Reflections On Ku'er Activism in (Post) Socialist China

Graduated In/Visibility: Reflections on Ku'er Activism in (Post)Socialist China
Author(s): Ian Liujia Tian

Source: QED: A Journal in GLBTQ Worldmaking , Vol. 6, No. 3 (Fall 2019), pp. 56-75
Published by: Michigan State University Press
Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.14321/qed.6.3.0056
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(((
Graduated In/Visibility: Reflections on Ku’er
Activism in (Post)Socialist China
Ian Liujia Tian
abstract
Grounded in my activist labor over the past few years, this article delineates the
current state of Ku’er (queer)1 politics in (post)socialist China. I contribute to
the discussion of GLBTQ politics in a non-Western context by asking questions
about the ways in which the power of the state is negotiated by activists.2 I join a
conversation with Shirinian about the possibility and the consequences of being
seen.3 I begin my reflections with an overview of GLBTQ activism in China,
Hong Kong, and Taiwan, focusing on China where my activist and scholarly work
is based. Following a discussion of specific socialist and authoritarian legacies, I
argue that queer activism in China has adopted a framework I call “graduated in/
visibility” in order to organize and navigate repressive policies. This scheme of visi-
bility affords queer people the ability to mobilize, but it is not without drawbacks.
Indeed, in the final section, I consider the purpose and the politics of visibility
in relation to what has been called “global neoliberal queering.”4 Further, I ask
what the desire for visibility, acceptance, and assimilation mean in the context
of an authoritarian capitalist regime. My intention is not to brand China as “bad
capitalism” or a “backward society,”5 nor am I embarking on a detailed political
analysis of the Chinese Communist Party and its sexual politics after the opening
the country. Rather, I attempt to highlight the importance of activist knowledge
in the context of emerging studies of Third World sexuality,6 which is unfortu-
nately shaped by the coloniality of power, global capitalism, and imperialism.7
Copyright © 2019 Michigan State University. Ian Liujia Tian, “Graduated In/Visibility: Reflections on
Ku’er Activism in (Post)Socialist China,” QED: A Journal in GLBTQ Worldmaking 6.3 (2019): 56–75.
ISSN 2327-1574. All rights reserved.

132.247.187.190 on Fri, 25 Aug 2023 20:44:13 +00:00
Graduated In/Visibility ) 57
) ) ) A Genealogy: From Tongxinlian, Tongzhi, to Ku’er

There are several words that describe nonnormative sexual practices in the Sino-
phone culture: Tongxinlian, Tongzhi, and Ku’er. By mapping the shifting usages
and meanings of these words in different trajectories, I want to provide ways
to understand the dynamics of queer politics among China, Hong Kong, and
Taiwan. Most important, by treating these words as points of departure, I trace
the emergence of queer movement in China and the ways in which the changing
role of the state, neoliberalism, and globalization complicate the waxing and
waning of queer activism.
The word Tongxinlian (同性恋) means “same-sex love.” The first “modern”
understanding of homosexuality is rooted in the Western biological and psy-
chiatric framework developed by people such as Sigmund Freud and Alfred
Kinsey. This “scientific method” was advocated by intellectuals during the May
Fourth Movement and adopted by the Republican government (1921–49). After
the Revolution, the biological understanding of sex/sexuality was the doctrine
adopted by the Chinese Communist Party for three main reasons. First, socialist
production required stable heterosexual family units for the social reproduction
of workers and a homogenous state formation. Second, the postcolonial Chi-
nese state’s desire for modernity had complex implications for sexuality.8 “Sex-
ual modernity” had been structured around heterosexual monogamy and the
collective and institutional policing that associated Tongxinlin (homosexuality)
with premodern disorder and incivility. In particular, sex was reduced to binary
biological relations between males and females in most official discourses during
the Maoist era; thus, sexuality was subjected to social order and control.9 Third,
under the influence of Soviet socialist imperialism, the Chinese Communist
Party banned sociological inquiries into sex, replacing it with the Western med-
ical framework that privileges monogamous reproductive sex. Any other sexual
practices were labelled “bourgeois” under the prevalent Maoist class struggle.
The beginning of reform and the opening up of China in the late 1970s is fun-
damental to the development of Tongxinlian as an identity in mainland China.
In Hong Kong and Taiwan, the queer movement also started to emerge in the
late 1970s and early 1980s. The now canonical book Nie Zi (Crystal Boys) by Pai
Hsien-yung hit then militarized Taiwan with a huge blow. This exciting publica-
tion did not immediately travel to mainland China; instead, the sociology of sex
provided new understandings to the stigmatized term Tongxinlin as a result of
loosened censorship. However, the sociological approach towards sex remained
positivist, functionalist, and quantitative, and was only shared in social science
academia.10

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58 ( Ian Liujia Tian
It was not until the early 1990s that the word Tongzhi (同志), first used by
Michael Lam, traveled across the narrow channel between Guangdong and
Hong Kong, providing a new meaning for an old term among sexual minorities
in China. The word Tongzhi (literally: comrades) alludes to people who are part
of the communist revolutionary struggle; yet in this nuanced semantic shift, the
word signifies an analogy between queers who fight for equality and working-
class people who fight against oppression.
The Chinese economic shift throughout the 1990s provided the background
for such intra-Asia/intra-Sinophone exchanges of queer knowledge as well as the
formation of a “Tongzhi” identity at the turn of this century. What has been
termed post-1989, (post)socialist China is thus the general condition in which
I discuss the development of queer activism. What I refer to as “post-” should
be understood not simply as “beyond/after socialism” but also as “as the result
of socialism.” Indeed, I am hesitant to use “(post)socialism” to mark a temporal
separation or the word “residual” to understand “post-.” I argue that the political/
economic elite today have reorganized the privileges gained during the socialist
era. They have transformed their economic advantages while still holding polit-
ical power. “As a result” thus suggests the continuity of elite domination; the
difference today lies in that the dominating power is restructured as a political-
capital bloc.11 How, then, does the rejuvenation of the socialist elite through cap-
italist accumulation affect the lives of sexual minorities?
This conceptualization entails several points. First, the individualism pro-
duced by market reform is regulated by the state in an authoritarian and top–
down fashion that is heavily influenced by the socialist tradition, to the extent
that economic individualism through consumption and entrepreneurship is
promoted whereas other forms of “illegal individualism,” such as homosexuality,
are silenced. Second, years of turmoil during the socialist era produced a desire
for stability; so much so that the Communist Party has become a state mecha-
nism that does not allow any potential divergence from the homogeneity of the
nation-state.12 Therefore, sexual minorities are one of the threats to the stability
of the heterosexual state formation. Furthermore, the political elite during the
socialist era gained much power and wealth through the uneven marketization
that produced visible economic polarization since the late 1990s. To legitimize
their power, the elite has to not only maintain a positive economic outlook
but also invoke traditionalism.13 This is demonstrated by selectively representing
and interpreting canonical writings of Confucius in ways that support author-
itarian rule. Thus, in relation to sexual minorities the state has been utilizing
Chinese culture and values to justify oppression; for example, a representative
was recently quoted in the United Nations (UN) saying that homosexuality is
not “Chinese tradition.”14

