Two racers hugged at the Asian Games in China – and became the target of censorship

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Seconds after she surged to victory in the 100-metre women’s hurdles at the Asian Games this week, Chinese runner Lin Yuwei embraced her teammate Wu Yanni, to roars of delight from the home crowd in Hangzhou. Photos and videos of the two women soon spread over social platforms and Chinese media.

Until, that is, the censors noticed a juxtaposition created by the lane numbers pasted to the women’s shorts, which together could be read as “64,” one of the most forbidden terms on the Chinese internet. Platforms and publications raced to take the photos down, but not before many observant users had made the same connection: to the Tiananmen Square massacre of June 4, 1989.

Ms. Lin and Ms. Wu’s moment of joy has now joined the many other images and terms – from tanks, candles and ducks, to oblique ways to refer to the day, for example “May 35th,” or the year, using the Roman numerals IIXVIIIIX – blacked out for referencing the massacre, discussion of which remains verboten even three decades later.

Nor was this the only time Ms. Wu inadvertently attracted the censors’ ire at the Games, which run until Oct. 8. In a semi-final, she was racing in lane nine and shook hands with the racer next to her, creating “89.” After she won the heat, many Chinese outlets published photos showing the numbers. Most have now switched to alternative shots that crop out the numbers in both incidents, while many users who shared them on Weibo, a Chinese microblogging platform, have had their posts taken down.

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After the “89″ incident was spotted, days after the actual race, some speculated Ms. Wu had intentionally created the moments as some kind of unspoken protest. This is unlikely, not least because the athlete had no control over which lanes she would be in, but also because censorship of Tiananmen has been so complete that many younger Chinese are ignorant not only of the facts of the incident, but also the forbidden terms used to refer to it.

In recent years, private censorship enterprises have sprung up to help platforms with the often arduous task of staying within China’s speech guidelines. Many hire young graduates, who they first have to brief on some of the most controversial aspects of Chinese history, so they can help censor it.

“They didn’t know things like June 4,” Yang Xiao, head of Beijing-based Beyondsoft, told The New York Times in 2019 of training his staff. “They really didn’t know.”

Last year, 31-year-old influencer Li Jiaqi, known as the “lipstick king” for his success hawking beauty products over social media, was suspended from posting on the platforms for months after he hosted a livestream on June 4, during which he held up a cake that appeared to resemble a tank.

Mr. Li’s treatment created what is known as the “Li Jiaqi Paradox,” in which many younger users, seeking to understand why he was being punished, sought out information on the Tiananmen massacre, exactly what the censors had been trying to avoid.

While some users referenced the paradox in relation to Ms. Wu and Ms. Lin, the effect is diminished as outlets could simply swap out the photos, or focus on another controversy from the race: Ms. Wu’s false start and ultimate disqualification, which cost her a silver medal.

Writing on social media, she apologized for “disappointing everyone’s expectations.”