What Zhen Zhen’s rise to infamy says about Singapore’s appetite for realness

TikTok livestreamer Zhen Zhen is a distinctly modern internet phenomenon. Depending on who you ask, she’s either an unsung hero, a cautionary tale, or something stranger – a real-time soap opera in Singapore’s very crowded online stage.

“I’m not going to the club anymore,” she says in Mandarin, during a TikTok livestream. “They invited me. I thought we were just going to eat.”

Her husband’s voice crackles over the speaker: “Don’t tell me. I don’t care.”

The chat lights up instantly.

“Wow FF really angry liao.”

“Still so stubborn.”

“Faster pull your ear say sorry.”

By the time the call ends, hundreds have tuned in – just in time to hear her call him “kanasai”.

Who is TikToker Zhen Zhen in Singapore?

Her real name is Tan Wan Cheng. Originally from Malaysia, Wan Cheng is a Singapore-based TikTok livestreamer in her late 30s who works full-time as an administrative clerk at a local industrial services firm – though, in early August, viewers began to speculate that she may have lost her job. It is unclear when she moved to Singapore, though her LinkedIn states that she attended Shuqun Secondary School from 2001 to 2004. Wan Cheng has a husband, whom she calls “FF”, and their two children – appearing, at first glance, to be a typical nuclear family.

Online, however, she is better known as Zhen Zhen or ‘Miko’ – a daily livestreamer who shot to viral fame in early 2025 after a TikTok clip of her ranting about a plastic bag made the rounds. While she has frequently switched accounts, her latest handle, @miko48650, has already amassed over 17,000 followers.

“Actually, in that incident, I didn’t throw the plastic bag at the person, and the person didn’t throw the plastic bag at me,” Wan Cheng clarified in an interview with Her World. “I was just talking to my daughter about this incident. Nothing happened that day.”

Still, a second wave of virality emerged – this time, a clip of Zhen Zhen brisk-walking down the pavement to the now-infamous soundbite: “Are you running?”

Even the official FIFA TikTok account joined in.

Who is the real Tan Wan Cheng?

At once divisive and captivating, the bespectacled mother of two has become a figure hard to ignore. Wan Cheng has built a following by saying what others wouldn’t – or couldn’t – with a rawness rarely seen on Singapore screens.

Online, she’s anything but filtered: broadcasting from her bed, office cubicle, or hawker centre, she slips easily from shopping hauls to profanity-laced rants, once telling a viewer mid-dessert to “G A D, go and die”.

In person, however, Wan Cheng comes across as soft-spoken and reserved – a far cry from the loud, dramatic persona that often defines her streams. 

Reflecting on her sudden virality, she smiled and shared, “I feel special when international accounts use my audio.”

That feeling of being seen could be what keeps Wan Cheng streaming. In May, after revealing that her husband had forgotten her birthday, her followers sent her a surprise gift. Wan Cheng was so touched, she cried on stream.  

But not all attention is positive. And not all of it is harmless.

The cost of internet virality in Singapore

As Wan Cheng’s profile grew, online sentiment began to turn. Clips of her livestreams now circulate out of context. Statements are clipped mid-sentence, dissected, and re-shared. Accusations of child abuse began surfacing after a TikTok Live clip – now widely circulated – showed her speaking sharply as her five-year-old daughter sobbed off-camera.

Commenters were quick to condemn. Others described the moment as “traumatic” and “abuse”.

The backlash against Wan Cheng seemed to escalate following increased media attention – a signal that perhaps she had made the crossover from fringe internet curiosity to someone with broader cultural significance. For some Singaporeans, that shift felt disconcerting, if not undeserved.

“The ‘toxic’ hatred really came into full force when she started getting more exposure,” viewer Jarren* says, referring to her cameo in FOLLOW AUNTY LA! and appearances on multiple podcasts. Another viewer, Jade*, adds, “They don’t want her to have good things, because they don’t have them either.”

On 27 July, Wan Cheng took to TikTok to share that police visited her rental flat following a report of alleged child abuse. Wan Cheng speculates it may have been a disgruntled follower she had blocked. 

“My relationship with my children are (sic) very good, don’t believe what other people say,” she tells Her World in a follow-up call. “We share things with each other. There’s laughter together. We’re very happy. [My daughter] says mama is her best friend.”

Others have attempted to dig into her family background, unverified debt, and marriage. When asked about these allegations, Wan Cheng denied all claims of infidelity in a statement to Her World, but declined to comment on the accusations of debt. 

Dr. Shobha Avadhani, Senior Lecturer at NUS’ Department of Communications and New Media, explains that as Wan Cheng’s audience and reach grow, content once appreciated mainly by those familiar with her social context now attracts wider scrutiny.

Zhen Zhen’s live streams continue to remain unfiltered, cycling through frustration, affection, fatigue – sometimes within the same minute. Her now-infamous outbursts (“brock brock brock,” “GAD,” “kanasai,” “end live”) have become online shorthand for her volatility and her limited capacity to deal with criticism – whether warranted or otherwise.

