For Ai Weiwei, one of the world’s most prominent artists and a longstanding critic of the Chinese Communist Party, the act of going home is never a simple affair. On February 9, 2026, Ai returned to China for the first time in over a decade—a decision that, for most, would seem as straightforward as booking a flight. For Ai, however, it was a fraught calculation, shadowed by memories of past detentions and the ever-present risk that he might not see his family again. "People said, 'Are you scared?' I said, 'No, why should I be scared?' I'm Chinese. I have a Chinese passport. I'm entitled to go back and see my mum. So I went back," Ai told The Guardian as he recounted his journey with his 17-year-old son, Lao, who had never met his elderly grandmother before this visit.
Upon landing in China, Ai was subjected to an interview at the airport and released after a couple of hours. The experience, he said, was unexpectedly soothing. The familiar sights, sounds, and smells of his homeland felt like "a piece of jade broken that you can put back together because it matches very well. Everything’s so familiar: the light, the temperature, the people." It was, as he described, "a phone call suddenly reconnecting." For a man whose entire existence has been shaped by authoritarianism and resistance, the act of returning home became a deeply personal yet politically charged moment.
Ai’s visit comes at a time when the Chinese government, under Xi Jinping’s leadership, has intensified its crackdown on dissent. According to The New York Times, Jimmy Lai, a media tycoon and pro-democracy activist in Hong Kong, was sentenced on February 8, 2026, to 20 years in prison—the heaviest penalty for a national security offense in Hong Kong to date. Lai’s sentence aligns with a pattern seen across the mainland, where wealthy entrepreneurs, influential academics, and human rights activists have faced similarly harsh punishments for challenging the state.
Since Xi Jinping assumed power, the Chinese Communist Party has not hesitated to mete out lengthy prison terms to those it deems a threat. Ilham Tohti, an economics professor and advocate for Uyghur rights, was sentenced to life in prison in 2014 on charges of separatism. Ren Zhiqiang, a property tycoon known for his blunt criticism of the Party—including an essay in which he referred to Xi as "a clown"—received an 18-year sentence in 2020 for graft and abuse of power. Sun Dawu, another outspoken tycoon, was sentenced to 18 years in 2021 for organizing attacks on state agencies and provoking quarrels. Businessman Li Huaiqing was sentenced to 20 years in 2020 for fraud, extortion, and inciting subversion. Human rights lawyers Xu Zhiyong and Ding Jiaxi were given 14 and 12 years, respectively, in 2023 after organizing a gathering of lawyers and activists. Even in Hong Kong, 47 opposition figures faced conspiracy charges for holding an unofficial primary vote; most were sentenced to between four and ten years in prison.
Against this backdrop, Ai Weiwei’s return to China is not just a family reunion—it is a quiet act of defiance and a reminder of the risks faced by those who speak out. Ai himself was detained for 81 days in 2011, held in a 170-square-foot windowless cell, and threatened with 13 years in custody on charges he still insists were bogus. "They said, 'When you come out, your son won’t recognise you.' That was very heavy and really the only moment that touched me," Ai recalled. After his release, he was subjected to surveillance and intimidation until his passport was finally returned in 2015, enabling him to begin a life in exile. Today, he splits his time between Lisbon, Berlin, and Cambridge.
Ai’s art and activism have become inseparable. His works, from the installation of 100 million hand-painted porcelain seeds at London’s Tate Modern to the dramatic display of 14,000 fluorescent orange lifejackets on Berlin’s Konzerthaus, are both a testament to his creative vision and a direct challenge to official narratives. His film about the children lost in the 2008 Sichuan earthquake cemented his status as "the most dangerous person in China," as described by The Guardian. His latest project at Aviva Studios in Manchester will see 30 tonnes of buttons, rescued from a shuttered London factory, transformed into monumental hanging artworks by craftspeople in China.
Now, Ai is making waves with his new book, On Censorship, published in early 2026. The slim, 90-page volume is a polemic on the nature of state control, artificial intelligence, and surveillance. Ai argues that censorship is not just an authoritarian tool but a pervasive force in liberal societies as well. "It is the exercise of power over intellectual space," he writes, calling it "an indispensable tool of mental enslavement and a fundamental source of political corruption." Ai warns that even in the West, censorship is "more covert, more deceptive and more corrosive" than many realize. "Liberal societies think that censorship is rare, but people forget that even on sunny days, shadows are inevitable," he notes in the book.
Ai’s critique is not abstract. In November 2023, the Royal Academy in London pulled an exhibition of his new works after he posted a controversial tweet about the persecution of Jewish people and its relationship to the Arab world. Although the tweet was deleted and Ai insisted he had "no intention of being antisemitic," the fallout was swift. The Academy held a vote on whether to revoke his honorary membership, but his peers ultimately supported him. When Ai was later asked to write an article on freedom of speech for the Academy’s magazine, he submitted a piece arguing, "Speaking the truth and insisting on one’s own perspective is dangerous and may come at a heavy price. Books may go unpublished, exhibitions may be closed, concerts cancelled." The article was never published; the Academy claimed there was no room for it. Ai saw this as further evidence of Western censorship, telling The Guardian, "I have several cases like this. Happens in Britain and in Germany." The Royal Academy disputed his account, stating that their decision to drop the piece was made before he had submitted it, and that "plurality of voices, tolerance and free thinking are at the core of what we stand for and seek to protect."
Ai’s perspective on China and the West is evolving. While he acknowledges China’s technological advancements and increased personal freedoms, he is quick to note that his relationship with the country is rooted in family, not politics. "I still have a Chinese passport. My mum is still Chinese. So that’s my only relationship to China. I’m not nostalgic. I’m not patriotic," he said. Yet, he is equally critical of the West, arguing that it has "lost its ethical authority" and become "barely recognisable." He points to his experience of surveillance and censorship in the UK as evidence that the struggle for free expression transcends borders.
As Ai contemplates the world in 2026, he sees a reality that is fractured and complex. "I think today we are living in a complicated world, where life is more like a shattered mirror," he reflects. "It reflects the reality, but the reality can be a broken reality." For Ai Weiwei, the journey home may have offered a momentary sense of reconnection, but the challenges he has long confronted—censorship, surveillance, and the fight for self-expression—remain as urgent as ever.