Homeland in Your Pocket: The Third Space and the Parallel Polis

This article constitutes a fourth entry in our new section, CHOICE Long Reads. The section is dedicated to insights from longer-term research and slow-burning developments that shape Europeans’ lives in ways that are not always immediately visible. These pieces offer a more in-depth reading than our shorter, news-driven analysis. They are narrative-led and written in a storytelling style, with space for nuance and deeper reflection.

In this series, we examine the lived experiences of Chinese diaspora communities in Europe through the lens of digital connectivity and transnational surveillance. Drawing on 19 interviews with Chinese nationals living across Europe, the series explores how digital technology has fundamentally transformed the immigrant experience – collapsing physical distance while simultaneously extending authoritarian control across borders. This work is a part of the Horizon Europe–funded RESONANT project (No. 101132439).

One question keeps coming up constantly and in various forms: “Are you more Chinese or European?” It assumes a binary – that identity is a zero-sum game, that becoming more of one means becoming less of the other, and finally, that you must eventually choose. But for many Chinese people living in Europe, the answer is more complex.

“I do not want to be seen as an immigrant,” one interviewee says. “I want to be a human being. I want to be deeply involved in social circles and culture.” Another interviewee puts it more bluntly: “I identify as an earthling.”

These answers are not evasions or refusals to engage with the question. They are attempts to articulate something different – a third space existing beyond the binary of Chinese/European, a position that is neither assimilation nor preservation, but something else entirely.

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The phrase that comes up repeatedly in interviews, across different cities, backgrounds, and life situations is: “I am in between.”

It does not refer to a temporary state, but to a transitional phase on the way to becoming fully European. It is a position unto itself – drawing from multiple cultural sources while being reducible to none of them. 

For some, this “in-betweenness” feels frustrating, even oppressive. No matter what you do, how long you have lived in Europe, how fluent your language, or how deep your local integration is, you are, in most people’s eyes,  still Chinese above all else. This label precedes you, shapes your perception, and limits how you are understood.

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For many, living in Europe triggers a process of actively reconsidering what it means to be Chinese – questioning assumptions, unlearning patterns, and rebuilding identity from examined pieces rather than inherited wholes.

“I think I have lost some of my Chineseness since I left China,” a young professional in Denmark says. But what does that “Chineseness” mean?

She elaborates: “I think I have dropped some of the meritocracy, and family and social relationships. After living in Europe, I care more about whether I am happy or not. When I was in China, people cared more about themselves, the society, or whether you are successful or not.”

In this case, the identity is not a fixed heritage, but an active choice. It is not “I am Chinese because I was born there” but rather “I choose which aspects of Chinese culture and values to keep and which to reject.”

Europe thus becomes a vantage point for critically examining China. Not a wholesale accepting or rejecting, but evaluating piece by piece: this approach to family relationships feels healthier, this attitude toward work-life balance resonates more, this emphasis on individual happiness over collective success makes sense.

But the process works both ways. Living in Europe also reveals its limitations, blind spots, and cultural assumptions that are not universal truths but particular choices.

The ability to critique both, see the strengths and weaknesses of each from the outside – this is the gift of the in-between position. You are no longer fully inside either system, so you can see both more clearly.

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But Chinese communities in Europe are not monolithic in their relationship to identity. Different generations, waves of migration, and circumstances of arrival create different relationships to the question of belonging.

Consider the landscape in Amsterdam, for instance.

There is the “restaurant generation” of people who came in the 1970s and 1980s, primarily from Fujian and Zhejiang provinces. There is the “student wave” of people who came in the 2000s and 2010s for education. And then there is the second generation: those born in Europe or who arrived as young children. 

The restaurant owner’s grandchild and the recent arrival’s child might both be “Chinese” in European census categories, but their lived experiences, their cultural references, and their sense of belonging have almost nothing in common.

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In all this, language becomes a key realm where identity-shaping processes play out. For example, the older Cantonese-speaking community and the newer Mandarin-speaking arrivals often cannot communicate easily. 

This linguistic divide is not only practical but also emblematic of deeper cultural differences. The worlds these groups inhabit, the China they left, the values they carry, and the integration strategies they employ are shaped by when and why they came to Europe.