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Despite capitalists and the state’s and the elite’s cultural traditionalism,
knowledge production and social mobilization still manage to pay attention to
Tongzhi.15 The late 1990s saw the development of a sociological account of sexual
minorities in mainland China; it was also the period when the Tongzhi move-
ment in Taiwan and Hong Kong began to have an impact on Tongzhi activism
in big cities such as Beijing and Shanghai.16 Two developments were pivotal to
the growth of Tongzhi activism: the decriminalization and demedicalization of
homosexuality in 1997 and 2001. There was less clarity in terms of why the state
decided to shift its policies, but I suspect it was because the sate needed Tongzhi
to combat AIDS and to deregulate certain aspects of life in order to produce
a desire for consumption. Still, there are concerns that decriminalization did
nothing but relegate Tongzhi into a legal lacuna, that is, insofar as there are no
laws regarding GLBTQ people, Tongzhi remain unprotected and unrecognized
by the legal apparatus of the state.
Such legal ambiguity provides some freedom for GLBTQ organizing.
Indeed, the twenty-first century ushered in a “new age,” signified by the coining
of a new and positive word, Ku’er (酷儿), in the early 2000s. It is an innovation
that attempts to bring North American queer theory to bear on Chinese lin-
guistic characteristics. The first character, Ku (酷; “coolness”), tries to rebrand
sexual minorities with a positive, different, and celebratory cosmopolitanism.
Indeed, since I became involved in GLBTQ work during my undergradu-
ate studies, many young and aspiring students in urban centers have become
identified with the “coolness” of being a part of GLBTQ despite the overall
conservative environment. Thus, these developments have coincided with the
globalization of Anglo/European queer culture that promotes a specific kind
of sexual modernity that is linked with the modern, affluent West. However,
my reflections are not simply about how the coloniality of queer knowledge
continues to structure identity formation in non-Western geographical loca-
tions; I am more interested in how the linguistic journey from Tongxinlin to
Ku’er reveals the ways in which sexual desires, gender, and nonnormative sexual
practices are regulated, deregulated, and managed throughout the process of
state capitalization.
The transition from Tongxinlin to Ku’er is the transition from state socialism
to state (post)socialism as well as a shift from the domination of political power
to that of economic-political power. Meanwhile, it also reveals the turn from a
planned economy to participation in global capitalism. I choose Ku’er activism
(instead of queer) in this article for three reasons: first, I understand Ku’er as
Tongzhi with a (post)socialist twist, that is, Ku’er is not just someone who per-
forms nonnormative sex and gender but a cool/different person who stands out
among the boring/normal; second, I want to highlight that GLBTQ organizing

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in China has been local and global since its inception; further, I would like to
understand Ku’er not as a divergence/variation of “queer” but as a significant
development linked with a growing individualism and the desire for the main-
land Tongzhi community to connect with the global queer culture. Over the
past few years, a vibrant, young, urban, and cosmopolitan Ku’er culture has
emerged in mainland China. Though it is still unclear if this is largely due to
the ascendance of capitalism, coupled with intense urbanization and heightened
individualism,17 these exciting forms of Ku’er existences have been impressive in
terms of promoting positive/informative knowledge about GLBTQ people; as
the recent online backlash against Weibo demonstrated, Ku’ers are not an easy
target for state regulatory purposes.
Despite these promising trends, this Ku’er culture is under strict discipline,
as a recent ban on any same-sex content in the media demonstrated.18 Further,
queer activism often needs to confront with the censoring of the state. For
instance, a GLBTQ conference that I was involved in had to be shut down after
the government of the city of Chengdu threatened activists.19 Therefore, it is fair
to argue that the state continues to manage which desires are acceptable and
which individualism is tolerable. Indeed, as Rofel demonstrated in her anthro-
pological work, the Chinese government persists in teaching its citizens what
desires are legal under the context of neoliberal formations.20 In other words, the
state and the bureaucratic-capitalist elite are fearful for any social issue that may
amount to its loss of their monopoly; queer activism can only survive by being
unconfrontational and depoliticized. This strategy constitutes what I call “the
politics of recognition with Chinese characteristics.” That is, the main reason
behind such a depoliticization is not because the state has accommodated queer
lives; rather, it is because to be political has enormous counterproductive conse-
quences. It may lead to a full crackdown on newly established queer spaces and
even more restrictions on sexual citizenship. How, then, have mainland Chinese
Ku’ers been strategizing and navigating the state? What are the contradictions of
these practices? Where can these tactics lead to? In the following pages, I discuss
briefly the role of the Chinese state in managing activism in general and queer
activists in particular.
) ) ) The State and Ku’er Activism

Many Chinese observers are eager to pronounce queer politics in China as
demonstrating the sins of “the economy of tolerating and forgetting”21; I disagree
and argue that the complex situations queer activists have to work with are not
reducible to a simple matter of being seen or not seen. It is about being unseen

