In Beijing’s 2025 military parade, symbolism mattered as much as firepower. Alongside next-generation drones and hypersonic missiles, President Xi Jinping stood in a Mao-style suit, flanked by foreign dignitaries like Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong Un.
Chinese state media called it a celebration of national “rejuvenation,” but for those who came of age during the Mao era—like Professor Lihua Zhang, a former UC Berkeley scholar—the imagery evoked a revolutionary ethos rooted in China’s authoritarian past.
Zhang interprets the parade’s symbolism as part of a familiar political arc, one she experienced firsthand. As a teenager, she was among the millions of “educated youth” sent to rural China as part of Mao Zedong’s campaign to re-educate the urban elite through hard labor and ideological immersion. She spent years in the countryside, repeating slogans like “Serve the People” (为人民服务) and participating in mass campaigns.
“At that time, I never thought about serving myself. That concept didn’t exist,” says Zhang. “We served the people, and that meant serving the nation.”
China’s latest military display did more than introduce new weapons. It reinforced political doctrine and ideological continuity. The People’s Liberation Army (PLA) remains central not just to China’s strategic ambitions, but to its political identity. In the background of the missiles and formations was a persistent message: national strength is inseparable from national unity, and both are built on a vision of collective struggle.
From Biography to Blueprint
Xi Jinping’s biography is inseparable from the Party’s mythmaking. At fifteen, Xi was sent to Liangjiahe, a remote village in Shaanxi province, as part of the “Down to the Countryside” (上山下乡) movement. Like Zhang and millions of other youth, he hauled coal, dug ditches, and slept on flea-infested kang beds. Chinese Communist Party (CCP) media frequently highlights this period as the crucible that shaped Xi’s devotion to the people. But this personal history has since become political doctrine. Xi’s time in Liangjiahe now serves as a template of patriotic endurance in Party propaganda, textbooks, and official speeches. He once said, ‘The countryside tempered my will,’ describing it as the place where he ‘truly understood the people.’
“When he first came to power, I thought the country was saved,” says Zhang. “He experienced it all. He lived it for seven years. I spent four years there. I can’t even imagine what he endured.”
This narrative—that suffering builds moral legitimacy—has been woven into Xi Jinping Thought, an ideological framework enshrined in China’s constitution and embedded across military and civilian institutions. The PLA’s doctrine is now anchored in this idea of service through struggle. In Zhang’s time, this meant manual labor and public campaigns. Today, it means strategic obedience and digital loyalty.
While Zhang did not frame it in generational terms, her reflections suggest a continuity of purpose. For her generation, service to the state was expressed through physical labor and ideological immersion; for today’s youth, it is increasingly expressed through political study, surveillance, and digital conformity. What remains, she implied, is the expectation of service “not as a choice, but as a duty.”
Why Now?
At the 2025 parade, Xi delivered a short but charged speech. He praised the people’s army for defending “national dignity, unity, and the dreams of rejuvenation” and warned that the world stands at a crossroads between “peace or war.” The subtext was unmistakable: power must be demonstrated, belief must be unified, and memory must be maintained.
But beneath this ideological theater lies a quieter challenge. Most young Chinese today did not grow up with the hardships that defined Xi and Zhang’s generation. The Cultural Revolution is a historical lesson, not a lived memory. And with economic headwinds mounting (including youth unemployment officially at 16.9% in early 2025, despite data revisions and suppression) the promise that patriotic struggle yields reward feels increasingly tenuous.
Meanwhile, the state has intensified its ideological campaigns. Tens of millions use Xuexi Qiangguo (学习强国), an app that promotes Xi Jinping Thought through gamified study sessions, mandatory workplace quizzes, and political literacy metrics. Yet researchers from Stanford and CSIS suggest that the gap between public compliance and private skepticism is growing. In controlled anonymous surveys, younger citizens are far less likely to express genuine ideological belief.
“Living the experience is different from hearing about it,” Zhang said. Her generation’s loyalty was forged through shared sacrifice. Today’s generation is expected to inherit that loyalty without the same experience. Which raises a question: was the 2025 parade meant only to intimidate rivals, or also to reinforce belief among its own citizens?
The Past Still Demands Something
The 2025 parade was more than a spectacle. It was a performance of continuity—an assertion that China’s strength lies not only in its arsenal, but in its ability to preserve and repurpose its revolutionary past. The Party, the people, and the PLA were presented not as separate institutions, but as one continuous mission.
To foreign observers, the spectacle may read as propaganda. But inside China, the symbolism operates differently. For those like Professor Zhang, slogans like “Serve the People” were not abstractions. They structured daily life. For Xi, they function as both legacy and leverage: tools to enforce loyalty, justify authority, and shape the future.
The deeper point is this: in China, memory is not just history. It is doctrine. And through doctrine, it becomes strategy. The question is not whether the past is remembered, but how it is mobilized. In Beijing this year, the answer marched in lockstep.
Disclaimer: All quotes are drawn from a recorded interview conducted in April 2025 and from Professor Zhang’s publicly shared memoir excerpts. All translations from Mandarin are the author’s own.
Featured Image Source: ABC News
