Clea BroadhurstRFI correspondent in Beijing
“I was very shocked,” says Yu, who is gay and lives in Beijing. “It’s already hard here to find friends who look like you. Most of the people we meet are through these apps. Now, if I want to meet new people… I can’t.”
In a country where queer bars are closing, public spaces are shrinking and culture is becoming standardized, Blued and Finka function as a true social fabric. Its disappearance is therefore not merely technological: it is cultural.
Blued and Finka weren’t the only LGBTQ+ apps in China, but they were the main ones. Without it, an immediate void opens. “There are others, of course,” Yu says. “But there are no benchmarks. Many are moving to Xiaohongshu or obscure apps.”
The prevailing feeling is not panic, but fatigue. Users have become accustomed to sudden changes: WeChat accounts being deleted, hashtags disappearing without explanation. But this time, there is a whole network of relationships that is falling apart.
A recurring theme in the reports is that of cultural erasure. “Before, there were still LGBTQ+ films and series that really talked about homosexuality. Now, I have the impression that they don’t exist anymore.”
This decline is part of a broader movement. Censorship is no longer limited to cutting only, but also includes rewriting images. In an Australian film recently released in China, one of the characters of a gay couple was modified by artificial intelligence to become heterosexual.
From apps to screens, queer space decades
For Stevie, a frequent user, there is a deliberate intention to target apps directly. “I don’t think it’s against the community. I think it’s against the applications,” he says.
He did not know about the disappearance through rumors, but he saw it with his own eyes: “I was changing my phone number and wanted to unlink it from the application, and when I searched for it, it said: Temporarily unavailable.”
Unlike the others, he wasn’t surprised. “These apps are related to a sensitive topic. It can happen at any time.”
He points to two reasons: the proliferation of scams and the transformation of Blued into almost exclusively sexual uses, which contradicts its official presentation as a social app.
In his analysis, the goal does not constitute a “huge political signal,” but rather a technical decision justified by dual uses. Although I realize that this interpretation is probably too lenient.
“It has nothing to do with birth rate.”
Lesbian-focused apps like Rela haven’t been affected, Stevie notes. Many users see this as a targeted action. Not against the LGBTQ+ community en masse, but against gay men, who are seen as more visible, more sexual, and more likely to attract the attention of organizers.
On social media, reactions fluctuate between sarcasm and disappointment. “The environment is becoming more and more conservative. What they want is for you to drink herbal tea, become heterosexual, and have three children.”
One comment sums up the mood: “Even if it’s just a dating app, why hasn’t the live app been deleted? The living space for minorities is getting smaller and smaller.”
Among other comments, a theory emerged that “the disappearance was intended to encourage gay people to return to the ‘right path’ and have children.”
The demographic argument is a weak logic that many reject. Stevie, like others, finds it ridiculous: “With or without the app, people will not ‘convert’. This has nothing to do with birth rates. Those who marry marry, those who do not marry do not marry.”
Forced migration to private departments
Stevie notices a subtle but real change from five years ago. “At that time, the community was more visible on the networks. Today, exposed accounts are disappearing one by one.”
However, he sees a form of practical tolerance: “You can still type ‘gay’ or ‘gay’ on the Internet. There are even couples who share their daily lives. As long as you don’t overdo it, it will pass. It’s a one-eye-open-one-closed process.”
The exclusion of Blued and Finka represents a new frontier: the frontier of digital space. It is a form of forced migration to private circles. The community is reorganizing into encrypted WeChat groups, writing embedded hashtags on Xiaohongshu, migrating to unapproved applets, or meeting in closed parties.
The continuing ambiguity of the Chinese state
For many users, the future is uncertain. “It’s waves: there are ups and downs. With both apps gone, it’s clear we’re in a valley,” one of them sums up. “Ten years ago, even in universities there were public accounts of the LGBTQ+ community. They are all gone, and there is nothing new.”
In China, cultural policies often move in a volatile manner – phases of relaxation followed by sudden pressure. For the LGBTQ+ community, learning how to navigate this constant fluctuation has become a survival tactic, almost second nature.
The disappearance of Talabin reveals a much broader reality. It seems that Blued and Finka’s withdrawal is just a technical decision. But it reveals, in depth, the ongoing shrinkage of public space, the increasingly intense cultural normalization, the structural fragility of LGBT social contact, as well as the ongoing ambiguity of the state: neither official recognition nor presumed repression. In China, the digital lives of sexual minorities often hang by a thread — a weak thread that can snap or fray from one day to the next.