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by the state and seen by other Ku’ers. The state’s market policies seem to promise
certain levels of freedom for activism external to the Party and the state struc-
ture, yet this can also mean heightened degrees of censorship and repressions for
some of the most controversial organizing.
So far, I have not discussed the role of the state in tolerating and suppressing
social movements. I think there is a need for queer activists to see themselves as
one segment of activism regulated by the state and start making connections.
That is, the state is managing a whole range of social movements such as labor,
feminism, environmentalism, and political activism. My impression is that the
Chinese government needs protests and activism to identify social problems; it
is ironic that this means protests cannot be extended to a level that jeopardizes
the state.22 Hence, the relations between activism and the party–state are con-
ditioned by numerous variables ranging from activism to geographical localities
to the general political environment.23
Elsewhere, Kang and Han have theorized a “systems of graduated controls” to
understand current state–society relationships. Such a system consists of graded
control strategies for different social organizations. Among them, grassroots
NGOs are situated under Grade 5 controls, where state control is the most
intense.24 The state requires grassroots NGOs to be affiliated with an admin-
istrative agencies; yet those agencies are unlikely to take responsibility for any
social organization, making it difficult for NGOs to get the necessary affiliation.
Instead, they register as enterprises or businesses. Pride Shanghai, for instance,
is registered as an enterprise and many organizations I am in contact with are in
fact not registered with any governmental agency. This is both an advantage and
disadvantage for queer organizing. On the one hand, GLBTQ activism falls out-
side of all administrative power, which suggests greater freedom for mobilizing
as long as it does not publicly challenge the capitalist state. On the other hand,
Ku’er activism is situated precariously within this dynamic system. Ku’er politics
works to the extent that it is not regionally/nationally coordinated but sporadic.
However, GLBTQ groups have connected with each other in China over the last
decade (e.g., the national organization, Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbi-
ans and Gays [PFLAG]). This suggests that the state is aware of Ku’ers’ potential
to organize on a large scale but tolerates their existence because they are not
mobilizing nationally. As a result, Ku’er activism has to form its own network
and community outside the mainstream and reach out to other Ku’ers without
being identified as a threat to the state.

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) ) ) Graduated In/visibility
What strategies, then, have activists been adopting to maneuver the delicate
situation? My experiences indicate that there is a framework of “graduated in/
visibility” at play.
Graduated in/visibility addresses some of the pressing organizing problems
many activists often find themselves in. One of the problems is how organizers
navigate their relations with the state and the people. Rather than mechani-
cally referring to scholarly productions of case studies, I begin with my own
engagement.
It was on a spring day of 2017 when some organizers (myself included) decided
to do a public educational event at a Chinese university of approximately 10,000
undergraduate and graduate students. This university campus is located in a
coastal city called Weihai, in the northern part of the country. Unlike metropo-
lises such as Shanghai, at the time of our intervention the city did not have any
GLBTQ organizations, and unlike universities in major cities, there was only
one student group (not affiliated with the university) that was queer positive (in
the sense that they organized a GLBTQ-related event). Thus, it is fair to say that
compared to other peers, queer lives are harder in small cities like Weihai.
As one of the coordinators for queer student groups in the province, many
folks have personally confided to me that queer people in many peripheral cit-
ies are left out by Ku’er movement in larger and urban centers. To respond to
such disparity, mainly caused by geopolitical unevenness, we decided to bring
GLBTQ issues and visibilities to more areas and spaces. Weihai was chosen as
the first location for our intervention.
We initially looked to set up a booth in the middle of a square in the student
residential area, and we immediately faced a dilemma: whether or not should
we get permission from the university authority. Among the organizers, there
were two streams: on the one hand, some of us felt it would be unwise to bypass
authority; on the other hand, it seemed equally unwise if we asked for permis-
sion because we knew the university administrators would not grant our request
for organizing because it was such a controversial issue. Arguments on both
sides were reasonable, and we were especially worried about those of us who
were still enrolled in the university. We thought such a public gathering would
be deemed “illegal” by the university, which could have subsequent implications
for students who were involved in the organizing process. Given that the space
in consideration was surrounded by residences and shops, placing a booth there
would potentially attract many students, but the university was vigilant about
student gatherings and any assembly of a large number of students is considered

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a violation of student codes. In order to avoid any possible psychological or

physical harm of the people involved, we eventually decided to alter our tactics.
Instead of putting queer people in the public, we purchased several rainbow flags
and placed them around campus at night, so by the morning, students would be
surrounded by rainbow flags everywhere.
Figures 1 through 4 were taken at random places on campus; the faces and
the poster with the name of the university have been blurred at the request
of the people in the photos. Many students were surprised to see rainbow flags;
for those who know what it suggests or for those who were in the closet at the
time, this symbolic action served as an affirmative action because it creates a
form of symbolic belonging in cities where Ku’er community is less developed.
Many students stopped and took photos of these proudly flaunting flags, and
this surprised many queer folks I know in the university who were not yet out.
However, the flags were collected by the school as “unsolicited advertisements”
later that day, and we still argue that we have achieved the pedagogy’s main goal:
highlighting the existence of Ku’er on campus and in the city. Since the public
action, students in the university formed the first GLBTQ group and organized
several events on its own. This intervention has brought underground formula-
tions to more visible ways of mobilizing. Unfortunately, the group was forced to
dissolve after the university threatened organizers with academic penalties over
calling out sexism on campus online.25 Visibility again becomes both positive
and negative for Ku’er activists who hope to transform the gendered and hetero-
sexualized ways of knowing.
Although there are controversies about whether the rainbow flags have
become a symbol of homonormativity; yet I think there is strategic usage for the
rainbow flag. For many in China yearning for queer belongings, rainbow flags
can be an empowering sign.
This example is a demonstration of what I term “graduated in/visibility.” This
term suggests a calculated approach to activism and community organizing,
one that consists of different levels of visibility according to the overall politi-
cal, economic, and cultural conditions. I understand the political condition as
related to the level of “graduated controls” exerted by the state at a particular
time. The economic condition refers to the monetary consequences for activists
to engage in activism. Cultural factors are crucial because the level of accep-
tance is different for different cities, provinces, and regions, so tactics have to
vary accordingly. Further, individual families can have a diverse degree of toler-
ance, hence as Ku’ers organize, they need to think about how activism will affect
one’s nuclear/extended family. Travis Kong has described that Chinese families
operate within a kind of “family heteronormativity”26 as an extended version of
what the anthropologist Ong has termed “family biopolitics.”27 Chinese families

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Figures 1 through 4. Rainbow flags around campus.

