At Project Sinopsis, Ansel Li examines how many young Chinese are seeking solace in mystical crystals and spirituality-based scams. Superstitious elements have blended with livestream- and app-driven hyperconsumerism; Li even attributes a substantial slice of homegrown AI champion DeepSeek’s public adoption to demand for AI-generated fortunes and horoscopes.
This phenomenon is not merely a return to old habits or rural mysticism. It has become a nationwide consumer frenzy, driven by the very demographic the Communist Party hoped would be its most rational constituency: the young and educated. In chasing these modern symbols of hope, they are losing more than just money.
[…] In today’s China, the most popular “spiritual” items aren’t books or teachings but small objects—especially crystals. These are sold not only as fashion items but as tools for cosmic power. Supposedly, they bring wealth, block bad energy, and balance inner forces. Livestreams offer quick lessons in “crystal basics,” and influencers promote them with the excitement once shown for new tech.
[…] Along with the crystal craze, astrology, tarot, and fortune-telling have become small but growing businesses. Highly educated youth—graduates, civil servants, tech workers—are quitting their jobs to become full-time “mystics.” On platforms like Taobao and WeChat, paid readings are everywhere. In many cities, you’ll find stylish little shops doing tarot readings, often run by baristas turned fortune-tellers.
This is happening despite—or maybe because of—government crackdowns. In 2021, China banned religious content on e-commerce sites and tightened rules on spiritual services. But the demand only adapted. Tarot readers now call themselves “emotional consultants.” Horoscope sellers move to foreign platforms like Discord. The state fights superstition with censorship, and loses every time.
[…] It would be wrong to see this wave of superstition as a uniquely Chinese flaw. But since 2024, China’s superstition boom has become a pressure cooker where many deep problems have gathered: economic slowdown, job stress, burnout, pushy online systems, and a desperate need for meaning.
Young Chinese are not naturally more superstitious. But they are trapped in an unstable system, and with no clear future, they are buying ready-made ones. These crystals and tarot cards aren’t ancient traditions—they’re quick-fix stories built from what’s left in the marketplace. Meanwhile, sellers and platforms continue testing how much people are willing to pay to ease their fears. [Source]
The Economist in January similarly described trends such as app-based horoscopes and fortune-telling and offline “metaphysical bars,” fueled by frustration at “a sluggish economy, a tight job market and intense competition in many aspects of life.” (Another Economist report the week before noted similar phenomena in the U.S. and India.)
The Communist Party has long tried to rid itself of what it calls “feudal superstition”. Last year the Central Party School, a training academy for officials, expressed concern about the number of members and cadres “believing in ghosts and gods”. It tried to clarify the party’s restrictions by publishing a Q&A on the matter. Occasionally participating in local folk customs or consulting a fortune-teller on a name for your baby? That’s fine. Spending a lot of time and money, especially public funds, on superstitious activities? Unacceptable.
The masses are also discouraged from embracing such practices. A notice issued by the city of Sanming in 2023 stated: “The public should improve their scientific literacy, enhance their psychological immunity to superstitious activities and not seek spiritual comfort through ‘fortune-telling’ when encountering real setbacks.” Other cities have followed suit. Last year some local governments cracked down on the burning of fake money and other paper offerings to the dead during the annual grave-sweeping festival.
State censors, with the help of internet firms, have tried to curb the spread of superstitious beliefs and divination services online. Search terms such as “astrology” and “fortune-telling” have been blocked on Taobao, an e-commerce market. But on Weibo, a social-media site, popular astrologers have accumulated tens of millions of followers. Some speak of playing a cat-and-mouse game with the authorities. A 24-year-old tarot-card reader in Shanghai jokes that she tries to divine her own fate—to see if jail time is in the offing. [Source]
There is also online hay to be made from confronting superstition. In April, South China Morning Post’s Zoey Zhang reported on Shandong-based influencer Zhang Shulin, who has built a following with video stunts debunking beliefs such as hauntings, shamanism, and ghost marriages. This, too, can be a hazardous approach if targets include traditional practices favored with official endorsement, however. Mixed martial artist Xu Xiaodong was hit with censorship, travel restrictions, financial penalties, and forced apologies following his efforts to puncture the inflated claims of purported kung fu masters, some of whom he flattened in bouts lasting only seconds. In 2022, a number of prominent online voices were silenced in apparent retaliation for their criticism of Lianhua Qingwen, a traditional Chinese medicine-based herbal product promoted by Chinese authorities for treatment of COVID.
A pair of translations at CDT last month described how other frustrated young Chinese are turning to another old ritual: the annual civil service exams.