Is Zhen Zhen’s persona amplified?

As with many viral personalities, questions arise: Is Wan Cheng truly who she presents herself to be, or is her persona amplified to provoke and profit from a reactive audience?

Only she can say for sure. “I’m the same person. This is me, ah. Zhen Zhen,” she insists. “My followers know everything about me. What I’m going to do (sic) I say out one. Nothing they don’t know.” 

Controversy aside, fans still flock to Zhen Zhen. Earlier this year, she hosted a fan meet at a karaoke lounge. In public, people ask her for photos – much to the surprise of her parents. “My parents don’t have TikTok so they don’t know I’m viral. They were shocked when people ask (sic) to take photo with me,” Wan Cheng says.

Fan communities have also taken root online, including Zhen Zhen Paradise – a Telegram group chat with over 900 members at the time of writing. Part grassroots fan club, part newsfeed, it circulates livestream updates, reposted clips, and the occasional message from Zhen Zhen herself.

For some, her appeal lies in her raw relatability – a figure unafraid to lay bare the messiness of daily life.

“I think many of us can relate to Wanzhen’s unfiltered rants,” says 21-year-old Jarren*, a current member of Zhen Zhen Paradise. “Her draw stems from talking about things we also think about but dare not voice out… [And] her delivery method of these thoughts have certainly added a layer of colour to the entertainment.”

Jarren* adds that he uses Zhen Zhen-themed Telegram stickers with his peers, and keeps up with her streams through multiple fan groups — he reports that he is in three, including Zhen Zhen Paradise.

Others, like Jade*, 34, express a more personal concern for Wan Cheng’s well-being. She was among the first to comment when Her World posted a teaser clip of Zhen Zhen on TikTok.

Jade* sees the Zhen Zhen Paradise group chat as a form of collective care. “[I’m] really glad [the] Zhen Zhen Paradise group chat [was] formed,” she says. “For her to do better, she first needs to feel safe and supported.”

Neither Jarren* nor Jade* know Wan Cheng personally.

Telegram group/fans turn on Zhen Zhen

While one Telegram channel rallies support, others sharpen their pitchforks.

At the time of writing, Kanasai Paradise boasts 4,000 members – at least four times more than Zhen Zhen Paradise – and The Great WZ Expose has over 900. Both function as a running archive of her most “incriminating” livestream clips and serve as a hotbed for relentless tirades against Wan Cheng. 

When a Her World writer attempted to pose the question of what drives the group, the response was swift, with many pointing to her past actions and controversies.  

This goes beyond passive viewership. Some viewers actively coordinate livestream raids, flooding the comments with opinions on her eating habits, appearance, parenting style and relationship with her husband. Her behaviour is closely monitored – even policed – across platforms, akin to a crowd-sourced Big Brother. 

While it is easy to dismiss this as internet chatter, the impact on Wan Cheng has been undeniably tangible – viewers have doxxed her parents and workplace, contacted her employer, and even lodged a police report. 

‘ST’*, a social worker in their 30s who is in both of the group chats, has followed the discourse with growing concern.

“There were comments telling her to go and die,” they recall. “And I remember one incident where the police had to be called in to check on her wellbeing. That moment was a wake-up call for me. It became clear that this wasn’t just entertainment – there were real mental health implications at play.”

As viewer Jarren* points out, many of Zhen Zhen’s most “unhinged” on-stream reactions are not unprovoked. “People scolding her for holding chopsticks the wrong way, for eating instant noodles, saying it’s unhealthy.”

Jarren* adds that during a stream when Wan Cheng changed her mind on buying bubble tea, “The admins of the group chat then saw an opportunity to attack her character, accusing her of dishonesty simply because she changed her mind.”

Experts say that when content creators are constantly visible online, provocative interactions can quickly escalate into cycles of conflict.

“When your life is constantly on display,” says Dr. Annabelle Chow from Annabelle Psychology, “it opens the door to criticism, cyberbullying, and even doxxing... Online disagreements can spiral into unfriendly, antagonistic interactions quickly, and the emotional toll of dealing with hate or harsh comments can be heavy.”

However, Wan Cheng insists she’s unaffected.

Yet, certain viewers find the contradictions – in her public meltdowns, account changes, and volatile messages in ‘hater’ group chats – telling of just one thing: a lack of accountability.

Wan Cheng, however, dismisses such claims as misunderstandings. “I’m just telling the facts… I’m clarifying,” insisting that critics, instead, spread falsehoods about her.

Despite the negativity, she says her relationship with streaming remains unchanged.

“They can just type and talk whatever they like, I also (sic) cannot do anything,” Wan Cheng says. “It doesn’t affect me.”

Seemingly unfazed, she continues to stream – not for fans, but for her friends who are still interested in her daily life, though she declines to specify who they are.

The money, she adds, is nominal. When pressed for an amount, she mentions that it’s usually not more than $50.

Why we can’t look away

Wan Cheng’s presence defies simple categorisation. It can often be difficult to fully grasp the nature of the attention she attracts online.

Yet the urge to pin her down says more about the digital landscape that propelled her rise than about Wan Cheng herself.

