Super Rabbit Person
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“I grew up in a very small town in China, and I realized that I could not stay in China anymore, because I really wanted to do activism,” says Lorraine Pan. A 21-year-old student, writer, and artist, Pan, (who states that their pronouns are they/their/them), Pan situates their identity across many intersecting lines: autistic, queer, immigrant, neurodivergent, activist, and artist. Now now pursuing a Women and Gender Studies degree at the University of Toronto, Canada, Pan traces their journey from an isolated adolescence in China, through their politicization during the Hong Kong protests, to their ongoing efforts at transnational activism, community building, and self-expression.
Pan explains that their political awareness began in high school during the years of the COVID lockdown. Already struggling with undiagnosed autism and mental health challenges, they felt alienated in a conservative and discriminatory school environment. The system branded neurodivergent students as “lazy,” and teachers criticized them constantly. At first Lorraine internalized this judgment as a personal failing, but over time came to understand it as a systemic problem. Pan’s high school years happened to coincide with the Hong Kong protests of 2019, which became a turning point. At first, they had little access to outside information. On Chinese platforms like Weibo, posts about Hong Kong were deleted almost immediately, and official news glorified the police. Lorraine recalls one video from People’s Daily showing Hong Kong police beating protesters, set to upbeat music. “I was a little bit scared, because I believe that people can praise violence,” they say. “The very natural sound that came to my mind at that time is that no matter what political opinion you have, you should not be hit by officers! And that is not something should be praised.” They add that the state narrative described protesters as violent, though they carried no weapons, while police actions were framed as justice. That contradiction disturbed Pan and pushed them to look for alternative sources of information.
At first, they did not know much about computer security, not even knowing the term “VPN” (Virtual Private Network). But friends taught them how to use a VPN to bypass the state’s “Great Firewall of China,” its system of internet censorship and surveillance that blocks access to many foreign websites and platforms— like Google, Facebook, Twitter, etc., as well as numerous news outlets— and filters and monitors domestic platforms like Weibo and WeChat. Using a U.S. Apple account, Pan was able to download VPN and access various social media feeds, where they were able to meet people from Hong Kong and Taiwan online whose lived experiences contradicted the official story that the Chinese people were fed. For the first time, Pan began to realize how pervasive the state’s sealed information bubble was, both the information media and school system, that trapped them in state propaganda. Yet online, they encountered friends from Hong Kong, and this dissonance became a catalyst for their political awakening.
At the same time, Pan began to explore their queer identity, identifying as bisexual and non-traditional, again in juxtaposition to a very conservative culture and biased school system. As these kinds of discoveries unfolded, Pan concluded, “‘Oh, this is not a place for me!’ That was a beginning.” Their decision to leave China was not taken lightly, but it became inevitable—they wanted to write about politics and pursue activism, and staying in China would simply be too dangerous. Pan adds that they did truly love their birthplace, yet felt that they had to leave it in order to care for it: only outside could they speak freely about it and the conditions that people were living under. Sadly, Pan expect to live with this contradiction for life.
Canada emerged as the best option, both for its relative immigrant friendliness and for the fact that Pan spoke English. They applied to the University of Toronto late— in May 2022, as opposed to the winter when most people apply— but were accepted anyway; after some visa delays, they were eventually able to enroll. It has not been an easy road: the program is very rigorous, requiring heavy coursework, and financial and immigration pressures weigh heavily. Pan admits to uncertainty about their future, wavering between stable employment and graduate school. They are keenly aware of the precariousness of being a first-generation immigrant, responsible for securing legal status while also carrying family responsibilities. But for now, at least, their feel like they want to be on an academic track, in feminist research, with hopes of continuing into graduate study.
As an immigrant in Canada, Pan has faced a stark and complex shift to minority status. In China, as a Han Chinese person, their race was the majority. In Canada, their Asian face immediately marks them as a minority, and they often field questions like “Where are you really from?” or “Why is your English so good?” Even among fellow Chinese immigrants, values can diverge sharply, leaving Pan feeling isolated at times. They describe themselves as perpetually an “in-betweener,” belonging fully neither in China nor in Canada. When visiting Korea or Taiwan, Pan sometimes blends in physically, but their language or accent reveals them as an outsider. And so they have accepted that this rootless feeling may persist throughout life. “I just escaped from my home to be here. It's not my choice to be here, but I also know that if I come back to my ‘home,’ that wouldn't be my home either.”
In Canada, Pan cultivated an online presence as a political activist focused on China, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Myanmar, and LGBTQ rights; at one point they had 10,000 followers on Twitter. The trauma of surveillance and censorship in China lingered, however. Pan recalls making online friends who shared support for Hong Kong, Thailand, or Myanmar, only to have them suddenly disappear. Sometimes accounts were banned; sometimes they feared arrests. With no real names exchanged, there was no way to know what happened. “It's so scary someone just disappeared,” Pan remembers. That fear contributed to their decision to withdraw from Chinese social media entirely, despite the pain of losing those fragile connections. Even now, they feel guilty about cutting ties with friends inside China, knowing that many are still trying to help Myanmar or Hong Kong quietly, organizing small events or fundraising despite enormous risks. Pan admires their bravery, even as they fear for their safety.
