Shockwaves in Beijing: Xi’s Ruthless Crackdown Leaves Military in Chaos

Paul Riverbank, 1/25/2026Xi’s purge rocks China’s military, exposing deep instability and raising questions over future command.

Zhang Youxia’s fall, in particular, rippled through the circles of power like an unexpected winter storm. The old guard remembers his father’s role in the founding years, fighting side by side with Xi Jinping’s own family. It’s almost unthinkable: these “princelings,” as they’re often known, grew up against a backdrop of revolutionary folklore, well-placed for a lifetime above the routine purges that so often reshaped the Party’s middle ranks. But here Zhang is, dismissed from the Central Military Commission and the Politburo—offices from which even whispers echo for years. Alongside him fell General Liu Zhenli, the man charged with coordinating the Joint Staff Department. What their colleagues heard in the following days was an official chorus of accusations: serious violations, “undermining Party control,” and, as is now de rigueur, the all-purpose charge of corruption.

There’s an air of theater to such announcements. In the old days, “corruption” might have raised an eyebrow or two, but rarely did it reach this altitude. Beijing’s rumor mills churned fast: these were not mere symbolic removals, but the flattening of an entire high command. Even some Party elders reportedly wondered aloud how anyone in Zhang’s position—once likened to “a member of the family”—could fall from grace at such velocity. Tracing the path behind these events, it’s hard to escape the pattern that’s defined Xi’s decade-plus of rule: the higher they rise, the more brittle their position. When your only real safety is a bond of loyalty to the man at the top, even a childhood connection is no insurance.

This pattern isn’t new, but the pace and scale are staggering. Xi’s sword has swung through the ranks before. The culling of the Rocket Force in 2023, a unit trusted with China’s strategic arsenal, rattled cages and upended careers. And the previous year’s vanishing act by two defense ministers preceded the erasures of their Party credentials. Any illusion of immunity has evaporated—no post, no pedigree is out of reach.

Inside the military, the atmosphere is tense, a portrait pieced together through conversations with observers and off-the-record remarks from sources with close ties to the PLA. There is uncertainty in the air, a tension that’s difficult to disguise even as the Party apparatus keeps the public messaging rigid: corruption, discipline, loyalty. Old-line propagandists have warned that “corruption remains the largest threat,” echoing Xi’s solemn pronouncements, but seasoned China hands are left unimpressed. After all, the stench of graft wafts through real estate deals, infrastructure projects, and the state’s bloated banks. As one jaded analyst quipped, “If cleaning up corruption really meant a genuine purge, there would be almost no one left standing—certainly not just in uniform.”

International reactions have ranged from bemused skepticism to grave concern about capabilities. Some Western policy professionals, who study everything from procurement contracts to satellite images, point to disrupted command chains, delayed hardware purchases, and sudden disappearances from state media coverage. The army’s top brass, it turns out, are just as confused as the outside world. “Whole units are now under constant scrutiny, mobile phones are being confiscated—what’s left is a military on edge,” an Asia correspondent told me recently.

These purges reverberate well beyond barracks life. A command structure hollowed beneath the surface—shorn of experience, marred by abrupt dismissals—struggles to behave as a modern fighting force. Delays stack up, and doubts creep in about readiness and cohesion. There’s now a near-consensus among foreign policy think tanks: “A force this nervous is unlikely to make bold moves near Taiwan or in the South China Sea any time soon.” The paradox is striking—Xi’s drive for loyalty may immunize his regime from military adventurism, but only by sacrificing a measure of operational competence.

Look closer, and it’s clear this isn’t just about reform, nor simple fear of graft. It is about power; more pointedly, it’s about Xi’s grip on it. Even stalwarts with storied bloodlines can find their fates overturned with a signature. For those still in uniform, the message could not be clearer: no one’s seat is fixed, and neither is the ground beneath. Beijing’s ceremonial calm is just that—a façade. Behind closed doors, decisions taken in recent weeks cast longer shadows than any parade or state dinner.

As the dust continues to settle, the world waits and watches. Strategists and historians alike are left guessing: will this rising tide of paranoia and purges define the next chapter in the Party’s history, or has the breaking point already been reached? In China’s capital, silence can be eloquent—yet the uncertainty, for now, is ringing loudest of all.

