「瘟神来了：黑龙江百万商户非暴力不合作抗争运动（2026.04—06）」2026年4月至6月，中国东北部的黑龙江省持续爆发了一场规模空前的“非暴力不合作”运动。根据“昨天”项目统计，在4月25日至6月30日的67天内，黑龙江省34个县（市、区）的商户先后集体关门罢市，累计参与商户超过百万人。这场行动没有公开的组织者，没有统一的号召，也没有明确的领导人物，却依靠商户之间长期形成的默契不断扩散，成为近年来中国持续时间最长、覆盖范围最广的集体抗争行动之一。与此同时，面对这样一场“去中心化”的大规模运动，中共当局几乎束手无策，只能眼睁睁看着罢市浪潮蔓延。
序幕
这场运动最早出现在黑龙江省绥化市西南部的一个小县城。2026年4月25日，绥化市青冈县全县商户突然集体关门停业，没有人公开说明原因，官方也未作解释。一天后，紧邻青冈县的望奎县商户也相继集体罢市。两地罢市均持续约三天后结束，却由此拉开了一场大规模“非暴力不合作”抗争运动的序幕。
升级
5月12日，沉寂十余天后，距青冈县约300公里外的讷河市，也出现了全城商户集体关门停业现象。随后十余天内，运动开始跨地区扩散。5月23日至29日的一周内，齐齐哈尔地区的拜泉县、依安县、克东县、克山县、富裕县等地商户相继加入。
进入6月，在经历4月、5月的零星扩散后，这场运动迎来全面爆发。6月3日至16日，绥化地区首先形成连片蔓延：北林区、安达市、肇东市、兰西县、青冈县、庆安县等地先后出现商户集体停业。紧接着，大庆市萨尔图区、让胡路区、龙凤区、红岗区、大同区以及林甸县、杜尔伯特蒙古族自治县也加入其中。
6月17日起，齐齐哈尔市迎来集中爆发。短短两天内，泰来县、龙江县、甘南县、昂昂溪区、梅里斯达斡尔族区、富拉尔基区、龙沙区、铁锋区、建华区等几乎覆盖全市的多个县区同时出现商户集体关门，形成此次运动中规模最大的区域性爆发。齐齐哈尔作为黑龙江省第二大城市，其市区及下辖县市几乎全部卷入罢市浪潮，这在近年来中国的集体行动中极为罕见。
与此同时，大庆市肇州县商户从6月17日起持续停业至6月23日，黑河嫩江市于6月20日加入，肇源县随后也连续两天出现商户集体罢市。
6月下旬，运动继续向绥化地区扩散。海伦市、绥棱县连续多日反复停业，部分地区甚至出现“开一天、关一天”的循环状态。6月30日，随着绥化市下属的绥棱县商户最后一次集体关门，此次大规模不合作运动暂告一段落。
至此，黑龙江已有34个县（市、区）先后出现商户集体停业，涉及绥化、齐齐哈尔、大庆、黑河四个地级市。
瘟神来了
那么，究竟是什么原因，让黑龙江多地商户在没有统一组织、没有公开号召的情况下，突然一地接一地关门停业？答案就在当地部分商户口中的“瘟神”两个字里。
据大量当地商户和网友透露，这场运动的直接起因，是商户之间传出的据称是来自体制内部的消息：政府联合检查组即将对辖区内的商店、超市、餐饮店等开展集中检查。检查本身并不罕见，商户为何要大面积关门躲避？原因是长期以来，政府部门经常以消防、安全、卫生、市场监管等名义开展集中检查，并开出数额较高的罚单。一次处罚少则数千元、上万元，多则数万元甚至十万元以上。对许多小商户而言，一年辛苦经营所得，甚至不足以支付一次罚款。在过去的经济繁荣时期，被罚款后尚能靠后续经营慢慢补回来。但当前经济低迷，不少商户本就在盈亏边缘挣扎，一旦遭遇高额罚款，几乎等同于被判”死刑”。
至于检查“合格”的标准究竟是什么，官方说不清楚，商户也不明白，但只要检查人员进入店铺，总能找到各种理由进行处罚。消防通道、食品摆放、卫生细节、证照手续、货品标签，任何一个细节都可能成为罚款理由。
这种不确定性令商户人心惶惶，一些商户甚至表示，检查组比新冠病毒还厉害，只要看见有人神情严肃地在街上走动，就会怀疑对方是检查组成员。因此，一旦商户之间传出”将有检查”的消息，越来越多人便选择主动停业数日以规避风险，只要一家有风吹草动，附近店铺往往会立刻齐刷刷关门。对商户而言，几天没有收入尚可承受，但一旦被罚款，往往是灭顶之灾。
这场风波波及的不只是商户。由于大量店铺同时停业，普通市民的日常生活也受到影响：餐饮暂停营业、蔬菜和生活用品购买不便，理发等日常服务也难以获得。不少市民在网络上抱怨，临时买不到菜、找不到开门的理发店，生活节奏被迫打乱。 有市民疑问，当局为什么不用这种方式去解决食品安全、医疗问题、贪污腐败等问题。出于对检查人员的恐惧与厌恶，当地民众给检查组取了外号”瘟神”。
无款可罚，当局紧急“辟谣”
