Xi’s Iron Fist: Military Purge Shakes China’s Power Structure

Paul Riverbank, 1/25/2026Xi's sweeping military purges breed fear, uncertainty, and instability in China's power elite.

What set this episode apart was Zhang’s background. His father had been a trusted revolutionary-era ally of Xi Jinping’s own father—so-called “princeling” blood, which not so long ago would have acted as an unspoken insurance policy. That insulation seems to have vanished. A generation or two back, men like Zhang probably counted on their family’s service record to offer protection. Under Xi, those connections seem to matter much less than pure, unblinking loyalty.

The Communist Party’s bulletins usually stick to a script: indiscipline, corruption, betrayal of principles. But scratch the surface, and you discover the real issue floating just beneath the platitudes—absolute allegiance to Xi above all else. Some party writings made it clear enough: Zhang and Liu had somehow “impaired the party’s leadership over the armed forces” or undercut “Xi’s authority.” For outside observers, those phrases signal that the Party’s crackdown is about much more than money changing hands.

This sort of cleansing hasn’t come out of nowhere. If you remember the early years of Xi’s tenure, you’ll recall an unmistakable sweep of the old elite—notably, generals such as Xu Caihou and Guo Boxiong landed in disgrace early on. Then came last year’s clear-out of the Rocket Force, the branch that manages China’s missile arsenal. Practically overnight, top commanders were out, two ministers disappeared, and the ripple effects hit everyone from high-ranking planners down to their closest aides. One analyst with a knack for understatement described it as “a total annihilation of the high command.” Privately, people in defense circles have told me younger officers now keep their heads low, their phones switched off—or handed in—at every turn.

The psychological effect has eclipsed even the practical fallout. Inside the People’s Liberation Army, there’s nervous energy you can almost feel buzzing across bases and offices—a jumpiness you wouldn’t expect from one of the world’s largest armed forces. Careers have stalled. Advancement is frozen. With the shadow of sudden investigations never too far away, a climate of suspicion has started to trump the usual rhythm of training and promotion. Even procurement—securing equipment, deploying resources—has slowed, as officers second-guess every decision, wary of stepping near the wrong rumor.

Officially, of course, this is branded as part of Xi’s ongoing battle against endemic corruption. Sober insiders—party and military alike—roll their eyes at that explanation. “If it was about rooting out graft, you’d have to empty every ministry, not just the ones in uniform,” one former official quipped ruefully. Indeed, few sectors in China’s government are untouched by corruption, yet the PLA appears uniquely targeted.

International watchers are paying attention, and not just because of the spectacle. China’s posture toward Taiwan or the South China Sea—the big strategic questions—now seems less certain. Many analysts have noted what you might call a paradox: the more loyalty Xi demands, the less confident some commanders have become. The logic is easy to follow. Officers worried about potential purges tend to steer clear of bold moves; risk-taking, the kind that might matter in a crisis, isn’t exactly career-friendly when yesterday’s second-in-command could be tomorrow’s scapegoat.

It’s not just a question of whether the new guard is more loyal or simply more invisible. No one is quite sure which quality the leadership actually rewards anymore: is it excellence? Reliability? Or just looking sufficiently indispensable to the right people? Under Mao, there was at least a rough rulebook. Now, the ground keeps shifting. One party elder summed it up to me: “Indispensability isn’t permanent here. You’re safe until you aren’t.”

Down corridors of power—behind closed doors where generals and ministers used to speak in confident tones—there’s a new reticence. Assertiveness has been replaced by carefully measured statements, and sometimes, by plain old silence. The old system’s intricate web of loyalty and kinship is frayed. On parade grounds, soldiers still stand in crisp lines, but it’s the moments off-camera—in break rooms, corridors, whispered exchanges—that reveal how much unease now permeates the PLA’s elite.

If the Party’s official mantra is that “Xi is the Party, and the Party is everything,” those words may carry more than a hint of foreboding for anyone watching from the inside. Fear, not just of loss but of making the wrong move entirely, colors nearly every decision. In Beijing, power has a unique tendency to flow in unpredictable directions. Since rumors cut more deeply than any public accusation, the true cost of this era’s purges may never make it into the history books. But then again, in China’s corridors of power, it’s often the silent shudders, not the shouted slogans, that really linger.

