We are the only ones living in the gloom of late 2019
Twice removed — from the tournament and from the world — Chinese football fans watch the Qatar World Cup through a kind of double glass: their national team absent for the twentieth year running, and their own lives sealed behind COVID restrictions that make the open stadiums of Doha feel like dispatches from another era. What might have been ordinary sports disappointment has become something more searching, a quiet reckoning with isolation at a moment when the rest of the world has chosen to move on.
- Chinese fans tuning into midnight kickoffs find themselves startled not by the football, but by the sight of unmasked crowds — a normalcy that has quietly become foreign to them.
- Hotel bookings fall through for lack of PCR tests, home quarantines descend without warning, and panic-buying sweeps Beijing neighborhoods while stadiums in Qatar overflow with celebration.
- Workers at Foxconn clash with anti-epidemic officials, hundreds of thousands are confined to their homes, and the gap between China's sealed reality and the world's reopened one grows harder to rationalize.
- State media pivots to off-field pride — Chinese-built stadiums, 'Made in China' branding — as officials point toward the expanded 2026 tournament as a horizon of possibility.
- But the structural rot in Chinese football remains unaddressed: a Super League gutted by bankruptcies, empty domestic stadiums since 2020, and a national program that has not qualified for a World Cup in two decades.
When Ma Ning walked onto the pitch in Doha as a Chinese referee, he became only the second of his nationality to officiate a World Cup match — the first having done so in 2002, the last time China's own team appeared in the tournament. Two decades on, the distance has only grown.
For fans like Kane Zhang, a 31-year-old Beijinger, this World Cup carried a weight beyond football. Watching the opening ceremony, he caught himself surprised that no one in the stadium was wearing a mask — and then was startled by his own surprise. He had tried to book a hotel room so he and his wife could watch the midnight kickoff without waking the neighbors; the required 48-hour COVID test made it impossible. Days later, he was under home quarantine with hundreds of thousands of others, driving across the city in search of vegetables as panic-buying took hold. 'Every morning when you check the phone,' he said, 'you see some people talking about the World Cup and some discussing the community lockdown.'
Amy Wen, 26, from Hangzhou, was less troubled by the team's absence — she felt the players simply hadn't earned their place. What hurt was something harder to name. She had attended the 2018 World Cup in Russia as a student and promised herself she would go to Qatar too. Looking back at photos from that trip, it felt like another lifetime. 'When the virus first came, the whole world was starting from the same place,' she said. 'But now, we are the only ones living in the gloom of late 2019.'
China was meant to host the 2023 AFC Asian Cup but surrendered the right because of its COVID controls. State media responded by cataloguing China's commercial footprint in Qatar — stadiums built, goods exported — and officials gestured toward 2026, when an expanded 48-team format will offer more qualifying berths. Former national team player Su Maozhen offered a measured note of caution: other countries would benefit from the expansion too, and competition would remain fierce.
The deeper question is not whether China will have more chances to qualify, but whether it will have rejoined the world by the time those chances arrive. Billions spent on academies, stadiums, and a Super League that briefly dazzled before collapsing into bankruptcy have left the structural foundations of Chinese football no more stable than before. The isolation visible in the COVID restrictions and the isolation visible on the pitch are, in the end, expressions of the same unresolved condition.
Ma Ning stepped onto the pitch at Ahmad Bin Ali Stadium in Doha on Monday as only the second Chinese referee ever to officiate a World Cup match. The first was Lu Jun, back in 2002—the same year China last qualified for the tournament itself. Two decades have passed since then, and the gap has only widened.
China's elimination from the Qatar World Cup qualifiers came in February, just as the country was preparing to host the Beijing Winter Olympics. For Chinese football fans, disappointment has become so routine that most respond with dark humor rather than anger. But this World Cup stings differently. It is not merely that their team is absent from the field. It is that China itself has become isolated from the world in a way that makes watching the tournament feel like peering through glass at a life happening elsewhere.