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emphasize both the parents’ investment in giving children the best opportunities
and children’s responsibility to the family through money-making, heterosex-
ual procreation, and looking after elderly parents. Although this family/kinship
structure is not always repressive, the heteronormative demands can be stressful
for many activists.28
Exploring these political, economic, and cultural dynamics, I propose a
model that manifests graduated in/visibility. This framework departs in various
ways from oppositional consciousness, in that it addresses the practicalities of
actualizing oppositional politics while taking the cultural specifications, polit-
ical situations, and material realities into consideration. Although it does not
provide a guide for theorizing and raising consciousness, it describes the ways in
which oppositional politics can be respectful of cultural differences.29
Level I is what I call “full invisibility.” This activism is normally demonstrated
through one’s silence on their sexuality, gender identity, and sexual orientation.
They may choose to adopt heterosexual relationships and marriages, hiding their
identities through their lives. However, it does not mean they are not carrying
on daily resistance; some gays and lesbians form heterosexual families to disguise
their same-sex relationships due to family and social pressure. I would frame this
practice as a kind of oppositional politics to the heterosexual logic and the proof
of how fragile such normativity is.30
Level II is “dislocated visibility,” which refers to transforming queer visibil-
ity from queer bodies to symbols or objects. Our organizing experiences (see
above) demonstrate that this tactic tends to be deployed by most organizers.
Another example was the rainbow kites some activists flew during International
Day against Homophobia. Without enforced outing, many queers/trans have
borrowed symbols such as rainbow/trans flags in their organizing. However, I
wish to highlight that it should be read in a more positive light instead of brand-
ing such practice as “homonormativity” or “internalized colonialism.” I would
indicate that queer internationalism not only dissolves national borders but also
entails a process of mutual learning. Using the rainbow flag is a kind of stra-
tegic learning on the part of Chinese queer activists. In fact, Chinese activists
have been learning from Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Thailand for the past few
years. Many important works have come out of the Queer Asian Network where
theoretical works have repositioned queer Asian studies as local theorizing that
challenges the global gay economy.31 Perhaps it is time for those in non-Asian
contexts to look at how Asian queers are organizing and conceptualizing.
Level III is “targeted visibility.” By this, I suggest that in certain important
types of activism, Ku’ers need to bravely show their faces and take risks. For
instance, in the case of the transman who won a case against his former employer
who fired him over his gender expression, he was shown in pictures such as the

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one below (Figure 5). His lawyer remains anonymous to the public but on the
trans flag, it reads “I want to work” in Mandarin.
Initiated by him, a group of GLBTQ lawyers in China picked up the case
when it was filed in a court in Guizot Province. Working with him, lawyers felt
that it was tactically necessary to create legal precedence in the Chinese legal
system.32 Because he was comfortable being one of the few transmen to be out to
the public, several major Ku’er news outlets, Wechat accounts, and pro-GLBTQ
media shared the process of the hearing as well as the verdict. In a sense, this
publicity partially filled the lack of trans presentation in all mainstream media.
More important, this victory was the first one concerning employment discrim-
ination against trans people; therefore there are affective and legal values to pub-
licize the case as it can be referred to in future cases regarding discriminations
in the workplace.
Level IV is what may be called “collective visibility.” This is understood as
queer people gathering together in spaces with or without being known by the
public or doing activist works as “queers.” It can be a queer event among only
queer folks so that the authorities would not be notified. Many such events
Figure 5. Transman with his lawyer.

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have been taking place in regional cities and metropolitan areas, which not only
provide services in the form of “collective self-care” but also recognize and affirm
their gender identities as well as their sexualities. For an example of collective
visibility demonstrated by activism, one can be in Shanghai but have no idea
Shanghai Pride is going on unless one has connections with the local queer
community. Yet this visibility is not in the form of “Pride March” or “demon-
stration”; rather, it is a remaking of the parade into a new model of celebration,
one that is truly community-based and exclusively Ku’er-centered.
Level V is the “celebratory visibility” that has characterized queer organiz-
ing in Europe, Australia, New Zealand, and North America. This can be con-
ceived as a certain type of “full visibility”; however, what I have been arguing
throughout this article is that Ku’ers have to see the limits of such tactics—
such tactics are commercialized, reactionary, and merely celebratory. I further
argue that it can be hijacked by nationalism, thereby facilitating the binary
of visible and invisible as a continuation of a larger dichotomy of liberal/
conservative and modern/traditional. In this sense, my attitude towards a cel-
ebratory visibility is always ambivalent. Seeing the mass queer mobilization in
Taiwan, enabled by the nation’s political system, I argue that there is a need
to be aware of a possible remaking of a binary, namely, positioning Taiwan/
China as free/unfree.
These five grades of in/visibility are modes of activism that have occurred
and are continuing to occur in mainland China. These different levels describe
how queer organizers calculate risks before public events, organizing, and pub-
licity. The effect of these calculations, presented as “graduated in/visibility,” is
dependant on political change that may take place now or in the future. Which
tactic activists end up utilizing is based on how they perceive the reactions from
the municiple, provincial, and state governemant. It is even reasonable to pro-
fess that “graduated in/visibility” is the other side of “graduated controls”; it is
the queer response to how can we navigate these control strategies to organize
ourselves.
) ) ) Who is Ku’er? Limitations/Possibilities

