If something feels risky, I find it interesting.
In the space between what a society permits and what its people long to hear, a comedian finds his truest stage. Wang Yuechi — known as Chizi, once China's most-watched stand-up performer — has been quietly erased from his homeland's cultural life since 2023, when jokes about censorship, Hong Kong, and Taiwan cost him everything he had built. Now touring Singapore, Tokyo, Taipei, and beyond, he performs to sold-out rooms of Chinese-speaking audiences who have traveled, emigrated, or simply logged off from the mainland's managed reality — a reminder that language outlasts the borders drawn around it.
- A government ban delivered without explanation in 2023 transformed one of China's biggest comedy stars into a name too dangerous to search, a face treated — in his own words — like something that cannot be freely shown.
- The pressure had been building for years: censors deleted his reposts of pandemic pleas, warned him his account could be closed, and left him with 4.7 million followers and the hollow feeling of influence without power.
- His international comeback tour — spanning Tokyo, Taipei, Kuala Lumpur, and Singapore — is selling out entirely, with audiences drawn precisely because the jokes are ones no stage inside China would allow.
- Performing in Taiwan, where no Chinese comedian had gone before, he tested whether shared language could survive political tension — and found that even an argument, face-to-face, felt like progress.
- He navigates the line carefully, referring to Xi Jinping only as 'Peng Liyuan's husband' and limiting overt political material — yet the act of performing at all, for Chinese speakers beyond Beijing's reach, carries its own unmistakable weight.
When Wang Yuechi — stage name Chizi — opened his Singapore set with a joke about a leader's fifteen years in power, the crowd erupted. It was the kind of joke that, back in China, would never have left his folder labeled "Things I can't say." But China had already taken everything it could take from him.
He had spent a decade becoming the country's most recognizable stand-up comedian — a high school dropout who started at open mics in 2015 and within years was headlining streaming shows with billions of views. His style was precise and teacherly: anchor a joke in a piece of trivia, build to something sharp. He was one of the few willing to weave real events into his material, even as he quietly complied with censors, changing scripts and deleting lines on demand.
By late 2021, the compliance had become unbearable. During sweeping lockdowns, people messaged him begging for medicine and food. He reposted their pleas; censors deleted them. He had 4.7 million followers and felt entirely powerless. He quit his show, broke from his agency, and posted a farewell to a platform he said no longer carried joy.
The ban arrived in February 2023, after a North American tour where he had joked about censorship, nationalism, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. No official explanation was given. Fans who shared his photograph had their accounts suspended. His first reaction, he said, was relief.
He returned to the stage in April with a tour across Asia — Tokyo, Taipei, Kuala Lumpur, Singapore — and every show sold out. He performed in Taiwan, where no Chinese comedian had gone before, drawn by the idea that people who share a language should be able to speak across their tensions. In his sets he told his own story: the rise, the ban, the things he could never say at home. When he referenced the Chinese leader, he used only the phrase "Peng Liyuan's husband." The indirection was deliberate, but the audience understood.
Chizi does not frame his tour as defiance. He says he simply wanted to introduce himself to people who speak his language — to show them how someone who lived thirty years inside that system thinks and lives now that he is outside it. He plans to extend the tour to Australia and North America. For now, what keeps him on stage is simpler than politics: the feeling of making five hundred friends at once, and the mutual understanding that passes between a performer and a room full of people who already know what he cannot say.
The auditorium at the National University of Singapore was packed when Wang Yuechi, known to millions as Chizi, opened his set with a joke about the country's leader and his nearly fifteen years in power. The crowd erupted. "This is fire," someone shouted in Mandarin. Few people in China would risk such a joke. But here, surrounded by Singaporean Chinese and visitors from the mainland, Chizi could say what he could never say at home.
Three years earlier, in 2023, China had quietly banned him from performing in the country. The government never issued an official statement explaining why, but the timing was clear: it came after a North American tour where he had opened for Chinese-American comedian Joe Wong and made jokes about censorship, rising nationalism, the erosion of minority rights, and his hope that people in Hong Kong and Taiwan could live freely. The ban was swift and total. His name, once synonymous with stand-up comedy in China, became something whispered rather than celebrated. When fans shared his photograph on social media, their accounts were suspended. "In China my face is treated like a sexual organ," he wrote on Threads. "It's not something that can be freely shown or circulated."
