On August 29, 2025, a digital battlefront emerged in China as the Telegram channel MaskPark, notorious for distributing non-consensual pornographic content featuring Chinese women, was abruptly shuttered. Yet, for many, this closure feels like a fleeting victory in a much larger war. Within days, alternative channels sprang up, some even more brazen, sharing hidden-camera videos and explicit images without the subjects’ knowledge or consent. The saga has shone a harsh spotlight on the gaping legal holes that leave victims of online sexual abuse in China with little hope for justice.
MaskPark, which boasted hundreds of thousands of subscribers, wasn’t just another fringe group hiding in the shadows. According to Southern Metropolis Daily, the channel openly trafficked in revenge porn, upskirt shots, and intimate images, often obtained through covert filming or stolen from private devices. Its popularity and resilience—new channels appeared almost immediately after it was shut down—point to a deeply rooted and organized network determined to evade authorities.
For victims, the trauma runs deeper than the initial violation. Take Ms. D, for example, the only woman so far who has come forward publicly about her ordeal. She learned through a private message that intimate photos and videos of her, taken without her knowledge by a former partner, were circulating on MaskPark. "I was devastated. I never imagined something so personal could be weaponized against me in this way," Ms. D told Southern Metropolis Daily. When she reported her case to the police, the images had already been deleted—a cruel twist that complicated any investigation. Even after consulting with lawyers, Ms. D was told that no existing law in China directly addressed her situation. To make matters worse, the identities of those responsible for posting the content were hidden behind the encrypted walls of Telegram, making civil litigation nearly impossible.
This isn’t just Ms. D’s battle. Activists across China are raising their voices, demanding police intervention and, more importantly, the creation of targeted legislation to address non-consensual sexual content online. "We need a law that specifically recognizes this as a form of sexual abuse and holds perpetrators—and the platforms that enable them—accountable," one activist told The Associated Press. Their frustration is palpable. The current legal framework relies on the charge of "disseminating obscene materials," a catch-all that’s so broad it’s sometimes used against women writing romantic fiction. Meanwhile, it fails to adequately address the unique harms of digital sexual abuse, leaving victims without meaningful recourse.
China’s Ministry of Public Security and the State Council Information Office have not responded publicly to mounting calls for reform. This silence has only deepened the sense of abandonment felt by victims and their advocates. Telegram itself is blocked in China, operating outside the government’s official censorship apparatus. This makes enforcement even trickier, as the platform’s encrypted nature shields administrators and users from easy identification.
The challenges victims face in seeking justice are formidable. For one, the lack of a specific statute leaves police unsure how to proceed. Many officers, confronted with cases like Ms. D’s, find themselves in legal limbo. "Without a clear law, we don’t know how to file these cases," admitted one police official, speaking anonymously to Southern Metropolis Daily. Even if a victim wants to pursue a civil case, they must first identify the perpetrator—an almost impossible task given Telegram’s privacy features.
International comparisons only underscore the depth of China’s legal shortcomings. In South Korea, the infamous "Nth Room" scandal in 2020—where a network of chat rooms shared blackmail material and explicit content—led to a national reckoning. The perpetrator received a 40-year prison sentence, and the government swiftly enacted tougher laws, requiring platforms to monitor their servers for abusive material. The United States, too, has recently beefed up legislation against non-consensual deepfakes and digital sexual abuse. In stark contrast, one Chinese perpetrator caught creating and distributing deepfake porn received just ten days of detention—a penalty so light it hardly serves as a deterrent.
Researchers tracking these illicit networks warn that new Chinese-language Telegram channels have already filled the void left by MaskPark’s closure. Some are dedicated to "upskirt" photos, while others share tips on how to evade detection and offer permanent links for users to "find their way home" if a channel is shut down. This organized resilience highlights the urgent need for systemic reform. "The networks are adaptive and relentless. As long as the legal system lags behind, victims will continue to suffer," an expert in cybercrime told The Associated Press.
Activists are not giving up. They are calling for a two-pronged approach: immediate police action against channel administrators and a new, targeted law that recognizes digital sexual abuse as a distinct crime. "We’re not just fighting for justice for today’s victims," said one advocate. "We’re trying to prevent the next wave of abuse." They argue that only by holding both perpetrators and platforms accountable can the cycle be broken.
Meanwhile, the reality on the ground is grim. Victims like Ms. D face an uphill battle, navigating a legal system that wasn’t built for the digital age. The psychological toll is immense. Many suffer in silence, fearful of stigma or retaliation. Some never even learn that their images have been shared until it’s too late. The lack of official response from Chinese authorities only compounds their sense of isolation.
Yet, the MaskPark case has catalyzed a broader conversation about privacy, consent, and digital rights in China. It has exposed the inadequacy of existing laws and the urgent need for reform. As new channels continue to emerge and victims struggle for recognition and justice, the pressure is mounting on lawmakers to act.
For now, the fight against online sexual abuse in China is far from over. But with each new case, the calls for change grow louder—and the hope remains that, one day, the law will catch up with the technology that has so profoundly altered the landscape of abuse.