A large portion of this article dealt with Ku’er activism in China; in this section,
I want to pause and consider a fundamental question: who is a Ku’er? In other
words, who has the chance to be a Ku’er and who does not? I argue that this
question is critical if we are to understand the limitations and possibilities of
current Ku’er activism. Its limits are structured by broader social relations and
systems of power and its possibilities depend on how Ku’ers address the question

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of “Who is counted as a Ku’er?” However, such rethinking is not equivalent

to critiquing of “homonormativity” because in a geopolitically uneven country
like China, needs are diverse and different,33 that is, the need for monogenous
relations can be how Ku’ers do self-care and fight oppression. Further, my inten-
tion is to contemplate the praxis of postsocialism and the state production of
depoliticized subjects in relation to Ku’er. That is, I argue insofar as politics is
equated with destruction and regression in people’s collective memory during
the socialist era, there is perhaps less to lose if one forgets the political and
focuses on the economy, which at least guarantees a moderate livelihood. It is in
this sense that the “post-” of postsocialism suggests a long-lasting effect of how
“politics” is conceptualized and totalized. For Ku’er activism, politics becomes a
“no-go” zone because it can have counterproductive effects.
Hence, over the past few years, newfound freedom for Ku’ers is still confined to
three kinds of politics: cultural, legal, and activist. In some cultural productions,
such as a gay romance web series Addicted, the talk show The Jin Xing Show, and
Freak Talk (Qi Pa Shuo), Ku’ers are becoming more visible and empowering. In
terms of legal politics, LGBT Rights lawyers have won landmark cases against
conversion therapy, discrimination at workplace, and in Popo v. State Adminis-
tration of Press, Publication, Radio, Film and Television of the People’s Republic of
China. A growing number of student activists have also been active in organiz-
ing. According to my calculations, there are more than thirty GLBTQ groups
in universities across China; these groups are connected online and organize
meeting/workshops with the help of Beijing Tongzhi Center and Tong Yu.
These advances directly point to their own limitations. The more accommo-
dationist organizers tend to paint Ku’ers as desirable workers/consumers in state
capitalism. For instance, the transman’s banner “I want to work” suggests that he
deserves to be protected because he has the desire to sell his labor-power. How-
ever, this strategy simultaneously devalues those who do not work/cannot find
work in many deindustrialized towns. If one’s value hinges upon the will to be
commodified, then the negativity of value becomes those who are not working/
contributing to the economy.34 Therefore, my first critique is that “queer liber-
ation” cannot be reduced to the inclusion into the workforce35; in the context
of China, such reductionism would, in fact, do little for queer progress. This is
because one of the main state projects since the reform is to teach Chinese citizens
to desire economic progress and individualism through consumption to an extent
that people buy into the promises of freedom via wealth and forget the politi-
cal.36 In this sense, the placebo of “out at work” might hail the economic abilities
of Chinese elite queers without attending to the state’s historical regulation of
queerness and the state-led capitalist reproduction of classed and gendered bodies
in which the bureaucratic-capitalist elite is able to depoliticize the population.

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My second critique of the level of depoliticization is that the urban Ku’ers’

ability to pursue their economic citizenship is a by-product of the state’s promo-
tion of neoliberalism and the processes of global homocapitalism (understood
as the global queering of GLBTQ+ identities as sites of value production). An
emerging population of depoliticized urban Ku’ers have been incorporated into
the global neoliberal labour market. For instance, Freak Talk features a queer
architect, model, and fashion buyer as spokespersons for Ku’ers, leaving the
impression to the audience that being Ku’er is becoming urban, elite, and cos-
mopolitan. Yet some Ku’er activists have cast a critical eye regarding this trend.
I have been involved with the group Ku’er Workers who provide services and
workshop for migrant GLBTQ people living in urban areas (many of them are
of different ethnicities) who are not fashion buyers or architects but migrant
workers hoping to support their families in rural western China and making a
living. For Ku’er workers, state capitalism requires the production of cosmopoli-
tan consumerism and individual desire; it also produces the neoliberal promises
of prosperous and self-realization among the rural population across the western
provinces. However, owing to their class disadvantages and geographical loca-
tions, these promises are often “suspended” and cannot be achieved. Indeed,
geopolitical unevenness structures the desire to be Ku’er: it seems to be easier for
urban educated, young professionals to be Ku’ers but more difficult for people
with lower socioeconomic status.
Thus, the question of who is Ku’er becomes who is a valuable subject of desire
in the context of (post)socialist China. Of course, the normality of Ku’er sub-
jectivities are urban, gay, professional (middle-class), educated Han ethnicity.
What the current Ku’er activism has been trying to change is the gender/
sexual normality of humanness in postsocialism. Yet, I suspect in this process,
the potential for larger transformative changes, especially the intersectionality of
geographical locations, gender, ethnicity, and class, have been lost. And it is in
this sense that I contend that the possibilities of Ku’er activism lie in the will to
address these social relations directly. I have been working on imagining a queer
Marxism in China with groups such as Ku’er Workers.37 Bringing class, gender,
and ethnicity back into the discussions of Ku’er activism would fundamentally
challenge the state neoliberal project that has expanded the political elite’s power
and domination. Thus, the future of Ku’er activism should not be a story about
being good depoliticized citizens but about a politicized struggle against the
increasingly authoritarian state.
My two points of criticism highlight the drawbacks of “graduated in/visibil-
ity.” So far, this model is a survival tactic more than a transforming strategy. It
focuses on making Ku’ers survive the conservative culture and the state capital-
ism. An insurgent future should be a broader solidarity building in response to

132.247.187.190 on Fri, 25 Aug 2023 20:44:13 +00:00
the silencing by Xi’s regime on labor organizing, feminist activism, and environ-
mental justice. I argue the current “graduated in/visibility” model is a guerilla
war of visibility that needs to be extended to other resurgent struggles, consol-
idating a constellation of coresistance within, against, and beyond the state.38
Indeed, the liberation of Ku’er should be the liberation of all forms of exploita-
tion and oppression; graduated in/visibility is the first step towards the ultimate
goal, not the end of the narrative.
) ) ) Coda: On the Possibility of Living