Pan’s internet experiences in China, along with conversations with Chinese friends still living there, deepened their empathy for activists in Myanmar who face parallel struggles of surveillance and censorship. The comparison is striking: in Myanmar, the military regime often shuts down the internet entirely, creating sudden blackouts that isolate communities and conceal atrocities. In China, by contrast, the internet remains constantly available but is subject to strict monitoring, censorship, and content deletion—an ever-present control that shapes what people can see, say, and even imagine. Both methods, though different in form, serve the same purpose: silencing dissent, instilling fear, and leaving lasting psychological scars. For Pan, recognizing these parallels across borders reinforces the belief that authoritarian repression is not confined to one nation. It underscores the importance of building transnational solidarity, where activists facing different versions of the same struggle can support one another, share strategies, and keep hope alive.
Ironically, Pan’s online presence in Canada has generated a new kind of challenge. Their identity as a queer activist and Chinese dissident, once hidden behind censorship, now became highly visible— and with visibility came backlash. On uncensored platforms, what had once been a lifeline amid the repressive environment in China turned into an arena of hostility. Trolls and nationalists targeted their posts, harassing them not only for criticizing the Chinese government but also for openly embracing queer identity. What had felt liberating at first slowly became overwhelming, as the same tools of connection that once offered solidarity now delivered a steady stream of abuse. The trauma of constant monitoring in China was replaced by the trauma of constant attacks in Canada. Eventually, Pan realized they could not manage the hostility any longer. With heavy reluctance, they deleted their account, cutting off a space that had once embodied freedom but had become another site of harm.
These days, Pan’s activism is grounded more in public speaking and community connections, which provide safer ground. They have built strong ties with others engaged in transnational activism, particularly those bridging Asia and North America. They describe connections with Black Lives Matter, Stop Asian Hate, and Indigenous justice movements in Canada, as well as links to activists in Taiwan and South Korea. Recently, they attended an event in Seoul hosted by Platform C, a Korean organization that fosters solidarity among movements in Myanmar, Thailand, and Hong Kong. Pan finds such cross-border alliances crucial. “For me, it's more important to connect with people who have same values instead of the same identities.” They also note the rise of xenophobia and authoritarianism worldwide, from the U.S. to Canada to East Asia, which makes the importance of shared struggle across borders that much more salient.
The Milk Tea Alliance, a loose coalition of youth movements across Asia, embodies this spirit of value-based solidarity. Pan admires the exchange of tactics among protests in Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Myanmar, from dealing with tear gas to spreading pop-culture infused memes. Their activism emphasizes attention to people at the intersections of marginalized identities— for instance, LGBTQ individuals who are also members of ethnic or religious minorities in Myanmar, or who are displaced by conflict. Pan believes that solidarity must acknowledge the intersections of oppression, otherwise movements risk automatically reproducing hierarchies. Pan warns against postponing gender or queer issues until after “democracy” is achieved. They reject the common narrative that democracy must come first, and only afterward can women’s or LGBTQ rights be addressed: “What's your imagination of democracy, if there is a country where women's rights cannot to be guaranteed? Do you really think that human rights can be guaranteed?!” For them, democracy without equity is hollow, and marginalized groups must be at the center of the struggle, not an afterthought.
Pan is also very wary of hierarchy and leader-centrism in movements. They prefer decentralized organizing, believing that leaderless or multi-leader movements are less vulnerable and more representative. While some view them as a leader because of their visibility, they resist this label, emphasizing that behind-the-scenes workers are equally important; Pan values working across generations, learning from older activists while asserting their own progressive views.
Sometimes these inter-generational conversations are difficult. Older activists have told them that politics is a “man’s thing” or that they are too radical, but Pan holds their ground, insisting that real democracy must include racial and gender equity. They note that older activists often enjoy more visibility simply due to privilege, not because their views are more correct. At the same time, Pan treasures respectful friendships with older comrades, describing how mutual learning can enrich movements despite differences.
Art provides an outlet for Pan. They draw a character they call “Super Rabbit Person,” based on themself. The rabbit often bears a red line across its face, echoing Pan’s own tattoo. Sometimes it is depicts crying, other times playful or resilient. The act of creating allows them to express personal feelings without the responsibility of public political. “I found illustration is something that make myself feel peaceful,” Pan says. Yet even in this art, the personal and political inevitably overlap, since their own identity infuses every depiction.
Today, Pan continues to write, speak, and create, uncertain about whether they will pursue a PhD immediately or take a more stable job first, but clear that they will not return to China. They remain determined to connect struggles across borders, to imagine a democracy rooted in equity, and to hold space for those whose identities carry multiple burdens. As they sum up their approach: “Whenever I feel politically depressed, I know there are some people who can relate to me, and I know who I can reach out.”