publicly) for front-line or essential workers and vulnerable communities.

As someone working as a reporter, I was considered a front-line worker. I was often out and about, conducting interviews, travelling between cities, documenting advances in Chinese-grown solutions to the pandemic, or reporting on outbreaks. All of my colleagues were able to receive a vaccine, but I wasn’t.

I had filled in the necessary forms, ticked all the boxes, and signed all the dotted lines. But I was rejected. Not by health authorities, but by the Publicity Department. It would “look bad” if I got the vaccine and people found out about it, apparently, because I was a foreigner, and foreigners were not yet permitted to receive the vaccine. Only Chinese nationals first.

Of course, the person who informed me that I could not get vaccinated because it would “look bad” later refused to admit that this is what was actually said. Gaslighting. It happens a lot in China.

This was also after a recent but relatively small outbreak in Guangzhou, so of course, I was a little anxious. Each day, usually twice a day, I would front news broadcasts or file reports extolling the importance of social distancing, religious mask-wearing, hand-washing, and of course, receiving the vaccine if available. So, while I was imploring everyone else to do their bit and get the jab for the greater good, I wasn’t allowed.

And so, I decided to follow the government’s vague “constantly bolster your vigilance and personal protection methods against the virus” advice and wear full PPE to work.

I wore the suit for a number of days, only taking it off to get in front of the camera. At the radio arm of the network, my producer would ask me to sit very still while I read the news for the radio, to avoid the crinkling of the suit being captured by the microphone. I also wrote in black marker the Chinese characters for “The government won’t let me get vaccinated” on my face masks, although I used “ZF” for government instead of the characters (Z and F are the first letters of the pinyin for each respective character), just to be safe.

Unfortunately, my protest attempt was unsuccessful. I was prohibited from the office for seven days and asked to work from home for causing “panic.” Also, no vaccine.

Not long after all of this happened, I managed to fly home to Australia for three months as I had applied for long-service leave and was granted it. While I was home, due to having a condition that meant I fell into the category of potentially immunocompromised individual, I could begin getting the Pfizer shots straight away.

After I was back in China, and the country was still having issues encouraging some people to take the shot, I was asked by the very same department that said me getting the vaccine earlier when I was entitled to it would “look bad” to get the jab on camera. A feel-good propaganda video where my health and wellbeing came second, and the optics of a foreigner receiving the Chinese vaccine and heaping praise on it came in a distant first, in other words.

I replied that it would “look bad” if I did that, because the mixing of vaccines was not permissible in China, and I had already taken an American vaccine.

The Cost of the Zero-COVID Years

But that is, to me, very much how COVID went in China. Everything was about the optics. Keeping the numbers low. Making sure that Chinese media could continue to ridicule the West for its chaotic response, while lauding the Middle Kingdom’s “people-centered” approach. It was about sacrificing everything—the livelihoods of people, their sanity and mental health, their hope and happiness—all so that China’s grand plan could be referred to as a “resounding success.”

And yet, just like the Chinese government itself, those same people who ridiculed me for “wishing death upon millions of Chinese people” had nothing to say about the decision to suddenly open up when it was made—not by me, nor influenced by the limited information or occasional hint at dissenting voices I could manage to broadcast on my little show, nor by the so-called evil “Western media,” but by the Chinese government itself.

Upon Reflection

Today, it almost feels as though people in China have blocked COVID from their minds. It’s understandable; it was a traumatic and confusing experience for most.

There was just so much that didn’t make sense. When Shanghai went into lockdown, people in the city were struggling to find enough food. Meanwhile, I was able to order frozen gluten-free meals from a supplier in Shanghai while living in Guangzhou. Within days, I had a massive styrofoam box at my door containing dry ice and about 20 pre-packaged frozen meals—delivered from a city where many were scrambling for basics.

There were constant outbreaks of the virus in Guangdong cities neighbouring Hong Kong. Despite all the precautions and overbearing restrictions, the virus kept breaking through. And although we were permitted to report on increased patrols along Guangdong’s coastline to prevent human smuggling, we weren’t allowed to mention why: a breakout caused by a sex worker who had smuggled themselves to Hong Kong and back to meet a client, and then had made their way to a hotel in Guangzhou to do the same.

The senseless killing of pets, simply because they inhabited the same space as a human who had tested positive. The elderly people who died because they couldn’t get to the hospital—not for a lack of ambulances or resources, but because COVID restrictions meant that ambulances were sometimes waiting in line for hours before their patients could be admitted for life-saving surgery.

As I stared at those two lines on the RAT test, realising that the flu or cold I had just been in bed with for two days was COVID, I asked myself: was it all worth it? The angst and the fear of COVID had somehow seeped so deeply into my psyche that, initially, that fear of being whisked off to a quarantine facility came rushing back. Is my essentials pack somewhere easy to grab? Who do I tell

What was it all for?

I had put my hand up to be a volunteer in my local community during COVID. I helped at testing stations, either by checking health codes or taking temperatures. I always had a smile on my face and always tried to reassure people, especially fellow expats who may not have been able to speak Chinese, that things were going to be okay.

Now that I’ve had COVID, I know that I am going to be okay. Although it hurts slightly to do so at this very moment, I can now take a deep breath and reassure myself that, hopefully, I won’t need to experience the same things again.

But at the same time, this experience has really brought home the power of media and, let’s be honest, propaganda. Throughout COVID, I always tried to be as close to a balanced and fair information source as possible. But even when you feel like you might be fighting against a tide, you still need to be wary of just how much of that tide you are letting trickle into your mind.

My heart and my sorrow go out to all the people who lost their lives, their businesses, or loved ones due to COVID. By no means am I trying to play down just how dangerous it can be for those with pre-existing conditions. But at the same time, after finally experiencing COVID for myself, I do have to ask: what did any of us in China during the COVID era achieve by sacrificing our freedom, mental health, and connections to the world for years?

Did we just delay the inevitable? Did we keep China’s propaganda machine pumping out editorials on how China’s response to the pandemic was world-leading, while that of the US was abysmal, for just that little bit longer?

As someone who both comes from a country that maintained a zero-COVID policy for years—Australia—and who lived in a zero-COVID society abroad, in China, I can certainly understand the importance of buying time against a virus. It worked well for Australia.

But I also know that, in China, at least after the first year of what was initially a stellar response, that is all we did—buy the CPC time. And with that time, instead of actually preparing the country for an eventual opening, it splashed cash on things you could see—crates of donated supplies to be broadcast on television, testing huts all over the city, and propaganda—loads and loads of propaganda, but nothing much more.

It was the ultimate betrayal of the health workers, volunteers, and everyday people who had given their all to keep people alive during China’s crazy COVID years. With the way China opened up, it was almost as if none of their sacrifices even meant anything.

I have former colleagues who lost loved ones. Friends who lost their businesses. Others who are still trying to piece back their sanity and mental health. All preventable, had the CPC respected the sacrifices made by people in China enough to walk the walk with its “people-centered” approach—instead of allowing it to revolve around the whims of a single man.

The two lines on that test felt heavier than they should have. Not because of the virus itself, but because of the years of fear, control, and sacrifice they symbolised. COVID may have left its mark on bodies and borders, but its greatest scar lies on the collective psyche of a nation that gave so much—and was let down so profoundly.

China’s zero-COVID policy began with banners declaring the protection of the people above all else. It ended with silence, as the same people grieved in private for lives lost and futures disrupted. And yet, the loudest echoes of those years are not those slogans or numbers—they are the unspoken truths left behind, and the quiet question that, even to this day, lingers: was any of it worth it?