由于商户集体停业，检查人员难以像以往一样进入店铺寻找理由开具高额罚单，不少检查行动最终无功而返。为了促使商户恢复营业，各地政府陆续发布公告“辟谣”，一些地方甚至出动宣传车辆沿街广播，称网络流传的“商户被处以巨额罚款”等信息“不属实”，并强调政府并未开展任何形式的全市大检查。然而，对于早已失去公信力的官方而言，这些声明并未打消商户疑虑，反而进一步加剧了他们的不信任，许多商户因此继续选择关门歇业。
事实上，在此次运动期间，仍有部分商户因相信了官方公告而恢复营业，但很快，他们就为此付出了代价。据当地流传的消息，罚款金额从数万元到十余万元不等。部分处罚理由甚至仅是店内发现三个变质土豆，或摆放了一个烟灰缸。对此，不少市民调侃称：“这是财政紧张下来集资了”“收钱来了，纯收钱。”
去中心、非暴力、不合作：一种新的集体行动模式
67天里，这场没有统一组织、没有公开领袖的集体行动，依靠商户彼此之间长期以来形成的默契，以及相互之间的信息传播和效仿不断扩散，最终蔓延至黑龙江34个市、县、区，形成了一场典型的”非暴力不合作”运动。对于大多数参与者而言，停业最初只是为了规避检查、避免高额罚款，是一种出于自身利益的经营选择；但当越来越多商户作出相同决定时，分散的个体行为便汇聚成了一场参与人数超过百万的大规模集体行动。
这场运动能够持续两个多月，一个重要原因就在于它没有固定的组织形态，也使当局难以像处理传统群体事件那样迅速终止行动。长期以来，中共当局应对群体事件，通常依赖寻找组织者、切断联络网络、约谈带头人，通过瓦解组织来终结行动。但这场运动自始至终没有公开发起人，没有统一联络渠道，也没有共同发布的诉求。每一家商户是否停业，在形式上都只是各自作出的经营决定。面对不断蔓延的罢市潮，当局既找不到可以抓捕的组织者，也没有联络网络可以切断，更难将一场没有集会、没有口号、没有组织架构的广泛停业行动纳入既有的处置模式。运动期间，当局能够采取的措施，主要是发布辟谣公告、组织宣传车辆沿街广播、劝导商户恢复营业，但作用有限。
这一现象尤其值得关注，因为它发生在中国维稳体系不断强化的背景下。近年来，从网格化管理、人脸识别、大数据预警，到社交媒体监控、重点人员稳控，各类维稳和社会控制手段不断升级。在这样的环境下，依赖组织、串联和公开集会的大规模集体抗争越来越难以形成和持续。“昨天”项目及其前身“非新闻”的数据统计也印证了这一趋势：与十年前相比，中国大规模民间抗争事件的数量和规模均出现了明显下降。
相比之下，”避瘟神”运动几乎没有依赖这些容易被识别的要素。参与者之间无需建立组织，也没有固定集会地点，更没有统一的诉求文件。运动的扩散主要依赖商户之间长期形成的默契，以及对共同处境的判断和效仿，而不是正式的组织动员。正因如此，现有维稳体系中许多针对组织化行动设计的应对方式，在这场运动中都难以发挥预期作用。
在大规模游行、联署请愿和组织化抗争越来越困难的情况下，这种以”不合作”为核心、依靠个体自主决定不断扩散的行动方式，值得关注。它的参与门槛很低，商户只需选择不开门营业，不需要公开身份，也无需承担组织者的风险。它的传播同样难以阻断，因为推动更多人加入的并不是统一号召，而是相似处境下不断重复出现的共同选择。
当然，去中心化行动也存在明显局限。由于缺乏统一组织和代表机制，参与者难以形成一致诉求，也难以与政府展开正式协商。运动能持续多久，很大程度上取决于现实压力是否仍然存在。一旦检查减少、商户恢复营业，行动往往也会自然消散，而难以继续围绕基层执法、罚没制度等更深层问题形成长期压力。
但在当前环境下，这种局限恰恰也是它能够持续存在的重要原因。没有组织者，就难以实施”定点打击”；没有统一诉求，也就缺少可以集中压制的目标。从这个意义上说，”避瘟神”运动展示的或许不仅是一场商户集体停业事件，更是一种在高压环境下逐渐形成的行动方式：当组织化抗争的空间不断收缩，人们仍然可以通过彼此独立、却高度一致的选择，表达共同的不满。
如果说过去的中国社会运动更多依赖组织动员和街头集结，那么黑龙江商户运动所展现的，则是一种建立在共同利益、自发传播和非暴力不合作基础上的去中心化集体行动。这种模式是否会被更多群体借鉴，还有待观察；但它已经为理解当代中国社会集体行动的变化，提供了一个值得关注的新案例。
“The Plague God Cometh: A Million Merchants’ Nonviolent Noncooperation Movement in Heilongjiang (April–June 2026)”
