The internet age promised connection and openness—but in China, a new phase of digital exclusion is unfolding. This week, the removal of two of the country’s most-popular gay dating apps has sent a chilling message: queer life lies outside the tolerated spectrum of online “harmony”. The two apps, Blued and Finka, have been pulled from China’s Apple App Store and major Android storefronts at the behest of the Cyberspace Administration of China (CAC).
Though the apps remain on users’ phones if already installed, no new downloads are possible. According to Apple, the takedown was executed “based on an order from the CAC.” The apps’ disappearance from digital shelves marks a stark moment in the broader clampdown on queer visibility in the People’s Republic of China.
This is not just a technology story; it is political and cultural. Homosexuality in China has been legal since 1997, but same-sex marriage remains unrecognised and institutional protections for LGBT+ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer) people are virtually non-existent. Over the last decade, as the vast ecosystem of Chinese social media expanded, so did queer community life: online groups, dating apps, even fandom cultures built around “boys’ love” (danmei, 耽美) stories. But those spaces are now under pressure.
The removal of Blued and Finka is only the most visible tip of a deeper iceberg. In recent months the CAC has launched a two-month “clean-up” campaign to purge “negative emotions” (负面情绪 fùmiàn qíngxù) from livestreams, posts and video platforms, targeting content that expresses youth disaffection, dissent or emotional struggle. Queer identity, by virtue of its divergence from the norm of heteronormative relationships, falls into the category of “socially unstable forces” that may undermine the societal cohesion the Party demands.
Cultural logic in China often frames certain topics as deviations from a harmonious whole (和谐 héxié). In the discourse of the Party and state media, minority identities—whether gender, sexual or ethnic—must be managed carefully so as not to challenge the narrative of national unity and “common prosperity”. This cultural emphasis helps explain why platforms like Blued were tolerated for years (on one hand contributing to public-health efforts) then suddenly removed: when community life becomes too visible, it may cross the threshold from tolerated to suppressed.
Indeed, Blued once portrayed itself as more than a dating app—it embraced HIV prevention, livestreaming and social networking, and its parent company BlueCity was even seen as a public-health partner. But that benefit did not immunise it from regulatory censure. Whether the ban is permanent remains unclear—but the warning is loud and clear.
Social-media platforms and media are also fronts for this enclosure of queer spaces. The “Internet Clean-up Campaign” imposed on platforms like Xiaohongshu and Douyin has mandated removal of content that deviates from “positive energy” (正能量 zhèng néngliàng) narratives, including posts on queer identity or even fandom-driven queer culture. The irony is stark: where once queer users could carve out micro-communities online, the digital ecosystem now faces systematic reduction of those spaces via algorithmic suppression, account closures and app store removals.
For queer men and women in China this feels like an erasure of sanctuary. One user of Blued told The Guardian: “Blued made countless people realise for the first time that they weren’t alone; it brought a group from the margins to being seen.” The current move disproportionately affects urban queer youth, who depend on these apps for socialising, psychological support and connection beyond the narrow confines of state-sanctioned visibility.
From a political standpoint, the timing is telling. China is facing slowing growth, youth unemployment, fading economic optimism. Online channels become sites of alternative identities and potential critique. The Party has responded by tightening control—channeling what scholars call the “common spiritual home” (全体 人民 精神 家园 quántǐ rénmín jīngshén jiāyuán) as the objective of digital governance. Queer visibility evidently complicates that unified vision.
In practice, this means queer digital spaces must now choose between invisibility and underground operation, withdraw into VPNs, mirror sites or shift to less-visible platforms. It means that queer storytelling, fandom and social life are becoming ever more precarious.
In the face of this, the question remains: how do queer communities adapt? In mainland China, the answer may lie less in public protest than subtle decentralisation, diaspora networks and international solidarity. The removal of Blued and Finka may have silenced an app store listing—but it cannot fully erase a community. Yet for now, this is a severe moment—a signpost of how digital governance, queer life and the agenda of the state are intersecting in 2025.
Shocked but not surprised—that’s the only honest reaction left when yet another authoritarian regime decides that queer love is a threat to “harmony.” China’s latest digital purge, wiping gay dating apps like Blued and Finka off its online map, is part of the same tired script: control the narrative, silence the margins, erase what doesn’t fit the Party’s moral order. The unelected rulers in Beijing—those eternal engineers of “stability”—cannot tolerate the simple, subversive act of two men or two women finding each other in a chat window.
Let’s be clear: this isn’t about technology. It’s about power. Censorship in China isn’t random; it’s a performance of control. Today it’s queer apps; yesterday it was feminists and #MeToo activists; tomorrow it will be anyone who dares to feel, speak, or exist beyond the officially approved bandwidth. When the Party says it’s cleaning up “negative emotions” (负面情绪 fùmiàn qíngxù), what it really means is that it’s afraid—afraid of empathy, individuality, and connection. Because nothing terrifies authoritarians more than citizens who can find each other outside the system’s grasp.
And yet—my queer brothers, sisters, and beautifully non-binary comrades—you are still there. Every time an app disappears, new ones rise underground. Every time an account is deleted, another reappears with an extra layer of defiance and encrypted flair. The Great Firewall may block URLs, but it cannot firewall desire. The state may ban “negative emotions,” but love and longing are the most radical emotions of all.
For years, China’s LGBTQ community has built quiet resilience: support groups disguised as book clubs, coded language in WeChat circles, livestreams that vanish before dawn. You have survived before; you will again. The irony is that the government’s obsession with “positive energy” (正能量 zhèng néngliàng) only reveals its own fragility. A state truly confident in its ideology would not need to ban dating apps to maintain social order.
So yes, Auntie is angry. But she is also in awe—of the quiet courage it takes to keep being yourself in a country that denies your existence. You are seen, you are loved, and you are not alone. When they shut down your apps, they remind the world how powerful your presence truly is. Resistance, my queer brothers and sisters. Resistance—and love, always love.