I was kicked out of a WeChat group just a few hours after joining. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to,’ the group administrator messaged me before removing me—even though I had paid to join and had been vetted beforehand.

The group comprised hundreds of employees of Chinese companies active in overseas infrastructure and construction projects and was organised by a Chinese firm that provides market intelligence and facilitates supply–demand matchmaking. This company sold access to these WeChat groups, which were designed for industry insiders, and members were encouraged to exchange information and build networks. I discovered this opportunity while following several WeChat public accounts related to China’s infrastructure industry. Eager to learn more about the industry as part of my research, I paid the membership fee and submitted my affiliation—at the time, I was a postdoctoral fellow at Johns Hopkins University’s China–Africa Research Initiative (CARI)—for the administrator to review. To my surprise, no questions were asked about my intentions for joining and I was granted access.

After I was let in, I introduced myself to the group members at the administrator’s request. My identity—as a female researcher affiliated with an American university—immediately attracted attention in this apparently male-dominated space. Several members quickly added me as a contact, perhaps convinced by my expressed enthusiasm about the industry or out of professional habit, since many worked in roles that required networking as widely as possible. A few initiated conversations with me, some tinged with flirtation, likely shaped by their perception of me as a young female student. Just as I carefully fended off those flirting suggestions while trying to remain engaged—excited by my newfound access to many industry insiders—someone in the group interjected: ‘What if she is a spy? Folks in this group are all experienced players in Belt and Road countries. You should know how sensitive it is.’ Before I could utter a word, I was removed from the group.

This episode illustrates the low-trust environment that researchers of Global China—Chinese and non-Chinese alike—must routinely navigate. Chinese researchers may enjoy advantages of cultural familiarity or social networks when approaching Chinese actors overseas. Indeed, my own interactions with Chinese state-owned enterprise (SOE) personnel, when access was granted, were notably more cordial than those described by Wyrod (2025) in his account in this issue of interviewing a Sinohydro official as a foreigner. However, the creeping fear of being accused as a spy—or, worse, ‘traitor’ (汉奸)—can take a significant emotional toll.

These dynamics are complicated by the reality that our research often diverges from official narratives that portray China’s overseas engagements as wholly benign and mutually beneficial. Our work may unsettle some interlocutors—even as we push back against misrepresentations of China, for instance, by challenging the ‘debt-trap diplomacy’ myth (Brautigam 2020). In a global climate shaped by intensifying geopolitical rivalry, researchers affiliated with Western institutions face significant barriers to convincing Chinese interlocutors that our critical inquiries are motivated by a desire to diagnose, not demonise.

This essay draws on my experience researching China’s overseas infrastructure engagements—particularly fieldwork conducted in Pakistan and Nigeria between 2019 and 2024—to explore how I experienced and navigated both trust and mistrust, and how access was shaped within a generally low-trust environment.

Finding Gatekeepers

Global China research often involves hard-to-reach participants—including Chinese state and nonstate actors who typically keep a distance from external researchers, and local communities who may be particularly cautious towards outsiders due to their vulnerable position. In such contexts, ‘gatekeepers’—those ‘individuals or institutions who have the power to either grant or withhold access to a research population’ (Crowhurst and Kennedy-Macfoy 2013: 457)—play an essential role. They provide legitimacy to researchers, foster initial trust-building, and shape researchers’ positionalities and identities within field settings (Feldman et al. 2003).

However, the cooperation of gatekeepers is not guaranteed, and successful access is often the result of happenstance. For example, Ching Kwan Lee’s (2017) landmark research on Chinese capital in Zambia gained momentum after she ‘miraculously befriended’ an opposition politician who later became vice-president. Researchers may often offer symbolic or material ‘fees’ to motivate gatekeepers to grant access (Corra and Willer 2002). Lee (2017) paid the ‘fee’ by providing informal advice to the Zambian official, which earned her their trust. In this issue, Ling Li (2025) discusses how she earned the trust of nongovernmental organisations by volunteering significant amounts of time to assist their activities with survivors of forced criminality in Southeast Asia’s online scam compounds. In my incident, I literally paid a small fee to join the WeChat group—a relatively easy route to access, though one that soon proved fragile.

My initial gatekeeper was the administrator who admitted me after reviewing my affiliation, which obviously departed from the typical customer their groups targeted. This administrator—commercially motivated—seemed indifferent to my identity. I had encountered similar openness among other Chinese actors, including some SOE employees—usually when they viewed their involvement in overseas infrastructure projects as purely commercially driven.

Yet, this administrator did not monopolise gatekeeping power. That role quickly shifted to the overly cautious member who raised the suspicion that I could be a spy. Their unprompted reference to China’s Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) revealed just how politically sensitive the BRI and Chinese overseas infrastructure work had become. Unfortunately, once such suspicion was voiced, it would have been extremely difficult for me to dispel, even had I been given the chance to defend myself. The group—previously chatty—fell abruptly silent. This second gatekeeper effectively undermined my legitimacy and disrupted my attempt to build trust, all while I was already navigating a gendered dynamic in the group.