From April to June 2026, China’s northeastern province of Heilongjiang saw an unprecedented wave of “nonviolent noncooperation.” According to figures compiled by the “Yesterday” project, over 67 days between April 25 and June 30, merchants in 34 counties, cities, and districts across the province collectively shuttered their businesses, with total participation exceeding one million. The movement had no public organizers, no unified call to action, and no identifiable leadership, yet it spread through longstanding tacit understanding among merchants, becoming one of the longest-running and most geographically extensive collective actions in China in recent years. Facing this decentralized, large-scale movement, Chinese Communist Party authorities proved largely powerless, left to watch the wave of closures spread unchecked.
Prelude
The movement first surfaced in a small county in southwestern Suihua, Heilongjiang. On April 25, merchants across Qing’an County shut their doors in unison, with no public explanation offered by anyone and no official comment forthcoming. A day later, merchants in neighboring Wangkui County followed suit. Both closures lasted roughly three days, but they marked the opening act of what would become a large-scale campaign of nonviolent noncooperation.
Escalation
After a lull of more than ten days, on May 12 merchants in Nehe, roughly 300 kilometers from Qing’an County, closed en masse citywide. Over the following two weeks, the movement began spreading across regions. Between May 23 and 29, merchants in Baiquan, Yi’an, Kedong, Keshan, and Fuyu counties in the Qiqihar area joined one after another.
By June, following the sporadic spread of April and May, the movement erupted in full. From June 3 to 16, closures first swept across the Suihua region in succession — Beilin District, Anda, Zhaodong, Lanxi County, Qing’an County again, and Qing’an County. Daqing’s Sartu, Ranghulu, Longfeng, Honggang, and Datong districts, along with Lindian and Dorbod Mongol Autonomous Counties, soon joined as well.
