In China, Antisemtic Tropes Even Infect Snack Foods

In China, antisemitic tropes have begun to appear not only in discourse but as snack foods.

In November, after Israel’s two-year war with Hamas in Gaza following the terrorist organization’s invasion and attacks on Oct. 7, 2023, had largely faded from China’s public discourse, an online store calling itself “Youtairen Official Snack Foods Shop” began selling shredded squid products across major Chinese e-commerce platforms while promoting them through livestreams on Bilibili, Xiaohongshu and other sites.

The store’s name, Youtairen, is a homophone of the Mandarin word for “Jews,” rendered through deliberate character substitution involving youyu (“squid”) and ren (meaning “person,” it also refers to an edible kernel or seed core). The human reference alludes to being displaced into consumable form without being stated directly. The addition of the word “official” in the store’s name further normalizes the brand, shifting it from fringe wordplay into routine commercial circulation.

In the months following the Gaza war, “squid” had already circulated on the Chinese internet as a euphemistic stand-in for Jews—recognizable to insiders yet indirect enough to evade explicit naming. Against this backdrop, the brand name does not invent a new association but activates an existing one.

The snack foods themselves are real products: priced, delivered, repurchased, reviewed and promoted through verified accounts.

The brand also operates through a formal collaboration with a well-known online influencer, Xiaodao Deutsch, who serves as both the endorser and livestream presenter. His public persona in Chinese digital culture is closely associated with German-language performance and stylized imitations of Hitler speeches—a reputation well established among his audience.

No explicit political message appears on the packaging. Two versions circulate: a standard edition featuring the influencer’s face and a “hidden edition” showing only his back-facing silhouette posed mid-speech. The reference becomes less explicit but no less legible to those familiar with the persona. During promotional livestreams, the seller highlights the “hidden edition” as a limited variant, often framed as one in twenty-five purchases. Scarcity is actively marketed.

The product is sold as shredded squid under the brand name “Xihai,” which sounds like “Sieg Heil.” In English-language marketing materials, however, the phrase is glossed as “say hello” or “say hi to shredded squid,” translations that preserve the rhythm while stripping away historical reference.

Compounding the ambiguity, the Chinese typography used for the word “shredded” visually resembles the stylized form of the Nazi SS symbol—close enough to invite association, yet imprecise enough to deflect direct attribution. The resemblance remains on display, inviting recognition without naming what is being recognized.

Livestream performance then advances the process from recognition to participation. The brand name Xihai—phonetically identical to the Mandarin phrase for “West Sea”—is structurally ambiguous. Unlike “East Sea” or “South Sea,” it lacks a fixed geographic meaning.

This looseness allows sound to take precedence over meaning. In livestreams, hosts list other seas while leaving Xihai suspended. Heard rather than read, its cadence approximates Sieg Heil—never spoken, but acoustically available.

The pleasure lies in hovering at the edge of articulation: recognizing the resonance without naming it and sharing implication without responsibility.

The result is a functional transformation. A phrase historically associated with a Nazi slogan is reduced to a repeatable sound pattern that can be circulated playfully, laughed through and dismissed as a coincidence. For attuned audiences, the reference remains legible; for critics, it is rendered deniable.

Repetition and interaction

While this case is situated in China, the mechanisms involved—commercialization, deniability, participatory normalization—are not unique to China. They are increasingly visible across digital cultures worldwide.

At a certain point, ambiguity stops being a container for meaning and becomes a method for producing it. Interpretation is not left to chance. It is guided through repetition and interaction.

An image circulating on the Chinese internet—separate from the official packaging—illustrates the first stage. A cartoon cat with a Hitler-style moustache and bangs reaches toward the shredded squid snack food. The moustache and hairstyle anchor the historical frame; the gesture suggests appetite and possession. The squid itself is already cooked and edible, yet the cat is drawn not to the food but to the package promising shredded squid inside.

The image functions as an interpretive primer: It does not argue, but demonstrates how to see.

This matters because what I previously described as “Antisemitism 3.0” spreads less through persuasion than through recognizability. Meaning need not be declared; it must simply be easy for insiders to recognize and difficult for outsiders to contest.

Additional cues provide moral insulation. A handwritten sign reading Das war ein Befehl (“That was an order”) appears during livestream promotions. In postwar narratives of the Nazi period, the phrase signals evasion of responsibility. Paired with self-descriptions of taste testers as niuma (“ox-horse”), the broadcast stages a posture of dehumanized obedience: action without agency.

