Living with digital surveillance in China: between acceptance and unease

Facial recognition cameras, social media censorship, social credit systems… Seen from Europe, digital surveillance in China has all the hallmarks of a dystopian world. But how is it experienced by Chinese citizens? In her latest book (1), Ariane Ollier-Malaterre, a professor at EDHEC, gives them a voice and reveals a reality that is more ambivalent than Western perceptions suggest: surveillance may be approved in principle and regarded as necessary, whilst at the same time provoking fear, anger or frustration.

To write Living with Digital Surveillance in China: Citizens’ Narratives on Technology, Privacy and Governance (1), Ariane Ollier-Malaterre (EDHEC) carried out fieldwork comprising an observation diary and 58 semi-structured interviews in Beijing, Shanghai and Chengdu (2). The researcher made a unique methodological choice: to conduct fieldwork before reading the specialist literature (3), so as not to approach her interviewees with preconceived ideas inherited from the dominant views in Europe and North America.

In China, facial recognition cameras are a common feature of the urban landscape, and activity on major digital platforms such as WeChat is personalised and traceable (5). Political content posted on social media can quickly disappear, or even lead to the account being closed if the offence is repeated. The key question then becomes: how do people live knowing they are being watched?

This is undoubtedly one of the most surprising findings of the research: many of those surveyed see the benefits of surveillance, which is often described as ‘indispensable’ in China and ‘a good thing’ (6).

To explain this, Ariane Ollier-Malaterre highlights a set of narratives that reinforce one another. On the one hand, the state is perceived as a protective, almost parental figure, responsible for maintaining order in a vast country. On the other, technology is readily associated with progress, efficiency and modernisation. In this context, surveillance tools are not merely used for monitoring: they are also presented as a means of disciplining behaviour and strengthening the ‘moral character’ of citizens, who are still portrayed as poorly educated.

However, this relative acceptance of surveillance applies only to generalised surveillance that affects everyone (for example, CCTV cameras in public spaces); respondents strongly reject surveillance that is specifically targeted at them (for example, a camera filming their workplace) or deemed too intrusive (for example, behavioural analysis cameras in schools).

In the Western imagination, this surveillance society seems almost inseparable from China’s famous ‘social credit’ system. Ariane Ollier-Malaterre’s investigation, however, allows us to qualify this view. There is no single, nationwide score that assigns an overall rating to every citizen, as in the episode ‘Nosedive’ from the series Black Mirror (7).

Part of the misunderstanding stems from the terms themselves. The Chinese government’s 2014–2020 plan referred to ‘the’ social credit system in the singular, whereas in reality, very different schemes coexist, particularly at local level or within private companies.

Blacklists may restrict access to certain services for those who have broken the law, whilst other ‘red list’ schemes grant benefits to citizens deemed to be exemplary. We are therefore a long way from a centralised system that assigns a single score to every Chinese citizen.

The fact that many of those interviewed say they accept or justify surveillance does not mean that they are at ease with it. This is precisely the ambivalence highlighted in Ariane Ollier-Malaterre’s book.

As the interviews progress, feelings of fear, anger, resentment and frustration also emerge. Almost all those interviewed develop mental strategies to distance themselves psychologically from the surveillance systems in place: choosing to ‘turn a blind eye’ to the cameras, telling themselves they are ‘not important enough’ to attract attention, reassuring themselves that they are doing nothing wrong, or learning to constantly weigh up what they can say, to whom, where and when. In other words, citizens must constantly assess the boundaries they must not cross and adapt their behaviour accordingly.

For the researcher, this constant adjustment represents a cognitive and emotional cost in itself. The continuous effort required by surveillance fuels a tension between what can be expressed and what must remain unspoken. A Chinese worker thus testifies that thinking has become ‘the only privacy’ he has left. A phrase that sums up just how deeply internalised surveillance has become.

By prioritising citizens’ experiences, Living with Digital Surveillance in China (1) shows that the same people may regard certain measures as necessary whilst at the same time feeling the burden they place on their daily lives. The book thus raises a question that goes beyond the Chinese context: what narratives make the principle of surveillance acceptable, and what cost might this acceptance have for individuals?