Homosexuals are the enemy of the Chinese socialist state.39 It is so because to
be Ku’er is to reject the national heterosexual imaginary. In addition, queerness
has a global presence. The possibility of uniting all queers frightens the Chinese
state, who perceives a queer planet as a new possibility of international connec-
tions that posts a threat to the stability of the (post)socialist state. I often wonder
if my work really helps my fellow Ku’ers because we are always outside Confu-
cian ideology and the “Chinese Dream.” Yet, in the process of completing this
article, I realized that creating visibility for other GLBTQ folks is enormously
important, even if it is not revolutionary.
A graduated in/visibility model offers a flexible mechanism that helps Ku’ers
see each other in the context of necropolitical China,40 that is, a regime that
creates conditions for the death of the undesirable and abnormal. The mutation
of state necropolitics against queers means that resistance is always happening
and the hegemony is always being negotiated. In this sense, graduated in/visibility
is not just the politics of being seen but also the possibility of living. Many
have told me that their lives felt more complete when they learned about Ku’er
activism, organizations that provide an alternative social support system, and
affirmations of their sexual desires and gender expressions. After hearing their
responses, I would assure myself that to confront this state debilitation machine
is to provide visibility while not be noticed by the state.41 But the current mode
of activism is less ambitious. Indeed, the question of who is a Ku’er provokes a
complete reconceptualization of how the transition from Tongxinlin to Ku’er
has excluded many who are not “cool,” “cosmopolitan,” or “urban” from the
landscape of Ku’er imaginary. What I propose, then, is a graduated in/visibility
that addresses wider social conditions and systems of power. What would that
look like? It would be a Ku’er politics that aligns itself with labor organizing,
feminism, environmentalism, and anti-Islamaphobia. Ku’er Workers is the first
step towards this broader coalition.

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I end my article with a quote from Che Guevara (in spite of the controversy
about him). What supports many Ku’er activists in China to continue their work
is perhaps not anger but love: the love for a just world. Indeed, as Guevara puts
it: “At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the genuine revolution is
guided by a great feeling of love; it is impossible to think of a genuine revolution
lacking this quality.”
not e s
This article is dedicated to my comrades. I thank reviewers and editors for their helpful
suggestions. It was first completed during the course “Queer Intervention.” For this, I
thank Professor Jamie Magnusson and Efra Gold for encouraging and inspiring discus-
sions and comments. I owe much to Professor Shana Ye, whose enlightening discussions
have been pivotal to my thinking. An earlier version of this piece was presented at the
Sexuality Studies Association Congress in May 2018. I thank Daniel Conway and Carol
Dauda for their comments. Lastly, I thank the activists that have prompted my commit-
ment to building a better world: Jamie, Beverly, Gary, Sabra, Ken, and many others that
I do not have the space to list here.
1. Ku’er is the Mandarin counterpart for “queer.” It is introduced by Cui Zi’en and
others into mainland China in the late 1990s. Ku’er (酷儿) means “cool child” in
its literal translation. As Shana Ye professes, the word Ku’er does not have a nega-
tive connotation as the word “queer” does in English. Quite differently, it signifies
coolness and differences in a neoliberal economy. See, Shana Ye, “A Reparative
Return to ‘Queer Socialism’: Male Same-Sex Desires in the Cultural Revolution,”
in Sexuality in China: Histories of Power and Pleasure, ed. Howard Chiang (Seattle,
WA: University of Washington, 2018), 142–162.
2. I use the word “state” in this article to refer to the hegemonic class that organizes
its apparatuses, the imaginary aspect of the “nation-state” and the European origin
of the conception of the nation. I am fully aware of the contentious debates on
whether the Chinese central government is powerful enough to influence certain
activities on the local level and whether repressive policies by local government are
a distortion of policies deployed by the central state power to impress superiors
(i.e., those of higher rank in the government and the party). Indeed, Oi has argued
that the Chinese state operates as a corporation, with the central government as the
CEO and heads of provinces as departmental heads. See, Jean C. Oi, “The Role of
the Local State in China’s Transitional Economy,” China Quarterly 144 (1995): 1132–
49, doi:10.1017/S0305741000004768.
3. Tamar Shirinian, “Queer Life-Worlds in Post-Socialist Armenia: Alternative Space
and the Possibilities of In/Visibility,” QED: A Journal of GLBTQ Worldmaking 5,
no. 1 (2018): 1–23.