The episode also illustrates how politicisation can easily override alternative interpretations in moments of uncertainty. While many group members initially shared the administrator’s non-political stance towards my foreign affiliation—focusing instead on my perceived gender and age, which reflected broader gendered power dynamics in Chinese society and the infrastructure industry—this shifted once my institutional background was framed as politically sensitive. My foreign affiliation suddenly became the defining feature of my identity, eclipsing all other readings. An unspoken, shared understanding of its political implications prompted the group administrator to act swiftly and remove me.

I was frustrated by this setback, but I did not leave the scene empty-handed. Fortunately, neither of those gatekeepers had full control over the group members. At least two remained in contact with me via private chats, having added me before I was removed. One worked for an American company in China and had previously been employed by Chinese engineering firms, which might have explained his indifference to the ‘spy’ accusation.

The other, an employee of a major Chinese SOE based in Africa, even introduced me to his colleagues in Nigeria as I was planning a field trip to the country. In this sense, he became a gatekeeper of a different type—one who facilitates access. His willingness to do so likely stemmed from his familiarity with CARI, the institution with which I was affiliated, having previously used its datasets and reports in his own work. I took this as an encouraging sign that researchers of Global China can gradually build trust and access to Chinese actors by producing high-quality, balanced research.

‘Have You Talked with the Chinese Embassy?’

Perhaps one of the most basic decisions for researchers of China’s overseas engagements—yet one that encapsulates the broader dilemmas around gatekeeping and access—is whether, and when, to engage Chinese state representatives in host countries.

‘Have you talked with the Chinese Embassy?’ I was occasionally asked this question while conducting research in Pakistan and Nigeria—sometimes by Chinese company representatives, sometimes by local interlocutors. My blood pressure would rise. I could never be sure whether this was simply a suggestion—that I should seek out Chinese diplomats for official information—or a veiled inquiry into my relationship with Chinese authorities. Was the person trying to assess my standing and therefore determine what, and how much, they were willing to share with me?

‘No, um, not yet,’ I usually replied. In preparing for those field trips, I had deliberately chosen not to approach the Chinese embassies. In my calculations, the potential costs could greatly outweigh the possible benefits.

In theory, the Chinese embassy could serve as both a key informant and a gatekeeper. As the official representative of the Chinese Government, it might provide authoritative insights into China’s bilateral relationships and state-backed investments. It might also facilitate access to key Chinese actors, especially SOEs in the infrastructure sector that I study. But its power could also be intimidating. Any suspicion about my trustworthiness—‘What if she is a spy?’—could shut my access entirely. This fear was further amplified by the emergence of ‘wolf warrior diplomacy’ in recent years (Martin 2021).

Indeed, I had heard a cautionary tale about a Chinese researcher affiliated with a Western university who was summoned by the Chinese embassy in a foreign country and harshly questioned about their role in a recently published study. Although the study aimed to clarify some enduring misconceptions about China, embassy staff still interpreted it as unwelcome scrutiny.

It was out of concern that the Chinese embassy might interpret my affiliation with a US institution through a politicised lens—and given its powerful gatekeeping role—that I decided not to reach out directly. I reasoned that any loss of official insight would be minimal, as embassy staff were unlikely to share more than what was already in the public domain.

Instead, I hoped for an organic encounter—an introduction via someone trusted by Chinese interlocutors. Such a moment came during my third visit to Pakistan, in 2024, when a former Pakistani official introduced me to two staff from the Chinese Embassy. By that point, I had met with the official several times and built a degree of rapport. As we were wrapping up our meeting at a diplomats’ club in Islamabad, his next guests arrived: the two Chinese Embassy staff. The former official introduced me, noting my then-affiliation with Harvard University. I was nervous about how they would respond, but, to my surprise, they reacted with diplomatic courtesy, exchanging business cards and even WeChat contacts.

While I remained unsure whether the Chinese diplomats were simply demonstrating professional courtesy in the presence of the Pakistani official, I decided this was an opportune moment to establish contact with the embassy. I followed up later that day and was invited for a visit the next day. I approached the meeting cautiously—not as a formal interview—wary that too many questions might come across as intrusive or raise suspicion. Instead, I spent most of the time introducing my research background and explaining why I was particularly interested in Pakistan as a case study of the BRI. I was able to ask a few carefully framed questions and the responses, though diplomatic and general, helped to confirm several of my working hypotheses.

This amicable and unexpectedly productive meeting left me wondering whether I had been too self-limiting in avoiding contact with the Chinese Embassy earlier in my fieldwork. Had I reached out during my first visit to Pakistan more than four years earlier, might I have gained broader access to Chinese actors? My fear of being accused of spying—by my own government and compatriots—had shaped a cautious fieldwork strategy. Yet, I had no way of knowing whether that alternative path would have led to a more desirable outcome. Was the diplomat I encountered simply unusually friendly? Or might I have faced the same suspicion and hostility that other researchers have experienced elsewhere? Reflecting on this, I realised that I had internalised the low-trust dynamics between the Chinese State and its citizens—perhaps to a degree that unnecessarily constrained my effectiveness as a researcher.

