A new format in Translator where we commission a journalist or commentator from beyond the Anglosphere to interpret a recent article they have found interesting or important from their local media landscape: decoding the article’s meaning in the broader political, cultural and social context in which it was written, helping us understand how it would be read locally and giving us insight into what is making headlines (and why). How is an article being received? What’s the backstory? What is really being said—and what is left unsaid? Jessie Lau explores local reporting on China’s ‘Mask Park Incident’—and what it reveals about the media, state narratives, and sexual exploitation, both online and off
“They might be hidden somewhere inside the carriage of your train during an early morning commute, or within the walls of your shopping mall changing room. They could also be tucked away in the corners of buildings, like the ones on your sprawling university campus. These spy cameras—disguised as everyday objects like screws, electrical outlets or even bottles of toilet cleaner—are everywhere, and they’re secretly capturing intimate moments of countless women across China, without their consent. The sexually explicit content, recently flooding the internet and shared on encrypted platforms, are being consumed and exchanged by hundreds of thousands of pairs of eyes who make up the country’s massive 偷拍黑色产业 Tōupāi hēisè chǎnyè (“black candid filming industry”) transforming women into sexual commodities for male consumption.”
T hese are the striking opening lines that broke the story of the “MaskPark” incident, translated and paraphrased from Mandarin. This investigative report published by Southern Metropolis Daily 南方都市报, a respected Guangzhou-based news outlet known for its investigative and critical reporting on political and social issues. While the publication is officially independent and not a direct party mouthpiece, all media outlets in China are subject to state control. The publication exposed one of China’s most prominent online sex scandals in recent years. Published on 25 July, the report revealed the existence of a group called “MaskPark tree hold forum” on the encrypted messaging app Telegram, where hundreds of thousands of Chinese men were sharing sexually explicit photos and videos of women in China that had been secretly taken in private and public spaces, without their knowledge or consent.
The victims were not all simply mere strangers; amongst those reportedly affected were current partners, colleagues, classmates and even children of the group’s members. Their image and likeness were secretly captured through pinhole cameras masquerading as ordinary items, then shared on Telegram, sometimes accompanied with deepfaked porn and private contact information. The channel was hosted on a social media platform only accessible through a VPN in Mainland China, where internet users have limited access to foreign platforms. Hashtags related to the group garnered more than 270 million views on Chinese social media before online discussions about the scandal were censored by authorities, according to the US-based independent outlet China Digital Times.
Reporter Wang Yi and intern Feng Xi begin the original investigation by detailing the specifics and scale of the MaskPark forum. Allegedly made up of mostly Chinese men, the channel involved over 20 different “subgroups”. One had more than 100,000 members.
The piece then moves on to suggest the existence of a massive illegal secret filming industry run by criminals, that includes not only the sharing of explicit materials, but also the widespread sale of pornographic content and so called “hidden” cameras.
Much of the information in the article comes from “Ms. D” an anonymous victim of the exploitative forum who publicly spoke out about the group on social media in order to warn other women to be vigilant. The victim first learned that her ex-boyfriend had leaked intimate photos and videos of her into the group through a stranger who reached out to her online. After news of the forum became a 热搜 Rè sōu (Hot Search) item on social media—meaning it was trending virally—the channel’s 狡猾 Jiǎohuá (cunning) admins quickly 抹去痕迹 Mǒ qù hénjì (removed all traces) of the sensitive content. Yet even after MaskPark’s closure, reporters still found other similar groups that remained active.
T he Southern Metropolis Daily article, which included screenshots provided by Ms. D, was subsequently cited in almost every story on the scandal in both domestic and international media.
After the story broke, I wrote a follow-up analysis for The Guardian that focused on Beijing’s censoring of the incident, interviewing Chinese digital media experts, activists, lawyers and scholars both inside and outside China’s borders. While news reports like the original story remain accessible online, discussions of the incident that have gained traction on Chinese social media have reportedly been censored by authorities.
Reporting on the aftermath of the scandal, what struck me the most was that no one I spoke to was surprised about the existence of forums like MaskPark. Nor were any of my sources shocked by the fact that there were so many illegal cameras hidden in public areas in China by sexual predators—not one of whom has been arrested in relation to this recent incident so far, at least as far as I and the public knows.
“I wasn’t surprised, but I was still deeply angry and heartbroken,” Li Maizi, one of China’s most prominent feminist activists who is now based in New York, told me for Translator. “On the Chinese internet, videos from hidden surveillance cameras—especially from hotel rooms—are widely circulated and often used by social media accounts to market so-called “anti-spycam” detection devices. But these ‘stranger danger’ cases are just the tip of the iceberg.”
Similar scandals such as South Korea’s ‘Nth Room’ case—which also occurred on Telegram and involved women being blackmailed into sharing intimate photos—and recent investigations such as ‘Catching a Pervert: Sexual Assault for Sale’ by BBC Eye showing how thousands of videos featuring men sexually assaulting and harassing women in public spaces across East Asia are being sold online, have made people more aware of this rising trend of spy cams targeting women.
