“Nobody would call an ox at midnight asking it to plow the field again in a different direction, but corporate livestock have to redo their assignments again and again.” -Weibo user, 2024
Meet Zhang Fei. She’s 22 years old and works at Pinduoduo, a tech company in Shanghai. She hasn’t seen daylight in months. Fei often jokes to her friends: “I’m not human anymore. I’m 牛马.” They laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s true.
Why Beasts of Burden?
A direct translation of 牛马 (niúmǎ) is “cattle and horses.” But in today’s digital slang, it means something far more complex: an identity worn by millions of overworked, undervalued young Chinese workers. The term “Beasts of Burden” captures the exhaustion of a generation that feels less like people and more like laboring animals. But why “cattle and horses”? Why not robots or drones? There’s a poetic cruelty in the choice. Cattle and horses are traditional work animals. They are respected, even cherished, but ultimately just something functional and practical. They are never asked if they want to work; they simply do. And yet, unlike the modern Chinese worker, animals are often given rest, food, and protection.
As one viral post on Weibo said, “High-quality livestock get a one-day break for every day worked, while high-quality workers push themselves to work 24 hours a day, seven days a week.”
Origins of 牛马
The term 牛马 first surfaced online around 2019, a reaction to the infamous 996 work culture in China, which is working from 9am to 9pm, six days a week. Popularized by tech tycoons like Jack Ma, this schedule was initially framed as a badge of honor. But over time, what was once seen as ambition turned into a symbol of exploitation. Workers began reclaiming the narrative, using sarcasm and online slang to push back. And so, “I am just a 牛马” became the digital sigh of a discouraged workforce. Although the tech sector has been known for its grueling 996 culture, 牛马 is spreading across industries, turning into a rallying cry for anyone caught in the machinery of modern labor: overworked, underpaid, and unseen.
Who was Cao Liping?
In February 2024, a 25-year-old resident physician named Cao Liping was found dead in her hospital’s duty room in Hunan. Hours before, she had taken her own life. Her story rippled through Chinese social media – not just because of the tragedy itself, but because it revealed the systemic cruelty lurking in the shadows of professional training. Cao had spent nearly seven years in a demanding residency program, one designed to train over a million doctors since 2014. She was only six months away from completing her training. But the pressure had taken its toll. According to messages shared by her family, Cao had begged her supervisors for medical leave. She was experiencing high blood pressure and palpitations, and yet, her requests were repeatedly denied. Her final act became a symbol, and social media lit up with posts from other young doctors.
“I thought the main purpose of residency training was to learn how to apply theory into clinical practice,” one wrote. “Turns out, it’s to be a free workhorse for the department.”
Suddenly, 牛马 was no longer just an inside joke for tech workers. It became a metaphor for something deeply embedded in how institutions, regardless of industry, treat youth and ambition as infinite resources. Online, the backlash was immediate. Hashtags mourning Cao’s death trended for days. Users posted their own experiences. Memes flooded the internet, not to amuse, but to validate. They were digital therapy sessions for a population that felt disposable. 牛马 is what happens when a whole generation grows up being told to dream big, only to end up being worked tirelessly, with their goals twisted into fuel for someone else’s success. It’s not about political theory or big speeches. This is a new kind of class awareness that lives in memes, viral videos, and that sharp, tired humor people use to cope.
牛马 in Chinese Society
Yet there’s something deeper here. The 牛马 archetype isn’t just about labor, it also speaks to one’s identity. To call yourself 牛马 is to admit that your humanity has been sidelined so that you can be a tool for someone else to profit off of. In a culture that’s always emphasized being obedient, working hard, and staying humble, calling yourself a beast of burden is quite rebellious. It’s flipping the script on what it means to be a “good worker,” and quietly calling out a system that values nonstop hustle more than people’s well-being. This isn’t a loud protest, though. It’s happening under comment sections, inside memes, in short sarcastic videos. Still, it says a lot about the bigger picture in China. It’s a country charging forward with innovation, yet tethered to ancient ideas of hierarchy and sacrifice. Its youth are educated, tech-savvy, and globally aware, but still trapped in systems that treat exhaustion as a badge of honor.
And yet, the moment they turn that system into a joke and laugh about it together online, they’re taking some of that power back.
Remember Zhang Fei? Our 22 year old tech-savvy friend who worked at Pinduoduo, in Shanghai? In December 2021, Zhang Fei collapsed after another exhausting shift. She died six hours later. No official cause of death was ever confirmed, but the writing was on the wall. Zhang Fei had worked herself to death. For market share. For a future she would never see.
And now, it’s a legacy. Because for every Fei, there are millions more. And they’re done laughing.