Starting June 17, Qiqihar saw a concentrated outbreak. Within two days, merchants across Tailai, Longjiang, Gannan, Ang’angxi, Meilisi Daur, Fularji, Longsha, Tiefeng, and Jianhua — nearly every county and district in the city — shut down simultaneously, forming the largest regional surge of the entire movement. As Heilongjiang’s second-largest city, nearly all of Qiqihar’s urban districts and subordinate counties were swept into the wave of closures, a scale rarely seen in Chinese collective action in recent years.
Meanwhile, merchants in Daqing’s Zhaozhou County remained closed continuously from June 17 to 23; Nenjiang City in Heihe joined on June 20; and Zhaoyuan County saw two consecutive days of collective closures shortly after.
In late June, the movement continued spreading through the Suihua region. Hailun and Suileng County saw repeated closures over several days, with some areas cycling between opening one day and closing the next. On June 30, merchants in Suileng County closed their doors for the final time, bringing this large-scale noncooperation campaign to a temporary halt.
By that point, merchants across 34 counties, cities, and districts in Heilongjiang had collectively shut down at various points, spanning four prefecture-level cities: Suihua, Qiqihar, Daqing, and Heihe.
The Plague God Cometh
What, then, caused merchants across so many parts of Heilongjiang to shut their doors one place after another, with no unified organization and no public call to action? The answer lies in a term some local merchants use: “the plague god” (瘟神).
According to numerous local merchants and internet users, the movement’s direct trigger was word spreading among merchants — reportedly originating from inside the system — that a joint government inspection team was about to conduct sweeping checks of shops, supermarkets, and restaurants across the district. Inspections themselves are nothing new, so why did merchants close en masse to avoid them? The reason lies in a long-standing pattern: government departments frequently conduct centralized inspections under the banners of fire safety, security, hygiene, and market regulation, then issue steep fines. A single penalty can run from several thousand to tens of thousands of yuan, and sometimes more than 100,000 yuan. For many small merchants, a fine like that can exceed an entire year’s earnings. During times of economic prosperity, merchants could recoup a fine through continued business over time. But with the economy now in a downturn, many merchants are already operating on the edge of profitability, and a single steep fine amounts to a death sentence for their business.
As for what actually counts as “passing” an inspection, officials cannot say and merchants do not understand — but once inspectors are inside a shop, they can always find some pretext for a fine. Fire exits, how food is displayed, hygiene details, licensing paperwork, product labeling: any single detail can become grounds for a penalty.
This uncertainty has left merchants on edge. Some say the inspection teams are more fearsome than COVID-19 — the mere sight of someone walking down the street with a serious expression is enough to raise suspicion that they might be an inspector. As a result, whenever word spreads that inspections are coming, more and more merchants choose to close preemptively for several days to avoid the risk; once one shop shows any sign of trouble, nearby stores tend to shut their doors in unison almost immediately. For merchants, losing a few days’ income is bearable — but a fine is often ruinous.
The fallout extends beyond merchants themselves. With so many shops closed at once, ordinary residents’ daily lives have also been disrupted: restaurants shut down, buying vegetables and household goods becomes difficult, and everyday services like haircuts become hard to find. Many residents have complained online about being unable to buy groceries or find an open barbershop, their routines thrown into disarray. Some have asked why authorities can’t apply this same swift efficiency to problems like food safety, healthcare, and corruption. Out of fear and resentment toward the inspectors, local residents have taken to calling the inspection teams “the plague god.”
Nothing Left to Fine, Authorities Rush to “Set the Record Straight”
With merchants shut down en masse, inspectors have found it difficult to enter shops and find pretexts for steep fines as they once did, and many inspection efforts have come away empty-handed. In an effort to get merchants to reopen, local governments have issued a series of public notices “debunking rumors,” with some areas even dispatching loudspeaker trucks to broadcast along the streets that online reports of merchants facing massive fines are “untrue,” insisting no citywide inspection campaign was underway. But for authorities who had already lost public credibility, these statements failed to ease merchants’ doubts — and in fact deepened their distrust, prompting many to keep their doors closed.
