I’ve been in Beijing for over 19 years. I’ve never seen it like this.
This is supposed to be one of the biggest business cities in the world. Yet today, Beijing feels empty. No New Year atmosphere. No crowds. Everyone has gone home for the Lunar New Year—but this year, it’s different. I’ve run a shop here for nearly 20 years, and honestly, it has never emptied out this early.
I drove from the East Fourth Ring Road to Beishan in less than an hour. Yes, there were cars, but something felt wrong. Beijing is said to have over 20 million people—so where are they? In the past, even heavy rain meant packed streets. Now, even during rush hour, you can move freely. The alleys are nearly deserted. The reality on the streets doesn’t match the numbers at all.

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The current fate of Zhang Youxia and Liu Zhenli, along with the tense and potentially explosive confrontation between forces aligned with Zhang Youxia—who reportedly command troops positioned around Beijing—and those loyal to Xi Jinping, raises a critical question: can a mediating force backed by significant economic interests step in to resolve this immense conflict? How these dynamics unfold in 2026 may ultimately shape China’s strategic political landscape.
The year 2027, the time for the re-election of the Central Committee, the Politburo, and the Standing Committee of the Politburo, is fast approaching. Attention is increasingly turning toward what could become one of the most consequential leadership moments in modern Chinese politics: the 21st National Congress of the Chinese Communist Party.

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Three aircraft carriers. Towering decks. Fighter jets poised at the bow. From a distance, it looks like the arrival of a maritime superpower. But step closer—past the choreographed camera angles and triumphant headlines—and the picture becomes far more complicated.
China today operates three carriers: the Liaoning, the Shandong, and the Fujian. On paper, that sounds like a breakthrough. In reality, each vessel tells a story not just of ambition, but of limitation.
The Liaoning began its life not as a Chinese masterpiece, but as a half-completed Soviet hull purchased from Ukraine in the 1990s. What arrived was not a ready warship, but an unfinished relic from another era. Beijing refitted it, repainted it, and reintroduced it as a symbol of resurgence. Yet over the years, observers have repeatedly noted mechanical strains, corrosion problems, and thick plumes of exhaust smoke trailing behind it during operations. At times, photography around the ship was restricted. The optics mattered. The image had to remain intact.

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As the Chinese New Year draws near, the red lanterns are going up, but the optimism that once filled China’s biggest cities is nowhere to be found. The economy continues its downward slide, job opportunities are shrinking, and by 2026 even Beijing — a city of nearly 23 million people — feels strangely hollow. Commercial streets that used to pulse with traffic and neon now echo with footsteps. Storefront lights are dim. Restaurants that once required reservations now sit half empty. The capital still looks grand on the surface, but underneath, something has shifted.
Many residents say the pressure of living has become unbearable. Prices have not softened, but incomes have. Some people quietly admit they no longer have the security of a guaranteed meal. In the past, trash bins behind restaurants were filled with leftover food. Those struggling could eat from what others discarded and even save a little cash. It was humiliating, perhaps, but it worked. Now even that fragile safety net is disappearing. People have become frugal. They order less, waste less, and dine out far less often. Fewer customers mean fewer restaurants operating at full scale. Fewer restaurants mean fewer trash bins. And inside those bins, almost nothing remains.

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Shanghai is in decline. It is no longer the dazzling “Pearl of the Orient” lit up through the night, no longer the symbol of wealth, opportunity, and relentless crowds. Today, when you step onto avenues that were once packed shoulder to shoulder, you find emptiness. Emptiness on the sidewalks. Emptiness inside shopping malls. Emptiness in the eyes of those who remain.
Huaihai Road—the commercial heart of the city—now has afternoons so quiet you can hear the wind slipping between the glass towers. Nanjing Road, once a street that never slept, now sees 6 p.m. evenings when shops sit closed, lights dim, employees leaning against counters waiting for customers who never arrive. Xintiandi—once fully booked every weekend night—now has only a scattering of tables occupied, with more empty chairs than people.

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In recent years, a disturbing pattern has begun to surface across Chinese social media. Video after video shows violent shaking inside the carriages of high-speed trains. Seats tremble. Tables vibrate. Passengers grip armrests tightly, some whispering that it feels as if the train could lose control at any moment. A few describe the sensation bluntly: it feels like life and death are separated by only seconds.
At first, these clips were dismissed as isolated incidents. Every transportation system has occasional technical issues. But the frequency increased. The comments multiplied. Anxiety spread. And a deeper question began to take shape: What is happening behind the polished image of one of the world’s largest high-speed rail networks?

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