HE HARDLY SEEMS the guy to shake China’s scientific establishment. Geng Hongwei is a PhD dropout-turned-influencer. He posts technical videos for a general audience, leavened with cartoon memes. But in April his words, aimed at cancer researchers at a top Chinese university, triggered an earthquake. “I hope you’ll take academic fraud more seriously in the future,” he deadpanned, before demonstrating that the scientists had faked their data—and clumsily.
Two months later the aftershocks are still being felt. It was the first in a series of videos by Mr Geng detailing academic misdeeds. His revelations have cost three universities their life-science deans and raised questions about how much fraud lurks in Chinese research. He has also revealed something about Communist Party rule: despite its obsession with control, space for criticism of institutions occasionally still opens. It is tough to know in advance how far one can push, and Mr Geng himself seems to be bumping into limits.
On a recent morning Chaguan spoke to Mr Geng. From his home in Siping, a rustbelt city in China’s north-east, he explained how he became a science whistleblower. Stuck in his dorm during the covid-19 pandemic and eager to make money, he started dabbling in social media. He called his account “Classmate Geng”, or Geng Tongxue, as he is known today, and posted videos that resembled chats with university pals: about new research, grad-student life and annoying supervisors. He started to amass followers.
The son of a poor migrant worker and saddled with debt, Mr Geng is admirably forthright. His doctorate had him on track for a “mediocre” job at a basic wage. Revenues from social media promised more. “I just wanted my own life to be better,” he says.
Mr Geng has honed his instinct for topics that play well online. When he came across a paper with dubious figures in April he publicised it. The paper was produced by a team under the life-sciences dean at Shanghai’s Tongji University, a top institution. The research on slowing cancer growth had received national funding. And it appeared in Nature, one of the world’s most prestigious journals, headquartered in London. But the fabrication seemed laughable, including a column of data points ending exactly in “5”. “It was a high-level paper and a low-level fraud, a contrast that makes for great content,” says Mr Geng. “As the story spread, I began to wonder, could this have an impact on the research world? It started to acquire higher meaning.”
One video led to another. He documented similar problems with suspicious data and images in work by other leading cancer researchers. Their papers had appeared in various sister journals of Nature. Many of the authors had received national awards and hefty public grants.
As Mr Geng puts it, he is less a whistleblower than an amplifier. Some allegations had previously surfaced on PubPeer, an international website for anonymous reviews of academic work. But they had attracted little attention in China. Mr Geng made them go viral. He is not operating alone. Others have fed him tips and helped probe the questionable research. With his videos attracting millions of views, officials find it difficult to ignore them. At least three institutions—Tongji University, Nankai University and Sun Yat-sen University—have conducted investigations. Finding irregularities, they have removed deans from their leadership posts, though they let them stay in lesser roles.
For many in Chinese science the sudden focus on fraud has been shocking yet unsurprising. Many have long known of wrongdoing but have looked past it as China has catapulted past America to lead the world in scientific publications. Mr Geng’s status as a dropout affords him some freedom. He has emboldened others. Rao Yi, a veteran scientist, said in a speech last month that China merited two world records: for its scientific progress and for its academic misconduct.
Fraud is a global scourge. But Mr Rao argued that the proportion of bad work in China is exceptionally high. Mr Geng puts the figure at roughly one in ten papers by distinguished scholars. Partly, this may be the price of speed. Having grown so quickly, China lacks the guardrails of more mature science powers.
Yet the explanation is also structural. Promotions and funding depend on the volume of published papers, incentivising quantity over rigour. Rewards for hitting certain targets are often more explicit than in the West, including cash bonuses and even housing allowances. Research groups built around a single academic star can house hundreds of scholars—easily ten times the size of most Western labs.
Publish first, ask questions later
The government has been calling for greater quality in China’s scientific output, which is why a critic like Mr Geng is useful. Xinhua, the state news agency, published an interview with him, a sign of official support. Some policymakers hope he is a catalyst for change, including stricter verification of results.
Yet the state’s enthusiasm for Classmate Geng is finite. In late May video platforms limited the visibility of his new posts. It has been communicated to him, he hints, that he should return to broader themes. His older relatives think he is courting danger.
There is a precedent that should give pause. Fifteen years ago Chinese social media briefly sizzled with citizen-journalists outing corrupt officials. But the party shut them down. It wanted to lead the anti-graft fight itself and was unwilling to let public demands for accountability gather momentum. Science should be harder to corral in that way. It requires open data and external trust that the party cannot simply mandate. Whether that distinction holds will depend on China’s politicians, not its scientists.■
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