At thirty, Chizi had spent more than a decade building a comedy career that seemed impossible to derail. He started at open mics in 2015, a high school dropout with a gift for making people laugh. Within a few years, he was the face of two hit streaming shows, racking up billions of views. He had a signature style: he would anchor his jokes around a single piece of trivia, then address the audience like a teacher, building to sharp observations about celebrities and current events. When a kindergarten scandal involving teachers pricking children with needles made headlines, he joked about it on a show featuring pianist Lang Lang. The clip went viral. He was one of the few comedians willing to weave what was actually happening in China into his material, even as he complied with censors by changing scripts and deleting lines. He kept every forbidden joke in a folder labeled "Things I can't say," wondering if someday he might actually say them.
But success in China's entertainment system came with a cost. By late 2021, as the country entered sweeping lockdowns, Chizi found himself paralyzed by the gap between his influence and his ability to use it. People messaged him asking for medicine, food, basic necessities. He reposted their pleas, but censors deleted most of them and warned that his account could be closed. He had 4.7 million followers on Weibo, but the privilege felt hollow. "It was a helpless feeling," he told the BBC. He quit the show, left his agency after a public feud, and posted a final message about needing to escape a hostile social media environment. "It's not that I don't want to bring everyone joy," he wrote. "But this place doesn't carry joy."
When the ban came in February 2023, his first reaction was relief. The show he had been developing was built on "reflections and realisations I'd had over the past few years," and he had wanted to express how he truly felt. Once he understood his career in China was finished, he performed his next show in Toronto with more candor than he had ever dared. He said he has no regrets. The space for stand-up in China had become "much more confined," he told the BBC, and the subjects were often "very shallow."
After a hiatus, he returned to the stage in April with a tour spanning Tokyo, Taipei, Kuala Lumpur, and Singapore. Every show sold out. He performed in Taiwan, a place no Chinese comedian had performed before—a deliberate choice, given how sensitive the island is for Beijing. "People speak the same language and the cultures are so similar," he explained. "But there are so many tensions. So why not? Even if it turns into an argument, that's okay. We could argue face-to-face." In his sets, he mostly told his own story: the overly talkative kid who discovered comedy in his late teens, the rise and the fall, the things he could never say at home. When he joked about Xi Jinping, he avoided the name entirely, calling him "Peng Liyuan's husband"—a reference to the leader's wife, a famous singer. He intentionally limited political humor, he said, but the very act of performing these jokes for Chinese-speaking audiences outside mainland control felt like a statement in itself.
Many saw his comeback as defiance, but Chizi framed it differently. "I wanted to perform for people who speak Chinese, to introduce myself, showing them how I live, or think as someone who lived in China for 30 years." He said he was drawn to risk. "If something feels risky or dangerous, I find it interesting." Now he wants to expand the tour to Australia, New Zealand, and North America. He does not know how long he will keep performing, but for now he enjoys the particular magic of the stage. "Usually you make friends one by one, but on stage, I feel like I'm making 500 friends at once. That feeling—where there is a mutual understanding between me and the audience—I really like that."
Notable Quotes
In China my face is treated like a sexual organ. It's not something that can be freely shown or circulated.— Chizi, in a Threads post after learning a fan's account was suspended for sharing his photo
Usually you make friends one by one, but on stage, I feel like I'm making 500 friends at once. That feeling—where there is a mutual understanding between me and the audience—I really like that.— Chizi, on why he continues performing internationally
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did the ban feel like relief rather than devastation?
Because by that point, he had already decided what he actually wanted to say. The ban just removed the pretense. He could stop performing the version of himself China wanted and start performing the real one.
But he had built everything there—the followers, the shows, the career. How do you walk away from that?
He didn't walk away cleanly. He tried to stay, kept the forbidden jokes in a folder, kept hoping the space would open up. But during the pandemic, he realized his platform couldn't do what he wanted it to do. People were asking for help and he couldn't help them. That broke something.
So the ban was almost a gift?
Not a gift exactly. More like permission. It forced him to choose between the career he had and the work he actually wanted to do. Once that choice was made, he could perform without hedging.
Why perform for diaspora audiences specifically? Why not just move to the West and start fresh?
Because the story matters to people who lived it. Chinese speakers outside China understand what he's saying in a way others can't. They know what it costs to make those jokes.
Does he ever think about going back?
He doesn't say that. He says he doesn't know how long he'll keep touring. But going back would mean going back to the folder, to the deleted posts, to the helpless feeling. I don't think he's interested in that anymore.