132.247.187.190 on Fri, 25 Aug 2023 20:44:13 +00:00
4. For more discussions on queer politics and capitalism, see Peter Jackson, “Capi-
talism and Global Queering,” GLQ 15, no. 3 (2009): 357–95; Rahul Rao, “Global
Homocapitalism,” Radical Philosophy 194 (2015): 38–49.
5. Patricia T. Clough and Craig Willse, “Human Security/National Security,” in
Beyond Biopolitics, ed. Patricia T. Clough and Craig Willse (Durham, NC: Duke
University Press, 2015), 57.
6. A rapidly growing literature has focused on queer lives in the Global South. See
N. Nicol, A. Jjuuko, R. Lusimbo, N. J. Mulé, S. Ursel, A. Wahab, and P. Waugh,
eds., Envisioning Global LGBT Human Rights: (Neo)Colonialism, Neoliberalism,
Resistance, and Hope (London: University of London Press, 2018); see also Peter
Jackson, Queer Bangkok (Hong Kong: University of Hong Kong Press, 2011).
7. A. Quijano, “Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America,” Nepantla:
Views from the South 1 (2000): 533–79; Ian L.-J. Tian, “Diasporic Blaming, or the
(Im)possibility of Speaking,” Intersectional Apocalypse 1, no. 1 (2018): 50.
8. For a nuanced analysis, see Jinghua Dai, “I Want To Be Human,” Social Text 29,
no. 4 (2012): 129–50.
9. For materials on sex education during the Maoist era, see Zhongguo Qingnian
[China Youth], “Guanyu xinzhishide jigewenti [Some questions about sex knowl-
edge],” Zhongguo Qingnian 13 (1956): 27–28. Tingzhang Song, Zenyang zhengque
duidai lianaiwenti [The correct approach to questions of love] (Liaoning, China:
Liaoning People’s Press, 1955).
10. See, Dalin Liu, Xing Shehuixue [The Sociology of Sex] (Jinan, China: Shangdong
People’s Press, 1988); Suiming Pan, Shenmi de Shenghuo: Xing de Shehui Shi [The Mys-
terious Flame: The History of Sex] (Zhengzhou, China: Henan People’s Press, 1989).
11. Yichi Wu, “Rethinking Capitalist Restoration in China,” Monthly Review 57 (2005):
44–63.
12. Hui Wang, The End of Revolution (London: Verso, 2010), 6–10.
13. I must say that I am not against tradition. In fact, decades of postcolonial and indig-
enous resistance movements have argued for the decentralization/provincialization
of Western/European knowledge and worldviews; what I am emphasizing here is
that traditions have normative structures that are repressive to marginalized popula-
tion; a critique of tradition must be the first step towards utilizing traditionalization
as a tactic against colonialism/imperialism.
14. The representative stated in 2018 that it is because of “Chinese culture and value” that
same-sex marriage is not recognized. For more information, see Caiyu Liu, ‘‘Chinese
delegation’s stance on LGBT issues at UN applauded at home as massive progress,’’
Global Times, Nov 7, 2018, http://www.globaltimes.cn/content/1126355.shtml.
15. See, for example, Yinhe Li and Xiaobo Wang, Tamen de Shijie: Zhongguo Nan
Tongxinglian Qunluo Toushi [Their World: Looking into the Male Homosexual
Community in China] (Hong Kong: Cosmos Books, 1992); Wei Wei, “Xiaofeizhuyi
he ‘Tongzhi’ Kongjian: Dushi Shenghuo di Linglei Yuqangditu [Consumerism
and ‘Tongzhi’ Space: An Alternative Map of Desire in Urban Life],” Shehui [Chi-
nese Journal of Sociology], 4, no. 29(2009): 79–106; Wei Wei, Gongkai: Dangdai

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Chengdu ‘Tongzhi’ Kongjian de Xingcheng he Bianqian [Going Public: The Pro-

duction and Transformation of Queer Space in Contemporary Chengdu, China]
(Shanghai: Shanghai Joint Publishing Company, 2012).
16. For a detailed cinematic account, see the film Queer China, directed by Cui Zi’en
(Beijing: Cuizi DV Studio, 2008).
17. Petrus Liu, Queer Marxism in Two Chinas (Durham, NC: Duke University Press,
2015), 13.
18. I am referring to the announcement of the guidelines that restrict same-sex content
at the end of 2015 by the China Television Drama Production Industry Association
(CTDPIA). This organization was formed at the request of State Administration
of Press, Publication, Radio, Film and Television of the People’s Republic of China
(SAPPRFT).
19. I am referring to the cancellation of the second Speak Out conference in Chengdu
in 2017. I was involved in the preparation process but local police asked us to cancel
the meeting. For more information, see, https://www.reuters.com/article/s-china
-lgbt-idUSKBN1A616B.
20. Lisa Rofel, Desiring China (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 23.
21. Lisa Lowe, The Intimacy of Four Continents (Durham, NC: Duke University Press,
2015), 3.
22. P. Lorentzen, “Designing Contentious in Post-1989 China,” Modern China 43, no. 5
(2017): 459–93. doi:10.1177/0097700416688895.
23. K. K. Yang, and B. Alpermann, “Children and Youth NGOs in China: Social Activ-
ism between Embeddedness and Marginalization,” China Information 28, no. 3
(2014): 315. doi:10.1177/0920203X14554350.
24. Xiaoguan Kang, and Heng Han, “Graduated Control,” Modern China 34, no. 1
(2008): 48. doi:10.1177/0097700407308138.
25. I am very concerned about my comrades who challenged the sexism of the banner
culture during an invented “Girls’ Day.” The picture in the news articles featured
three people who were in the GLBTQ group at that time. They posted this photo
online to call out sexism. See https://supchina.com/2018/03/08/girls-day-banners
-on-chinese-college-campuses-are-blatant-harassment/.
26. Travis S. K. Kong, Chinese Male Homosexuality (London: Routledge, 2010), 3.
27. Aiwha Ong, “On the Edge of Empires: Flexible Citizenships among Chinese in the
Diaspora,” positions: east asia cultures critique 1, no. 3 (1993): 755.
28. For a debate on family/kinship in Chinese culture in relation to the Ku’ers, see Wah-
Shan Chou, “Homosexuality and the Cultural Politics of Tongzhi in Chinese Societ-
ies,” in Gay and Lesbian Asia: Culture, Identity, Community, ed. Gerard Sullivan and
Peter A. Jackson (New York: Haworth Press, 2001), 27–46. For a rebuttal of Chou’s
“coming home” narrative, see, Day Wong, “Rethinking the Coming Home Narra-
tive: Hybridization and Coming Out Politics in Hong Kong’s Anti-Homophobia
Parade,” Inter-Asia Cultural Studies 8, no. 4 (2007): 600–16.
29. I am cautious about applying social justice theory uncritically as the guide to social
movements in China. As I have shown, the U.S. context is very different from

