The human story behind Dear You – And what some observers missed

Editor's note: Wang Yan, a special commentator for CGTN, is an associate research fellow at the Beijing Foreign Studies University. The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect those of CGTN.

The most enduring connections across nations are not paved with asphalt, but etched in the memories and emotions we carry. Dear You – a modest, Teochew‑language family drama made on a budget of less than $2 million – has become precisely such a bridge, grossing over $295 million and moving millions of hearts across borders, generations, and dialects. Yet remarkably, what audiences see as simple humanity, some observers see through a different lens. A recent piece in The Washington Post, for instance, framed the film as a tool for Beijing to "cultivate loyalty among Chinese communities abroad." That interpretation, however, may have missed the deeper story – one that is not about politics, but about the quiet, universal bonds of love and sacrifice that resonate far beyond any single nation.

The facts the article overlooks

The Washington Post article acknowledges two key facts: The film received no official funding, and it has earned exceptionally high ratings from audiences – a 9.3 out of 10 on Douban from around 956,000 users. It quotes a young Beijing viewer who praised the film for trusting its audience to understand subtle emotions. Yet the article then pivots to a conclusion that sits uneasily with its own evidence: that the film is being "embraced" by state agencies as a "strategic vessel."

This logic is flawed. A film that moves audiences to tears does so because it speaks to something true and universal. Andrea Liu, the 23-year-old medical student interviewed by the newspaper, put it well: The film "trusts the actors to express subtle emotions, and it trusts the audience to understand what is left unsaid." That is not the language of propaganda; it is the language of art.

What The Washington Post fails to mention is that over 90% of the film's plot is drawn from real-life accounts. Director Lan Hongchun spent three years researching and conducting interviews, visiting nearly 300 Chinese households across Southeast Asia, the Americas, and Europe. The film's power comes not from political messaging but from its unflinching portrayal of ordinary people navigating extraordinary circumstances – the qiaopi letters that carried not just money but love across the seas, the quiet endurance of families separated by distance, the sacrifices made in silence.

What the film actually celebrates

At its core, Dear You is about love, home, and "qingyi" – a concept that embodies loyalty, integrity, duty, and compassion. It tells the story of Nanzhi, who for 18 years secretly continues to send letters and remittances in the name of a deceased friend, honoring a debt of gratitude. It is a story about promises kept across oceans, about the quiet sacrifices that bind families together.

When Musheng tells his wife, "Home is wherever you are; with home in the heart, no distance or drifting can ever leave you adrift," he is speaking a truth that resonates across cultures: that home is not merely a place but a bond, a responsibility, a love that endures.

The film also highlights the transformative power of education. Both Musheng and Shurou are illiterate and rely on others to write and read their letters. Their longing for knowledge leads them to create a small learning space for the children of Chinese expatriates – a school that enables Nanzhi to learn Chinese and later continue the correspondence. That small teaching station eventually helped establish a Chinese language school in Thailand. A shared language is key to cultural identity, but it is not a weapon – it is a bridge.

Setting the record straight

Let us be clear: The director and screenwriter of Dear You had no intention of influencing the sovereignty of any nation. Their sole purpose was to tell a story rooted in the real‑life experiences of ordinary people – the qiaopi letters that carried love, sacrifice, and hope across the seas. They fully respect Singapore's Senior Minister Lee Hsien Loong's statement that Singapore is "a separate country with separate sovereignty from China." That is a fundamental principle of international relations, and no cultural work should be misused to undermine it.

Likewise, the Chinese government has no agenda to use this film as a united front tool. To label a deeply human story about family, loyalty, and compassion as "political warfare" is not only untrue – it is an insult to the filmmakers, the audiences, and the very nature of cultural expression. When every artistic work that resonates with overseas Chinese communities is automatically suspected of being a political instrument, we risk entering a territory where cultural exchange is poisoned by mistrust.

The deeper unease

Why, then, does a family drama provoke such a reaction?

The answer lies not in the film but in the anxieties of those who write about it. In an increasingly multipolar world, cultural affinity – the natural bond between people who share language, history, and values – has become a source of unease for some. Rather than celebrate the fact that a small-budget film from China can move hearts across Southeast Asia, they choose to see it as something to fear.

But fear is not a basis for cultural criticism, and political labeling is not a substitute for honest analysis. When a film that has moved millions of ordinary people is dismissed as a "united front tool," this is not just a misunderstanding – it reduces human emotion to geopolitical calculus. It reveals a troubling tendency to politicize art rather than appreciate its human core.

The film's overseas rollout began in Singapore, Malaysia, and Brunei. In Singapore, where ethnic Chinese make up about 74% of the population, the Teochew-language version has been so popular that tickets are reportedly hard to come by, prompting local authorities to add screenings and adjust policies for dialect exhibitions. These are not the actions of a population recoiling from a political message. They are the actions of people eager to connect with a story that feels like their own.

The bridge that matters

Cultural works, at their best, do not drive people apart. They draw them together. Dear You is a shining testament to that truth. It is a film about ordinary people doing extraordinary things for love, and in that ordinariness, it finds the most extraordinary power of all: the power to make strangers recognize themselves in one another.

For younger audiences, it offers a window into the sacrifices their grandparents made. For overseas Chinese communities, it offers a mirror. Malaysian Chinese students in China have said the film's dialects and customs echo the voices of their own grandmothers. Across Thailand, Malaysia, and Indonesia, the film has sparked spontaneous conversations about family history and cultural heritage. Far from threatening anyone's national identity, such reflections are a gift, deepening our understanding of who we are and where we come from.

That recognition, that desire to know and be known, is the most precious foundation upon which relations between nations can be built. It is not the imposing diplomacy of treaties and trade agreements, but something far more enduring – the quiet, steady work of hearts learning to speak the same language. And as this humble film so beautifully demonstrates, cinema is one of the most eloquent translators we have.

A bridge is not a weapon simply because it connects two shores. And a story about love is not a political operation simply because it reminds people of where they come from. Dear You is neither a Trojan horse nor a manifesto – it is an invitation to remember: that distance does not diminish devotion, that letters can carry more than money, and that home, ultimately, is not a line on a map but a feeling in the heart.

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