For those navigating between Chinese and European contexts, language choices become strategic. One interviewee describes becoming “Germanized”: “Now, you have to make an appointment with me and we have to negotiate in advance. I will tell you my availability, you pick a time that suits you and let me know, so that we can both prepare in advance.”

You become multilingual not just in language but in cultural codes, switching seamlessly (or not) between different sets of expectations, communication styles, and social norms.

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But all this identity-shaping happens under the shadow of surveillance discussed in earlier entries.

The way in which constant monitoring shapes identity is subtle but profound. When you know that expressing certain aspects of yourself might endanger your family, and when authentic self-expression carries real risks, then identity-shaping becomes self-protection.

One of the interviewees described attending graduation in hanfu (traditional Chinese clothing), as “the biggest breakthrough in my life so far.” But why is wearing traditional clothing a “breakthrough”? Because people have been so resistant and uncomfortable with the Chinese label constantly being applied to them. 

The reality of surveillance means that claiming Chinese identity publicly, even in its cultural, non-political forms, carries implications. It means accepting that this label will follow you, that Chinese authorities will consider you a concern, and that certain boundaries can never be fully crossed.

For those who have chosen the Defiant strategy from the previous entry, this shapes identity in different ways. Accepting that you cannot return to China means accepting a permanent severing from certain aspects of your Chinese identity. You can maintain cultural connections, language, cuisine, art – but the physical homeland, the ability to participate in life there, the option to return – they all become unavailable.

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Many describe identity seeking as moving through phases: initial rejection, gradual reconsideration, and eventual selective reinvention.

The rejection phase often comes early – right after arriving in Europe, discovering freedoms and perspectives unavailable in China, and experiencing relief of escaping certain pressures. During this phase, many actively distance themselves from their Chinese identity, avoiding Chinese communities, minimizing cultural participation, and emphasizing European integration.

For many, this phase gives way to reconsideration. Living in Europe reveals not just China’s limitations but also its richness. Distance allows for appreciation of cultural elements that felt oppressive when you were immersed in them, and absence creates longing for aspects of Chinese life you did not realize you valued.

This reconsideration does not mean being uncritical. It means a selective appreciation of cultural heritage, while maintaining distance from political system, social pressures, and aspects that felt unhealthy or restrictive.

And finally, the reinvention phase involves consciously choosing which elements of Chinese identity to keep, which to reject, and which to reinterpret – thus creating hybrid identities that honor heritage and incorporate new influences.

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However, for some, identity seeking does not equal philosophical exploration, but rather a process of creating a survival strategy.

For those most vulnerable to the Chinese state pressure – activists, journalists, people with family hostage situations – maintaining certain aspects of their Chinese identity becomes dangerous. The question is not “How much of my Chinese heritage do I want to preserve?” but rather “How much connection to China can I safely maintain?”

This creates a set of painful fragmentations. Wanting to participate in Chinese cultural life but knowing it is monitored. Wanting to maintain family connections but having to severely limit the degree of communication. Wanting to engage with Chinese intellectual communities but having to do so anonymously – or not at all.

“I am not sharing that I am applying for political asylum nor am I sharing any of my pictures from my life,” an activist explains their social media strategy. “Because if I share photos, there will be streets and scenes that can be recognized. Instead, I share my past photos on Twitter, so they cannot find out my whereabouts.”

Identity thus becomes compartmentalized out of necessity. The private self maintains the Chinese cultural connections, while the public self carefully manages the visible aspects of the Chinese identity. And as some of them must stay hidden – or abandoned entirely – for safety, this is not a freely chosen hybrid identity, but rather a coerced fragmentation.

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Despite all this complexity, surveillance pressure, in-betweenness, and generational divides, many express a vision of identity that transcends national categories entirely.

One interviewee states: “Ideally, I think if the citizens of the world could be a little less concerned with identity, maybe we would all be more comfortable, just living on one planet as human beings.”

Rather than naive cosmopolitanism ignoring real cultural differences, this view exemplifies a hard-won perspective from people who navigated multiple cultural contexts, saw the arbitrary nature of many identity categories, and learned that labels others impose rarely capture the lived experience.

“I also understand that everyone has a cultural background here, customs and so on, so it’s actually quite difficult. But I think that identity should really be self-given, not socially defined” – the same person continues.

