Chinese Spying Scandal Targeted American Skater Alysa Liu — A Stark Reminder of Beijing’s Reach Inside the U.S.
When American figure skating champion Alysa Liu laced up her skates for the 2022 Winter Olympics in Beijing, she expected to face pressure from competition, not from an international espionage operation. Yet, as she recently revealed, Liu — then only sixteen — found herself at the center of a Chinese government surveillance plot that extended across oceans and into the lives of American citizens. What began as a story of athletic triumph has since become a chilling warning about China’s growing network of transnational repression, reaching even into the homes of families who fled its authoritarian rule.
Just before Liu’s Olympic debut, she was approached by the FBI, who informed her that both she and her father, Arthur Liu, were being spied on by operatives working on behalf of Beijing. The reason? Her father’s long-standing activism and participation in the 1989 Tiananmen Square democracy movement, which forced him to flee China decades earlier. While Alysa was preparing for the most important event of her young career, Chinese intelligence agents were attempting to collect information about her family — an effort that was ultimately thwarted by American counterintelligence officials.
In a recent media interview, Liu recalled how she met an FBI agent at a small Japanese restaurant just before the Olympics. “It was a little bit freaky and exciting,” she said, describing the surreal experience of learning she was the target of a foreign espionage effort. “Imagine finding that out at such a young age. I thought, ‘Am I in a movie or something?’” What Liu experienced wasn’t fiction. It was part of a real and ongoing campaign by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) to monitor, intimidate, and silence critics abroad — even those living on U.S. soil.
According to court documents and FBI reports, one of the men charged in the case, Matthew Ziburis, impersonated an official from the U.S. Olympic and Paralympic Committee in an attempt to obtain the Liu family’s passport numbers and personal details. Ziburis allegedly traveled to California to surveil their home and gather intelligence on behalf of Chinese authorities. His assignment was part of a broader CCP operation targeting dissidents, journalists, and human rights advocates — many of whom thought they had found safety in the United States.
Arthur Liu later told the Associated Press that the harassment was an attempt to “intimidate us, to threaten us not to say anything political or related to human rights violations in China.” He credited the FBI for its swift intervention and protection of his daughter, who nevertheless went on to compete under heavy security. During the Beijing Games, Alysa was assigned multiple escorts at all times, ensuring that no suspicious contact or attempt at interference could occur.
Despite the fear and uncertainty, Liu delivered a remarkable performance, finishing sixth in the women’s singles and helping the U.S. win a bronze medal in the team event. After briefly retiring from competition, she returned triumphantly in 2024, capturing the world championship title — a testament not only to her skill, but to her resilience in the face of political intimidation that no teenage athlete should ever have to endure.
Yet her story is not just about personal courage. It exposes a systemic and deeply troubling pattern: the Chinese regime’s willingness to extend its surveillance state far beyond its borders, weaponizing intimidation and fear to control those it deems threats — even in democratic nations. The Liu family was targeted not because of anything Alysa did, but because her father once dared to stand for freedom in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square. That is how the CCP defines loyalty: not by citizenship or distance, but by submission to its authority.
The Alysa Liu case mirrors other incidents in which Chinese operatives have been caught running “transnational repression” campaigns — schemes that involve spying, harassment, or coercion of Chinese nationals and their families abroad. In New York, federal agents shut down a clandestine “overseas police station” operated by the CCP, which was allegedly used to track and intimidate pro-democracy activists. Similar efforts have been documented in Canada, the U.K., and across Europe, where Chinese agents have targeted journalists, ethnic minorities, and political dissidents.
These actions reflect a broader national strategy under Xi Jinping — one that blurs the line between domestic security and foreign interference. Beijing’s Ministry of State Security does not view the U.S. merely as a geopolitical rival; it sees American soil as a battlefield for influence, where fear and silence are the ultimate weapons. From spying on athletes to hacking into universities, from pressuring corporations to censor content to infiltrating diaspora communities, the CCP’s operations share one objective: to control the global narrative about China and suppress criticism wherever it emerges.
The Liu case also highlights the vulnerability of American citizens with Chinese heritage who have ties to the democracy movement or outspoken political views. Many fled persecution, only to find that Beijing’s reach extends across oceans through proxies, technology, and money. For these families, the United States should be a safe haven — a place where free speech and civil rights are guaranteed. The fact that a U.S.-born teenage athlete had to be placed under FBI protection from Chinese operatives shows just how serious the threat has become.
While the FBI’s swift response and professionalism in protecting the Liu family deserve recognition, the incident must serve as a wake-up call for all Americans. The CCP’s activities are not isolated to dissidents or activists — they represent a direct challenge to U.S. sovereignty and national security. Each operation, whether it involves espionage, intimidation, or cyber theft, chips away at the principle that American citizens are safe and free from foreign coercion.
Alysa Liu’s story is a deeply human reminder of what’s at stake. Behind the medals and headlines lies the sobering truth that the Chinese government is willing to spy on a child — an American athlete — simply because of her father’s beliefs. That kind of moral decay cannot be dismissed as mere politics. It reveals a system that views individual liberty as a threat and sees intimidation as a legitimate instrument of statecraft.
Now twenty years after her father’s flight from China, Alysa stands as a symbol of what the regime in Beijing fears most: a new generation of Americans with Chinese roots who embody freedom, excellence, and resilience. Her courage on the ice, and her willingness to speak publicly about her experience, shed light on a growing problem that the world can no longer ignore.
China’s surveillance campaigns are not only assaults on individual families; they are tests of whether free societies are willing to defend their values. As long as Beijing continues to target Americans — from dissidents to diplomats to athletes — the United States must remain vigilant. Protecting citizens like Alysa Liu means protecting the very principles that make America worth defending.