The sequence culminates with the word Verräter (“traitor”) paired with the phrase fan le ta (“overthrow it”), compressing command, execution and purification into a lighthearted skit.

What matters is not any single cue in isolation, but accumulation. Separated, each element can be dismissed. Together, when repeated, they teach audiences how to interpret, when to laugh and how to deny. Interpretation becomes routine, and routine becomes infrastructure.

A promotional raffle card marks a further escalation. One prize category reads Youtai Jizhong Ying, a deliberate homophonic substitution in which Youtai (“squid-related”) replaces Youtai (“Jewish”) and ying (“to win”) replaces ying (“camp”). The phrase therefore echoes “Jewish concentration camp” while remaining deniable at the level of written characters.

What had previously circulated as an implied reference is transformed into a participatory mechanism. The Holocaust-related phrase is no longer something merely to recognize or joke about; it structures how users engage, click and compete.

Even more consequential is the inclusion of soap as a prize. In some Chinese online subcultures, soap serves as a cue linked to the allegation that Jews were turned into soap during the Holocaust. The point is not whether the claim is historically true or false, but how it functions symbolically: Once placed inside a raffle structure, recognition becomes an incentive.

In this way, antisemitic tropes become embedded not only in imagery or language but in the mechanics of gamification itself.

Online commercial culture

The escalation did not stop with snack foods. In December, only weeks after the shredded squid products appeared, the brand introduced “Million-Mark Toast,” responding directly to audience requests during livestreams. What began as an online joke was rapidly converted into a purchasable good, illustrating the speed and efficiency of China’s fan-driven online commercial culture.

The form of the product matters as much as its name. Marketed as whole-wheat, crustless toast and promoted as a healthy breakfast substitute, “Million-Mark Toast” is framed not as novelty merchandise but as an everyday food. In China, bread occupies a liminal space—neither staple nor treat but a convenient meal replacement. This positioning allows the historical reference to enter daily routines without demanding attention.

The symbolism extends into pricing. The toast is sold as a two-box package (480 grams per box) priced at 50 yuan, repeatedly framed through wordplay as wu shi Million-Mark bread. In livestream promotions, the influencer emphasizes wu shi as an archaic phrase meaning “I eat,” while also echoing the No. 50.

Hyperinflation is thus reenacted through numerical contrast: a product labeled “million-mark” becomes a bargain.

During livestream promotions, a slogan repeatedly surfaced: “Bread will come, and soap will come.” Adapted from a familiar Chinese political phrase promising material security, the line collapses economic catastrophe and mass atrocity into consumer anticipation. History is not denied; it is neutralized through routine delivery.

The timing of these developments is revealing. The commercialization documented here did not coincide with the peak of discourse in China about Israel’s war with Hamas in Gaza but followed its retreat.

Such boundary testing did not begin with food. Antisemitic tropes had circulated for years through consumer items such as “Adolph shampoo,” discussed in my essay in “The Diplomat.” Those precedents normalized the attachment of antisemitic references to everyday goods without consequence.

What is different now is the speed and scale of commercialization.

Repeated acknowledgments by both the influencer and the snack brand that the content is “frequently reported” suggest that scrutiny is anticipated and strategically folded into the campaign’s appeal. Provocation and denial now operate in tandem: recognizable symbols generate in-group recognition, while claims of misunderstanding provide insulation.

Being reported no longer deters participation; it confirms that the boundary has been successfully tested.

From this perspective, top-down explanations are insufficient. Nothing in the timing or rapid iteration of these products suggests orchestration from Beijing. The dynamics are horizontal: audience demand, platform incentives, commercial experimentation and affective resonance.

The emergence of a secondary Bilibili account in late December 2025—Xihai Wushe—underscores this shift. Reprising the same sound-based logic echoing Sieg Heil, the parallel account signals expansion rather than retreat.

What we are witnessing is not the beginning of antisemitism in China. It is the beginning of its routinization.

Yang Meng is an assistant professor at Peking University, where she founded a course on Jewish civilization and created the country’s first university-level Yiddish course. She is also a fellow of the London Centre for the Study of Contemporary Antisemitism. She writes for Jewish News Syndicate.