This vision of identity as self-determined, and of human connections as transcending national categories both represent aspirations that the third space makes possible. When you are no longer fully Chinese nor European, when you have learned to navigate between these worlds and developed critical distance from both, you can truly imagine alternatives to this binary.

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But the third space identity continues to evolve.

The physical location changes not just the practical behaviors but also influences which aspects of identity feel primary, and which version of self feels more authentic.

This fluidity can feel exhausting, but it also creates a sophisticated, more nuanced form of belonging that rigid identity categories cannot capture.

The previously discussed second generation in particular seems poised to redefine what Chinese identity in Europe means. Growing up with multiple cultural influences – building transnational connections and hybrid identities – may lead to forging entirely new categories that their parents’ generation could not even imagine.

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What is clear is that the old assimilation model does not explain the current situation. People are not simply becoming European and shedding their Chinese identity like an old coat. Nor are they simply preserving Chinese culture in European contexts, maintaining frozen cultural traditions divorced from their origins.

Something else is emerging: third spaces, hybrid identities, and transnational belongings that refuse the “either/or” categorization – complicated, messy, and constantly negotiated.

And from these third spaces, they build communities, create culture, resist control, and forge new forms of belonging.

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And here is the challenge: How to build a community when surveillance makes trust nearly impossible? How to create cultural spaces when participation might endanger you or your family? How to organize events when Chinese state agents might be watching, recording, and reporting back?

The answer lies in what scholars call the “parallel polis”: alternative social structures that exist alongside official channels, creating spaces where people can engage politically and culturally while managing security risks. This concept, borrowed from Central European dissident traditions, perfectly describes what Chinese migrants in Europe have been building, particularly since the COVID-19 pandemic.

These are not just cultural preservation efforts, but acts of resistance, creativity, and community formation despite surveillance designed to prevent it.

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Walk into a Chinese independent bookstore in Paris and you might see something remarkable: books about Hong Kong’s pro-democracy movement sitting next to the very “red” pro-Xi Jinping volumes. Books from Mirror (理想国) and Frontline (在场), known for publishing intellectual content that would be censored in mainland China, displayed openly.

This juxtaposition, politically divergent material coexisting, represents precisely what makes these spaces valuable. Freedom to present multiple perspectives without state censorship – a room for intellectual exploration impossible in China.

The past several years have seen a proliferation of such spaces across European capitals. Paris has become a hub: Phoenix Bookstore, WULOLIFE, 8litheque (rated as one of the best independent bookstores). Germany has Berlin 706, which collaborates with university departments and functions as a cultural center, and Blaues Haus Stiftung, a literary foundation serving as both cultural group and Chinese book library program. The Netherlands has Nowhere Bookstore, which recently expanded from Taipei.

“In Paris, in the past few years, every year or every couple of years there would be a new Chinese bookstore opening,” one interviewee notes.

These bookstores transcend commercial function. They host cultural events, political discussions, and civic engagement activities. “During the mobilization for the parliamentary elections last year, one of the activities that we organized was in that bookstore, mainly for Chinese speakers,” one interviewee describes an event at Espace F360 in Paris. “We informed them what the election was about and what they needed to do.”

The bookstores become community centers, meeting places, and spaces where Chinese people can gather around shared cultural interests while maintaining connection to the intellectual life that the Chinese state would censor.

But these physical spaces carry inherent vulnerabilities.

They are visible. Their locations are known. Anyone can walk in, including Chinese state agents, nationalist students who might report back, or people with conflicting political views. The openness that makes them valuable also makes them risky.

Even community organizations and cultural spaces that appear apolitical can suddenly activate themselves for Chinese state purposes during sensitive moments. This creates constant wariness about which spaces are genuinely independent and which might be monitored or controlled.

The geographical distribution is also uneven. Paris and Berlin have relatively rich ecosystems. Other major European cities have far less. These spaces are fragile, dependent on committed individuals, vulnerable to economic pressures, and susceptible to political tensions within communities. Their closure represents not just loss of a retail space but loss of crucial community infrastructure.

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Apart from bookstores, film festivals and independent cinema screenings have also emerged as crucial community-building venues, particularly effective because film provides less directly confrontational way to engage with sensitive topics.