At the heart of China’s most secretive institution, a tremor has shaken the foundations in ways nobody in Beijing’s upper echelons seems quite prepared for. Two generals—one, a household name among Party insiders, and the other, a less familiar but vital cog—found themselves on the wrong end of a broom wielded with surprising ferocity by President Xi Jinping.Zhang Youxia’s fall, in particular, rippled through the circles of power like an unexpected winter storm. The old guard remembers his father’s role in the founding years, fighting side by side with Xi Jinping’s own family. It’s almost unthinkable: these “princelings,” as they’re often known, grew up against a backdrop of revolutionary folklore, well-placed for a lifetime above the routine purges that so often reshaped the Party’s middle ranks. But here Zhang is, dismissed from the Central Military Commission and the Politburo—offices from which even whispers echo for years. Alongside him fell General Liu Zhenli, the man charged with coordinating the Joint Staff Department. What their colleagues heard in the following days was an official chorus of accusations: serious violations, “undermining Party control,” and, as is now de rigueur, the all-purpose charge of corruption.There’s an air of theater to such announcements. In the old days, “corruption” might have raised an eyebrow or two, but rarely did it reach this altitude. Beijing’s rumor mills churned fast: these were not mere symbolic removals, but the flattening of an entire high command. Even some Party elders reportedly wondered aloud how anyone in Zhang’s position—once likened to “a member of the family”—could fall from grace at such velocity. Tracing the path behind these events, it’s hard to escape the pattern that’s defined Xi’s decade-plus of rule: the higher they rise, the more brittle their position. When your only real safety is a bond of loyalty to the man at the top, even a childhood connection is no insurance.This pattern isn’t new, but the pace and scale are staggering. Xi’s sword has swung through the ranks before. The culling of the Rocket Force in 2023, a unit trusted with China’s strategic arsenal, rattled cages and upended careers. And the previous year’s vanishing act by two defense ministers preceded the erasures of their Party credentials. Any illusion of immunity has evaporated—no post, no pedigree is out of reach.Inside the military, the atmosphere is tense, a portrait pieced together through conversations with observers and off-the-record remarks from sources with close ties to the PLA. There is uncertainty in the air, a tension that’s difficult to disguise even as the Party apparatus keeps the public messaging rigid: corruption, discipline, loyalty. Old-line propagandists have warned that “corruption remains the largest threat,” echoing Xi’s solemn pronouncements, but seasoned China hands are left unimpressed. After all, the stench of graft wafts through real estate deals, infrastructure projects, and the state’s bloated banks. As one jaded analyst quipped, “If cleaning up corruption really meant a genuine purge, there would be almost no one left standing—certainly not just in uniform.”International reactions have ranged from bemused skepticism to grave concern about capabilities. Some Western policy professionals, who study everything from procurement contracts to satellite images, point to disrupted command chains, delayed hardware purchases, and sudden disappearances from state media coverage. The army’s top brass, it turns out, are just as confused as the outside world. “Whole units are now under constant scrutiny, mobile phones are being confiscated—what’s left is a military on edge,” an Asia correspondent told me recently.These purges reverberate well beyond barracks life. A command structure hollowed beneath the surface—shorn of experience, marred by abrupt dismissals—struggles to behave as a modern fighting force. Delays stack up, and doubts creep in about readiness and cohesion. There’s now a near-consensus among foreign policy think tanks: “A force this nervous is unlikely to make bold moves near Taiwan or in the South China Sea any time soon.” The paradox is striking—Xi’s drive for loyalty may immunize his regime from military adventurism, but only by sacrificing a measure of operational competence.Look closer, and it’s clear this isn’t just about reform, nor simple fear of graft. It is about power; more pointedly, it’s about Xi’s grip on it. Even stalwarts with storied bloodlines can find their fates overturned with a signature. For those still in uniform, the message could not be clearer: no one’s seat is fixed, and neither is the ground beneath. Beijing’s ceremonial calm is just that—a façade. Behind closed doors, decisions taken in recent weeks cast longer shadows than any parade or state dinner.As the dust continues to settle, the world waits and watches. Strategists and historians alike are left guessing: will this rising tide of paranoia and purges define the next chapter in the Party’s history, or has the breaking point already been reached? In China’s capital, silence can be eloquent—yet the uncertainty, for now, is ringing loudest of all.