Zhang Lijia. Photo used with permission.

There are about 50 million Chinese people living outside of China. Often reduced to a purely economic actor, this large diaspora is also active in media and culture, including literature, whether its members write in Chinese languages or in the languages of the countries where they now live.

To understand the nuances of such literature written outside of China, Global Voices spoke with Zhang Lijia (张丽佳),  a rocket factory worker-turned writer and social commentator who was born in China and now lives between London and Beijing. She is the author of a memoir, “Socialism Is Great!” and a novel, “Lotus,” which discusses prostitution in contemporary China. She is currently finishing a historical novel based on the life of China’s first feminist and revolutionary at the turn of the 20th Century, Qiu Jin, known as China’s Joan of Arc.

Filip Noubel (FN):  In which way is writing in a language that came much later in your life liberating? Is it a matter of (self)censored issues? Does it extend to style and experimentation with the very process of writing?

Zhang Lijia (ZLJ): As a Chinese writer who grew up in China, speaking only Chinese, writing in English has been unexpectedly liberating. Politically, it grants me freedom. Writing for an international audience allows me to bypass the constraints of China’s strict censorship, which has long stifled creative expression. In fact, I believe this censorship is one of the key reasons why China’s literary scene isn’t as vibrant or dynamic as it could be.

Creatively, writing in English offers a different kind of liberation. Because it is not my native tongue, I feel more comfortable experimenting with form, structure, and style. The unfamiliarity of the language opens doors to fresh perspectives and a certain boldness. My adopted language has enabled me to explore and articulate thoughts and emotions that might have felt constrained in Chinese. For example, in my memoir “Socialism Is Great!,” I wrote a sex scene that was far more explicit than it would have been had I written it in Chinese, where cultural and linguistic nuances might have demanded greater restraint.

Writing in English has, in many ways, become an avenue for both creative exploration and personal emancipation.

FN: Do you still write in Chinese? How do you experience the relationship between those two languages in your creative process?

ZLJ: I rarely write creatively in Chinese these days, though I occasionally contribute pieces to Chinese publications when invited. Chinese is such a rich and expressive language, full of cultural depth and historical resonance. When I do write in English, I like to deliberately weave in dated expressions and traditional idioms to give the prose a distinctive flair — almost as if breathing new life into forgotten phrases. It’s a way to make the language feel fresh and evocative while connecting with its deep roots.

In my creative process, English and Chinese serve different purposes. English is my primary medium for storytelling — it’s where I feel most liberated and experimental. Chinese, however, remains the language of my inner world, tied to my memories and identity. Writing in English sometimes feels like building a bridge between the two, translating not just words but experiences, emotions, and cultural contexts.

FN: There is a lot of talk about global Sinophone literature that transcends geographic and language barriers (you, but also Xiaolu Guo, Ha Jin, Dan Sijie, Yan Geling): do you agree there is such a type of literature? If so, what defines it?

ZLJ: Yes, I believe global Sinophone literature is a valid and vibrant category. I think it refers to literary works written in Sinitic languages (such as Mandarin or Hokkien) or by authors of Chinese descent, often living outside mainland China. These works engage with a diverse array of themes and contexts, reflecting the complex interplay of language, identity, and geopolitics within the global Chinese diaspora.

What defines this literature is its multiplicity — it is not confined to one geography, style, or perspective. Instead, it captures the lived realities of Chinese communities across the world, often exploring themes like migration, displacement, identity, and cultural hybridity. It challenges the notion of a singular ‘Chinese literature’ by emphasizing the plurality of Chinese voices.

In an age of globalization, I welcome the recognition of Sinophone literature as part of the broader landscape of world literature. It offers an opportunity to deepen our understanding of how Chinese culture functions beyond national borders and encourages dialogue about postcolonialism and global interconnectedness.

On a related note, Xi Jinping’s ‘Tell China’s Story Well’ campaign aims to project a favorable image of China through soft power and international storytelling. While the idea is sound, its success hinges on allowing Chinese writers the freedom to express themselves authentically. Currently, the controls are too stringent for writers to truly ‘tell China’s story well.’ Without creative freedom, this vision remains unattainable. I write about this is an article, ‘Tell China’s Story Well: Its Writers Must Be Free Enough to Do So.’

FN: Who are the Chinese authors who have most influenced you? What about the non-Chinese?

ZLJ: Among Chinese authors, Cao Xueqin, the author of ‘The Dream of the Red Chamber,’ has had a profound influence on me. His intricate portrayal of familial and social dynamics, set against the backdrop of a crumbling aristocratic world, is unmatched in its emotional depth and literary craft. Another major influence is Lu Xun, whose sharp, incisive observations of Chinese society reveal an unparalleled understanding of the Chinese psyche.

Among non-Chinese writers, Tolstoy stands out. His sweeping narratives, set against vast social and historical backdrops, are deeply immersive, yet he never loses sight of the intimate details that make his characters so human.

I also greatly admire Arundhati Roy, especially her novel ‘The God of Small Things.’ Its lyrical prose, rich imagery, and poignant exploration of social and personal struggles deeply resonated with me and have inspired my own storytelling.