What should have been a breakthrough year for actress Nashi turned into a personal and professional crisis. The 35-year-old, poised to star in two blockbuster films and a high-profile TV drama, found her rising career abruptly derailed—not by scandal in the traditional sense, but by a sudden public reckoning over privilege.

In June, decade-old questions about Nashi’s academic record resurfaced online. Accusations swirled that her entry into a prestigious drama school was less about talent and more about connections—specifically, those of her mother, a well-known actress and alumna of the same institution.

The backlash was swift. Nashi’s name vanished from the credits of the TV drama Lychees in Chang’an. Sponsorships evaporated. And as internet outrage grew, the authorities launched an official investigation into her education history.

Nashi is just the latest figure to be engulfed in China’s digital storm over privilege. Recent months have seen multiple young women—actresses, scholars, and professionals—scrutinized by an increasingly angry online public. Many were accused of exploiting family ties for academic or career gains.

“Privilege exists every year, but this year, it’s hitting a nerve,” wrote one user on Weibo. Another added, “These scandals are eye-opening—and long overdue.”

With youth unemployment on the rise and economic momentum faltering, a widening number of young Chinese say that connections—guanxi—seem to count more than merit. Public resentment simmers, and in a tightly controlled society where traditional media offer little space for dissent, the internet has become the primary venue for exposing inequality.

The Nashi Affair

For many, Nashi symbolized an unfair system. Born into privilege, she was admitted in 2008 to a top drama school under a program designed for ethnic Mongolian students, like her mother before her. But in archived interviews, Nashi appeared to have violated the program’s core requirement: that graduates return to work in Inner Mongolia. Instead, she studied in Norway.

As millions of high school students prepared to take this year’s Gaokao—China’s grueling university entrance exam—online sleuths began digging up past score records. They speculated that Nashi had only been accepted due to her mother’s influence. Authorities eventually stated her scores were well above the minimum—but the damage was done.

A Pattern of Public Outrage

This isn’t an isolated incident. In April, an alleged workplace affair between two doctors at a prestigious Beijing hospital captured national attention. Mr. Xiao’s wife accused him of favoring Ms. Dong, a junior doctor, and abandoning a sedated patient mid-surgery to defend her in an argument.

While the accusations were dramatic, it was Ms. Dong’s academic history that drew the internet’s fury. How had she completed medical school in just four years, when most take eight? Netizens unearthed allegations of plagiarism and questioned her elite credentials.

The backlash led to a full investigation. Authorities revoked Ms. Dong’s degrees and medical license. But speculation about her family’s political ties went unanswered, stoking further suspicion.

“We all felt this wasn’t meant for ordinary people,” said a young doctor in Qingdao, speaking anonymously. “It’s the deep unfairness that hurts.”

For medical professionals who endure long hours and punishing years of training, the case represented a betrayal of effort and ethics. “We treat patients like family. And yet our lives are harder than hers,” said the doctor.

Harvard Pride Meets Online Cynicism

June also brought backlash for Harvard graduate Yurong Luanna Jiang. After her graduation speech went viral—celebrating perseverance and calling for global unity—Chinese netizens initially praised her. But her claims of overcoming hardship were soon met with skepticism.

Critics dissected her résumé, accusing her of embellishment and overstating the role of personal struggle in her success. Her attempts to defend herself only intensified the criticism.

The vitriol mirrored widespread disillusionment among Chinese youth. With jobs scarce and wages shrinking post-COVID, many feel they are running a race rigged from the start.

One user on RedNote wrote bitterly, “Sure enough, the things you weren’t born with, you’ll never have in this lifetime.”

The Earring That Sparked a Storm

Sometimes, even small symbols of wealth can ignite fury. Actress Huang Yang Tian Tian came under fire when viewers speculated that a pair of earrings she wore cost over ¥2.3 million ($320,000). Online investigators quickly discovered her father had once been a government official in Ya’an, a city devastated by an earthquake in 2008.

Accusations followed: had her family profited from disaster relief efforts? Officials denied any wrongdoing, saying the earrings were inexpensive replicas. But few were convinced.

“You know what you know,” one popular Weibo comment read. “Were the officials laughing?” asked another.

The Limits of Control

The Chinese Communist Party has tried to rein in public anger by launching investigations and punishing select individuals. It has also clamped down on ostentatious displays of wealth online. But scandals continue to surface—and public trust continues to erode.

“The loss of trust didn’t happen overnight,” one RedNote user wrote. “It’s the result of one hollow investigation after another.”

In official rhetoric, young people are encouraged to eat bitterness—to accept hardship as a patriotic duty in service of China’s national rejuvenation. But for many online, that message rings hollow, especially when it appears that the privileged are exempt.

“We earn every cent,” reads another viral post. “They embezzle millions—and still lecture us about the value of hard work.”