In fact, local media in China had previously reported on the existence of such “voyeurism groups” as recently as 2021, albeit on a much smaller scale. Yet the ubiquitous nature of the MaskPark scandal shows the widespread tolerance of sexual violence against women in China, as well as the lack of meaningful law enforcement and social understanding surrounding this issue, according to Li.
Stories of women being assaulted and exploited are commonplace in Chinese media, where they tend to go viral and spark widespread outrage—before eventually being snuffed out by censors. Two months after MaskPark, students at Guangzhou’s Jinan University accused the journalism school’s vice dean Zheng Liang of photographing female students without their consent, as well as making sexually inappropriate comments.
Although there are no concrete figures about sexual harassment and violence in China, a survey of 1,017 Chinese men published in 2019 found that about 50 per cent admitted to having physically or sexually abused their female partners. “When victims try to speak out, their posts are deleted and keywords are blocked. When journalists attempt to investigate, their articles are taken down,” Li told me: “In this kind of silencing system, not only are female victims muted, but the collective social understanding of gender justice is also hollowed out.”
D espite being a feature-length article, the Southern Metropolis Daily story provides no context on the prevalence of sexual harassment and violence against Chinese women; nor does it include any information on how victims can get support beyond reporting incidents to the police.
After outlining details of the scandal, the article moves swiftly into China’s legal protections against distributing pornographic content and the challenges of seeking justice, especially if such crimes take place digitally on encrypted platforms outside Chinese jurisdiction. It makes no attempt at analysing the gender dynamics behind this 偷拍 Tōupāi (candid filming) industry, or the root causes behind why so many men in Mainland China sexually exploit strangers as well as the women and girls in their lives.
The piece ends by arguing that this pernicious industry can only be dismantled holistically: if victims continue to courageously speak out, law enforcement agencies continue to strive to overcome technological barriers, and society takes a 零容忍 Líng róngrěn (zero tolerance) approach to “privacy violations.” The report’s last line, translated and summarised, reads: “The law is a raised blade; but it will be a struggle for authorities to cut through the fog of encrypted software and bring these hundreds of thousands of perpetrators to justice.”
Sara Liao, assistant professor of media studies at Pennsylvania State University, argues that the article’s legal framing is a way to perform a sense of neutrality and compliance with the government’s official stance on the incident. “When the MaskPark story broke, focusing on the legal aspects—questions of digital violence, criminal accountability, and victims’ access to justice—became a ‘safe’ way for news outlets to cover it,” Liao told me, who studies gender and media in China.
Newsrooms in China increasingly operate under dense guidelines designed to ensure that their coverage aligns with “mainstream values,” Liao explains. Journalists are under pressure to avoid references to anything that could be interpreted as ideological dissent or calls for social mobilisation, including feminism. China officially upholds gender equality as part of its socialist legacy. So publicly acknowledging systemic sexism or inequality isn’t just uncomfortable—it risks undermining the state’s self-image.”
It’s a perspective shared by many Chinese feminist scholars overseas including Eva Liu, a postdoctoral scholar at Ohio University. Her research into Chinese feminist media has shown that in recent years, coverage of gender-based harassment and violence have often been “de-gendered” by being framed as issues of bullying or public security. China’s ruling party, which has long promoted gender equality, is unwilling to admit that women’s basic right to safety still cannot be guaranteed in China today.
“During #MeToo, many young women bravely came forward to accuse their professors of sexual harassment. Yet these cases either ended inconclusively or were downplayed as issues of faculty’s personal morality,” Liu told me. “The MaskPark incident definitely has the potential to unite women across class [lines], since vulnerability to sexual violence is a shared concern by [all] women. Authorities must be fearful of the escalation of this incident.”
Although Beijing has successfully curbed dissent within China, feminists based overseas are refusing to remain silent. In August, Chinese diaspora feminists in London held a protest in solidarity with victims of MaskPark. Holding up handwritten signs with defiant slogans condemning sexual harassment and violence, they urged the Chinese government to stand against gender based violence and impose heavier penalties for voyeurism. Although disseminators of pornographic materials can be sentenced to up to two years in prison, those found guilty of taking pictures of an individual without their consent only face up to 10 days’ detention and a fine of 500 yuan (roughly GBP £53, or USD $70).
The Chinese government’s censorship of feminist voices in the name of social “harmony,” while also allowing online platforms to profit from clickbait and outrage caused by sex scandals, creates what Liao describes as a “violence economy”. That is to say, a system that capitalises on women’s trauma, without empathy for the victims or accountability for the perpetrators.
“These dynamics deepen polarization around gender, making meaningful conversations about sexual harassment and gender-based violence even harder to sustain, and ultimately curing neither the symptom nor the cause of the problem,” Liao says.
And so, without any real reckoning, the news cycle in China moves on.