The NewGen Film Festival and the Chinese Indie Cinema in Berlin, or the East Asia Film Festival in Dublin –  they serve multiple functions beyond entertainment. A documentary screening series in Paris focused on COVID-19, renting venues in movie theaters to screen films about topics censored in China – they create spaces for collective reflection on sensitive political and social issues.

The films themselves become discussion touchpoints, through which people process shared experiences of displacement, changing identity, or other topics that might feel too direct to discuss openly but become accessible through cultural analysis.

But even film screenings require security awareness.

At a documentary screening about the White Paper protests, organizers included this note: “In order to protect yourself, you can wear a mask. You can be identified by a nickname, and we have to respect each other’s boundaries.” Even in Europe, even at cultural events, the surveillance reality shapes participation. 

“So, I think that even at those events we could not fully express ourselves. It depends on the person and the location. But there is always this fear in the back of our heads. You know, there might be someone from the embassy there, or there might be someone who can take photo of us, who may identify us,” one interviewee reflects. “So, I guess that is self-censorship. And the fear is very deeply rooted.”

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Chinese-language independent media have flourished in Europe, filling crucial gaps that neither Chinese state outlets nor the European ones address adequately.

Publications like the Initium Media provide nuanced Chinese affairs coverage without state censorship constraints. YouTube channels run by former Chinese journalists like Chai Jing produce independent content. Podcasts create intellectual communities across borders.

But these platforms also face complications. “If I were to write in English, it would be very difficult to get that out. Often, I can only write cultural commentary in the Chinese media, which may be outside the country, but it is still media oriented toward Chinese readers.”

This highlights a dual reality: these platforms provide essential outlets for Chinese-language journalism and cultural production that would be censored in China. But they also exist in an isolated ecosystem, primarily reaching Chinese-speaking audiences, somewhat separate from broader European public discourse.

The contributors often navigate significant risks. Those who write for independent media using real names must carefully assess which topics they can cover without endangering themselves or their families. Some use pseudonyms and others accept that they cannot return to China safely.

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The parallel polis particularly enables social movements that face suppression in China.

VaChina, a Chinese feminist society in the UK, organizes regular events and discussions. Seahorse Planet (海马星球), a feminist podcast community, organized a large female-only gathering in Berlin with over 200 participants from around the world in 2023.

For many, migration enables more open expression of the LGBTQ+ identity. Europe provides freedoms that are unavailable in China, where same-sex relationships face significant social stigma and have no legal recognition.

But even these movements must navigate security concerns. “It is common for Chinese protesters, especially Chinese students, to wear masks and sunglasses to cover their faces when they want to go protest,” an activist notes. “And this is, of course, because they are afraid that if they do not do this, they will never be able to get back to China.”

The fear is well-founded. “This year during June 4 gatherings, I was hoping there would be some protest in a certain EU country, but in the end, the Chinese protesters were only from the older generation who, just like me, are seeking political asylum here. So, for us there was nothing to be afraid because we are not going back to China. But most of my friends who have families, belong to communities, or are students, they just decided not to show up because there was a huge risk.”

Compare this to a feminist march: “dozens of us” participated because “feminism is considered a safe topic” – one interviewee notes.

The risk calculation is constant. Tiananmen anniversary on June 4 commemorations feel too dangerous for students with families in China. Feminist marches feel safe enough for broader participation. Each event requires assessment: What is the political sensitivity? Who might be watching? What are the potential consequences?

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The trust networks operate through personal, relationship-based connections rather than centralized structures. They provide protection. There is no central organization to infiltrate and no membership lists to compromise. Just organic networks of people who trust each other, built up gradually, through personal connection.

But this also creates limitations. These invisible support networks exist primarily for those most at risk: activists, journalists, and people engaged in politically sensitive work. For broader community, cultural participation, and less politically charged activities, the security infrastructure is less developed.

Masks and pseudonyms: As mentioned previously, they allow people to participate without full identification and allow for respecting different risk tolerance – some feel safe showing faces, others do not.

Careful vetting of participants: For more sensitive events, organizers rely on personal connections and recommendations rather than open publicity. 

Selective information sharing: Not everyone needs to know everything. Information distributed is based on trust levels and need-to-know basis.

Awareness of potential infiltration: Assumption that some people at events might report back to Chinese authorities connected with the acceptance of this risk and an attempt to minimize it through trust networks.

