“When the legend becomes the fact, print the legend,” goes the old line from the Western classic “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.”
It is memorable but not meant as advice. Yet when it comes to Xi Jinping, many Western commentators seem to do exactly that.
We are told that Mr. Xi is widely respected at home, a strong, farsighted strategist who commands admiration as well as power. It is a neat, reassuring narrative.
Yet on closer inspection, it is more legend than fact.
Yes, Mr. Xi does concentrate power in his own hands, but respect, he does not command.
Another useful analogy comes from “Being There,” the political satire in which Peter Sellers plays Chauncey Gardiner, a simple man mistaken for a profound thinker. His vague, obvious remarks are interpreted by elites as deep wisdom. The illusion sustains itself because people expect to see depth, and so they do.
The comparison is not perfect, but it captures something essential: The idea of Mr. Xi’s “respect” is often asserted more than demonstrated. Inside China, criticism must be oblique.
Outside China, the reality is easier to state plainly: Xi Jinping may be the most quietly resented and reviled Chinese leader since Mao Zedong. In popular discourse within China’s vast internet user groups, Mr. Xi is often obliquely jeered as a buffoon obsessed with vainglory and power.
A “Winnie-the-Pooh” episode illustrates this dynamic. Chinese internet users began using the character as a form of satire, an indirect way to mock Mr. Xi. The state responded by systematically scrubbing references.
It is a telling reaction. A system confident in its leader does not need to censor a children’s cartoon. A system that does so reveals a different kind of sensitivity.
Despite pervasive censorship, satire persists, hidden in wordplay, metaphor and fleeting online commentary that appears and disappears as quickly as censors can act. This is not the behavior of a society expressing admiration. It reminds us of the Soviet era, when dissent expressed through jokes and ridicule was constrained but persistent and accumulating beneath the surface.
That undercurrent becomes clearer when one looks at Mr. Xi’s record in power.
Take the Xiong’an New Area, one of Mr. Xi’s signature projects, a Potemkin metropolis in a swampy location away from Beijing. Promoted as a “city of the future,” it has consumed tens of billions of dollars. Yet years later, it remains largely empty, struggling to attract residents or economic vitality.
What was presented as visionary increasingly resembles a state-directed vanity project, mocked domestically as a ghost city, more symbolic of Mr. Xi’s vanity and buffoonery than functional.
The gap between ambition and reality has turned it into a quiet and savage national joke, told daily in millions of internet postings and obliquely subversive bantering.
Then there was the zero-COVID policy, perhaps the most consequential and self-destroying decision of Mr. Xi’s tenure. Driven by a rigid insistence on absolute party control, it imposed sweeping lockdowns, disrupted daily life and inflicted heavy economic costs. Entire cities were sealed. Supply chains faltered. Public resentment mounted.
The backlash culminated in the White Paper Movement, a rare nationwide protest in which citizens used blank sheets of paper to symbolize censored speech. Though brief, it was significant as a direct expression of public anger that forced a sudden and chaotic reversal of policy.
The episode exposed Mr. Xi’s villainousness in popular discourse as well as his weakness, showing an inability to adjust course until pressure became overwhelming.
The economic consequences of Mr. Xi’s broader governance have been equally stark. China’s once-dynamic growth model has slowed under tightening ideological control.
The real estate sector, long a pillar of the economy, has faltered, with major developers collapsing under debt. Local government financing structures are strained. Youth unemployment has surged to troubling levels, even as official data becomes less transparent.
At the same time, consumer confidence has collapsed, capital has flowed outward at an alarming pace, and a notable brain drain has accelerated as professionals seek opportunities abroad.
These are not the hallmarks of a supreme leader inspiring confidence or respect. They reflect uncertainty and disillusionment.
Within the political system itself, Mr. Xi’s reliance on purges further underscores the problem. Anti-corruption campaigns and internal crackdowns have led to the removal of hundreds of thousands of officials.
While presented as discipline, such Stalinist purges do not cultivate loyalty. They cultivate fear. A leader who must constantly eliminate rivals does not demonstrate secure authority.
Taken together, these patterns tell a consistent story. Grand projects struggle to deliver. Policy campaigns overreach and then collapse. Economic vitality erodes under tighter control. Political stability is maintained through coercion rather than consent.
None of this is to deny Mr. Xi’s power. He is firmly entrenched, with authority consolidated to a degree not seen in decades. Yet power and respect are not the same. One can be enforced; the other must be earned.
This is why the claim that Mr. Xi is “highly respected” increasingly sounds less like observation and more like projection. It reflects the assumption that centralized authority implies competence and that longevity implies legitimacy, but the underlying reality is more complicated and far less flattering.
Like the legend in the Western, or the illusion surrounding Chauncey Gardiner, the narrative persists because it is convenient. It simplifies a complex and uncomfortable truth: A leader can be powerful yet widely resented, dominant yet insecure, commanding obedience but not admiration or respect.
Before repeating the legend again, it is worth asking a simple question: Are we seeing genuine respect or merely its enforced imitation? History tends to answer such questions eventually. When it does, it rarely favors the legend.