Access without Trust?

Ironically, I—a Chinese citizen—gained access to the Chinese Embassy through a Pakistani intermediary. In contrast to my caution towards Chinese actors, I had approached Pakistani elites with little concern about being perceived as a spy—a mentality that, in hindsight, likely reflected my naivety about Pakistani politics more than a real absence of risk.

My identity as a Chinese researcher affiliated with a US institution placed me in an ambiguous position. Many of my Pakistani interlocutors acknowledged that the China–Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC)—the focus of my research—was rooted in shared geopolitical interests between the two countries and could be seen as challenging US regional influence. China’s deepened engagement in Pakistan after 2013 unfolded in the context of a deteriorating US–Pakistan relationship, particularly after incidents such as the 2011 killing of Osama bin Laden in Abbottabad (Riedel 2013) and the diplomatic fallout from the case of US Central Intelligence Agency contractor Raymond Davis earlier that year (Mazzetti 2013). How, then, would my Pakistani interlocutors view my positionality?

‘Pakistan and China are iron brothers.’ This official rhetoric was frequently echoed in my conversations with Pakistani elites, suggesting that they primarily perceived me as a Chinese national and felt a social obligation to extend hospitality. My access exceeded expectations: I interviewed senior officials from both current and former governments, gaining valuable insights into CPEC dynamics.

Yet, this access was largely facilitated by my American connections. During my first visit to Pakistan, introductions from Pakistani colleagues and professors in my PhD program opened doors. Later, as a postdoctoral fellow at Harvard University, my affiliation proved an even greater asset. On one occasion, while listening to a retired senior official fondly recount his visits to the United States—where his children now live—I gained a deeper appreciation of what both Chinese and Pakistani interlocutors had privately told me: that, despite Pakistan’s rhetorical solidarity with China, many of its elite still identify culturally and socially with the West.

The limits of China–Pakistan trust became clearer when two researchers from a Pakistani think tank told me how pleased they were to meet a Chinese national fluent in English. While many Chinese researchers had visited during CPEC’s early years, they noted that few could communicate effectively in English, let alone in Urdu. (This may be changing, as more Urdu-speaking Chinese students are now being posted to Pakistan.) As CPEC progressed, they said, their understanding of China grew more muddled. No-one, it seemed, could clearly explain China’s institutional logic or cultural perspectives.

‘Have you talked to the Chinese Embassy?’ I occasionally posed this question to my Pakistani interlocutors—researchers and journalists—when they voiced frustration about China’s opaqueness. It was also a way for me to gauge how communicative Chinese diplomats were with key stakeholders. Most replied that they had, but rarely found the conversations meaningful, often receiving vague or formulaic responses.

Could some of my Pakistani interlocutors have suspected me of being a spy, for either China or the United States? The thought had barely crossed my mind, likely because of the generally open attitude I encountered. But, on closer reflection, the answer is probably yes. My seemingly easy access belies the reality that Pakistan remains a highly securitised state, where the military is deeply suspicious about foreign interference. As several Pakistani journalists lamented, their reporting on CPEC had been tightly constrained by both the military’s and the civilian government’s efforts to control the narrative. Why, then, did those in power in Pakistan appear to trust me more than the WeChat group member who flagged me as a potential spy?

Perhaps the difference is this: for Chinese interlocutors, trust is a prerequisite for access; for Pakistani elites, it may not be. However flawed Pakistan’s democracy may be, its competitive political system requires a relatively greater tolerance for plural views and public engagement, especially when compared with China’s one-party system. That difference—subtle yet significant—shaped the contours of my research experience.

Access and Biases

As detailed above, I encountered largely open—though occasionally suspicious—Chinese SOE actors, surprisingly accessible Pakistani elites, and only limited engagement with Chinese official representatives, which may or may not reflect my own overcautiousness. Given the challenges of negotiating access in Global China research, researchers risk becoming biased because of how they are received by their interlocutors—a dynamic also discussed in Robert Wyrod’s (2025) contribution to this issue.

It is worth asking whether these different experiences inadvertently shaped my broader assessments of each group’s role and capacity. For instance, I may have developed greater sympathy for Chinese company actors after hearing firsthand about their struggles to meet the often-conflicting demands of both Chinese and host-country authorities. At the same time, I may have formed a less nuanced understanding of the policy challenges faced by governments simply because I had more direct access to companies than to state actors.

Methodology textbooks remind us of the importance of triangulating data to mitigate such biases. This remains essential. But equally critical is the need to reflect on how our access is shaped by gatekeeping structures and the broader politics of trust. Recognising how trust is extended or withheld—and how that, in turn, shapes our interpretative frameworks—is key to producing more reflexive and responsible scholarship in Global China research.