If you happened to be in Beijing during one of those tense early summer weeks, you might have picked up on more than the normal undercurrent of caution in the air—something outside the usual protocol of public faces and carefully worded news releases. Word started to spread, quietly at first, about the sudden and out-of-nowhere demotion of General Zhang Youxia and General Liu Zhenli, two of the country’s top military men. The terse official explanation—“violations of party discipline”—left plenty unsaid. In China, officials know what those words mean: not just the end of a career, but the kind of fall that’s public, sharp, and permanent. Sometimes it’s just loss of rank or money. Sometimes it’s a cell, and not a metaphorical one.What set this episode apart was Zhang’s background. His father had been a trusted revolutionary-era ally of Xi Jinping’s own father—so-called “princeling” blood, which not so long ago would have acted as an unspoken insurance policy. That insulation seems to have vanished. A generation or two back, men like Zhang probably counted on their family’s service record to offer protection. Under Xi, those connections seem to matter much less than pure, unblinking loyalty.The Communist Party’s bulletins usually stick to a script: indiscipline, corruption, betrayal of principles. But scratch the surface, and you discover the real issue floating just beneath the platitudes—absolute allegiance to Xi above all else. Some party writings made it clear enough: Zhang and Liu had somehow “impaired the party’s leadership over the armed forces” or undercut “Xi’s authority.” For outside observers, those phrases signal that the Party’s crackdown is about much more than money changing hands.This sort of cleansing hasn’t come out of nowhere. If you remember the early years of Xi’s tenure, you’ll recall an unmistakable sweep of the old elite—notably, generals such as Xu Caihou and Guo Boxiong landed in disgrace early on. Then came last year’s clear-out of the Rocket Force, the branch that manages China’s missile arsenal. Practically overnight, top commanders were out, two ministers disappeared, and the ripple effects hit everyone from high-ranking planners down to their closest aides. One analyst with a knack for understatement described it as “a total annihilation of the high command.” Privately, people in defense circles have told me younger officers now keep their heads low, their phones switched off—or handed in—at every turn.The psychological effect has eclipsed even the practical fallout. Inside the People’s Liberation Army, there’s nervous energy you can almost feel buzzing across bases and offices—a jumpiness you wouldn’t expect from one of the world’s largest armed forces. Careers have stalled. Advancement is frozen. With the shadow of sudden investigations never too far away, a climate of suspicion has started to trump the usual rhythm of training and promotion. Even procurement—securing equipment, deploying resources—has slowed, as officers second-guess every decision, wary of stepping near the wrong rumor.Officially, of course, this is branded as part of Xi’s ongoing battle against endemic corruption. Sober insiders—party and military alike—roll their eyes at that explanation. “If it was about rooting out graft, you’d have to empty every ministry, not just the ones in uniform,” one former official quipped ruefully. Indeed, few sectors in China’s government are untouched by corruption, yet the PLA appears uniquely targeted.International watchers are paying attention, and not just because of the spectacle. China’s posture toward Taiwan or the South China Sea—the big strategic questions—now seems less certain. Many analysts have noted what you might call a paradox: the more loyalty Xi demands, the less confident some commanders have become. The logic is easy to follow. Officers worried about potential purges tend to steer clear of bold moves; risk-taking, the kind that might matter in a crisis, isn’t exactly career-friendly when yesterday’s second-in-command could be tomorrow’s scapegoat.It’s not just a question of whether the new guard is more loyal or simply more invisible. No one is quite sure which quality the leadership actually rewards anymore: is it excellence? Reliability? Or just looking sufficiently indispensable to the right people? Under Mao, there was at least a rough rulebook. Now, the ground keeps shifting. One party elder summed it up to me: “Indispensability isn’t permanent here. You’re safe until you aren’t.”Down corridors of power—behind closed doors where generals and ministers used to speak in confident tones—there’s a new reticence. Assertiveness has been replaced by carefully measured statements, and sometimes, by plain old silence. The old system’s intricate web of loyalty and kinship is frayed. On parade grounds, soldiers still stand in crisp lines, but it’s the moments off-camera—in break rooms, corridors, whispered exchanges—that reveal how much unease now permeates the PLA’s elite.If the Party’s official mantra is that “Xi is the Party, and the Party is everything,” those words may carry more than a hint of foreboding for anyone watching from the inside. Fear, not just of loss but of making the wrong move entirely, colors nearly every decision. In Beijing, power has a unique tendency to flow in unpredictable directions. Since rumors cut more deeply than any public accusation, the true cost of this era’s purges may never make it into the history books. But then again, in China’s corridors of power, it’s often the silent shudders, not the shouted slogans, that really linger.