Singaporean online culture has long made space for polarising figures. Turritopsis Dohrnii Teo En Ming and Guo Lai, for instance, have each drawn significant attention – not for polished content or success stories, but for their perceived rawness, vulnerability, or defiance of convention. 

These figures serve as “social commentaries,” as Dr. Bertha Chin, Senior Lecturer at NUS’ Department of Communications and New Media describes, embodying collective anxieties and inequalities. Their public-facing struggles, whether voluntary or otherwise, invite a volatile mix of empathy, scorn, and ridicule.

What sets Zhen Zhen apart, however, is her distinct ability to connect through earnestness and realism, which resonate with everyday netizens. Dr. Chin notes that while others are seen as symbols of societal problems like decadence and consumption, Zhen Zhen uniquely connects through relatable concerns.

Clinical psychologist, Dr. Annabelle Chow, adds that discomfort around such figures often reflects internalised social expectations. “When someone presents themselves in a way that clashes with accepted social or cultural norms, it often stirs up discomfort in certain viewers... This emotional discomfort drives people to speak out, criticise, or seek out like-minded individuals.”

This polarisation unfolds online, with accounts like @cutekorkor playing a key role in the public shaming of less-liked Singaporean livestreamers. The familiar humiliation ritual – provoke, record the reaction, then share it widely – creates a digital spectacle, judged and consumed by an audience that blurs the line between voyeur and participant.

This raises questions: Is “Zhen Zhen” fully her own creation, or shaped by her audience? Do viewers and media who engage with her endorse her as a person, flaws included? Are they condoning how she treats her family, such as moments when she yells at her daughter?

Wan Cheng’s appeal lies in her volatility and refusal to conform, which grates against the grain of Asian society and its ideals of “face” and respectability. Mockery becomes a way for viewers to reassert these norms.

The harsh ridicule aimed at Wan Cheng, as Dr. Annabelle Chow explains, often stems less from her actions and more from what she represents: a refusal to be palatable. 

It is also worth nothing that the vitriol hurled in online spaces like Kanasai Paradise rarely targets her content alone. Instead, she is often accused of being an “unfit mother,” “mentally unstable,” “attention-seeking,” or “shameless”.

Dr. Bertha Chin notes that such criticism comes with being a public figure – but it lands differently for women. For Zhen Zhen, the scrutiny often targets her behaviour as a mother, her appearance, or her emotional expression – areas where women are routinely policed.

And, in a digital economy where attention is currency, authenticity becomes a commodity – and women, in particular, are expected to perform it just right. “The judgments become more personal, a sort of ‘why her and not me’ attitude,” she says. “And because Zhen Zhen puts so much of herself online, there’s the sense that she should be treated like any other [famous celebrity].”

Yet some viewers suspect she is not the victim but the architect of the spectacle. One commenter wrote, “She’s not as dumb as she appears,” implying she manipulates the audience rather than the other way around.

If that is the case, what does it say about those eager to mock her? Perhaps those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones – especially when they, too, are performing online, hiding behind keyboards and screens, curating personas in pursuit of attention. 

From cancel culture to community: why haters keep watching

Wan Cheng’s fame, then, is not accidental – not only is it algorithmically encouraged, it is also sustained by the very outrage that claims to reject her. “The moment we watch her live, share reels related to her, join Telegram groups associated with her,” says Jarren*, “we’ve only made her more well-known.” 

This paradox is the beating heart of the Zhen Zhen phenomenon. Her harshest critics are also her most loyal audience – arguably even more devoted than her actual fans. They track her every move and then amplify her responses. Not just out of entertainment, but surprisingly, community. Any excuse to participate in a thriving online third space.

As one user on the Kanasai Paradise Telegram group bluntly put it, “Can someone make her Live again? If not, nothing for this group to grow… then have to change to nx (sic) better player.” 

It’s a revealing admission – that beneath all the concern-trolling, moralising, and hate speech lies something simpler: a need to consume someone else’s humiliation to feel momentarily connected. 

“When we have fewer public spaces where people can connect and speak their minds, when the quality of life in general is perceived to have declined, scrolling social media on the smartphone and getting triggered by the way an influencer holds her chopsticks may seem like one of few remaining ways to feel a human emotion,” comments Dr. Shobha Avadhani, Senior Lecturer, Department of Communications and New Media, NUS. 

Ironically, the appeal of Wan Cheng is the consistency of her presence – no matter how volatile. An excuse to gather in a digital bonfire, which could be comforting in a world rife with war, political chaos and existential fatigue. 

Maybe the question isn’t what’s wrong with Zhen Zhen. Love her or loathe her, for now, she is the moment until the next viral one takes her place. The more revealing question is what her popularity or notoriety says about the culture – one that thrives on spectacle, trades in contradiction, and packages it as content. 

In the end, she is no longer just a person, or persona. She is a mirror – reflecting not just our judgments, but our desires, insecurities, and the systemic dysfunction of digital culture, making this kind of spectacle inevitable.

*Pseudonyms were used in this story.