Kane Zhang, a 31-year-old from Beijing, found himself startled by his own shock while watching the opening ceremony. "What's funny is that when watching the opening ceremony I was surprised that people didn't wear masks at all, and then I was shocked by myself being surprised with such a thing," he said. The observation captures something deeper than sports disappointment. As COVID-19 restrictions tightened across China again through the autumn, the country remained one of only a handful globally that had not reopened. Travel controls persisted. Lockdowns returned with little warning. The contrast between the crowded stadiums of Qatar and the sealed-off neighborhoods of Beijing became impossible to ignore.
Zhang had wanted to book a hotel room so he and his wife could watch the opening match without disturbing neighbors—the kickoff was midnight in China. The hotel required a 48-hour negative test he didn't have. The plan fell through. Days later, he found himself under home quarantine along with hundreds of thousands of other Beijingers. "I have strong sense of contradiction," he said. "Every morning when you check the phone, you see some people talking about the World Cup and some discussing the community lockdown." He had driven across the city searching for vegetables as panic-buying swept through neighborhoods bracing for potential lockdowns. Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, tens of thousands gathered in stadiums without masks.
Amy Wen, 26, a financial worker from Hangzhou, felt less bitter about China's absence from the tournament itself. "Football is a fair game, the Chinese men did not put in the effort that would have brought them to Qatar," she said. But the lockdowns had hollowed out something else. She had been a student in Russia during the 2018 World Cup and had promised herself she would attend the 2022 tournament as well. Looking back at photos from that trip, "it seemed like a lifetime ago." The world had changed, but China had not moved with it. "When the virus first came, the whole world was starting from the same place. But now, we are the only ones living in the gloom of late 2019."
The isolation has had concrete costs. China was supposed to host the AFC Asian Cup in July 2023 but lost the right to do so because of its COVID controls. Qatar will host again instead. Yet state media has emphasized China's off-field presence at this World Cup—Chinese companies built some of the stadiums, and state broadcaster CGTN highlighted how "Made in China" had become a highlight of the tournament. Officials spoke optimistically about the 2026 World Cup, which will expand to 48 teams and be co-hosted by Canada, the United States, and Mexico. Su Maozhen, a former national team player who competed in China's 2002 World Cup squad, acknowledged the expanded format would create more opportunities. "But it is the same for other countries," he said on state television. "So I think we will still face fierce competition."
The structural problems that have prevented China from building a sustained football powerhouse remain unresolved. Billions have been spent on stadiums, academies, and the Chinese Super League, which briefly attracted major foreign talent before several teams collapsed into bankruptcy. Since 2020, most domestic matches have been played in empty stadiums. The question hanging over 2026 is not whether China will have more chances to qualify, but whether the country will have rejoined the world by then.
Notable Quotes
Every morning when you check the phone, you see some people talking about the World Cup and some discussing the community lockdown.— Kane Zhang, Beijing resident
When the virus first came, the whole world was starting from the same place. But now, we are the only ones living in the gloom of late 2019.— Amy Wen, financial worker from Hangzhou
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does this World Cup feel different to Chinese fans than previous absences?
Because they're not just watching their team lose—they're watching the world move on without them. For the first time, the isolation is mutual. China is locked down while stadiums elsewhere are packed.
Can you explain what Kane Zhang meant about being shocked by his own shock?
He was watching people celebrate without masks and realized he'd become so accustomed to restrictions that normalcy itself had become foreign. It's the disorientation of discovering you've drifted further from the world than you realized.
Amy Wen said she wasn't bitter about the team's absence. What changed her mood?
The lockdowns. She could accept a sporting failure—that's on the players. But being trapped at home while the rest of the world gathers in stadiums? That feels like punishment for something beyond anyone's control.
What does the state media's optimism about 2026 actually mean?
It's a way of looking forward without acknowledging the present. Yes, more teams will qualify. Yes, China might have a better shot. But none of that matters if the country is still sealed off when the tournament arrives.
Has China's investment in football actually failed?
Not entirely. They've built the infrastructure. The problem is you can't build a winning team in empty stadiums. Two years of isolation has cost them momentum, development, and the chance to learn from international competition.