I used to tell an offensive joke (and I warned you, it is offensive): in Shanghai nightclubs, you didn’t even need to flirt. Just flash your foreign passport.
People who’ve lived there usually laugh. Not because it’s right, but because it’s real. A certain passport can act like a backstage pass in global cities, not just to opportunities, but to desirability and status.
Asian friends of mine who grew up in the US used to say, after a few drinks, “Back then, we were always tier 2, now in China, we’re tier 1.” In China, their fluent English, US degrees, and foreign passports became high-status assets.
It’s not hard to understand why. Holding a Chinese passport means bumping up against invisible walls, often quite literally. You can enter just over 80 countries visa-free. A Hong Kong passport? Nearly 170. Want to visit Europe? The US? Australia? Japan? You’ll need tedious applications, long waits, and a quiet performance of financial worthiness. Even entering Hong Kong, technically part of the same country, requires a separate permit.
No dual citizenship, no freedom to simply move. While others take mobility for granted, many Chinese citizens are left constantly proving they deserve to be let in.
Let’s not forget, China is home to 1.4 billion people. In a system that size, any door you can get is a door worth keeping open, whether it’s a visa, a foreign passport, a Hong Kong residency card, or a company-sponsored permit.
And this isn’t just about China. An Indian investment banker friend of mine once vented, “They colonized us, and now I have to pay for a Schengen visa to step foot in their land?” Her frustration was historical, emotional. It was about how global mobility still reflects global hierarchy, long after the maps were redrawn.
Personally, I played the cards I had. Being a Hong Kong citizen isn’t perfect, but it came with advantages, especially if you’re willing to build a life in Mainland China. I didn’t need a work visa to live and work there indefinitely. I even found a way to register my phone number in Hong Kong, which meant I had unfiltered internet access — no VPN needed.
For someone doing geopolitical analysis, that wasn’t just a convenience. It was a strategic edge. In a landscape where access to information was limited, my digital and physical mobility quietly set me apart. I could pull up articles from the BBC, The New York Times, The Telegraph, as well as Chinese state-run outlets like Xinhua and People’s Daily, anytime and anywhere.
That was my “unfair advantage” — a term used in startup circles, especially by incubators like Antler, to describe a unique edge that can’t be easily copied: insider access, asymmetric information, or structural leverage.
That edge showed up again in education. When I applied to LSE, I pulled admissions data from a dusty Excel buried on LSE’s site that showed applications, offers, and registrations by nationality. For the MSc Management of Information Systems, 490 applicants came from Mainland China in 2021–22, and only 15 got offers, about a 3% acceptance rate. From Hong Kong, just 28 applied and at most 9 offers were made, over 32% acceptance. That’s a 10x edge.
Having the right passport can mean the difference between being called an “expat” and being labeled an “immigrant.”
In Shanghai, I was the former. On paper, I held a Mainland Travel Permit for Hong Kong residents, which allowed me to live and work in China indefinitely. In practice, it gave me freedoms many locals didn’t have.
During the reportedly “brutal” 2022 lockdown, daily COVID tests were mandatory, and only then did I realize: the government had no record of my address. I had signed a long-term rental directly with an Airbnb host — off the official grid. When the lockdown dragged from one week to three, I ran out of food. I finally stepped outside to ask for government rations.
My sudden appearance startled neighbors. I wasn’t in the system. To them, I was a ghost resident — someone who wasn’t supposed to exist.
Lately, there’s been a lot of noise online about “passport bros.” The term originally pokes fun at men who move abroad to gain dating or lifestyle advantages. But underneath the memes, it touches on something more structural: how a passport can act as social currency and quietly shape the course of your life.
At its core, it’s about mobility as power. It exposes how passports quietly uphold global hierarchies and determine who gets to move freely and who doesn’t. In that sense, I was a kind of passport bro too — not in the stereotypical sense, but in the way I navigated borders, access, and advantage. My Hong Kong passport gave me what my peers from Mainland China didn’t have: in education, in career, even in how I accessed information online.
Now, as an “immigrant” in London, I no longer have the same passport-driven edge I once had. Compared to the relative freedom and leverage I enjoyed with my Hong Kong status in Shanghai, life here is slower to unlock. There are reasons people fight so hard to stay in a different country. Sometimes it’s about greater buying power. Sometimes it’s about the chance to work on higher-level strategy rather than local execution. And sometimes, it’s simply about securing the right to remain. For many, getting citizenship means spending five years in jobs they don’t love. I know Chinese software engineers working at major financial institutions who told me, “I’m selling my soul for the British citizenship.”
It’s a timely topic, especially as immigrants without green cards grow increasingly anxious about their right to remain in the US. Donald Trump reportedly plans to deport one million undocumented migrants this year, which would mark the largest operation of its kind in US history.
Meanwhile, China has recently relaxed its visa policies for many European countries, hoping to boost tourism and send a broader message about openness. As of November 2024, travelers from 38 countries, including most of the EU, Norway, and Switzerland, can enter China visa-free for up to 30 days.
At the US Embassy in London, a Chinese woman grabbed my arm in desperation after being told her visa had been refused. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes — the mix of fear, frustration, and helplessness just for a single document.
As tensions rise and Hong Kong makes headlines again in the shadow of trade wars, there’s perhaps never been a stranger time to be a Hong Kong citizen.
All I can say is this: the passport game has begun. And if you’re lucky enough to hold good cards, play them wisely — and not just for yourself.
I have no direct experience with China, yet this is EXACTLY the view I would expect the Chinese to have on passports- a competitive advantage, a marker of social distinction, and a hedge/insurance against mistreatment from their government. Glad you shared your thoughts on this, I found it very interesting
I'm not sure it's "about" power, more that it "shows how power and privilege" exists. A lot of the passport bros feel ignored in their home countries.