Indeed, during the movement some merchants who believed the official notices did reopen for business — and quickly paid the price. According to accounts circulating locally, fines ranged from tens of thousands to more than 100,000 yuan. Some penalties were reportedly issued over grounds as trivial as three spoiled potatoes found in a shop or a single ashtray left out. Many residents have mocked the fines online, saying it looks like the government is short on cash and “fundraising,” or bluntly, “just collecting money, pure and simple.”
Decentralized, Nonviolent, Noncooperative: A New Model of Collective Action
Over 67 days, this collective action — with no unified organization and no public leader — spread through longstanding tacit understanding among merchants, along with the circulation of information and mutual imitation, eventually reaching 34 cities, counties, and districts across Heilongjiang and forming a textbook case of “nonviolent noncooperation.” For most participants, closing shop began as a simple act of self-interest — avoiding inspections and steep fines. But as more and more merchants made the same choice, these scattered individual decisions coalesced into a mass collective action involving more than a million people.
One key reason the movement lasted more than two months is precisely that it had no fixed organizational structure, making it difficult for authorities to shut down the way they typically handle mass incidents. For years, the Party’s standard approach to mass incidents has relied on identifying organizers, cutting off communication networks, and summoning ringleaders for “talks” — dismantling the organization to end the action. But this movement had no public initiator from start to finish, no unified communication channel, and no jointly issued demands. Whether any given shop closed was, in form, simply an individual business decision. Faced with a spreading wave of closures, authorities found no organizers to arrest and no network to sever, and struggled to fit a widespread shutdown with no rallies, no slogans, and no organizational structure into their existing playbook. The main measures authorities could take during the movement were issuing notices debunking rumors, dispatching loudspeaker trucks, and urging merchants to reopen — all with limited effect.
This phenomenon is especially notable because it unfolded against the backdrop of an ever-tightening stability-maintenance apparatus in China. In recent years, grid-style social management, facial recognition, big-data early-warning systems, social media surveillance, and the close monitoring of “key individuals” have all intensified. In such an environment, large-scale collective resistance that depends on organization, coordination, and public assembly has become increasingly difficult to sustain. Data compiled by the “Yesterday” project and its predecessor, “Not the News,” bear this out: compared with a decade ago, both the number and scale of large-scale civil protests in China have declined markedly.
By contrast, the “avoiding the plague god” movement relied on almost none of these easily identifiable elements. Participants needed no organization among themselves, no fixed assembly point, and no unified list of demands. The movement spread mainly through longstanding tacit understanding among merchants and shared judgment of a common situation, rather than through formal organizational mobilization. As a result, many of the responses the stability-maintenance system has developed for organized action found little purchase against this movement.
At a time when large-scale marches, joint petitions, and organized resistance have all grown more difficult, this mode of action — centered on “noncooperation” and spreading through individual, autonomous decisions — deserves attention. Its barrier to entry is low: merchants need only choose not to open their doors; they need not reveal their identities or take on the risks of being an organizer. It is equally hard to stop, since what draws more people in is not a unified call but the same choice repeatedly made under similar circumstances.
Of course, decentralized action has clear limitations. Without unified organization or representation, participants struggle to form a common set of demands or enter into formal negotiation with the government. How long such a movement lasts depends largely on whether the underlying pressure persists. Once inspections ease and merchants reopen, the action tends to dissipate on its own, unable to sustain long-term pressure around deeper issues such as grassroots law enforcement or the fining system itself.
But in the current environment, this very limitation may be what allows the movement to endure. Without organizers, there is no one to target for a “targeted strike”; without unified demands, there is no single objective to suppress. In this sense, the “avoiding the plague god” movement may represent more than a single episode of merchants shutting their doors — it points to a mode of action gradually taking shape under high-pressure conditions: as space for organized resistance keeps shrinking, people can still express shared grievances through choices made independently yet in striking un