No pressure to take risks one cannot afford: Explicit recognition that people have different vulnerabilities. Those with families in China face different risk calculus than those seeking asylum. Different security needs must be respected.

Photographing policies: Many events have explicit rules about photography: no photographing faces without permission, no posting photos publicly that could identify participants, and understanding that facial recognition technology makes identification possible.

This security-driven consciousness shapes how communities form – in a less spontaneous manner than it could have been otherwise. More deliberate, more careful, and more aware of potential consequences.

But they exist. Despite surveillance, risks, and the Chinese state’s efforts to fragment and isolate, communities form, cultures flourish, and resistance takes place.

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Some of the most effective resistance takes creative forms: art, literature, film, and music that are harder to suppress than direct political organizing.

These cultural productions serve multiple functions:

Expression under constraint: Art allows for processing of political and social experiences through metaphor, symbolism, and indirect commentary that is harder to censor or punish than direct political statements.

Documentation: Independent films, literature, or oral traditions document experiences that official narratives erase. 

Community building: Shared cultural experiences create bonds, validate identities, and provide spaces for collective meaning-making.

Reaching audiences in China: Cultural content can sometimes penetrate Chinese internet censorship more effectively than explicit political content. A film, a song, or a piece of writing might reach audiences that political manifestos never could.

The content produced in European diaspora spaces reaches China through informal networks and VPN users. It creates informational and cultural bridges that official censorship cannot completely sever.

This circulation represents a form of transnational resistance, using European freedoms to produce content that Chinese audiences access, and maintaining intellectual and cultural connections that the Chinese state would prefer to break.

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But the parallel polis is not harmonious. Security concerns create internal tensions and conflicts within communities.

Different people have different risk tolerances and their different approaches can create friction. The public activists might feel others are not doing enough, whereas the more careful ones might feel the public activists are reckless, and endanger the whole community.

Pro-Beijing community members add another layer of complexity. Some genuinely support Chinese government, while others might be plants or people under pressure to report. How do you build community when you cannot trust everyone who shares your cultural background?

The surveillance creates paranoia, sometimes justified, sometimes excessive, but always present. This paranoia fragments communities that might otherwise unite and creates barriers between people who share similar experiences and goals.

At universities, students from mainland China are often wary of each other. The Chinese Students and Scholars Associations (CSSAs) add another layer of complexity. These organizations, often with Chinese embassy connections, exist at many European universities. Some are genuinely student-run and apolitical. Others clearly serve Chinese government interests. Students must thus navigate carefully.

There are also the Chinese student scholarship recipients: “The students are required to sign a document stating that they must be loyal to the CCP ideology, even if they are studying abroad. And they must report to the Chinese embassy about their surrounding events, like once a month.”

The presence of scholarship students who are contractually obligated to report to the embassy creates justified wariness. But it also creates unjust suspicion toward Chinese students generally, fragmenting community based on fear rather than actual evidence.

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Despite all these challenges, the parallel polis continues evolving, adapting, and finding new approaches.

Communities learn from close calls and mistakes. When someone faces consequences for insufficiently careful behavior, others learn, security protocols improve, and best practices get shared through trust networks.

“The trouble of this generation is that they have grown up in a voiceless and not-so-trusting environment. They are hurt mainly because they cannot trust,” one interviewee observes.

But from this pain comes sophisticated security culture, mutual support systems, and protective practices that enable community formation despite surveillance.

The COVID-19 pandemic and White Paper protests catalyzed new energy. Many who used to be apolitical found themselves radicalized by zero-COVID policies, by seeing protests brutally suppressed, by watching their friends and family suffer. This created surge of people willing to engage with independent cultural spaces, attend events, and support parallel institutions.

“This awakening has contributed to the flourishing of alternative spaces and narratives,” one interviewee adds.

And there are success stories. Bookstores, film festivals, media outlets, feminist and LGBTQ+ communities – the fact that these spaces exist at all represents remarkable resilience and creativity.

The parallel polis – built on the foundation of third spaces – is thus a proof that community building is possible despite surveillance. That the Chinese state’s efforts to isolate, fragment, and control overseas communities are not entirely successful. And finally, that people find ways to connect, support each other, and build shared spaces despite everything designed to prevent it.