132.247.187.190 on Fri, 25 Aug 2023 20:44:13 +00:00
postsocialist China, and even though identity-based approaches are becoming evident
in China, they tend not to produce satisfactory results because the state still manages
many aspects of life and because the Confucius teaching of “Ren 仁” (benevolence)
continues to influence how the legitimacy of state power is conceptualized by the
majority of people. In other words, I argue that the benevolence of the state to
the powerless, coupled with socialist concerns for the most vulnerable are two of the
many articulations of the legitimacy of the Communist Party and the state. Further, I
am not entirely sure if “U.S Third World feminism” (as Chela Sandoval is advancing
to replace women of color feminism in the American context) can be fully applied to
China. I propose that insofar as the United States continues to be an imperialist
power, I worry that U.S. Third World feminism might conceal the coloniality of power
(e.g., Western globalization and capital accumulation extracted from people living in
the Global South) and the geopolitics of knowledge (e.g., Anglo-European domination
of both mainstream and critical knowledge production) at work in global struggle.
That is, I ask where are the voices of the real Third World women? Where is the voice
of the real Third World sexuality? Colonialism and the need for labor brought racial-
ized populations into the First World, but where are the subjectivities of the majority
of those who still live in the “Third World?” Indeed, I argue the critique needs to be
situated but not location-bounded (i.e., we need to be cautious about the geopolit-
ical locations of that specific critique). For example, a fundamental fact that Third
World feminists in the U.S. cannot resolve is that they can get on a plane and travel
to Europe freely to talk about Third World feminism whereas an anti-imperial Third
World feminist might have to wait for three months to get a visa and might be denied
entry. These are the realities of global citizenship machineries and Southern immobil-
ity facing Third World people and I thus do not think resistance theories produced
in Western academia can fully account for the social movements and interests of the
oppressed internationally. To this end, Chandra Mohanty and M. Jacqui Alexander’s
theorizing of “multiple radical sites” is helpful to rethink location-specific solidarity.
See Chela Sandoval, Methodology of the Oppressed (Minneapolis, MN: University of
Minnesota Press, 2000); Chela Sandoval, “U.S. Third World Feminism: The Theory
and Method of Oppositional Consciousness in the Postmodern World,” Genders 10
(1991): 1–24; for a discussion on knowledge and power, see M. Jacqui Alexander and
Chandra Talpade Mohanty, “Cartographies of Knowledge and Power,” in Critical
Transnational Feminist Praxis, ed. Swarr Amanda Lock and Nagar Richa (Albany, NY:
SUNY Press), 23–45.
30. Often called “scam marriage” or “cooperative marriage,” gays and lesbians marry
each other to conceal their same-sex relations. See Stephanie Yingyi Wang, “When
Tongzhi Marry: Experiments of Cooperative Marriage between Lalas and Gay Men
in Urban China,” Feminist Studies 45, no.1 (2019): 13–35.
31. Yau Ching, As Normal as Possible: Negotiating Sexuality and Gender in Mainland China
and Hong Kong (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2010), 13; see also Hongwei
Bao, Queer Comrades: Gay Identity and Tongzhi Activism in Postsocialist China (Copen-
hagen, Denmark: NIAS Press, 2018); Petrus Liu, “Why Does Queer Theory Need

132.247.187.190 on Fri, 25 Aug 2023 20:44:13 +00:00
China?” positions: east asia cultures critique 18, no. 2 (2012): 291–320; James Welker,
“(Re) positioning (Asian) Queer Studies,” GLQ 20, nos.1–2 (2014): 181–98.
32. I am referring to LGBTQ Rights, an NGO that consists of a group of lawyers who
wish to promote a more just world through the legal system. See (in Chinese),
http://www.ngocn.net/tag?tagid=18417.
33. For a critique of homonormativity, see Holly Lewis, The Politics of Everybody (Chi-
cago: University of Chicago Press, 2016), 218–37.
34. For a dialectic discussion of value/nonvalue of humans, see Lindon Barrett, Black-
ness and Value (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 21; Lisa M. Cacho,
Social Death: Racialized Rightlessness and the Criminalization of the Unprotected
(New York: New York University Press, 2012), 13–18.
35. Jasbir K. Puar, “Mapping U.S. Homonormativities,” Gender, Place and Culture 13,
no. 1 (2006): 77.
36. Rofel, Desiring China, 125.
37. With Ku’er Workers, I have written several op-eds via WeChat on coming-out,
being Ku’er, etc. Unfortunately, some of these op-eds have been censored. For more
details, please contact me.
38. I borrow the phrase “the constellation of coresistance” from indigenous writer
Leanne Simpson. See, Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, As We Have Always Done
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2017), 211.
39. Cui Zi’en, “The Communist International of Queer Films,” positions: east asia cul-
tures critique 18, no. 2 (2010): 419.
40. “Necropolitics” refers to the state power that pushes certain populations to the
point of physical, social, and ideological death, a form of “bare life.” For more on
necropolitics, see J.-A. Mbembé, “Necropolitics, Libby Meintjes Trans,” Public Cul-
ture 15, no. 1 (2003): 11–40.
41. I borrow “debilitation” from Jasbir Puar. Her theorization of “debilitation” is under-
stood as the process in which the possibilities of life is diminished and rendered
impossible. See, Jasbir K. Puar, The Right to Maim (Durham, NC: Duke University
Press, 2017).
)))
Ian Liujia Tian is at the University of Toronto and is a founding member of the
Queer Diaspora Collective. His research is situated at the intersection of decol-
onized queer Marxism, transnational sexuality, social movement learning and
community activism in the context of China (where he is from, and most of his
activist labor is based) and as an uninvited guest on the First Nations territories
covered by the Dish with One Spoon Wampum Covenant.

132.247.187.190 on Fri, 25 Aug 2023 20:44:13 +00:00

Reflections On Ku'er Activism in (Post) Socialist China

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Graduated In/Visibility: Reflections on Ku'er Activism in (Post)Socialist China

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Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.14321/qed.6.3.0056

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) ) ) A Genealogy: From Tongxinlian, Tongzhi, to Ku’er

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) ) ) The State and Ku’er Activism

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a violation of student codes. In order to avoid any possible psychological or

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Figures 1 through 4. Rainbow flags around campus.

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Figure 5. Transman with his lawyer.

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) ) ) Who is Ku’er? Limitations/Possibilities

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of “Who is counted as a Ku’er?” However, such rethinking is not equivalent

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My second critique of the level of depoliticization is that the urban Ku’ers’

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) ) ) Coda: On the Possibility of Living

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Chengdu ‘Tongzhi’ Kongjian de Xingcheng he Bianqian [Going Public: The Pro-

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