Seventy years of Xinjiang: Separating fact from fiction

Editor's note: Adriel Kasonta, a special commentator for CGTN, is a London-based foreign affairs analyst and commentator. He is the founder of AK Consultancy and former chairman of the International Affairs Committee at Bow Group, the oldest conservative think tank in the UK. The article reflects the author's opinions and not necessarily the views of CGTN.

This year marks the 70th anniversary of the founding of the Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region, a sprawling expanse in China's far west that has become a lightning rod for controversy. To Western audiences, Xinjiang is often portrayed in stark, monochrome terms: a site of "forced labor" and even "genocide." The accusations – repeated endlessly by mainstream media outlets, think tanks and politicians – have formed the backbone of sanctions regimes and calls for boycotts of Chinese goods. Yet beneath the slogans lies a more complicated reality, one that Western narratives frequently ignore, distort or deliberately suppress.

Take Xinjiang's cotton industry as an example. The region is one of the world's most important cotton producers, supplying fabrics that clothe hundreds of millions. For years, critics alleged that ethnic minorities were being coerced into cotton harvesting, painting a picture of state-driven exploitation. What such narratives omit is a simple, verifiable fact: Xinjiang's cotton fields are undergoing rapid mechanization. By 2024, 90 percent of the cotton harvest was carried out not by hand, but by modern machinery. The mechanization rate for the entire agricultural process, including sowing, even reached 97 percent. Local farmers – Uygur and Han alike – have embraced mechanized planting and harvesting because it increases efficiency, reduces costs and lifts incomes.

It is difficult to square these realities with the sweeping claim of "forced labor." Machines don't demand wages or obey coercion; they represent an agricultural sector moving into the 21st century. This transformation is hardly unique to Xinjiang – regions from the U.S. Midwest to Australia's Outback have gone through similar shifts.

The same logic applies to the most explosive charge: genocide. To deploy that word is to invoke one of the gravest crimes in history, one that carries legal and moral consequences. But here the term seems less a description of events on the ground than a rhetorical weapon aimed at derailing Beijing's ambitions. Why? Because Xinjiang is not just a frontier province – it is the linchpin of China's grandest geopolitical project: the revival of the Silk Road through the Belt and Road Initiative.

At the heart of this strategy lies the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor, a vast highway and energy network running from Xinjiang to the Arabian Sea. This artery is more than bricks, steel, and tarmac; it is China's gateway to new markets, supply chains and geopolitical leverage. To see Xinjiang destabilized, to see its development discredited, is to weaken the very foundation of Beijing's global strategy. The charges of genocide, then, serve a purpose: They justify economic boycotts, they discourage foreign investment, and they cast a shadow over every shipment of cotton, tomato or solar panel that leaves Xinjiang's soil.

Meanwhile, the world has no shortage of genuine atrocities. The population of one country are indiscriminately targeted with bombing, yet the international outrage machine is curiously selective. There are no blanket boycotts, no sweeping sanctions packages, no calls to isolate the perpetrators. If the principle is that genocide must be punished, why does it apply only in Xinjiang? Is this double standard or naked opportunism? That is for readers to decide.

What is clear is that stability in Xinjiang is not a luxury for Beijing – it is a necessity. The region has endured periods of separatist violence, and the central government understands the dangers of neglect. Economic marginalization would fuel unrest, undermining both local security and the Belt and Road Initiative itself. By contrast, providing jobs, infrastructure and modern amenities strengthens the ties between Xinjiang's diverse communities and the broader Chinese nation.

This is why employment policies in Xinjiang – so maligned abroad – are central to Beijing's strategy. Far from being a system of coercion, they are designed to extend opportunities. Factories, workshops and service-sector jobs have sprung up alongside traditional industries, offering alternatives to subsistence farming and seasonal work. The protection of workers' rights is written into Chinese labor law, and official audits insist that contracts, wages, and social benefits are in place. These may not always fit neatly into Western expectations, but they are far removed from the dystopian images conjured up by foreign commentators.

Seventy years on, Xinjiang is being asked to carry a heavy symbolic weight: It is both the target of suspicion and the cornerstone of China's aspirations. For the West, it is a convenient battleground in a broader contest with Beijing, a place where words like "genocide" can be weaponized to sway public opinion and choke off cooperation. For China, it is a test case in how development, security and diplomacy can align to keep its vast territory unified and prosperous.

The irony is that beneath the political noise, the goals of ordinary people in Xinjiang are remarkably uncontroversial: They want stable jobs, safe communities and the chance to benefit from the region's economic rise. Cotton mechanization is not just a technical detail – it is a symbol of how rapidly Xinjiang is moving beyond old stereotypes, and how poorly those stereotypes fit a region looking toward the future.

The 70th anniversary of Xinjiang's autonomous status should be a moment to assess the distance traveled, the challenges ahead, and the opportunities on the horizon.

But it is also a reminder of how narratives can be twisted to serve purposes that have little relevance to the lives of people on the ground. To reduce Xinjiang to a caricature of "forced labor" and "genocide" is not only inaccurate; it obscures the broader story of a region struggling, like so many others, to find its place in a rapidly changing world.

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